#this is why my brain is a mess of characters and fragments of characters that i fixate on

[emiliosandozsequence]

my brain responding to any incrimental amount of stress: you know what the best way to cope with this would be??? create a new introject

[jungkoode]

FUCK ME UP | FRAGMENTS

˗ˏˋ that first night (her POV) ˎˊ˗

"There's a theory that says you meet everyone in your life twice—once as strangers, and once when it matters. That first night at 'Pulse', with vodka cranberry on your tongue and his eyes burning into yours, was supposed to be the stranger part. No one warns you that six months later, he'll be standing in your new apartment's doorway, looking at you like he's seen a ghost. But that’s a problem for Future you."

⋆｡°✩ story details ✩°｡⋆

collection: Before It All (FMU)

wordcount: 15k

pairing: fmu!jungkook x fmu!yn (cocky!jkxbratty!reader)

rating: explicit, 18+

playlist: spotify

content: new york city setting, university setting, strangers to roommates (eventually), nightclub setting, hookup, one night stand, drunk hookup (buzzed/tipsy but consensual), explicit sexual content, oral sex (cunnilingus), protected penetrative sex, multiple orgasms, wall sex, rough sex, choking/breath play (light), hair pulling, marking/hickeys, size kink, manhandling, dirty talk, praise kink, bickering during sex, snarky banter, grinding, multiple positions, slight pain kink, slight degradation kink, praise kink if you squint, sexual tension, sexual chemistry, mild exhibitionism (making out in uber/club), slight voyeurism (being watched in club), mild dubious condom practices (that one scene), alcohol consumption, bite kink, aftercare (mild), spooning, scent kink, vanilla scented products, enemies to lovers (eventual), size difference (height), strength kink.

✧ author's note ✧

Hi my little demons! (｀∀´)Ψ Welcome to the prequel that started this absolute dumpster fire - AKA the night our emotionally constipated idiots first met.

Let's talk about how THIS happened, because honestly? I've rewritten this scene approximately 47 times (not exaggerating, my Google docs are a MESS). I initially wasn't even going to write it, but then my 3AM brain, fueled by what was probably my 8th espresso, decided we NEEDED to see these two disasters collide for the first time. And boy, did they collide. (￣ω￣;)

First things first: This is pure, unadulterated filth. I literally had to take several walks around my apartment complex while writing this because these two WOULD NOT BEHAVE. Like, I was trying to be somewhat respectable here, but they said "No♥️" and chose violence. So you know what? I just let them do their thing and documented it like the professional disaster that I am.

Now, let's talk about our girl for a second. Writing her at this specific point in her life was FASCINATING because you can really see all the pieces that made her who she is—the family pressure, the small-town suffocation, the desperate need for control while simultaneously wanting to lose it completely... She's such a beautifully complex mess and I love her for it. (Don't worry, she'll grow. Eventually. Maybe. We'll see.)

And Jungkook... Oh boy. There's SO MUCH about him that I've deliberately sprinkled throughout this chapter. Little details, subtle hints, tiny breadcrumbs that'll make sense later. I'm actually really proud of how many easter eggs I managed to hide in here - come back after future chapters and tell me if you caught them! (Though let's be real, you're probably not here for the literary analysis, you thirsty gremlins.)

The biggest challenge was honestly Emma. Like, how do you get the world's most protective best friend to leave her bestie alone in a club? I spent WEEKS trying to make this work in a way that felt authentic to her character. The sister crisis was my 3AM solution and I'm actually pretty proud of how it turned out. Realistic character motivation is my kink, okay? (＾▽＾)

Speaking of realism—that's literally why this fic exists. I got so frustrated with how many unrealistic elements I kept seeing in stories that I went "Fine, I'll do it myself" and here we are, 35 pages of smut later???? Huh. You're welcome????

Side note: I have this whole thing narrated in audio (female voice only, because no male voice matches Jungkook’s, my beloved ¯\_(ツ)_/¯) but Tumblr said "file too big bestie" so... might drop it on ko-fi if enough people are interested. Let me know in the comments! Speaking of comments—PLEASE tell me your theories about all the little hints I've dropped about Jungkook's past. I'm dying to see what you guys pick up on! (⌒ω⌒)ﾉ

Until next time, you disaster pandas! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

Kiki. 🍓

P.S. Any typos are between you and god because I've stared at this document for so long the words have lost all meaning.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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main story: fuck me up

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So here's the thing about nightclubs: you either love them or you hate them.

You? You're more of a 'hate them' kinda girl. The sweat, the noise, the people... not your scene. Not usually, anyway.

But usual went out the window the second Emma suggested this little adventure. Sweet, reliable Emma who you lost touch with after high school but who immediately became your secret accomplice when you reached out about transferring to NYU. Who's been your underground informant for months now—sneaking you tips about the English department, virtually walking you through the campus layout via late-night FaceTime sessions, and helping you plot out the perfect transfer application your parents know nothing about.

Emma, who didn't even blink when you showed up at her door with a weekend bag and a story for your parents about "visiting your responsible friend in the city." (They bought it immediately because, well, it's Emma. Their golden standard of What A Good Influence Should Be.) You'd spent the whole day doing exactly what you came for—touring NYU's campus, sitting in on a couple of English classes Emma snuck you into, and gathering all the transfer information you could get your hands on.

"You can't just transfer here and not know what the nightlife is like," she'd insisted, already rummaging through her closet for something that wasn't your campus tour outfit. "That's like... buying a car without test driving it."

Which, okay, terrible analogy, but you get her point. You've spent months planning this transfer—going over NYU's transfer requirements, crafting the perfect escape from your suffocating small-town university, calculating exactly how to tell your parents once it's too late for them to stop you. The campus visit was supposed to be just that—visiting your responsible friend Emma for a weekend while secretly checking out NYU.

Emma, bless her overprotective heart, had taken one look at your face after that final tour—that specific blend of desperate hope and terrified excitement—and decided you needed to see the whole picture. "The real college experience," as she put it, already pulling out her phone to text her club promoter friend.

"Location sharing on?" she'd asked for the fifth time before you left her apartment, double-checking your phone settings like some kind of Gen-Z mother hen. As if you hadn’t spent the last three months planning this transfer with military-grade precision.

"Yes, mom," you'd rolled your eyes, but something warm had settled in your chest at her fussing. It's... nice, having someone in on the secret. Someone who gets it.

"Emergency contact updated to my number?"

"Check."

"Spare key to my apartment?"

"Emma, I swear to god—"

"Just checking!" She'd grinned, already knowing she was being ridiculous but doing it anyway. "One more thing..."

And that's how you ended up with a literal tracking app on your phone, an emergency SOS button setup, and Emma's solemn promise to "never leave your side, scout's honor." (She was never actually a scout, but whatever.)

Parents really think you're just visiting your studious, sensible friend Emma for a nice, quiet weekend in the city. Having some wholesome catching-up time. Maybe seeing some museums.

Ha. If only they knew you're actually scouting out your future escape route.

If only you knew.

Because let's be real, this isn't exactly in your wheelhouse. But Emma's right there, keeping her scout's honor promise, bouncing between the bar and dance floor like some kind of safety-conscious terror. And maybe it's the way she keeps checking in with subtle thumbs-up signals, or maybe it's just knowing someone's actually got your back in this whole secret college plan thing, but you're... kind of having fun?

Which is how you find yourself here, in this pulsing, thrumming mass of bodies and sound. 'Pulse', the club's called. Fitting, considering how you can feel the bass thumping in your veins, the strobe flashing like lightning in your skull. It's... a lot. But not in a bad way?

Yeah, definitely not bad, you decide as you scan the room. Leather booths, gleaming bar top, and a dance floor packed with the kind of gorgeous twenty-somethings that make you feel simultaneously inadequate and oddly triumphant. Like 'yeah, I might not be that, but at least I'm here.'

And honestly, it's pretty nice here. Clean, classy even. Good lighting over the bar, vigilant security, and Emma vouches for the place. She's your safety net tonight, because God knows you'd never try this solo. But Emma... Emma knows everyone. Gets you both in with a wink and a wave, like some kind of VIP.

The girl's got pull and she's not afraid to use it. You envy that a bit, that confidence. Wish you could borrow just a dash of it, to fortify your nerves as you perch on this barstool, spine too straight and fingers too tight around your glass. But it's fine, it's good, you're good. That’s what you tell yourself, anyways—even if it’s not entirely the truth.

It's just one night. One chance. One small rebellion before you go back home and drown yourself in expectations and demands. Hardly even counts as rebellion, really, in the grand scheme. Not like you're planning on getting blackout drunk and ending up in jail or anything. Just… dipping your toe. Sampling the other side. Just for a night.

What's the worst that could happen?

Famous last words. Or in this case, famous last thought, as you take a too-big sip of your drink and nearly choke on watery vodka cranberry. Good thing no one's paying attention.

Well, except for one guy, apparently. And he's...

Oh. Oh damn.

He's the kind of gorgeous that makes you almost forget how to swallow, even as you scoff internally. Guys who look like that? They're usually bad news. Cringe edgy boys. Like the ones you see on TikTok. The jaw, the eyes, the whole brooding bad-boy package. Not your type. Not even a little.

But he’s hot. Truth be told.

And he's watching you. Not in a creepy way, but… intense. Interested. And wow, okay, maybe there's something to be said for the whole 'still waters' vibe he's giving off, because that gaze is doing things to you. Things you're not entirely sure you're ready for.

But then again... isn't that the whole point? To try something new? To be someone new, just for a night? The girl who holds the stare of a beautiful stranger. The girl who lets the charge build, heart kicking up and skin tingling. The girl who—

"Shit, shit, shit." Emma's suddenly at your elbow, phone clutched to her chest, face twisted with genuine distress. "My sister just called. She's having some kind of breakdown about—god, I don't even know, her boyfriend? Something about him showing up at her dorm? She's hysterical, I can barely understand her—"

You watch Emma's face cycle through about twelve different emotions in three seconds. She keeps glancing between you and her phone, clearly torn. "I should go check on her. But I can't just leave you here alone. Fuck. Maybe we should both—"

"Em, I'm fine," you try to reassure her, even as your stomach sinks a little. Great. Just when things were getting interesting with dark eyes over there. "I can just get an Uber—"

"No, no, wait." Emma's scanning the club like she's looking for something specific. Her face lights up suddenly as she spots someone by the weights machine in the club's weird gym corner. Because apparently some clubs have those now. "Oh thank god—hey!!"

She waves frantically at some guy who's been doing bicep curls between taking selfies for his Instagram story. You vaguely recognize him from Emma's study group—one of those guys who probably knows the protein content of everything in his lunch and considers gym updates a legitimate form of social interaction.

"Perfect timing," Emma says as he approaches, already dabbing his face with a workout towel. She's rapid-fire texting, probably her sister. "You're still doing that safe walk program thing for the student union, right? The volunteer thing they made you do after that frat party incident?"

"Yeah bro, community service hours almost done," he confirms, then looks confused as Emma practically shoves her phone in his face, showing him what you assume is your location-sharing setup.

"Great. This is my best friend from high school. She's got location sharing on with me, SOS button setup, fully charged phone." Emma's talking so fast she's almost tripping over her words. "I have to go deal with my sister but I'll be back in an hour tops. Could you just... keep an eye out? Make sure no creeps bother her?"

Your face heats. "Emma, seriously—"

"I know, I know, you can handle yourself," Emma cuts you off, already shouldering her bag. "But humor me? He’s actually great at this. Always walks girls home after study group. Total golden retriever energy."

You catch the way her eyes flick meaningfully toward where dark eyes is still watching from across the room. Like she's trying to say 'here's your safe but slightly dim option if you want it, but...'

Your phone buzzes with an incoming wall of texts:

Emma: 𝚒'𝚖 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢!!! 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 Emma: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚒'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚜 Emma: 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚢𝚖 𝚋𝚛𝚘 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚢 Emma: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜... 👀 Emma: (𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 & 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎!!!)

"Hey there. Emma had to run, but she didn't want to leave you alone. Asked me to keep you company. That okay?"

The voice cuts through your spiral, and you blink up at the interloper. Brent? Brad? Some monosyllabic gym bro who's friends with Emma and apparently your new babysitter.

Great.

You paste on a smile, even as your attention flickers back to him. Dark eyes, dark hair, and a mouth that could probably do very interesting things, you bet your money on it. But no. Don’t get distracted. Eyes on Brett. He's safe, he's known. Boring as a beige wall, but that's better. Smarter.

"Yeah, of course," you say brightly. Too brightly. Even you can hear the false note, and you cringe. "Thanks for keeping me company."

Because that's why you're here. For safety, for company, for sampling the world, but through a protective barrier. Not for tall, dark, and dangerously appealing over there. Definitely not for him.

Even if you kinda wish it was.

"You're pretty."

And like... okay? Thanks? But also, ugh. It's not that you're not flattered—you are, in that vaguely uncomfortable way that makes you want to simultaneously preen and roll your eyes into next week. Because yeah, duh, you know. You own mirrors. You're aware of your assets, thank you very much. But there's something so wonderfully, terribly basic about guys who lead with that.

Still. You give him another once-over, because fair's fair and also because like... why not? He's not bad. Actually pretty decent, if you're being honest (and you are, because what's the point of lying to yourself?). Broad shoulders, nice arms, that whole gym rat aesthetic that apparently some girls go crazy for.

Not that you're necessarily one of those girls. You've always preferred a more... balanced build. Something between "I can bench press you" and "I've never seen the inside of a gym." Like, yeah, muscles are nice and all, but you want to be able to actually cuddle without feeling like you're laying on a marble statue. Give you some softer edges any day. Something to sink into, you know?

But beggars can't be choosers and honestly? You're kind of tired of being a beggar. Or, well, not a beggar exactly, but definitely... selective. Too selective, maybe. Conservative. Careful. All those words that really mean "scared to actually live a little."

Not tonight though. Tonight you're in New York fucking City, three hundred miles from your parents' suffocating expectations and that small-town mindset that makes you want to scream into your pillow sometimes. Tonight you could be anyone.

So when you say, "Thank you, you're not bad yourself," it comes out smoother than expected. Almost flirty. And his laugh? Not terrible. Kind of nice actually, even if it doesn't quite reach his eyes. They're nice eyes too—warm brown, honest. Safe.

"Would you like to dance?"

The question hangs there, and you consider it. Really consider it. Because this—this whole thing—it's what you came for, isn't it? To try something new. To be someone new. Someone who says yes to dancing with attractive strangers in clubs that pulse with bass-heavy Usher remixes.

"You feeling confident?" you throw back, and okay, maybe that was a little sharp, a little too much of your usual self bleeding through. But he just smiles (no dimples, and why does that matter? Since when do you care about dimples?), and holds out his hand.

His fingers are cold when they wrap around yours. It's... not great. You've always hated cold hands, which is ironic considering yours are perpetually freezing. But you let him lead you onto the dance floor anyway, because what the hell. What the actual hell. You're here, you're young, you're... actually kind of buzzed now that you think about it. That vodka cran hitting different after all.

His hands hover at your hips, eyes asking permission, and you give him a look that you hope translates to "yes, but don't get crazy about it." Must work, because his palms settle, grip light but present. You rest your hands on his shoulders (nice shoulders, you'll give him that), and try to find the rhythm.

It's not terrible. Not amazing either, but definitely not terrible. He can move, keeps a decent beat, doesn't try to grind up on you like some horny teenager. His hands stay respectfully placed, thumbs making small circles that should probably feel more exciting than they do.

Everything about this should feel more exciting than it does.

Maybe you need another drink. Maybe you need to stop overthinking every little thing and just... be. Maybe...

Maybe that's when it happens. Your eyes drift up, over his shoulder, like they're being pulled by some invisible thread. Like something in you just knows where to look. And there he is.

Dark eyes locked on yours, expression unreadable in the strobing lights.

One second. Two. Three.

An eternity compressed into the space between heartbeats. Your skin prickles, heat crawling up your spine that has nothing to do with the crowded dance floor or the alcohol in your system. The weight of his stare is palpable, laden with something unnamed but acutely felt. Something that turns your mouth to the Sahara and your pulse into a kickdrum.

Usher croons about falling in love while Pitbull drops his signature "dale" in the background, and isn't that just fucking hilarious? Because this—this moment, this look, this stranger—this isn't about love. This is about want. Raw and simple and completely uncomplicated by things like names or histories or futures.

This is about the way his jaw clenches slightly as he watches you dance with someone else. About how his fingers drum against his glass in perfect time with the beat. About the little scar on his cheek that catches the light when he tilts his head, studying you like you're a puzzle he wants to take apart piece by piece.

Your dance partner's hands feel colder by the second.

It's not that his hands are bad, exactly. They're... nice hands. Big hands. The kind that wrap around your hips like they were made to be there, fingers long enough to span the distance between hipbone and hipbone. And yeah, okay, you have a thing for hands. Who doesn't? It's practically universal at this point—like liking bread or hating people who talk during movies. Just basic human nature.

But something's... off.

Your brain is doing that thing. That stupid, annoying, overthinking thing where it won't shut up long enough to let you enjoy anything. And god, you hate this. Hate how your mind rebels against perfectly good situations, like it's allergic to straightforward pleasure or something. Because objectively? This should be working. Hot guy, good music, decent amount of alcohol in your system. Your body's definitely on board—you can feel the low simmer of attraction, the way your skin warms under his touch. The basic chemistry is there.

But your mind? Your mind's like that one friend who shows up to parties just to list off everything that could possibly go wrong. His hands are cold. His laugh doesn't reach his eyes. No dimples. The way he said "pretty" like he was checking off a box on some "How to Pick Up Girls" checklist.

You sigh, already stepping back. Watch the confusion flicker across his face, quickly masked by what you're sure he thinks is an understanding smile.

"Everything alright?"

And like... no? Yes? Maybe? How do you even answer that when you're not sure what's wrong in the first place? When you're standing here on a dance floor that's vibrating with Usher's voice while your brain short-circuits over the temperature of some guy's hands?

"Yeah, I'm just..." You pause, teeth catching your bottom lip as you reconsider. Fuck it. Might as well go with the classics. "The vodka. Has me feeling buzzy, I think I'm not feeling too good."

It's a cop-out and you know it. But it's also an easy out, the kind that doesn't hurt anyone's feelings or make things weird. Because that's what you do, isn't it? Keep things smooth. Keep things nice. Even when you're lying through your teeth to some guy whose name you can't quite remember.

"Hey, that's okay." His smile stays steady, concerned even. "No hard feelings. You need a ride home?"

And that—that right there—that's actually kind of sweet. In another universe, maybe that offer would seal the deal. Nice guy, worried about your safety, probably has a stable job and calls his mother on Sundays. But in this universe? In this universe, your eyes are already drifting over his shoulder, drawn like a compass needle to true north.

You press your lips together, scanning the crowd like you're actually looking for someone. Like you haven’t known exactly where he is this whole time, haven’t felt his eyes raking you up and down non-stop.

"Actually I know someone just across the way, so honestly, zero worries."

The shock on his face would be comical if it weren’t so irksome. "You positive? Weren’t you visiting from out of town? Emma mentioned you were just in for the weekend."

And okay, what the actual fuck? Why does he need your whole life story? Yeah, sure, he's probably just being nice. Probably just wants to make sure you're not about to wander off and get murdered or something. But still. The irritation rises in your throat like bile, sharp and inexplicable.

"Doesn't mean I don't know anybody in New York," you say, and wow, okay, that came out with more edge than intended. Quick, fix it, smooth it over. You paste on a tight smile, the kind that probably looks more like a grimace but hey, at least you're trying. "See you around, Brent."

You're already moving as you say it, heels clicking against the floor with purpose. You think you hear him call after you—something about his name being Peter?—but you're beyond caring. Beyond thinking about cold hands and careful smiles and all the safe choices you should be making.

Because your feet know where they're going, even if your brain is screaming about bad decisions. Even if every rational part of you is throwing up warning signs and red flags. Even if—or maybe because—you can feel his eyes following your every move, heat spiraling up your spine with each step closer.

The bass drops, and your heart kicks up to match it.

Dale, indeed.

You don't need to look at him to know he's watching. You can tell. Can perceive it. It’s like standing too close to a bonfire. The kind of heat that makes you want to step closer even as your survival instincts scream danger, danger, danger.

And this? This is definitely dangerous.

You don't do this. Like, ever. There's a whole routine to these things, right? Guy sees girl, guy approaches girl, girl decides if she wants to deal with whatever fumbling attempt at flirtation follows. That's just... how it works. How it's always worked. Because guys? They're usually terrible at being approached. Their fragile little egos can't handle a girl making the first move. Plus, most of them aren't worth the effort anyway.

But.

But your feet are already moving. But your heart is already racing. But something about the way he's been watching you, like he could devour you whole and still be hungry—it makes you reckless. Makes you stupid. Makes you brave.

"Dance with me."

It comes out more command than question, your voice steadier than it has any right to be. He looks up at you from his seat, and fuck. Just... fuck. Because the way he tilts his head? The slow, deliberate motion of it? That should not be as hot as it is. That should be illegal in at least three states.

Then he smiles. Just one side of his mouth lifting, lazy and confident and—oh god. A dimple. One perfect little dimple that makes something in your chest squeeze tight.

"That's bold."

His voice is lower than you expected. Rougher. Like whiskey over gravel, and you want to drink it down until you're drunk on it. Want to find out what other sounds you can pull from that throat.

"You've been looking at me for 10 minutes." The words fall from your lips before you can stop them, sharp and challenging. "You gonna come dance or not?"

He chuckles—actually chuckles, who even does that?—and holy shit, there's another one. Two dimples. Two perfect little dents in his cheeks that make heat pool low in your belly, thick and sweet like honey. Your fingers twitch, aching to touch them, to press thumbs to those tiny curves and feel him beam against your flesh.

When he stands, it's one fluid motion that makes it feel like someone replaced your esophagus with a cracked porcelain vase. Because he's tall. Not incredibly, super tall. But yes the kind of tall that means you'd have to stretch up on your toes to reach his mouth, that means his hands could probably span your whole waist, that means—

No. Nope. Not going there. Not yet anyway.

He follows you onto the dance floor, and you can feel the energy shift. Like the air itself is charging up, preparing itself for both of you. His friend—some guy with killer dance moves who's been holding down a corner of the floor all night—catches his eye and shoots him a look. Something passes between them, quick and meaningful, before Mystery Man's attention is back on you. All on you.

And yeah.

Yeah, this is happening.

This is definitely happening.

The bass pounds through your marrow as Usher's voice continues suffusing the air, talking about DJs and falling in love, and honestly. At this point you’re barely listening to the music itself, too focused on finding a more secluded spot.

Your pulse picks up speed. Can’t help it, really. Because this? This is definitely going to be worth breaking all your rules for.

You lead him to some darker corner of the club—might be by a column, might be an alcove, who fucking knows because your brain's too busy short-circuiting to care about architectural details right now. All you know is it's slightly away from the main crush of bodies, slightly more private, slightly more...

Oh.

His hands find your hips the second you turn to face him. No hesitation. No silent question. No careful hovering or polite uncertainty like what's-his-name earlier. Just warm, sure palms sliding over the curve of your hips like they belong there, like he's claiming territory, and—

And you should be annoyed. You should be fucking livid. Because excuse you? The audacity of this man to just assume he can touch you without so much as a "may I?" Some feminist you are, getting weak in the knees over this caveman behavior while poor Brett (Blake? Whatever) at least had the decency to ask permission with those puppy dog eyes of his.

But your brain? Your traitorous, horny, absolutely useless brain? It's sending signals straight between your legs because apparently that's what does it for you now. The confidence. The heat of his hands—and god, they're so warm, burning through the thin fabric of your dress like brands. They're not as broad as the other guy's, but his fingers are longer, elegant almost. Artist's hands, scattered with tiny tattoos that disappear under his sleeve, and that silver ring on his middle finger catching the light as his grip tightens just slightly...

(Middle finger. Not left-hand fourth. So not married then. Good. Last thing you need tonight is adding "homewrecker" to your expanding list of dubious habits.)

Your arms loop around his neck almost on autopilot, and then you're moving. With him. Against him. The bass is a living thing between you, and he matches your rhythm instantly, like your bodies already know the steps to this dance. Like you've done this a hundred times before, in a hundred different lives.

His eyes lock onto yours, heavy-lidded and dark as sin, and every hair on your neck stands at attention. Electricity crackles down your spine, sharp and sweet, as his thumbs press into your hipbones. Just enough pressure to guide you closer, until there's barely room for breath between you.

"Didn't catch your name earlier," he says, voice pitched low enough that you have to lean in to hear him over the music. His breath fans hot against your ear, and you suppress a shiver.

"Didn't throw it," you shoot back, because apparently your mouth is running on autopilot now too. Great. Just great.

But he laughs—a quick, rough sound that you feel more than hear—and his hands flex against your hips. "Feisty. I like that."

"Bet you say that to all the girls who proposition you at clubs."

"Nah." His head dips closer, nose brushing your temple. "Just the ones who stare at me for ten minutes first."

"Excuse you, you were staring at me."

"Maybe we were staring at each other."

And okay, that's... fair actually. But you're not about to admit it. Instead, you roll your eyes, even as your fingers find the soft hair at his nape. "Does this usually work for you? This whole... whatever this is?"

"You tell me." His smile is audible in his voice, and you just know those dimples are making an appearance again. "You're the one who told me to dance."

"Maybe I just felt sorry for you, sitting there all alone."

"Wasn't alone. Had my friend."

"The dancer? Please, he was too busy killing it on the floor to keep you company."

His laugh vibrates through his chest into yours, and when did you get this close? When did your bodies start pressing together with every sway of the music? When did his thigh slip between yours, creating a friction that makes your breath catch?

"You been watching my friend too? Should I be jealous?"

The word sends an unexpected thrill through you, even though his tone is clearly teasing. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"Yeah," he says, and suddenly his voice isn't teasing at all. His grip tightens fractionally, pulling your hips more firmly against his. "Yeah, I would."

Goosebumps ripple across your arms, slow and inevitable, like lava carving its path through stone. His eyes burn into yours again, scorching hot, wild, and consuming—a downpour drowning a raging fire, leaving nothing but aftermath. What’s left in their wake is the kind of black that clings. Opaque. Dense. Like ash, settling over a forest stripped to its bare bones.

The sensible part of your brain—the part that usually keeps you from doing stupid, reckless things with beautiful strangers—is suspiciously quiet. Probably because all your blood is currently occupied elsewhere, namely with the way his hands are starting to trace slow patterns on your hips, the way his breath keeps ghosting over your neck, the way his body moves against yours like he's writing sin in cursive.

And maybe it's the vodka, or maybe it's how he's gazing at you like you're tranquility amidst his chaos, but you hear yourself say, "Buy me a drink first."

His smile is slow, dangerous. "That an order too?"

"Consider it a... suggestion."

"Mm." One hand slides to your lower back, pressing you impossibly closer for just a moment. "I'm starting to like your suggestions."

Your skin feels too tight, too hot, too everything. "Starting to?"

"Give me time." His lips brush your ear as he speaks, and this time you can't suppress the shiver. "Night's still young."

He actually does buy you that drink, which is... something. You're not sure what exactly, but definitely something. The way he guides you to the bar with his hand still on your lower back, fingers splayed wide enough to make you notice the imprint of his warmth? Also something.

"Another vodka cran," you tell the bartender, because hey, if it ain't broke. Then you catch his raised eyebrow and can't help adding, "What? Were you expecting something more sophisticated?"

"Nah." That damn dimple makes another appearance. "Just trying to figure you out."

"Good luck with that."

When he pulls out his wallet to pay, you catch a glimpse of multiple cards fanned out in the leather fold. Credit cards, maybe? Must have money then—or at least good credit. Not that it matters, because this is a one-time thing. A never-gonna-see-you-again thing. A what-happens-in-New-York stays-in-New-York thing.

Your fingers find the cocktail napkin beneath your glass, absently creating sharp creases with your thumbnail. It's one of those fancy ones with the bar's logo embossed in gold—pretentious, like everything else about this place.

Still. You notice how he pauses, studying one card for a beat too long before selecting it. Like he's making sure of something. Weird, but whatever.

The napkin disappears into your clutch without conscious thought. A habit you'll question later but can't explain now. You're too buzzed to care about his personal finances or your own questionable souvenir-keeping tendencies.

"Whiskey neat," he orders, and you barely contain your snort. Of fucking course he drinks whiskey. Probably thinks he's Don Draper or something.

"Pretentious much?"

"Says the girl drinking what's basically juice with a splash of alcohol."

"At least I'm not trying to prove anything."

His laugh is rough, genuine. "Who says I'm trying to prove anything?"

"Please. Whiskey at a club? That's like wearing a suit to McDonald's."

"Maybe I just like whiskey." He takes a deliberate sip, throat working in a way that absolutely doesn't make your mouth water. "Maybe I like the burn."

There's something in his voice when he says that, something that feeds the banked flame in your belly. His eyes are on you again, alternating between your eyes and your mouth like he can't quite decide where to focus.

"That line score you points often?" you manage to ask, even as your voice betrays you, emerging breathier than intended.

"I wouldn't know." He's definitely closer now. When did that happen? Did he move, or did you? "Is it scoring points now?"

And god help you, but it is. It really fucking is. Maybe it's the alcohol finally hitting your system properly, or maybe it's the way he's looking at you, but you find yourself swaying toward him. Drawn in like a moth to flame, even though you know you're probably going to get burned.

"You're kind of an asshole," you inform him, even as your free hand finds its way to his chest. His very firm chest, holy shit.

"Yeah?" His fingers trace up your spine, feather-light but deliberate. "Seem to like it though."

"Cocky too."

"Haven't heard any complaints."

He's so near now you can smell him—something clean and vicious, like a tempest raging on the coast. His breath fans across your lips, whiskey-warm and promising. One of his hands cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw in a way that makes your skin buzz.

"Anyone ever tell you you talk too much?" you murmur, and that's it—that's all it takes.

His mouth crashes into yours like a wave breaking against rocks, hot and insistent and absolutely fucking flawless. His lips are softer than you expected but he kisses hard, like he's trying to devour you whole. Like he's been thinking about this as much as you have. The hand on your neck tightens, tilting your head to deepen the angle, and holy fuck.

You've been kissed before. You've been kissed a lot, actually. But this? This is something else entirely. This is lightning in a bottle, this is matches in gasoline, this is every hackneyed poetry metaphor about fire and flame and immolation except it actually makes sense now because your entire body is electric with it.

His tongue swipes across your bottom lip and you open for him without hesitation, vodka cranberry forgotten in your hand. He tastes like alcohol and dewdrops and something else you can't name but instantly crave more of. The noise he makes when you tug his hair—low and ravenous and almost startled—shoots straight between your legs.

Someone whistles nearby—probably his dancer friend—but you couldn't care less. Not when his other hand is sliding down to your hip, pulling you closer. Not when he's kissing you like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth with his tongue. Not when everything in you is screaming more, closer, now.

You're definitely going to hell for this. But with the way he's kissing you?

Might be worth it.

His forehead rests against yours, and you're both breathing like you've run a marathon. Which is... embarrassing, actually. When was the last time a kiss left you this affected? What are you, some freshman at their first house party? Because this is ridiculous. You're ridiculous. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like it's trying to escape, and your lips are tingling, and—

And fuck it. Fuck everything. You want more.

"Let's take this outside," you say, surprising yourself with how steady your voice sounds considering your internal chaos. Because yes. Outside. Away from the crowd and the music and all these people who aren't him.

"Your house?" The words are barely out of his mouth before you can finish your suggestion, and okay, that's kind of hot. The eagerness. The way his fingers flex against your hip like he's already imagining it.

You can't help the smile that tugs at your lips. At least you're not alone in this desperate teenage hormone bullshit. At least he's just as affected as you are.

But then reality crashes in like a bucket of ice water. Your house? What house? You're crashing at Emma's place and—oh god, Emma would actually murder you. Like, literal homicide. She's already doing you a solid by covering for you with your parents, and bringing back some random (incredibly hot) guy from a club? Yeah, that would definitely void the best-friend contract.

"Yours?" you counter, trying not to sound too hopeful.

He makes this sound—half hiss, half groan—that shouldn't be as sexy as it is. "Can't."

"What, mommy and daddy don't let you?" The snark is automatic, defense mechanism kicking in to mask your disappointment.

"Nah, but my friend might not like it."

"Mine either."

You stare at each other for a moment, eyes darting back and forth like you're both trying to solve the same puzzle. The absurdity of the situation hits you at the same time—two grown adults, hot and bothered in a club, cockblocked by their respective roommate situations—and suddenly you're both laughing.

His chuckle is deep, rumbling through his chest where you're still pressed against him, and it's... nice. Really nice. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his dimples flash (and seriously, those things should come with a warning label), the way his thumb absently strokes your hip like he's forgotten he's doing it.

"Well, this is..."

"Stupid?" you offer.

"I was gonna say unfortunate, but yeah. Stupid works too."

You're still close enough to feel his breath on your lips, still wound tight with want, still buzzing from that kiss. And now you're both laughing about it, which should probably kill the mood but somehow doesn't. Somehow makes it better, actually. More real. Less like some fantasy hookup and more like...

Nope. Not going there. This is still just a one-night thing. A one-night thing that's currently being cockblocked by your respective living situations, but still. Just one night.

"So what now?" he asks, and his voice has dropped back into that lower register that you really want to hate. "Because I really want to kiss you again."

"Just kiss?" The words slip out before you can stop them, teasing and suggestive and probably way too candid.

His grip tightens, just marginally. Just enough to make your breath catch. "Definitely not just kiss."

"Fuck," you breathe, because eloquence has left the building. Possibly the state.

"That's the idea, yeah." And how he says it—all gruff edges and sinful vow—makes embers spark low in your abdomen. "Just need to sort out the logistics."

Which brings you right back to your current predicament. No Emma's place, no his place, and you're pretty sure having sex in the club bathroom is both tacky and probably illegal. But the way he's looking at you, like he really, really wants to wreck you…

"We could..." you start, then pause. Because what? What brilliant solution are you about to offer here? Your practical brain is absolutely useless right now, short-circuited by the lingering taste of whiskey on your tongue and the steady pressure of his hands on your body.

"Could what?" His thumb traces your bottom lip, and your train of thought derails completely.

"I have no idea," you admit, and his laugh is somehow both frustrated and fond.

"This is definitely stupid," he says, but he's still holding you close, still looking at your mouth like he's considering kissing you again anyway, roommate situations be damned.

"So stupid," you agree, already tilting your face up to meet him halfway.

You lick your lips, tasting geosmin and want and really awful decision-making skills.

Fuck it. Fuck everything. Emma can kill you tomorrow.

Your fingers wrap around his wrist—god, his hands are so warm—and you're already moving, already pulling up the Uber app with your free hand. Thank fuck for muscle memory because your brain is absolutely useless right now, too busy cataloging the way his pulse jumps under your fingers, the way he follows without hesitation.

"Where we goin'?" His voice is low and hoarse as he trails behind you, wrist a hostage to your grip.

"To my friend's place," you mutter, trying to type Emma's address without typos.

You: 𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠

You don’t mention you’re not heading home alone. She’ll find out herself.

The dude, for his part, just hums in response, like he's fine with whatever as long as it means getting somewhere private. Which, fair. You're kind of operating on the same wavelength here.

You make it to the coat check line first, because priorities. You’re not leaving your jacket behind. And it is moving at a glacial pace, because of course it is. The universe clearly wants to test your self-control by forcing you to stand here, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot on your neck.

The way his fingers keep "accidentally" brushing your thigh has you seriously considering saying fuck it and just leaving your jacket behind.

"Could just come back for it tomorrow," he murmurs, like he's reading your mind. His lips brush your ear as he speaks, and you barely sigh in response. Bastard knows exactly what he's doing.

"It's January in New York. I'm not getting hypothermia just because you can't keep it in your pants for five minutes."

"Could keep you warm."

And okay, that line should be cringeworthy. That's the kind of shit that would usually make you roll your eyes so hard they'd get stuck. But he has a way with words—or maybe it’s just his fucking voice—and somehow you like it.

"Next," the coat check girl calls, mercifully saving you from having to respond. You practically lunge forward, fumbling with your ticket. Better than letting him feel how that stupid line affected you.

He reaches past you to hand over his own ticket, arm bracketing you against the counter. And really? Really? This is some romance novel bullshit right here. Who does he think he is, Christian Grey? You should be annoyed. You should definitely not be noticing how good he smells, or how the position highlights just how much bigger he is than you, or—

"Here you go!" The coat check girl's voice is way too cheerful for—you check your phone—3:46 AM. She hands over your coats with a knowing smile that makes your face heat. Great. Just great. Even the coat check girl can tell you're about to make terrible life choices.

He helps you into your jacket because apparently he's decided to be a gentleman now, after spending the last hour making you question your life choices with his mouth. His hands linger on your shoulders just a fraction too long, and you have to bite your lip to keep from making an embarrassing sound.

"Ready?" he asks, voice still pitched low enough to make your skin tingle. You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, and let him guide you toward the exit with his hand on your lower back.

The coat check girl calls out "Have fun!" as you leave, and you seriously consider moving to a different city. Maybe a different country. Somewhere people don't immediately clock your questionable decision-making skills.

The Uber arrives embarrassingly fast—some higher power must be looking out for horny idiots tonight—and you both slide into the backseat. You start on opposite sides because you're trying to be decent human beings, trying to remember that your poor driver doesn't deserve a free show.

But then he's moving closer.

And closer.

And suddenly his mouth is on yours again, hot and demanding, and okay, yeah, sorry Mr. Uber driver but this is happening. His hand cups your jaw, tilting your head just so, and you're definitely making some kind of noise in the back of your throat but you're beyond caring. Beyond thinking about anything except the way his tongue slides against yours, the way his other hand grips your thigh.

Fifteen minutes. That's all it is from the club to Emma's place. Fifteen minutes that somehow feel like both seconds and eternity, lost in a haze of wandering hands and stolen kisses and trying (failing) to keep things PG-13. You're vaguely aware of streets passing, of turns and stops, of the driver pointedly turning up the radio.

And then your attention shifts. His teeth graze your bottom lip, fingers slowly sliding on your inner thigh. Hisses when your nails find his scalp. Heat. Want. Need. Building higher with each passing minute until you're practically vibrating out of your skin.

By some miracle (or possibly divine intervention), you make it to Emma’s building. You stumble out of the Uber, giving the driver your most apologetic smile-grimace combo. He just shakes his head, probably adding you to his mental list of "drunk hookups I never want to see again."

But then he's pressing you against the building's front door, mouth hot on your neck, and you really can't bring yourself to care about your Uber rating right now. Not when his hands are everywhere, not when he's making these little sounds against your skin that go straight between your legs.

It takes three tries to get the key in the lock—partly because it's 4 AM and you're tipsy, mostly because he won't stop kissing you long enough to focus. When you finally get the door open, you nearly fall through it, saved only by his arm around your waist.

"Smooth," he murmurs against your lips, laughing softly.

"Shut up," you breathe back, already pulling him in for another kiss. His back hits the closing door with a thud that's definitely too loud for 4 AM, but you're past caring. Past thinking about anything except the way his hands feel sliding up your sides, the way he tastes, the way he's eating you up with his eyes.

Emma's definitely going to murder you tomorrow. But with the way his fingers are digging into your hips, the way he's kissing you like he's trying to crawl inside your skin?

What-fucking-ever.

He pushes off the door like a man on a mission, and suddenly you're airborne—your legs wrapping around his waist on pure instinct. And okay, that's hot. The way he lifts you like you weigh nothing, the solid press of his body against yours, the little growl he makes when your hips roll against his.

"Room?" His voice is wrecked already, breath hot against your mouth between kisses that make your head spin.

You gesture vaguely toward Emma's guest room, too busy mapping the muscles of his shoulders to form actual words. He exhales sharply against your lips, already moving. Your jackets become casualties somewhere in the hallway, dropped with fumbling hands and zero grace because yeah, the vodka's definitely hitting now. Everything's warm and hazy and electric, your skin buzzing everywhere he touches.

Then you're falling backward onto the bed, and holy fuck. The way he's looking down at you—like he's been lost in the desert and you're a fucking oasis—it makes your breath catch in your throat. Makes heat pool low in your belly, makes your thighs press together in anticipation.

His shirt comes off in one fluid motion and—

Jesus fucking Christ.

You've seen attractive guys before. You've seen gym bros and athletes and the whole spectrum of male bodies. But this? This is like someone took Michelangelo's David and decided to make him real but better. He's all lean muscle and smooth skin, but with just enough softness to make him touchable. Human. Perfect.

And his chest—god, his chest. It's not the rock-hard wall of muscle you'd expect from someone who looks like that. Instead, there's this ideal balance of firm and soft, creating the most magnificent set of man tiddies you've ever laid eyes on. The kind you could actually cuddle up to without feeling like you're resting on concrete. The kind that would make a flawless pillow after—

Your lusty brain stops working as he leans down, pressing his hips deliberately against yours as his mouth finds your neck. His tongue traces patterns on your skin that make you arch up against him, desperate for more contact.

"Fuck," he breathes against your throat, nosing along your pulse point. "You smell so good. Like vanilla and..." He inhales deeply, making your skin erupt in goosebumps. "Like something sweet I wanna taste."

Your hands slide up his back, feeling the play of muscles under warm skin. He's perfectly balanced above you, using just enough of his weight to make you feel deliciously pinned without crushing you. You fucking love it. Don’t know why, don’t know how. Maybe it's just how attractive he is, or the heat of his mouth on your neck, or the press of his body against yours or the way he keeps making these little sounds like he can't help himself.

He's kissing you again before your vodka-soaked brain can process anything beyond rudimentary want, primal need. It's all heat and tongue and teeth, messy and perfect in the way only drunken hookups can be. One of his hands slides up your neck, fingers spreading across your throat. Not squeezing, just...resting.

It's fucking electric.

Your hands map the expanse of his back, nails dragging lightly in a way that makes him groan into your mouth. He's all smooth skin and sinewy muscle, hot to the touch and absolutely unfair. No one should be allowed to feel this good. To make you feel this good, just by existing.

He drags his mouth down your neck, teeth grazing your artery. Your fingers tangle in his hair, gripping tight enough to make him hiss. Which is hot. Way too hot, because that noise? It immediately spirals straight between your thighs.

And fuck, how he grinds down against you in response. It's obscenely filthy, the perfect pressure in just the right spot to make you want to moan aloud. To be shameless.

"Fuck," he breathes against your skin, and you feel it more than hear it. Feel the heat of his breath, the barely restrained want in the way he's touching you. "You feel so fucking good."

Your hips roll up to meet his in a way that's purely instinctual. Because yeah, he feels good too. Better than good. You feel the maddening length of him grinding against you through his jeans; his hand around your neck and—god, you want to claw his back, to wrap your legs around his waist and just take.

The hand on your neck flexes just slightly, thumb brushing your jawline and you think you die just a little because hello? You like that. You really, really fucking like that. New kink unlocked, it seems.

"Want you," he murmurs, voice low and rough with arousal. "Want you so fucking bad, you have no idea."

And oh, you do. You really, really do. Because wanting him is all you can think about right now. All you can focus on beyond the thrumming of your heart, the aching throb between your thighs. You want his hands, his mouth, his—

"Off," you manage, tugging at his jeans with clumsy fingers. "These need to come off like, yesterday."

His chuckle vibrates through his chest into yours. "So fucking bossy."

But he's already leaning back, already working on his fly as you prop yourself up on your elbows to watch. And Jesus Christ, the way he looks right now—shirtless and disheveled, dark hair falling into darker eyes, lips red from your kisses—it's unfair. Unreal.

So fucking hot you think you might actually die if he doesn't touch you again in the next ten seconds.

His jeans hit the floor with a soft thud and holy fuck—the sight of him in just black boxer briefs should be illegal in at least forty-eight states. Like, someone call the police because this? This is absolutely criminal. The way the fabric clings to his thighs, the obvious bulge that makes your mouth water—

But then he's on you again, and thinking becomes a foreign concept.

His hands find the hem of your dress, bunching the fabric up with an urgency that makes heat pool between your legs. You arch up to help him, already anticipating the slide of fabric over skin, but—

Oh.

The second the dress clears your elbows, he presses down. Uses the fabric to pin your arms above your head, effectively trapping you against the mattress. And that's... that's...

Fuck.

His mouth is suddenly on your breast, hot and wet and absolutely perfect. No hesitation, no teasing—just the wet slide of his tongue over your nipple before he sucks it into his mouth, and holy shit.

Thank god you wore this dress. Thank every fucking deity that you chose the tight red one that doesn’t need a bra, because the feeling of his mouth directly on your skin is absolutely devastating.

A moan tears from your throat—embarrassingly loud in the quiet room—as his teeth graze sensitive flesh. His responding groan vibrates through your chest, sending shivers down your spine. Your back arches instinctively, pressing more firmly into his mouth as his tongue swirls around your peaked nipple.

His free hand finds your throat again, and—

Oh god.

His fingers spread wide, applying the slightest pressure. Testing. Exploring. Like he's curious about your reaction, about the way he feels your heartbeat flutter faster in response.

You can't help the soft sound that escapes you—somewhere between a whimper and a moan. His grip tightens fractionally in response, and your cunt clenches around nothing. Because fuck, that shouldn't be as hot as it is. The way he's controlling your breath, the way he's holding you down, the way his mouth is absolutely ruining you one suck at a time...

"Sensitive," he murmurs against your skin, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. Bastard. His thumb strokes along your jugular, feeling the way your breath hitches. "Wonder what other sounds I can get that pretty throat to make."

You'd have a snappy comeback for that. You know you would. But then he's switching to your other breast, teeth scraping just right, and coherent thought becomes a distant memory. All you can focus on is the wet heat of his mouth, the steady pressure of his hand on your throat, the way he's using his other hand to keep you pinned against the bed.

And maybe it's the situation, or maybe it's just him, but you've never been this turned on in your life. Never been this wet, this desperate, this needy. It should be embarrassing really—the way you're practically writhing beneath him, the way every little touch sends electricity sparking through your veins.

But with the way he's groaning against your skin, the way his hips keep grinding against yours like he needs it? Maybe you're not the only one that’s losing sanity here.

His teeth catch your nipple just as his fingers flex against your throat, and the combination pulls a sound from you that you didn’t even know you could make. High and breathy and absolutely wrecked.

"Fuck," he breathes, hot against your wet skin. "The sounds you make..."

His thumb brushes over your throat again, slower this time, before gliding up. Along the underside of your jaw. Pausing at your bottom lip. He applies the slightest pressure, watching as your mouth falls open on instinct. You're not sure whether you breathe or whimper, but it makes his gaze go impossibly darker, makes his hips roll against yours in response.

And then his thumb is there, pressing against your tongue, and—goddamn him—you're sucking without a second thought. The groan he lets out is a shattered thing, low and guttural, as though he's just as wrecked as you.

For three glorious seconds, he just... freezes. Like his brain's temporarily offline, like you've actually managed to short-circuit whatever smooth operator routine he had going.

And okay, maybe that gives you enough time to yank the dress out the rest of the way, tossing it off your bent elbows in a way that you hope was sexier than it felt. He doesn’t seem to notice—too busy looking at you like he's forgotten how he got here. Or how to breathe.

Either way, it's a little distracting.

But then he's moving, yanking his hand back like you've scorched him. And before you can even process the loss, he's sliding down your body, trailing open-mouthed kisses that make your skin come alive.

Your tipsy brain tries to catch up with what's unfolding—manages to register the flex of his shoulders, the heat of his mouth marking a path down your stomach, the way his hands are suddenly gripping your thighs and—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

He pulls you to the edge of the bed like you weigh nothing, kneeling between your spread legs like he belongs there. And how he looks up at you through his lashes, mouth hovering just inches from where you're absolutely drenched through your panties...

You prop yourself up on your elbows because fuck if you're missing this show. The movement makes your head spin slightly—reminder that you are definitely not sober—but the sight of him between your thighs is worth any potential vertigo.

His breath fans hot against your core, and your hips twitch involuntarily. A smirk plays at the corners of his mouth, but before you can call him out on it, he's leaning in. Pressing his open mouth against you through the thin fabric of your underwear, and—

"Fuck."

The word tears from your throat unbidden because holy shit, this shouldn't feel this good already. It's barely anything—just the heat of his mouth, the slight pressure of his tongue through fabric—but your body's lighting up like a fucking supernova. Like every nerve ending is suddenly dialed to a hundred.

Your fingers find his hair without conscious thought, tangling in the dark strands as he works you through your panties. The grip of his hands on your thighs tightens in response, and fuck—that's definitely going to leave marks.

And okay, yeah. Maybe you're embarrassingly wet. Maybe you can feel it soaking through the fabric, making everything slick and messy. Maybe you should care about that, about being this affected this quickly.

But you don’t. Not really, with the way he's groaning against you like he's dying for it. Like he can't get enough. Yeah, dignity can take a backseat.

Besides, all thoughts of pride or shame fly right out the window when he finally, finally hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties. Your hips lift automatically, helping him slide them down your legs. They catch on your heels because of course you're still wearing your fuck-me pumps, but he doesn't seem to mind. Just lets the fabric dangle from one ankle as he dives back in, and—

"Holy shit."

His tongue drags up your slit in one long, deliberate stroke, and your brain temporarily stops working. Like, full system shutdown. Windows XP error sound and everything. Because fuck—that shouldn't feel as mindbogglingly good as it does.

Then he flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue and you make this absolutely mortifying noise—some choked little "guh" that would humiliate you if you were sober enough to care. His lip ring adds this extra edge of sensation that makes your thighs quake, cool metal a sharp contrast to the heat of his mouth.

He makes this sound against you—something between a hum and a growl (and okay, yeah, maybe 'growl' isn't the right word because what are you, fucking animals? But you're drunk and getting your pussy eaten properly for the first time in forever, so vocabulary can fuck right off). Whatever it is, it vibrates through you in a way that has your hips jerking up, seeking more.

Then he's doing these small, slow circles around your clit. So. Fucking. Slow. Like he wants to drive you crazy, wants you to fucking writhe against him. You try not to just grind up against his face. Because that would be desperate, right? That would be—

Damn.

The circles suddenly get faster, tighter, more intense. His tongue flicking over your clit with the kind of speed and precision that would put Fast & Furious to shame. And the sounds coming out of your mouth? Yeah, those aren't even words anymore. Just a stream of "oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck."

If Emma’s home—because it’s probably been an hour already—she’s probably getting one hell of a show through these paper-thin walls. But you know what? She fucking owes you. All those times you covered for her sneaking out to Bobby Martinez's house in high school? Yeah, consider this payback with interest.

He drags his tongue back down, gathering your wetness (and okay, yeah, you're basically flooding at this point but whatever), then slides back up. Adding texture to his movements like some kind of oral sex virtuoso. Because apparently this stranger knows exactly what he's doing with that mouth, and honestly? Good for you. You deserve this. You deserve to have your pussy eaten by someone who treats it like a goddamn art form.

So you lean back, let yourself enjoy it. Let him explore and taste and fuck—the way he's absolutely feasting on you like you're his last meal. His tongue finds your clit again, and this time he sucks it into his mouth, and the sound that rips from your throat probably violates noise ordinances in several states.

The wet sounds of his mouth on you are absolutely obscene. Like, pornographic-level obscene. All sucking and slurping and Jesus fucking Christ, you should not find that as hot as you do. But with your stiletto digging into his back (when did that happen?) and his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave fingerprints...

Yeah. Yeah, definitely hot.

Then his tongue drags down, down, down—and fuck, you can feel every ridge, every texture against your sensitive flesh. He reaches your entrance and just... circles it. Like he's mapping you out. Like he’s thinking about his next move.

Five blessed seconds where you can actually catch your breath. Where your brain starts to come back online and—

Fuck.

His tongue plunges into you without warning and your hand definitely just yanks out some of his hair but who fucking cares because his nose is nudging your clit while he tongue-fucks you and—and—

And your brain's offline again. Good talk.

He adjusts his arms, somehow pulling you even closer to his face. As if you weren't already basically smothering him. As if he literally wants to drown in your cunt. And that thought shouldn't be as scorching hot as it is but holy shit.

A moan tears from your throat—loud enough that Emma's probably googling noise complaint laws right now. But you can feel it building, that telltale tightening, that electric tension spreading through your core. Your clit's throbbing in time with your racing pulse and—

And he doesn't change a thing.

Because this guy? This absolute genius between your legs? He knows better than to pull that amateur hour bullshit where they speed up right when you're close. No, he maintains the exact same rhythm, the exact same pressure that got you here. Like he's done this before. Like he actually pays attention to what works.

(And okay, maybe you shouldn't be thinking about his past experience right now but your brain's kind of shorting out so whatever.)

Your stiletto digs deeper into his shoulder—might actually be drawing blood at this point but he doesn't seem to care one iota. If anything, he groans against you like he's getting off on it. Like pain turns him on. And that's...that's definitely something to stash away for later.

Or never. Because this is a one-time thing. Right. Focus.

Except focusing is basically impossible when he's eating you out like it's his actual job. When the pressure's building and building and—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Your back arches off the bed like you're auditioning for America's Next Top Model: After Dark Edition. The orgasm hits you like a riptide, waves of pleasure so intense your vision actually whites out for a second. Your thighs clamp around his head, heel probably leaving permanent marks on his back, and you're definitely making sounds that would make a porn star blush but—

But holy shit.

His tongue flicks over your oversensitive clit one last time—the absolute bastard—and your whole body jerks as you whimper. Which, okay, definitely earned that one. Because holy fuck.

You slump back against the bed, bones liquified, as he prowls up your body. His hands plant on either side of your face and—wow, okay, up close he's even more unfairly beautiful. All sharp jawline and scorching eyes and lips that are literally glistening with...yeah.

"You taste exactly like you smell," he murmurs, and what kind of weird-ass compliment is that? Like, thanks? Good to know your pussy matches your perfume brand?

Except...it kind of works? Something tingles in your face and no. Absolutely not. You are not getting all swoony just because Hot Stranger is saying vaguely poetic shit during sex. This is just your horny lizard brain going 'hot man say words, neurons go brr.' That's all.

Then his mouth is on your neck and—yeah, okay, thinking is canceled anyway. His hands trace maddening patterns down your stomach, feather-light touches that make your muscles jump. And when he tugs his briefs down, his cock springs free and—

Oh.

Well then.

Your body apparently didn’t get the memo about the standard refractory period because hello, Round Two suddenly seems very appealing. It hasn’t even been five minutes since you came but here you are, already clenching around nothing like some kind of sex-starved teenager.

He leans back slightly, reaching for something and—ah. His jeans. More specifically, his wallet. From which he produces not one but multiple condoms, and honestly? We love a prepared king. Nothing hotter than a guy who practices safe sex without having to be asked.

(And yes, you're literally evaluating his sexual responsibility while naked and still tingling from one of the best orgasms of your life. Sue you.)

He grabs one condom and tosses the others somewhere on the bed. Then—because apparently he's auditioning for some porno-meets-action-movie hybrid—he puts the wrapper between his teeth. Locks eyes with you. Rips it open.

And okay, PSA time: Kids (not that any kids should be reading this, what the fuck brain?)—this is not how you open condoms. Use your fingers like a normal person, not your teeth like some kind of sexual menace. That's literally Condom Safety 101.

But then again, when a guy this stupid hot does literally anything, your brain just kind of... accepts it. Like yeah, sure, demolish that condom wrapper with your teeth while maintaining smoldering eye contact. That's normal. That's fine. You're fine.

He gives the condom a cursory check (okay, at least he's being thorough), pinches the tip between his fingers and you just... watch. Wait.

"You gonna fuck me tomorrow or...?" The words slip out before your self-censor can nab them, biting and teasing.

Bad choice.

His hand—his stupidly large, stupidly warm hand—wraps around your thigh and yanks you down the bed in one fluid motion. And why the fuck is that so hot? Why are you noticing how his fingers practically span your whole thigh? Why is the heat of his palm against your skin making your breath catch?

Your eyes flicker back to his cock and—oh. When did he even get the condom on? You must have missed that while you were having your crisis about his hands. But he's ready now, thick and hard and—

Fuck.

He pushes in with one swift motion and your body just... takes him. Like you're literally eager for it, still slick and open from his mouth. He makes this soft gasping sound like he's actually dying, like your cunt is some kind of religious experience.

"Fuck, you're so wet," he groans, hips flush against yours. "So fucking slippery and warm, feels like silk—"

"That's—ah—what happens when you eat someone out properly," you manage, even as your walls flutter around him. Because apparently your mouth doesn’t know when to quit, even with a dick inside you.

His laugh is rough, breathless.

"I’ll keep that in mind."

And fuck—the way he says it, like a promise, like a threat. Your cunt clenches at the thought and he actually growls.

He pushes your thighs down against the mattress and—ow. Okay, that's definitely going to hurt tomorrow. Future You is probably already plotting Present You's murder, adding your name to some karmic hit list right next to Emma’s (who, let’s be real, is definitely contemplating homicide through these paper-thin walls right now).

But then he starts moving and—oh.

Oh fuck.

Every coherent thought evaporates because he's burying himself so deep you swear he's trying to carve out a permanent place inside you. Like he wants your body to remember exactly how he feels, wants to leave an impression that'll last long after tonight.

You didn’t even get a proper look at his size earlier (too busy fizzing over his hands, his mouth, literally everything else), but holy shit. What you do know is he's thick—like, properly thick. Every inch of him pressed against your walls like he's trying to eliminate any space between you, like he's mapping out your insides for future reference.

"Fuck, you're tight," he groans, and you actually feel him twitch inside you. "So fucking—"

"Less talking," you manage to gasp out, "more moving."

His laugh is rough, breathless. "As you wish."

He snaps his hips once—testing, exploring—and your breath hitches in your throat. Then again. And again. Quick thrust in, torturously slow pull out, and every single time has you gasping like some Victorian maiden with a too-tight corset.

"Like that?" He sounds way too smug for someone balls-deep in a stranger. "The way you squeeze me every time I—"

"You always this chatty during sex?" Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy, but whatever. "Or am I just special?"

Another snap of his hips that makes your eyes roll back. "Maybe I just like the sounds you make when I'm inside you."

And fuck—why is that hot? That shouldn’t be hot. You're still so wet from earlier that you can hear it, can feel how smoothly he glides in and out, nice and easy.

"You're certainly—ah—confident," you manage between thrusts, because apparently your mouth doesn’t know when to quit. "Compensating for something?"

His grip on your thighs tightens. "Want me to stop and let you check?"

"Don’t you fucking dare."

His pace quickens and—oh hello, is that a smirk he's biting back? It is. It absolutely fucking is. And your brain, your stupid, traitorous brain, finds that scorching. Because of course it does. You squint your eyes shut because you can’t deal with how cocky he looks right now, can’t process how that cockiness is actually doing it for you.

Congratulations, you've officially lost it. This is your villain origin story. Death by dick-induced insanity. They'll write case studies about you in Psychology Today: "Local Woman's Brain Melts Because Hot Stranger Has Good Dick Game." Your mother would be so proud.

But also? Also shut the fuck up, brain, because you're literally getting the best dick of your life right now so maybe save the self-reproach for later? Like, there's a time and place for your characteristic overthinking and this ain’t it.

He leans forward then, changing the angle as he chases your mouth, and holy fuck. Each thrust goes deeper, harder, faster—like he's trying to reach parts of you no one else has touched. His kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth and desperation, and you're actually whimpering into his mouth like some kind of—

Wait.

Hold the fucking phone.

Since when do you whimper? What is this, some kind of Harlequin romance novel? Are you secretly the protagonist of a Fabio-covered paperback? Because you don’t whimper. You don’t make these soft, needy little sounds into strange men’s mouths. That’s not your brand. That’s not—

But then he rolls his hips in this way that makes you see actual fucking stars, and okay, you know what? Fuck your brand. Fuck everything. Because the way he's moving? The way he's filling you up like you're some kind of horny piñata? Yeah, that takes precedence over your identity crisis.

And speaking of crises—why does this feel so fucking good? Like, mathematically speaking, dick is dick. It's basic anatomy. Tab A into Slot B. So why does every thrust feel like he's rewriting the laws of physics? Why does your body respond to him like he's got some kind of sexual Midas touch?

The worst part? The absolute worst part? You can feel another orgasm building already. Which is ridiculous. Impossible. You literally came like ten minutes ago. This man hasn’t even finished once and here you are, ready to go again like some kind of horny Energizer bunny.

You need to have a serious conversation with your pussy about standards and expectations. Like, what happened to the refractory period? What happened to playing hard to get? Because this? This instant response to everything he does? This eager little flutter every time he hits that spot just right?

This is just embarrassing.

But also really, really fucking good.

"You take my cock so fuckin' well," he groans against your neck, voice rough and slurred. "Like y'were made for it, so perfect—"

And okay, what kind of porn dialogue bullshit is that? Who actually says things like that during sex? More importantly, why is it working? Why does every filthy word from his mouth send electricity shooting straight to your cunt?

"Hnnngh—"

That's it. That's all you can manage because your brain-to-mouth filter is totally fried. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he hits that spot just right, and you're pretty sure you're leaving marks but whatever. Future Him problems.

"F-fuck, how you clench around me when I say shit like that," his words come out breathless, hitching. "Like hearing how good you feel? How tight and wet and fucking flawless—"

"Shut up." But it comes out more like a whine than a command, completely undermining any attempt at snark. Your walls flutter around him traitorously, and his responding groan vibrates through your whole body.

"Make me," he challenges, punctuating it with a particularly vicious thrust that has your eyes rolling back. "Or maybe you don't want me to? Maybe you secretly get off on—fuck—on hearing how amazing you are, how nobody's ever swallowed me this deep before—"

"Nghh—" Your brain's offline. Completely fucking offline. No thoughts, head empty, just the overwhelming sensation of him moving inside you, the heat of his breath against your neck, the absolute filth falling from his lips.

"S'true though," he pants, pace growing erratic. "Never felt anything like this, like your—oh fuck—"

A moan tears from your throat—loud and wanton and utterly mortifying. But you can't help it, not when he's fucking you like he's trying to ruin you for anyone else, not when he keeps saying these things that make your insides turn to molten lava.

"That's it, lemme hear you," he encourages, and you want to punch him for how smug he sounds but you also want him to never stop. "Love the sounds you make when I'm deep in this pussy, when I—shit—"

His voice catches as you deliberately tighten around him, a small victory that makes you smirk despite how your body's on fire.

"Fuck, you're evil."

"You talk too much," you manage to get out between gasps, even as your hips chase his rhythm desperately. You're close—so fucking close—but not quite there.

He laughs against your neck, the sound dark and promising.

“Touch yourself for me."

When you don't immediately comply—because for some reason you still want to challenge him—he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye.

"Rub that pretty clit, show me how you like it."

The command in his voice shouldn't turn you on this much. "Make me," you challenge, because apparently your mouth has a death wish.

"Oh?"

His rhythm slows to something torturous, each thrust deep and deliberate. "Do I need to show you where it is? Guide those lovely fingers myself?"

You're about to snark back when his hand slides between your bodies, and—oh. Oh.

"Found it," he says with infuriating smugness, circling your clit with practiced ease. Your whole body jerks at the contact, oversensitive and desperate. "Seems like I know exactly where it is. Don't I?"

"Fuck—" Your voice breaks as he applies just the right amount of pressure, the bastard. "You're so—nghh—"

"I'm so what?" He's grinning now, you can hear it in his voice even as you squeeze your eyes shut. "C'mon, tell me. Use your words."

"Insufferable," you grit out, but your body betrays you, arching into his touch. "Arrogant—ah—asshole—"

"Maybe." His fingers speed up, matching the pace of his thrusts, and holy shit you're going to die. "But I'm an arrogant asshole who's about to make you cum again, aren't I?"

He's right and you hate it. Hate how well he reads your body, hate how he found your clit without hesitation like he's got some kind of carnal GPS, hate how fucking good he is at this.

"That's it," he encourages as your breathing hitches, as your nails dig into his shoulders. "Let me feel you fall apart. Wanna feel this cunt clamp down on my cock when you—"

His hips stutter and you can feel him pulsing inside you, even through the condom. The way his whole body tenses, the broken sound he makes against your throat—it pushes you right over the edge. Yeah. Your second orgasm says hi; has you curling your toes against his back, tensing your thighs around him as if he would ever dream of leaving right now.

"Fuck fuck fuck—" You're not even sure which one of you is saying it anymore. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe you're having an out-of-body experience because Jesus Christ.

For a moment, there's just silence. Just breathing. Just the sound of your heart trying to recall its normal cadence. Then he chuckles against your cheek—a low, sated sound that you'll deny remembering tomorrow—and follows it with a quick nip that makes you jolt.

"Fuck, that was good," he breathes, still catching his breath.

"S'alright," you manage, even though your legs are literally jelly and your brain's still rebooting.

He pulls back just enough to quirk an eyebrow at you, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips. "Just alright?"

"Fishing for compliments?" You raise your own eyebrow, trying to ignore how his hand is still absently stroking your hip. "That's kind of desperate."

"Says the girl who came twice."

And—okay, rude. Accurate, but rude.

He shifts then, carefully pulling out (and at least he's considerate about it, making sure not to hurt you), and starts dealing with the condom. But then he just... stands there. Looking lost. Condom in hand and this adorably bemused expression that makes something in your chest do a weird little flip.

No. Not adorable. Nothing about this guy is adorable. Hot? Yes. Skilled with his tongue? Abso-fucking-lutely. But not adorable. You refuse to find anything about him cute, especially not the way he's glancing around the room like a lost puppy trying to figure out where to—

You can't stifle the snort that escapes you. "Trash can's over there, genius." You gesture with your head toward the small bin by the dresser. "Try not to get lost on the way."

He rolls his eyes but moves across the room, and you definitely don't watch the play of muscles in his back as he walks. Or the way his ass looks in the dim light. Or how his hand rakes through his tousled hair as he leans down to dispose of the condom and—

Fuck.

Fuck.

Because here's the thing: you've had one-night stands before. You know how this goes. Quick fuck, awkward goodbye, never see each other again. That's the routine. That's the protocol. That's what smart, sensible people do.

But.

But you're already thinking about how his mouth felt between your legs. About how he filled you up just right. About how he seemed to know exactly what to do with his hands, his hips, his—

And you know what? Fuck it. Fuck being sensible and sane. Fuck playing it cool. You've got a hot guy with stellar dick game right here, right now. Might as well take advantage while you can.

Before your brain can talk you out of it, you're launching yourself off the bed. Your legs are still a bit wobbly (thanks, Mr. Two Orgasms), but you manage to catch him just as he turns around. Your mouth crashes into his, messy and demanding, as you push him against the wall.

His surprised grunt turns into a pleased hum against your lips, and his hands immediately find your hips like they belong there. Like this is exactly what he was hoping would happen.

Cocky bastard.

He spins you around so fast your head spins—or maybe that's just the lingering vodka. Either way, suddenly your back's hitting the wall and—oh. Okay. This is happening. Again. Because apparently your body doesn't give two shits about being thoroughly fucked already.

His mouth crashes back into yours, hungry and insistent, and it should be gross really—you can taste yourself on his tongue, everything's messy and uncoordinated and frantic. But instead it's just...hot. So fucking hot you feel like you're melting from the inside out.

Then his hands slide down to your thighs and he's lifting you like you weigh zilch (and seriously, what is it with this guy and manhandling? More importantly, why do you like it?). Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, and how his cock twitches against your stomach—already getting hard again—should not make you feel this smug.

"Eager?" you manage to gasp between kisses, because apparently your mouth doesn't know when to quit.

He bites your bottom lip in response, just hard enough to make you whimper (and fuck, there's that sound again, what is wrong with you tonight?). "I’m sorry? Weren’t you the one jumping me?”

"Just felt sorry for you." The words come out breathier than intended as his mouth finds that spot behind your ear. "Standing there looking all lost with your used condom—"

His growl cuts you off, vibrating through his chest into yours. One of his hands tangles in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat, and—fuck. The way he attacks your neck like he's trying to mark you up, like he wants everyone to know exactly what you've been doing...

Then his mouth finds yours again, swallowing whatever protest you might have made. And it's different this time—sloppier, needier. All clashing teeth and warring tongues and his hands everywhere at once. You're pressed so tightly between him and the wall you can feel every twitch of his muscles, every stuttered breath.

One of his hands slides up your thigh, fingertips trailing fire in their wake, and you're already embarrassingly slick again. Already aching for him like you didn't just have him inside you minutes ago. Your hips roll against him craving friction, and the sound he makes—half groan, half snarl—shoots straight between your legs.

"Condom," you gasp against his mouth. "Need a—"

"Yeah," he breathes, but he doesn't move away. Just keeps kissing you like he's suffocating and you're oxygen, like he can't bear to stop even for a heartbeat. "Yeah, just—fuck, you feel so good—"

Your brain's rapidly disintegrating, especially with the way he keeps grinding against you, the way his mouth keeps doing that to your neck. But you manage to remember: "Bed. Other condoms. On the bed."

He makes this sound of acknowledgment but still doesn't budge, just shifts his hips in a way that has his cock sliding against your clit and—jesus fuck.

"If you don't get a condom right now," you warn, voice embarrassingly unsteady, "I'm going to kill you."

His laugh is rough, breathless. "Such violence."

He practically teleports to the bed—like, Olympic-level sprinting for that condom. It'd be comical, the way he fumbles with the wrapper (apparently Mr. Smooth isn't so smooth when he's desperate), except you're too busy being embarrassingly turned on by his urgency.

You're about to suggest moving to the bed—because your legs are already shaking and wall sex seems ambitious after two orgasms—but—

Holy fuck.

He's got you up against the wall again in one fluid motion, hands gripping your thighs as he lines himself up and—oh god. The sound that rips from your throat as he fills you in one swift thrust is utterly shameful. But the broken "fuck" that falls from his lips? How his whole body shudders as he bottoms out?

Yeah, okay. Maybe worth the mortification.

"Jesus fuck," he breathes against your neck, voice wrecked. "You feel—shit, how do you feel even better than before?"

"Hush it," you gasp, even as your walls flutter around him. "And move."

He laughs, breathless and gritty. "Demanding little thing." But he's already moving, setting a pace that has your head lolling back. "God, you’re even wetter than before, taking me so well—”

"That your professional opinion?" Your attempt at snark falls flat when it comes out as more of a moan. "Done extensive research, have you?"

His hips snap up particularly hard at that. "Never—fuck—never felt anything like this."

And that should be a line. That should be the kind of bullshit guys say during hookups to stroke their own egos. Except the way he says it—all breathless wonder and raw honesty—makes something hot unfurl in your chest.

"Yeah?" It comes out embarrassingly breathy, but whatever. Can’t really care when every thrust is melting honey down your spine. "Prove it."

He makes this sound—half growl, half moan—like he fucking loves your audacity. "Already made you come twice."

"Maybe I was faking."

"Sweetheart, nobody's that good an actress."

And honestly? Fair. But you're not about to admit that, not when he's already so smug about how well he plays your body. Instead, you drag him down for a kiss that's more teeth than finesse, swallowing his groans as his pace gets more erratic.

"F-fuck," he pants against your mouth. "Gonna make you come again. Wanna feel you—"

"Big talk for someone who—ah—hasn't delivered yet."

His responding thrust makes your back arch off the wall. "Jus’ wait."

His hips snap up harder at your challenge, making your head thump back against the wall. And fuck—the way he's moving now, all rough desperation and graceless rhythm. Everything's wet and messy and absolutely filthy, the sounds of skin on skin blending with your breathless moans.

"Still—ah—ah—waiting for that delivery," you manage, even as your nails dig into his shoulders.

"Fuckin’—" His breathless laugh is menacing. "Always—fuck—gotta have the last word, don’tcha?”

You'd have a comeback for that, you really would, except he chooses that moment to shift his angle and—holy shit. Because now? Now his pubic bone grinds against your clit every time he moves, every time he thrusts deep inside you. And honestly? Fucking unfair that even his bones know where your clit is.

You can feel him twitching inside you, can tell he's close by the way his breath comes in harsh pants against your neck. And you're almost there too, just need a little more—

But then he's groaning, hips stuttering as he cums. His whole body tenses, pressing you flatter against the wall as he empties into the condom.

And okay, great for him, congratulations, but you were so fucking close.

You tap his back urgently. "Keep goin’."

"What?" He's still catching his breath, forehead pressed against your shoulder. "Gimme a second, ah—I just—"

"I was—right there," you whine (and yes, you're actually whining now, this is what you've been reduced to). "Don't you dare stop."

He lifts his head, looking at you incredulously. "I literally just filled the condom—"

"I don't give a fuck, just move."

And okay, yeah, PSA time number two: This is definitely not safe sex practice. The second a condom's full, it needs to be changed. That's like, Sex Ed 101. But also? Also your clit is throbbing and you were this close to coming and your horny lizard brain has completely taken over.

"Jesus," he breathes, but he's already starting to move again, shallow little thrusts that make your eyes roll back. "You're fucking insatiable."

"Like earlier," you gasp, grinding down against him. "With the… with your hipbone."

He laughs against your neck—a rough, breathless sound that shouldn't be as arousing as it is. "Gotcha."

And he does. Repositions himself, makes sure he’s got exactly the same position he had earlier. His hipbone comes in contact with your clit as he begins thrusting faster again, and fucking yeah, that’s what you needed.

"Fuck, the way you feel," he groans. "So slick and snug and—shit—"

"Shut up shut up shut up—"

Because you can't handle his voice right now, can't deal with how his words make the drowning sensation grow more and more intense by the second. You're so close you can taste it, right on the precipice, just need a little more—

Then he nips at your neck, his tongue flattening against your pulse point. And that's it. You're a goner. Again. For the third time tonight.

Your entire body locks up as bliss courses through, lapping at your core like waves at a shore. Your eyes instinctively close as you relish it in all its intensity, and you're pretty sure you make some kind of mortifying noise but whatever. Three orgasms in, dignity is a distant memory.

He slows his movements gradually, letting you ride it out, and you can feel him softening inside you. Your head drops to his shoulder because keeping it upright seems like way too much effort right now. The residual booze is hitting different after getting thoroughly wrecked—everything soft and fuzzy around the edges.

You vaguely register him checking the condom with his free hand—the other one still supporting your ass because apparently you're not ready to unwrap your legs from his waist yet. Your brain's moving in slow motion, heavy with alcohol and mist and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that only comes from really good sex.

"Hey." He taps your back lightly. "You falling asleep on me? Dick game that good?"

"Die," you mumble into his shoulder, not even bothering to lift your head. "Just... shut up and die."

You hear him chuckle, vaguely. It should be irritating. It isn't. You're too drained to care. Everything's warm and hazy and your limbs feel like they're crafted from lead.

You're only half-aware of him moving you to the bed, of sheets being pulled up, of a warm body pressing against your back. Your consciousness is already drifting, floating in that space between awake and asleep where nothing quite computes.

The last thing you register, right before slumber claims you completely, is his nose pressed against your neck and his drowsy murmur:

“Smell like vanilla now too."

⋆｡°✩ TAGLIST ✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[writtenbyshama]

Memory Theatre (Sylus x Reader)

Synopsis: Y/n is a protocore researcher who is looking for answers about how an aether core got lodged into her heart and why is it messing with her brain. In the midst of this elaborate maze of dead ends and false answers, she encounters a man who seems to be very interested in her and is willing to find ways of providing her with the answers she's seeking.

Author's note: Y/n is not a hunter; she is a Master's student (not based on myself at all) and a part time protocore researcher at the Association. No changes to Sylus, although there may be situations in the story where he might be a little out of character. Mentions of the other LADS men, but they are not the love interests here.

Chapter 10: Bossman Keeps His Word

Sylus placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder and healed the scrapes on her skin with his evol.

They had successfully defeated the modified wanderer, but they had failed to resonate with each other. Again. The energy required to use the wanderer’s own protocore power against itself had rendered the girl unconscious by the end of the battle. After the healing process was done, Sylus sat down heavily in a nearby chair, his blank face masking the worry within. 

The facility keeper entered with a box of exhausted protocore shells. “The energy of the aether core in her heart is not stable, but it can be fixed. And her Evol is working fine. Whatever impediments she has with regards to resonating with you is not physical.”

Sylus focused on the keeper, his gaze intense enough to make the man tremble. “What do you mean, ‘it’s not physical’?”

The man stammered and haltingly explained that the resonance Evol used brain waves to forge a connection with another’s person’s Evol. The connection failed if the former harboured feelings of hate, fear, or disgust towards the latter. 

Sylus closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing the wave of pain. Once, there had been a time when an entire planet hated his kind, and this woman right here was the only one who had shown him human love. She had stood next to him proudly, defiant against the entire world. They had fought for each other through different lifetimes. All that had dissolved to her not even remembering him now, and there was an additional possibility that she hated/feared him, or was disgusted by him. 

He remembered the first time he’d felt her presence in this life. He had been imprisoned at the space-time prison and had broken out of it to reach her. And now that he had done that, she’d forgotten him. How frustrating. 

Well. In another life, they had suffered through decades of pain together. In yet another, they were forced to fight each other to death (they didn’t). He didn’t want to repeat that by forcing her to remember or shackling her to himself. She had built a life of her own and he didn’t have it in him to shatter it to pieces. 

With a heavy heart, he stood up and left the facility, not looking back even once.

🗡️🐦‍⬛🗡️

The first words to escape my mouth when I came to, were: “Where’s Sylus?”

The facility keeper neither met my eye nor responded to my question. Instead, he helped me sit up on the metal stretcher and removed all the electrodes stuck to my skin. Once I was free to move, he handed me a box of protocores that were cracked and empty. “Keep one near your chest at all times. They’ll absorb the excess energy radiating from the aether core fragment and keep it stable. It’ll help with your memory issues.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “How do you know about the aether core?”

He smiled slightly. “I recognised the protocurve. Before seeking Sylus’s protection, my job was to research aether cores exclusively.”

I sat up straight, alert. I might finally get some answers. “Do you anything about—“

“Yes, I wasn’t posted as a UNICORN researcher, but I knew Josephine, yes.”

“So you knew about the experiment.” 

“Not the details, but Josephine had been a good colleague of mine. She had showed me a photo of a little girl once, and told me about the aether core frag.”

“Do you have anything else? Research papers? Any other colleagues whom I can get more answers from?”

He shook his head. “During the catastrophe, there were rumours about a break-in and two of the lab experiments being missing. Josephine was missing too. But it wasn’t investigated as much, since there was a bigger problem going on. All I can give you is the name: Ever.”

Two lab experiments and Josephine—that must be me, Caleb and grandma. And Ever, it was the leading institute in world-class research and tech. 

I sat there for a minute, digesting the information, excited about getting a new lead. But then I remembered about the silver-haired man. 

“The aether core in Sylus’s eye, it…feels familiar.”

The man didn’t seem surprised. “That happens when the fragments belong to the same whole. The fragments recognise their counterpart when being near.” 

He didn’t notice the chill running down my spine and continued: “Mr. Sylus told me to inform you that your bike is waiting outside. He has kept his promise—the energy linkage alteration failed, so he’s going to leave you alone.”

I sighed, looking down at the protocore shells rolling against each other in the box. “I don’t understand. Why can’t I resonate with him? I just can’t sense his Evol at all.”

The facility keeper had an answer for that too. “Your subconscious is blocking you from resonating with his power. I can’t pinpoint the exact reason, it’s for you to figure it out.”

I couldn’t think of anything else. I thanked him and dropped down from the metal table, holding the box to my chest. Before I headed out, the keeper was kind enough to let me borrow some of his old research material on the aether core. Placing them inside the box, I headed out into the cold, harsh wind of the N109 Zone. My body was exhausted and I was irritated at the fact that Sylus had forced me to fight a wanderer, yet a conflict of emotions swirled through me about him actually keeping his word about leaving me alone. I mean, I appreciated the sentiment, but after all we went through together, I at least deserved a personal farewell from him. 

I placed the box on the tank of my bike and touched the keys inside the ignition, my eyes turned to the night sky to try and spot if the motherfucking crow was tailing me. I couldn’t see anything, though. Soon enough, I was on my way to Linkon, all my thoughts and feelings about the N109 Zone and its owner being pushed back into the abyss of my mind. 

🗡️🐦‍⬛🗡️

This is going to be a very long fanfiction with lots of chapters and I almost gave up writing last night. However, today morning I woke up with the contentment that my purpose is to create, to write the story and the put it to the world. The right people to consume it and make it their own will follow on their own time. And to each of my readers, I want to say thank you. For appreciating my writing through likes, comments, and reblogs. You guys are the best.

Part 1: Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

[yuseirra]

Okay, just one more before I get back to drawing... I can draw!!! I really love running my thoughts on this subject, my brain just keeps functioning, and I have to drop my thoughts...

Heheh, in short, I still feel I am never wrong about hikaai(yet), I am so stubborn, aren't I? but I really am not. I know when to give up, so I will when I have to but when it comes to them, I don't think I'll ever have to?

I jotted things down(whew, I really love writing), bringing it here too~ used translators because.. I am exhausted and I can't write this same thing twice when there are lovely inventions out there. let's put it to good use!

***

I’ve never really been wrong when it comes to reading emotions. When it comes to real people, I don’t try to push myself to analyze them, but when it comes to fictional characters with enough pieces to work with, I do enjoy trying to figure them out—just as a hobby, because it's fun.

When I get hooked on something, I analyze it thoroughly.

But when it comes to Kamiki, we’ve never really been given a full picture. All we have are fragmented pieces of information, and they’re so scattered that they just don’t come together.

What made me start analyzing him seriously was the music. A song can convey a complete narrative. There's already a somewhat cohesive image in it, and through that, I was able to catch a fragment of the emotional essence of this character. That became the basis for trying to piece everything else together.

To be honest, when I think about the overall story and what meaning this character might hold, I feel like I already got a sense of it just from listening to the songs. But when I see what the story is doing, it’s constantly twisting things around and making it so confusing. This happened with AquaKana too. The story keeps throwing in misdirection, and it's exhausting at times. There are things that seem so clear, but the story keeps bluffing, and it's frustrating to the point where I had to take a break from it.

With AquaKana, I was right.

Now with Kamiki’s character, either I’m completely wrong, or the writers just love to mess with us. But even if I’ve been wrong about other things in life, I’ve never been wrong about this kind of thing.

If things go the way I’ve been thinking, it could turn out to be a really compelling story. I feel like that’s where it’s heading.

But talking about someone else’s work like this is really hard. Who am I to be saying all this? In English, they'd call this feeling “entitled.” I know better than anyone that I’m just one reader among many. No matter what I think, I have no influence over the work—I’m fully aware of that.

Still, because I can see things, I keep talking about it, and that’s what makes it so frustrating. It’d be easier if the work could just tell me I’m completely wrong. Then I could admit it, give up, and move on… If I didn’t like it, I’d just walk away. But the ambiguity keeps bothering me.

I’ve always been good at grasping the big picture, even if I can’t get all the small details right.

I used to make a lot of fan videos for my favorite series. I think I’m good at understanding things on a broad level.

In that sense, I know what this is.

I understand the big picture, and I know what emotions are at play here on a smaller scale.

When I sang Fatal yesterday, I realized something. That song is definitely wrapped in a thick layer of madness. I really underestimated that in my character analysis.

I admit that I missed something important there.

But the reason I didn’t pick up on it is because I felt like, at its core, it’s actually a sad song. Sure, on the surface, it’s absolutely drenched in madness. But the core emotion is sadness. Kamiki, at his core, is deeply, deeply sad to the point where he wants to die. That hit me hard. That’s why I believe Mephisto is his song, too. I’m sure I’m right. The song doesn’t fit Aqua’s story, but it fits Kamiki perfectly.

The feeling of longing and sorrow is overwhelming—almost painfully so. So when I listened to it, I thought, "This is it. This is love." That’s why I think I’ve drawn more fan art of Kamiki and Ai than anyone else in the entire world at this point. I drew them every single day. I felt so much because the emotions were just so strong.

Do any of you ever feel this way? Like, sometimes when you’re talking to someone, their emotions don’t just stay on their side but hit you directly, and you feel exactly what they’re feeling? That happens to me a lot, and it’s exhausting. That’s why I try to focus on happy thoughts as much as possible.

I had to leave Twitter even though I had so many valuable connections there because I just couldn’t handle it anymore. Around that time, a war broke out, and I felt like my insides were completely falling apart watching so many terrible news.

Music, though… It’s such a good medium for conveying emotions. When you listen to the songs connected to a work, they really help you understand what the characters are feeling or the overall vibe of the story. It’s why I got into my favorite character in the first place—after listening to the opening theme of season 1.

Idol was such a painful song when I first heard it. It hurt so much and felt so tragic. And yet, the character singing it…she was so determined and I admired that part of the character. It was so obvious what the song was about that it left me with this heavy feeling.

The song was almost too easy to understand—it was so raw and exposed. In that sense, it’s like a nude painting. It’s all out there, completely vulnerable, crying out for someone to accept it. It doesn’t hide anything, and that’s why it was so hard to listen to. The song directly conveys this character's emotions, stabbing right into you. But those emotions are so painful to bear. Still, the message in the end is to keep going and live your best life… That’s why I decided I had to watch onk, and Ai turned out to be exactly like the person I imagined from that song. Strong but weak, so lovely and lively and fragile and human with an incredibly powerful will. I really root for her. I can’t say I would have handled things as well as she did if I were to be her. She worked so hard, and it’s heartbreaking.

Haha, when I get this invested, it’s important to step back and create some distance, but when I’m drawing or writing dialogue for manga, I dive right back in. It's the one determination I have when I decide to craft something out of another person's work, it's my way of showing my love towards it. In a way, I also give it my all, it's my way of connecting with the piece. I want to understand it, I want to be accurate. I want to do a good job. Like I say, I am a perfectionist. I also want to handle another person's work with care.

Fatal is such an intense song.

Honestly, the reason I started watching this series is because the emotions are so intense. Even if they’re not always in a good way, they’re raw, complex, and well-crafted. They feel so real.

I wrote that the song must be about Kamiki immediately after listening to the song. I just knew. And now look. I was right. If you look at chapter 162, Kamiki is just completely broken because he misses Ai so much.

But… this character was so kind. He was really, really kind.

When I first heard Fatal, I felt this strange, powerful emotion. It was so strong, desperate, yearning, and full of longing. But what was even stranger was that I didn’t feel like it was selfish.

That’s hard to pull off, right? To care so much, to the point of obsession, to the point where you can’t live without the person, and yet, the song doesn’t come off as selfish at all.

It’s not as aggressive as you’d think. At least not toward the other person. It’s not like the possessive, dehumanizing vibe you get from abusive relationships. The emotion here is different.

That’s why I thought Kamiki could have been the perfect match for Ai, and it felt like Ai really did love him.

Back then, I was so anxious about Kamiki’s relationship with Ai, but after listening to that song, I felt like I understood. These two genuinely cared for each other… I was certain of it. That’s why I had this feeling that Kamiki couldn’t have hurt Ai, and that’s why I drew them so much. I felt I could work with them and I still do.

When Kamiki reminisces about Ai and himself, like in chapter 162, he looks so happy and radiant. It’s consistent with what was shown in chapter 153.

And Ai smiles when she thinks of him too. When Ai imagines a future where they stayed together, that’s what it looks like. Kamiki, a good husband, lovingly watching over their kids, and the two of them smiling together.

So, at least their relationship was like that. They both held such a positive impression of their relationship. They loved each other so much and didn’t want to let go. Both wanted to be together forever. Even though Kamiki went completely mad, what he says in chapter 162 about wanting to feel her forever is the essentially the same as Ai’s wish to be with him forever. That’s the meaning behind his words, but because Ai died, that desire got twisted.

They really could have been happy together. They really did have a good relationship.

Seeing that makes me wonder what’s going on with the story right now, but at the same time, I understand it, and it makes my head hurt.

I mean, he must have loved Ai so much that it drove him crazy.

But his actions don’t match up with his base personality. No matter how much she loved him, Ai couldn’t have loved a man who would kill her children.

That’s why I keep thinking there’s something more going on. I’m sure I’m right—there are so many hints.

[wanderingmind867]

So, uh...fairly oddparents is still a franchise, huh? You know... I never really got into it very much. I remember parts (when you grow up in the 2010s and you only had two kid's tv channels to watch, you get fragments of said 2010s and 2000s shows drilled in there), but I actually remember something far weirder. And it actually makes me have some bizarre questions regarding Butch Hartman and/or his hiring practices. Because dear gods, that show had a lot of almost fetishistic content.

And listen. I would know. Let me tell you an embarrassing story. When I was a kid, I would rub myself in my genitals whenever I got aroused or excited. Yep, I was masturbating before puberty. It got really awkward when puberty hit and I began having to deal with semen, though. That experience put me off the experience for good. Until I discovered erotica websites and fetishistic fanfiction, and then the problematic masturbation problem hit me as an adult. This is all the backstory that led up to me overanalyzing my sexuality, just so you know. It was all of this stuff.

Anyways...as someone who practically masturbated before puberty, I know weird stuff that would set my brain off. It's transformation based things or hypnosis based things or many other things i feel too uncomfortable to share. But kid's tv shows of all stripes used these theme way too often. Mind control, transformation of a character, even worse things i will not discuss, etc. It was a mess. And this is why I remember that stupid show of Butch Hartman's. Some innocent episodes stand out, but so do the ones that my brain was weird about. And no, I will not revisit his show to relive that. Nothing is worth that awkwardness.

So, to recap: I was a weird kid. I find it weird how much fetish style fiction was in 2000s and at least early 2010s kid's tv. It was like William Moulton Marston's Wonder Woman, except maybe unintentionally. And Marston's Wonder Woman still had more story than sexual stuff. These shows often just seemed to pick a story of a dubious nature and milk it for 22 minutes. Bizarre. Truly bizarre.

[notthecrossbow]

The Case for Bianca in DA:V

I'm going to cut away once we go into major spoilers but please be aware that I'm talking about Dragon Age the Veilguard and major plot points.

First to give some background on my experience with my first playthrough of Veilguard. I had bought the game when it first released and had been trying to keep myself from spoilers before it was out and then was rushing to complete the game so I could let the game be my exposure to any story. I have played the games since Origins, I am an eternal lover of dwarves and yet my Inquisitor was a Lavellan who romanced Solas and wanted to save him from himself. So you can see pretty clearly how I ended up playing a dwarven crow (hi Zevran) who tried to set up Solas to be saved from himself, who told the Inquisitor that he was worth saving still.

Major spoilers beyond this point.

And then he killed Varric.

That's not actually the right wording, is it? Varric had been dead all along and we were just finding out. Should I have seen it coming? Yes, but I was letting myself play without thinking critically because I wanted to let the story do its thing without my brain watching patterns. Also, in my defense, I'd seen a small spoiler that made me think that the plot twist was that Solas was possessing a still alive Varric. With how the dagger messed with Harding I can see why my brain ran with that train of thought. But my point is Varric had been dead all along but for us, for Rook, it didn't matter that it had happened before because we just found out. We watched a reenactment of him dying. It might as well have just happened.

More importantly I, the player who had met Varric in Dragon Age 2, who'd been friends with him through 3 games, had just watched him die.

I didn't care that Solas had betrayed me, I didn't care that I was trapped in a prison of my own regret. Varric was dead and not only that he wasn't coming back. I was pissed. It didn't matter that he told me that Solas wanted to be the hero, that Harding told me that he needed to be forgiven and felt bad for. No one made me feel good about this or even satisfied in this outcome and now I was hurdling towards an ending I'd set up where Solas gets the girl and the best ending.

(Please note: I didn't really realize I could have still denied him these things in my choices during the last options. I know I was not really forced to choose that ending but since I'd also done all the side quests I had the Mythal fragment as well.)

I needed someone to be mad about Varric with me. To at least allow me to feel like I was right to be angry about him, still be angry about him at this point so that when I got to Solas I could feel like I'd had a moment to feel mad so I could do the right thing. Because, its true, the good ending is best not just for Solas but for everyone. It's the right thing to do. But I was so mad I didn't want to DO the right thing anymore.

You know who I could have used? Bianca Davri.

I needed someone still mad about Varric being dead and I know Bianca could have done that. Would it be tricky? Yes. But I think it could be done. Part 2 coming tomorrow where I map out how I'd write in a Bianca Davri character with the attempts at keeping the secret of Varric's outcome.

[nelliebachesneg]

S13 Alternate Ending Headcanons, Because What TF Did Epsilon Mean, Exactly, By "Deconstruct Myself"?

Ok so I’ve had this idea spinning in the back of my brain since, what, 2016? But when Epsilon died, he said “the fragments I’ll leave behind” would get the Reds and Blues through the fight, and then there’s a flash where it seems like each of Epsilon’s fragments corresponds to one of the Reds and Blues. So my thought at the time - and on-and-off again since - was that Epsilon gave a fragment of himself to each of the Reds and Blues to help them win the fight. Then when the fight was over, each of their suits would have had a piece of Epsilon. These pieces would have been fragments of a fragment, though, so they wouldn't have had an interface like Epsilon did; they would have just been really finicky, specialized, supposedly helpful computer programs that would sometimes do things that were more funny/annoying than helpful. These programs would have activated after the fight. List below.

Church's messages, then, would be him explaining what the programs do and why he gave them to each of his friends (as well as saying his last goodbyes). He would also convince his friends not to put him back together again because the time they figured out how to do it and/or got the equipment for it, his fragments would have developed too much on their own to fit nicely back together - and even if something did come back it would not be the Epsilon they knew before.

Now I don't want to get into a debate over whether or not this could even be canon because tbh I couldn't care less, but I am curious to know if anyone has a different take on what kind of program Church would give each of the characters. Is there an aspect of someone's character I missed? Are there things a sci-fi-bullshit AI can or can't do that I'm forgetting about? Does the theme of each program make sense?

So yeah, let me know in the notes if you've got the time!

(Btw which character gets what fragment is based mostly on positioning in that scene at the end of S13, as well as headcanons from the amazing fanfic Mind over Matter by kineticallyanywhere on Ao3.)

Grif: Omega. 

The theme: Take control of your life or someone else will. If you let that go far enough, you won’t like how it turns out - but also remember that a little help isn’t a bad thing. 

The program: literally controls every aspect of Grif’s life inside his suit in the exact way he hates - i.e. organizing his saved files in a way that makes it impossible to find what he wants, setting alarms that wake him up just as he's falling asleep, constantly reminding him to exercise, making his suit heavier and heavier the closer he gets to the mess hall, randomly contacting Matthews and Sarge, etc. The program can also jump from the suit into the surrounding wireless network, specifically cameras and radios, to keep an eye on him when he’s out of the suit. The program can report his behavior (in increasing order of severity) to Sarge, Wash, and/or Carolina if it feels like it. Simmons and Carolina have the manual override code in case of emergencies, though; the program isn’t smart enough to distinguish between a firefight and Sarge being a jackass. (It’s a spoken code word. No it’s not “code word”.) I'd like to think that a lot of how the suit messes with Grif has to do with Simmons because what is an RvB headcanon without Grimmons. The thing is, all of the things the program does are reversible if Grif just takes the time to go into his suit's settings and do that. If he makes the effort enough times, the program will cease.

Simmons: Sigma. 

The theme: Loosen up. Realize there’s more to life than seeking the approval of others - but also don’t disregard others completely. 

The program: Listens in on orders from Sarge, Kimball, Carolina, and Wash. If it determines the order to be bullshit, it cuts the call and immediately radios Grif or Donut instead. It also prompts Simmons at multiple random points throughout the day with the question, “What do you want to do?” and “Why?” If Simmons inputs with a satisfactory answer, spoken or written, the program will generate suggestions for how to accomplish that task. Its programming also allows it to respond to Simmons’s anxieties, though if it gets fed up enough it will call Grif or Donut because Church could only take so much of that. It is able to sync with Simmons's robot parts to keep an eye on him, much like it does with Grif. Also like Grif's program, it will cease once it sees an improved pattern of behavior.

Sarge: Delta. 

The theme: Creativity needs to be tempered with logic. Sometimes you need reality check - but don’t let that discourage you from trying new things. 

The program: In a way, the antithesis to Simmons’s. If Sarge starts muttering about a hare-brained scheme, e.g. fighting gravity, the program will annoy him into sharing the details. It will then either give him a list of reasons why that’s absurd and challenge him to justify his reasoning, calling (in order of severity) Grif, Simmons, Wash, or Carolina if it can’t talk him out of it - or it will help him pull it off, because this is a Church program, and Church would absolutely want to help Sarge mess with the rest of the guys. As a result this program has a lot of Church’s residual personality programming in order to make those judgment calls, which kind of forces Sarge to bond with Caboose and thus has the added bonus of helping Sarge further overcome the ‘Red vs Blue’ mentality. This program's reach does not extend outside of Sarge's armor.

Tucker: Epsilon

The theme: Losing people does not make you a bad leader, nor does it make you a bad person. Don’t obsess over your grief and failures. Take the time to feel it, of course, but then move on knowing that sacrifices are made out of love and faith.

The program: Helps Tucker keep track of Caboose, mostly. It may sound weird but I am literally thinking about the “you need something to take care of” thing from the first John Wick movie. Tucker doesn’t have a “chat” feature like Simmons and Sarge do, since the goal is to move on, but the program does automatically connect him to Wash when he meets a certain set of concerning criteria because Wash gets it. The program will also alert Carolina and/or Wash whenever he steps out of line, as a kind of revenge for all the times Tucker called Church out - and should the fallout be entertaining enough it will be broadcast to everyone on Chorus. No one's reactions to such broadcasts are inherently hostile, showing Tucker that he doesn’t have to worry about too much judgment from others for his flaws. (Side note, the program cannot run the Meta’s suit - at least not while running any extra equipment.)

Caboose: Eta and Iota

The theme: “No matter how many friends you do lose, you can always make more.” Just. Just watch “Caboose’s Guide To Making Friends” again (and try not to cry, again). 

The programs: Yes, Caboose gets two, and yes, it’s because Church cares about Caboose and actually wants to show it this time. The remnant of Eta is specifically for communication, particularly with Wash and Tucker’s programs so that it can help Tucker help Caboose and help Wash keep track of his team, but it also makes sure that every single one of Caboose’s friends can know where he is at all times. Meanwhile, the remnant of Iota is essentially an outreach program for Caboose. It connects him to Sarge, Donut, and Dr. Emily Grey, helping Caboose make more friends - and yes I am talking about robots, but also potentially squishy people too - through an appointment calendar, “google translate”, and a step-by-step manual for creating safe robots. Both programs work together to alert everyone when Caboose encounters something potentially dangerous that he will inevitably also befriend; between the two of them is an entire database of criminals, dangerous flora and fauna across the galaxy, and other hazards. That way they can hopefully identify whatever Caboose has decided is the next member of the family.

Lopez: Doesn’t actually get a program, but he absolutely gets a full software upgrade before Epsilon deconstructs and the ability to mess with everyone else's programs (to a point). This includes the ability to speak English though I feel like Lopez would more likely have the language in everyone's suits change to Spanish in an attempt to make them learn it because he's stubborn like that.

The theme: Lopez is his own person and deserves to be appreciated and understood.

Doc / O'Malley: Also doesn't get a program, but Epsilon does make it so everything done in Doc / O'Malley’s suit is automatically and unstoppably recorded. That way, when either personality blacks out (assuming that happens) then they can see what the other one did. He also downloads several actual medical textbooks, including the DSM5, into Doc / O'Malley's suit. 

The theme: Knowing yourself in both body and mind is important, because you are important. I imagine this is also Epsilon's way of saying sorry for what happened the last time an AI was in Doc's head; though it wasn’t Epsilon’s fault, he would still try to alleviate some of the consequences of that because he gets it.

Donut: Gamma. 

The theme: Sometimes you need your jokes repeated back to you. It is important to understand how others see you and how your words affect them so that you can help both them and yourself grow - but don’t deny who you are in the name of that growth.

The program: Essentially a journaling program, somewhat customizable and with the ability to convert physical journal pages into a digital format through the camera. The program also analyzes the journal entries for double entendres, highlighting them and explaining the meaning. It will also record Donut’s conversations and do the same thing with his spoken words, playing the recording back when Donut is alone. Thus Donut learns exactly what he's saying. Donut can then use the program to double check either written or spoken words, because the program can simulate the reactions of the Reds and Blues to Donut’s words, effectively giving Donut the tools to be the master of communication between everyone (read: everyone’s unofficial therapist) should he choose to be so. It also tracks online deals for wine, cheese, nail polish, and every other material comfort Donut likes so that he can more easily take care of himself, too. 

Wash: Theta. 

The theme: Trust that you are, in fact, a badass both despite and because of what you've been through - but also a human who deserves all the love in the world both despite and because of what you’ve been through. 

The program: Lets Wash be in contact with the Reds and Blues (including Carolina) at all times. It’s like a marauder’s map that lets him always see where they are and contact them if he wants, and it works across planets and solar systems so long as nothing is actively jamming it. Epsilon wants Wash to never be without a family again. However, Epsilon gives him a choice of whether or not he wants this program, because Wash never really had a choice about Church before. The choice is his real last gift to him. (And of course because Wash has already forgiven Epsilon for everything, he wants to be able to use the program, but it still takes a bit for him to get to a place where he feels like he can, but it feels like an opportunity to make amends that they really didn’t get while Epsilon was alive, and this is Epsilon’s way of saying sorry and also that he cares about Wash, and Wash cared about Epsilon so he actively tries to overcome that barrier of letting a fragment of a fragment of an AI into not even his brain but his suit, and UGH MY HEART I’M GONNA CRY--)

Carolina: She doesn't get a program, because Church has always believed that she doesn’t need an AI - or even just a program from one. To give her one would imply she’s not self-sufficient, and Church would never dare disrespect her like that.

The theme: Carolina is awesome by herself, and she deserves to give herself permission to be part of a family (the Reds and Blues). Church gives her a really nice message telling her all that.

[tarnishedinquirer]

Church of Dragon Communion

On Yura's advice, I returned to the Coastal Cave, where Boc once lived. In my haste to leave, I had completely ignored the back exit. There were only a few Demi-humans back here, but they were easily dealt with.

I emerged on a small island. I'd seen it before, but now I knew how to get there. There wasn't anything here except small animals, so I started up the hill to the church.

Like most buildings in these lands, it was in ruins. But unlike most, it was easy to tell how this came to pass. Much like the capital, a dragon had died here, crashing through the roof and destroying the walls. It then petrified, and here it has remained ever since. It was different from Agheel, in that it had four legs instead of just two. Perhaps dragons had lost two of their limbs over the eons.

Just as notable were the numerous dragon statues scattered throughout the ruins. They were in no particular order, and were not displaced by the dying dragon. They were just placed here haphazardly, presumably sometime after the dragon died. They each had systematically had their head and one of their hands severed, a sign of ritual defacement.

This was a dumping ground. Statues from elsewhere, perhaps other churches, had been brought here and then just left. Why not tossed into the sea? Perhaps some superstition, which could explain why their right hands remained.

I decided to look around first before I would mess with the altar. Atop a large ruin fragment, I found a note in runes. I've seen plenty of runes written by other Tarnished, but as we are not especially learned in them, our messages tend to be simple (and sometimes crude). This one was more eloquent, but I understood it all the same

"Far to the east you'll find the Cathedral of Dragon Communion, where draconic power gathers."

I pulled out my spyglass and... ah. Right. It's in Caelid. I'll be going there eventually. Probably inevitable, really, but I'm in no hurry.

It was time. I stood before the altar, the eternally burning flame. It was a lurid maroon, a color similar to but still wholly unlike that of blood. The heart seemed simultaneously too small to have ever pumped the blood of such a beast, yet also too large for me to ever possibly consume. Was a small piece of it enough? Surely they could not expect me to eat the gravel stone.

It was not faith that brought me here. I did not place my trust and devotion in the power of dragons. Perhaps that would protect me from whatever corruption the heart will bring. If the power corrupts, then I will simply gain no power from this act. I will not use it. I'm probably not even capable of using dragon incantations.

But if I wasn't seeking power, then why? It was merely curiosity. No... more than that. It was an intellectual lust. If I could know it, I needed to. If I could do it, I needed to. I realized the inherently draconic character of such a thought too late, as I had already sank my teeth into the heart.

I tore at it like an animal. Blood coated my mouth, my face, my clothes, my hands. I was insatiable. A hunger that went far deeper than a mere belly full of food or a brain full of knowledge. It was primal. The faster I devoured, the faster I wanted to devour. I felt my teeth break on the gravel stone and still I consumed. The blood in my mouth was not just from the heart, it was my own as I swallowed the shattered chunks of my own teeth. I tore open my cheeks cramming it in. Where was my mask? How was I eating like this? It was impossible. the heart was gone. What was I still eating? Oh god my hands...

And then, I snapped back to reality. There was only the faintest trickle of blood on my lips. My teeth and hands were intact. The heart was gone. I chose to believe I had only taken a small bite and the fire consumed the rest, and everything after that was my mind playing tricks on me. Any other possibility was too much to bear.

Information flooded my mind. I was compelled to write it down, commit it to vellum in case memory failed me. I wrote feverishly in a script I did not recognize but could read nonetheless. It felt like a revelation, but not a divine one. More like some ancestral secrets locked away in my bones.

One of the incantations of Dragon Communion. Incantation of those who have hunted dragons and feasted upon their hearts. Theirs is a pure and overwhelming power.

I knew now how to become a dragon, at least in part. I knew that if I only believed, if I only understood, I could take some of their power for myself and breathe out their flame.

As long as I lived, I swore to myself, I would never do it. The power was indeed overwhelming. I did not like feeling so out of control. I did not like feeling like the vessel for something else.

I am me, and my soul is my own.

I will not ask questions of this. Some doors are best left closed.

[ifideliadaworld-blog]

Dragon Hunters: GLACIER OF MADNESS

(PART 2)

Main characters & setting by: �� Arthur Qwak, Valérie Hadida, Guillaume Ivernel © Futurikon Screenplay and artwork: Fideliada

Part1--Part2--Part3--Part4--Part5--Part6--Part7--Part8--Part9(end)

(Laconic splash)

(Lian-Chu, pleased — especially since he didn't let Hector out) Get on your feet, my friend. We were lucky enough to arrive at a volcanic thermal grotto.

(Confused sniffling)

(Gwizdo) Kha-khao!.. Wow.  The depth is really small. Do you think that the Whirlwind Mole didn't get Zoria?

(Sound of a slow dive back in)

(Lian-Chu) She might have gotten as much as we did, but we may never know the details if we look for a way out spontaneously...

(Gwizdo) We can't get into this mess! Why on Earth he even enjoys it? That's where Jennyline's instincts of grandma got us! Don't tell me that our quarantine game in the imaginary World of the Oceans was part of psychological training, otherwise I'll go crazy!

(Exhale of bliss during a short rest)

(Lian-Chu) Okay, Gwizdo: Our quarantine game in the imaginary World of the Oceans wasn't part of the psychological training... It was part of a healthy brain training session.

(A quiet splash, betraying extreme nervousness)

(Gwizdo, who has noticeably speeded up his speech) So, for the brain! Well, Gwizdo, think... No way to be alone. Bro, instead of lying down, you should have dived and fished out the bag! The most important things are there: a compass, measuring tape, ink, hot flasks, rations, a Dragonomicon in a package!.. No, all the sandwiches are already in the slush...

(Lian-Chu) You can practice diving yourself: it's not dangerous right now, and I don't want to deprive you of such valuable experience.

(Clap on water from insight)

(Gwizdo, laughing nervously) I REMEMBER: ALL YOUR KNITTING SUPPLIES ARE STILL THERE! If only they don't get soaked in this sandwich broth – I'm afraid I won't have time to save your goods!

(Sonorous rustle of answering splashes)

(Lian-Chu) There's only the measuring tape, Gwizdo. I didn't find my knitting set.

(Hector snorts as he tries to climb the steamy rock.)

(Gwizdo, pleased with his manipulation) So I must have made a mistake, my memory has failed me: it looks like it was left in the chest on the St. George with the cholera vaccine.

(The patter of raindrops, the rustle of water, the hum of air currents coming through the ice gaps and tunnels above)

(Gwizdo's voice echoes through the vast expanse.) I have two pieces of news, guys. The good news is that we've reached a warm part of the Isle, which is not an iceberg. The worse news is that this cavity isn't marked on the relief map... So, those who were here before us, for some reason, didn't send the plan of this place to the Guild of Scientists... Or we are the pioneers here!

(Hector grunts as he creates steps in the rough ice wall.)

(Lian-Chu) Gwizdo, don't you have a harpoon lost in your bag?(Gwizdo) Gwizdo here, Gwizdo there... Shouldn't Hector know this? He had to carry our weapons: let him play the harpoon himself! He lost my crossbow the same way last time!

(The rustle of ice fragments under the skillful hooves of a furry brave climber)

(Hector) WAAAAY!!! Don't pull Hector, don't let Hector fall!!!

(Sounds of vigorous breathing from the cave)

(Lian-Chu's softened voice) Gwizdo, we'll have to give him a chewbone from your bag as soon as we get up. Hector deserved it.

(Gwizdo's grunt as he struggles to keep up with his friend.)

(Lian-Chu, changing to an edifying tone.) Now you can't be ashamed to ask me to carry you: it's a normal gravity, and it's easy to crash into the water

(Gwizdo) Ugh-eh... get hurt?.. And that's all...?

(The winds of the ice maze increase their discordant chorus closer to the ceiling)

(Gwizdo) So, since I'm such a natural balloonist, I could use a sail to pump it with thermal fumes and search the oasis space up to the ceiling... Lian-Chu, stop! Do you want to remind me who the junk dealer gave up the old canvas to?!

(Sonorous nasal breath through the canvas)

(Lian-Chu) The smell of sun and good body care: the cloth belonged to Zoria! (Gwizdo) Five out of five, bloodhound, although I didn't have to sniff the rags: there's a patch in the shape of the FIRST LETTER OF HER NAME... I know you can't read, though.

(Lian-Chu's growl and the sound of a wall of ice being broken through)

(Gwizdo) THERE'S A CLIFF, LOOK WHERE YOU'RE GOING!!!

(The voices of friends echo through the vertical tunnel.)

(Lian-Chu) It's not a volcano, it's a Wandering Sun! It goes out... but it's still enough to warm up the bowels, otherwise the water below would be icy. (Gwizdo) BURNT SALAMANDERS! How did the sail get frozen into this particular ice wall?!

(Hector) Kuch-kcha!.. Bad business!..(Lian-Chu) Zoria was flying from below to escape the hurricane. She hadn't been able to avoid the lights here for long, but instead of throwing out the sail, she had laid it out so that someone would see the sign... And you did it. Judging by the layer of ice, her stop was half a week ago. The fire won't let us out...

(The air becomes noticeably hot, and Gwizdo begins to have an annoying ringing in his ears...)

(Gwizdo) So, if the bottom is not heated by a volcano, then how did that huge tunnel slide form the island... was it pierced through just by a fragment?! The stars are making such pretzels at the South Pole ... listen, I already think our imaginary world of Oceans is more comfortable than the one we live in!

(Hector) ARRR! A CHANCE! A CHANCE! CATCH THEM! (Gwizdo) I will build this school... No one but me! Don't look down...(Lian-Chu) Gwizdo, I've come up with something to heat the balloon with! (Gwizdo) Are you going to use knitting needles? (Lian-Chu) With knitting needles on a ribbon. Please untie it from your belt..."

(The crackle of expanding flames on a fixed piece of meteor and the rustle of water nearby)

(Gwizdo) I've been wearing this shirt since I was a teen, actually! (Lian-Chu, pleased with the process) Watch the oiled pages of your notebook amplify the shard's flame... We're about to hit the ceiling. (Gwizdo) Are we sure we're going to the tunnel? It's strange that the wind is still tropical here! (Lian-Chu) So we got you out of your sleeves in time.

(Slender and loud chorus of waterfalls)

(Gwizdo) It's crazy, a whole melted floor! Give in to the heat! Did our nimble runaway master this part as well? (Lian-Chu) Maybe. Zoria can't swim that far yet: either she used the screw left over from the ball, or... someone helped her at the entrance. (Gwizdo) I heard she almost drowned on your last fishing trip...

(Lian-Chu) If we fly higher above the fog, the light will hold us longer! (Gwizdo's voice, exasperated to the limit) AND WHAT ARE WE WAITING FOR?! Don't spare my notebook!

(White noise)

(Happy Hector) Pile-pile! EARTH! RRRR! FRRR! (Gwizdo) Yep, there's an ugly tree in the... Oh no! The flame goes out! (Lian-Chu) The wind is on our side, Gwizdo. Be our capitain. (Gwizdo) So, Lian-Chu: shift all your weight to the ugly tree! HURRY!!! (Lian-Chu) The heat is enough to maintain the flora: in this water we will not catch a cold. (Angry Gwizdo) Can we not check it out, all-terrain buddy?!

(Hector) ACHACHU!!!(Lian-Chu) Let's check the roots!

(Tape creaking and flame hissing on wet root)

(Gwizdo) YOU GUYS WON'T LEAVE ME LIKE THIS!!!

TO BE CONTINUED...

Part1--Part2--Part3--Part4--Part5--Part6--Part7--Part8--Part9(end)

[ohwolfling]

THINGS THAT I WOULD LIKE TO KNOW ABOUT MY FELLOW WRITERS

tagged by local legend @theletteraesc

if you see this and you want to do it, DO IT! I am too sleepy to figure out who has tagged whomst in our little corner of writers. <3

Last book I read: I'm currently reading Neuromancer and (unfortunately) rereading Cyberpunk 2077: No Coincidence for my big spring project (info here). I'm also reading Patrick Swayze's memoir, The Time of My Life, co-written with his wife, and that's been very meaningful to me and my current journey of gender/my relationship to how masculinity has shaped me. I read random passages from Lord of the Rings for about two hours recently, just to be there again, and before that I finished Lanny by Max Porter and Bravely, the Brave novel by Maggie Stiefvater. I recommend them both to lovers of any kind of folklore.

Greatest literary inspirations: the Brontës, Tolkien, and all the romantic poets. Huge Chaucer people-are-messes-are-metaphors guy. But truly, in my bones, I am a run on sentence Anne Rice refused to edit. If I'm writing SCENES or screenplays or plays, it's Tennessee Williams, Martin McDonagh (mostly Pillowman and In Bruges), and German absurdism that I aspire to.

Things in my current fandom I want to read but I don't want to write: I need so much Rogue/Alt recs that are heavy and sensual and atmospheric but don't completely retcon the complication of their own timeline (Cyberpunk 2077). Dying for Aylin/Isobel smut that is feral and sincere. Shadowzel girlies, help me. Also, SH, Lae, Wyll as a polycule could be a vibe. HALSIN FILTH (Baldur's Gate 3).

Things in my current fandoms I want to write but I think nobody would be interested in them but me: More that I think people want a very specific thing from me BUT I do want to write a sort of fragmented, each chapter is a time jump unpacking of how Gale gets to that orb, like emotionally/trauma-wise, not literal. I also think that there's room to explore that Gale is not so monogamous in a traditional sense after healing from Mystra and I know that that really ruffles feathers. Murky waters of interpretation with some of that stuff in the game as it stands. With 2077, no one wants what I am writing there ever so lmao but I have my ongoing super philosophical and spiritual fix it fic of the Sun ending and some Johnny PL Tower ending stuff I'm playing around with.

You can recognise my writing by: I will not let you know anything until I make you feel like you're in the room. The stage picture is specific, layered, and emotionally resonant, and you will know about it. Alternatively, you are so horny and also a single tear is sliding down your cheek.

My most controversial take (current fandom): Every origin character in Baldur's Gate 3 is a main character and as plot relevant as every other origin character. There ARE characters who are too far gone in their experience of systemic trauma and those people are the fucking villains/personal antagonists. The god ending is Gale's WORST ending, narratively speaking. It is on par with Lae'zel going to Vlaakith. Interpretation is good but put down the STEM and know how to recognize literary devices, story arcs, character archetypes, etc to support those. Your head canon is not a vision from on high, babes.

Top three favourite tropes: HEROIC FATIGUE, COSMIC PLAYTHING, and just like... so many versions of hurt/comfort tbqh. I am the protagonist/eldest child on a genre tv show psychologically speaking.

What’s your current writing mood (10 – super motivated and churning out words like crazy, 0 – in a complete rut): ricocheting wildly between a 2 and an 8. Brain and body have not been operational at the same time in a long while but strangely my creativity seems to be healing and growing actually?

Share a random frustration: when my monitors go to sleep, the blue light at the base of them flickers. I have no idea why. I can't figure out how to stop it. If I try to search the web for a solutions, it thinks I mean a flickering blue screen and Google is atrocious now so it won't accept any phrasing that tries to eliminate that. I sleep in a little eye mask but I still KNOW they're there and it pisses me off.

[autisticlio]

Now that I have time to think over the film, I'll go ahead and give my thoughts on Brand Upon the Brain.

Warning for mentions of underage sex and spoilers.

To quickly explain the film, it is a 2006 Criterion film project made by Guy Maddin. It tells the tale of the fictionalized version of Guy receiving a letter from his long lost mother, requesting he return to the lighthouse orphange he and his family lived in to cover it up in paint. As he does, he recalls his childhood where his mother acted as a tyrant to the orphans and horrors beyond belief occur in his father's workshop.

My memories of the film prior to rewatching were vague. I could only remember fragments of the ending, specifically the phrase 'She was blind as a bat' and a naked person atop a lighthouse light. Trying to search for it would result in the 2019 film The Lighthouse appearing instead. However, while The Lighthouse is the superior film in my personal belief, Maddin recaptures the 1910s silent film aesthetics far more accurately. The 2000s in particular would have live showings of the movie, where a narrator would be on stage as the film played. Title cards can be seen throughout as the camera becomes a jittery mess between the film's twelve chapters. The way I saw it was through my mother's ex-friend watching it from Netflix's DVD service. While not as authentic, the DVD offers three narrator tracks to listen to. I choose Guy Maddin himself for my watch.

In any case, the music is beautiful throughout. Even if you are unable to watch the film, I believe anyone into classical music should give it a listen. Interestingly, alongside The Lighthouse, I also found myself reminded of Rule of Rose. This was moreso in both revolving around adults' mistreatment of orphans and the music. Guy and Sis' mother is a terrifying villain if you ever had the misfortune of being raised by an overbearing mother. I would not be surprised if she was based on real life experiences from how accurate she was, to the point of threatening suicide as a control tactic and her obsession with becoming young again, thus using the orphans to drain them of their nectar.

However, with this film is an elephant. A giant elephant in the room. Throughout the film, there is a heavy focus on the relationship between Sis and Wendy. Wendy is a teen detective who arrives to discover why the orphans bear brands upon their necks. After becoming infatuated with Sis, she disguises herself as her brother Chance instead. The two become lovers. I genuinely enjoy their dynamic and found myself wondering how Sis would react to the truth.

Then comes the problem. The problem is the film puts at least 1/3rd of the film to be dedicated to the two teens having sex, outright showing them undressed and full body nudity. There is also a scene where the mother is shown attempting to kiss her son's buttock. What I am getting at is the film is uncomfortable with the child characters. This is not me saying nudity should not be depicted at all or discussing sex is bad. My problem is that in essence, most of it lingers on for far too long considering the characters' ages. If they were intended as 19 I would be fine with it, but when there is more evidence pointing to them being younger... It is very uncomfortable. It genuinely makes me wonder why child me was able to be in the same room.

In any case, I now know what it was that I saw as a child. When the film focused upon the mystery on what Guy's parents were up to, it was a fun thriller mystery that kept you glued to your seat. But in essence, I believe one would be better off watching The Lighthouse.

[writtenbyshama]

Memory Theatre (Sylus x Reader)

Synopsis: Y/n is a protocore researcher who is looking for answers about how an aether core got lodged into her heart and why is it messing with her brain. In the midst of this elaborate maze of dead ends and false answers, she encounters a man who seems to be very interested in her and is willing to find ways of providing her with the answers she's seeking.

Author's note: Y/n is not a hunter; she is a Master's student (not based on myself at all) and a part time protocore researcher at the Association. No changes to Sylus, although there may be situations in the story where he might be a little out of character. Mentions of the other LADS men, but they are not the love interests here.

Chapter 8: My Second Failed Resonance Attempt

The gun clattered to the floor, the crack of the gunshot ringing in my ears. 

Sylus was thrown back by the force, but the bleeding wound in his chest closed in record time, ejecting the bullet from his body. I was trembling, fingertips touching the spot where the wound was there just a minute ago. There was nothing to indicate that I’d shot him, even the shirt’s fabric had mended itself. I was still on his lap, but that thought was flung into the depths of my mind. 

“You fucking bastard.” My voice was shaky whisper. “What was that for?”

He laughed smugly. “You tell me. You wanted to check something, right?” He lifted a hand and ran a finger down my jaw. “You can try doing that multiple times, kitten, but you do owe me a curtain call that’s grander than death itself.”

I didn’t understand what he meant. Finally registering where I was, I slid down from his lap directly onto the carpeted floor, hanging down my head. “You have an aether core, do you not?” If he did, the question remained whether his healing abilities were because of the core or because of his evol. 

“Sure, if you want to call it that.” He grasped my chin and made me look up at his face. “It helps me see what you human beings desire the most.” His right eye started glowing. Oh. 

Leaving my chin, his hand trailed down my arm and intertwined our fingers again. “Resonate with me,” he ordered again. 

My mind was clear enough to do it properly this time. I let myself be hypnotised by his glowing eye and concentrated on merging our evols. It seemed to work at first, and I confirmed that the core fragments in our bodies were the same and belonged to a single whole. A second later, my chest was howling with the same hot pain again, the agony making me cry out. I started begging him to stop, but his hand only gripped mine tighter. “Please, please, stop.”

He finally let go and the pain stopped instantly. Opening my eyes, I saw him looming over me, his expression like a dark thundercloud. I crawled back a little, fearing that he’d lash out and hit me even though he’d never given any indication of being violent towards me. “I don’t know why we can’t resonate. I can do it just fine with the others! I’m sorry, please don’t hurt me.”

Instead of replying, he used his evol to help me up and made me sit on the bed. A quick flick of his fingers and a set of newly ironed clothes appeared next to me. “Get dressed. The twins will fetch you in ten minutes.”

“Why?”

“There’s something wrong with your fragment of the aether core. Let’s see if we can fix it.” 

“And if it’s not fixed?”

“Then I’ll leave you alone and never pester you again.”

He left the room with Mephisto following him and the door closed behind them. 

🗡️🐦‍⬛🗡️

Writing fan fiction is my way of practising my skill as an author. If you'd like to show appreciation and be a part of my journey in publishing full-length novels, do follow me on Instagram/Wattpad/Tumblr at _writtenbyshama. Happy reading!

Part 1: Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

[traumasurvivorshelpingsurvivors]

Tw: Self-doubt, just a whole mess of what is real vs. what is fake/mistaken. Identity crisis?

Looking for: Advice, maybe just lending some knowledge if you have it.

I am an alter in an autistic system. Recently, we consumed a piece of media (I like how that feels, consumed media, it's funny, nice texture phrase) and I latched onto one of the characters. Hard.

At first I didn't think much of them besides relatability, which is common for me. If I get fixated on that character a little, sometimes I'll get a little...idk...shifty into them? Like not mimicry but a more intense version where there's just a touch of them in me, and usually this either fizzles out or another alter splits the day or two after and it turns out I was just doing a weird split.

But this time it grew over time, which isn't something that happens usually. And now I am hardcore on them, to the point where I'm having trouble with my normal memories and I'm getting memories of them instead, related only in sense of metaphors or tangents. I'm feeling phantom limbs and my inner voice and appearance is altering, as well as my outer world facial expressions (a clear tell-tale of who's fronting for many of us).

My first thought was, okay, this is normal when I fixate on a character, but even when I waited for a little bit, it still hasn't gone away. Some part of me misses the people from the show. I started panicking and I freak out every time I think or innerspeak in the character's voice. It's not uncommon for me to have trouble hearing the right voices from other people (pretty sure we know why), but my voice has always remained consistent. My outer voice is more or less the same, except I have to push down a couple of specific mannerisms from the character that would be concerning to people around me.

The character is also half-blind. The body is not. In the outer world the eye is really weird, like my brain feels like it's not supposed to be used but is (other disabled alters have the same feeling), and the only way I've managed to reduce that is by closing the eye. But that's not really gonna happen, so...idk how to deal with this other than just kinda. Hope it stops. Which sucks because I front a LOT.

I managed to half-convince myself that it was a new fictive influencing REALLY FREAKING HARD but even when I tried to get them to speak, I did my usual 'fake or real?' test (my imagination gets mixed up with alters sometimes so I developed a strategy to tell the difference) and it was fake. I asked another alter in the fronting room if there was anyone else there and they said no, checked with our Gatekeeper and they said no, but I was a bit weird.

I have severe issues with the lines between real and fake blurry sometimes, but I'm currently not in an episode of that, so it makes literally zero sense for that to be the case, plus in that case my memories aren't altered, just my perception of reality. This is vice versa.

We have partial and mixed fictives in our system (partial brain, partial fictive), so at this point all I have is either I am having an extremely odd real-fake-blur episode (which doesn't make sense as my confusion is the only thing causing distress, not the blurring itself, as well), or like. Somehow completely brain-made me is partially fictived?

I went on Google and saw things about fragments/not formed pieces/alters without identities finding characters that matched them near perfectly and attaching to them/forming into them, but I've been formed for a year now. Some parts of identity might not be fully filled in, MAYBE, but most parts are, and as much as I related to and connected with the character, I didn't see anything about it happening with formed alters.

I know that this isn't silly but it frankly feels ridiculous that I'm jumping to so many different possibilities, and what my brain is doing feels faked, but it's just...I know my brain (sort of). I know myself (sort of again). I know what it does when it screws around at least. It's not screwing around with me, I know it. The Gatekeeper already commented on it, I mean...

If you have literally any advice, thank you. Please note when responding that while I do have a therapist, she hasn't talked to us about the system and our Protector decided that we weren't going to say anything else for a while, so she's no help to me in this place right now.

It may seem kind of funny, all things considered, but I feel alone, and even if all you can give me are cat pictures, it'll make me feel less alone. Thanks.

Hi anon,

Please know you're not alone and that what you're experiencing is real and valid, and there is no right or wrong way to be a system, and every system is unique in their own way. It's up to you how to define or describe your experiences, but I can help flesh some of it out for you.

If I'm understanding what you're saying, you're wondering if it is possible for an alter to become a fictive over time. This can happen. In some cases, an alter may present as an original personality but over time may begin to identify more strongly with a fictional character. This happens for a variety of reasons, including exposure to media featuring that character, a desire to escape from reality, or a need to feel more in control. A resource that talks about this more is "Amongst Ourselves: A Self-Help Guide to Living with Dissociative Identity Disorder" by Tracy Alderman. The text discusses the concept of fictives and how they can develop over time.

Also please remember that it's an extremely common experience for systems to feel that they're faking their symptoms in some way, and it doesn't necessarily mean that they are faking it. As you may already know, the covert nature of OSDD/DID (assuming you're traumagenic) can mean that systems go through phases of denial, even after validation from a therapist or a clinical diagnosis. Please remember to be gentile and patient with yourself during this time as you're trying to make sense of your experiences and your identity.

Ultimately, if your protector eventually feels comfortable discussing this with your therapist, that could be super helpful in navigating what you're experiencing right now, as well as figuring out how to move forward. That being said, it is completely up to y'all what to do here, and y'all know yourselves best.

If anyone else has any comments or suggestions, feel free to add on. Otherwise, I hope I could help. Please let us know if you need anything.

-Bun

[yutafrita]

Under the Blue Flames- Chapter Five

"There is no blue without yellow and without orange." - Vincent Van Gogh

Pairing: Vampire!Yuta x Reader

Y/N Pronouns: She/Her

Genre: Fantasy au, Supernatural nct, sometimes college au, sometimes magical school au, angst, fluff

Chapter Word Count: 5.0K

Chapter Warnings: Swearing, violence against a main character, blood, religious references and imagery, suggestive situations

Access Previous Chapters Here

Tag List! @hope-lovelle@ygimsgw@nini0620 @kodasity​

Chapter Five

You were awake and frozen in place while you should’ve been sleeping, staring at the wall and replaying your nightmare. Yuta and Ten, while probably able to tell you were awake, didn’t move from their positions in front of the TV, most likely to give you some semblance of privacy.

The memory of the night you were abandoned was your first memory ever, and still haunts you. Yet, it wasn’t even a clear memory. Rather, it was a fragmented mess that offered no solace and just pain.

Now, the blue flames singed your brain as you thought over them again and why they would be there and who it was that was staring down at you. You had never turned around to see the figure that had loomed over you- at least, not that you could originally remember. Now though, some bits were starting to sing across your memory. The person was definitely tall, that much you could gather, and… friendly. You felt sick just thinking about it.

Most of your memories from that night were a haze after that point, until what was most likely a few days later where your father had formally adopted you and where you had first met Mark.

Mark was excited to have a sister, and even when you were terrified of everything around you, he was there to encourage you no matter what. You loved your family, nothing could ever change that, but your memory seeming to come back- albeit in broken fragments- sparked a curiosity you hadn’t felt since you were first abandoned.

Your phone started ringing at what you assumed was around noon, breaking your train of thought as you picked it up.

“Yeah?”

“Well hello to you too my darling daughter,” your Dad sounded tired, trying his best to seem chipper while being sarcastic.

“How’s it going?” you asked dryly.

“Well, the Vatican is still setting up a sacred barrier to prevent demons from leaving, so pretty good. Listen, I called because I need you to confirm somethings Mark and the night dorm told me,” he was serious now, as you heard what sounded like a clicking pen in the background. “He just said that Ten and Yuta stayed the night with him and Johnny, choosing to be in lockdown there than in the night dorm.”

“Oh, yeah, they stayed with Mark,” you sounded robotic, sitting up in bed now to see the pair staring back at you from the couch.

“Okay, they should be free from lockdown soon so they can be able to eat by tonight. I’m glad Yuta stayed with Mark, I wasn’t ready to have to threaten him,” you laughed at your father’s response, avoiding the eye contact of Yuta now.

“Love you Dad.”

“Love you too sweetie,” he hung up, leaving you fully alone with two vampires again. Checking the time on your phone, you groaned as you realized you had to go to class soon. The night students had to stay inside, but the day students who were not privy to the potential danger they were in, were attending class as if everything was normal- although, having the Vatican there certainly helped.

“That freshman’s outside again, I’m gonna go bother him,” Ten announced. Before you could object, he was out of your room and leaving you in your exhausted state with Yuta who now sat at the corner of your bed.

“You didn’t sleep,” it wasn’t a question.

“You never sleep,” it was meant to be funny, but it came out sounding bitter from your tired lips, your hands now rubbing your eyes to try and wipe away the sleepiness.

“That’s not technically true,” he replied, watching as you raised a confused eyebrow. “Well, when you’re born a vampire, and you’re still growing, you do sleep during the day. When we stop growing after our first 21 years we don’t really sleep.”

“Do you wish you could sleep?” you asked, pressing your knees to your chest now as you watched him, trying to not think too much of him being so close to you on your bed.

“For a while, I didn’t care. But, recently I do wish I could.”

“Why? I feel like I’d be able to do so much more.”

“In all these human books, they talk so much about being able to sleep with the person they love… I think that’s sort of beautiful. To be able to be in your most vulnerable state with the person you trust the most,” he confessed, looking down as he spoke as if he were embarrassed.

You were well aware of your humanity against the immortal that was Yuta, but in that moment is when it truly settled on you. He longed for sleep- something so simple to you yet such a definitive feature of living to die.

“You have class now, right?” he asked before you could add anything, his cheeks now that blue again that you realized was a vampire's blush. You nodded in response, not looking away.

“Yeah, night students are supposed to stay inside just in case since the Vatican is still doing whatever it is they're doing. Were you curious to see what a human class is like?” you were half joking, figuring he wouldn’t have that much interest. But, his eyes lit up as if he were hoping you would bring it up. “It isn’t the safest for you to be out at the moment,” you added cautiously. He pouted, an ache forming in your chest then.

“It’s not that safe for you either,” he pointed out, his hand reaching out and caressing your face.

“Don’t worry about me, the Vatican doesn’t despise my existence. I’ll be okay,” you moved away from him quickly, running to the bathroom. If you sat there a moment longer with Yuta you were sure you wouldn’t be able to go to class- instead getting lost with him.

In the bathroom, you brushed your teeth, managed your hair, and changed into whatever clothes you could. Stepping back out, Ten seemed to have returned.

“Are you done harassing my residents?” you snipped, grabbing your backpack.

“I just think he’s funny,” Ten laughed, sitting on the couch and away from Yuta, who was still on your bed.

“You’re the worst. Anyways, I think Johnny’s upstairs in Mark’s if you need someone to entertain you guys while I’m in class.”

“So you’re going to class?” Yuta’s eyes looked sad, looking between your face and your backpack.

“I have to, I’ll be back as soon as I’m done.”

“Yeah loverboy, am I not good enough?” Ten teased.

“Shut up,” Yuta growled, his fangs more prominent than before.

“Try not to kill each other,” you called as you made your way out. Walking through campus, you were looking through the crowd of students making their way towards the main buildings or cutting through to other parts of campus. In the sea of people, you made out a few older faces that you hadn’t seen before- not likely professors despite their proper dress attire and briefcases. Continuing through the main building’s gate, you quickly passed someone with the briefcase, the small emblem catching your attention. Two Keys crossed over in an X formation with the Pope’s triple crown tiara above them.

So, the Vatican was here. Running all over campus it seemed and trying to be as vaguely discreet as possible despite the additional foot traffic their presence added to the campus.

“Are you ready to present?” you asked Kun once you met him at the bench, glancing at his professional attire.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he sighed, getting up from his seat.

“You got the notes I sent you, right?” you had reviewed his lecture plans during the previous week with Yuta looking over your shoulder and asking questions while you did.

“Yeah, thanks again,” Kun smiled then.

“Do me a favor? After this, please sleep for like 24 hours,” to the naked eye, Kun looked like his normal self. But having known him since middle school like you did, you could easily tell he was exhausted- his smile wasn’t reaching his eyes, and he wasn’t even reading anything before class.

“Trust me, I plan to. Thanks,” he shoved your arm lightly then as you made your way down the hall. After wishing him good luck, you made your way to your seat next to Sicheng who scrunched his nose up when he saw you.

“Hey, Sicheng.”

“You look tired,” he noted.

“Because I am.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Eh, you could say that.”

You wanted to pay better attention to Kun’s lecture- you shot him some supportive glances whenever you could- but, it was hard to focus when your brain felt so fried. Between hardly being able to sleep and the worry you were feeling in the pit of your stomach at the thought of the growing demon population, statistics felt incredibly unimportant. From the lecture you could zone in for, you knew that Kun was overly prepared. He was able to answer any question anyone could have before they asked, and he was enthusiastic to do so. You were proud of him, and rushing out of class to make it to your next class you made a mental note to text him as much.

Sitting in your international studies lecture, you dug through your backpack to get your phone but quickly retracted your hand.

“God dammit,” you muttered, a small burning sensation dancing on the tips of your fingers as they made contact with whatever spilled liquid was in your backpack. Looking inside, you realized the cap of your holy water was unscrewed a bit. Not thinking much of it, you screwed the cap back on correctly- ignoring the weird feeling, and grabbed your phone to text Kun before your lecture started.

***

“So tomorrow, it’s back to regular scheduling?” you clarified, closing the lecture hall you just checked behind you.

“Yes, although, movement off campus from the mythics is to be heavily monitored to ensure their safety,” Taeyeon had found you and Mark doing hall checks, and relayed the message that the Vatican had completed their demon barrier of the campus.

“Are they going to at least stay close? Campus may be safe, but it’s weird that demons are here anyways,” Mark sounded as tired as you did, hardly even glancing into the classrooms now.

“From what the President told me, a few members will be close by,” Taeyeon didn’t sound too excited about it, and fiddled with the clipboard in her hands.

“Better than nothing I guess,” you felt slightly defeated- demons were still lurking and the best that could be done was to have a somewhat safe parameter.

“That’s one way to look at it. Oh, he also wanted you to have these,” she shoved her hand into the pocket of her cardigan, pulling out two black stones. “Onyx. He says it should help ward off any potential demons since you two seem to be attracting them.” She placed one into each of your hands before excusing herself and shuffling out of the main building.

“Dad must be really worried if he’s busting out the crystals,” Mark pointed. You shoved it into your backpack, and quietly finished the checks of the building before heading out and towards the dorm together.

“I wonder what they’ve been up to,” you wondered out loud, matching your brother’s pace.

“Ten and Johnny? Probably making a mess while Yuta laughs in the corner egging them on.”

“Yeah, definitely an interesting group.”

“The three of them are bounded so they’ve always been kind of close,” Mark spoke casually, you raised an eyebrow in response before he quickly explained, “basically Johnny’s family is sort of eternally connected to their families in some weird mythic way.”

“It’s always something, huh,” you forced a laugh, trying to not think too much about the other new strange fact. Getting on the elevator, you hit both the button for yours and Mark’s floor, waving goodbye to him before stepping off to your own floor.

“Hey,” Yuta said once you entered your studio. You noted the dimmed lights, the two lit candles on the coffee table that sat near two empty wine glasses and a take out container.

“What’s all this?” you were smiling, setting down your backpack and watching the smile also meet Yuta’s lips.

“I had a bit of free time and figured you’d be hungry after class,” he mused, taking your hand and leading you to a spot in front of the takeout where you both sat. You looked at the top of the take out box, the hastily drawn out words DEER MOON scrawled across.

“This is very sweet, although you weren’t supposed to leave campus.”

“I didn’t, Ten asked that freshman to grab it for him in exchange for free dinner.”

“I’m going to kill Ten.”

“You’d be surprised what college students will do for food,” Yuta laughed, leaning back on his hands. You sighed then, your smile coming back now.

“Thank you, still. This is very sweet.”

“Of course,” he leaned his head on his hands now, watching as you opened the box and started on your food. You hadn’t been able to eat much at all, so having a warm meal in your stomach with Yuta next to you felt like a near perfect moment. “How was class?”

“Hm, cool I guess. I have a friend who’s a TA so I got to see him teach in front of a class for the first time.”

“That’s cool, how are your grades then? You’re taking like, what, six classes?”

“They’re good enough for my Dad to be far too proud of me.” Last semester when you and Mark had gotten on the Dean’s List (not at all for the first time), he had insisted on throwing a seven course dinner party with your human friends to celebrate despite you and Mark trying to convince him it was not a big deal.

“Your Dad is really protective of you guys, huh,” it wasn’t a question, just an observation.

“Oh, that’s one way to put it. My family is insane, but I love them a lot,” Yuta was smiling at you now, but his eyes seemed a bit more dim than they did earlier. Your family was small but loving. Yuta’s family, despite being larger, seemed colder and more distant.

“Do you ever think about your birth family?” You pursed your lips at his question as you thought it over.

“Sometimes, yeah. But, more so because I want to know why I was left. In a weird way though, I’m glad it did happen,” you admitted. He nodded, thinking it over. “So what else did you do in the meantime?” you asked between bites, curious.

“I read a few of your books.”

“Which ones?”

“The Hunger Games? It was an interesting take on a dystopian world. Although…”

“Although?” He was quiet for a moment now, and you watched as he gathered his thoughts.

“The main character… She did everything to save her sister. She didn’t care about a revolution- and yet, it’s her sister who dies in the end,” he was looking down now. You paused your eating, and watched as his mind seemed to continue spinning. “I… My brother was meant to be a leader. Everyone expects the same from me, but…” his voice trailed again, and you took his hand in yours, nodding your encouragement. “Now the demons are coming back and all I can think about is how I lost him and how everyone is expecting me to exact some sort of revenge but… I’m not that kind of person.” You pushed the hair away from his face now, holding his face in your hands.

“What is it you want to do, Yuta?” his eyes widened in a way then, a feeling of sorrow crossing his face as he digested what you said.

“I’m not sure, I’ve never let myself think of what I want,” he admitted, holding your hand now.

“Pretend, for five minutes you’re just a normal… vampire. What do you want?”

“You,” he replied quickly this time, taking you aback.

“I’m right here.”

“I want to be your… partner. Other half, boyfriend, whatever word you wanna use,” he was muttering now, looking away from you abashedly. Your chest swelled then; you were excited that he had the same feelings you did but....

“And why can’t you?” you whispered now, trying to scan his face for any sort of reasoning beyond what you could guess. Looking into his eyes, those pink strands you had seen before appeared again, blending in with the natural brown of his eyes and yet still hard to see with his blown out pupil.

“It’s hard for me to control myself around you,” he sounded ashamed to admit it, but it was something you had figured. If Ten, who has known you for a majority of his life, occasionally struggled to not eat you, no matter how much stronger Yuta was, it was still difficult by nature.

“So the prince soon to be King deciding to date a human isn’t another factor?” you kept your voice soft.

He bit his lip, “it would be a lie to say that wasn’t something I thought about too.” You squinted, thinking over the past few weeks. The mythics were displeased to have you in the class, even more so to have you speaking with Yuta, and though you were fearful of more backlash, you knew you were more fearful of not being able to be with him.

“I don’t accept that,” you moved your hand from his face, catching you both off guard.

“Huh?”

“I like you, a lot. You like me. We don’t necessarily have to… say we’re dating or anything. But, I don’t accept those excuses. So, either say you don’t like me, or accept the consequences of your feelings,” and that was that. You were holding your breath now in an attempt to slow down your heartbeat, not trying to prove the first point. Yuta’s mouth now was hanging open, and each passing second you felt the blush in your cheeks rising as you worried over your boldness.

“Okay,” was all he said.

“Huh?” Now it was your turn to be taken aback.

“Let’s date,” he smiled now- a full, bright, happy smile that you had grown so fond of.

“Okay,” it was all you could say in return, smiling back at him.

You two sat for a few hours talking, holding each other. The pink strands in Yuta’s eyes would fade in and out throughout the time, but you stopped noticing as you fell asleep on his lap, the dim candles fading as you did.

You were able to sleep for a few hours when you were forced awake by the forceful knocking at your door. You wiped the embarrassing drool from your face and looked up at Yuta.

“It’s Johnny,” he confirmed. You blinked and he wasn’t in his spot; looking towards the door you saw him opening it as Johnny bursted in.

“Mark, he’s hurt.”

You didn’t think much as you grabbed your stake and followed Johnny to wherever Mark was, finding it hard to focus as you tried to quell your own panicked mind.

“There was a demon… Deer Moon… Thought he could handle it,” you were struggling to understand Johnny’s explanation, his own words fading out as you ran to the infirmary building that sat across from the library and not even caring about the dirty looks you got from your peers as you shoved through the crowded spaces towards him.

The school’s infirmary was for day student use, unless you turned the corner in the first hall and headed into the basement. Brushing past the aged mind readers and faeries that ran the night infirmary, you started blindly shouting Mark’s name until Johnny yanked your arm and pulled you to the side.

“Stop it,” he hissed.

“Where is he?” you hissed back, squeezing the stake in your shaking hand.

“You need to calm down,” Johnny whispered, placing a hand on both of your shoulders. You were hyperventilating, you realized, and you placed a hand on your chest to calm yourself down.

“He’s being taken care of, but you can not go in there shouting and waving that around,” he looked down now at the stake in your hand.

“But…” your voice trailed off, your lip quivering now. You felt a cold hand reach out and slowly remove the stake from your hand. You looked back, watching as Yuta uncomfortably held one of the few things that could kill him. “Yuta, be careful with that,” you whispered, your eyes now widening.

“I think of anyone, I’ll be the most careful with this thing. Let’s go see your brother,” he carefully tucked the stake into his jacket pocket and moved his hand to the small of your back, guiding you and following Johnny to where Mark’s room was in the hospital. You saw your father first standing in the hallway and resting his head on the wall.

“Dad!” you called, running to hug him. He moved from his place by the wall and quickly embraced you.

“Hi sweetie… Hi Johnny… Yuta,” you moved back now, reaching to open the door to Mark’s room before your father extended his hand and covered the handle. “Before you go in, you’ve never seen demon burns before. It may look bad, but he will be okay- please remember that,” you had never seen your Dad’s eyes widened like that, and the pit that was already in your stomach dropped even further, the lump in your throat forcing you to take a second before nodding to your father that you understood him.

You held back a panicked breath as you walked in. The right half of Mark’s face was wrapped in thick bandages and so was the entirety of his right arm which also sat on a sling. He looked towards the door, and forced a smile when he saw the four of you.

“Hey guys,” he croaked out, the nurse who was reviewing his charts chastising him for forcing himself too much.

“What happened?” you asked, slowly walking towards him and standing near his bed. He looked down, embarrassed.

“I went to Deer Moon to get a quick bite to eat. I knew I shouldn’t have gone off campus but I was really craving something from them. Anyways, as soon as I walked out into the parking lot there was a demon just standing there. I tried to banish it like you had all those times before but…” he paused, taking a deep breath as he mustered the strength to continue. “It basically combusted into these gnarly blue flames around me. I was able to call the last person I called before passing out.”

“Yeah, me. I got him here and called your Dad as soon as I could,” Johnny added.

“How long is the healing process?” Yuta asked, looking cautiously at Mark’s bandaged wounds.

“Well, with the offerings of the night infirmary, he should be okay within a week,” your Dad waved goodbye to the nurse who was leaving the room, the five of you now alone.

“I’m assuming those bandages are soaked in holy water then?” Yuta chuckled, Mark smirking in response.

“Yeah, it doesn’t feel great on the burns. Plus, now you nor Ten can eat me for like a week- I’m super safe,” the four of you giggled, much to your father’s dismay.

“There will be no eating under my watch,” your Dad huffed.

“That sucks because I just had dinner,” you teased. You all laughed again, your Dad rubbing his face in exhaustion.

“How are you going to make up for your classes?” you asked, knowing how stressed out they’ve been making Mark. It was a thought that seemed to cross his mind too as he sighed and shrugged in defeat.

“I guess I’ll just get the notes and homework from the class group chats.”

“I could… sit in and record the lectures for you? Bring you the homework?” you were taken aback by Yuta’s offer, and so was Mark.

“Wow Yuta, that's so nice of you, but that’s so much to ask for especially for an entire week.”

“I would be happy to do so, if that’s allowed,” he looked at your Dad now expectantly. Your father looked suspiciously at the vampire before sighing.

“That would be allowed for the week, but you have to be very careful to not have your fangs out blush or anything else that might expose you,” your Dad cleared his throat before speaking again, “and thank you.”

“I’ll text y/n my schedule to get to you. Thanks Yuta.”

With that, you all chatted for a bit more before stepping back out as the nurse needed to reapply his bandages and insisted he needed rest. After saying goodbye to your Dad, you started out of the infirmary in silence with Johnny and Yuta.

“Where’s Ten?” you asked, realizing the missing presence.

“He was playing Ping Pong with the freshman last I checked,” Yuta replied.

“I can’t believe he just bullied poor Jisung into being his friend,” you sighed, taking out your phone to call and update your childhood friend.

“‘Sup?” he answered after the second ring.

“Where are you?”

“I’m in Mark’s dorm now waiting on him to get back since I figured you and Yuta were busy,” you cringed, a blush forming on your cheeks as you knew that Yuta could most definitely hear Ten.

“First of all, no. Second, how did you even get into his dorm? You don’t even have his key.”

“Picking locks isn’t hard. Also, that’s so lame! What was even the point of the candles!” “Dude Mark got attacked by a demon,” you whispered the last part as you were walking through a crowd of humans and back towards the student housing areas.

“What? Oh my god what happened?”

“We’ll meet you at the dorm and tell you everything, but he’s gonna be okay,” you hung up, moving through the building and up the elevator to the floor above yours. Mark’s floor was louder than yours, light music coming from a few different open rooms as you made your way to his studio. Ten opened the door for you guys before you could knock.

“Tell me everything,”

***

It had been about two days since Mark’s demon attack. Yuta each day was eagerly attending his classes and even giving Mark his own notes on top of the recorded sessions and even his own additional two cents on the lectures and homework assignments. Without his fangs, he looked like a normal, attractive college student.

You, on the other hand, felt horrible.

You were furious with yourself for not being there when Mark was attacked and even more upset that you hadn’t taught him how to better protect himself.

It was early morning Thursday, and you were checking the outskirts of the night dorm on your own. While it was okay to do so alone, you still wished Yuta was there with you. Him and Johnny had decided to ride bikes through campus at the crack of dawn since that’s when it would be the least crowded with the most light, and Ten was keeping Mark company. So, stuck in your head, you wandered along the path alone checking for anything weird.

“You know,” you jumped at the new voice, reaching for your bo staff and turning around to see the psychic from the library. “It’s weird.” That was all he added. You sighed, nearly growling in annoyance.

“What?” was all you asked, furrowing your eyebrows.

“By now you should’ve gotten them,” he started walking now, brushing past you and starting back on the path. “It’s sort of noticeable in your scent but, not there yet.”

“Why the fuck are you so cryptic?” you started matching his pace, staring Jaemin down as he looked ahead.

“I can’t interfere with your path- but I can observe closely,” he smirked, looking back at you now.

“What is it I should have gotten?”

“Hm,” he stared off, one of his eyes turning white like that time in the library as he did. “No use in telling you since it’ll happen soon anyways. I do feel compelled to tell you, however, no matter what path anyone took- Mark would have gotten hurt.” You stopped walking now, blinking quickly as what he said settled.

“Why would you tell me that?”

“Because I know you’re beating yourself over the head about it,” his eyes turned back to their normal color now. “He’ll be okay,” he added, noticing the panic still in your face. You let go of a breath you hadn’t even realized you were hanging onto.

“Why?” was all you asked.

“Sorry?” he raised an eyebrow as you had managed to make the psychic confused.

“Why do you keep watching my, future, paths, whatever the fuck you want to call it. Why?” your hands were balled into fists now, irritated beyond measure now.

“Oh, that’s easy. Because I want to,” he smiled that smile again- the one that showed that in his mind he’s known you for years.

“But why?” you stepped towards him, waving your hands in frustration. He squinted, one of his eyes going white again as he looked at you pointedly.

“When it happens, I’ll be there to answer your questions since I’m the only one who can.”

You turned around now, and in anger you kicked the wall, thankful you decided to wear your thickest combat boots.

“I’ll be at your favorite booth in the library when you need me.”

“Fuck you,” you turned back around to face him, his white eye still there.

“See you soon,” he started off on the path again before turning back around, “oh, and no need to finish checks here today.”

You stood there for a few moments after, dumbfounded, trying to make sense of everything. Mark was going to be okay, but something else was going to happen, and the psychic who seems to know you far too well for your own liking was waiting for it. You were exhausted of everyone seeming to know things they were too hesitant to share with you, leaving you in the dust and feeling dumb. Between your Dad not telling you about the blue night until recently or even teaching you about the oligarchy, you were exhausted.

You sighed, and started back towards your dorm.

[abt-rampicanti]

The two of us and the fireflies

Characters: Percy Jackson x Avril Dacklot

Oc is a child of Hades and uses she/her pronouns

A/N: Hi! It's been a while since I've posted something, but here we are. This writing is really important to me and I hope you like it!

Dual Pov

Avril Dacklot

After everything that happened, sitting on the bench in Camp Half-blood hill staring at nothing was probably the best thing that could happen to me.

Obviously, going to the fireworks beach and looking and staring at the water would be more calming, but that place was full of memories, and I didn’t exactly want to remember them all. Don’t get me wrong, they aren’t bad memories, they’re mostly confusing and I am already confused enough on my own.

Fragments of the events of the past weeks surfaced in my mind.

"I can't stand living three hours without you, your obsession with plants and all your coffee mugs. So, if you're going to die, you're going to bring me with you"

Why would he tell me that just to act as nothing happened?

Oh no, no, no. I came here to avoid thinking of the topic, not to have a mental conversation about it.

See, that’s why I hate the night. It forces you to face all the thoughts that you so hardly tried to put aside during the day, busying yourself with tons of activities. All of that comes back, and you can’t escape it anymore, because you can’t do any activity in the middle of the night, and even if you found something to do, you would still end up with your mind wandering about that thing, and if haven’t been clear enough, I do not want to think about it, or he, both of them work.

Percy Jackson

I’m officially screwed.

Well, not in a the-minotaur-is-attacking-me-and-it-seems-angrier-than-usual-di-immortales-what-do-I-do, but in an oh-my-gods-my-best friend-of-years-kissed-me-(twice!)-and-I-am-a-fool-for-not-letting-her-know-how-I-feel. But if I had to be honest, if me not being clear about my feelings has hurt Avril in every way, I’d rather be chased by the minotaur.

I don’t think I’d forgive myself if I were to know that she’s been through any kind of pain because of something I did. She didn’t deserve it.

Yesterday, I messed up badly. I didn’t react how I should have, and Avril misunderstood my not reacting for lack of interest. Which wasn’t/isn’t/never will be true.

I'm hers. She might not be mine (although I honestly hope she’d like to be), but I certainly am hers. People expect me to be the one who wears the pants, but with her? No. If she told me to wait for her, I would do it. If she told me to kill myself so that she could be happy, I'd do that too. She's got me in a chokehold, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

And I wasn’t able to tell her that yesterday. Because my brain was melted into a puddle and she was in front of me, lips slightly parted and cheeks flushed and her brown eyes weren’t cold anymore, they looked soft, warm and welcoming and I didn’t know what to do: she’s so amazing and she deserves the world, the universe and all that and I am just Percy. I am the idiot that blinked dumbly when the girl of his dreams implied that she liked him too.

And I’m so angry because when Grover called me, I left her there and avoided her for the rest of the day. Rightfully, she ignored me too, and even though I understood the reasons behind it, I’ve never felt more miserable, because you know when it's June, and you've just woken up; the windows are open and you can feel the sunlight on your face: you're happy because it embraces you with a warmth so gentle that it reminds you of home? Well, that's how being with her felt like for me, and suddenly I wasn’t able to experience all that anymore. Quick as a summer’s night, my main serotonin provider had stopped working, and I had full knowledge that it was my fault.

I wonder where Avril is now. Maybe she is in Cabin 13 with Nico and Hazel, sleeping (although I doubt it, she never sleeps) or maybe talking about random things. Or, if life has decided to make me lucky, Avril is near Half-blood hill, doing the-gods-know-what.

I should test my luck and go find her. Maybe she’ll reject me and yell at me, or maybe she is in her Cabin. Anyway, I decided to give it a try.

In a bit of rush (how can you not be when there’s your crush outside and you have a chance to confess your unconditional love to her), I got off my bed, put my shoes on and hurried out of Cabin 3, not without tripping over some textbook I left on the floor.

After tiptoeing all along the path that runs along the Lake, which I then crossed quietly (good-old-godly-genetics), I tried to be as little visible as possible (no one wants to become food for Harpies) as I passed Big House and the volleyball courts to reach Half-Blood Hill. I got distracted and stepped on some dry leaves, which, of course, rustled not so quietly. I then proceeded to cuss not so silently, either.

Avril Dacklot

A rustle of leaves startled me, and put me out of my train of thoughts, forcing me to look in the direction of the sound, while also preparing to shadow-travel, in case it was a Harpy.

It wasn’t. The thing that made that sound was a person, and thanks to the moonlight, I was able to recognise them easily. It was Percy, of course.

Saying that him being here didn’t faze me, would be lying. The thing was, though, that I didn’t know how to feel; on one hand, I was happy he was here because we would be able to talk, on the other hand, however, I was very annoyed about the fact that he intruded my space, and I didn’t want to talk to him, about anything.

It’s not that I’m angry at him or something, and I enjoy late-night talks with Percy, he’s my best friend for crying out loud! The problem was that he confused me, leaving me hanging, and I didn’t know how to react. Because I think I love him, and I don't know how to deal with that. How do you just allow someone to have your entire heart and live with the knowledge that they may break it? That at any moment, they might decide you're not worth it?

What if he does? What if he realises that there are so many people better than me, that would be better friends, too? He might choose to leave me, then, and he wouldn’t even be wrong. But this whole situation scares the living hell out of me, I don’t want to lose him, there is no me without him. I don't know what I would do if we were to part.

Pfft… We’re getting too sentimental here, and I don’t do feelings. No, I don’t.

Well, maybe sometimes. When I’m dancing, or playing the piano, or writing, but for the rest of the time? No, not at all.

I am programmed to be successful: be the best in school, be the best at dancing, win everything there is to be won. When you live like that, there is no room for sentimentalism. Feelings distract you, make you lose your focus, make you weak and make you fail. I can’t let that happen, I don’t need a break, I need to thrive, to succeed, and if I need to sacrifice everything for that, I probably will. I am aware of the fact that nothing comes for free. If I fail, I’ll fall apart.

People come to me not because I’m funny, or pretty, or empathetic, they do that because they want something, could it be notes, or help with a specific topic, or homework, even.

Being good in school is all I have, what gives me a place among all the others, the only thing that makes me feel seen. I want to make history. Have a place in it, at least. If I have to live, I want it to matter, I want to have an impact on the future. If I don’t manage to do that, what will I become? Will people still value me, when I don’t succeed anymore? Or will I be just another someone that got lost on the way to achievement? Will I be forgotten? Will I be just someone’s daughter? Someone’s friend? Someone’s sidekick? Who knows the answer? I certainly don’t, and I don’t want to discover it. So, I try my best to not let that happen; I keep going, getting straight As, taking notes even when I’m too tired to, just so I can look like the perfect student. I refuse to feel tired, stressed, sad: to be like that you have to be numb, or you might get lost in yourself.

Well, I believe I’m doing some great work, there. So much that people don’t even bother asking me how I’m feeling before requesting help in school.

Even now, after all these years, I’m still surprised by the audacity of men: while I was busy analysing the mysteries of humanity, Percy managed to sit next to me.

I guess I can’t run anymore.

Percy Jackson

After she acknowledged my presence, I sat next to her.

You could see the tension between us, and I think I would have been able to touch it, too.

That didn’t really help with my anxiety.

“Hey”, Avril just hums in response, but it’s still an answer, so I’ll take it as a victory.

“Ehm, do you mind if I …” “What? No, of course not”

Oh, thank the gods

It was a pretty good start, I suppose. She didn’t shout, yell, or cuss at me, and she didn’t even tell me to leave. I couldn’t see her face really well, but I think she kept glancing my way as if expecting me to say something.

Not one to disappoint, I took the hint. “Listen, I want to talk”, Avril turned her head to face me, so I decided to keep going, “I made a mistake”

“Did you?”

“Yeah."

“Alright.”

That didn’t go as expected. Now I was really starting to panic: Avril didn’t seem to want to engage in a conversation with me, and things were going to be way more difficult.

“This evening, I should have acted differently and-”

“Percy, it doesn’t matter, really”

“No. No, it does matter, Avril”

“I’m telling you, it doesn’t. It’s all right, I get it. It’s absolutely normal, things like that happen, but that’s how life goes-”

“Di Immortales Avril, would you listen to me for a second?”

“Yeah, right sorry”

“What I’m trying to say, is that I shouldn’t have chickened out and I should have discussed it with you instead of running off to Grover as soon as I got the chance. I know that it wasn’t the best way to act” Avril faked a cough, “Ok, it was the worst way to act, but I’m trying to do things right now if you want me to”

Avril didn’t answer that. Instead, she took my hand and squeezed it. It felt nice, like extremely nice, like full-on mind-blowing-my-heart-is-going-to-explode nice, but I can’t say I wasn’t having the time of my life, sitting there holding her hand. Not for the first time tonight, I turned to look at her, and suddenly my breath got caught in my throat: I had never seen anything prettier. Her eyes were pointed to the stars above us, and I was sure that even those, looking down to a sight so amazing, shone a little brighter.

I must have been staring for quite a long time, because Avril turned her head towards me and said, very romantically: “What?”, so I answered, still very romantically: “Nothing”.

We went back to being silent, and that felt amazing, too. It wasn’t awkward, or tense, it just held the knowledge that I was there and she was there too, that we were comfortable together, without needing to have a conversation of any kind, that it was just the two of us, and the fireflies.

After a few minutes of looking into the universe’s secrets, Avril broke the silence, “Do you want to know something?”, “If you’re the one who’s telling it, obviously I do”, “Well, I've never believed in the concept of the other half, I've always thought that everybody was whole on their own, that there was no need for company." I probably looked at her with curiosity on my face, brows furrowed and head slightly tilted: I had no idea of where this was going, "And Now? What happened?" "Then I met you. I’m really glad I did".

Oh. Avril certainly has a way to make someone feel special, giving them random information about how her view of the world has changed thanks to them, and, apparently, she always manages to leave you at loss for words. Loss for words or not, I forced myself to say something, trying to express to her at least an ounce of how much I was glad to have her, but before I managed to finish, Avril interrupted me again, "Don't you dare say something heartfelt, if you always try and succeed in being nice, when do I get my moment to be in the spotlight?" You always are to me, I wanted to say, but I decided against it, squeezing her hand instead, hoping she would get the message.

Things were going smoothly, we haven’t talked about that whole “thing” yet, but it’s alright: we’re taking it slow, and we weren’t forcing anything.

It was no easy fall, being with Avril, whether it was a friendship or something more: that girl was the most closed-off person I’ve ever met as if she had taken her heart, storing it in a box, locked it and thrown away the key, surrounding said box with tall and thick walls, bordered by traps and a lava pit. It’s a shame, really: that girl certainly has an ego the size of the Pacific Ocean, but she undoubtedly has a heart to match it, although she would deny it even on her death bed.

Avril’s voice brought me out of my thoughts once again, “What are you thinking about? I can feel you getting all philosophical and stuff”

“Nothing. Besides, aren’t you doing the same thing?”,

“Me? Thinking? No, absolutely not, never done that before”.

We both turned to face each other, and then Avril started laughing. Not a chuckle, or a shy giggle, but a burst of whole laughter, the one that makes your eyes crinkle at the corners. It made sparkles ignite inside me, the sound full, warm and so, so, Avril.

After she stopped laughing (and I had to force myself to not be sad for not being able to hear that sound anymore), Avril asked me if I would reattach her head if it was ever cut off, and since it was an absurd question, my answer was: “Why are you asking me that?”

Avril, very eloquently, said that it was ‘because she wanted to’, and seeing that she expected an answer, and given that I have no knowledge about how that works, the only thing that I was able to say was “You're the architect here, not me.”, which of course was a stupid answer, but it was the only thing I could manage.

Avril, however, wasn’t taken aback by my lack of answering skills, and what she replied surprised me even more than the question itself, “Yeah, but if I'll ever end up in the need to get my head reattached, I'd want you to be the one to do it”.

I didn’t know how to answer that. I mean, all those little remarks and all that teasing were easy to answer, but such unexpected and genuine heart-felt sentences weren’t something I was used to, at least, not when talking to Avril, not that I minded, of course.

We were still facing each other and we were still holding hands, so my amazing brain decided to make me shoot my shot, “We could kiss right now”.

Avril surprised me again, “We could have kissed when you first sat a few hours ago, too”.

What’s that supposed to mean? Should I kiss her? Should I give her some distance? Should I throw myself off this cliff?

My thoughts were interrupted when I felt Avril shift closer to me. I took the hint.

I’ve watched my fair share of rom-coms, with my mother mostly, and there they describe every kiss very vividly so that it seems amazing and breath-taking. You always end up believing them, setting some extremely high standards that never, in no situation, anybody would be able to meet.

Now, take those high standards, multiply them for ten, and you’ll know how kissing Avril (as in kissing for real, with my hands caressing her cheeks and her arms around my neck) felt for me.

Unfortunately, humans get out of breath, so we had to part, not ready to let such a mind-blowing feeling go, trying to prolong it as much as possible, I rested my forehead against hers, basking in the feeling of having her so close, even if just for a short time.

The rest of the night passed in a blur. I remember walking Avril back to her cabin and kissing her goodnight and then almost getting caught by the Harpies because I was too busy doing a little victory dance to care about them.

I have no idea about how you’re supposed to act when you’re dating someone, well, I do know how two people act when they’re dating, but nobody has ever published something between the lines of “How to date Avril Dacklot: a step-to-step guide for beginners”, because that girl certainly deserved the world, and I don’t know how to act. So, if you were to ask me, no, I have no idea of what I'm doing.

But this morning Avril saw me at breakfast, smiled and then kissed me, so I'd say that I'm doing it amazingly. If s she’s happy, smiles when she sees me, and I can get to hug or kiss her sometimes, I’ll believe that I’m doing a great job. Also, I doubt that Avril wouldn’t kick my butt if I ever didn’t.

What about me, you say? As long as I have her, and as long as I know that she’s aware of the fact that she has me, too, you can be sure that I’ll be out here living my best life.

I don’t know if the Fates had something else planned for me, but honestly, I don't even care. Not even the end of the world could make me change my mind about being with her.

[onebizarrekai]

undeniable proof that shuichi and kokichi were gay in v3

prepare yourself for the most big brain thing that has ever bigged your brain

chapter 1

shuichi saihara spends this chapter following kaede around because they were just trapped in a godforsaken killing game and everything seems to suck. when faced with a situation such as this, the natural inclination is to either find someone to latch onto or to distrust and stick to oneself. shuichi does the former because he is a twiggy little man who would probably die in a fight before anyone even attacked him.

what is kokichi doing in this chapter? sticking to himself? stalking someone? that is the real question. nobody knows what he is doing because he is not the protagonist and not the obligatory party companion. however, since v3 follows a theme of fiction, it is totally logical to believe that some system must be in place, but kokichi is not bound by such a system because kokichi represents anarchy.

he does not stick with another for all to see, nor does he remain alone. alas, he searches for a secret companion and has not found one yet. who shall he find? shall he find any? the truth is, he gravitates towards shuichi. it’s supposed to be in secret, but there is a way in the game to see what really happened.

if you speak to tsumugi right before everyone is asked to gather at the cafeteria a second time, she mentions sonic the hedgehog. kokichi runs by, saying “got to go fast”. this means that kokichi has either played sonic the hedgehog or is at least well-versed in sonic memes. if you get this dialogue, and only if you get it, later, kokichi makes another sonic reference, saying “faker? I think you’re the fake hedgehog around here!” while he confuses everyone, the dialogue makes the odd choice of stopping on shuichi, even though the dialogue box only includes “…” and nothing else.

chapter 2

if you have unlocked tsumugi’s sonic dialogue and go to the monomono machine, you now have a 5% chance of getting sonic merchandise. if you give this merchandise to kokichi, you get some interesting dialogue. he says “wow, shuichi! how did you know that I grew up playing sonic and that it’s my absolute favorite video game series of all time?” this immediately maxes out all 5 of his friendship fragments, and you can get all 5 of his hangouts without giving him any more presents. you’re probably wondering why this is important, but you will see.

as kaede is now dead, shuichi finds himself horribly alone. while kaito is there and starts calling him his sidekick, the force of protagonist syndrome has caused shuichi to gain the courage to hang out with anyone, including kokichi of course. I don’t need to talk about kokichi’s hangouts. they literally end with “I stole your heart, so now I’m satisfied!” and it doesn’t get gayer than that.

or does it?

if you investigate the bathroom part of ryoma’s lab during this chapter and click on a very specific spot in order to enter one of the stalls, you can click on the toilet 5 times and shuichi will lie down on the floor. while it’s to investigate the underside of the toilet, and there is nothing to be found, the words “kokichi was here” are written on the ceiling above the stall. if you’ve already hung out with kokichi at least once in this chapter, shuichi will sigh and wonder what kokichi is doing right now.

if you’ve given kokichi the sonic merchandise, and you reach kokichi’s final free time event in this chapter, he will actually question shuichi after he finishes bandaging kokichi’s finger up, briefly commenting on how shuichi managed to get close to him so quickly and asking him “what his trick is”. he says “you must like me a whole lot, shuichi. I hope you don’t bail on me after this.” word for word, literally just hear me out.

“kokichi places his warm hand on mine, and I feel like he’s prying much deeper than he usually does.”

“I didn’t think that was possible…”

chapter 3

little did you know, giving kokichi the sonic merchandise unlocked a bonus hangout. yes, you heard me right. a WHOLE bonus hangout. you can hang out with him again whenever you want in this chapter. kokichi only says “good to see you.” you can select yes or no.

the screen will fade to black.

you have used up a free time.

if you have reached this hidden part of kokichi’s relationship sequence, random dialogue that isn’t in the normal game starts getting sprinkled in, as well as certain easter eggs. when angie starts her whole shtick, since you’ve already hung out with kokichi 5 times, there are a few things he has to say straight up, like how he’s going to teach shuichi about cults so shuichi doesn’t accidentally join the student council.

chapter 4

now that you’ve finally reached chapter 4 and activated the secret kokichi pathway, you get a hidden scene, much like the others that are triggered by having specific items in your inventory. in the middle of the night, kokichi breaks into shuichi’s room and shakes him awake, telling him that someone stole his almond milk.

shuichi tells kokichi to shut up and rolls over.

fun fact, if you get the hangout with miu where she checks whether shuichi is a virgin, she does, in fact, say “ha, I can’t believe this!” and if you zoom in the window behind her, you can barely make out kokichi’s face. peering in. watching you. if you click on him at any point during this hangout, you will hear a voice clip of kokichi’s laugh and shuichi will internally respond to miu’s dialogue differently. he will think “miu is the last person I need to know about this…”

in this sonic dialogue route, shuichi responds slightly differently to kokichi revealing that he is the mastermind. although his dialogue is mostly the same, he counts approximately 22 extra crying sprites, implied to be caused by additional heartbreak.

chapter 5-6

these chapters play out mostly the same way until the very end, the only exception being when you’re investigating kokichi’s lab. if you click on kokichi’s throne 13 times, one of the bookshelves will slide out of the way to reveal a hidden bathroom. there is an envelope taped to the wall that says “for my beloved detective, who habitually smacks things over and over.” it says “if you’re reading this, I’m probably dead. or am I? wouldn’t you like to know? nishishi.” shuichi comments about the fact that kokichi literally wrote that stupid laugh out, only to start crying again.

make sure that you have kind lie equipped as one of your skills before you start the final trial.

if you’ve done everything exactly according to plan up to this point, the ending is different.

tsumugi decides to show kokichi’s audition tape instead of kaede’s. he says “I’d love to be a part of danganronpa! I can finally be a bad guy without being scared!” but then kokichi looks directly at the camera. he says “naw, just messing with you. guess who?”

the screen cracks.

kokichi has suddenly entered the scene of the trial. tsumugi looks horrified. her wig falls off. everyone is at a loss for words. suddenly the screens and lights around them start to black out until everyone is left in almost complete darkness.

shuichi finally asks kokichi how he’s alive. he’s like, “you DIED” and kokichi is like “or did I? it’s the grand finale, shuichi! I owe you the truth this one time, because you’re my favorite.” everyone listens intently. “you see, by observing your irrational actions, almost like that of a main character… I was able to conclude that we exist in a fictional world that plays by certain rules. but we all been knew, didn’t we? not quite! someone forgot to test for exploits.” himiko just goes like “what the fuck you smokin?” and kokichi just laughs. “my self awareness has given me more power than you can possibly imagine! let’s just say I learned where the hit boxes are broken and installed a few cheat codes in the meantime!”

“no… that’s impossible! this isn’t supposed to be part of the ending at all!” tsumugi doesn’t like that one bit. she just kinda breaks down crying. shuichi isn’t paying attention to her though. he had accepted oblivion only to be greeted with kokichi being alive. as annoying as kokichi is, they are hopelessly in love. maki is a little disturbed.

after passionately reuniting with shuichi, kokichi says the thing. “this world is mine now, tsumugi! you got nothin on this! it’s time to say goodbye to this trash dump and create a new reality!” tsumugi just kinda goes like “noooo!!!”

everything goes black. shuichi has a vision about entering creative mode. kokichi has opped him. they take hands. “let’s create someplace way more fun.” maki and himiko and keebo look at each other because they’re floating in the background and watching this happen even though it’s supposed to be an internal vision. the screen goes white.

shuichi graces us with some internal protagonist dialogue about how he doesn’t really understand what’s happening anymore or what’s waiting for them outside of this world, but he thinks that things might turn out ok.

after unlocking this ending, you unlock a super secret video that you can view from the main menu. it’s a fully animated video of kokichi and dice dancing to world is mine. this is what they spent all their budget on