#Feedback Collection System

[thewritingace]

unsplash has really gone downhill...

[antrika]

Insights into Successful Product Launch via Customer Feedback Management

Are you ready to launch your new feature, or product improvements? This is the peak time wherein boosting customer engagement or enhancing their interest in your launch is extremely important. After all, effective communication creates buzz, increases adoption rates during software launch, and improves sales, customer retention, and referrals to the target audience. All these aspects can be achieved when you utilize customer feedback management as your source to engage with consumers. 

However, before launching a new feature, product, or product improvement, organizations often face challenges such as product planning inefficiency, communication loopholes within internal teams, and representing final product solutions across teams or stakeholders to acquire inputs and conduct thorough testing. 

You can meet all these challenges by improving internal collaboration with customer feedback management, analyzing customer feedback with simple procedures, planning a practical and well-structured roadmap, and collectively evaluating the final solution to avoid product bugs. How? By implementing user feedback software in your system. 

In this blog, we will explore improving communication before launch by utilizing customer analytics software to make your strategy successful and avoid inaccuracies with customer feedback management.

What is a Product Launch Communication Document?

A product launch communication document or plan strives through customer feedback management to outline how a company would communicate information about changes or new features to the audience. This is commonly known as a changelog, which focuses on grabbing customers’ attention before launching the product. 

In addition, this document is prepared by collaborating with diverse teams and drafting an effective message showcasing the product’s importance, benefits, and other aspects with customer feedback management to the target audience through a centralized platform like a review collection platform.

The communication document of the product crafted through customer analytics software and customer feedback management involves a range of aspects to help consumers understand what to expect from the brand. It allows team members to stay aligned with the process. The factors include:`

1. Goal and product objectives

2. Target audience evaluation

3. Key aspect of the message

4. Identifying the right channels

5. Expected project timeline……And more

Factors to Consider While Creating Product Launch Communication Strategy

A communication strategy via customer feedback management strives to clarify the core message for the product, mentions the channels that a brand would choose to deliver the message, and other factors to make customers feel involved in the process and stay updated. 

When preparing a communication strategy through a review collection platform with customer feedback management, certain aspects must be taken care of. We list those factors below for your better understanding. 

1. Target Audience

To ensure accurate communication about your product launch with customer feedback management, consider listing varied audience segments that you cater to or target. These segments can include all your customers or a set of consumers. You must also include your employees in the plan, as it is important to ensure your teams understand the importance of the product launch. 

2. Identify Right Channels

Identify the channels to reach your audience apart from user feedback software via customer feedback management. For instance, companies can communicate with existing customers by utilizing changelog features or release notes through Antrika or email and social media. 

On the other hand, sharing details about the product launch with the employees via customer feedback management through an email or internal discussion through a centralized feedback tool can be an ideal option as it simplifies sharing reports and other details under one platform. 

3. Plan an ideal Message Strategy

This element focuses on the message a company wants to convey. Before the launch, consider listing your product’s USP or 3-5 essential messages important for your brand to communicate. 

This will assist in preparing a communication plan without worrying about missing a crucial factor via customer feedback management. Later, product managers can utilize the brief content to enhance or elaborate it for more effectiveness. 

4. Dedicate Timeline for Communication

A communication strategy must include a specific timeline or accurate schedule for pre-launch, mid-launch, and post-launch endeavors. Companies can begin a basic outline of these activities through a spreadsheet and then list all the specifics using the insights stored in customer feedback management tools to ensure the communication is crafted using all the critical aspects per the schedule. 

5. Streamline Collaboration and Review Procedure

This stage of implementing the plan involves all the tools and review processes. Does that sound confusing? For instance, a CEO, technical team, developers, and other team members won’t look after the content for a blog, email newsletters, and other content. 

However, when it’s time for the product launch with customer feedback management, a CEO, product managers, and other team members will be responsible for reviewing the solutions implemented in the current feedback loop through the review collection platform. Hence, checking specific collaborative procedures required before launch for impactful results is essential. 

6. Don’t Neglect Customer Support

While planning communication for current customers is essential, what about new customers? Where can customers contact for queries related to product launch? You must ensure that your messages or communication documents include these aspects so that everyone in your team knows how to direct customers to suitable sources to solve their queries. 

Benefits Of Product Launch Communication Strategy

A well-structured product launch communication through customer feedback management highlights the product’s USP. It aids the team with a detailed roadmap for delivering the message to the right segments at an accurate time when customers are more likely to observe or even engage with your messages. 

Sounds interesting? Design a well-planned and accurate communication strategy for the product launch through a customer feedback management platform can help businesses in multiple ways, such as:

1.Targets the right audience: By defining the right target audience, organizations can customize their communication to resonate with the audience, which is highly likely to increase engagement. 

2. Fosters clarity and consistency: A well-thought-out communication strategy will ensure that a company’s messaging before the product launch is explicit, consistent with its tone and format, and aligns with other brands or marketing strategies. 

3. Enables to easily measure results: With the right communication plan, you can easily calculate the metrics on its effectiveness and adjust the strategy in upcoming launches. 

4. Accurate resource implementation: By planning communication, product managers would get an idea of requirements to be fulfilled within the schedule which means optimizing suitable sources at the right time. 

How to Create Effective Product Launch Communication?

After understanding the benefits and importance of creating a communication plan for the product launch with customer feedback management, you may wonder how one can create this plan using user feedback software. To solve your concern, we have listed below a few steps to simplify the process for you. 

1. Identify Target Audience

The first step includes selecting the right target audience. For example, most companies’ target audience would be existing customers and media. However, you may need to identify customer segments for your consumers and employees. Sounds confusing? 

Let’s say you have B2B software and want to develop an extensive message to send to the sales team. On the other hand, if you sell B2C e-commerce products, you may need to create specific messages to explain the new product to the customer support team and customers when you fix any issues or introduce a new feature—a changelog. 

2. Develop Ideal Message

As we mentioned above, ideally, you should select 2-5 essential messages, such as product benefits through customer feedback management, the reason behind launch improvement or new feature, features of the product, how the product impacts the customer’s life, and similar aspects, by identifying customers’ needs and expectations through a customer feedback management tool.

3. Organize Varied Aspects and Mention Timeline

The next step includes listing or organizing varied communication deliverables through a centralized customer feedback management system, collaborators, review procedures, and launch schedules. This process needs thorough evaluation, testing, and collaborative work with a due date. 

Remember, multi-tasking won’t work at this stage; giving complete attention to your final layout or technical aspect is vital to acquiring your goals error-free with the launch. 

4. Draft your Final Content

Now, focus on developing content for final communication. To convey your message to the target audience, you can write emails, utilize changelog through user feedback software, use social media, release press releases, or even blog posts. 

In some cases, organizations focus on writing video scripts, animating, or performing voice-over work to convey messages through video content. They add visually rich graphic elements with text elements to make the content attractive and boost customer engagement and interest in the product launch. 

5. Launch the Product

When you consider launching a product feature or improvements, make sure to add accurate details from the communication document. 

After launching the product, conduct a thorough analysis with your team. In this analysis, mention or list all the factors that were successful or effective in consumers’ lives. Also, list factors that didn’t go well or could have been delivered better. 

In short, it is important to analyze why product solutions were effective or not for market demand and customer life. This will help improve further launches and sometimes give you insights into implementing improvements in the product. 

Final Takeaway for Customer Feedback Management

A well-structured communication plan is the key to maximizing business growth, customer retention, and consumer trust over time. By utilizing customer feedback management solutions, organizing varied aspects of the communication strategy becomes easier and more manageable. 

Do you want to know more about feedback or communication management with Antrika? Contact our experts today!

[neonqueerautumn]

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[tobiosbbyghorl]

pairing: scientist!sunghoon x scientist! reader

wc:10.5k

released date: 05.17.2025

warning: PURE FICTION!!

synopsis: In the quiet of her lab, Dr. Y/N, a skilled scientist, sets out on a risky mission to bring back her late fiancé, Park Sunghoon, who died in a car accident. Using his preserved DNA, she creates a clone that grows rapidly in just two years. When Sunghoon wakes up, he faces the difficult reality of being brought back to life and the moral issues surrounding Y/N's actions.

a/n: ITS HERE!! Hope you guys will love it as much as I did writing it! feedbacks,likes and reblogs are highly appreciated!

In the cold glow of my underground biotech lab, silence is sacred. Down here, beneath layers of steel and earth, the world doesn’t exist. No grief. No time. Just me. Just him.

The capsule glows in the center of the room—a vertical womb of steel and glass, pulsing faintly with blue light. Suspended inside, wrapped in strands of bio-filaments and artificial amniotic fluid, is the reason I wake up in the morning. Or stay awake. I don’t know the difference anymore.

Park Sunghoon.

Or… what’s left of him.

One year ago, he died on his way to our civil wedding. A drunk driver. A rainy street. A second too late. I got the call before I even zipped up my dress. I still remember the way my coffee spilled all over the lab floor when my knees gave out. I never cleaned it. It’s still there, dried in the corner. A fossil of the moment my world cracked open.

⸻

He used to say I was too curious for my own good.

That I’d poke the universe too hard one day and it would poke back.

Maybe this is what he meant.

⸻

Sunghoon and I were both scientists—biotech researchers. We studied regenerative cloning, theorized about neural echo imprinting, debated ethics like it was foreplay.

He was against replicas. Always. “A copy isn’t a soul,” he’d say. “It’s just noise pretending to be music.”

But the day he died, I stopped caring about music.

I just wanted to hear his voice again.

⸻

I had everything I needed. A sample of his bone DNA—collected after a minor lab accident years ago and stored under a pseudonym. His blood type, genome map, neural scan from our first brain-simulation trial. A perfect match, all buried in our old hard drives. He never knew I kept them. Maybe he would’ve hated me for it.

Maybe I don’t care.

I called it Project ECHO.

Because that’s what he was now.

An echo. A ripple in the void.

⸻

The first version—ECHO-1—was a failure.

He looked like Sunghoon. But he never woke up. I ran every test. Monitored every vital. Adjusted nutrient cycles, protein growth, heartbeat regulators. But something in him was missing—something I couldn’t code into cells.

A soul, maybe. Or timing.

He died the second I tried to bring him out.

I cremated and buried that version in the garden, under the cherry tree he planted the first spring we moved in. I didn’t cry at the funeral. I just stood there holding the urn and whispered, “I’ll get it right next time.”

⸻

ECHO-2 was different.

I restructured the genome to prevent cellular decay. Added telomere stabilizers to delay aging. Enhanced his immune system. This time, I built him stronger. Healthier. The version of Sunghoon that would’ve never gotten sick that winter in Sapporo, or fainted in the elevator that one night after forgetting to eat. That version who could live longer. With me.

But the rest—I left untouched.

His smile. His hands. The faint mole scattered in his face. The way his hair curled when wet. All exactly the same. It had to be. He wouldn’t be Sunghoon without those things.

I even reconstructed his mind.

Using an illegal neural mapping sequence I coded from fragments of our joint research, I retrieved echoes of his memory—dream-like reflections extracted from the deepest preserved brain tissue. It wasn’t perfect. But it was him. Pieces of him. The things he never got to say. The life he never finished.

⸻

It took two years.

Two years in the dark, surrounded by synthetic fluid and filtered lights, modifying the incubator like a cradle built by obsession. I monitored every development milestone like a parent. I watched him grow. I whispered stories to him when the lab was quiet, played him our favorite records through the tank’s acoustic feed, left him notes on the console like he could read them.

⸻

One night, I touched the tank and felt warmth radiate back. His fingers twitched.

A smile cracked on his lips, soft and sleepy.

And I whispered, “You’re almost here.”

⸻

Now he floats before me—grown, complete, and terrifyingly familiar. His chest rises and falls steadily. Muscles formed and defined from synthetic stimulation. His brain is fully developed. His body—twenty-five years old. The age he was when he died. The age we should’ve gotten married.

And now, he’s ready.

⸻

The console buzzes beside me.

“Project ECHO – Stage V: Awakening. Confirm execution.”

My fingers hover. The hum of the lab grows louder. My heart beats so hard I feel it in my throat.

This is it.

The point of no return.

I press enter.

The Awakening didn’t look like the movies.

There was no dramatic gasp, no lightning bolt of consciousness.

It was subtle.

His eyes fluttered open, hazy and uncertain, like the first morning light after a long storm. They didn’t lock onto me at first. He blinked a few times—slow, groggy—and stared at the ceiling of the pod with a confusion so human it made my knees go weak.

Then his gaze shifted.

Found me.

And held.

Just long enough to knock the breath from my lungs.

“Sunghoon,” I whispered.

His lips barely moved. “…Y/N?”

And then—just like that—he slipped under again.

His vitals were stable, but his body couldn’t process full consciousness yet. It was expected. I designed it that way. A controlled emergence. Gentle. Like thawing from ice.

He would wake again. Soon.

⸻

Phase VI: Integration.

I had the room ready before I even began the cloning process. A private suite in the East Wing of my estate, modified to resemble a recovery room from a private hospital: sterile whites and soft blues, filtered natural lighting, automated IV drips and real-time vitals displayed on sleek black monitors. The scent of lavender piped faintly through the vents. His favorite.

I moved him after he lost consciousness again—quietly, carefully. No one else involved. Not even my AI assistant, KARA. This part was just mine.

Just ours.

He lay in the bed now, dressed in soft gray cotton, sheets pulled up to his chest. The faint hum of the machines harmonized with his breathing. It was surreal. Like watching a ghost settle into a life it forgot it had.

I perched on the armchair across from him, the dim lighting casting long shadows over his face.

“You’re safe,” I murmured, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “And when you wake up… everything will be in place.”

⸻

I spent the next forty-eight hours setting the stage.

Fabricated records of a traumatic car accident—minor amnesia, extended coma, miraculous survival. Hacked into the hospital registry and quietly added his name under a wealthy alias. I made sure the media silence was absolute. No visitors. No suspicious calls. A full blackout.

I memorized the story I would tell him. Rehearsed it like a script.

We had been on our way to City Hall. A drunk driver ran a red light. I survived with minor injuries. He hit his head. Slipped into a coma. No signs of brain damage, but long-term memory instability was expected.

He’d been here ever since. Safe. Loved. Waiting to wake up.

And now—he had.

⸻

On the morning of the third day, I heard movement.

Soft. Shuffling. Sheets rustling.

I turned from the monitor just as he groaned softly, his head turning on the pillow.

“Sunghoon?”

His eyes blinked open again, more alert this time. Still groggy, but present.

“Y/N…?” he rasped.

I rushed to his side, heart in my throat. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

His brows knit together, voice hoarse. “What happened?”

“You were in an accident,” I said gently. “The day of our wedding. You’ve been in a coma. Two years.”

His eyes widened—just a little. Then flicked down to his hands. The IV. The machines. The unfamiliar room.

“…Two years?”

I nodded, bracing for the confusion. “You survived. But it was close. We weren’t sure you’d ever… come back.”

He said nothing.

Just stared at me.

Like he was trying to remember something he couldn’t quite reach.

“…Why does it feel like I never left?” he whispered.

I smiled softly. Forced. “Because I never left you.”

And for now, that was all he needed to know.

But deep down, behind those eyes, behind the half-forgotten memories and muscle memory that wasn’t truly his—

Something flickered.

Something not asleep anymore.

He was awake.

And the lie had begun.

The days that followed passed in a quiet rhythm.

He adjusted faster than I anticipated. His motor skills were strong, his speech patterns natural—so much so that sometimes I forgot he wasn’t really him. Or maybe he was. Just… rebuilt. Reassembled with grief and obsession and the memory of love that still clung to me like static.

I stayed with him in the hospital wing, sleeping on the pullout beside his bed. Every morning he’d wake before me, staring out the wide window as if trying to piece together time. And when I asked what he was thinking, he always gave the same answer:

“I feel like I dreamed you.”

On the seventh day, he turned to me, his voice clearer than ever.

“Can I go back to our room?”

I paused, fingers wrapped around the rim of his tea mug.

He still called it our room.

I nodded.

“Yeah,” I said. “You’re strong enough now.”

And so we did.

I helped him down the hallway, hand in his, the same way I���d imagined it during the long nights of Phase II. His steps were careful, measured. But his eyes… they lit up the moment we entered.

It looked the same.

The navy sheets. The low lights. The picture of us by the bookshelf—framed and untouched. His books still on the shelf in alphabetical order. His favorite sweatshirt folded at the foot of the bed like I had never moved it.

He smiled when he saw it. “It feels like nothing’s changed.”

Except everything had.

I didn’t say that.

⸻

He asked about the lab a few nights later. We were curled together in bed—his head on my shoulder, our legs tangled like old habits finding their way home.

“How’s the lab?” he asked, voice soft in the dark. “Are we still working on the neuro-mirroring project?”

My heart skipped.

I’d gotten rid of everything. The pod. The DNA matrix. The prototype drafts. Scrubbed the drives clean. Smashed the external backups. Buried the remains of ECHO-1 under a new tree. The lab was as sterile as my conscience was not.

I turned toward him, brushing my thumb over the scar that curved above his brow. The one that hadn’t been there before the “accident.”

“It’s being renovated,” I said carefully. “After the crash… I couldn’t go in for a while. So I decided to redo it. Clear things out. Start over fresh.”

He nodded slowly. “Makes sense.”

He didn’t ask again.

And just like that, life began to move forward.

He followed me around the house again, stealing kisses in the kitchen, playfully poking fun at the way I never folded laundry properly. He rediscovered his favorite coffee, laughed at old movies like they were new, held my hand under the stars like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But sometimes—when he thought I wasn’t looking—he’d stare at his reflection too long. Tilt his head. Press his fingers to his chest like he was checking if something was still there.

Maybe he felt it.

The echo of what he was.

But if he did, he never said.

One night, wrapped up in each other’s warmth, he whispered into my neck, “I don’t know how I got so lucky to come back to you.”

I pressed a kiss to his temple, forcing a smile as my heart ached beneath the surface.

“I guess some things are just meant to find their way back.”

Even if they were never supposed to.

Time softened everything.

The sterile silence of the house began to fade, replaced by the quiet thrum of life again—the clink of mugs in the morning, the shuffle of his bare feet on the hardwood, the lazy hum of music playing from a speaker that hadn’t been touched since he died. I started to breathe again, and so did he.

Like we were rewriting the rhythm we’d lost.

—

Our first night out felt like time travel.

He picked the place—a rooftop restaurant we always swore we’d try, back when work kept getting in the way. I wore the same navy dress I had worn on our second anniversary. He noticed. His hand slid into mine under the table like it belonged there, his thumb tracing invisible patterns against my skin.

Halfway through dessert, he leaned in, grinning with chocolate at the corner of his lip.

“You still scrunch your nose when you’re pretending to like the wine,” he teased, eyes gleaming.

I blinked. “You remember that?”

He nodded slowly. “It just feels like… I always knew.”

I smiled, heart aching in that strange, quiet way it always did now.

“You’re right,” I said, brushing the chocolate off his lip. “You always did.”

Even grocery shopping with him became a date.

He pushed the cart like a child let loose, tossing in things we didn’t need just to make me laugh. At one point, he held up a can of whipped cream with the most mischievous glint in his eye.

“For movie night,” he said innocently.

I arched a brow. “For the movie or during the movie?”

He smirked. “Depends how boring the movie is.”

We walked home with one umbrella, our fingers interlaced in the rain, and the world somehow felt smaller, warmer.

He burned the garlic the first time.

“I told you the pan was too hot,” I said, waving smoke away.

“And you told me to trust you,” he countered, looking absurdly proud of his crime against dinner. “Besides, I like it crunchy.”

“You like your taste buds annihilated, apparently.”

We ended up ordering takeout, sitting on the kitchen floor, eating noodles out of the box with chopsticks, laughing about how we’d both make terrible housewives.

But the next night, we tried again.

He stood behind me, arms around my waist, guiding my hands as I chopped vegetables.

“You used to do this,” I said softly. “When I first moved in.”

“I know,” he murmured. “It’s one of my favorite memories.”

Cuddling became a ritual.

He always found a way to get impossibly close—sprawled across the couch with his head in my lap, humming contentedly while I read a book or ran my fingers through his hair.

Sometimes we didn’t speak for hours.

Just the quiet breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, his heartbeat echoing faintly against my thigh. Real. Solid. Present.

It was a miracle I could touch.

One night, as rain tapped gently on the windows and he was half-asleep on my shoulder, he whispered:

“I feel safe with you.”

I held him tighter.

Because if I let go—even for a second—I was afraid he might vanish again.

⸻

Love blossomed differently this time.

Slower. Deeper. Less like fire, more like roots. Tangled and unshakable.

And sometimes, in the quiet of our shared bed, I would watch him sleep and wonder if it was love that brought him back.

Or obsession.

But when he opened his eyes and smiled like the sun lived behind them, I told myself it didn’t matter.

He was here.

And that was enough.

For now.

⸻

I woke with a jolt, my heart pounding so violently it threatened to break free from my chest. The nightmare was still fresh, its vividness clinging to my mind like the smoke of a fire.

Sunghoon.

He was in the car again—his face frozen in the moment before everything shattered, his eyes wide with disbelief. The screech of tires, the crash. His body limp. The way I couldn’t reach him no matter how hard I screamed.

I gasped for air, my fingers clutching at the sheets, tangled in the panic that still gripped me.

My breath came in ragged bursts as I sat up, drenched in sweat. My chest heaved with the rawness of the memory, the terrible what-ifs that still haunted me.

A hand gently touched my back.

“Y/N?”

His voice, soft and concerned, cut through the haze of the nightmare. I froze for a moment, the world around me still spinning from the disorienting shock.

I turned, and there he was—Sunghoon���sitting up beside me in the bed, his eyes full of concern. The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated his face, and for a moment, it was almost as if everything had shifted back into place.

But only for a second.

“Are you alright?” He asked, his voice warm with worry.

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breathing. “I… I just had a nightmare,” I whispered, avoiding his eyes. My heart was still trying to settle, and I didn’t want him to see the fear in my face. I didn’t want him to see how broken I still was.

Sunghoon leaned forward, his hands reaching out to cradle my face gently. He brushed a strand of hair away from my forehead, his touch so familiar, so tender.

“Nightmares are just that,” he said softly, his thumb grazing my skin. “They aren’t real. I’m here.”

I nodded, trying to pull myself together, but the knot in my throat wouldn’t loosen. There was something about the way he said it—so assuredly. So real. Like the past didn’t exist, like he had never been gone.

Like I hadn’t created him from fragments of grief and obsession.

He sat next to me, his arm around my shoulders as I leaned into him. The warmth of his body, the steady rise and fall of his chest, slowly calmed me. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of him—the same as it had always been.

“I’m here,” he repeated, his voice a quiet lullaby.

But somewhere deep inside, I couldn’t shake the question that had haunted me since the moment I had revived him: Who was he really? Was this truly the Sunghoon I had loved, the one who had filled my life with light? Or was this just a perfect imitation, a replica of my memories? An echo of a man who would never truly exist again?

I wanted to believe he was him. I needed to believe it.

But as he held me, his warmth seeping into my skin, I couldn’t deny the doubt that gnawed at my soul.

“Y/N?” he murmured, sensing my tension.

“Yeah?” I whispered, pulling myself closer into his arms.

He tilted my chin up, his gaze intense as he met my eyes. “I love you,” he said quietly, with such certainty that for a moment, it almost felt real—like the love we’d always shared before the accident, before everything shattered.

And in that moment, I wanted to believe it. I wanted to forget everything else, to let myself drown in the reassurance that this was him—my Sunghoon.

But the ghosts of the past still lingered in the corners of my mind.

“I love you too,” I replied softly, my voice shaky but true.

And for a few minutes, we just sat there, holding each other in the stillness of the night.

But as I closed my eyes and let the warmth of his embrace lull me back to sleep, the doubt remained.

Would I ever be able to escape the shadows of my own creation?

As the days passed, the weight of my doubts gradually lightened. Sunghoon’s presence—his warmth, his voice, the way he smiled—reminded me more and more of the man I had once loved, the man who had been taken from me.

The fear, the gnawing uncertainty that had once been constant in the back of my mind, slowly started to fade. Each moment we spent together was a little piece of normalcy returning. He didn’t just look like Sunghoon. He was Sunghoon. In every little detail—his laugh, the way he tilted his head when he was deep in thought, how he always made the coffee exactly the way I liked it. His presence was enough to reassure me that this was him, in all the ways that mattered.

We went on walks together, hand in hand, strolling through the garden I had planted the day we first moved into the house. It was filled with flowers that bloomed year-round—just like the memories I had of us, blooming and growing despite the heartbreak.

We laughed, reminiscing about everything we had shared before. Sunghoon was never afraid to be vulnerable with me, and it felt like we were picking up right where we left off. His sense of humor, always dry and sarcastic, never failed to make me smile. And slowly, I began to accept that the man who stood beside me, laughing at his own jokes, was truly my Sunghoon.

One night, as we cooked dinner together, I watched him carefully slice vegetables, his movements graceful and practiced. It was simple, domestic, but it felt like everything I had longed for since he was gone.

“Don’t forget the garlic,” I reminded him, teasing.

He shot me a look, smirking. “I remember.”

I smiled, feeling the warmth of the moment settle into my bones. This was real. The way he made sure I was comfortable in the kitchen, the way we worked together without needing words—this was our life, reborn.

The more time we spent in the house, the more at ease I became. We cooked together, watched old movies, read books side by side, and held each other as we fell asleep at night. There were no more questions in my mind. No more doubts. Just the feeling of peace settling over me, like the calm after a storm.

Sunghoon never asked me about the lab. And I never had to lie, because there was no need to. The lab had been dismantled long ago, every trace of Project ECHO erased. It was as if it never existed. My obsession, my grief—gone.

In its place was this. A second chance.

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving you, Y/N,” he said one evening as we sat on the couch, the sound of rain tapping against the windows. He held me close, his head resting against mine. “No matter what happens, no matter what changes… you’re the one for me.”

I turned to look at him, searching his eyes for something—anything—that might reveal the truth I feared. But there was nothing. Only love. Real love.

“I feel the same,” I whispered back, brushing my lips against his.

For a moment, the world outside disappeared. There was no past, no lab, no questions. There was only Sunghoon, here with me. And that was enough.

The days continued to pass in a peaceful blur of moments that I had once thought lost forever. With each sunrise, my doubts melted away, and with every touch, every kiss, I felt more certain that this was real. That he was real.

Sunghoon might not be the exact same person who had walked out of that door all those years ago—but in my heart, it didn’t matter. He was my Sunghoon, and that was all I needed.

Together, we built a life—one step at a time. And this time, I wasn’t afraid.

I wasn’t afraid of the past. I wasn��t afraid of the future.

I was just… happy.

Sunghoon’s POV

It had been a year since I came back to her, and in that time, I had slowly convinced myself that everything was okay. That what we had, what I had, was enough. That the woman I loved, the woman who had saved me—had done so much more than just revive me—wasn’t hiding any more secrets. But the past… it always had a way of creeping up, didn’t it?

I wasn’t snooping, not exactly. I was just cleaning up. I had offered to help her tidy up the office since she had been so caught up in her work lately, and well, I had nothing else to do. After all, it’s been a year now, and I’ve come to understand her more than I could ever have imagined. She’d been distant the past few days, and it made me uneasy. The kind of unease that makes you feel like there’s something you should know, but you can’t quite put your finger on it.

It was as I was sorting through the boxes in her home office—one that she hadn’t allowed me to visit much—that I found it.

A video tape.

It was tucked behind a stack of old files, half-buried in the clutter. At first, I thought nothing of it. She was always meticulous about her work, so maybe it was just an old research document, something from her past. But when I saw the words “Project ECHO – Development and Breakdown” scrawled on the side, my heart stopped. I felt a sickening knot tighten in my chest, and instinctively, my fingers curled around it.

What was this?

My thoughts raced as I fumbled with the tape, my hands trembling just slightly as I slid it into the old VCR player she kept in the corner of the office. The screen flickered to life.

There I was.

Or… the version of me that had once existed. The first one. My mind was running faster than my eyes could follow the images flashing on the screen. I saw footage of my development, from the initial growth stages to the first electrical impulses firing in my brain, as well as my physical appearance being tested and adjusted.

My stomach turned as the video documented every breakdown of my body—every failed attempt to bring me to life. I saw the wires, the artificial fluids, the machines that I had been hooked up to before I had opened my eyes, before I had woken up in that hospital room.

But it was the last part of the video that hit hardest. There, in her cold, emotionless voice, Y/N narrated her thoughts, her failed efforts, her obsession with recreating me.

“I couldn’t get it right… not the first time. But I will, because I have to. For him. For us.”

My chest tightened as the realization hit me like a brick. She had known the entire time. She had created me. I wasn’t the Sunghoon who had died. I was a version of him. A shadow of the real thing.

The screen went black, but the words echoed in my mind like an incessant drumbeat.

For him. For us.

The pain of that truth was like a knife twisting in my gut. The woman I loved had spent years trying to recreate me, to bring me back—because she couldn’t let go. She couldn’t let me go. But she never told me. She never let me in on the truth of it all.

I was a lie.

I wasn’t real. And all this time, I had been believing I was the same Sunghoon she had lost. But I wasn’t.

I could feel the tears stinging my eyes as I reached for the nearby papers, pulling them out in a frantic rage. More documents. More of my development—charts, genetic breakdowns, notes about my failed memories, and even the procedures Y/N had carried out. Every page proved it. I wasn’t just a clone; I was the culmination of her grief and desire.

The door to the office opened quietly behind me, and I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The air in the room grew thick, suffocating. I could feel her presence like a weight pressing down on me.

“Sunghoon,” she whispered, her voice barely a murmur.

I finally turned to face her. She looked pale, her eyes wide, clearly having seen the documents I had scattered across the room. She knew. She knew what I had found.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I choked out, my voice raw. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth, Y/N?”

Her eyes flickered with guilt, and for a moment, I thought she might say something—anything to explain, to apologize. But instead, she took a step back, her hands wringing together nervously.

“I didn’t want you to hate me,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I didn’t want to lose you again. I—I thought maybe if you didn’t know… maybe we could have our life back. I just wanted to have you here again, Sunghoon.”

My hands balled into fists at my sides, and I could feel the tears building in my eyes. “But I’m not him, am I? I’m not the real Sunghoon. I’m just… this.” I gestured around at the papers, at the video, at the mess that had been my life. “I’m a replica. A copy of someone who doesn’t exist anymore. How could you do this to me?”

She stepped forward, her face pale with fear, but her voice was firm. “I didn’t mean for it to go this far. I just wanted you back, Sunghoon. I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t lose you. You were taken from me so suddenly, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t live with the thought that you were gone forever.”

I looked at her, the woman who had once been everything to me—the one who I thought had rebuilt me out of love, not out of desperation.

“Do you think I’m the same person? Do you think I can just pretend that I’m the man I was before? How could you think I wouldn’t want to know the truth?” My voice cracked, emotion flooding out of me like a dam breaking. “How could you do this?”

Her face crumpled, and I saw the tears well up in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Sunghoon,” she whispered, her voice barely audible through the sobs. “I thought if I could just give you everything back, we could start over. But I was wrong. I—I should’ve told you from the beginning.”

I could feel the overwhelming ache in my chest, the confusion, the betrayal. But more than that, I felt the loss of something far deeper: trust. The trust that she had built between us was gone in an instant.

“You’re right. You should’ve told me,” I whispered, stepping back, my throat tight. “I need some space, Y/N. I can’t… I can’t do this right now.”

I turned and walked out of the room, my heart shattering with each step.

I paused at the door, the weight of her voice sinking into me like a stone. I didn’t turn around, not right away. The question lingered in the air, hanging between us, impossible to ignore.

“If I was the one who died, would you do the same?”

Her words were quiet, but they cut through the silence of the room with precision, like a knife through soft flesh. I could feel the tension in the air—the desperation in her voice, the need for an answer. She was asking me to justify her actions, to somehow make sense of everything she had done.

I clenched my fists at my sides, fighting the urge to turn and lash out. But I couldn’t do it—not when the pain of her question was a reflection of everything I was feeling.

“I… I don’t know,” I finally muttered, my voice barely a whisper. “Maybe I would. I can’t say for sure. But I don’t think I’d ever hide the truth from you. I wouldn’t keep you in the dark, pretending that everything was okay when it wasn’t.”

Her soft, broken gasp from behind me reached my ears, but I couldn’t face her—not yet. Not when the anger and hurt were still so raw.

“You don’t know what it’s like to lose someone you love that much,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “I couldn’t stand the thought of living without you, Sunghoon. I thought… maybe if I could just bring you back… we could have our future. But now, I see how selfish that was. How wrong.”

I wanted to say something—anything—to ease her pain, but the words stuck in my throat. The truth was, part of me still wanted to reach out to her, to hold her, to tell her it was going to be okay. But I wasn’t sure if that would be enough. Would it ever be enough?

“I need time, Y/N,” I said quietly, my voice cracking. “I need to think. About all of this. About us.”

The silence that followed was heavy, unbearable. And then, finally, I walked out the door, leaving her behind, standing in the wreckage of her choices—and my own shattered heart.

The days stretched on like a slow burn, each passing hour marked by the tension that filled every corner of our shared space. We were still in the same house, the same home, but it felt like we were living in different worlds now. The walls felt thicker, the silence heavier.

I moved through the house in a daze, keeping to myself more often than not. Y/N and I had an unspoken agreement—it was easier this way. She’d stay in the study or the kitchen, and I’d retreat to the room we used to share, now feeling like an alien space, void of the warmth it once held. We didn’t speak much anymore, and when we did, it was brief—polite, almost mechanical.

There were moments when I caught a glimpse of her, standing in the hallway, her head bent low, a soft frown on her face. Other times, she’d walk by without looking at me, her eyes fixed on the floor, avoiding my gaze as if she feared what might happen if she met my eyes for too long. I wanted to reach out, to say something—anything—but every time I did, the words felt inadequate, like they couldn’t possibly capture the weight of everything that had changed.

One evening, I found myself sitting in the living room, staring out the window at the moonlit garden. I could hear her footsteps in the hallway, the soft sound of her presence lingering in the air. For a moment, I thought she might come in, might sit beside me like she used to. But she didn’t. Instead, the silence stretched between us again, a reminder of the distance we had created.

I exhaled sharply, rubbing my eyes as frustration built inside me. The whole situation felt suffocating—like I was trapped between what I wanted and what had happened. I didn’t know how to fix it, or even if it could be fixed. There was so much to unravel, so many emotions to sort through. And then there was the truth—the truth of who I was now. Not just a man trying to find his way back to a life that no longer existed, but a clone—a replica of someone who once had a future, now burdened with a past he didn’t truly own.

The sound of her voice from the kitchen broke my thoughts.

“Dinner’s ready,” she called softly, her voice almost too gentle, too careful.

I hesitated for a moment, staring at the untouched glass of water on the coffee table. The empty space between us felt too vast to cross, but eventually, I stood up, making my way to the kitchen.

We sat across from each other, the dim light from the pendant lamp above casting shadows on the table. There were no small talks, no jokes exchanged like before. We ate in silence, the clinking of silverware the only sound between us. Every so often, I would look up, meeting her gaze for a fleeting second, but neither of us had the courage to speak the words that were hanging in the air.

The food was good, as always, but it didn’t taste the same. The flavor of everything felt hollow, like a memory that wasn’t quite mine.

When the meal was over, I helped clear the table, my movements stiff. The kitchen felt too small, the air too thick.

She turned to face me then, her expression unreadable, her eyes dark with something I couldn’t quite place. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, her voice barely a whisper. “For everything.”

I swallowed hard, the knot in my chest tightening. “I know you are. I… I just don’t know what to do with all of this.”

Her eyes flickered with unshed tears, and she stepped back, as though the space between us could somehow protect her from the weight of the moment. “I never wanted to hurt you, Sunghoon,” she murmured, her words full of regret. “I thought… I thought if I could just bring you back, we could have another chance. But now I see how wrong I was.”

I nodded slowly, trying to process the ache in my chest. “I don’t know how to fix this either. But I know… I know I need to understand who I am now. And what we are.” My voice trembled, but I fought it back. “I need time.”

“I understand,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “Take all the time you need.”

It felt like a farewell, and yet, we stayed in the same house. In the same life, but now it was something unrecognizable.

The next few weeks passed in the same quiet, empty rhythm. We moved around each other, living parallel lives without ever crossing paths in any meaningful way. There were mornings where I would wake up to find her sitting on the couch, staring at her phone, or nights where I’d catch her reading a book in the dim light.

Sometimes, I would linger by the door to her study, wondering if I should knock, ask her how she was feeling, but each time, I backed away, unsure if I was ready to face the answers she might give.

At night, I would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was how we were going to live—side by side but separate. I missed her. I missed us. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was just a shadow of the man she once loved, and that was a weight I wasn’t sure she could carry anymore.

One night, as I lay in the dark, unable to sleep, I heard the soft sound of her crying. The quiet sobs seeped through the walls, and my heart clenched painfully in my chest.

I wanted to go to her. Hold her. Tell her everything would be okay. But I couldn’t. I didn’t have the words anymore.

And maybe, I never would.

The night stretched on, and despite the tension that hung thick in the house, I managed to fall into an uneasy sleep. The weight of everything—our fragmented relationship, the guilt, the uncertainty—had left me exhausted, though the sleep I sought felt shallow and restless.

It was around 3 AM when I was jolted awake by the softest sound—a faint, broken sob. My eyes snapped open in the dark, my heartbeat quickening. I froze, listening carefully, the sounds of her grief pulling at something deep within me.

It was coming from the direction of her room.

At first, I told myself to ignore it. After all, she had her own space, her own pain, and I had my own to deal with. But the sound of her brokenness—quiet and desperate—was too much to ignore.

Slowly, I slid out of bed, my bare feet padding softly on the cool floor. I moved silently through the house, drawn to the soft, muffled sounds echoing through the walls. When I reached the door to her room, I paused.

She was crying, the kind of sobs that wracked her body and left her vulnerable. I hadn’t heard her cry like this before—unfiltered, raw, as if the dam inside her had finally broken.

The light from her bedside lamp flickered weakly, casting long shadows on the walls. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her head buried in her hands, the tears falling freely, like they couldn’t be held back anymore.

I stood there, frozen, my chest tightening at the sight. My first instinct was to rush to her side, to pull her into my arms and whisper that everything would be alright. But I didn’t. I just watched from the doorway, a spectator in my own home.

The sound of her pain made me feel powerless, as if I were too far gone—too far removed from who I once was to even be the man she needed. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came. The silence between us felt like an unspoken agreement, a distance neither of us knew how to cross.

And then she spoke.

“I’m sorry… Sunghoon,” she whispered to the empty room, the words slipping from her like a confession she hadn’t meant to make. “I thought I could fix it. I thought… if I could just bring you back, we could be happy again. But I don’t know what I’ve done anymore. I don’t know who you are. Or if you’re even really you.”

Her voice cracked at the end, and I could hear the weight of her regret, the guilt, the fear of everything she’d done.

The flood of emotions hit me all at once—anger, sadness, confusion—and yet, there was something else, too. The overwhelming desire to reach out to her. To show her that I understood, that I knew how hard this was for her.

But still, I stayed frozen. Silent. The words that had once flowed so easily between us now felt like strangers.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, but it didn’t stop the tears.

“I was selfish,” she muttered to herself, her voice barely audible now. “I couldn’t let go. I wanted you back, no matter the cost. And now… I don’t know if you can ever forgive me.”

That was when the weight of it all hit me fully—the pain she had been carrying, the burden she had placed on herself. The fear she had been living with, not knowing if I could ever truly forgive her for bringing me back.

I stepped forward then, unable to watch her fall apart without doing something.

“Y/N,” I said quietly, my voice hoarse, betraying the emotions I had kept bottled up for so long.

She immediately stiffened, her breath hitching as she quickly wiped her face, trying to pull herself together. “You’re awake,” she said, her voice faltering. “I didn’t mean for you to—”

“I heard you,” I interrupted, taking a few steps into the room. “And I’m not angry with you.”

She looked at me, her eyes filled with so much sadness, it was almost more than I could bear. “But I did this to you,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I brought you back, Sunghoon. And I don’t know if you even want to be here. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t ask to be—” She stopped, her breath shaky, as if even speaking the words caused her pain.

I knelt in front of her, my heart aching as I reached for her hands, gently pulling them from her face. “Y/N…” I said softly. “I am here. I’m here because I want to be.”

“But what if I’ve ruined everything?” she whispered. “What if I can never make it right?”

I shook my head, cupping her face in my hands as I looked into her eyes, searching for some glimmer of hope in her. “You didn’t ruin anything. You did what you thought was best… even if it was wrong. And I understand that. But we can’t live like this, hiding from each other. We need to talk. We need to be honest.”

She nodded slowly, tears still slipping down her cheeks. “But can we ever go back to what we were?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, filled with a quiet desperation.

I swallowed, my own emotions threatening to spill over. “I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice thick. “But I want to try. I want to figure it out. Together.”

There was a long pause, and then, slowly, she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against mine, her tears falling onto my skin. I closed my eyes, letting the weight of everything settle in.

In that moment, I realized that maybe there wasn’t a way back to what we once had—but that didn’t mean we couldn’t find something new. Something different. Something real.

And I was willing to fight for it.

I held her closer, whispering against her hair. “We’ll find our way. Together. One step at a time.”

The silence between us stretched out, thick with the unspoken words, the weight of everything we had been through. Her breath was shaky against my skin, and I could feel the warmth of her body pressed against mine, like she was finally letting herself soften, letting me in again.

I wanted to say more, to fix everything, but the words weren’t coming. I could only focus on the rhythm of her breath, how the vulnerability in her touch made everything seem both fragile and precious.

And then, almost instinctively, I pulled back just slightly, my hands still cupping her face, fingers brushing softly over the damp skin of her cheeks. I searched her eyes for something, anything—some flicker of permission, of trust.

The question formed in my chest before I even realized it, and before I could second-guess myself, it slipped from my mouth, quiet and uncertain but earnest.

“Can I kiss you?”

The words were soft, tentative, as if I wasn’t sure she would say yes, as if I wasn’t sure I even had the right to ask anymore. But something in me needed to hear it—to know if we could bridge that last distance between us, if the gulf of everything we had been through could be closed with something as simple as a kiss.

Her gaze locked onto mine, and for a moment, everything went still. She didn’t say anything. There was only the quiet sound of her breathing, the rise and fall of her chest under my palms. The world outside the room felt distant, irrelevant. It was just us now, alone in this fragile moment.

I waited. She could say no. She could push me away. But I needed to know where we stood.

And then, slowly, her eyes softened. She gave a slight nod, her lips trembling as if the simple motion of it took all her strength.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but it was there. It was all I needed to hear.

Before I could even think, my hands moved to her shoulders, pulling her gently closer. I closed the distance between us, hesitating only for a brief second, just enough to feel the weight of the moment.

And then I kissed her.

It wasn’t the kiss I had imagined—the wild, desperate kiss of two people who couldn’t control themselves. No, this one was different. It was slow, careful, tentative, like we were both afraid to break something that had just begun to heal. My lips brushed against hers, soft and uncertain, as if I were asking for permission again with every gentle touch.

She responded after a moment, her hands finding their way to my chest, clutching at me like she was trying to ground herself in the kiss, in the connection we were rebuilding. I could feel her hesitation, but I could also feel the warmth, the pull, the quiet promise in the way she kissed me back.

The kiss deepened slowly, our movements syncing, building, and for the first time in so long, I felt something stir inside me that had been dormant—hope. A fragile, trembling hope that maybe, just maybe, we could find our way back to each other. That maybe this was the first step in learning to trust again.

When we finally pulled away, neither of us spoke for a moment. We just stayed there, foreheads pressed together, our breaths mingling in the stillness. I could feel her heart beating against my chest, a steady rhythm that told me she was here. She was still here with me.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice small, but it wasn’t the apology I had been expecting. It wasn’t guilt or regret. It was a quiet understanding. A promise, maybe.

“I know,” I whispered back, brushing my thumb over her cheek, wiping away the last remnants of her tears. “We’re going to be okay.”

And for the first time in so long, I actually believed it.

The air between us was thick with the weight of everything unspoken, but in that moment, there was only the soft brush of our lips, the warmth of our bodies pressed together, and the undeniable pull that had always been there. We moved slowly, cautiously, like we were both afraid of shattering something fragile that had just begun to heal.

The kiss deepened, an unspoken question lingering in the space between us. I could feel her heartbeat against my chest, fast and erratic, matching mine. It was as if we both understood that this was more than just a kiss—it was a reclaiming, a restoration of something that had been lost for far too long.

I gently cupped her face, tilting her head slightly, deepening the kiss as my hands found their way down her back, pulling her closer, as if I couldn’t get enough of her, couldn’t get close enough. Her fingers slid up to my chest, tracing the lines of my shirt before pushing it off, the fabric slipping to the floor without a second thought.

There was no more hesitation, no more doubt. Just the raw connection between us that had always been there, waiting to be unlocked.

She responded with the same urgency, hands moving over my body, finding the familiar places, the marks that made me me. I could feel the heat of her skin, the way her breath caught when we came closer, when I kissed her neck, her jaw, her lips. The taste of her was like everything I’d been missing, the feeling of her so real, so tangible, that for a moment, it was hard to believe she was really here. Really with me.

Our movements grew more urgent, more desperate, but still tender, as if we were both trying to savor this moment, unsure of what tomorrow might bring, but desperate to make up for the lost time. I wanted to show her everything, all the ways I loved her, all the ways I had missed her without even knowing how much.

The world outside the room disappeared. There was no lab, no documents, no research, no mistakes. Just us—finding our way back to each other, piece by piece. I held her close, kissed her as if I could never let her go, and when the moment finally came, when we both reached that point of release, it wasn’t just about the physicality. It was about trust, about healing, about starting over.

When we collapsed against each other afterward, breathless and tangled in sheets, I felt something shift inside me. Something I hadn’t realized was broken until it started to mend.

Her hand found mine, fingers lacing together, and she rested her head on my chest, her breath slowing, and for the first time in so long, I felt peace. A peace I hadn’t known I needed.

And in the quiet of the room, with her beside me, I whispered softly, “I’ll never let you go again.”

She didn’t answer right away, but I felt the way she squeezed my hand tighter, her chest rising and falling against mine. She didn’t need to say anything. I could feel it in the way she held me.

And for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to believe that we could truly begin again.

The quiet stillness of the room enveloped us, the soft sound of our breathing the only thing that filled the space. I held her, tracing the curve of her back with my fingers, savoring the moment as though it might slip away if I wasn’t careful. The weight of everything—the doubts, the fears, the mistakes—was still there, lingering in the shadows of my mind, but for once, I didn’t feel like I had to carry them alone.

She shifted slightly, raising her head to meet my gaze. There was a softness in her eyes now, the guarded walls that had once stood so tall between us slowly crumbling. I could see the vulnerability there, but also the strength that had always been her anchor.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but it carried all the weight of everything she’d been carrying inside. “I never meant to hurt you.”

I brushed a strand of hair away from her face, my fingers lingering against her skin. “I know,” I murmured, my voice thick with emotion. “I know. But we’re here now. We’ll figure this out. Together.”

She nodded, her eyes closing for a moment as if gathering herself. The air between us was charged with unspoken words, and I could feel the weight of the past year pressing down on us. But there was something different now—something that had shifted between us, something I hadn’t felt in so long.

Her lips found mine again, soft and gentle, a kiss that spoke volumes more than words ever could. It was an apology, a promise, a plea all rolled into one. And for the first time in so long, I allowed myself to believe in it fully.

When we finally pulled away, her forehead rested against mine, both of us still tangled in the sheets, the world outside feeling miles away. I could hear the distant hum of the city, the night stretching out before us like a quiet, unspoken promise.

“I love you,” I whispered, the words escaping before I could even think about them. But it felt right. It felt real.

She smiled, her fingers brushing against my cheek. “I love you, too. I never stopped.”

And in that moment, I knew. No matter the struggles we’d faced, no matter the secrets, the pain, or the mistakes, we were still here. Still us. And as long as we could keep finding our way back to each other, everything else would be okay.

We stayed there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside fading into nothingness. In the quiet, there was only peace. The peace of knowing that, together, we could face whatever came next.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I finally let go of the fear that had kept me tethered to the past. Because with her by my side, I knew we could build a future. A real future. And nothing, nothing at all could take that away from us.

As the days passed, something began to shift between us. It was subtle at first, small gestures of kindness, moments of vulnerability that had been buried under the weight of secrets and doubts. But as we spent more time together, the trust that had once been strained slowly started to blossom again, like a fragile flower daring to bloom in the cracks of the world we had rebuilt.

Every morning, Sunghoon would make me coffee, just the way I liked it—strong, a little bitter, with just a hint of sweetness. It became our small ritual, something to ground us, to remind us that we were still learning, still growing. And every evening, we’d find ourselves lost in the quiet comfort of one another’s presence. Sometimes we didn’t say much, just the familiar silence that had always existed between us, but now it felt different. It felt safe.

One night, as we sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket together, he turned to me, his expression soft. “I’ve been thinking about everything. About what you did…and why. I don’t want to just forgive you. I want to understand. I want us to really move forward.”

I smiled, the warmth in his voice soothing the lingering worries in my chest. “We will,” I whispered, “We’re already on the way.”

Sunghoon gave me a small, genuine smile, his fingers lightly brushing over mine. It was a touch so simple, yet it carried all the weight of the world. I had feared this moment—the moment when the cracks would be too deep to heal—but instead, I felt something stronger than before. Something more real.

As the weeks went on, we found ourselves sharing more than just physical space. We started talking about the future—what we wanted, where we saw ourselves. There was no more fear of the unknown between us. Instead, there was excitement. There was trust, slowly but surely, weaving its way back into our lives.

I could see it in the way Sunghoon would ask about my day, genuinely interested, and how I would lean into him when I needed comfort, no longer second-guessing whether I deserved it. Our conversations had depth now, unafraid of the things we once kept hidden. We didn’t pretend anymore. We didn’t have to.

One evening, while we were cooking dinner together, Sunghoon turned to me with a teasing smile. “You’ve improved. Your cooking’s actually…not terrible.”

I laughed, playfully shoving him. “Hey, I’ve gotten better!”

He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me into his chest. “I’m proud of you.”

I could feel the sincerity in his words, the love that had grown back between us like something tangible. The fear and doubt that had once plagued me were nowhere to be found now. In their place was a quiet certainty.

We weren’t perfect. We still had our moments of miscommunication, of moments when the past reared its head, but with each day, the trust between us grew stronger. It wasn’t about erasing the mistakes we’d made. It was about learning from them and choosing to move forward together, no matter what.

And as I looked into Sunghoon’s eyes, I saw the same thing reflected back at me—the understanding, the acceptance, the desire to never give up on us.

In that moment, I knew that trust wasn’t just something that had to be given freely—it had to be earned. And we were earning it every day. Slowly, but surely, we were becoming something new, something even more beautiful than before. Something that could withstand anything life threw at us.

And for the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to believe in the future again.

In us.

Life had felt like it was finally settling into a quiet rhythm, like the calm after a storm. Sunghoon and I had been living together in peace for the past year, our bond mended from the cracks of the past. The tension had faded, leaving room for love, laughter, and domestic moments that felt so normal and reassuring. We’d shared so many firsts again—first trips, first lazy weekends in bed, first home-cooked meals. Everything felt right. Almost.

It was during one of these peaceful afternoons that I made a discovery. I was cleaning out the attic of our home, something I’d been meaning to do for months, when I came across an old box. It was tucked away in the corner behind some old furniture, covered in dust and cobwebs. The box was unassuming, wooden with a faded label that simply read, “Don’t Open.”

Curiosity got the best of me. I knew it was probably something from my past, but that label tugged at something deep inside me, urging me to open it. I hesitated for a moment, but then, with a deep breath, I lifted the lid. Inside, I found an old video tape. It was yellowed and cracked with age, but there was no mistaking the handwriting on the label: “For Y/N.”

My heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t like me to leave things unexamined, especially if they seemed tied to my past. But this felt different. There was an unspoken warning in those words. Still, I couldn’t resist.

I brought the tape downstairs and found the old VCR player we kept for nostalgia’s sake. Sunghoon was in the living room, reading a book. I hesitated for a moment before calling him over.

“Sunghoon, you have to see this,” I said, holding up the tape. “I found something in the attic…”

He looked at me curiously, putting the book down. “What is it?”

I popped the tape into the player, and the screen flickered to life. At first, there was nothing—just static. But then, the image cleared, and I saw him.

The figure of a man in a lab coat appeared. His features were unmistakable—he was Park Sunghoon, the real Sunghoon, the one who had died in the accident years ago. But this Sunghoon wasn’t the one Y/N knew now. He looked younger, more fragile, and tears stained his face.

“I… I don’t know how to start this,” the Sunghoon on the screen murmured, his voice choked with emotion. “Y/N… is gone. She passed away. Leukemia. It was sudden. I—I couldn’t do anything. She was everything to me. And I… I can’t bear it.”

Y/N’s breath hitched. She glanced at Sunghoon, whose face had gone pale. He looked at the screen, wide-eyed, his expression unreadable.

“In my grief, I’ve decided to do something I never thought I would. I’m using her preserved DNA, the samples we took when we were researching regenerative cloning… to bring her back. I—I have to do this. I can’t live with the pain of losing her,” the real Sunghoon continued, his voice trembling.

The video cut to a series of clips from the lab: footage of the real Sunghoon working late nights, mixing chemicals, monitoring equipment, and seemingly obsessed with recreating Y/N.

“I’ve used everything we learned in our research. I’ll make her whole again,” the video continued. “But this is for me, I know. For us. I want to have a second chance. A chance to make things right. If you’re watching this, Y/N… then I’ve succeeded. I’ve recreated you.”

The video ended abruptly, and the screen turned to static.

It was strange, to know the truth about their origins—about the fact that their love had been recreated, in a sense, by science and heartache. But as Y/N lay in Sunghoon’s arms that night, she couldn’t shake the feeling that none of it truly mattered. What mattered was that they were together now. They had both fought for this. They had both fought for each other. And nothing in this world could take that away from them.

Their love had brought them to this point—not fate, not science, but love. It was a love that transcended life and death, pain and loss. A love that, no matter what had come before, had always been destined to endure.

They had started as two broken souls, unable to move forward without the other. But now, they were whole again. Their love, their memories—no matter how they came to be—were theirs to cherish.

And that, in the end, was all that mattered.

The rest, the science, the questions of whether they were real or not, faded into the background. Because, in the end, they were real. Their love was real. And that was all they needed to know.

©️tobiosbbyghorl - all rights reserved

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[felassan]

John Epler in the BioWare Discord (August 7th) -

John: "You can disable/enable helmets for cutscenes or at all times." --- User: "Will we be able to collect codex entries again?" John: "Absolutely. Codex entries are part of the series' DNA - plus, they're really fun to write." --- User: "Are there long curly hair options?" John: "There are!" --- User: "Are sub-classes locked to the faction you’re in?" John: "No. They're themed towards factions, but you can choose a specialization from a separate faction than your own." --- User: "Will subtitles from companions be on screen with their icons lit up like in Inquisition?" John: "Subtitles will appear center-screen and have the speaker name attached. So you'll see who's saying what." --- User: "Regarding the cutscenes findable in the game, will a gallery be available for re-watch?" John: "Not at present, no. Since our cutscenes are (almost all) real-time in-engine, this would be nearly impossible with our tech."

[character limit text break!]

User: "What are the chances for a third World of Thedas volume after The Veilguard's release?" John: "I can't comment on specific plans, but World of Thedas is close to my heart and I'd love to do more in general with our ancillary books and products, once we're able to come up for air from the game." --- User: "Can we edit our race during character creator freely or are we locked in by choosing race first like in inquisition?" John: "Lineage informs a number of options after that choice - you can always go back in CC and change it, but it's the first decision you will make and changing it will reset the following decisions." --- User: "I did have a follow-up on lineage - do the other lineages/races also have background choices the way elves do with city/dalish? CAN we play a qunari raised within the Qun?" John: "So a couple of things, just to be super clear on this. There is no 'city elf/dalish elf' switch (for example) that you can pick in character creator. Each lineage can be each faction, though, and that will provide a baseline for your character you can further refine through role playing. For Elves, as an example - Veil Jumper elves tend to be more 'Dalish' to reflect that background, while Shadow Dragon elves tend to have a background that reflects being an Elf in Minrathous. Other factions have their own nuance. Importantly, those things tend to be more focused on how you relate to that faction, while leaving more general 'Elf' topics as something you have more freedom with. Or, TLDR - while choices at CC define some baselines around your character, we like to give you the opportunity to build your character's background and beliefs through in-game RP. Hopefully all that makes sense." User: "That does, and is right in line with what Corinne said during the Q&A! I was asking whether we would see the same background variety in the non-elven lineages." John: "Yes! Sorry, that's what I was trying to answer - there will be plenty of opportunities to RP who you are/were as the other lineages as well."

[character limit text break!]

User: "are there companions gifts again" John: "Isn't the gift of your presence enough? More seriously, though - you very well might find things in the world that certain companions would appreciate!" --- John: "Rook is generally assumed to be anywhere from late 20s to late 40s, but ultimately we don't give Rook a specific age. You can RP them to be however old you want." --- User: "will conversations be zoomed in like a cutscene type or zoomed out like in DAI?" John: "While we do have some 'lighter' conversations for specific types of content, they use a more traditional over-the-shoulder cinematic camera. I created the simple conversation system in DAI and while it did what we needed it to do, we heard the feedback on the camera loud and clear." --- User: "The darkspawn look fairly different in veilguard. Is ot a simple redisgn like the demons or is it due to them being enhanced by red lyrium?" John: "I'm not going to tell you WHAT it is that's making them look different, since that's a spoiler, but it's more than just a visual redesign." --- John: "Need and inspiration, mostly. We can't bring in every single animal out there, especially since we want the ones we DO put in the game to be at the right level of quality. So we pick the ones that we know make sense in the spaces we're building, and also it's based on what the team wants to do. If someone is incredibly passionate about bringing in a specific creature, it's something we want to give opportunities to pursue wherever possible. As to the general ecology of Thedas - there are absolutely similarities, but it's not 1:1. A world where megafauna still exist as apex predators (dragons) is going to have some pretty significant impact on what else exists." --- User: "does the lighthouse have a kitchen, can we eat and drink? what sort interactables are there at the home base" John: "Not going to get into specifics on interactables, but there is more to do in the Lighthouse than conversations with companions. The Lighthouse does have a kitchen, and your companions acknowledge it/use it both narratively and ambiently. Some maybe better than others." John: "A little more expansion on this - we want the Lighthouse to feel like a 'real space' as much as possible. That means making it a space that makes sense and, eventually, feels like home to you and your team. It also means spending a little extra time on how the companions (and Rook) use and exist in the space. At this point we've made a LOT of personal hub spaces in DA and ME, and we've learned a lot from doing so." --- John: "It wouldn't be a DA game if we didn't have some returning characters. We've shown some of the more obvious ones, and hinted at others, but we want to keep some surprises for launch."

[source: the official BioWare Discord]

[celestialwonders]

cohabitate

an enha hyung line abo series

genre: abo smut series (MDNI)

pairing: reverse harem!hyung line x omega!afab reader

series synopsis: your desperation for a place to stay turns into desperation for your tantalizing roommates.

wc: 2.5k+ (2827 words)

a/n: its hereeeee finally~ no smut tags bc theres none in this but there will be for the rest of the parts mwahaha im so excited to be setting up this series! hopefully this prologue lets you get to know our MC and the boys’ dynamics :3 as always, feedback and input is greatly appreciated! much much love to my freakpen wives for their help and support <3

prologue: move-in day

“Room for rent. Furnished room. Access to a full kitchen. Shared bathroom.”

You read over the crinkled flyer in your hand as you dial the number at the bottom of the page, looking back over the shoddy photographs of a kitchen, room, and the exterior of a two-story house. The phone rings twice before you hear the other line pick up.

“Hello? Is this.. Sunoo?” You hear some shuffling and whispered scolds before hearing someone clear their throat.

“Yeah, hi! Are you calling about the room for rent?” A cheerful but hurried voice sounds through your phone’s speaker as you shove the flyer back into your jeans pocket, readjusting your backpack strap as you lean against the corkboard covered in various flyers and signs.

The forwardness from Sunoo jolts you, but you regain composure to answer, feeling rushed to confirm your interest as you hear him give another hushed command to whoever is with him.

“Yeah, actually. If the spot is still available, I’d like to take it right away.”

There’s a concerning silence on the other end as you fidget with the hem of your shirt. “I can pay for the first month's rent today… if that helps.” You add on with a hint of desperation.

There’s more shuffling, and then you hear a door slam on the other end of the call. You anxiously await a response, looking over the other flyers for a possible plan B.

“Are you sure you don’t want to at least come see the place before jumping into the lease?” Sunoo cautiously questions.

“Not really? From the photo on the flyer, everything looks nice, and, to be honest, I just really need a place to stay this semester.” You sigh as your words hit as a reminder of how you came to this desperate state.

“My old roommates fucked with our lease agreement, and of course, I got the short end of the stick. I swear I’m good for my money and being a decent roommate.” You continue, letting out an empty laugh, hoping you’ve convinced your potential housemate enough.

“Well… I guess I’ll have to hold you to that new roomie!” Sunoo’s previously hesitant tone was replaced with a welcoming one.

You sighed in relief as you exchanged full names and numbers, and Sunoo forwarded you the address for the house.

In a blink, you find yourself exiting your Uber, two extra large suitcases trailing after you as you approach your seemingly quaint and inviting home-to-be.

The red front door swings open as a boy with soft pink hair comes bounding down the walkway.

“Hey, you! Glad you found your way here. Let me help you with that.” The boy, who you’ve now concluded must be Sunoo by the sound of his voice, grabs the suitcases from your hands, and you adjust the strap on your backpack, following his lead into the house.

When you get inside, you take in your new home, a well-loved, lived-in space that’s been minimally decorated to suit a college-aged budget.

A white shelf with a collection of books, lego figures, records, and other random decor catches your eye as you step further into the living room.

You see a small pile of random pillows and blankets strewn about the room, noticing the flat-screen TV with a tangle of wires attached to various gaming systems.

Sunoo brings your suitcases to the bottom of the stairs with a slight huff.

“Don’t mind the mess. I’m sure you know how boys can be.” You turn to Sunoo as he walks into the kitchen, grabbing a kitchen towel to throw over the sink full of dirty dishes.

“Boys? I thought this would be a co-ed house…” you trail off, tightening your grip on your backpack strap as you inhale deeply, holding your breath for his reply.

“Well… it’s co-ed now!” Sunoo giggles as he grabs a soda from the fridge covered in magnets and random photos of who you can only assume are your future roommates.

The photos are all poorly lit shots of blurry figures, most of them from a party or outdoor gathering of some kind, but a particularly bright one catches your eye.

The photo has a group of four tall men in baseball uniforms between three other men dressed casually, all throwing up an assortment of peace signs and thumbs up smilingly widely.

You find yourself moving closer to the fridge, taking in the faces of the men as you finally process the potent scent you inhaled. Alphas.

“That shouldn’t be a problem, I hope.” Sunoo ducks his face in front of yours, blocking you from inspecting the photos further.

You take a step back before composing yourself, hoping Sunoo doesn’t see the shock going through your body right now.

“N-no problem at all! I should go settle myself in my room.”

You begin to turn down the hall, swiftly grabbing your suitcases, as Sunoo calls out behind you. “Your’s is right next to mine on the left. The rest will be home soon, and we can do dinner together.”

You close the door to your new room and let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Quickly, you remove your backpack and reach for your suppressants.

“Fuck.” You sigh out, registering the emptiness of the pill bottle that shakes with maybe two left.

You deducted that you’ll have to get a new prescription… maybe an even stronger dosage if there are multiple alphas that live here. Though the change of address may give you some trouble with paperwork, that’s an issue you’ll have to worry about later.

You push yourself off the bedroom wall and take in the room that’s been prepped with a standard full-size bed, a desk and chair, and a dresser.

Begrudgingly, you begin unpacking and settling yourself into your new habitat.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

You wipe a bead of sweat off your brow as you land on your bed with a thud, having finally deep-cleaned and put away all your belongings, being sure to put up your trinkets and posters with care.

Before you can let yourself rest, your eyes shoot open at the sound of the front door swinging open and multiple voices overlapping.

Your t-shirt slightly clings to your back as you sit up and instinctually pull your hair out of the messy ponytail it was in.

The scent coming off of the group reaches you before you actually see them, having made your way down the hall and to where the group had gathered.

Thankful for taking your suppressants, you nearly trip over a pile of baseball bags and equipment at the kitchen entrance.

“Oh, and there she is now! How’s the room?” Sunoo lights up as you enter, but you can’t ignore the feeling of all eyes shifting on you as you move into the empty space next to Sunoo.

“It’s great… thank you…” You manage to squeak out, avoiding the eyes of the strangers around you as you attempt to pull down your athletic shorts.

“Don’t be shy, introduce yourself! We’ll all be seeing a lot of each other after all.” Sunoo chimes out, bumping your side with encouragement.

You timidly introduce yourself and finally look up to the group before you, looking up and catching eyes with a brightly smiling boy around Sunoo’s height.

“Hi! I’m Jungwon. I’m a beta and a Sophomore in Biology with a focus on species studies.” He steps forward and extends his hand for a shake, which you gratefully accept.

You mentally thank the universe that there’s more than just Alphas in this house as you take in his friendly face.

The next person to approach you has dark hair with chunky blonde highlights and is much taller than Jungwon as he stands beside the shorter boy.

In fact, he stands above the whole group as he begins his own introduction, slightly bending over to make himself a bit smaller and catch your eyes.

“Hi. I’m Ni-ki. I’m a Freshman. Just presented as an Alpha before coming to college.” He straightens his posture and smugly brushes his hair back, checking your face for reaction. He drops the smug act in response to your blank face before continuing.

“I’m undecided in terms of a major, but I’m the pitcher for the baseball team on campus, if you couldn’t tell.” He gestures down to the grass-stained baseball pants that he and a few of the other boys are wearing. “Do you play any sports?”

Despite his intimidating aura, Ni-ki gives you a kiddish smile, eagerly awaiting your answer.

“Oh. I think my mom had put me in soccer as a kid, but I wasn’t any good. I’m better as an observer than a player.” You admitted as you gave a comforting pat on his shoulder in apology.

His shoulders drop slightly, and a slight pout forms on his lips. “Ah, that’s too bad.”

The other boys start shifting around the kitchen, falling into a rhythm of pulling out ingredients and prepping pans.

Ni-ki and Jungwon silently dismiss themselves when one of the other boys gives them a sharp glance as he washes his hands at the, now empty, kitchen sink.

You silently watch the two of them start to work on cutting some greens, quietly bickering about who is going to cut what.

Sunoo hooks your elbow and pulls you aside to one of the taller boys who had made his way to the stove, his jet-black hair falling forward as he checks on the boiling water.

Sunoo clears his throat to catch his attention, making the boy straighten to face you.

“Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Sunghoon. I’m a junior in Bio and lead research with Jungwon. I’m an Alpha.” He says the last part with an amused smirk painted on his face as if he already knew of your apprehension.

He doesn’t bother extending a handshake and instead looks at Sunoo as if to ask ‘Happy?’ before returning to measuring out a portion of dry spaghetti noodles.

“Don’t mind him, I swear he can be friendly.” Sunoo whispers as he pulls you to the other side of the stove, where another boy is working on picking out spices from the cabinet.

“Yo, where’s the oregano?” He asks as his eyes still scan the shelves, his back still facing you.

“It’s wherever Jake left it after his last ramen recipe experiment.” Sunoo rolls his eyes, turning his and your attention to another boy sitting at the dinner table, scrolling on his phone.

His head snaps at the mention of his name, a guilty look painting his face as he slides his phone into his pocket.

“Oh yeah, about that… we need to buy more.” He rises from his seat and playfully slaps the shoulders of the boy at the cabinet.

“Don’t worry though, Jay! You can just replace it with something else like…” He draws out the last syllable and looks over the boy’s shoulder at the available spices.

“Like this!” He reaches out and presents a large spice bottle.

“I’m not putting nutmeg in the spaghetti sauce, you idiot.” The tan boy you’ve deducted is Jay, who swipes the bottle from Jake’s hand and puts it back on the spice rack.

He gives Jake a shoulder bump and returns to the counter, starting to combine his selected spices.

“Jeez, just don’t say I didn’t try to help!” Jake rolls his eyes and brings his attention towards you.

“Hi, officially. I’m Jake!” He eagerly takes your hand and shakes it rapidly, your whole arm feeling like it will be ripped off from his excitement.

“I’m the catcher for our baseball team, 'cause you know, I’m a catch. And I’m an officer of Theta Mu. I’m sure you’ve heard of us.” He gives you a coy wink.

“Oh! And I guess I should mention my major.” He laughs to himself and rubs the back of his neck.

“I’m in Computer Science. It’s my third year, so I’m gearing up to get an internship soon. If you know of any openings, help a guy out.” He lightheartedly punches your shoulder, surprising you with his quick friendliness.

Sunoo interrupts Jake’s monologue, covering his mouth playfully and giving you an apologetic smile. “Long story short, Jake’s a beta and a total blabbermouth. Whatever you do, do not let him rope you into one of his tabling events for his frat.”

You laugh as Jay starts to brown the meat; the aromatic smell and sound of sizzling help drown out any last worries you have about your new roommates.

Maybe it won’t be so bad; everyone seems pretty tame.

You subconsciously count the number of heads in the room, realizing that there is one missing from the photo that previously caught your attention.

“Who’s that?” You ask no one, pointing to the red-haired boy in the middle of the photo as you make your way closer to the fridge.

“Oh, that’s Heeseung. Our residential Senior. He’s in communications like you! He’s the last of us you’ll be meeting today. Not sure where he’s gone off to, though.” Sunoo trailed off as Jay approached him with a stirring spoon in hand, blowing on it before letting Sunoo taste.

Sunoo licks his lips and gives Jay a silent thumbs up, grabbing the spoon and taking his turn stirring the meat sauce.

“I can answer that one. I may have pissed him off at practice today. He’s probably off on a run or something.” Jay shrugs as if it’s commonplace for Heeseung to be unaccounted for. He moves closer to you, resting a hand on the fridge door, blocking you into his space.

“By the way, I’m Jay, as I’m sure you’ve deduced. I’m a Junior in Kinesiology, if you know what that is.” He gloats as you resist the temptation to roll your eyes.

“I’m an outfielder for the team, same as Heeseung. Oh, and just like Heeseung, I’m also an alpha.” He raises his eyebrows as a smirk spreads on his chiseled face.

You do the quick mental math of all the alphas. There’s Sunghoon, Jay, Ni-ki, and Heeseung… four alphas under one roof.

Before you can react as if on cue, the front door slams open, and a blurry figure whizzes past you, slamming Jay into the fridge he was just casually leaning on.

“What the fuck was all that today at practice, huh?” The red-haired boy huffs, sweat clinging to his neck as he scowls at Jay’s nonchalant stance.

Despite your suppressants, you can’t help but feel lightheaded at the scent coming off of the two alphas in front of you.

“Hee, come on, man. Not in front of the lady.” Jake tries to lighten the mood as he cautiously steps beside you, slinging his arm around your shoulders, drawing Heeseung’s attention to where you stood in shock at the sudden outburst.

“Yeah, dude, you know I didn’t mean anything by it. That’s just how the game goes sometimes. You can’t get every ball, ya’ know.” Jay takes this opportunity to remove Heeseung’s clenched fist from the collar of his shirt, trying and failing to brush out the wrinkles it left.

“Whatever, man. You knew what you were doing.” Heeseung grumbled as his wild temper seemed to have taken a full 180 at realizing your presence.

“S-sorry.” He stutters out, his eyes not meeting yours. He turns to huff at Jay again before retreating upstairs, a door slamming shut a moment later.

“Whelp,” Jungwon starts, placing a salad bowl on the dining table. “Welcome to our happy home! Hope you don’t mind the many pissing contests these boys will get into.” He tries to laugh, but you can tell there’s some honesty in his voice.

“Is he.. gonna be okay?” You hesitantly ask, slipping from Jake’s arm to glance towards the stairway. Sunghoon brings the drained pasta noodles to the table, and the other boys bring the rest of the meal.

“He will. He just gets like this around this time. If my research is still correct, he’ll come down soon enough, not to worry.” Sunghoon stated as if he had no doubt of Heeseung’s typical behavior.

“Yeah, seriously, he’s gonna be fine; you just sit down and eat. I’m sure you’re starved after moving.” Jay gives you a reassuring look as he hands you some cutlery.

Everyone finds a seat at the table, and you suddenly feel all eyes on you again. Jake is the first to dig in, and the others follow soon after.

“So,” Jake talks between chewing his salad. “Tell us about yourself.”

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 14

˗ˏˋ laundry day ˎˊ˗

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

next | index

⋆｡��✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8k

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

✧ author's note ✧

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

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

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

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

The thing is… it’s a 2 month cycle.

I’m basically on week 7/8 already.

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

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

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

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

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

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

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

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

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

So. Jungkook's sweater it is.

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

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

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

Actually, scratch that. 

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

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

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

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

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

You check your pocket for quarters and detergent pods. 

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

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

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

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

Right. Not weird at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's just laundry day. Just another Sunday. 

And the laundry room is still a goddamn joke.

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

And on Sundays? 

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

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

Just. Fucking. Great.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Griffin.

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

And yet...

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

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

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

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

What the fuck is happening to you?

Maybe it's sleep deprivation. 

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

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

It's a lifestyle you can respect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a split second, your brain halts. 

Boyfriend? What boyfriend? And then—

Ah. 

The hoodie.

Jungkook's hoodie that you're swimming in.

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

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

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

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

Wait, what?

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

"I—"

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

Well, shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, well, well."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hmm." 

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

Puts his basket down. 

Stands too close. 

“But the hoodie isn't yours."

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

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

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

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

"Right."

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

Damn your body and its complete lack of dignity.

"You're late, boy."

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

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

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

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

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

What the actual fuck?

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

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

Like this is normal.

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

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

"Since when?"

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

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

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

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

He huffs a laugh. "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wouldn't put it past you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like she doesn't find him utterly repulsive.

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

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

You thought Jungkook had more of a backbone than that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frown, trying to make it make sense. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

Oh shit.

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

Shame.

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

That maybe she uses sharpness as a shield. 

The same way you use sarcasm as one. 

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

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

"Wouldn't miss it."

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

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

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

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

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

It's not working very well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's not a big deal."

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

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

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

"And the groceries?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's... interesting.

Weird.

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

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

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

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

Not just a grumpy old woman. 

A widow. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She likes you," you observe quietly.

Jungkook glances at you, then back at his machine. 

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

"She doesn't even tolerate me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can't help it—you laugh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's Tuesday?"

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

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

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

"And you know this because...?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It's fine."

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

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

"Right." You nod, getting it now.

He really doesn't want the recognition. 

Doesn't want the attention for doing something decent. 

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

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

Not... this. Whatever this is.

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

You blink at the unexpected question. 

“Not since I was a kid."

He nods, considering this. 

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

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

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

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

"Right."

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

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

And if so, why? 

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

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

"Cool."

"Cool."

Another silence falls.

You don’t say anything.

He doesn’t say anything.

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

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

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

Because that's not what this is.

That's not what you are. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just grins, following behind you. 

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, just—"

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

Wait.

What the fuck are you doing?

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

Neither of you moves. 

His eyes dart between both of your pupils. 

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

Smooth. Really smooth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So why does your chest feel tight?

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

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

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

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

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

It's weird. 

This whole morning has been weird. 

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

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

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

It's not like he meant anything by it. 

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

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

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

It doesn't mean anything.

It doesn't mean anything at all.

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

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

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

"I'm not helpless."

"Never said you were."

"So give me my laundry, asshole."

"Nope."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait, I'm missing a sock."

"Huh?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Seriously? For a sock?"

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

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

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

Get a grip, bitch.

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

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

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

You hate him. You definitely hate him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don't ask. Not your business. 

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

God, you need a lobotomy.

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

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

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

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

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

"Huh?" 

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Surprise? 

Interest? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I literally did nothing."

"Your energy kept me going."

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

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

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

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

Ah. Barnes & Noble. 

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

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

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

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

About nothing. Because you don’t care. 

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

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

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

It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

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

goal: 100 notes

next | index

⋆｡°✩ taglist✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw @mar-lo-pap @jeontae

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[planetary-pluto]

hi! do you have DID, OSDD, UDD, or any level of disordered dissociation? are you perhaps playing life on multiplayer mode? are you a system looking for some new tools to help you navigate the world?

hello! i'm micki. i'm a psychology student that makes organizational tools for folks with dissociative disorders. a couple years ago i made a pretty massive notion template, and now i'm working on a collection of worksheets with both DBT and ACT principals (i'm a bit of a CBT hater, but i'll admit it can have its merits). if you wanna help test these things and give some feedback on my research projects, check out this discord server ! -- EDIT: i've had to temporarily pause this invite. it should be back up soon (as of feb 22 2025)

note: i research DISSOCIATION FROM TRAUMA. if you believe you are a system without any trauma, this is not the project for you.

questions? leave them in the replies of this post and i'll answer to the best of my ability

[mesetacadre]

hey! this is a dumb question, but why are general secretaries elected for life?

They aren't. The procedure in democratic centralism is that a Congress is called periodically, typically every 4-5 years though that might vary, where a new Central Committee and its associated organs are elected, including the General Secretary. The Congress is the most powerful organ in a communist party, above the CC and gensec. Members of the party are chosen as delegates from their local cells, and they each have one vote, as well as having the duty to participate in the debates.

In the USSR, Lenin was actually never the general secretary, then Stalin was elected repeatedly despite him asking to step down multiple times. He died whole being gensec. Khruschev was replaced by Brezhnev in 1964. Brezhnev did die in 1982, and afterwards there were two quick successions both ended with the person holding the position dying, Andropov in 1984 and Chernenko in 1985. Gorbachev of course died 2 years ago, as he was overthrown. It is true that after Stalin the USSR had a very aged leadership, that's why Brezhnev, and especially Andropov and Chernenko died in the position.

In Cuba, before the revolution, only José Peña Vilaboa died while being first secretary and he only held it for a year or two. Fidel left office in 2011 and he died in 2016. Raúl Castro succeeded him and he left office in 2021, he's still alive. Now it's Miguel Díaz Canel who is 64.

In Vietnam, Trần Phú died while in office in 1935, then it wasn't until 6 general secretaries/first secretaries, including Hồ Chí Minh who died 9 years after leaving the position, Lê Duẩn died while in charge in 1986. No other general secretaries have died except for Nguyễn Phú Trọng who died last year.

In China, there is more of a marked difference between the state and party, but it's honestly not that hard to research. Most have not died in office.

The DPRK is a big exception, the Worker's Party of Korea, which to be clear isn't even the only party in the DPRK, has had 3 previous general secretaries (Kim Tu-Bong, Kim Il Sung, Kim Jong Il) who have all died in office. I'm sure someone can explain this in more depth, but the Kim family was so well-regarded and initially chose as general secretaries because they were almost legendary guerilla fighters against Japanese occupation, especially Kim Il Sung. Anna Louise Strong talks about this more here in chapter 3 Government and Elections. Whatever the case, each member of the Kim family has been very involved in the WPK, and due to the accumulated experience elected.

Whichever country you were thinking of when you sent this ask, which is probably the USSR or the DPRK, nobody is chosen until death. These positions are regularly and democratically renewed or reconfirmed, and I don't think that someone being elected multiple times is undemocratic. If people are happy with how something is run, why would they change it? and besides, let me remind you the General Secretary is not that supremely powerful. All decisions in a democratic-centralism system are taken collectively, taking into account previous debates and the constant feedback from the base. Many, many people are involved who the Central Committee rely on, and the CC itself often changes members even more between congresses. Idk, the USamericans chose FDR for almost 4 terms an nobody talks about the FDR dictatorship. It's not hard to believe maybe FDR was simply a good president most people liked, and who was in charge during a crucial time. The DPRK has been under constant siege since its very creation, under sanctions and with some of the largest military bases and exercises on its border, run by the people who killed around a fifth of your people. Changing leadership often might also be conducive to instability and a rapidly-changing course, which the Korean people would understandibly not want.

Same with Stalin. He was the general secretary during a crucial time, the collectivization of work and industrialization on par with the US and western Europe, followed by the Nazi-fascist invasion, and then the very costly reconstruction.

Non-ruling democratic-centralist parties typically have a much faster rotation of general/first secretaries, you can look at a list on Wikipedia for most parties out there and you can compare with their death dates.

[thanook]

right so i was fucking around with the tumblr api and decided to investigate the possibility of automating my blog expansion plans. the idea was to find out who the people i reblog from get their reblogs from, and follow those people if i dont already. while experimenting with this (fairly suboptimal and indefinitely postponned) possibility, i realized that, knowing that these posts are already coming from cool people, i could determine with surprising certainty if i should reblog a post or not by looking for keywords within the post and evaluating the additions made in the notes as well as its overall structure, without the use of ai systems, just with bad ducktape scripting, just like god intended.

knowing this, arose the possibility for me to create a fairly accurate albeit sanitized clone of my blog, which would operate automatically (with no outside feedback other than me fixxing the code with my own bare hands), collecting and evaluating posts on a daily cycle (depending on api limits). it will have a dashboard composed of the people i already follow, removing anyone who wasnt active in over two months, and will use some spaghetti to expand from that in the future. initially, it will reblog anything it deems safe and good enough, but if possible, i plan in stopping it from reblogging anything i reblog with @thanook and pushing it to the daily blog limit, to spice things up. if this projects proves to actually be a good idea, i will make plans to host it properly, and improve its DIRT (Do I Reblog This) evaluation, which will be barebones for the first few post batches. still figuring this out, but im using this as a learning experience, which will force me to finish the project in a forgivable state (unlike DIPLOMATA and Goblinheimer, which wont see the light of day (there's your closure, happy now?)).

this project, however, lacks a name. i can put toghether a quick phtoshop for the pfp, ill probably figure out a banner in time and i already have a few ideas for a colorscheme, but im pretty dead of a decent name.

so, yall got anything?

[rhowena]

The core problem of Campaign 3's god debate is that the only real support offered by the anti-god side is "some people are mad at the gods" and no one -- in-universe or out -- seems to realize that the mere existence of people who dislike the gods isn't sufficient to make "should the gods stay or go?" into a hyper-complex morally grey debate, any more than the mere existence of global warming denialists is sufficient to make the factual reality of climate change into a hyper-complex scientific debate. "People who are mad at the gods exist, therefore the current system is broken somehow" is the mentality of people-pleasing: if someone is mad at you, it proves that you're a bad person who did something to make them mad, and you are now morally obligated to internalize everything they say about you and devote all your energy to appeasing them.

I am, personally, of the opinion that it is vitally important for people in positions of power to maintain a healthy awareness of their own fallibility and cultivate lines of feedback from lower down in the chain the way software developers provide bug report forms; however, the reality I encountered when I accepted a forum moderation position years ago is that, if you're an Authority Figure™ of any stripe, for every person with a good-faith criticism of a poor ruling you made while overtired or an outdated policy that needs to be revised, there are a dozen who shake their fists at you because they want someone to be mad at. And when you look at the actual substance of the complaints being made (nearly all of which display a fundamental refusal to grapple with the scale the gods operate on and how that affects their decision-making) and ask "what, if anything, could/should the gods have done differently?" and "is getting rid of the gods actually a viable solution to this problem?", they're all firmly in that latter category.

To go down the list:

Vecna: If we're treating "people who are mad at the gods" as a Marginalized Group™ whose grievances are Good Points™ and Worth Considering™ simply because they are grievances with The People in Power™, then Vecna is part of said Marginalized Group™, seeing as he holds a massive grudge against the gods who helped banish him beyond the Divine Gate and per the campaign books his ultimate goal is to eliminate the worship of all deities other than himself. One can only imagine how hard he's kicking himself for failing to find out about Predathos before his own ascension.

Ludinus: His parents will still be dead whether he succeeds or fails, and preventing the same thing from happening to others is what the Divine Gate is for. Killing the gods would not only not prevent similar tragedies, it would, at least in the short term, actively make things worse: assuming Tharizdun doesn't just eat everything, how does he expect Lesser Idols like Uk'otoa to react to a glorious new age where there are no gods to keep them in check and millions of newly deity-less clerics are stuck watching people die whom they could have saved if they still had their spells? Moreover, what happens when people discontented with his glorious new era swear vengeance on those they blame for taking their gods from them, as Ludinus swore vengeance on those he blames for his parents' deaths, or start idealizing the lost age of the gods and looking for ways to somehow bring them back, as Ashton does with the Titans? Does the perspective of people who like the gods then become Worth Considering™, if they've gone from being Privileged™ to being a Marginalized Group™ who have been collectively traumatized by the loss of something precious to them?

Aeor: One of the major takeaways from Downfall was that Aeor was extremely decadent, corrupt, stratified, and generally dystopian at its height. Their main reason for wanting the gods dead seems to be not liking the existence of anything more powerful than them, and anyone arguing that the gods are Too Powerful To Exist needs to explain why the tiny cabal of mages at the tippy-top of Aeor's societal pyramid, wielding power that 99.9% of Exandrians will never have access to, were not themselves Too Powerful To Exist, especially given their evident imperialist ambitions.

Dorian: I won't downplay the genuine grievance there, but a. Opal was victimized by one of the Betrayer Gods, and what to do about them is a question that Vespin Chloras and Cassida Previn, for all their hubris, approached with considerably more nuance, and b. per the post linked in the previous bullet point, if your ultimate goal is to prevent all ill-advised deals with powerful entities and the unpleasant consequences thereof, where exactly do you stop?

Tuldus and Hearthdell: Plenty of irreligious people across Exandria are living their best lives unmolested, so the whole "you must be religious OR ELSE" isn't something the gods themselves are demanding in a systemic way, and getting rid of them wouldn't prevent all oppression any more than it would prevent all cataclysms and mass deaths. (It might not even stop the oppression committed by those specific religious people; per 'personality predates ideology', the ones who are in it to bully others and feel righteous about it will simply look for a different excuse to do so if their current one is taken from them.) There's a genuine debate to be had about how much responsibility the gods bear for their followers' actions and one could, more reasonably, accuse them of having become too lax and needing to be more stringent about telling their priests to cut that kind of shit out (though that in turn opens the question of how much they can micromanage their followers' behavior before it becomes genuinely smothering and oppressive), but it runs counter to the "the gods have too much control" narrative the Vanguard is pushing.

Liliana: Every parroted accusation she levies at the Exandria's pantheon is something Predathos and its worshippers are far, FAR more guilty of, but Predathos doesn't present itself as a caring, benevolent entity in the same way the Prime Deities do, and she expects us to believe that it admitting that it's bad somehow makes it good. (There's a Slacktivist quote that I think sums up the underlying logic here: "Once you've decided that the Most Important Thing is to avoid the wolf in sheep's clothing, your safest course of action is to embrace the wolf in wolf's clothing.")

Ashton: Essentially blames the gods for refusing to micromanage reality on their behalf and, in focusing so much on his own pain, hasn't stopped to ask what the world would look like if the gods actually felt obligated to micromanage reality on behalf of everyone who petitioned them that way, not just him personally. My dad is an agnostic and specifically doesn't believe in a god who answers prayer because what's a god to do when there's a baseball game and both teams have fans praying for their victory (or when there's a war and both armies include adherents of a given faith)?

Bor'dor: It's one thing to say that the gods have certain obligations to their followers and quite another to say that that the gods are supposed to keep their followers swaddled in bubble wrap 24/7 and prevent them from experiencing any consequences for their own actions whatsoever, and arguing that the Wildmother should have somehow stopped Bor'dor's family's suicide charge from resulting in their deaths is the latter.

Vox Machina: Continue to hold a grudge against the Matron for taking Vax away and would like to believe her being gone would make him mortal again, but when you stop to think about Vax as a person with his own feelings and opinions about his relationship with the Matron, instead of as a passive object to be fought over, the "what if Predathos eats the Matron?" scenario looks a hell of a lot bleaker. There's also the question of whether or not Predathos would consider Vax himself edible; a mere celestial might be one of those half-crushed potato chip fragments at the bottom of the bag in comparison to a god, but when you've been trapped and starving for thousands of years...

Zathuda: Objects not to being told 'no' but to the existence of forces who could potentially tell him no, which to me reads as an asshole whining about how unfair and oppressive it is when people see his assholery and tell him to cut it the fuck out.

[fishnapple]

CRYSTAL READING: What would bring you good luck?

This is a general reading meant for multiple people. Take only what resonates and leave out the rest.

Your feedback is much appreciated. If you find the reading resonated with you, leave a comment, I’d love to know 🎐

About me | Masterpost Book a reading with me - KO-FI (→ personal reading)

1. Trolleite group

There is a contrast of two sides.

blue vs. red

personal vs collective

A hidden fire underneath a calm blue surface.

Wearing or using white and blue objects during travelling, especially long journey, dealing with a large crowd or going to public institutions, religious or spiritual places, the banks etc. would help you navigate the surrounding environment more smoothly.

It could be the colour of the clothes, vehicles, bottle, backpack etc.

Bringing a book and a notebook with you while travelling is also very beneficial.

Going near a large body of water, the ocean, the seashore, fish, and shells will help calm and ground you.

But for your private home, planting lots of flowers, paint the wall in warm pale tones of pink or pale orange, yellow will bring wamrth and vitality.

For harmonious communication, you could use a pink phone or a pink phone case, a pink notebook and pen, and pink accessories.

As I have said above about a hidden fire, intimate connections would stoke a creative fire within you, bring in more inspiration and life force to your projects.

Show a more vulnerable and soft side of yourself to the world and see how that would lead you on an unexpected, lucky journey.

2. Citrine group

There is a sense of an overall blessing draping your life. It's soft and jubilant.

You should surround yourself with soft, pastel colours and oceanic motifs.

Having a kaleidoscope and occasionally looking through it can unwind some restrictive thought patterns.

Travelling will bring lots of luck and valuable lessons. Schools and learning are also very important steps.

The more you study broadly but also deeply, the more depth and value you will find in life and in yourself. There is a calling from the depth of the ocean. To go deep, your life is not meant to be spent in a light, breezy, superficial way.

Have an exercise routine, not necessarily something vigorous, but just move your body around, writing or practising something with your hands daily will also assist you in this journey.

A teacher with masculine energy would also help you transform your fundamental way of thinking, building a more solid and vibrant inner core.

I also see that keeping yourself warm and monitoring what you eat closely would bring positive changes to you.

Bright red, orange, soft purple and blue, black would be your lucky colours.

3. Garnet group

Some period of wandering by yourself, away from familiar faces and environment, would do wonders to you. Especially when you feel quite lost, confused, or aimless.

Allow yourself to be guided by your intuition.When the urge strikes, just pack your things and go without too many thoughts and concerns.

It would be like a spiritual cleanse.

Things that relate to cleansing would also help you. Soap, salt, something smells of lavenders, lemon, rose, and water.

After some long walks or runs, taking a shower with soap or shampoo of these scent.

Take good care of your hair. Our hair is one of the most visible signs of life growing, of progression. I would usually imagine it as inverted roots of the tree that is our body.

A healthy root system would make a healthy tree.

I also see that some objects with cradle-like shapes are quite beneficial for your financial and physical growth. A bowl, a basket, a candy dish, something that can hold others.

The colours to bring you luck are jade green, sky blue, lilac, and dark red.

4. Rose quartz

When I saw your spread, I immediately heard the sound of wind chimes. More specifically, a brass wind chimes, the one with no frills, just simple tubes of brass swaying gently in a place with lots of dark trees. The place feels simple, quiet, serious, and solitary.

Hanging some objects like wind chimes, dream catchers, or something light, delicate by the door or windows. Or wearing earrings with that kind of shape would bring good luck to you.

Even more so if it was made by your own hands. I even saw some kind of transparent panel make of glass or acrylic with painting on it, dangling in front of the window, sunlight striking through, making rainbow dance in the room.

Light and sound would affect your energy profoundly.

When things feel unstable, difficulties arise, you could go to places that are old, with lots of history, have big, strong, square structure, or anywhere that has 4 walls surrounding you to feel more grounded.

Number 2,3,4 would show signs of blessing.

Things or beings that come in pair, in groups of three or groups of four.

Consider using things with contrast, a combination of complementary colours ,

dark and rich colours combine with light, soft colours such as green and pink, light blue and brown black, lilac with dark red, orange with cold grey.

5. Carnelian group

For this group, it's not really about something physical like a place, an object that could bring you good luck. It's more about words, thoughts, and emotions.

When dealing with others, sometimes not revealing yourself entirely would actually achieve more peace and honesty in that relationship.

You have an intense inner world, you see clearly the hurts, the vulnerability, and the darkness in yourself and others. Your words would have a heavy , serious trigger. It's not easy to always bring that heaviness out into the open because it would create misunderstanding and anger in others.

So, not showing yourself too much, wait and observe, until you and the other person reach a certain understanding of each other.

An outward elusiveness and detachment sometimes would help balance out the inward gravity.

Having a psyche like that would manifest as sensitivity in the physical body such as allergies, so avoid eating too much spicy and hot food or strenuous activities so as not to aggravate the body further.

A healthy bridge between bodily nourishment and the psyche should be established. Observe how some food would affect you.

The biggest message is to take good care of your health. No amount of blessings is enough if you are not actually healthy to receive them.

For colours, dark earthy and creamy tones would make a nice comfy blanket for you.

[writingquestionsanswered]

Too Ashamed of Writing to Write

Anonymous asked: I've spent ten years thinking of stories, ideas, characters, magic systems, concepts, all that jazz, but when I actually have to write it down, I feel this overwhelming sense of shame and disgust. Just looking at what I write makes me feel bad. If I posted my writing in forums for serious writers, it'd immediately get torn to shreds. It's a constant downer and it dissuades me from wanting to write more. Is there advice for nervous nellies like me to overcome this fear that's a little sweeter than "grit your teeth and bear it?"

[Ask edited for length]

First, this is normal. A lot of writers struggle with it. The reason why, I think, is our society puts so much emphasis on finished products, we've collectively forgotten the reality behind what it takes to get to that finished product. We've forgotten that things take practice and time and polishing, and that to make good art, you first have to make bad art. If you can't learn to sit with your bad art, you'll never get good enough to make good art.

So, yes, unfortunately... though it may have a bitter taste, "grit your teeth and bear it" is the usual advice because it's true advice. If you can't grit your teeth and wade through the bad art to get to the good art, you'll never get to the good art.

Here are some things that might help. First, watch this:

Some links to previous posts:

Comparing Self to Others, Insecure About Writing Building Confidence in Your Writing Concentrate on Quantity at First, Not Quality Guide: Dealing with Self-Doubt & Impostor Syndrome

You will get there, I promise! ♥

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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[manikas-whims]

With the new FEEDBACK SURVEY now available for Love and Deepspace

these are a few things I suggest we all collectively request in the form:

1. Fixing Xavier‘s flower name back to forget-me-not in the ENGLISH version

Because wavyleaf sea lavender is a mistranslation.

2. Increasing cap for Weekly Chocolate

Now with the addition of Sylus, its only fair that the weekly gains go from 1800 -> 2400

3. Increase in Crystals earned from Bounty Hunt

as well as add some sort of crafting or conversion system for the same

4. Add more ways to earn Diamond Rewards

and not just through limited time events

5. Increase Diamond Rewards in Deepspace Trials as well as Senior Hunter Contest

6. Make Illusio Permanent

7. Start the Battle Timer once we reach the starting point

8. Make the Banner durations longer (atleast 30 days)

And do re-runs of some past banners for the sake of new players that join everyday.

9. Allow more customization options to Players, especially more options for standard Hair Style

10. Roll out the microphone speaking option to Global players

especially with cards like Xavier's recent “No Restraint” where CN players are actually allowed to whisper his name

11. (OPTIONAL) Let the Love Interests have interactions!

I really really wanna see the boys interacting. I don't care if they bicker or get along or try to slit each other's throats. We deserve some interactions.

Thats all from my end. If you guys have more suggestions, please do add 🙏

[pawborough]

January Check In

Hello, all!

Happy update day, catfolk! We apologize for the late update, but we wanted to share the Beta dates with you in this update. We took extra time to ensure the dates were accurate without risking something not being ready in time or causing burnout for our team. We’ve done quite a bit of internal assessment on the pros and cons of letting ~2,000+ people into the game. 

Our most pressing thought was how to reconcile needing to continue working on key features while getting valuable feedback and play data on all that we already have. There was a lot to consider, in reputation, timeline, and team morale. We did not want to give the wrong impression that we felt anywhere close to a done game, but we have a lot of high fidelity mechanics and playability to share which need high population testing regardless. We’ve finally settled on rolling our sleeves up and opening to testers. At the start, we’ll provide a comprehensive breakdown of everything we’re planning to add over the months of the test, and continue our monthly check-ins on our progress. We’re ready to grind, and we hope you are too! And in many ways, it will be much nicer to get the comprehensive mass testing whenever we have something new to roll out!

We hope you will all agree that this update was worth the wait, as we have exciting news to share with you today, along with our most exciting news yet! :)

Accessory Progress

We are proud to announce that we have 47 unique accessories, altogether with 564 color variations. 

We have just about reached the edge of our odyssey in the first production run of accessories. After 8 months of practice and training for our fledgling team, we’ve improved immensely at our pipeline. What has previously taken us months now takes a matter of weeks. We have one more backer accessory to develop, and any additions in the near future will be small, simplistic items in comparison to our full sets, but I’m very proud of the team for how far we’ve come, and the marvel of quality they produce in good time.

This month’s new progress includes:

Frog Friends

Illustration by Remmie, sponsored by Hag

Protogear Recolors

Recolors by Emma

New decor

We’ve also been busy with decors. 

Argh, matey! 

Macaws by Jersopod, cannon, barrel and newspaper stack by Giulia and Remmie

In addition, style compliant sketches of the original rose decor!

Sketches by Remmie

Archetypes

We’re here to introduce a very exciting mechanic that has been in the works since our initial overhaul. It’s one of my personal favorite concepts, and the primary motivation behind how we’ve structured the cat design system.

Introducing… cat archetypes!

Archetypes are a specific combination of traits which, when fulfilled, mark the cat’s profile with a badge and reward the user as an achievement fulfillment. (If the cat’s traits are changed, the badge will be removed. Cats may fulfill multiple Archetypes simultaneously.)

For example, this badge means the cat fulfills the Ruby archetype, a badge which requires the cat to have the color Ruby in all slots.

Examples of the Ruby archetype include:

To give examples of the specificity, other Archetypes include for example “Leopard,” which must have the following to comply:

A Yellow range Leopard overcoat

Light Greyscale or Light Yellow undercoat

Yellow or Greyscale Claws

None for the second accent

Here are some Leopards!

Owning these cats will give the user rewards, sometimes completely custom to the Archetype. 

What we hope to achieve with this system is a greater incentive to think creatively within the restrictions of our cat builder, and to reward our players for intentioned play in collecting, breeding, and designing a variety of cats. After all, it is the core of the game!

And with each new addition of colors or patterns, we’ll release an onslaught of new Archetypes! We plan to introduce a healthy amount of them, some easy to get, and some harder depending on genetic obtainability and the obtainment method.

This system is already up and running on our servers, and is in its infancy. We’ll get a lot of data from testing it out!

Originally, this system was on the backburner while we focused on bigger picture mechanics, but we’ve fast tracked it so we can bolster and better encourage casual play while the Guild system is still in its preliminary beta state. 

Pelt System

Perhaps the feature we are most excited to see in use and tested is the Pelt System, which we briefly introduced in the 2024 November Check In. There is a frankly insane amount of functionality behind this feature, which includes autonomous user decision and interaction every step of the way. 

First, we were able to implement dynamic layering. This means that Unclipped (top layer) pelts can actually sport layers which are placed behind the cat automatically. Valuable uses for this feature include the inside of sleeves, backs of hoods, and items which you would otherwise always want to go behind anything it’s stacked above.

Users can view their pelts already submitted, see their submission progress, choose to submit more to the pelt, choose to print their pelt themselves, choose to list pelts for buyers to print on demand, and view their pelts on any cat.

There is also a draft system which allows users to store information they aren’t ready to submit yet. 

Users can list pelts as a print-on-demand resource, and are able to control how many copies they will allow to be printed. 

All prints will require a tax which will be dependent on the coverage %, calculated based on the amount of pixels that cover the canvas. This means that small pelts, like a hat or a monocle, will take only a small tax!

AND we have a rudimentary tagging system going as we experiment with this feature! Big news! Once we iron out the kinks, we’ll be able to roll out user filtering and tagging of other content, such as cats or forum posts.

And drumroll please…

As teased at the beginning of this update, we are overjoyed to announce the Closed Beta dates!  Early access launches on February 3rd, with the regular Closed Beta starting on February 6th!

During the Closed Beta, you’ll have the chance to experience many new and polished gameplay features, exciting customization options, and the now refined economy! We encourage all testers to not only find any potential bugs and ui improvements, but also to provide feedback and suggestions on all of our game features and our economy!

All 253 Early Beta, 1940 Beta and Kickstarter codes have been generated, and we will begin sending them out shortly over the next day.

In the coming week, we’ll put out writings on our expectations early on and the features roadmap that we’re currently staring at. We can’t wait to see you all in Kotemara soon!

To summarize: We shared decors, Protogear recoloring, Frog Friends, pelt system showcase, archetypes and closed Beta dates.

What to expect next month: Further asset and development updates. Check-ins for how closed Beta will be going.