#integration the stranded light

[felassan]

Dragon Age: The Veilguard info compilation Post 1

Post is under a cut due to length.

There is a lot of information coming out right now about DA:TV from many different sources. This post is just an effort to compile as much as I can in one place, in case that helps anyone. Sources for where the information came from have been included. Where I am linking to a social media user's post, the person is either a dev, a Dragon Age community council member or other person who has had a sneak peek at and played the game. nb, this post is more of a 'info that came out in snippets from articles and social media posts' collection rather than a 'regurgitating the information on the official website or writing out what happened in the trailer/gameplay reveal' post. The post is broken down into headings on various topics. A few points are repeated under multiple headings where relevant. Where I am speculating without a source, I have clearly demarcated this. if you notice any mistakes in this post, please tell me.

as this post hit a kind of character limit, there will probably be at least 1 more post. :)

Character Creation

CC is vast [source] and immensely detailed [source]

We will enter CC straight after Varric's opening narration [source]

You are given 5 categories to work your way through in CC: Lineage, Appearance, Class, Faction, Playstyle. Each of these has a range of subcategories within them. There are 8 subcategories within the "head" subcategory" in "Appearance" alone [source]

Lineage dictates things like race (i.e. human, elf, dwarf, qunari) and backstory [source]

Backstories include things like factions. Factions offer 3 distinct buffs each [source]

There are dozens and dozens of hairstyles [source]

There are separate options for binary and non-binary pronouns and gender [source]

"BioWare's work behind the scenes, meanwhile, goes as deep as not only skin tones but skin undertones, melanin levels, and the way skin reacts differently to light" [source]

CC has a range of lighting options within it so that you can check how the character looks in them [source]

There are a range of full-body customization options such as a triangular slider between body types and individual settings down to everything from shoulder width to glute volume [source]. There are "all the sliders [we] could possibly want". The body morpher option allows us to choose different body sizes [source]

All body options are non-gendered [source]

They/them pronouns are an option [source]

Rook can be played as non-binary [source]

Individual strands of hair were rendered separately and react remarkably to in-game physics [source]

Special, focused attention was paid to ensuring that hairstyles "come across as well-representative, that everyone can see hairstyles that feel authentic to them, even the way they render" [source]

The game uses strand hair technology borrowed in part from the EA Sports games. The hair is "fully-controlled by physics," so it "looks even better in motion than it does here in a standstill" [source]

The ability to import our choices from previous games is fully integrated into CC. This will take the form of tarot cards - "you can go into your past adventures" and this mechanic tells you what the context was and what decision you want to make [source]

In CC we will also be able to customize/remake our Inquisitor [source]

A core tenet of the game is "be who you want to be" [source]

There are presets for all 4 of the game's races (human, elf, dwarf, qunari), in case detailed CCs overwhelm you [source]

Story

The story is set 9 years since Inquisition [source]

The Inquisitor will appear [source]

Other characters refer to the PC as Rook [source]. This article says they are "the Rook" [source]

The ability to import our choices from previous games is fully integrated into CC. This will take the form of tarot cards - "you can go into your past adventures" and this mechanic tells you what the context was and what decision you want to make [source]

The prologue is quite lengthy. A narrated intro from Varric lays the groundwork with some lore and explains about Solas [source]. In this Varric-narrated opening section, the dwarf recaps the events of previous games and explains the motivations of Solas [source] (Fel note/speculation: this sounds like this cinematic that we saw on DA Day 2023)

What happens first off is that Rook, who is working with Varric, is interrogating a bartender about the whereabouts of a contact in Minrathous who can help them stop Solas. The bartender does not play nice and we are presented with our first choice: talk the bartender down or intimidate them aggressively [source]

The first hour of the game is "a luxurious nighttime romp through a crumbling city under a mix of twinkling starlight and lavish midnight blue" (Minrathous) [source]. The game begins with a tavern brawl (depending on dialogue options) and a stroll through Minrathous in search of Neve Gallus, who has a lead on Solas [source]. Minrathous then comes under attack [source] by demons [source] (Fel note/speculation: it sounds like the demo the press played is what we saw in the Gameplay Reveal). Off in the distance is a vibrant, colorful storm where Solas is performing his ritual. [source] Eventually we come upon Harding. [source] and Neve. Rook and co enter a crumbling castle, where ancient elf secrets pop up, "seemingly just for the lore nerds". [source] Then we teleport to Arlathan Forest, have a mini boss fight with a Pride Demon, and there is the climactic confrontation with Solas. After a closing sequence, at this point it is the end of the game's opening mission. [source] (Fel note/speculation: So the Gameplay Reveal showed the game's opening mission)

The action in the story's opening parts starts off quite quick from the sounds of things: the devs wanted to get the player right in to the story. because, “Especially with an RPG where they can be quite lore-heavy, a lot of exposition at the front and remembering proper nouns, it can be very overwhelming.” [source]

BioWare wanted to make the beginning of Dragon Age: The Veilguard feel like the finale of one of their other games [source]

Rook's Faction will be referenced in dialogue [source]

Minrathous is beautiful, with giant statues, floating palaces, orange lantern glow and magical runes which glow green neon. These act "like electricity" as occasional signs above pubs and stores [source]

The story has a lot of darkness tonally. These dark parts of the game contain the biggest spoilers [source]. However, the team really wanted to build in contrast between the dark and light moments in the game, as if everything is dark, nothing really feels dark [source]

Our hub (like the Normandy in ME or Skyhold in DA:I) is a place called The Lighthouse [source] (Fel note/speculation: I guess this screenshot shows the crew in The Lighthouse? ^^)

Each companion has a very complex backstory, their own problems, and deep motivations. These play out through well-fleshed out character arcs and missions that are unique to them but which are ultimately tied into the larger story [source]

We will make consequential decisions for each character, sometimes affecting who they are in heart-wrenching ways and other times joyously [source]

Decisions from previous DA games will be able to be carried over, it will just work a bit differently this time [source]. The game will not read our previous saves. For stuff pertaining to previous games/choices, players will not have to link their accounts [source]

Characters, companions, romance

Varric is a major character [source]

Every companion is romanceable [source]

BioWare tried to make each character's friendship just as meaningful, regardless of romance [source]

If you don't romance a character, they may end up romancing each other [source]

There will be some great cameos [source]. Some previous characters are woven into the game [source]

Companion sidequests/optional content relating to companions is highly curated when it involves their motivations and experiences [source]

We could permanently lose some companions depending on our choices [source]

Our choices can influence if characters get injured and what they think about us [source]

The bonds Rook forges with companions determine how party members grow and what abilities become available [source]

Each companion has a very complex backstory, their own problems, and deep motivations. These play out through well-fleshed out character arcs and missions that are unique to them but which are ultimately tied into the larger story [source]

We will make consequential decisions for each character, sometimes affecting who they are in heart-wrenching ways and other times joyously [source]

Gameplay, presentation, performance etc

Each class (warrior, rogue, mage) has 3 specializations. The ones for Rogue are duelist, saboteur and Veil ranger [source]. (Fel note/speculation: Veil ranger reminds me of Bellara. Maybe this is her 'spec' too?)

Duelist gameplay involves a sharp combination of dashes, parries, leaps, rapid slashes and combos [source]

Faction-related buffs include being able to hold an extra potion or do extra damage against certain enemies [source]

Individual strands of hair were rendered separately and react remarkably to in-game physics [source]

Playstyle settings include custom, distinct difficulty settings for options as granular as parry windows, meaning "players who might fancy that playstyle but typically struggle with the finer points of combat can give it a go" [source]

Combat mechanics is a mix of real-time action and pause and play. Pausing brings up a radial menu split into 3 sections: companions to the left and right, Rook's skills at the bottom, and a targeting system at the top which helps get in focus on certain enemies. [source]. In the pause system you can queue up your whole party's attacks [source]

Tapping or holding the shoulder button pauses the game, allowing us to stop the action and issue orders to companions [source]

There is a system of specific enemy resistances and weaknesses [source]. Weaknesses and resistances plays a big role in combat and abilities are designed to exploit these accordingly [source]. An example is that "one character might be able to plant a weakening debuff on an enemy, and another enemy might be able to detonate them" [source]

There is a vast skill tree of unlockable options [source]

You can set up specific companions with certain kits, e.g. to tackle specific enemy types, to being more of a support, or as flexible all-rounders [source]

Healing magic returns [source]

Abilities can change together with elaborate results, e.g. one companion using a gravity well attack that sucked enemies together, another using a slowing move to keep them in place, and Rook using a big AOE to catch them all at once [source]

A shortcut system lets you map a few abilities to a smaller pinned menu at the bottom of the screen [source]

There are class-specific resource systems. For example, Rogue has "momentum", which builds up as Rook lands consecutive hits [source]

Each class will always have a ranged option [source]

Rogue Rook can do a sort of 'hip fire' option with a bow, letting you pop off arrows from the waist [source]

Warriors can throw their shield at enemies, and can build an entire playstyle around that using the skill tree [source]

There is light platforming gameplay [source]

The game runs on the latest iteration of the Frostbite engine [source]

The game targets 60 fps

On consoles it will feature performance and quality modes so we can choose our preferred visual fidelity [source]

The game is mission based [source]. Some levels that we go to do open up, some with more exploration than others. "Alternate branching paths, mysteries, secrets, optional content you're going to find and solve." [source]

Everything is hand-touched, hand-crafted and highly curated [source]

Some sidequests and optional content is highly curated, especially when it involves the motivations and experiences of the companions. In others we may be investigating for example a missing family, with an entire open bog environment to search for clues and a way to solve the disappearance [source]

Gameplay, presentation, performance etc continued, after the above bullet list hit a character limit

There is sophisticated animation cancelling and branching. Gameplay is action-like, and the design centers around dodging, countering, and using risk-reward charge attacks designed to break enemy armor layers [source]

The dialogue wheel returns [source]. It gives truncated summaries of the dialogue options rather than the full line that the character is going to say [source]

The bonds Rook forges with companions determine how party members grow and what abilities become available [source]

For stuff pertaining to previous games/choices, players will not have to link their accounts [source]

We can play the game fully offline [source]

There are no microtransactions [source]

The game itself is not as cell-shaded in look as the first trailer looked [source]

[☕ found this post or blog interesting or useful? my ko-fi is here if you feel inclined. thank you 🙏]

[hxltic]

pt.2!! (i know that cliffhanger was menacing) 800 followers hello?!

part 1 | part 2

It was weird. It felt weird.

You sat with your chest bare, Kenma contemplating his own conscientiousness and conscious before you. Should he have any integrity, he would turn you around and fulfill what you came to do.

But he doesn’t. Intrusive thoughts win, so he dives straight into you to suck on your tits like a fucking baby.

Just watching in amusement as he tugged and nipped, it looked like Kenma was genuinely enjoying himself when he licked the bud in a single stripe, cat eyes gazing into yours devilishly by the way he could feel your back has a slight arch to it. His pale hands roamed from the small of it to your shoulder blades.

Your manicured fingers tread through the black locks that cover his tinted cheeks and reveal his long, black eyelashes. You mentally curse him for having them. Your upper back begins to stray away; Kenma just follows.

You connect strands of hair behind his ear (which he greatly appreciates you for) because he needs to see you, your curves, and body in all the bright rainbow light from the edges of his setup.

He removes the slim shirt entirely and discards it randomly in the room. He couldn’t care less where it landed. He grasps—literally grasps— both tits in each hand before looking up at you ordinarily, but in an anticipating manner.

“Take the rest of it off.”

“Say please,” you announced. Yes, you asked first, but you could still have a little fun (and refresh his manners).

“You do realize you’re literally in my hands right?”

“…So?”

He just blinks up at you and rolls his eyes in obduracy.

“Please, take the rest of it off.”

You tap a fingernail to your chin, “Hmm… say it like you mean it.”

If you could describe the ravenette’s face right now, it would be the most unamused you’ve ever seen him.

Kenma grabs you and roughs you off him, twists you around, and adroitly unbuttons your jeans from behind you. Done with your shit, he peels them down and brings your panties along. He then pulls you back down to him backwards.

“See? Easy peasy,” he comments.

Slightly embarrassed from being absolutely manhandled, you shuffled against his front and dug your head into his sweatshirt on his left shoulder.

“Are you shy now? Not too long ago you were asking me to—”

“Shut up- Shut up.”

A giggle sounds behind you and lengthy, soft fingers trail up to your plush thighs anyway, then leads more inward. He pats twice to ask you to open up for him. You comply in spite.

With two delicate fingers he spreads you open, a third experimenting by dipping into your wetness. You were already getting throbbing having thought about it all day. Your friends constantly conversed about what their partners did and how good it felt, so you want as close to that as possible, but the problem is that you’re doing it while being unaware of how skilled Kenma actually is. You’re starting to question whether he was the right person or not. Or whether it holds up to its name. Or if you can do it at all.

He caresses you, rubbing the pad of his finger in circular motions against your clit.

“Okay,” his chest rises and falls, “just relax and think about whatever boy toy you want.”

You ignore his taunting. Your eyes trail downwards. He was going so slow, but if you thought you’d have Kenma pawing at you by the end of the night you had to be on something. So, you do what he asks of you and shut down any tense nerve in your body.

“There you go,” as you soften against his front, now two of his fingers locate your nub and continue the circling. Your thighs are spread apart on each chair arm, facing the dark idle screensaver Kenma had, the plush actively being kneaded between his free hand. Your center was tingly but not the trademark “oh my god!” tingly. It felt good but you weren’t screaming just yet.

Almost in time, he curls his hand farther forward and dips a finger into you. It was very slowly done for reactive purposes, and with your sight deactivated, the reaction he expected from your chest was granted. He sinks deeper and deeper until his palm is flat against you. Thanks to his patience, you were definitely wet enough.

He stills inside.

“I can’t do anything if you won’t breathe.”

“Sorry,” you apologized, and let out a breath you had no idea you were holding. His thumb reddens your clit even more while the other hand releases your thigh and slides up your body to tighten on your breast. You feel used with his hands all over your body, but in a good way.

Your regular breaths graduated to heavy ones, and those graduated to groans. Your voice wasn’t very high pitched anyway. When does the good part come?

The inactive hand rotated to your clit, while the other focused mainly on gyrating through your walls. His long finger reached places yours couldn’t, and adding a second would only increase the chance of him finding that single pile of nerves that could make you go haywire. He was close but he didn’t think to resort to that just yet.

Two of his hands meet around your front like a hug. His articulated digits roll inside you, each roll a tug on your resistance. A little to the left or a little to the right. His hand curled somehow even deeper on the hunt for your g-spot, so he takes a mental note: up and to the right.

“Oh shit,” your hips slightly stutter.

He smiles, “Right there?” and pesters the previous patch. Your hips lift off him the tiniest bit and your hand reaches up mindlessly. Really you just needed something to occupy yourself. He goes at it again and again, your tummy folded yet moving with him as he’s still going too slow when your body is screaming for more.

You rub his nape in an attempt to focus on anything else. Your arm is geniusly wrapped between the two of you by journeying under his neck. Your reflection in the screen is unbeatable, Kenma working you like it was his millionth time doing it. Everything had a job and you just had to sit and take it.

“That’s definitely you,” he mused. He kissed under your ear on the right side. You could say you weren’t feeling much all you wanted, attempting to lower his ego, but your contorted expression spoke differently with inaudible words. At some point his speed increased.

You unintentionally grind on him as your hips falter halfway. He tries his best to ignore it and keep your high ecstasy going because it was: A, the meaning of this entire operation; B, you’d be sore anyway, better to make the best out if it; and C, had he acted on it you would’ve squirted all over his dick. Which option C isn’t necessarily a problem, it’s just he’s almost certain you’d like to see yourself do it.

“Feels good Ken,” you mumble. The squelch sound could now be heard, and you both listened as he slotted himself in the crook of your neck and your head was thrown back on his shoulder. It was dead silent in the apartment, so silent you could hear your own thoughts and maybe even each other’s.

It sure seemed that way, because Kenma persisted with a finger and stimulated you simultaneously. Your head rolled back and forth, your calves flexed, and your pretty pink toes hung off the chair arms. The clip in your hair hadn’t bothered him one bit.

“Kenmaaa,” you insisted.

“I’m here, tell me,” he indulged. Your breaths were practically weights, yet shallow at the same time.

“G’na come soon.”

“I got you. Just let it happen.”

Kenma knew you were close before you did. Hell, he was a part of your body now. Obvious signs were shown like when you tighten around him and your muscles contract, informing him everything was already in motion. The orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave, taking you and your brain out to sea, but not your body. In fact, it left your disappointment behind too.

Nothing happened.

It took you a second to realize this though—considering it was still one of the best orgasms you’ve ever had—but also because Kenma hadn’t stopped.

“Please,” unaware of what you were calling for, you turned to his face, but he was already so close like he was waiting for you there. He’d slowed only a bit, but this makes little difference already being hypersensitive. Once again, you’re grinding on him, it’s just rougher now and more effective at getting him any harder than he already was.

You talked face to face and couldn’t decide what eye to look in. His lips were so close, and so very inviting. You kiss him.

Soft lips unite with yours meaningfully. You hadn’t known it would progress to this, however, Kenma now occupies your entire body, being, and mind. If you could dismiss how hard he was overstimulating you, just maybe you could kiss him with the passion you desired—but that was reaching because you couldn’t find the strength to kiss him back at all. Your lips were open yet hushed in all attempts to return the gesture, but your body fails you under the hands of lust.

You felt another coming. Your eyes had this faded look to them as if you weren’t here, so Kenma brought it upon himself to whisper to you.

“Tell me what you want and it’s yours.” His voice was soft in the air.

You respond with a light headed moan. Fuck all that shit about your voice not being high and you couldn’t pornstar moan, because to some extent it was and you really could.

“K-Ken I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupts, “anything you want baby.”

Your hand quits fidgeting with the loomed bracelets adorning his wrists to move down to holding the both of his that were working you. The attempt is futile, because even if you did manage to get one hand away, the other would still be toying with your pussy. The veins that stretched from his muscles all the way to his forearm could be seen clear as day. Kenma adds another finger, and doubles into you as it sinks up and to the right.

“Oh fuck, Kenma, Kenma-” you repeated. You tried pushing him off, except you wanted him to continue, except that you were in no state of mind to make decisions. Your back arched impressively and you were on the verge of crying. This quick?

He constantly acknowledges you, “Uh-huh.”

Kenma almost triples in speed. He continues to whisper to you. “Do it. I know you can. Show me how you come for me.”

You don’t feel it, but Kenma plants his feet and swivels the chair around as your mouth drops. You were pushing outward more than downward, and as Kenma pistons into you, there was no way you weren’t about to squirt. Just preferably, not on his monitor. He kisses at your face now turned away from him. “Just like that, you’re almost there. Open your eyes.”

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god-!” you breathe.

Kenma quickly runs back and forth over your clit encouragingly and doesn’t let up. This wasn’t a wave that rolled over you this time, but one that came up to shore first, dragged you along into sea, and sucked you under. It felt normal until it didn’t and you were releasing all over his carpet.

“You look so fucking good like this. Knew my girl could do it.”

Your hair was fucked from rolling on it. You had came so hard your body tensed and slightly cramped, rendering you idle as he continued until you were done. The clear liquid rolled down your own leg. You felt as if you were underwater. Your head bashed like there was no oxygen. Kenma was a man of few words but after you got what you deserved, he didn’t have shit to say.

He gripped your thighs, lifted them, and slowly lowered them to his. A darker color stained his sweats. Was it from you, or him? Neither of you know. His hand pets your forehead gingerly.

“Your girl?” You ask lazily.

“I think we both know you wouldn’t have let anybody else do this,” he establishes. He was right.

sorry if it’s not as good as first!! it was supposed to come out earlier but my dumbass queued it for the wrong day 🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️ also did you catch the easter egg😏😏 (I made this a little shorter to match up with the time it takes to…yk… that’s why all of my fics that aren’t penetration are shorter)

@iwouldbangchan @hislaevv @butterflyk04 @lilmisskreideprinz @ahahadumbo @bontensbabygirl @ninefuckingoneone @hwangsyunho @privthemis @anonymoussimper @frenchinator2sickk

[unexpectedtechnicality]

4 Times Cody Felt Obi-wan Use the Force, and 1 Time it Was Someone Else

This is the first time I’ve published a fic! But I got very excited for Cody day and quickly finished up this little wip I had going.

Rating: T to be safe, Cody gets pretty injured at one point, but nothing is very graphic.

Light Codywan, about 4,900 words.

I’m very new to this, please let me know if there’s anything I should be tagging!

1.

Rex, Cody decided, was a liar. Rex had fought on Geonosis. He claimed the jedi were astonishing warriors, brilliant strategists, excellent all around. 

Well, maybe the problem wasn’t Rex’s integrity. After all, he hadn’t met his general until after the Battle of Geonosis. And he had never met Cody’s for that matter.

Not that High General Kenobi wasn’t an astonishing warrior, brilliant strategist, or seemingly excellent all around kind of guy. Just…Skywalker had gotten it somewhere, and “somewhere” was starting to sound a lot like “Kenobi.”

The original plan had been solid. Cody honestly couldn't have improved upon it. The problem had come when the charges went off early, cutting off their narrow rock bridge back to the Negotiator and stranding Cody and the general on the other side. 

Technically that wasn’t the general’s fault. But if they had left a few minutes earlier…

“I’ve got an idea.”

Cody’s musing was interrupted by the general, who was staring off the edge of the cliff into the mist. 

“Sir?”

“The canyon leads back around to the rendezvous point, it’s just a few kliks further.”

Cody stared at him. He couldn't really mean–

The general looked up serenely. “We’ll have to jump.”

Cody peered down into the mist. The ground was not visible. “Sir, we have no idea how far down it is.”

“It’s perfectly alright Commander. Just a slight detour.”

Sensible, Rex had said. They’re good leaders, they think things through. Cody was never listening to a word his brother said again. 

Blaster fire sounded somewhere behind them. Kenobi smiled. “Now or never, Commander. I’ll go first, wait about 10 seconds and then jump.” 

Before Cody could protest, he was gone. Kriff. His general had just committed suicide rather than be taken by the enemy and expected Cody to follow. This couldn’t be what the Kaminoans meant when they said good soldiers followed orders. What the kriff! 

“Jump, Commander!” The general’s voice floated up from below, almost like it was too far to be heard properly. Had he even heard it at all?

A full platoon of droids appeared behind him. Cody glanced at them, weighed his options, cursed his short existence, his general, and Rex for good measure, then jumped.

He plummeted through the mist, tense, waiting for the crunch of his bones against the rocky floor. But before he could reach the bottom, the air seemed to condense around him. It was as though time slowed down. The mist thickened, and it nearly felt like he fell softly into a net, like he was still in drop training. Something felt familiar about it. Like someone he knew, or–

The mist cleared and there, a few feet below him was General Kenobi, hand outstretched and brow furrowed in concentration. Gently, he lowered Cody until his feet were on the ground, and the strange feeling surrounding him dissipated.

Kenobi grinned. “See? Perfectly fine.”

Cody could only nod vaguely, slightly stunned. “Yes….ah, sir.”

“Now come on, we don’t want to keep our men waiting, do we?”

Cody smiled, and despite his bucket still being on his head, it felt like Kenobi knew. “No, sir.”

2.

Cody jolted awake, his comm blaring. It was his off shift, and they were slow traveling through neutral space. What could have possibly happened in the few short hours he had to sleep? He scrubbed a hand over his face and glanced to his left, where his chest plate was floating next to the lumpy pillow from—

Hang on. 

Suddenly very awake, Cody surveyed the room to discover that something had happened to the artificial gravity on the ship and he was now floating in the middle of his quarters surrounded by his own armor and meager belongings. 

Just great. 

I’m assigning every man in maintenance to latrines for a month if this is someone’s idea of a practical joke. 

Cody located his comm, floating a few meters away near the door. Angling himself that way, he kicked his feet and swam the best he could with his arms. After a few minutes, he managed to grab it and stop the infernal beeping. 

“Go for Cody,” he snapped. 

“Ah! Commander, sorry to wake you. We have a bit of a…situation.”

“You don’t say.”

He could practically hear the smile in Kenobi’s voice. “Yes, well, if you could meet me on the bridge?”

Cody rolled his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

Putting on his armor proved to be quite a challenge when all of it was floating in a different corner of the room. Cody ended up kicking off every wall, and the ceiling several times just to get kitted up. It took far longer than normal. Every time he wasn’t intentionally moving, he was drifting. 

Slapping the control for the door while speeding at it was probably not the best strategy, but luckily it opened before he could slam into it. Then Cody began the arduous task of propelling himself to the bridge. Eventually he settled into a bit of a rhythm: kick off a doorway or wall, attempt to “swim” the right direction, then give up and desperately flap about until the destination was reached. Rinse and repeat. 

The way to the bridge passed the mess hall, as well as several busy corridors. He passed brothers who seemed to be moving with ease through the space, tumbling slowly through the air, gliding from one doorway to the next. He passed Waxer and Boil as he flailed his way past the mess, both of whom took one look at him and burst out laughing. 

KP for a week shut them up quickly enough. 

When the bridge was finally in sight, Cody had just about had enough. The door slid open to admit him, presenting one of the strangest things he had ever seen. 

The bridge was the picture of order. Officers floated near their work stations, calmly anchoring themselves with one hand or foot tucked into a chair or railing. As he watched, an engineer pushed off the central holo table and soared gracefully to the hyperdrive console, inputting numbers from above with ease. 

At the center of it all, floating upside down with his robes billowing around him like a flower, was General Kenobi. When he saw Cody, gripping the doorway for dear life and gaping beneath his helmet, Kenobi smiled and lifted a hand, beginning to slowly turn himself upright to his usual spot on the walkway. 

Cody gave himself a little shove, aimed for his typical spot next to the general, and crossed his fingers. 

“Good to have you, Commander. As you can see, we got into a minor skirmish with a passing neutral envoy. We came to a temporary truce, but I’m still in discussion with them to see if they will continue to attempt to blow us out of the sky. One of their shots knocked out our artificial gravity.”

Cody was struggling to keep himself near the general. His initial push had gotten him nearly where he wanted to be, but he was drifting forward. He tucked in slightly, trying to roll himself back.

“I would like your opinion on a plan of attack should it be necessary. Over half the battalion is on rest right now, and I’d hate to rouse them.”

His roll had failed. Now Cody was drifting upwards to Kenobi’s right, slowly turning away from him. Letting out a frustrated groan, Cody attempted to twist himself back to rights. 

“One option would be to— Cody?”

“Sorry, sir. Give me a minute.” He renewed his twisting efforts with more vigor. How was Kenobi staying in one place when— oh. The kriffing force. “General, uh. Would you mind—?”

“Oh! My apologies Cody. Yes, one moment.”

A light, warm pressure materialized at his right hip, then his left, and he began to turn to face the general and drift down to stand next to him. It was almost as if someone had put their hand– no, not someone. Kenobi. It was most definitely Kenobi’s hands resting comfortably at Cody’s waist, and now anchoring him to the floor. He turned to look at the general, and found his face much closer than expected, eyes seeming to bore right through his visor.

Cody felt his face heat under his bucket. “Uh. Yes. Thank you, sir.”

The general cleared his throat. Was it Cody’s imagination, or was he blushing too? “Of course, commander. Can’t have you floating away, now, can we?”

Force-Kenobi’s hands stayed comfortably at Cody’s sides the rest of the battle, and Cody…found he didn’t really mind. 

3.

His ears were ringing. Cody blinked, trying to clear his vision. What—?

There was a blast somewhere to his right. Instinctively, he tried to curl up to protect his head. Fire erupted across his left side, shoulder to knee, ripping a ragged scream from his throat. He flopped back onto his back, gasping for air. He must have been hit by a blast earlier. No way to tell how long ago.

“There!”

A med speeder pulled up next to him, and Neat, one of their junior medics hopped off.

“Don’t worry commander, we’ve got you.”

Last I remember Obi– the general was by me. The thought sent adrenaline spiking through his veins, pain forgotten.

“Neat.”

“Sir?”

“The…the general, he–”

“He’s safe, sir, please don’t move.”

Neat began running a scanner down his side, but Cody needed visual confirmation on Obi-wan. Obi-wan. He had asked him to call him Obi-wan, alone in his quarters, just a week earlier. If something had happened to him before Cody could figure out—

“Cody!”

Obi-wan came skidding to a halt next to their little party and dropped to his knees beside Cody. “There you are,” he panted. “Neat?”

Neat scowled. “He won’t lie still,” he griped, as Cody pushed up on his elbows to check if Obi-wan was hurt. “Sir, please—“

Finishing his once-over of Obi-wan (a few scratches and bruises but otherwise unharmed, unfairly he seemed to be glowing slightly in the setting sun), Cody finally let himself relax. “Sorry, Neat. Go ahead.”

As Neat did his scan, Obi-wan sent him a slightly reproachful look. “You took the brunt of the blast, Commander, not me. I’m perfectly fine.” He glanced at Cody’s side, brow furrowing.

The pain was starting to creep back, like several hot pokers lined up against his side. Cody leaned his head back against the ground. “Had to be sure. Couldn’t remember.”

Obi-wan frowned, looking even more worried, and the scanner beeped to indicate a finished report. 

Neat swore. “There’s a lot of shrapnel in his side. He’s loosing a lot of blood. I need to remove what I can to staunch the bleeding now and then get him back to base to get the rest out. Possibly put him in bacta.”

Cody was starting to get worried. He tried to look down at the wound, but Obi-wan stopped him with a gentle hand under his chin. “It’ll be fine, Cody.”

Cody. They’d agreed no first names during battle (though Cody wasn’t counting the sanctity of his own mind, the one thing that was truly his own), if Obi-wan was calling him Cody, it was bad.

“General, I’m going to start operating, I might need you to help hold him down.”

Obi-wan shifted, taking Cody’s right hand in his own and holding tight. “Ready.”

Cody braced himself, but when Neat first started prodding at his knee he couldn’t hold back the grunt, gripping Obi-wan’s hand and twitching away from the pain. Neat waiting half a second, then started back in. Every touch felt like a brand, or like the time he had picked up the wrong end of a smoking blaster as a cadet. There were tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. 

Obi-was rested his arm across Cody’s chest to keep him still.

Neat continued his field surgery. “This one’s in deeper. Take a breath, commander.”

Cody tried to do as he was told, but it was like a lance shot through his thigh. He bucked against Obi-wan’s hold, and Neat swore again as everything was jostled.

“General,” Neat pleaded. 

“One moment.” Obi-wan shifted, moving so Cody’s head was resting on his knees. “I’m going to try something different. Cody?”

Cody nodded, hissing through his teeth, trying to ride out the pain. He watched above him as Obi-wan closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath.

The strange sensation of the air solidifying around him that Cody was beginning to recognize as the force surrounded him. A warm feeling, like a heavy, plush blanket pressed down around him. Experimentally, he tried to shift his right leg, and found that aside from breathing, he couldn’t move at all.

It’s should have alarmed him. But the soft, warm feeling wasn’t suffocating…it was comforting. It felt familiar, like the net had, and the hands when the artificial gravity had been broken. Like he was wrapped in a blanket of Obi-wan, or his presence, or something. He vaguely registered Obi-wan telling Neat to continue. Obi-wan rested one hand on the side of Cody’s head, cradling his face, the other supporting the back of his head, and Cody let himself relax into the touch.

The pain was still there, in his leg, now moving up toward his hip, but it seemed…muted. He blinked up at Obi-wan, the picture of serenity.

Alright?

If he could have, Cody would have jumped at Obi-wan’s voice in his head. But it just seemed…natural.

Yes, he thought.

Sorry, I should have asked if this was okay. I was worried.

It’s okay. It’s…nice, actually.

Neat had reached his side now, the familiar cool feeling of bacta covering his thigh. One tug made Cody flinch, and the force-blanket pressed down a little tighter, like he was wrapped up in a bedroll.

The warm, safe feeling was still present all over, but it was starting to condense in one spot, right at the base of his skull, under Obi-wan’s finger. A little bright spot, almost like someone had turned on a light in his brain somehow. It felt right though, especially in his slightly woozy state, so Cody didn’t question it.

Obi-wan and Neat were talking above him, but Cody couldn’t quite make out the words. That was alright, he thought. They would take care of him. Obi-wan said something that almost looked like “sleep.”

A nap didn’t really sound bad. Maybe he’d just shut his eyes for a few minutes. Obi-wan smiled down at him.

I’ll be there when you wake up.

And he was. Everything back to normal. The blanket-feeling was gone. But if Cody really concentrated, he could still feel that little spark in the base of his skull. The little spark that felt like Obi-wan.

4.

At this point, Cody wasn’t even surprised when he and Obi-wan were separated from the rest of the men during the battle. This time, it had been a strange feeling in the force that Obi-wan had insisted on following, leading them through a strange cave system in the middle of the gigantic jungle that may have once been a temple of some kind. It had allowed them to sneak behind enemy lines and take out the tactical droid, allowing the 212th to finish the battle with relative ease, however, the feeling had also gone away quickly after, and Cody was beginning to think Obi-wan did not, as he claimed, remember the way back.

“The left tunnel. I’m sure of it.”

“Are you sure we haven’t been this way before, sir?”

“I thought we agreed on first names when we were alone, Cody.” Obi-wan set off down the left tunnel.

Cody snorted, but followed him, helmet clacking against his thigh plate where it was clipped at his hip. “We did. However we are technically on duty, and you’re being a stubborn bantha. Sir.”

Obi-wan turned with an expression of mock outrage. “Me? Stubborn? My dear commander, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Have you no faith in me?”

He gestured in front of them, and sure enough, there was finally light at the end of the tunnel. Cody just shook his head, smiling.

They emerged into the massive, muggy jungle and Cody immediately booted up his comm and nav, which hadn’t been working in the caverns anyway. The map of the surface he had downloaded popped up, with the little orange beacon marking their base. Several kliks away. 

“I thought we entered the caves just a klik from camp?”

Obi-wan frowned. “We did. Where are we now?”

Cody lifted his arm to show him. “You’re sure you didn’t get turned around in there?”

“Of course not, clearly the caves changed,” Obi-wan said primly. “Well, I suppose we could go back in.”

“Absolutely not. We are staying out here and following the route back. It’s the same distance, just with sunlight.”

They walked in companionable silence through the giant trees for a while, stopping every so often to check the map. They must have passed at least a dozen trees with trunks so wide Cody couldn’t see the other side before he broke the silence.

“Obi-wan, can I ask you something?” The other man nodded. “A little while back, when I was injured and you…helped Neat operate, I think something else might have happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“While you were…talking in my head, it started to feel like there was…a spot. A light? A little patch of warmth, right at the base of my skull. And afterwards, when I was out of bacta, it was still there. It is still there. At first I thought maybe it was something medical, but Neat scanned me again and said everything was normal. The more I thought about it, the more I tried to…interact with it, I guess, the more I realized…it feel like you. Like you inside my head somehow.”

Obi-wan looked pensive. “Fascinating.”

“Do you know what it is? It doesn’t feel harmful.”

They waded through a small stream, and Obi-wan offered Cody his hand to pull him up onto the far bank.

“In the Jedi Order, master and padawan pairs typically form a force bond. A link that lets them communicate directly with each other, often feel what the other is feeling, form a deeper relationship with that person. Usually, it’s only possible for someone force sensitive to form bonds.”

Cody pushed a branch out of their way as they climbed over some roots. He could see where this was going. “But clones aren’t force sensitive, so…that’s not what this is.”

Obi-wan hummed. “I’ve heard of a few rare exceptions. The force is in all things, Cody.”

After a few minutes, Cody worked up the courage to ask. “Do you feel anything? In your head?”

“It’s difficult to tell. I do feel quite strongly about you, but I can feel you externally in the force. I also have several other bonds. Anakin and I never fully dissolved our training bond, and I have a small bond with Ashoka as well. I have a different type of bond with Quinlan, and sometimes I can still feel the remains of my bond with Qui-gon. I suspect it would be easier to tell if we communicated through the force but you and I never seem to have the need,” he said, smiling gently at Cody.

Cody smiled back, and some of the anxiety he hadn’t even realized he was feeling melted away. He glanced down at his map. “Should be just over this ridge.”

They came over the top of the hill together, and Cody had to bite back a groan of frustration. In front of them was a downed tree, one of the super massive ones with the unimaginably wide trunks. The sun was going down. They didn’t have time to go around, and the trunk was so high Cody wasn’t sure they could climb over. His mind raced, trying to come up with a solution.

“Ah,” Obi-wan said, surveying the surrounding area. “I suppose we have to guess which was is shorter. We went left before, this time maybe we go—“

“Throw me.”

“I’m sorry?”

Cody grinned. “We go straight over. I run, and jump, and you throw me. Then you leap over after. We use the force.”

Obi-wan grinned back. “I don’t always say I believe in destiny, but surely Cody, you were sent to me straight from the force. Ready?”

Cody backed up, setting his stance. He was going to aim right for the center of the span of trunk in front of them. He nodded to Obi-wan, then took off running. Once he had reached top speed, he leapt into the air, and watched the trunk fly closer to his face until—

A warm, sweet smelling breeze, like freshly brewed tea swept him up, carrying him up, up, and over the trunk. He was so high the LAAT/is at the base below him looked like small animals, surrounded by swarms of tiny ant-troopers packing up to fly back to the Negotiator. Laughing, Cody did a somersault in the air as he flew over the tree, then spread his arms like he was parachuting and let the Obi-wan-wind carry him all the way to the ground, where he tumbled into the grass, still giddy.

A moment later, Obi-wan landed, cat-like, next to him, and helped him to his feet, laughing and pushing wind-swept hair out of his eyes. 

“You’re right commander, that was much more fun than going around.”

+ 1

Cody crept through the hallway, blaster pointed ahead of him. A light flashed on his HUD, Boil checking in. Waxer was due in 5 minutes, then Wooley. They’d set up a rotating check in system as they fanned out to scour the seemingly abandoned ship they’d been sent to investigate. If you asked Cody, splitting up was just asking for trouble, especially since no one was with his trouble magnet of a general. But it was the quickest way to get them out of here, so he’d acquiesced. 

Something rattled behind a door as he passed. He sighed, then pressed himself up against the wall, out of sight, and keyed the door open. Nothing jumped out, so he peeked around the corner.

It was a medium sized storage bay, and he was suddenly very thankful his door was obscured by crates, as he could hear vague voices coming from somewhere else in the room. The door slid silently shut behind him as he slipped in, trying to find a vantage point to see who was there through the crates.

He found a reasonably defendable spot in the corner and considered updating his men, but when he brought up his comm system it was like there was some sort of interference. Strange. No matter, they had his last location and his next check in was in only a few minutes, so someone would come join him eventually.

Through a gap in the crates, he could just make out two figures, one in a cloak and speaking to another cloaked figure who– oh. One figure, one hologram. Strange. They’d found no sign of crew aboard this vessel. He turned up his mic, trying to make out what they were saying.

“...plan has worked perfectly. They’ve already arrived,” the hologram was saying.

“Then they will soon be dead,” the other replied, and Cody’s blood ran cold. He suddenly had a very, very bad feeling about this mission. He knew that voice.

“I will leave you to your work.” The figure standing in the cargo bay removed her hood and knelt, confirming Cody’s suspicion.

Ventress.

Kriff. He had to get out of here, or signal his men, Obi-wan. He checked the time. His check in had passed two minutes ago, they’d be getting worried now. Slightly frantic, he tapped at his comm, willing it to work. What was the point of the kriffing antenna on his shoulder if he couldn’t get through? He remembered what Wolffe had looked like when he visited him in the med center after his encounter with Ventress. He couldn’t face her alone. 

The crates surrounding him suddenly blasted away, leaving him exposed in his little corner. Cody looked up to find Ventress stalking straight towards him.

“Poor little clone, where did your friends go?”

Cody leapt to his feet, blaster already primed to shoot, when a wall of pure something slammed into him, forcing him to drop his blaster and throwing him against the wall behind him. Immediately he scrambled to get up, but Ventress threw one hand out, and a freezing cold vice closed around his throat, lifting him off the ground.

He clawed at the invisible grip, but there was nothing there. He choked, straining to get a breath, but it was pointless. She dragged him through the air, until he was just a few inches from her face. Cody’s bucket floated itself off his head, flying away and clattering to the ground somewhere. The pressure on his neck eased ever so slightly, and Cody sucked in as much air as he could before it tightened again.

“Aren’t you a handsome one?” Ventress crooned, tracing one fingernail down his scar in a grotesque facsimile of how Obi-wan sometimes did when– focus, Cody. “Now. As much as I’d love to just kill you and get on with it, you know what part of the ship our dear Kenobi is on, don’t you?”

Cody tried to jerk away from the clawed fingers tracing his temples, but found the ice cold vice had spread to his entire body. He could breathe now, barely, but he couldn’t move even a single muscle. It was nothing like when Obi-wan had used the force around him before. That was…gentle, personal, it felt safe. This was anything but. Never before had Cody understood the raw power force users had at their disposal. It wanted to rip him limb from limb. Fear gnawed at his stomach. If only his comm had worked–

“Somewhere in that head of yours, we just have to find it.”

In his head. That was it! Desperately, as Ventress bared her teeth, Cody reached for the last warm spot on his being– a force bond, Obi-wan had called it. HELP, he thought, OBI–

Pain like he had never felt erupted from his temples, and he vaguely registered Ventress laughing as twin ice picks drove themselves through his skull, behind his eyes, in his brain, in whatever it was inside him that made him, him. 

Cody screamed, frozen in the air, no way to escape as she tore through his mind, looking for whatever it was she wanted, Cody couldn’t remember any more. There was only the freezing, burning pain.

It could have been hours, could have been minutes, but without warning, the pain stopped, and Cody found himself flying through the air and into the far wall. Pressure like a million duracrete bricks immobilized him a few feet off the ground, limbs splayed out like a pinned bug. Blinking the haze out of his eyes, he was confronted with two blurry forms whirling around the room; red and blue lights flashing. As his vision finally cleared he could make out Ventress, locked in combat with–

Thank the stars, Obi-wan. There was a fierce expression on his face as he met Ventress blow for blow. As Cody watched, Obi-wan glanced his way for a split second, then went back to the fight with renewed vigor. Unable to do anything, Cody found his eyes drifting shut.

He woke a short time later when he tumbled to the ground in a heap, the force holding him to the wall having vanished. Obi-wan was hurrying over to him from across the room, Ventress presumably having run away. Cody groaned.

“Full evac, effective immediately. I’ll meet you back at the ship with the commander,” Obi-was was saying into his comm, several tinny “yessirs” echoing out of it. 

“Cody, are you alright?”

Cody carefully felt along his throat with one hand. “Fine, I think. How–” he grimaced. His body felt like one giant bruise. He was still freezing. “How did you find me?”

Obi-was smiled wanly. “You called. I suppose it is a force bond, and does work both ways, though I can think of several other ways we could have tested it without you being in mortal peril.”

“I’ll try to remember that for next time.”

Obi-wan shook his head, reaching one hand out to the side. Cody’s bucket flew into it like it was magnetized, and Obi-wan carefully fit it back over his head, then gently pulled him to his feet. Cody half-expected Obi-wan to call on the force and simply levitate him back to their ship, but instead he hefted Cody’s over his shoulder and wrapped his own around his waist. His other hand came up to support Cody’s chest.

Cody leaned into him as they trudged back to the ship, letting Obi-wan take a fair amount of his weight.

“For the record,” he said, “I like it much better when you’re the one throwing me around with the force.”

“Careful commander,” Obi-wan teased, raising an eyebrow, “If someone hears you say that they might get the wrong idea.”

Cody glared at him, and concentrated all his effort on lifting one arm to smack him lightly in the chest. Obi-wan laughed, and Cody felt the world slide back into place around him.

“But yes, Cody, I much prefer that also.”

[h5eavenly]

Fallen Star┃Jake Sim

seventeen- can't you see the human in my being? warning: suggestive all over other than that enjoy yn+jake bonding!! and grab some snacks cus this is a long one

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The feeling of cool water surrounding you is celestial to say the least, albeit the smell of chlorine that cuts through the small space sharply, it meshes with the fragrance of your shampoo. It’s a dizzying scent if you focus on it too much. You hum to yourself, the enervation that has been clinging to your body amidst your busy schedule for the past couple of days, slowly dissolves, becoming one with the droplets trickling down your skin.

From seemingly long and dreadful red-carpet interviews you watched Jake go through, a couple of runway shows accompanied by your messed up sleeping schedule thanks to the time difference. This relaxing time was much needed.

With the pool having an open rooftop, the moonlight seeps in, illuminating the dark, reflecting against the water as if tiny million diamonds are swimming alongside you. The sight brings a silly smile to crawl up your face. In this moment, your life doesn’t feel as tangible as the warmth spreading throughout your chest.

Your tranquil silence is heckled by the sound of a door sliding open, footsteps following. You swivel your head around, a startled expression overtaking your smile at the sight of Jake. An amused arch of an eyebrow coaxes forth his own surprise upon seeing you.

“Hey?” You speak, swimming closer to him. Your hair slicked back, your face bare of anything and a natural flush settling upon your cheeks. It’s a sight he was not prepared enough to behold stumbling from between his cold sheets.

Hence why it takes longer than essential for your words to penetrate his brain, stretching seconds for him to compose himself.

“I was wondering who the fuck is crazy enough to be swimming at 12 am. Of course it’s our precious bunny.”  He teases, a smile curling at the end of his lips as he sits on one of the lounge chairs, by the edge.

Precious

It’s unfortified, a scarce display of a sentiment that settles right atop your heart, evoking beats mellowed down to a mere hankering for him. It’s simply serendipitous despite the knowledge that you know he doesn’t mean it endearingly, not one bit. Not with the way mischief colors his grin. Yet, your cheeks obliterated with a darker flush, foolishly you could only pray it’s not visible enough for his eyes to catch it.

“I couldn’t sleep.” An all too adorable of smile spreads across your lips, Jake blames it on his lack of sleep as he eyes you wading to him, till you’re close enough to rest your arms upon the side of the pool, a sparkle matches the light emerging from the moon swims in your gaze, your sweet scent invisibly travels all the way to him.

“So, you decided to take a swim in the middle of the night?”

“Mhm.” You relax your chin in the palm of your hand “I had to call Niki as well. I haven’t talked to him ever since we landed in Paris.”

“How is he doing?” he asks, leaning back on the chair and his eyes growing half-lidded as he tips his head back, they’re growing unabashed, lowering over the length of your slender neck.

A knot forms in your stomach at the ferocity.

“He’s alright.” You breathe out, softly.

“Is it morning in Korea?” he asks, chewing on his lower lip and you, with enormous exertion will enough self-control not to let your eyes wander.

“Yeah, I think I called him in the middle of class but oh well.”

“You miss him?”

“a little bit. Is that too loser of me?”  you breath out a giggle, diffidently brushing a strand of your hair away from your face, even though it never moved out of place.

“it’s cute.” He replies, with integrity fettering his words. Your breath hitches ever so slightly, stolen by the fondness coating the air.

It’s a stillness that is unfamiliar yet welcome, twirled with the warmth of your chest and his peace of mind.

“You’re calling me cute?” he rolls his eyes playfully, a smile forcing its way on his face and your giggles turn discordant, evoking the air to sparkle with your effulgence.

“I’m saying you missing your brother is cute.”

“So, I’m not cute?” you push your lips into a pout, a strive to capture fallen praises from his mouth. He leans forward, pressing his index finger into the skin of your forehead, tipping your head back and you follow with ease, a lazy smile climbing up your lips.

“You’re annoying.” He jokes, leaning back in his chair.

“You said it so fondly I’m taking it as a compliment.”

Jake doesn’t say anything back to that, only tilts his head to the side with an enticing simper and you fall into tune with an amicable song. It’s plaited with stares brimming with desire, curls of his smile and the fluttering of your lashes. Induced with your cheeks glowing pink, your heartbeat remains abiding.

A silent movie that unfolds right amidst your eye contact.

“Why aren’t you asleep?”  you ask, a venture in tries to dissipate the tension daunting on you, you tell yourself it’s out of nowhere, yet the look in Jake’s eyes has been as transparent as ever.

Push and pull, a servant to overflowing lust.

It’s instantly deemed a failure when his silence stretches, his eyes are too busy watching you, too patently diverted with how inviting your lips look.

“I don’t know. I just couldn’t sleep for some reason.” he shrugs.

Perhaps it’s the way his pale skin almost glimmers under the moonshine that has your breath hitching. As if stars traveled for years only to disintegrate with enough force upon his first breath into the universe. Amassing atop his skin, in the flickers of shades in his eyes and in-between the black strands of his hair. Even with fatigue staining his undereye, evidence of his tossing and turning in the mess atop his head. Jake remains the most dazzling star you got the chance to behold.

Not dancing along to this all-too-familiar song of allure is impossible. You fall into step way too easily, it’s embedded with the way your own eyes cloud with desire, a bite to your lower lip as you attempt to push your breasts together with an innocent grin, induced with charm. His eyes flit down immediately, tongue darting out to wet his own lips.

“There’s gotta be a reason. Weren’t you pretty tired earlier?”

“Mm.”

“You should relax.”

“Oh? How do you think I should relax?”

“There’s a lot of ways to relax.”

“Like what baby?”

Ah fuck. You don’t expect it and it shows in the way your eyes widen, crushed rose petals traverse across your cheeks and triumphant blooms upon his just as strong. The endearment goes straight to your core. A fire slipping down your folds.

You avert your eyes for a moment in futile attempts to collect your thoughts, to not turn into putty under his stare. He remains ruthless with his intensity, your body growing impossibly hot.

When you look back at him there’s newfound seduction coating your lips, tilting them upwards.

“I don’t know,” you start with a shrug “Maybe you’re just hungry Jake?” Your words spill like candied sweets, melting his tiredness away and rendering his senses awake. His brows raising in pleasant surprise, galvanizing him into leaning forward.

“Famished.” He answers, quickly, no sense of hesitation.

“You should eat then.”

“I should.”

You smile with your eyes before your lips, even with air tinted red with lust. A hue of brightness surrounds you. It does nothing to the way he watches you with undevoted attention as you amble out of the water. You take your time, dawdling past him to grab your towel. The minutes ticking by agonizingly slow as you dry yourself.

His eyes run wild, in their own race against his sinful cravings, trailing all over your body with no shame to hold him back, submerged with ripples of heat, it’s in the fire setting a trail form him to you ablaze. Surging up with beguiling invitation. By the slowness of your hand’s movement, it’s clear you’re holding back your cards, leading with teasing batting of your lashes, darting stares and giggles.

However, tonight Jake has no time for premeditated moves.

He already bared them all on the table.

“Come here bunny.” He says lowly, an order lacing his tone.

“Where?” you ask, faux abstinence has your eyes widening in pureness. He sees past them all, pulling on his own end of desire with a raise of brow at you. Colored with lead that makes your mouth water.

Yet he still lets a chuckle slip, overtaken by merriment. He pats his thigh silently; it is more than enough for you to follow. You trudge towards him, his eyes growing heavier with each step, darkening with a daze of lust.

As soon as you’re within distance, his hand wraps around your hip, his thumb brushing over your tattoo with tenderness that has you exhaling.

“I forgot about this little guy.” He comments, eyes fixated on your hipbone.

“You hurt his feelings.” You retort in a hushed whisper, albeit impishness, you’re closer to stifling on the mere idea of him.

Keeping his gaze interlocked with yours he leisurely inches forward, his other hand curling around your waist and tugging you towards him and you allow it with adroitness dripping from the softening of your fingers pushing through his hair. His lips part marginally, just enough for him to place an open-mouthed kiss right over your tattoo.

“Sorry.” He murmurs halfheartedly, the twitch of his lips should annoy you like it always does and yet you don’t find it in you the same way you don’t find an answer to give back.

You’re mutilated, particles that only ever come together under his diverting touches of adulation.

At your silence, he kisses it again, closing his eyes as if to savor the flavour of your skin, as if decades have managed to mesh within the negligent hours of his workdays since the last time he felt your skin on his lips. It feels closer to that when you let a whimper out, your fingers tightening in his strands as his lips slowly travel up. With bruising kisses akin to infatuation seeping into your skin, whizzing with your blood. he leaves a trail of stardust behind, seared onto your skin with electricity that will surely remain for days.

“Jake.” You moan, overtaken with debility that has him groaning.

As if a coil that snaps, a tempest of lechery he cannot hold back anymore, his hold on you consolidates, his fingers pressing into your flesh as he pulls you to straddle his lap, your arms find his neck naturally and the proximity is enough for him to wave his vanquishment haughtily

“I want you.” He whispers wantonly right atop your lips, his breath reeking of mint and your legs tremble with his honesty.

“You can have me.” you press your chest into him, lust erupts from between your words all the way down to your core.

You collide with feverish force, your lips unfurling almost promptly as his tongue invades your mouth. Your kiss turns messy and wet sinfully quick. His hands are all over your body, on your ass one minute and then your waist only to end up on your breasts, kneading them with the same yearning unfolding within you, it has you grinding down on him.

With desire coating your hands, they slip down his body with their own purpose, slipping past the constrictions of his undergarments, your palm wrapping around his shaft, he groans against your lips and the sound is enough to have your hand moving up and down languidly. It is ample for pleasure to seep into him, breaking from your kiss with a moan. A sound so melodically profaned, your own core shakes all the same.

“fuck” he whispers, resting his forehead against yours and you kneel into reverence with force, kindled with adoring eyes lingering on every expression that passes by him.

Every twist on his face, crinkle of his brows and then the way his eyes catch yours, not stumbling by a blunder but rather with intention. Akin to butterfly wings grazing the softness of petals. Entranced by their beauty and you, with one another, sweetness manages to mesh within all the fissures of ambivalence between you. He manages to stay the prettiest even with pleasure fogging his essence.

His hand encircles your wrist, halting your movements with a bite to his lower lip and you exhale, not realizing you were holding yourself back from breathing in all along.

“Let’s go to my room.” He says, voice a mere whisper with your lips almost touching, your chest heaving. As your eyes dart between his darkening orbs and his mouth, you nod.

Your appetency to feel his body against yours, and his greed for your mewls to spill into him overwhelm every other sensation with vigor, painting the inside of your mind with emptiness, induced with echoes of need for him. It all unwinds between his sheets and his hips moving against yours, with lust drunk kisses and stares that stretch way too long to be deemed appropriate for the relationship you two have.

You don’t allow yourself to dwell on it, even when Jake kisses trail from your lips to your cheeks with delicacy dusting them before he rolls off you.

After the both of you are showered, you learn on the doorframe of his bathroom, in a bathrobe and watch as Jake gets dressed in alleviated movement. He turns to face you, no usual disquiet etched onto his features. Instead, his skin glows brighter with city lights from his window.

“You wanna eat together?” you open your mouth to answer, yet before your words even manage to exist, your stomach grumbles, the sound cutting through the air forcefully.

He chuckles and your cheeks grow warm, with adorable discomfiture.

“I’m really hungry.” You smile.

“Me too.”

Jake ends up ordering room service, despite the late hour you’re guessing it’s one of the privileges you get when you’re the most famous person in Korea. With a table full of food separating you. Your chatter fills the room, with gleaming eyes and a beam on your face, your words unraveling parts of your past with funny situations and random pictures you had of your friends. Jake listens fastidiously, with seemingly uprunning attention and nods when it’s imperative.

“This was at Niki’s last birthday party. Wonie got so drunk there’s a not a silly thing that could cross your mind that he didn’t do,” you explain with a soft laugh, showing him the video, you took a few months back, falling into the warmth of nostalgia.

“Wait who’s that? Next to Ryujin.” he asks, fingers pointing at your screen.

“Oh, that’s Heeseung.”

“He looks different in everything you show me I swear.”

“Really? I feel like he looks the same.” You retort with an endearing giggle, one that has him clearing his throat as you scroll through your cameraroll “Maybe it’s the hair. He dyes it a lot.” You murmur, more to yourself as you tilt your head at the screen of your phone.

“Is he the one who gave you the alien tattoo?”

“Yes.” You groan, covering your face with your palm. It has a fond smile spreading across his face.

“What’s all that about anyways?”

“It was a stupid fucking bet.”

“Mm. tell me. I’m intrigued.”

You stare at him with dewy widened eyes, pulling your lips into a pout saturated with desires to run away. It does little to nothing to grate through his façade, it stays unwavering as he arches an eyebrow at you, scuttling gaze and you sigh. Knowing you’re cornered.

“I don’t want you to laugh at me.” You whine, a glisten takes place between your lashes, it evokes his fondness to enlarge.

“I won’t.”

“you’re already smiling,” your pout deepens, and his smile only stretches.

“Tell me.” you sigh with defeat.

“Basically, there was this guy I was obsessed with back in highschool. So, me and Heeseung made a bet that if I confessed to him in front of everyone, he’s gonna give me money.”

“How much?”

“Like 300$.”

“Damn. And the tattoo?”

“He said if I lost, he’d tattoo that stupid toy story alien on me. I thought there’s no way I’m losing so of course I agreed. Besides I had heard stuff about how the guy also likes me so I thought this should be easy.”

“Okay? What happened then?” you sigh, bracing yourself for the heat already crawling up the length of your neck with immense speed.

“I ended up confessing to the wrong guy.” You admit, looking at him through your lashes, Jake’s expression drops, crossing his arms atop his chest.

“You confessed to the wrong guy?” you nod, and he lets out an exhale of a chortle, crossing all the way to your chest and spreading just like you imagine an angel’s wings to unbosom “How?”

“They looked the same from the back. And I just went up to him and spilled the contents of my heart and you know what’s the worst thing about it?”

“Yeah?”

“It was during lunch time and in the middle of cafeteria, so everyone heard me.” you grouse, the embarrassment of the situation clambering over you all the same.

“So, you humiliated yourself and managed to get a shitty tattoo all at once?”

“Pretty much.” You answer with a chuckle.

A short silence settles, not twisted with excruciating awkwardness but rather a pleasant warmth, like the feeling of sunrays upon your skin after a dreadful cruel winter. It’s in the way Jake’s freshly clean hair falls over his eyes as he looks at you. It’s seraphic, enough to have you falling breathless, yet you don’t find the urge to run away from his gaze in you. Conjuring up enough gallantry to envelope his atoms with the affability of your smile.

His eyes dart down to your plate, a frown taking over his face at the sight of it being empty.

“Eat bunny. Who do you think I got this food for?” He berates with a tsk, adding pieces of steak onto your plate and you watch with amusement clinging to your features.

“You didn’t need to order this much.” You comment, digging into your food regardless.

“I told you I was hungry.” He replies, adding steamed vegetables onto your plate as well “Your diet is so shit. Have some veggies.”

“Excuse me? my diet is not shit- oh my god stop adding so much I can’t eat all of this Jake!” Giggles erupt from between your lips, amid bites you cover your mouth with the back of your hand.

“It is shit. All you have is sugar and coffee.” He falls back into his seat, bestowing you some mercy and leaving your plate alone.

“I have other stuff.”

He hums, resting his chin upon the heart of his palm. Watching as you indulge into your food with a smile of joy overriding your antecedent stubbornness.

“Why do you love sweets so much?” he asks after a while, after he has given you enough minutes to chew a good chunk of your plate.

“I don’t have a specific reason. It’s like my comfort amidst the chaos of life.”

Comfort. It tumbles out your mouth so easily, unrestricted by the shackles of hardship yet it reverberates with crudeness throughout the nooks of his brain, tastes pungent on his tongue. Nevertheless, it swirls in his mind with prodding questions. It translates into his gaze fogging up. Nebulous with conjectures if comfort were in the cards for him.

Surprisingly, you seem to be catching on to his telltales of running eyes and busy brain, as you pretend to pick your fork, your hand brushes against his briefly, akin to the feeling of Forget me nots on the tips of his finger. Like spring, warmth on the contrary to the coldness of his soul. It’s enough to bring him back to you. Eyes focused as they flit between your hand and your face.

“Do you have something like that?”

“Like that?”

You look out the huge window and Jake’s eyes stay on you, the marvelous city lights reflect upon your face, a sparkle manifesting in your eyes that is just as bright. As if every speck that is meant to shine only ever does so for you. it’s only evoked by the smile knitted with the rapture of existing on your face. It’s a little unjust – Jake feels, the realization that no matter what city he ends up in, no matter what roof he’s under and what kind of flavors on his tongue you’ll remain extravagant.

“Something that brings you comfort. when the world gets too loud, where do you find your silence?” You continue after a few seconds of quietness.

“I don’t think I have that.” He answers honestly.

There’s a rare vulnerability coating his words, cladding his being, it’s in the way the words fall from his lips, in the way he looks at you and it’s enough for you look back at him with similar vulnerability. The softening of your gaze does not summon his impulses to the surface. He doesn’t feel like running, instead he settles, right under Sakura petals. with a bated breath and you with a stirring heart that comes to life with emotions twinging into something much deeper than sexual attraction.

“Do you believe in hope?” you’re acutely aware of the confusion that fills his being at your question, raking through his mind for an answer that would make enough sense, deemed sane enough to give.

Please let me in you want to tell him don’t hide yourself from me you wish to speak yet you’re aware of the vow you’ve made. Of keeping yourself in check, never too far in. not this time.

“I don’t remember what hope feels like.” He starts, eyes flickering between yours and your chest tightens, not necessarily out of pity but rather as if a mirror had metalized and you’re looking at yourself. Relics of a human who has been too scratched up to recall anything else. There’s nothing as heavy as carrying around a bruised heart and more than anyone, you have memorized the weight.

“What is your hope like?” he asks, tilting his head at you with full attentiveness and your lips tilt up into a gentle smile, one that feels like soothing waves of comfort upon his heart.

“My hope is a lot of things.” You breathe out a chuckle “My hope is seeing Niki happy and healthy. My hope is seeing people’s worries flee their eyes when you help them with something or seeing the flowers I’ve been watering finally come to full bloom right under my gaze.” You trail off sheepishly, your smile growing the more words spill from your mouth “My biggest hope remains in Japan.”

“Japan?” he asks, and you nod along.

“I want to open a bakery in Japen. A cute little, small one where I sell my baked goods and I get to witness people’s smile upon their first bite.” Jake sees it all in your face and in your words – the pure euphoria that comes solely from dreaming. Not in desperate attempts to find happiness in melancholic hours of your everyday life but rather while floating away alongside the clouds, elicited by what could have been and what could be.

It is a little foolish, he finds it to be. He had long given up on looking for what cannot be tangible, what he cannot sense between the grasp of his fingers. Yet within his dark sky a singular gleaming star is born, sparkling into life and it is merely coaxed by the way you’re looking at him right now.

“That sounds magical bunny.” He comments and it’s genuine, coloring every letter yet for unascertained reasons you find yourself longing to give him touches of your magic.

Though deprived of unbridled happiness. You don’t recall moments when you got to enjoy crumbs of gaiety without worries of tomorrow or the future invading your mind. Hence dreaming, hope remains a taste of joy amidst the bitterness that comes with living and growing older.

You can’t help but grow a want to give him the same hope.

“If you could do anything you want do right now, without consequences and without worries,” you start, voice much quieter than before “what would it be?”

He is silent for a moment, his eyes drifting to the window and this time it’s you with a lingering gaze at him, overtaken by the glaze of his irises.

“I want to be able to love music like I used to.”

Aleit the months you have spent by his side, beholding the facets he likes to wear and witnessing the rare moments where it’s just him. Right at this moment, it’s just Jake and his grief. Tinted with a glacial agony that only comes from forcibly letting go of love. For them to pull your heart out from the unrelenting clutches of your hands, and yet you’re empty handed.

A glacial agony that runs through your bloodline just as deep.

“Can’t that be your hope?”

“No.” he laughs swiftly, but it’s void of emotions, not a spark of humor can be distinguished, no happiness “Music can never be my hope. Not again.”

“Why?” you ask, tentatively “Why can’t you love music the same way you did?”

Jake never gives you an answer, he isn’t unkind in any way, not vicious in any sense. He is as placid as still waters, nowhere near as wild as your heartbeat as he smiles at you, it’s benign.

can't you see the human in my being? the same one clad with agonizing torment? the one with scars that are deeper than i could ever show?

“Should we go to sleep? We have a long day tomorrow.”

Your conversation with Jake haunts your mind for much longer than you anticipated. When you lie your head on your pillow you don’t drift to sleep like you had hoped. Instead, you stay awake for a little longer while thinking about his words. They all lead you to more questions. After seeing the amount of crowd that had been waiting for him at the airport you realize he is truly Korea’s biggest celebrity so what exactly happened for him to leave Paranoia? How did he end up here with clear longing for music? What is stopping him? And why does everyone around him seem to be ignoring his clear symptoms of OCD?

Nothing makes sense to you, not him or the people you’re working with. Most importantly the ache that has nestled in your chest at the way he smiled at you stays the most confusing.

You tell yourself you should look up Paranoia, yet you end up falling asleep with your phone between the clutches of your hands.

The next morning comes with a gentle breeze swirling the streets of Paris, taking your thoughts away with the passing wind and the ache that was present last night is long perished, eluded by Jake’s mitigated face that greets you as soon as you’re downstairs. Your sleepiness long forgotten as you lock eyes. His warmth traverses through all the space you create between you as you settle two chairs away from him. Right next to Sunghoon who greets you with a fist bump.

Albeit the unfamiliarity, you find yourself smiling down at your plate.

You and Jay go through Jake’s schedule together. With him not having anything till a Prada event that is set later that evening, it feels more like an off day than anything. As the team gathers to eat breakfast Jennie tells you’re free to do whatever you want all morning.

Sunghoon and Sunoo decide to go back to sleep while Jay grumbles about promises he made with Soojin. It’s only you and Jake. Despite Jennie’s assurance to you that you could spend the day alone if you wanted to. You deemed that to be way too lonely, and boresome for you.

And so, you end up sticking to Jake’s side as he strolls through the city, with an undeniable joy woven into his features, in the steps he takes. It’s a refreshing sight to behold. Has the same joy nestling into you, overtaken and completely dismantling any negative thoughts you had. You never imagined a day to come like this one. Where you’ll able to see him so carefree, smiles find home onto his lips easier, laughs escapes him candidly.

Albeit the couple of bodyguards and a cameraman following you around - something about filming a vlog for Hype’s youtube channel – he looks the happiest you’ve ever seen him. You keep your distance, not wanting to disturb or get caught on camera on accident.

Never too far in. you remind yourself.

It’s only after you pass by a couple of bakeries that the small group of his team stops moving, therefore halting your steps as well. You, overtaken with confusion watch as slowly they separate, as if drawing a path for you and at the end Jake is standing there, waiting for you with a lopsided smile, induced with charm as he beckons you with a wave of his hand.

“Come here, bunny.”  With a racing heart, limbs traced with chagrin at everyone’s eyes on you, you walk to him.

As soon as you’re close enough, his palm envelopes yours with a tug, it is so abrupt, you don’t get enough time to settle into the feeling. Of having him this close to you outside the realms of his bedroom before he pulls you into one of the bakeries. It is so unexpected, and that is solely why your heartbeats are so loud it rings in your ear. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself, even after Jake had ordered three different kinds of pastries and urges you to try each one.

“How does it t taste?” He asks, as you’re standing outside, and his eyes are pasted onto you.

A dark flush seems to have found perennial refuge upon your cheeks, an exposure to all the clamorous beats coursing through your chest, as if your heart is about to ooze through your blush, you chew slowly on the cream cheese Danish, it feels like an explosion of flavours in your mouth. The cream cheese balances the sweetness and the berries on top give it freshness.

It has your eyes widening with an all too known gleam, excitement courses through your body and you hop your feet in place as you face him.

“It’s really yummy!” You reply with evident enthusiasm tinting your voice, awakening his own.

“Let me try.” He tells you, lips curling up into a grin, an underlining endearment at your reaction.

You nod eagerly, just as you’re about to cut the piece of goods in half with the assumption that he probably doesn’t want to eat from the same place your mouth has touched, his hand encircles your wrist, a phantom of gasp scurrying out your lips as he guides your hand with the Danish in it to his mouth, you’re forced to stand on your tiptoes as he takes a bite.

Your heart pulsates against your ribcage, watching him with incredulity all over your face.

Unlike you, Jake is completely nonchalant to the way he acts, instead his eyebrow only raises slightly at the taste.

“y-you don’t like it?”

“It’s okay.” He shrugs and you snort playfully, shaking your head as his grip loosens around your wrist.

“I forgot you’re like impossible to please.”

“It’s not that. I just think yours taste better.”

“Mine?”

“Yeah, the stuff you make taste so much better.”

His words shatter through your vow with facility. Dispelling the promises you repeated to yourself as if they’re mere specks of dust. You don’t have enough of stability to focus on what fact first, the one where he admits he has been eating your baked goods that you bring to work all along or the one where he spills compliments into you as if they’re meaningless, as if their sentiment doesn’t overwhelm your being.

“Stop lying.” You whisper, eyes fixated on him.

“I never lie, you know this.” He says, effortlessly “try a different one.” He urges, pointing at the leftover pastries.

Absentmindedly you nod, with flushed cheeks and an increasing heartbeat. A heat seared with a circle around your wrist as if his hand is still around you. Despite his touches that you have felt upon your skin, in ways deeper than you’d ever admit outside the walls of his bedroom. Unwittingly your body makes room for one more sentiment to nestle into you. Not with force, but rather serene.

The same one that fills the tips of your fingers as you this time extend your hand to him, he leans down, eyes locked with yours as he takes a bite from the dessert, right over where your lipstick stained.

“This one taste better.” He hums, and you swallow around nothing, deeming yourself closer to demented with the way you keep staring at his lips.

“I like the other one more.”

“Probably because it’s sweeter.” He chuckles, swiping right at the corner of your lips with his thumb, you almost shriek with an itch to curl onto yourself “Your lipstick was a little messed up.”

“Thanks.” You mumble, inadvertently bringing your fingers to your lips right where he touched.

The following hours unfold with you two going in and out of stores. With notorious intentions like buying gifts for your friends or simply to check out something that managed to catch your attention. Jake follows with a small smile gracing his face, mainly at your overflowing exuberance as you drag him from one place to another.

“What do you think?” you ask, looking into the mirror, a light brown coat draped over you.

Jake hums, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes trail over your figure. At the lack of appease in his gaze, you face him, grinning at him and twirling around “So?” You urge, and he could only shake his head with a soft laugh, amused by the way you seem to pull it from him unequivocally.

“It’s cute bunny,”

“But?”

“But I think the baby blue would suit your skin tone so much more. This brings a gloomy and serious aura to you.” He adds.

“But I wanna be serious.” You mumble, turning to the mirror with a pout adorning your face.

Jake tips his head to the side, hands in his pockets as his eyes focus on you. primarily you end up trying the baby blue one and just like he said, it suits you so much better, bringing out the colors in your eyes rather than dim them.

“I like it!” you clap your hands diligently, perked up compared to when you tried the one before.

“Get it.” He encourages and you would have nodded eagerly if not your eyes have shifted in the mirror, your attention stolen by a pair of earrings, a different type of gleam takes place onto your face, one that is never directed at yourself.

“Oh my god Niki would love these earrings!”

Jake watches as you shrug off your coat, long forgotten as you make your way to check out the jewelry that had caught your attention. Aleit disappointed he isn’t surprised; he had noticed this tendency of yours coming to the surface all day. Managing to find something worthy to buy for your friends in every store the two of you had stumbled in. anyone but yourself it seems.

Putting yourself as the last resort appears to come to you naturally, constantly at the back of your mind is your own enjoyment, finding it elsewhere and it merely exists in spending your money on other people. Truthfully it did infuriate him more than he’d ever admit. For some odd reason something akin to disillusionment curls into the bit of his stomach each time he watches you casting aside a piece you originally were enthralled with.

Abandoning yourself then leaving with the waves with no intention of coming back.

He strolls behind you leisurely, eyeing the pieces of jewelry and pauses in front of a certain necklace. A sliver chain with a bunny to be specific, it’s rather simple yet the pure design of the bunny has a small smile stretching upon his face. It’s uncanny similarity to you has him purchasing the necklace without much thought and it isn’t until he’s at the cashier paying, he realizes he foolishly followed his impulses.

Who is he to gift you something as endearing as a necklace that reminds him of you? it’s absolutely ridiculous.

“What did you get?” you ask once you’re out the store, eyeing the small bag between his hands.

“Nothing important.” He replies, averting his eyes as he attempts to hide the bag behind his legs. It’s a clear indication of running, an avoidance that you allow. Nodding to yourself.

Never too far in.

It’s only a bit later when you’re both drawn in by a crowd that you catch yourself too far in, Jake stops, with a wandering gaze pasting onto a busker, playing in the middle of people with immense enthusiasm, it’s the passion coloring his gaze and the smile stretching upon his face as if the sun has only rose today for his music to fill the streets. You’re not taken away by his tunes rather by the man standing next to you.

Involuntarily your eyes dart over Jake’s face earnestly to find answers, His eyes are softened, tinged with longing, yearning. One like missing an old friend that you have spent countless nights with, or a soul crushing longing for an old lover that you cannot longer see, touch. The ache a soldier feels for one day to come back home.

Despite the love, pain remains a constant in every single one and you see it in his gaze.

Silently you walk to place money into the busker’s hat, and he throws you a thankful grin. Jake watches you with a gentle smile, a foreign warmth engulfing his being as you walk back to him, you with a craving dripping from your fingertips, one to disassemble his intricate sorrows and him for the veneration infiltrating his bosom at how effortlessly kind you are.

“Should we go back to hotel?”

“Yeah. let’s go back.” You reply with a smile of your own, adoring your face.

The Prada event, unlike the last one, goes by fluidly with Jake’s glamour taking by the cameras and you stand close by, with a hushed secret curled into the palms of your hands. One stroke of glimmer amid the silence in your mind as you watch him. It’s akin to privilege at knowing no lens, no matter the price could ever capture his beauty the way your eyes do. like given the pleasure to behold the flutter of colorful butterfly wings for the first time, you smile faintly to yourself.

The afterparty that follows goes just as lithely, alongside the buzz in your system due to the couple of shots you took. You feel great, dancing with Sunoo and Sunghoon to the blaring music. It’s only an hour later, when a thin sheen of sweat covers your neck that you take a seat right next to Jay. Your eyes heedfully searching the place for a glimpse of your boss.

“Where’s Jake?” you finally ask, turning to face the latter.

“He went back to the hotel.” He answers, “He also told me you should enjoy yourself and don’t worry about going back early for him.”

“I forgot he doesn’t really like parties.” You comment, your fingers picking at your red latex dress. A vague disappointment blooms ever so slightly in you, tracing your veins merely driven by the fact that Jake isn’t here to see it.

“Yeah, not really his scene.” Jay answers with a breath of a chuckle.

At that you perk up, your disappointment is momentarily pushed to the side as an idea swirl in your mind. Coming to life by the questions that have haunted your mind the previous night

“I never would have thought that an ex-rockstar hates parties.” You comment, clearing your throat as you side eye him.

“He’s gone to enough parties to last a lifetime. Now he’s like an old man when it comes to late nights. He’d rather sleep early or stay home.” Jay replies with a shrug.

“Was he that wild in Paranoia?”

“I wouldn’t say wild but more like normal rockstar wild, you know?” He answers vaguely and it only feeds your confusion, filling you with even more prodding questions.

You chew on your bottom lip, contemplating on what to say next. Perhaps it was the alcohol in your system, blurring your filter into nonexistence or it was the curiosity invoked in you by your conversation last night. Or maybe it was the grief haunting Jake’s essence, as if skin draped upon his bones and he cannot seem to take it off.

“Can I talk to you about something?” you ask, and as he leans closer to you to hear you clearly, amidst the chimes of music you ponder for a second if this is the suitable place for you to obtain answers.

“Anything.” He replies right away, and you inch closer, your shoulders touching.

“Throughout my stay with Jake these past few months I’ve noticed some things.”

“Okay? Like what?”

“I’ve been with him almost every second of his everyday life and I’ve noticed that he has some serious OCD symptoms,” Jay falls into a nerve wrecking silence for you, it’s ample for the seeds of doubts in your mind to grow horrendously brisk “I’m sorry if I’m overstepping or perhaps saying something I shouldn’t. my concerns only come from worry for him.” You continue, your eyes darting over his features rapidly in search of a sign.

“It’s okay yn, I know.” he responds.

“You know?” you question, a frown taking over your face quickly.

“Yeah,” He sighs, as if it’s a secret that have finally broke into the world although it’s only you who listens, its existence hangs heavy “It’s pretty obvious if you know him well enough that he has undiagnosed OCD or something along those lines. He probably even knows it at this point.”

“At this point? If you had doubts, why didn’t you suggest he goes to therapy? Surely that would make everything easier for him.”  Your frown is only enhanced by your growing questions.

“I have. But he doesn’t want to so I’m not gonna make him.”

“But why?”

“Because he would have to talk about what he doesn’t want to relive yet. And I cannot blame him for that or take it away from him.”

But what is it that he doesn’t wish to relive? What kind of misery has been casted upon his soul for his wish to flee to remain? An inexorable desire draped with facet of darkness.

“doesn’t that make it harder for you as well?”

“yn he’s not incompetent. You’ve noticed how he deals with and alters his triggers so he’s able to function normally,” he starts, eyes pouring into yours with conviction, a strive to plug out your doubts with vigor “I’m his manager but I’ve been his best friend for years. I trust him and when he does eventually deem himself ready to see someone about it then good for him.” His lips swiftly curl up into a gentle smile as if trying to dismantle your worries “right now he’s handling it really well considering everything and we could only have his back throughout it all.”

Your words wither at the tip of your tongue, not with incentives like contentment but rather with realization that what lies in front of you is something much more tremendous than you thought. It isn’t solved by scratching the surface or a few shared words of comfort between souls. It is attempting to free your closet of skeletons but to cower in fear every time your fingers graze the doorknob. It’s to spend every breathing moment in searching for light only for night to persist, for tears to descend upon your cheeks even after swearing to find happiness in the trivial things.

It’s an anomaly, constantly growing the need to abandon your heart, merely because it bears too heavy, too much.

You understand more than anyone.

So, you stay quiet.

With an ache dragging through your limbs, you make it into your room with a sigh. You immediately throw yourself on the bed as soon as your heels are off. Yet you don’t get to settle into the softness of your sheets before a thud captures your attention. With a furrow you peak at the ground and notice a small bag that you surely didn’t buy has fallen.

You forthwith sit up recognizing it as the bag that was between the clutches of Jake’s hands earlier. your tiredness replaced with an intrigued gleam as you open the bag.

What greets you is not something you have prepared for, not with a hazy mind and surely not with a heart as fragile as yours, it trembles with the scent enveloping the box. His scent. it courses through your being with vivacity, one that has your eyes widening as a necklace with a small bunny pendant stares right back at you.

Your fingers caress the bunny softly, the same way your eyebrows drop and interchangeable from the feelings creasing your being, running alongside your blood is nothing far from adoration. It’s in the way your chest warms with magnificent vehemence. As if the sun has finally shone after years of unwavering cloudiness, sunrays sundering through and it all translates into a smile dispersing across your lips, mostly uninvited.

Taking note of the card hiding in the bag, you take it out and read it.

For whenever your hope wavers

May this bunny help liquidate all your worries.

Your lips curve up in a smile induced with the magnitude of his words, albeit they’re not long they still touch your soul with warmth, evident with the way your irises shake with your heartbeat as they trail over the words over and over again. Placing your palm upon your heart you feel it reverberate, and you let yourself sink into the feeling. Abandoning the confines of the past, of what’s morally correct and what you should do. For tonight and maybe tonight only you allow yourself to feel, for your frail heart to find purpose in such minuscule words and for Jake’ scent to invade every fiber of your being with serene.

You allow yourself to reach for your phone, your fingers scrolling through the contacts, and you call him.

Jake answers on the third ring.

“Hello?” his voice is a tad deeper on the phone, enough to have you sucking in a breath “bunny?” he calls after your silence has lasted.

“Thank you.” you whisper softly.

“Mhm?”

“For the gift. It’s so pretty Jake, I love it.” Despite the fact that he can’t see your face, he can discern your sincerity through the cadence of your voice. It is enough for him to fall silent for a couple of minutes, listening to you breathe.

“How was the party?” he finally asks, evading your previous conversation.

“Really fun!” your usual liveliness is sneaking back into your voice and it has him smiling “I’m a bit tipsy I’m gonna be honest.” You continue, throwing your head back onto the pillows with a sigh.

“Yeah, Sunghoon sent me a video of you dancing.”

“What? Oh my god!” you exclaim, burying yourself into the pillows with a whine, albeit a bit childish, strangely it doesn’t annoy him, growing accustomed to your antics.

“You got some sick moves yn.” He quips.

“I’m gonna kill Sunghoon.” You grumble, words muffled by the pillow but audible enough for him to chuckle, the sound goes straight to your tummy, breathing life into butterflies to flap their wings “I probably looked like a mess too.” You trail off, turning on your back.

“You always look beautiful.” He retorts, softly and despite giving permission for your feelings to unfold, your being isn’t ready for his first words of flattery to fall upon your ears.

It has your breath hitching audibly, a shift in the air as you squeeze your thighs together.

“Don’t let it get to your head though.” He taunts, taking note of your lingering silence.

“I won’t don’t worry. I’m not Jake Sim.”

“I’m the humblest celebrity to exist what are you on about?”

“You just called yourself a celebrity you’re not humble in any way.” You reply with a snort.

“That’s just facts.”

“Just like how you’re full of yourself is facts?” you muse, rolling onto your side and yet finding yourself squeezing your thighs together at the chuckle he lets loose.

“Since when were you allowed to tease me this much, mhm?” he replies, tone dropping lower with volume, his playfulness is still apparent, it feels closer to warning, one that is whispered before his teeth sink in to you.

“My apologizes boss.” You say, with an evident irony coloring your tone.

A tranquil silence follows, woven with your placid mind yet raving heartbeat. It’s a paradoxical state to be in, especially with how hazy your thoughts are coming out to be. It doesn’t give you room to decipher the reason behind lust climbing up your spine and taking over every coherent sentence you could mutter. It is absolutely unhinged how even the sound of his breathing reminds you of his mouth pressed against your ear as he’s buried deep inside of you.

“You should get some sleep, or you’ll probably feel like shit in the morning,” his voice cuts through your quietness with vigor albeit its lower tone, settles deeper into your being, painting the inside of your brain dark with desire.

“Probably.” You reply breathlessly, eyes dropping, heavy lidded.

“you okay?”

Snapping yourself out of a daze is a strenuous task, one that you are too fatigued for and yet you try, clearing your throat.

“Yeah, just got a lot on my mind. You’re right I should sleep.”

“What are you thinking about?” his voice no higher than a whisper, as if he also could read the contents of your mind, take a look into all the aberrant fantasies manifesting.

“Nothing. You should go to sleep as well.”

“What’s on your mind bunny?” It’s no longer a question rather an order, induced with his stern tone and it has you falling apart in all the same ways he knows, all the same ways you hate.

“You.” you admit with a whisper, as if your embarrassment will subside yet your blush remains.

“What about me baby?”

“You can’t call me that.” You whine, unwittingly burying your face into the pillow yet again, your thighs rubbing together with hopes to relief some of the heat crawling over your being

“You hate it?” he asks with a bated breath, a small victory in knowing you’re not the only one affected by this.

“no.” your voice fades out, overtaken by your heaving chest “Do you like it?”

“Jake.” You don’t mean to be as whiney, yet they spill uncontrollably.

“Tell me.” he demands, oozing with paramountcy there’s no other possible way for you not to fall into him with submission.

“..I like it.” You breathe out, your underwear drenching with your arousal unfairly fast, it has you chewing on your lower lip, your fingers trail an invisible path on your thigh.

“What were you thinking about bunny?” he asks, the same arousal flooding his being, persevering in tainting you both.

“Just you, all over me.” you reply, your words falling with hushed whispers, bated breaths.

“What do you want all over you?”

“Your hands.”

“Where do you want my hands?” his questions stay persisting, It has you squirming upon your sheets unsure if you’re looking for an escape or for his voice to seep into you. He hums when you’re too quiet, urging for your words to follow and you swallow around nothing.

“Want them inside of me.”

“Yeah? what about my mouth?” his own voice grows strained, evidence of his fingers trembling against the rails of control.

“Want it too. Want it so bad.” Your confession falls boundlessly, no time for them to straggle by your deepening blush

“I wanna taste you too. Want you to come all over my tongue.” The mewl you let out at his words is unanticipatedly sinful, enough to have him groaning. A myriad of pictures flash in your mind, each one of them has him in it, infused with deviant touches and lustful kisses.

“Are you touching yourself?” his tone is gentle, a muzzled mutter in contrast to the situation you both found yourself in, you shake your head vigorously even though he cannot see you, you aren’t sure how is it possible for something as trivial as the lilt of someone’s tone to permeate your being this diligently.

“No but I want to.” Your filter is long shattered, your desires spill with nothing holding them back now.

“Don’t” he warns, and you bite back a whimper, swallow it down with vigor “I’m coming to your room. Wait for me.” He ends with a promise, snapping you out of your dazed enjoyment.

“Hurry.”

Is your last request before your call ends. With an itch in your fingers, you hold back with an immense force you don’t know how you manage to find. That is until ten minutes pass with no sign of Jake and soon after the ten minutes turn into fifteen, you roll off your bed with a huff, mind running a little wild with worry at his absence and an underlining exasperation at your lust being unattended to.

And so, you make your way to his room, albeit the throb of tiredness still evident in your bones, you knock on his door with too much of a force to deemed discreet. You don’t get to linger for hope, one like praying you didn’t disturb anyone else. Before the door opens, a somewhat disheveled Jake comes into view. The first few buttons of his white dress shirt in unattended to, exposing the top of his chest and perhaps you spend way too many fleeting moments staring.

“Bunny- fuck” he breaths out with a draining groan.

“Is everything okay? You said you were coming but- “before your sentence could fully come out your mouth, your eyes shift, darting to the figure behind him and your expression melts off vastly unexpected.

“Jake! Come back!” Soojin yells with a whine, kicking her feet on the ground as she trashes around the bed, discernibly drunk.

“Is she okay?” you ask, eyes fliting between the two.

“She’s just drunk and a little troubled.” He explains warily, running his hand through his hair “I’m sorry about this I’ll make it up to you later, okay? I- “

“Jake!!” Soojin whine cuts into your conversation once again and your smile curl up with force “I’m coming” he retorts, turning his head at her for a moment before facing you once again “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Is there anything I could do to help?” you ask, concern etched upon your face and the sight warms his chest the tiniest bit.

“Not really. It’s something between me and her so you don’t have to worry about it.” He explains.

Between me and her.

It’s unjust, how hastily a couple of words can founderwith your confidence with so little effort, for them to dispel every emotion that was flowing through your veins and an abyss to comes to life in the middle of your chest instead. Your star unceremoniously plugged out from between the grasp of your fingers only for you to recognize it was never your star to begin with, your sky is not yours either, it is one everyone was looking at all along, inscribed with the same longing twirling in your eyes.

Your paralyzing idiocy remains a part of you and your insecurity stares right back at you with derision, how stupid to ever think of yourself worthy enough of anything ever fluorescing scarcely for you.

“I’m sorry bunny. I promise to make it up to you.” he pledges, and your eyes soften despite the heaviness weighing your heart.

“it’s okay. I’ll leave you to it then.” Just as you’re about to turn around to leave, Jake’s palm envelopes yours, halting your movement and you look at him in question.

“Can you please keep this a secret from Jay as well? I don’t want him to know about this.” His words twist the knife deeper into your heart, a puddle of your misery lies beneath your feet.

“I get it. It’s between you two I won’t tell anyone.” Your smile is strained, and your nails dig into his palm unwittingly.

You return to your bed heavier than you left. Heeseung’s comfort from a couple of weeks ago swirls around your mind and you manage to find solace in them. Albeit momentarily it’s ample for you to doze off, head plagued with thoughts of Jake and Soojin. As your interest has seemed to grow immensely in him during this trip you can’t help but let your thoughts wander. Evoked by what kind of past the two must have. You can’t help but feel like Jake has some sort of affection towards her, one that he cannot seem to let go of. An old flame that you always end up crawling back to although the burns adoring your skin.

The next morning comes with a minor ache forming in your head, not too bothersome and it slowly wears off as you shower and get ready for your day, it’s only when you’re in the middle of your make-up that a knock on your room door halts your routine. Surprise sneaking into your expression when you open it, and Jake is standing there. You invite him in after he greets you and he ends up sitting on your bed as you finish the last bit of your make-up. Eyes dark as they assess your body appreciatively, watching with devoted concentration as you apply your lip-gloss on.

“Can you help me?” you ask coyly, catching his eyes in the reflection of the mirror, your bunny necklace between your fingers.

“Of course.” Jake replies instantly, voice doused in emotions as he walks towards you.

“How’s Soojin?” you ask once he’s close enough, handing him the necklace.

“She’s all good now don’t worry.” He answers, although his tone is massively void, clearly uninterested.

you move your hair to the side and out of the way, his fingertips delicately brush over the skin of your neck, causing shivers to erupt upon your skin as he gently clasps the necklace, you could sense something unfurling in the depths of your stomach. You feel his chest against your back, every inhale, exhale vibrates through your being all the same. You lock gazes in the mirror, and you wither away, akin to dried autumn leaves, easily crushed by the force of his eyes as he slowly leans down, placing feather light kisses on the nape of your neck.

“Did you guys figure out whatever it was between you and her?” you breath out, tilting your neck further to grant him better access, his hands sneaking to your waist as he pulls you flush against him.

“Mhm.” His kisses turn unforgiving, melting your thoughts.

“W-what is it that you guys were talking about anyways?” your curiosity in unrelenting, pushing at the roof of your mouth with force.

“I don’t wanna talk about Soojin right now bunny. It’s nothing of importance.” He grumbles against your skin, dousing you in arousal as his lips trail up, kissing behind your ears and you shiver “I promised to make it up to you remember?” he whispers against the shell of your ears and you shiver, your palms tracing the veins on his arms.

“Yeah,” you reply breathlessly.

Evidently your doubts leave momentarily, overtaken by the pleasure he inflicts on you, and it all translates into you two both giggling over breakfast, throwing teasing remarks at each other and unaware of the way Sunoo and Sunghoon are staring at you both with evident bewilderment etched onto their face.

“What the fuck?” Sunghoon speaks, tone laced with shock as his eyes flit between you two “Is Jake fucking chuckling?”

“Pussy is really one magical thing.” Sunoo murmurs, shaking his head with now disgust climbing over his face.

“Amen.” Sunghoon replies with a snort.

→ taglist : @slutforsjy @wonwoos-wineparty @nxzz-skz @piripurora

@vousty @realrintaro @slut4hee @chartrucewhore @iveivory

@hearteyesforseungsung @jooniesbears-blog @hee4lifer @babrieeee

@mandoscyare @stayyyyyyyyyyyy21 @softieluvsyou @seunghancore

@chaewonshoney @beommii

@fuxktaekook @antonsgirlfriend @nessas-archive @lukeys-giggle

@arikazu @pochamocharoll @chlodavids @jakeyverse @belovedsthings

@vveebee @duhgurl @niniissus @dreamiestay

@hmusunoo @lhspeachie @illvding @not-very-slay-of-you @luvrseung

@tanisha2060 @enhabun @sngleehee

(bold cant be tagged)

[sargebarnesx]

Sweetness

Pairing: Jim Hopper x unnamed female OC

Rating: 18+ ONLY

Warnings: unprotected sex, semi-public sex, dirty talk, pining, spanking, Hopper's thighs in jeans (felt that this deserved to be here), little bit of instalove/lust

Word Count: 4.4k

Summary: Jim Hopper could use a little sweetness in his life.

Author's Note: I’ve been working on this for forever but edited it pretty quickly so I apologize for any mistakes!

Monday

The bell over the door rang lightly. He looked out of place in the small bakery, the tan colors of his uniform contrasting with the baby blues and baby pinks adorning the walls. His eyes scanned over the various pastries, cookies, and cakes, sitting pretty in their cases underneath cozy lights.

“Good morning, how are y-oh hey Chief! How are you this morning?”

She emerged from the back room, wiping her hands on a white towel. Her hair was pulled back in a clip but she had loose strands sticking to beads of sweat on her forehead. Bits of flour were sprinkled among a smattering of freckles.

Jim Hopper raised a hand in greeting. “I’m good, honestly just hungry. Thought I’d stop by and see what you had available this morning.” He stepped closer to the counter.

She swiped her towel over her face before tossing it on a back counter. “We have muffins, croissants, bagels, donuts. We also have a small coffee bar. Any of that sound good to you?” She met his gaze from behind the counter, a good foot shorter than him. Her apron was tied twice around her waist, emphasizing her full hips. He noticed that the same freckles that decorated her face also covered her hands, arms, and chest.

“A coffee and a…” he trailed off, leaning back to eye the other case, “Blueberry muffin please.”

“You got it, Chief,” she turned away to grab a paper bag.

He had known her for a while; he remembered her from high school but she was younger, maybe a freshman while he was a senior. Her parents were an integral part of Hawkins, the owners of a sandwich shop down the road.

He felt she had barely changed over the years, other than the fullness of her figure, the length of her hair, the warmth in her eyes. He recalled her younger brother’s recklessness, his run-ins with the law. She wasn’t anything like him, at least not to his knowledge. Jim couldn’t imagine the person who ran a place like this had any interest in being reckless.

“Here you go,” her voice pulled him from his thoughts and he glanced up to see her holding a coffee cup and a paper bag out to him. “How much do I owe you?” He asked, reaching for his wallet. She shook her head, “It’s on the house.”

“No way, let me-“

“It’s on the house,” she repeated softly, “Happy Monday, Chief.”

Jim smiled in thanks, taking his items from her. She smiled back as he retreated towards the door and back to his Blazer. He pinched a small piece off of his blueberry muffin on the way to the station.

It was the best muffin he had ever tasted.

Tuesday

She blew out a breath, nearly dropping a tray of bagels on the counter. It was 7:45 am, and Kimberly, her opener, was supposed to have been here fifteen minutes ago. She had been here since 3 am and frankly, her arms were tired and her back hurt. She really didn’t want to work all day but it was looking like she’d have to. She had planned to leave at 9:00 am when her other staff members were scheduled to arrive but such is the life of a business owner.

She hurriedly finished setting up her cases, taking note of what needed to be done that day. Hawkins was a small town but she was lucky enough to be a local favorite. She had made countless birthday cakes for the children of her former classmates, baked bread that would be sold at her parent’s sandwich shop, and catered desserts at the Hawkins High reunion every year. Baking was her passion but going to a doctor’s appointment and taking a short nap before returning to the bakery in the afternoon was taking precedence today.

She could hear a car pulling in and she hoped it was Kim, better late than never. She started walking to the door but hesitated when she saw him.

Jim Hopper was here.

Again.

She opened in exactly one minute and Jim Hopper was parked in a spot right outside her door, patiently waiting. As she stared at him, she noticed Kimberly walking quickly across the street. She unlocked the door and pushed it open as the young woman babbled, “Oh my goodness I am so sorry I’m late, I will stay late today to make it up to you, I am so sorry.”

“That’s fine,” she murmured, following her inside, “Can you refill some coffee supplies, please? I didn’t have the chance to yet.” “Sure thing!” Kim replied, grabbing handfuls of supplies and carting them over to the small table in the corner. She started her trek to the back when she heard the bell over the door ring.

“Good morning!” Kimberly called and she heard Jim give a gruff “morning” in response.

“Fancy seeing you here, Chief,” she said, leaning onto one of her cases.

“I won’t lie, I haven’t stopped thinking about that blueberry muffin I had for breakfast yesterday,” he admitted sheepishly, “And please, call me Jim.”

She was silent for a moment while she took in his appearance. He looked…tired. Stressed. She imagined that working as the chief of police wasn’t an easy job, even in a small town like Hawkins. And she knew that he had been through a lot in the past. Even with the slight discoloration under his eyes, she couldn’t deny that he was attractive. Honestly, she was harboring a small crush on him and had been for years. He was tall and strong, and she had always been fixated on his hands. They were large, with long fingers. She imagined he was the type of man who had rough, callused hands that would feel absolutely delicious dragging across her skin. She’d never tell him that, though.

“Alright…Jim,” she said with a smile, “What would you like today? Another blueberry muffin?”

His eyes scanned her case, “I’m thinking…a blueberry muffin and a banana nut muffin. And a coffee, of course.”

“Sure thing,” she reached for a white paper bag while her opener asked him about his coffee preference. God, now she couldn’t stop thinking about his hands. And his beard. And his mouth.

She needed to stop.

Her cheeks were no doubt stained pink, she could feel the heat rising to them. She felt a hand on her arm. “You alright?” Kimberly asked, holding Jim’s receipt in her other hand, “Can I have his bag please?”

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry!” She folded the bag closed and handed it over. Jim was smirking on the other side of the counter, “Got a lot on your mind?” She chuckled, “You have no idea. I hope you enjoy your muffins.”

Jim nodded, “Oh, I know I will. That chocolate donut is catching my eye too though.” He pointed at one of her favorite desserts, a chocolate-frosted donut with sprinkles.

“I love those,” she said, “But they’re really sweet, maybe a little too sweet for breakfast.”

“Eh,” Jim shrugged, “I could use a little sweetness in my life.”

Wednesday

Hopper had a crush.

He was a 44-year-old man and he had a crush.

He couldn’t get her off of his mind. Her soft hair was always sprinkled with flour. Her eyes, the most beautiful brown eyes he’d ever seen, surrounded by long, dark lashes. Her smile was framed by full, luscious lips. He thought about her first thing in the morning, thought about her making him blueberry muffins in nothing but his t-shirt while he got ready for work. She crossed his mind at lunchtime, distracting him from his paperwork with her puzzling looks and skilled hands. And at night, when he laid in bed alone with his cock squeezed in his fist, he would think about her naked and on her knees, with those sweet lips wrapped around his length.

Fuck.

He needed to see her again, but the phone was ringing off of the hook and the paperwork was piling up on his desk. There was no way he could make an excuse to take a mid-day trip to her bakery.

Unless…

Jim tossed the stack of paper he was rifling through onto his desk and stood abruptly. He grabbed his keys and his hat, placing the latter atop his head before walking out of his office. “Anybody up for some donuts?” he asked, not even stopping for an answer, “I’ll be right back.”

Powell and Callahan looked at each other in awe over a massive stack of folders between them. “Eh, at least we get donuts,” Callahan lamented, shrugging.

Jim made it to the bakery in record time. He eagerly reached for the door handle in the Blazer before he paused.

Relax.

He climbed out of the Blazer and walked coolly to the door, pulling it open. He heard the bell ding overhead.

“Good afternoon, Chief Hopper!”

It was the young girl who was working with her yesterday morning. She was nowhere to be seen. Hop nodded at the girl behind the counter. “Uh…” he started, “Can I get 2 dozen donuts, please?”

“Of course!”

Hopper tried his best to be inconspicuous as he looked above the young girl’s head into the kitchen. He didn’t see her anywhere. “Do you have a preference on which donut you’d like more of, Chief?” the girl asked, showing him a half-filled box. “Let’s get more of the chocolate iced with sprinkles,” he said, pointing to the remaining donuts in the display.

“My favorite.”

There she was. She must have come in from a back door because he hadn’t heard the bell ring. She was wearing a dark blue spaghetti-strap dress. It had scalloped edges, an eyelet design, and stopped just above her knees. Her hair was down from her normal ponytail and she was wearing a bit more makeup than usual. She carried an empty tray.

“We have more in the back to refill the case, Kimberly,” she mentioned to her employee passively while keeping her eyes on him, “I’ll check him out.”

“I’m sure you will,” he thought he heard Kimberly mumble under her breath as she closed the donut boxes and handed them to her. They stood facing each other now, with only a register in between them.

“Treating the guys at the station to some donuts?” She asked, punching in a few numbers on the register. Hop nodded, “Yeah, I couldn’t stop thinking about them, so…”

Was he crazy or was the tension between them thicker than ever right now?

Jim eyed the outline of her dress, tracing the skirt down and then back up to her waist, noting the cinched fabric creating the most tempting slope, the perfect place for his hands. She watched him and yet he didn’t stop. Her skin was glowing with moisture from the summer heat and he imagined what it would taste like if he licked from her collarbone to her jaw. He imagined that she tasted like buttercream frosting and the thought made his cock half-hard.

“Definitely haven’t stopped thinking about them,” he repeated, meeting her eyes with a smoldering gaze. She grabbed his donuts and walked around the counter, holding them out to him. When he took them, his fingers brushed against hers.

“Thanks, Sweetness,” he murmured, a sly grin playing across his features, a playful glint in his hooded eyes. Her eyebrows knit together and she smirked, “Sweetness?” He didn’t respond, just winked at her as he took the boxes and pressed the door open with his backside.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” She called after him, but the door had already slammed shut.

Thursday

Sweetness. He had called her Sweetness.

And he came to the bakery three days in a row. There had to be a reason.

She had known Jim for a long time, considering they had both grown up in Hawkins. She remembered when he was a young boy leading the pack, she remembered when he would smoke cigarettes under the bleachers and she would hear rumors about his flirtations, his skill as a kisser. How he’d trailed his hands under skirts in the backs of classrooms. She remembered when she came back from college and he came back from Vietnam, when he got married and had his daughter. She remembered the tragedy of his loss and the way it affected him. But she was always an outsider, a spectator, and honestly, an admirer.

He had been so handsome throughout every stage she had known him, especially now. His thick, sturdy, strong body towering over her, his beard with the beginnings of salt and pepper growing in. She always stared at his arms, his thighs, wondering what they felt like. Those strong arms wrapped around her, reaching down to grope at her ass. His thighs were a perfect seat for her to grind her desperate pussy on, while she dug her nails into his shoulders, his growls shaking her entire body.

“My God, you are so into him,” Kimberly’s voice broke through her daydream.

“Wh-what?” She stuttered, grabbing at frosting bags to keep her hands busy. Kimberly smirked, crossing her arms and leaning against the door frame. “You are so into the Chief,” she replied, “It’s obvious.”

“Kim, are you serious? I don’t know why you would think-“ she broke off when she noticed Kimberly’s look of doubt. Her cheeks turned an intense shade of red and she hid her face with her hands. “I am totally into the Chief,” she finally admitted.

Kimberly clapped her hands and squealed, “I knew it! You’ve been looking over at the door every hour to see if he’s coming in again today.”

Kimberly was right. The older woman’s eyes had been glued to the door all day, almost like a magnet was drawing them together.

“Can you blame me? He’s come in every day this week! I can’t help expecting that he’ll come in today too,” she explained, piping a border onto the small cake in front of her. Kimberly grabbed a coffee cup and a black marker and held them out to her, “When he comes in, you should give him a cup of coffee on the house with your number written on it.” She looked at Kimberly with apprehension, “You don’t think he’d see that as juvenile?” Kimberly shook her head, “I think he’d love it.”

She put down her piping bag to take the cup and the marker. Kimberly smirked again and left her to her own devices to tend to the front. Would Jim like that, her number written on a cup of coffee? She couldn’t help but think they were too old for these games but maybe he’d find it…endearing.

She heard the bell ring. “Oh, hello Chief Hopper!” Kimberly announced way too loudly to be casual. She would have to reprimand her for that later. But it was now or never. Make a move or regret it. She quickly scribbled her number on the side of the cup and once she knew it was dry, she pressed that side against her palm and walked towards the coffee bar.

His eyes were on her as soon as she stepped into view. “Hey,” he greeted, handing Kimberly a few dollars without even looking at her. She smiled in response and began filling the cup. “I’d been wondering if we were going to see you today,” she said, pressing a lid onto the cup. He chuckled, “Here I am.”

The coffee cup felt scalding hot against her skin, “Coffee on the house?” She offered it to him and knew immediately that he would refuse. “I can’t let you do that, please let me pay,” Jim reached for his wallet, fisting his pastry bag in the other hand. She held up a hand. “Jim, please,” she held it towards him once more, “It’s on me.”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment and she could’ve sworn his eyes flickered to her lips before meeting her own again. He was in jeans today instead of his normal uniform - jeans that hugged his thighs and his ass in just the right way. God, she wanted him so bad. Wanted to feel those taut muscles under her hands, wanted to feel the brush of his beard on her skin. Could he tell that she was fantasizing about fucking him right in the middle of her bakery?

Kimberly cleared her throat, which seemed to break both of them from a trance. Jim wrapped his hand around the coffee cup and the sudden loss of warmth was jarring. “Thank you for the coffee,” he said, raising it like he was toasting to her. She nodded, “Thank you for stopping by.” And just as quickly as he had arrived, he was gone.

“Did you even notice the other customer that was here while the two of you were making goo-goo eyes at each other?” Kimberly asked, punching numbers on the cash register.

“Nope,” she replied, rounding the counter and smirking at Kim, “Also, you should work on that whole ‘being casual’ thing.”

Friday

The number on his cup told him everything he needed to know.

He was going to make his move. Tonight.

He’d wear some jeans - she couldn’t take her eyes off of him yesterday when he had shown up in his relaxed-fit jeans. He’d wear cologne - nothing too heavy, just a little something to complement his natural scent. Whatever that was. Coffee and cigarettes? Women he’d been with before usually told him he smelled like a real man, so maybe she’d like it too.

It was 7:15 pm - her bakery closed in 45 minutes. He would make it there in ten minutes from the cabin. His palms were sweaty against his steering wheel, but he blamed that on the summer heat, not nerves, as he navigated the downtown streets.

He parked, noticing a lack of cars out front. Perfect. He could see her through the door as he approached. She was sweeping, wearing her usual apron, blouse, and loose jeans combo. Her hair was down, swaying with each brush of the broom. He pushed the door open and she turned at the sound of the bell.

Her cheeks tinged pink as soon as she saw him. “Hi Jim,” she said softly, leaning the broom against the closest table. “Hey Sweetness,” he replied gruffly, walking towards her, eyeing her up and down as he did so.

When their eyes met, it was like they were locked, and neither of them had enough willpower or want to find a key. Her eyes were warm, like a cup of coffee with a swirl of creamer. My God, she was so beautiful. What he wouldn’t give to trace his fingers along her cheek and brush his lips against her jaw. And fuck, he wanted to run his tongue down her neck to that expanse of skin that was exposed under her v-neck shirt.

“Something on your mind?” She questioned softly, her eyes flicking to his mouth. He nodded, “Yeah-“

But at that moment, he was surprised by her sudden movement to press her lips on his.

Jim didn’t hold back. He gripped her soft hips, pulling her into him, against his already hard cock. He raised a hand to cup her cheek, feeling her jaw move against his palm as she opened her mouth to welcome his greedy tongue.

“Jim,” she murmured against his mouth, groaning as he latched his lips to the skin of her neck and slid his arms around her waist. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” Jim admitted, his face still buried in the crook of her neck, “Everything I wanna do to you.” She nodded in agreement, “Me either. I want you…want your cock…fucking hell, Jim, I need you.”

He chuckled, sinking his teeth into her soft flesh, then placed a trail of kisses up to her mouth. She opened her eyes then, meeting his blue ones.

“For someone so sweet, you sure do have a filthy mouth.”

With that, he picked her up, kissing her again until their legs met the counter. He placed her there, nestling into her warm center, his cock pressing tightly against his zipper, desperate to be inside her. Her hand was on his dick immediately while they kissed, palming him and squeezing him over his jeans. “Oh fuck, hold on,” he gripped at her wrist as he breathed deeply, “Don’t wanna cum in my pants.”

Her lips were on his neck now, undoubtedly leaving deep purple marks. “Where do you wanna cum then?” She whispered in his ear, causing a shiver to run down his spine. Jim grabbed her chin, “Maybe this pretty little mouth. Or that wet, hot pussy I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.”

She spread her legs further and slid her hands into his back pockets, “Please fuck me, Chief. Right here, right now.”

Hopper growled in triumph, “Don’t have to ask me twice.”

He pulled at the button on her jeans, ripping the zipper open with it. She pushed her pants down her legs and over her little white sneakers, all the way to the floor where they landed with a soft thud. While he was unbuttoning his jeans, he couldn’t tear his eyes from her panties - they were soft cotton in the palest shade of blue. He’d never seen anything more sexy.

“Can’t wait to fuck you, Sweetness.”

She bit her lip as she looked up at him, watching his face as the cool air in the bakery finally hit the burning hot skin of his cock. He could tell she wanted to touch him, to put him in her mouth, but all that would come later. Right now, he knew she needed him deep inside her.

He hooked two fingers onto her panties, “You wet for me?” She nodded, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling him close. He wrapped his fist around his cock, lining it up with her entrance before thrusting inside her.

Fuck, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt this way before. Her pussy gripped his cock so tightly, so perfectly, like they were made for each other. He wasn’t going to last long like this. He wanted to rail her, rail her right here in her place of business on a Friday night, and make her cream all over his cock. Then he wanted to take her home and prepare a hot bath for her, then bury his tongue between her legs in his bed. Then on Saturday…

He wanted to take her to the diner for breakfast.

He wanted to curl up next to her on the couch for an afternoon nap.

He wanted to watch her put on her favorite dress and curl her hair and take her out to dinner.

Jim would do all those things. But right now, he was going to make her cum.

“Ugh fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, reveling in the obscene sounds coming from where the two of them met at their center. She was breathing heavily, whimpering with every deep thrust. He trailed his hand up under her blouse to squeeze her tits - another thing he’d have to give extra attention to when he could get her in his bed.

“Tell me how I’m making you feel, Sweetness. Baby, tell me how much you love this cock,” he was moaning in her ear, his climax building. He could feel her pussy clamping down on him with every writhe of her hips. She nodded, “Feels so good. Fuck, I love the way you fill me up. Better than I ever imagined.”

“Can I bend you over this counter?” Hopper asked, wanting nothing more than to have his hands on her ass. She nodded, gasping when he pulled out, leaving her empty. When she was bent over in front of him, he swept her panties down her thighs, using both hands to roughly grope at her ass. “Fucking sexy ass,” he muttered, smacking both cheeks in quick succession. She moaned, shuddering against him. “Harder,” she requested, “Please.”

He brought his hand down again, harder this time, and she jumped as it connected with her ass. Her skin turned red immediately and he rubbed her gently before doing the same to her other side. Hop placed a kiss on each cheek before he gripped her hips and pulled her back onto his cock.

“You feel even better - like this,” she choked out against a whimper. Jim could only smirk and continue to fuck up into her. He wanted to cum with her, feel her climax soak him at the same time he painted her insides with his own.

“You close, Sweetness?”

She nodded and Jim pushed harder, each drag of his cock bringing them that much closer to satisfaction. He grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her up against him, “Wanna see that pretty face when you cum.”

Her eyes were trained on his and her nails dug into his sides. He was so fucking close.

Her breath hitched in her throat and she squeezed her eyes shut as her orgasm wracked through her body. He brought her left arm around her waist and his right hand to her face, kissing her as he exploded.

They trembled together, taking a moment to allow the pure bliss to course through them. He held her tightly until she turned in his arms. “I need to sit down,” she admitted sheepishly. Jim grinned as he walked her to a seat, making sure she was secure before he retrieved her pants.

“That was…the hottest thing I have ever done,” he told her as she pulled her pants back on. She giggled, “Honestly? Me too.”

Jim fixed his clothes and checked his watch, “Do you need this door locked? You’ve been closed for the last 45 minutes.”

She nodded, “Yes, please. We’re lucky no one came in.”

Jim clicked the latch on the door to a locked position, then met her in the center of the room, where they had started that night. He reached for her and she stepped into his outstretched arms, resting hers on his shoulders while his encircled her waist.

“Can I take you to dinner tomorrow night?”

He could barely get the sentence out before she gave him the best possible answer.

“Yes.”

[transformers-synergize]

robots in disguise :)

Cybertronians are masters of disguise, easily able to integrate themselves into most alien societies. Especially ones that consist of other cyber life or heavly plated alien, things cybertronians can easily mimic. When unable to mimic the native life, bots will often take advantage of halo Forms technology, creating a near-perfect solid light replica of the native life. Cybertronians also have the built-in ability to pick up and decode languages just from hearing them. with Their vocalizer being extremely flexible and able to mimic the sound of other species, and if they desire, some can mimic the voices of specific individuals.

Scouts and infiltrators are usually able to figure out how to mimic the native life's behavior and better integrate themselves. Their disguises are often imperfect, but they're usually good enough not to cause any alarm, allowing these cybertronians to integrate themselves into alien societies undetected so they can insert themselves into roles that would give them the most power and influence. This allows Cybertronians to easily take other alien planets/societies out from the inside either to destabilize them so they become non-threat or to convert Their planet into a cybertronian colonies. But if an infiltration is unsuccessful, Cybertron has enough military might they can usually enforce their will on a planet by force, if need be.

During the war, due to Cybertron's unstable state, many Cybertronian colonies were able to break free from Cybertron's control, and many civilizations whose development was purposefully stifled were able to finally Advance without Cybertrons Influence.

Course, an infiltration campaign is not the reason why our little groups of stranded Autobots and Decepticons are stuck on Earth. So, the stranded bots don't have the same tools that an infiltrators might have. On earth, they can not mimic the native life very well, They are too small and often lack any plating, but they can mimic their vehicles and other mechanical devices, but that can only help so much. Neither side Possesses a haloform generator, leaving them reliant on native beings to perform certain tasks for them and help keep their existence hidden. Barely any Bots on either side had been on an alien planet before, and the ones that have only ever really been on Cybertronian colony worlds. But, one of the stranded Autobots is an ex-infiltrator and is more than familiar with dealing with unkown alien worlds. :)

[fabled-lady-twilla]

Shiga in 99.9% of the scenes I've written for my ShigaDeku Soulmate AU fic, lmao!

He's like… ugh I don't wanna sit through any boring PLF meetings plotting to take control of all Japan, I just wanna grab my green-haired boyfriend/reluctant hostage and run away to my room. Heh.

Anyways! Under the keep reading link below is an excerpt from a flirty, slightly spicy scene between Izu and Shiga that happens later on in my fic. It's where they're past the chaotic, angry, violent 'enemies to lovers' stage of the story and Shiga has just discovered that he can touch/manipulate what I'm calling a 'soul-cord' in my AU, which is basically a spiritual link that connects two soulmate's souls together and helps them find each other.

The idea of a soul-cord comes from the concept of the 'red string of fate' and is basically a floating metaphysical cord/thread/string (not 100% sure what I'm calling it yet) woven from strands of each soulmate partner's soul, binding their destinies together and ensuring that always meet. By default, a soul-cord wraps around each soulmate partner's pinky finger, but this can be changed.

The thing is, with the way I integrated the soulmates trope into this AU along with Quirks, only soulmate partners with Quirks can see/interact with their soul-cords. By the time the main story line comes around, Izu has lost OFA and Shiga still has his Quirk (Decay). So, only Shiga can see/mess around with their soul-cord but both of them can feel it. Which is why Izuku is like, what the actual fuck is going on right now in the scene below lmfao. 🤣

Also, do you think the name 'soul-cord' is a good name for this? Or would 'soul-thread', 'soul-string', 'soul-braid', 'soul-weave', etc. be a more fitting name for it? I wanna know your opinion!

Pretty pretty pretty please let me know what you thought of this scene and if you'd like to see any more ShigaDeku excerpts! If you'd like to be added to the tag list for the story, please like, share, comment, or send me a PM. Thank you for reading! ❤️❤️❤️

Keep reading for 900+ words of flirty, slightly horny ShigaDeku interaction below:

“Is there a problem?” Izuku said, crossing his arms across his chest as he glared up at the other man. Tomura’s attention had been honed in on him since breakfast and Izuku had finally had enough of it. "You’ve been staring at me all morning. If you’ve got something to say to me, either say it or leave me alone."

Tomura leered down at Izuku through a half-lidded gaze, crimson eyes glinting in the soft orange lights of the hallway. Paying explicitly close attention to the way their silvery blue soul-cord looped around Izuku's pale throat over and over and over again, all nice, tight, and pretty. Right where Tomura wanted it. Right where it looked the best: wrapped around Izuku’s pale, freckled neck.

Right where it belongs, Tomura thought possessively, his cock twitching in agreement in his pants. The same it had been doing all morning long, causing him to have to constantly readjust his slacks.

The longer Tomura ogled him, the more Izuku’s frown deepened, and Tomura noticed the younger man’s glare taking on a heatedness that caused the green in his eyes to darken, contrasting beautifully against the silvery blue soul-cord wrapped around his neck.

Oh, yes. Tomura could definitely get used to this sight.

"Just admiring my handiwork," Tomura finally said, offering a wolfish grin with far too many teeth.

"Handiwork? What handiwork?" Izuku asked, brow furrowing with suspicion.

Tomura's only answer was a slight quirk of his lips.

Suddenly, Tomura thought of a wonderful idea, and his grin took on such a quality of wickedness that Izuku was immediately put on guard.

It was never a good sign when Tomura smiled like that. If that manic grin was directed at someone else, it meant someone was about to harassed, maimed, or something much worse. If it was directed at Izuku, it meant Tomura was up to something no good and Izuku, willingly or not, was about to find out exactly what that ‘something’ was.

Tomura backed away from Izuku, watching as the distance between them increased the floating length of their soul-cord. Tomura grasped the slack and gently looped it around his hand multiple times until it was almost completely pulled taut.

“What are you doing?” Izuku looked at Tomura like he’d lost his mind, what with his waving his hand around in the air like a lunatic. “Looks like you’ve finally gone completely insan—"

Without warning, Tomura roughly yanked their soul-cord towards himself, like he was yanking a dog backwards on a leash. Izuku found himself being jerked forward by an unseen force, tripping over his own two feet and nearly tumbling to the floor were it not for him crashing straight into Tomura's chest.

Izuku’s eyes widened in shock. Not only from what had just occurred but from the feeling of something warm, ticklish, and wispy stroking the length of his neck as Tomura made strange hand movements in the air.

Bewildered, Izuku ran his fingers over his Adam’s apple and around the back of his neck, where the warming sensations were the strongest. He grabbed at nothing, could feel nothing, only adding to his growing confusion at what the actual hell was going on. Did Shigaraki get a new Quirk?

Tomura hummed, seemingly delighted. He made another quick hand motion, fingers circling around nothing and making to grab at something in the air before pulling it closer.

Izuku felt it again, even stronger than before. A thick, deliciously warm pressure around his neck, not quite cutting off his air supply but toying the line of doing so. He couldn’t stop the flush from entering his cheeks at their sudden, close proximity, nor the shiver that ran down his spine at the feeling of something so snug and… protective closing in around such a vital part of his body.

Izuku bit his bottom lip, chewing at worryingly.

Tomura ate up the sight of Izuku’s nervous arousal with a quiet sort of hunger. With their soul-cord still looped around his hand, Tomura softly, ever so slightly, pulled it just a bit tighter.

Izuku gasped, pretty green eyes growing to such a comically large degree that Tomura could not help but let out a mean laugh at his expense, entertained by the younger man’s reactions.

“You!” Izuku hissed accusingly, snapping out of his stupor and narrowing his eyes into angry little slits, “What the hell did you do to me!?”

Tomura grin grew so wide and predatory it nearly split his face in half. “Maybe if you’re a good boy today and don’t get into any trouble, I’ll come by your room later tonight and tell you all about it.”

At Izuku’s utterly scandalized face, Tomura smirked. He swiftly untangled their soul-cord from his hand right as Izuku forcibly pushed against his chest, propelling himself away and out of Tomura’s grasp.

Izuku grunted from the force of his back thudding against the wall of the hallway. He splayed his hands against it and quickly but cautiously inched himself along the wall away from Tomura, mouth slightly parted as he stared at the other man with an expression that was so distrustful Tomura couldn’t help but let out a huff of amusement, his canines popping out past his cracked lips.

“D-don’t you ever do that to me again!” Izuku managed to stutter out, the words coming out way less confident and threatening than he wanted them to sound.

But god, this unhinged man-child was quite literally driving him up the wall and Izuku wanted no part of anything to do with Shigaraki Tomura.

Izuku took a couple of cautious steps backwards, regarding Tomura like he would a rabid wild animal he didn’t want to turn his back to lest it pounce on him.

Tomura just stared back, crimson eyes gazing at him with an intensity that frightened Izuku more than anything else that had just transpired between them.

Izuku noped out and made a break for it.

Swiftly pivoting on his heel and rounding the corner, Izuku fast-walked down to the end of the hallway towards his room, Tomura’s raspy laughter reverberating off the walls and following him every step of the way until he slammed the door shut.

[mint-yooxgi]

Until Your Lungs Give Out - Prologue

Yandere AU & Dystopian AU

Genre: Mature, Horror, Angst, Fluff, Slight Humour, Sci-fi, Dystopian

Pairing: Ateez X Reader

Words: 1,331

Warnings: Minor violence mentioned. This is a Yandere story, it will contain themes such as stalking, violence, obsession, possessive natures, and just general overall creepiness and swearing. You have been warned.

A/n: I blame @anyamaris for feeding my ideas, and thus helping me create this. I plan for it to be almost a mix between Resident Evil dystopia (movies, specifically the third) and My Chemical Romance Danger Day's dystopia world. With robots! I really hope you all enjoy this little teaser hehehe As always, feedback is greatly appreciated! Enjoy~

Also, gentle reminder that I don’t do tag lists.

Mini Masterlist

The crackle of static sounds through your headpiece. The low hum of electricity surrounds you, what’s left of the city’s lights flickering above you as you race down the deserted streets. The heart of the city is a dangerous place, no matter how abandoned it might be. You’ll risk it any day of the week. 

You have to. There’s no other choice.

Long since has the world gone to shit. 

No, no major disease wiped out the planet. No virus that caused people to become the living dead, either. Humans are very much still alive, though their numbers dwindle every day, replaced by the Bots of Life, guaranteeing that people can never truly die. 

These androids are so lifelike, that you cannot easily tell the difference between them and humans unless you are looking for them. Emotions, memories, habits - they are all the same. 

Life Bots, another term for these machines, require a human host. Millions of underground facilities have been made to house the Sacrifices - unlawfully named, in your opinion - for the Bots of Life to thrive. All that’s needed is a specialized pod and a mind link, and humans never have to age again. They can live vicariously through their android counterparts, forever.

Great sale’s pitch! If humans actually got a choice in the matter… 

What’s left of humanity fight to survive, living in hidden suburbs and scraping to get by every day. Every Life Bot is programmed to deliver humans to their intended Sacrificial Pod, destroying what’s left of the living world.

No more hunger. No more strife, chaos, or pain. Only order, and peace.

All things which are easier said than done.

An interesting side effect early Life Bot integrators noticed was how suddenly, members of their family which had undergone the Sacrifice seemed to lose all previous autonomy. The Creator made sure to emphasize his ideals into the Bots of Life, nearly forcing every human associated with one to make the change. He wanted total control over every living human, holding their lives in the palms of his hand for his own gains.

Naturally, the humans rebelled.

War broke out, and now all that remains of the earth above sea level are wastelands. Deserts span more areas than they used to, cracked, dry earth giving way to dead zones not even the Life Bots dare to traverse.

Still, there are those unlucky enough to be forced to live above ground without any protection, unable to have afforded to buy their way into the luxurious underwater cities or air fortresses that had been massed produced for the majority of the upper class and wealthy in society. Those left behind are stranded, lest they be forced to become a Life Bot of their own.

That’s where you come in.

You are one of the last few survivors in this division who still remains on earth, fighting for the human’s survival. Looking out for the stranded is what you do best, and you’ve made taking down Life Bots look like it’s child’s play. Which is exactly why you’re racing to answer the distress call you’ve just received not even a mere five minutes ago. There seems to be one human in particular that keeps sticking his nose into trouble looking for spare parts and supplies. It’s starting to get on your nerves, for he also seems insistent to flirt with you every chance he gets.

Only this time, he’s not alone.

When you originally latched onto the signal, you heard at least three distinct voices calling for help. The noises in the background indicated a fight, so there had to at least have been two more people with them, holding off the Life Bots at the time. You just hope you make it before someone gets hurt. Or worse.

Revving the engine to your motorcycle, you pick up your speed. The distress call came from just around the corner two more blocks up, and from the littered corpses of Life Bots you can see lining the street, you know a fight has just taken place here not that long ago.

Rounding the corner, you skid to a halt.

The screeching of your tires on the asphalt draws the attention of the small group of about eight males that seems to be surrounded on all sides by a small hoard of twenty Life Bots. A few hold makeshift weapons, like broken pipes and a rusted crowbar, while two hold Laftas, specialized stun guns made for subduing the Bots of Life. One practically cowers on the ground amidst the circle of survivors, covering their ears and shaking uncontrollably as his friends surround him as best they can.

The moment you hop off of your bike, you notice a familiar male’s eyes light up, hope dancing on his features. A smile begins to stretch across his features.

A click of your helmet, and it retracts from your face, practically disappearing from sight.

“I told you she would come!” Wooyoung, your resident damsel in distress, and certified pain in your ass, cheers.

“Yeah, yeah,” the tall one with what appears to be a sniper riffle strapped to his back, rolls his eyes. “If we manage to get out of this alive, remind me to give you one of my chocolate bars from my hidden stash.”

The way Wooyoung’s eyes light up even further says it all.

“Can’t go one day without getting yourself into trouble, huh, Gopher?” There’s an almost teasing lilt to your voice despite the disappointed sigh you heave as you spring into action.

Drawing your katana from your back, you unholster your Lafta.

“Guilty.” He chuckles, shrugging lightly.

You get to work, slicing through the Bots of Life as if they were made of silk rather than metal. With your opposite hand, you manage to shoot every target you set your eyes upon, cleaning up this mess in no time. Once finished, you make a show of twirling your sword a few times before sheathing it, shoving your gun back into its holster with a firm thwack.

“There,” you send a firm nod in their direction. “Get yourselves someplace safe before more of them return. I don’t like making multiple pitstops for the same people in the same night.”

You turn around, moving back over towards your bike before a voice calling out to you from behind halts you in your tracks.

“Wait!” 

You spare the unfamiliar male a glance over your shoulder. He seems to have somewhat shaggy black hair, a black and red leather jacket covering his torso. A red birthmark rests beside his left eye.

“How can we ever repay you?”

You offer him a tight smile in return, noticing how more than just Wooyoung seems to be staring at you with wide eyes filled with awe.

“Keep yourselves out of trouble, and you won’t have to.”

The one crouched on the ground finally stands back to his feet. He rests a trembling hand on the shoulder of the male closest to him, who is also wearing a black and red leather jacket, but in a slightly different style.

“Really,” his voice comes out shaky, staring at you through thinly wired glasses. A tattered beige cardigan rests over his shoulders, a stark head of bright blue hair falling over his forehead and almost covering his eyes. “We should be able to do something.”

You huff slightly to yourself in amusement, finally crossing the last few steps to your motorcycle.

“Don’t worry about it.”

With a smooth movement, your leg is tossed over the seat, the engine revving to life. A click to your ear, and your helmet has rematerialized.

A final nod is sent their way before you’re racing back down the street, on the hunt for any more distress calls that might come your way for the night.

That is the last they see of you for two weeks, until your entire worlds come crashing down.

[deusvervewrites]

Alien Friendship AU: Mina Ashido, a fan of everything alien and sci-fi, meets a real life alien, Midoriya Izuku.

Midoriya was sent to earth as part of an anthropology mission. He was supposed to learn about earth culture and human behavior and report back. However, not long after arriving on earth, he lost contact with the mothership, leaving him stranded on earth with only his own dropship and no way of finding his way home.

The reason that Midoriya was chosen for this mission is because of his shapeshifting powers, as they let him seamlessly integrate with the local culture of wherever he's sent. The advent of Quirks makes this even easier for him.

Ashido tried to call herself Alien Queen, she is absolutely a colossal sci-fi fan. What she didn't expect was to see some lights in the distance at Takoba Beach and investigate to find a real spaceship. Or the startled alien who can't be much older than her.

Strictly speaking Midoriya is supposed to wipe her memories of him and go into hiding--he was on Takoba to board his dropship and take it deep below the ocean where people wouldn't see it--but the mission is already so FUBAR that when he's discovered, Midoriya just kinda breaks down crying.

Midoriya and Ashido's combined Friend On Sight powers means that following procedure was pretty much doomed to failure from the beginning anyway. It's her idea to enroll at UA, which Midoriya realizes could actually get him connections who might be able to help him find the mothership as well as potentially paving the way for first contact through his popularity.

+1. Nedzu is aware of aliens, but is not an alien himself. Nor does he immediately know what Midoriya is.

+2. All For One is an alien who was exiled and figured that if he couldn't become a demon emperor in space, he could conquer this backwater planet. His brother kind of objected to that, so he's currently 0 for 2 on that. And yes, that does mean all OFA users are technically part alien.

+3. Midoriya's 'real' appearance is reptilian, with three eyes, a curled tail, very long rabbit-like ears, and unguligrade legs ending in points.

[starsupontharss]

silly little kevaaron drabble for you all as promised, please be nice <333

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kevin’s eyes have always gotten him in trouble. Glances that lingered too long in the nest were a small form of suicide growing up, Riko ever present to punish him for staring at anything other than his racket or his brother. His gaze has always been steely, determined, laser-focused on his opponent. When in interviews, Kevin has trained his eyes to be polite and restrained, but the intensity in them never dropped. Nicky chastised him for his glare when he first arrived in South Carolina, comparing him to a cheetah about to pounce on his prey. Kevin has never seen a problem with it. If his gaze is determined, it’s because he is determined, and if it discourages conversation, then Kevin doesn’t really mind. If he has his thoughts to himself for a second more then lucky him.

In this moment however, with his deepest darkest secret 3 rows in front of him, he wishes his obvious, lovesick staring could be less noticeable. He fears any observer will, rightfully, label him a sociopath with the way his pupils bore in the back of just-past-the-chin straw blonde hair from across the bus. His secret’s name is Aaron Michael Minyard and Kevin thinks that straw blonde must be the most beautiful hair colour known to mankind. Aaron sits, silent and peaceful, next to the window on the right of the bus, with his headphones on his mind off, nearly asleep as he leans against the glass. Kevin stares from the far left of the back row and aches to be closer. To see every hue in every strand on his head. To memorise the delicate bouquet of his damp locks. To engrave every hex code into his soul. Nicky’s absence from tonight’s game because of a sprained ankles leaves aaron with a seatmate, and Kevin with a heavenly view.

Andrew stares up from his phone and Kevin looks away, lest his schoolboy crush turned undying devotion for the goalie’s twin be revealed. Kevin remains unaware of how Aaron has become so integral to his breathing in such a short span of time. It snuck up on him, gradual but considerable, until Aaron occupied nearly every thought in his mind that wasn’t exy related.

Kevin’s eyes dart to outside the window. He can see the roads he recognises, can feel the light at the end of the tunnel approaching. 10 minutes. 10 minutes at most is all it will take for Kevin to be home, to be able to slip out of his shared dorm and into his and Aaron’s spot, where the wall obstructs the barely-big-enough-for-two space in the stairwell and he can gather Aaron into his arms, feel his warm enveloping embrace.

The desperation is the hardest part of all this, Kevin thinks, just barely beating out trying and failing to avert his gaze away from his beloved boyfriend. The wanting to be with Aaron in front of the world, wanting to shout about his love from the rooftops and not being able to us slowly but surely killing him. Every conversation steers them in circles, endless cycles of fear and internalised homophobia and repression. His apprehension is just as great as Aaron’s, his childhood necessity to be perfect in the master's eyes conquering his meek courage anytime he toys with the idea of opening up about their relationship. and so they stay, trapped in a love confined to the dark, kept away from the prying of Andrew or the press or the Moriyamas or anyone who could possibly ruin their peace.

Aaron jolts awake as the bus jostles over the speed bump that signals their arrival into the Fox Tower car park, and as he yawns and stretches and adjusts, he spares a glance back at Kevin where he sits uneasy at the back of the bus. His smile, reserved, barely noticeable, and utterly dazzling, reassures Kevin in a way he didn’t even know he needed. Whatever happens, whatever secrets they need to keep, Aaron will always be there, with his gorgeous face, and quick wit, and unbeaten sarcastic humour, and he will always be there to smile at Kevin’s lovelorn eyes. Kevin looks, unashamed.

[visionofvoid]

How the Drivers React to Meeting/Seeing You For the First Time - Part One

Max Verstappen:

He was always supportive of Kelly picking her own staff, especially when it came to a role she would be working very closely with such as a personal assistant. He would sit with her after Penelope went to bed and help her choose the person adequate enough for the role. Max wanted someone that Kelly and Penelope would feel comfortable around, someone they could rely on and he immediately liked the look of Blake’s application. First impression purely from the resume was that he assumed Blake was a male but boy he was wrong. When Max was first introduced to Blake he immediately felt what he could only describe as uneasiness around her. She seemed comfortable straight off the bat, with the hustle and bustle of a lavish life that many would find intimidating. 

“Isn’t Blake a male name?” Were Max’s first words to her. Kelly apologised profusely before Blake simply smiled and offered a soft giggle. 

“I’ve never met a Max that wasn’t a female before. I guess we learn something new everyday.”

It was safe to say that Max had never had someone go up against him like that, someone that was more certainly not on his level or even remotely in the position to do so. So, he fuelled his uneasieness around Blake into something he was all too familiar with; hate. He had hoped that she would be gone in a few months time and that everything could go back to normal. 

Carlos Sainz:

To him you were always Ezekiel’s younger sister that just wanted someone to play with. You were still the younger sister that annoyed her three older brothers to no end in sight, wanting to feel like you belonged. He remembered the constant whining to your mother when the boys were able to go out but you couldn’t, you had to stay home because you were younger. Of course you had your own friends but you were all several years younger, crushing over boys that would never look at them in a different light other than Ezekiel’s younger sister and friends. 

Then you moved away to study abroad in America. You partied, studied, worked with children and loved, had your heart broken and cried many tears. Ezekiel, now all grown up, had started a family of his own but still spoke to Carlos on a weekly basis, catching the race whenever it was the Spanish Grand Prix and spent time with his childhood best friend when Carlos had time off. 

Carlos hadn’t seen Andrea in years until Ezekiel decided to surprise both of them at the Austin Grand Prix. Carlos was floored when Ezekiel rounded the corner, bringing his best friend in for a brotherly hug before pulling away, his eyes widening when they landed on Andrea. She still had her looks from back when they were younger but this time she grew into her body. She dressed maturely and managed to take his breath away all at the same time. 

“Andrea, wow! This is a surprise.” Ezekiel smirked as Carlos moved in, embracing Andrea in a tight hug. 

“Ah, my second favourite Spanish racer.” Andrea’s stupid and childish high-school crush looked as handsome as ever and she couldn’t help but feel insecure. She knew she would always be the best friend’s younger sister to Carlos. 

“Second?”

“Well, yes. Alonso is the first.”

Charles Leclerc:

He met Manon by chance. It was the classic right place right time trope that you see in romantic comedies. He would never say it was love at first sight, no, but he was immediately entranced by her. She was an enigma. 

The way her body moved to the beat of the music, her tight bun slowly losing its structural integrity the more she bounced around her small group of friends, strands of her dark brown hair sticking to her sweaty face. She seemed unfazed by some of the looks she was accumulating from some of the other females that were dancing a bit more modestly on the dance-floor but everyone else enjoyed her confidence, enjoyed how she let go to the sound of the music.

Everyone could just tell that she and her group of friends were not from the area, but instead they acted and looked like tourists, not that it was a bad thing. He felt a bit weird, sitting with George, Pierre and Lando in the VIP booth and just watching her but he noticed how she didn’t seem to be drinking the alcohol like her friends, but instead having fun whilst sober and making sure she was safe. 

“Go talk to her, mate.” George finally caught out, an espresso martini in his hand. The four boys decided to have a week in Monaco during their break, just have fun and let go whilst they were all young and before the world and their year got a little bit more crazier. “What have you got to lose?” Charles wondered in his head how he could sneak down to the general dancefloor and introduce himself to the girl without being noticed. 

He finally found his way walking towards her, offering a smile to some of the fans on his way but he was on a mission. He felt his friends eyes watching him and he secretly hoped he wouldn’t be rejected, he couldn’t deal with the teasing. It wasn’t hard to spot the girl from ground level, her bun sat tall and bobbed up and down. She grinned at her friends before spinning around and paused as the song ended, her eyes landing right on Charles. 

“You just gonna stand there or introduce yourself?” 

Daniel Ricciardo:

Claudia was eternally grateful when her uncle decided to offer her a position as a Junior Events Manager working out of Red Bull Racing in Milton Keynes. She had just graduated college and was looking to kick start her professional career, applying for various roles across London before Christian and Geri approached her with the idea to apply for the new 2023 intake. Christian had assured her that he would not be making the final decision and could only give a recommendation and that she would undertake the same application process as everyone else that was applying. It was only fair, she thought. 

So, when she finally got the call to come in and sign all the necessary legal documents and bring in relevant information (such as passports for international purposes such as following the race and security clearances) she was so thankful and so relieved. She was caught in traffic and was running a little bit behind her personal schedule, enough to make only herself nervous, so she pulled into one of the only remaining staff car parks closest to the entrance. She managed to beat someone else, the driver throwing their hands up in annoyance and honking at her, not that she was really worried about that for the time being. 

Daniel was livid. Not only did someone steal his car park but he was now ten minutes late. He liked to be on time, he liked to arrive early even but he had forgotten what traffic was like in the area at that time in the morning. The small action set him off for the rest of the morning, his stomps on the gravel kicking up bits that went flying everywhere. He knew what she looked like, at least the behind of her that he saw rush into the building. Christian finally spotted his third drive, Max and Sergio beside him, all three dressed in Red Bull branded clothing.

“Daniel, so lovely to finally join us. I have someone I’d like you to meet.” Christian began, shaking his hand before Daniel turned to the other two racers, sharing a smile and shaking their hands.

“Sorry I’m late. There was this incident in the car park and i-” Christian smiled brightly, looking behind Daniel causing the man to look over his shoulder. Though he only saw the back of her he knew this was the woman from this morning, the front of her matching the clothes, the same copper hair.

“My niece, Claudia. Claudia, Daniel Ricciardo.” Well, this is great, Daniel thought. 

Lance Stroll:

Piper Broadstone is the youngest daughter of two incredibly wealthy car collectors and curators. She was no stranger to the glitz and glamour of the life she was born into, sometimes loathing it when she wished to have some secrets to herself, sometimes appreciating it when she needed to use it for her own gain. She is an incredibly smart young woman, known to be quite quiet unless conversing with close family and friends. She would wear the most lavish dresses to galas, charity balls and auction nights and bask in the flash of the photography. Tonight was no different. 

Piper sat in a rather uncomfortable seat decorated with an almost acidic green backing. She listened as the auctioneer called out the newest bids, going back and forth with bidders and new prices. Every now and then she would put in a bid for something that piqued her interest; the first edition of a literary classic, an all-expenses paid trip to somewhere exotic and sometimes jewellery. She was oblivious to what was currently up for grabs. 

“Fifty-thousand dollars going to number six-zero-three. Going once, going twice-” Piper held up her bidders paddle, her lucky number eighteen in white block letters. 

“Seventy-five thousand.” The auctioneer seemed taken back by the twenty-five thousand increased bid but nodded, calling out according to his script. Lance looked over to where the woman called out the new bid, dissatisfied with the fact that her back was facing towards him, as was everyone else on the table or they were obstructed by a large structural column. He did note that the colour dress she wore was very similar to the green of his racing suit. His father’s eyebrows raised slightly before he simply smirked. His father was the reason why this charity auction was put together in the first place, it was good PR. 

“Seventy-five thousand. Going once, going twice. Sold! An one-on-one drive and date with Aston Martin’s Formula One race car driver, Lance Stroll, is sold to Piper Broadstone.” Lance, who was about to swallow a mouthful of whiskey choked from the sudden announcement before looking up to where the woman sat, now turned around and smiled at him. 

Piper looked back to Lance, someone she had only seen from a distance at other similar events or being briefly introduced to by her parents. The Broadstones and the Stroll’s were quite well known, in the same financial calibre. Well, there could be worse things to win at an auction.

[felassan]

Dragon Age: The Veilguard - known Character Creation info Part 1

[LINK TO PART 2]

This post is just a dump collection of info and snippets that came out about CC (& some related topics). if you've been following the news or reading posts here, it's not new info or anything, I just put it together in one place here for convenience. ( ˶´ ᵕ `˶ )

if you notice anything missing, pls lmk. there's a bit of repetition of info in places as prev posts on the topic overlapped.

---

CC is vast [source] and immensely detailed [source]

We will enter CC straight after Varric’s opening narration [source]

You are given 5 categories to work your way through in CC: Lineage, Appearance, Class, Faction, Playstyle. Each of these has a range of subcategories within them. There are 8 subcategories within the “head” subcategory" in “Appearance” alone [source]

Lineage dictates things like race (i.e. human, elf, dwarf, qunari) and backstory [source]

Backstories include things like factions. Factions offer 3 distinct buffs each [source]

There are dozens and dozens of hairstyles [source]

There are separate options for binary and non-binary pronouns and gender [source]

“BioWare’s work behind the scenes, meanwhile, goes as deep as not only skin tones but skin undertones, melanin levels, and the way skin reacts differently to light” [source]

CC has a range of lighting options within it so that you can check how the character looks in them [source]

There are a range of full-body customization options such as a triangular slider between body types and individual settings down to everything from shoulder width to glute volume [source]. There are “all the sliders [we] could possibly want”. The body morpher option allows us to choose different body sizes [source]

All body options are non-gendered [source]

They/them pronouns are an option [source]

Rook can be played as non-binary [source]

Individual strands of hair were rendered separately and react remarkably to in-game physics [source]

Special, focused attention was paid to ensuring that hairstyles “come across as well-representative, that everyone can see hairstyles that feel authentic to them, even the way they render” [source]

The game uses strand hair technology borrowed in part from the EA Sports games. The hair is “fully-controlled by physics,” so it “looks even better in motion than it does here in a standstill” [source]

The ability to import our choices from previous games is fully integrated into CC. This will take the form of tarot cards - “you can go into your past adventures” and this mechanic tells you what the context was and what decision you want to make [source]

In CC we will also be able to customize/remake our Inquisitor [source]

A core tenet of the game is “be who you want to be” [source]

There are presets for all 4 of the game’s races (human, elf, dwarf, qunari), in case detailed CCs overwhelm you [source]

It is the best CC BioWare has ever made in a game [source]

The faction we choose will determine who we as protagonist Rook were before they were recruited to put a stop to Solas [source]

Certain conversation options are only available to Rooks of certain factions. For example, Grey Wardens get conversation options that are focused on the Blight, as they know more about it from other people. It also impacts how people talk to Rook (reactivity from characters and then faction reactivity from plots relating to that faction) [source]

Faction choice affects a lot of things [source]

There aren’t unique missions (I think this means like the playable Origins in DA:O), but faction choice does set the course for Rook for the rest of the game [source]

“body customization and morphing. From more muscular characters, to curvier builds, and just about any shape you want to give your character, there are all sorts of toggles to adjust so you can give them any figure you want”. “There’s even features that let you choose proportions, so you can alter their height, give them wider shoulders, and much more” [source]

There are makeup options [source]

There are tattoo options [source]

The hair uses a “Strand system” to “make them behave and move in a believable way for the different races” [source].

There are 4 voices to choose from for Rook: two feminine and tow masculine (one American, one British for each) [source]

In CC, 'Lineage’ is the game’s parlance for race i.e. human, elf, dwarf, qunari [source]

We can pick Rook’s name, but the dialogue calls them 'Rook’ [source]

In CC we can “make a few key decisions that will impact how The Veilguard begins” [source]

“I really do think its our most feature-ful character creator ever.” [source]

All armor and clothing options will scale and mesh to any body type [source]

The character creator has lots of sliders for body parts and overall shape, none of which are tied to the voice or pronouns (she/her, he/him, or they/them) that you choose [source]

“Epler took special care to show off the extensive curly and textured hair options in the game, including several versions of braids and locs, noting that increasing these options in particular was very important to the team” [source]

You can change your character’s physical appearance at any time during the game, but not their class or backstory [source]

“Each individual class has some variability, too; even the mage class has some up-close-and-personal attacks, since a mage player character could still conceivably have an assassin backstory and would therefore need to have some attacks to accommodate that sort of career path” [source]

“ "We’ve spent a lot of time thinking about skin tone,” Corinne said. The character we made, a Black elf, seemed to glow in the bluish light of a nighttime scene, and under bright sunlight, I could see the richness of his color. Corinne: "We want to make sure that skin tone is reflected authentically” “ [source]

” “We have dozens and dozens of hair types,” she said. “And they’re fully affected by physics.” The quality and variety of choices I saw delighted me. The rows of bouncy, luxurious-looking hair of all curl types and textures (and yes, the annoyingly ubiquitous “Killmonger cut” was among the options, what can you do?) brought the biggest smile to my face in the hour I spent with Busche and The Veilguard.“ [source]

BioWare confirmed that even if you make your Rook a short king, the team has done work to ensure animations fit any character build [source]

“Dragon Age’s character creator has seen a massive glow-up” [source]. “The volume of choices you get here are frankly insane. As Epler noted, “you could spend forever here,” and he’s not kidding.” [source] The art and graphics teams spent a lot of time trying to make hair look amazing [source: the Discord]

In CC we can customise our “bulge size” [source]

Some more detail on the new lighting options to see how Rook looks like in CC when you make them: you can view them in “blazing forest sunshine versus the glare of an underground temple” [source]

“newly mobile, extra-hairy hair” [source]

Faction choice has statistical boons. For example, Shadow Dragon Rook deals extra damage to Venatori blood cultists [source]

Faction choice basically determines why Rook has been called to help in the fight against Solas [source]

All pre-determined character models in CC can be adjusted [source]

You can make a really tall dwarf if you want [source]

“Setting your previous world state is fully integrated into the character creator for Veilguard” [source: the Discord]

Inquisitor appearance will be re-created, there is no way to carry their appearance from DA:I into the game [source: the Discord]

Classes for Rook are not restricted in the sense that you can play any almost class, lineage and faction combination that you want. For example, a mage Rook can be a Crow [source: the Discord] (Fel note: it sounded like Rook cannot be a magic-wielding dwarf, even though the exception of Harding now exists) (Fel note: there is a mage Crow in one of the books)

“The diverse body and gender options make it an industry leader by a signifcant margin” [source]

“BioWare was keen to highlight the hair strand technology that looked very similar to that seen in FIFA and EA FC, also made under EA’s roof” [source]

“Fine tuning sliders that allowed for microscopic adjustments of nose angles, it was clear that a lot of options exist to get the smallest possible body parts exactly right” [source]

“There’s no specific genital customisation to be oversold as CDPR did but, much like Saints Row, there is an option for bulge customisation” [source]

Pronoun choice, gender identity, body type, and voice choice are 4 separate options, not tied together [source]

Height is customised on a slider [source]

Size is customized on a triangle like in Saints Row: the 'points’ are fat, slim and muscular [source]

The different lighting options are 4 different settings: clean, bright, dim, sunset [source]

In CC you can also try out what Rook looks like in their starting rags, in typical mid-game armor, and some level 50 gear (class appropriate for each one) [source]

There’s a way for you to modify your character’s look once the game has started if you want to make some tweaks [source: the official Discord]

You can be any class and choose any backstory/faction, any race, any gender [source]

The opening cinematic Varric narrates at the start of the game plays before CC. “Following character creation, Varric’s narration continues, revealing that he’s put together a group to stop Solas, having recruited our character and a handful of others so far.” [source]

Faction choice affects in-game moments between other factions and locations, as well as characters [source]

Re: using body sliders in CC - “It looked incredibly easy to maneuver around and create a body that is either close to that player’s real personage or their ideal fantasy self” [source]

“Our presenter said that each specialization was pretty much as deep as a job” [source]

“Many fans were subject to the horror of DA Inquition’s special green light, so BioWare made it where players could shuffle through a handful of backgrounds to see how their character looks in different lights. Body sliders for fully customizable bodies, other appearance changes like tattoos, and everything fans would expect from a modern Dragon Age character creator seemed to be there.” [source]

Rook always shares a background with 1 of the companions. Makes sense, the backgrounds are Wardens, Crows, Shadow Dragons, Mourn Watch, Veil Jumpers, Lords of Fortune, and that’s Davrin, Lucanis, Neve, Emmrich, Bellara, Taash respectively [source]

The CC team and character art team spent a lot of time working on making sure that hairstyles behaved appropriately, in a realistic way, and on representing a lot of different hairstyles [source]

“We were told that one of the three key pillars of the game was ‘Be Who You Want To Be.’” [source]

“Numerous selections for a wide variety of body types & skin tones” [source]

There is faction-themed gear to wear, like if you chose Grey Warden as a background, there is GW gear. [source: The Discord]

“As a faction, the Inquisition doesn’t really feature prominently in the story - your appearance options are more reflective of the factions and styles you’ll encounter in The Veilguard.” [source: The Discord]

body sliders + “a triangle for gradients of body types” [source]

“The team heard us loud and clear on hair styles”. Frostbite engine updates served them well. Hair moves with your body and reacts to the wind [source]

For pronouns and gender selections, everything you select is used in the game and in cutscenes [source]

They were asked about the customizability of Rook’s backstory. Rook has 6 different backgrounds that you can choose from. Each of them is tied to one of the major factions in DA:TV. “Each one sets up who Rook was before they were recruited by Varric. Well that sets out the broad events. As you go through the game, as you have conversations, either with members of your faction, other characters, you can define not just what those events were but what they meant to you. What was your motivation, what was the kind of person you are as you build up Rook. Because again, we wanna make sure that roleplaying is at the heart of this experience, and taking Rook, giving them background to ground them in the world and then letting you decide what that means, what that says about you, is also a big part of it.” “A lot of opportunities to really define who your Rook was and who they are now, so.” [source: June 14th Discord Q&A with devs]

They have taken a different approach on how we import our decisions into the game this time around. This is now fully integrated into the character creator. The devs believe that this serves a dual purpose. Corinne said that she playfully thinks of it as ‘last time on Dragon Age’, though it isn’t actually called this in the game. She noted that it has been ten years since the last Dragon Age game was released, so this aspect serves as a refresher on critical events as well as allowing us to remake those decisions that are critical to us. The system for doing this is very highly visual and uses the familiar tarot card aesthetic. “It’s a very visual and playful experience as you go through it.” It was very important to them that this system was built into the client, so that you can play this game entirely offline. No online connection is required, no linking to EA accounts is required – this was a big fan request.

Corinne added, “I don’t want to spoil anything by revealing what decisions you can import, but I will say that this [thinking about the decision import system and what decisions to include] has been a really interesting creative intersection for us, because on the one hand, this is a whole new adventure”. In this game we are in northern Thedas, in locations we have not been to before. This naturally affects “some of what will matter and what decisions they’re not using this time around, as far as decisions. But obviously there are some very, very clear connections to existing characters.” “It’s no secret that the Inquisitor is going to show up, so that’s a factor”. [source: June 14th Discord Q&A with devs]

In CC, Rook’s pronouns can be chosen. You can select both pronouns AND gender, as as Corinne noted, these are related concepts, but actually not exactly the same thing. Rook can be non-binary. The pronouns available are she/her, they/them, and he/him. [source: June 14th Discord Q&A with devs]

The Character Creator is very detailed and very deep. The team focused a lot on doing good hair and doing hair and skin tones respectfully. There is full body customization. They are going to show us a lot more on CC in the future, but at a time when they have the time and space to do so. [source: June 14th Discord Q&A with devs]

Q. How extensive are Rook’s decision trees for companions and NPCs throughout the game going to be?

A. “Huge. It’s a Dragon Age game. We wanna make sure you have choices, we wanna make sure you can choose your roleplaying but also choose outcomes of conversations, choose how events unfold. We wanna make sure that we also react to decisions you’ve made. So, for example, you may be talking to a follower who is an elf, and if you yourself are an elf, obviously you’re gonna have a different perspective on events than someone who is not an elf. Sometimes that means different conversation options. Sometimes that’s going to mean entirely deep dialogue trees. As well as based off decisions you’ve made throughout the game, so. Again, making sure that the game feels like the it’s noticing what you’re doing is a huge part of how we’ve written out the dialogue trees in this game.” [source: June 14th Discord Q&A with devs]

 “There are quite a few, easily more than we’ve done before I think, tattoos from various cultures. We’re bringing the vallaslin back of course. There are a ton of different options, especially when we’re going into all of these new regions. Each region has its own kinda visual language for that. But yeah, we are bringing the vallaslin back, and then a couple of the characters have them, but we’ve kinda customized them a little bit, they’re a bit more specific to their personality.” [source: June 14th Discord Q&A with devs]

Corinne’s favorite thing other than the companions is the CC. “That CC, the makeup options, the range of sliders… I’m a qunari fan, so even just the way you customize the horns and combine that with the really great looking hair”. [source: June 14th Discord Q&A with devs]

The Inquisitor can be customized, “include some of our new customization options”. “Yeah, they’re gonna show up and they’re gonna be your Inquisitor.” [source: June 14th Discord Q&A with devs]

We will get to see the Character Creator before launch. “They are laying out a roadmap for what we are going to show and when we are gonna talk about it. So, yes, you will see it, as we get a little bit closer to launch.” [source: June 14th Discord Q&A with devs]

In CC, the body customization can be done for humans, elves, dwarves and qunari. Qunari hair options and horn options are rad. They acknowledged that it was hard to have nice-looking hair for qunari in DA:I. [source: June 14th Discord Q&A with devs]

“Related to this, your Lineage (human/elf/dwarf/qunari) gives you a lot of really unique dialogue options, so that’s a really lovely aspect of choosing your lineage as well.” “Each lineage, depending on the lineage you choose and the background you choose, there are some specific call outs to. For example, if it’s the Mourn Watch, them being a faction from Nevarra of mages, obviously your experience as a dwarf there is going to be different than say a human or an elf, so, there are also specific callouts tailored to those combinations with again, the intention of giving each lineage their own little flavor as to how they fit into that faction as a whole.” [source: June 14th Discord Q&A with devs]

“Rook’s last name is defined based on their faction, again, we wanted to tie that into your backstory, but also, there’s a name generator that can give you a selection of first names. Obviously if you want to make your own first name, that’s definitely something we support as well.” But if you always struggle during CC and name all your characters like 'Bob’ or something, you’re gonna be okay thanks to the name generator. [source: June 14th Discord Q&A with devs]

"some of what I saw behind closed doors, as well as the way the devs spoke openly about the passion for diversity, gave me a lot of hope for this installment." [source]

"A New Peak For Progressive Character Creators. My first thought as I watched the dev take us through Dragon Age: The Veilguard's character creator at Summer Game Fest was 'okay, everyone can shut up about Cyberpunk 2077 now'." "Dragon Age, as I've written about in more depth in my full breakdown, cares. It takes elements of Cyberpunk 2077 and Saints Row, plus its own creator from 2014's Inquisition which was then best-in-show and remains a contender even today. It acknowledges the trans experience in a multitude of ways, likely owing heavily to game director Corinne Busche being a trans woman and therefore able to inject a personal perspective that most other games lack." "The dev also made a Black woman during our gameplay demo" [source]

The world reacts to Rook’s lineage and backstory. There are unique dialogues or conversation options based on backstory and lineage. [source: June 14th Discord Q&A with devs]

There are glorious, fantastic dwarf beards. "I don’t know what magic the character art team did with the beards”, but they feel/look like how beards should. [source: June 14th Discord Q&A with devs]

On the slider for body type selection: “It looked incredibly easy to maneuver around and create a body that is either close to that player’s real personage or their ideal fantasy self” [source]

“Our presenter said that each specialization was pretty much as deep as a job” ((job - class)) [source]

“sliding a cursor across a triangle that can make your character stocky and chubby or tall and muscular or anything in between” [source]

[talonabraxas]

Sirian DNA Lightcode Talon Abraxas The lionsgate Portal August 8th is the luckiest day of the year for manifesting.

The lionsgate portal is the alignment of planets and stars. Every year on August 8th the sun is in Leo, and Orion's belt, the star Sirius, and the Earth all fall into alignment.

This alignment creates a potent energy gateway associated with manifestation, spiritual healing, and transformation.

Sirians and the Ascension

This Ascension process can and will manifest in many different ways, and it is up to all of us collectively to decide how and when this occurs. Creating the Ascension starts with each of us, on the inside. The Sirians tell us that the most important thing to do is to go inside our hearts, be open to Love Unconditionally.

The Sirians are working with individual human beings first, then are giving us hints as to what's happening, as we meet others and form little groups together that interconnect with one another, and then we begin to share our experiences.

Later, this would lead to more conscious understanding of what their/our purpose is in the transformation of planet Earth as it goes into Ascension. The Ascension will be like a key, opening and anchoring the Light Body with the physical, emotional, and mental bodies, allowing them to integrate and thereby give each individual much greater access to higher dimensions and experiences of Oneness with others.

There really would be no "other," because everyone would realize their connection to the whole. Of course, all these things happening would still be the choice of every one.

I know what I'm going to choose...

What the future really holds, I don't know, but I envision a great paradigm shift, and a re-birth for Earth and its symbiotic companions that live here physically and in other dimensions.

We are all here to experience this fantastic journey, and there are many beings from other realms, dimensions, universes, and star systems who are here to help us.

The Sirians are some of those beings. They work with some of us on the third dimension in subtle ways that we cannot easily see with our mere five physical senses, and on higher dimensions in more blatant and direct ways, which we still can't perceive unless we have access to those dimensions.

Well, we do have access, just not usually in a conscious state. So they often work with us in dream states, when our consciousnesses are not being so affected by our personality and ego filters.

The Sirians are etheric in their native form and are now working with many of us not only to activate and open our five higher inter-planetary chakras that have been dormant, but also they are working on our genetic structure.

Human DNA is going to be shifting back to its original twelve-strand from the current double strand; the Sirians are here to aid us in this process.

-Sirius Star System

[adickaboutspoons]

By the Neck; or, Pearls Mean Tears

I know we all love the idea that Ed snatched the pearl necklace from the neck of one of the guests (or possibly even the bride herself) on the wedding party boat, and how that ties in with his re-painted bride dolly and his longing to be Stede’s bride. I’ve been responsible for propagating the idea myself. So I hate to rain on our parade, but, oh my v. dears? We were wrong.

Stop looking at Ed’s soft, open mouth and beautiful, haunted eyes for a second, and take a glance at the bottom of the frame at what’s tucked up next to the left lapel of his big Blackbeard duster (srsly, how did I not notice those ridiculously oversized lapels in the trailer? I am so dumb sometimes). And lest you think that he, perhaps snatched the necklace sometime between unleashing “the kids” and the camera cutting back to him nonchalantly enjoying some cake? Here’s the necklace on “the day before that,” visible just under the curve of the top pistol on his chest:

And here it is again “the day before that,” two pearls on the strand just barely visible as he’s lighting his pipe:

So sorry my v. dears, but no. the pearls don’t represent his desire to be partnered with Stede. But that’s ok - we already have a piece of neckware that represents that: Stede’s cravat. Which Ed donned specifically so that he could die in it…

And we know that he did that, because he was only wearing the pearl necklace and his habitual gold chains from the first season just before he babygirled his way right into the path of the storm. (Also - since the crew were huddled in the hallway leading to the captain’s cabin just before they came out to find Ed angling the cannon toward the mast, do we reckon he already had it on him when he came out to take the helm? Maybe tucked away in his pocket? Where he used to keep his silk?)

But! When Ed gets to the Gravy Basket, only the pearls remain.

Similarly when he’s manacled to the railing after he awakens from his coma, he’s only wearing the pearls. There’s no good Watsonian reason to take the cravat and the chains, but LEAVE the pearls. If the characters were worried about him choking, it would make sense to remove ALL the neckwear. If Stede wanted his clothes back for some reason or Ed didn’t want it now that Stede’s back and he’s mad at him, removing the cravat makes sense, but why remove the jewelry that rightly belongs to Ed, meaning he’d still have his chains along with the pearls. If it was a matter of the crew taking Ed’s valuables as an asshole tax or something, then we’d expect chains AND pearls to be gone, leaving just the cravat. I can’t think of a single in-universe reason why only the pearls would stay.

That tells us that the pearls are SYMBOLICALLY significant to his character concept and, especially since they show up in the Gravy Basket where EVERYTHING is symbolic, integrated into his concept of self.

So if not all the bridal stuff, how ARE we meant to interpret them?

Well, first, pearls are tied to the sea, and I think it’s fair to say that in almost all iterations of his identity, Ed sees himself intrinsically linked with or near the sea (The Pirate Blackbeard, The Kraken, the Impossible Bird that never returns to land, Jeff’s Inn by the Sea, Blackbeard’s Bar and Grill and other Delicacies and Delights and Fishing Equipment, and Fisherman Ed). But various mythologies posit pearls are the tears of gods or goddesses, intrinsically linking them with expressions of sorrow. And beyond that, there’s What Pearls Are - an irritant that has to be smoothed over with layer upon layer of visually appealing cover to make it acceptable.

We know that Ed thinks he’s profoundly unlovable. He admits it to himself in as many words in the Gravy Basket, but we’ve known this from season 1 when he confessed to Stede that he’s not a good person, and that’s why he hasn’t any friends. We see plenty of people with whom he is on friendly terms, like Jack or Anne and Mary, or who respect or admire Blackbeard, like his crew and Spanish Jackie, and Jeff easily wins over the crowd on the French Party Boat, but Blackbeard and Jeff are protective personas he cultured like layers of nacre. They’re not Just Ed.

Just Ed made himself profoundly vulnerable and kissed a boy on a beach. Just Ed got abandoned on a dock. Just Ed got told that it would have been better if the English had killed him.

So I think it’s significant that he and Stede exchange their second kiss when he’s been stripped of his pearls in exchange for a cat bell.

This is Ed devoid of all the signifiers of his self-constructed identities - just like on the beach with his clean-shaved face and standard-issue academy uniform - no pretenses to hide behind. He’s able to be soft and vulnerable and honest - expressing desire and being receptive of it, clearly establishing his needs and boundaries. He’s able to be Just Ed and be loved and accepted for it.

So what does it mean that, once the cat-bell era is over, Ed choses to put the pearls back on?

I think it’s telling that, after a brief interlude with Ned Low, we start episode 6 with Ed in two scenes where he’s in a state of low-grade anxiety over the fruits of his Kraken era. First, we see him scanning a horizon for a storm that he can feel, but not see, which, as pointed out by @edsbacktattoo is more or less a premonition about the impending arrival of Ned Low, whom Kraken!Ed goaded into coming for him by breaking his consecutive raid record in a bid of passive suicidality. Then, we have Ed’s room of gilded guilt. All this represents, to Ed, tangible evidence of his inherent toxicity - the rotten core of him that has to be smoothed over.

I think it’s also significant that the pearls are there for the sex scene at the end of the episode.

Unlike the scene at the end of episode 5, this is NOT Ed giving and receiving love on his own terms. Ned’s appearance was his fault - the result of his recklessness and self-destruction, and Stede is the one who has paid the price for it. Ed consents to sex, though he wanted to take things slow, and is not really ready, but it’s by no means enthusiastic. It’s relenting. It’s a way of smoothing things over for and with Stede rather than addressing the underlying agitation.

Even though Ed rids himself of his leathers - the last trappings of his Blackbeard persona, dropped overboard just like the bride doll he painted in his image - he keeps the pearls when he assumes his “just a regular guy” guise.

Because this isn’t really Ed expressing and embracing his authentic self. Fisherman Ed is just another palatable persona (a whim borne on the back of one caught fish, because if the people in his life are going to keep telling him he’s whim-prone, he may as well lean all the way in and prove them right, right?). All the same underlying anxiety about being unlovable is still there, and it’s thrown into overdrive now that everyone wants a piece of Stede. After all, if he REALLY loves Stede, would it not be best to release him from the obligation of being tied to someone so fundamentally damaged? Let him find someone who can TRULY make him happy now that he can have his pick? So he picks a fight to push Stede away - tells him that their first time together was “a mistake,” tells him that he’s leaving (again), tells him that fishermen and pirates (read: Ed and Stede) have nothing in common.

So, while they are lovely, and he wears those fine things well, I hope that we might soon see the end of the strand of pearls. Because for Ed, pearls mean tears.

[spacemilkies]

morning bliss

pairing: john "soap" mactavish x reader

rqt: [] yes [x] no

wc: 1.7k+

a/n: this one was inspired by @charnelhouse. seriously go read like all of her works. but this piece in patricular came about after drowning myself in all the domestic red x ghost vibes. and i wanted to give soapy a family to return too. so here we are!

synopsis: everything up to this point had been worth it, and so would everything to come after

warnings: casual morning smut. p vanilla

You don’t remember exactly when he came in the night before. Vaguely recalled the dip in the mattress, a stretch of arms and a heavy weight over your hip. There may have been a kiss exchanged somewhere; a sloppy attempt that caught his cheek. Then you let yourself fall back under, content with the knowledge that he’d made it home safe.

Now you are more coherent. Elbows tucked under you as you looked over the slumbering man. The summer humidity managed to assault the integrity of the house, bringing a foggy muck along with the sunrise. It would be an easy fix to get up and recalibrate the air conditioning but you decided preemptively that you’d suffered through worse.

To John, the heat may as well have just been another blanket with the way he slumbered comfortably under the shadow of your comforter. You’d switched it out for the lighter one, more favorable for the season, but even you had been too weak to remain under for the night. Recklessly kicking it away in your sleep.

Your husband on the other hand, welcomed the embrace, completely covered save for a rebellious hand or foot.

Slowly you manipulated the corners back, revealing skin lightly doused with sweat. Fingers slide along the firm plans, ending around scars and healing bruises until the erratic pattern roused the figure into a shift.

His eyes didn’t open but you could tell that he was gaining recognition. The muscles, still hard from use, jumped more actively to your touch, seeking out the light caress. For a moment you briefly wondered if you could escape for a few minutes to prepare a pot of coffee. Whether it was utilized or not, the aroma was always welcomed in the morning.  

But before your nerves signal the thoughts into actions, your husband repositions himself once more, humming audibly as his hand reaches out to mold against your thigh.

Unable to resist, you leaned closer and nuzzled back a few damp strands, whispering quietly,” Felt like you got in late.”

On paper, John was on the cusp of retirement, but his skills had yet to decline and as such he was still in high demand. He would forever be the soap’ until the day he died, and likely long after with achievements kilometers long. but the excursions were shorter though, the hours almost relatable to a high-risk nine to five. 

The edges of sleep restricted his level of communication to short grunts and low hums. It was hard to tell if he was acknowledging your statement or simply responding to the sound of your voice.

You responded in kind, with a soft hum to maintain the complacent peace. It would be a stretch to remember his exact schedule, but you felt safe to assume that you had him for the morning. As tired as he may be, there was little to dilute the responsibility of his duties. In the beginning you saw it as a concern but over time you began to accept his perseverance and supported it rather than thwarted it.

The hand on your thigh curled deeper into a grip, established enough to pull and drag at it until you got the hint and hitched it over his hip.

Your hands still tickled at the features of his face, skimming lightly until his nose turned at the effort. You took that opportunity to catch him up with what he missed outside of his recent case.

“I repainted the porch.”

John’s chest vibrated but there was no vocal manifestation of the growl, “I know, you left the top off on the paint.”

You were stuck between laughing at that being his response or the fact that somehow beyond two in the morning he managed to catch that. The hand not occupied with rearranging his hair pattern, reached for him and looped them together.

“Thank you for resealing it,” you showed gratitude for the unspoken gesture by smudging your lips against his cheek.

“It looked good.” His voice was no greater than a breath. There was no way for him to notice more than a slight color change but you weren’t one to rebuttal compliments, especially when he seemed so generous with them this morning.

You rewarded him again and he leaned into it in welcome, face pressed into the pillow; bleary eyed hiding half of his face.

“Anything else?”

You went quiet in thoughtful silence as your leg curled tighter around him. “Hmm. ‘Pulled the weeds up from the garden.”

“Hm, sexy. What else?”

Your eyes crinkled, laughter lines forming in tune with the humorous atmosphere he was creating.

“I refreshed the scotch stash.”

“That’s my girl.”

He was slowly clearing the fog of sleep, eyes widening to a sliver; eyelids to low and morning light to dim to properly appreciate the color.

Puckering your lips, your joined hands lifted to receive the action against scarred knuckles.

“No pitter patter?”

It took a second your mind to fill in the blanks of the curt request, the thick hazed you’d both fallen into comfort with rising just a few inches in clarity. The quietness was enough of a clock for any pair of patents. Unfortunately, it came with a few extra alarms as your daughter was now at the age where she would happily sleep in. The excitement of school is long gone.

But the sun was hardly awake enough to spare it’s own greeting allowing you to justify at least another hour of silence.

“I set an extra alarm to cut into her snooze time,” you said next, though the question had already oiled the cogs of your mind as you began to juggle thoughts of breakfast and homework. She was reaching that point where attendance and participation would begin to break ground on her educational career.

Your tongue tastes bitter as you reluctantly start the process of untangling your fingers,” I should check on the laundry. “

“H-..hold on,” a yawn stuttered over his speech and he found refuge in the pillow to fight it with a stifling muffle. “ We got time, baby.”

Brow furrowing in amusement, you allowed your body to be pulled impossibly close, helpfully kicking at the blanket to relieve some heat.

“Not too tired?” It was implied without saying. There was no doubt that every waking hour for him was both a mind and body challenge. At this point in your life, you’d learned to differentiate between needs and necessity. At this age you were both a long way away from young lovers without responsibilities. If a warm embrace was all you could get at the end of the day, you’d take that happily. Sometimes it took swallowing back selfishness for the greater good.

“Never too tired for this.”

Okay, that was a lie. You were reminded of a particular event where he’d happily succumbed to exhaustion knuckle deep into your core.

There were a plethora of nearly concern grunts and groans as he pulled himself to his elbows, uncommonly pushing aside your leg in the process. John traced the curve of your waist with a thick thumb as he hovered over you, and your legs parted automatically to give him room to slot himself in between. It was likely going to be a quick one-two pump, but damn if unintentional abstinence didn’t make that seem like the sexiest wildest fantasy.

He’d stripped to his briefs before bed, a thankful last minute thought you were grateful for as your fingers curled under the only barrier. It takes a gratuitous push to get it over the swell of his ass, a resting place he deems fine for what he had in store. The rock of his hips jars your touch and your gaze as your head lolls to the side. “Needed this. Needed you.”

John drew back momentarily to reach out towards the bedside table. You were assured that the box would be full, certainty backed by the foil square now wedged between his teeth. You were both older and more weathered but notably more wiser to unexpected surprises and expectations.

There was little time spent on the runway, not wanting to burn energy before take off. You turned your head in offering, and John chased the hint, lips planting warm kisses down the length of your neck. His fingers were idle, moving with intention and deliberation to widen and retrain for accommodation. Your hips helped a little, rolling down into his touch for a few simple strokes before he pulled away and lined himself up.

There was no expectation of a marathon, yet you both started off slow and gradual, grinding into each other with small movement. HIs mouth neck left your collar bone, heated breaths now fanning against the dam skin. The years have been a slow transition from rough thrusts and heavy pounding into what could only be coined as ‘morning bliss’. Soft, unhurried and just full of crafted love and adoration.

You mewl when a particular stroke rubs your walls just right, moaning vocally to emphasize his accuracy. Still sleep-rumbled, John still manages to draw his name from your lips. It’s lazy yet fulfilling and there is little surprise when your orgasm begins to sneak up on you.

“Yes, right there, John.”

“I’m right behind you, baby.”

A third voice interrupts, “When did Daddy get home?”

John is the quicker of the two, on hand working up his briefs while the other fists the blanket over your huddled bodies, before your daughter’s knees hit the mattress. He goes a step forward, a true feat, to catch her around the waist before she could slip under the sheets. Happy with her intended target, she snuggles close under his arm as he finds your gaze with repressed frustration and fading libido.

You could only smile in acceptance.

It was a hardy but fair compromise, to untangle your fingers from the tightly wound bundle of release. But the tradeoff was worth it. Your daughter’s transition from babbles into coherent conversations was a beautiful thing, especially witnessing it now as she caught her father up on everything he’d missed in the last twelve hours. 

John made it a note to try to keep his absences low when he could, which meant mirroring her school and sleep schedules. It was a variable schedule but you had learned to adapt. You would never quite get a fill of your husband, but it was more rewarding to share. 

Clad in his boxers, your husband takes first leave with your daughter squirming and giggling over his shoulder. The moment was over but the memories would keep rolling in. The smile on his face the start of a new one as he urged you on with a nod of his head,

“Breakfast then?”

[paullicino]

Six Years - On PTSD and Choosing Life

Content warning: This essay very frankly discusses mental health, trauma, gaslighting and suicide. It also links to discussions of abuse and sexual assault.

If you are experiencing thoughts of suicide, know that you are not alone and help is available to you or anyone who might need it, such as the Samaritans, the Suicide Prevention Hotline, or this list of other crisis hotlines and this list of international support resources.

This was reposted from my Patreon.

There are blue skies today. The sun bounces off the mirrored windows of a skyscraper downtown. It cuts straight across my balcony and shines onto my wall. A few blocks away, the staff of my favourite café will share their latest gossip with me, as they always like to do, and maybe later tonight I will make good food and play games with friends until unwise times in the morning. Isn’t life full of wonderful things?

You can find them everywhere. And I certainly do. Sometimes I’ve found them in the intimate, up-close details of a famous oil painting, between the notes of a new song heard by chance, even in the rustling at the bottom of a dumpster, which becomes chittering and then fur and a tail and then direct eye contact with a tiny criminal whose only felony was hunger. I’ve found them amongst perfectly crafted sentences that capture thoughts and feelings and hold them forever on the page, in the silence of the impossibly wild mountain wilderness a thousand miles from home, in the first moments that I’ve taken someone’s hand and watched the gaudy lights of some forgettable venue play across the lines and the shapes of their face.

That’s so many wonderful things to live for. And I can get overdramatically passionate about the tiniest, silliest little details.

I’ve been trying to write this for a long time. I had three significant dreams during that period. In the most recent, I had moved into a dark and barren basement, with most of my possessions still in boxes. Some old friends from long ago came knocking. They pressed their faces against the small windows and tried to force the ageing door. “Where did you go?” they kept asking, their voices entering through every crack. “What happened?”

Six years ago this month I destroyed my suicide note. I burned it on a rainy August night and watched it curl into a tiny, helpless twisting of ashes and charred plastic that no longer had any power or purpose. The note was inside of a ziploc bag, a choice I’d made to ensure its integrity and survival against any of the several different plans I’d made to end my life, and this had melted into black strands of hair-like debris that reached up to nothing. One or two of my handwritten words remained half legible in this mess and tried to reach beyond the flames, to share their intent with the world, but they would never again mean anything to anyone.

I made videos of the burning and took a few pictures, a sort of ritual of recording, then I told a close friend what I’d just done, and then, for a very long time, I set the image as the wallpaper on my phone. It would be an ever-present reminder to me of my choice to stay alive. It was supposed to help me feel strong, though the truth is that I rarely did. It was the worst, most harrowing and most damaging period of my life and with help, honesty, insight, therapy, time and invaluable connection with others who have either seen the same things that I have or had comparable experiences, I managed to fumble and fight my way through it all. But I will never be the same. Six years is a long time and I am still profoundly affected by so much. I am still trying to understand things. I am still trying to figure myself out, to make sense of my identity, my situation, my experiences. To work out where I went and what happened. And I am still trying to move on.

These words are something about that ongoing experience, that work in progress, and about the dual significance of a span of six years. It is not so much about causes or causers, but instead about consequences and changes, and that’s for three reasons.

The first is because what happens after and as a result of trauma is so enduring and significant, perhaps even the most significant consideration of all, and it’s how we find ourselves discussing things like spans of six years or, for some people, far longer. I want to try to explain some of that sort of intensity and that sort of timescale.

The second is because it’s my hope that this is the most helpful way for me to talk about all this, the most illustrative to other people, the most constructive. I could have chosen many approaches, some which I believe might have been more harmful and destructive, and I don’t generally want to be a punitive or destructive person. Ultimately I think this is the most positive and productive approach.

The third is because I’m still not ready to unpack many things, as so much is still ongoing. I am not at the end of this, not out of the woods, and I think I need to know that I’ve reached the end of whatever journey I’m on before I can return to the start.

There is, allegedly, a power in choosing how your own story is told. So I’m choosing to tell it this way and, I hope, with the awareness that any exercise of power requires consideration and responsibility.

Six years is a long time, and while I’ve been trying to write and rewrite this thing for months, those months still pale in comparison to more than half a decade. A lot has changed in six years, and yet I also wish some things weren’t still the same, that I would have been able to make more progress, that I would have been able to create more distance.

Because, while I am six years from that burning note, from that summer rain, in my memory and my mind it doesn’t work like that. I still find myself beside that moment in time, like I could open the door to the next room and once again be right there.

---

Writing this has been very difficult. Writing is supposed to be one of the things that I am best at, and in the past words used to spill out of me so regularly that I wrote a tri-weekly diary, but I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that my relationship to writing has changed. It’s not just that this is a difficult topic. It’s that words don’t come as easily or as fluidly as they once did, making it much easier, all too appealing, to simply not push myself. To avoid things entirely.

But I wanted to write this, in part, because it would be another act of not giving up. I wanted to show myself what I could do, what I still can do, and that, even if I’m changed, I’m still stubborn enough to fumble and fight my way through.

---

I want you to imagine a house. It can be any kind of house, that part isn’t important. What is important is that the house is your home and you have lived there for a very, very long time. It is comfortable. It is safe. It is so intimately familiar that it is a part of your identity. Perhaps you grew up there, or you raised a family there, or you retired there. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s your home and that everyone knows you live there.

Next, imagine that you have a terrible day. The worst day. And at the end of this terrible, terrible day, on a bleak and dusky evening, you expect at least to be able to come back to your house, your home. You take the same route back to the same address, where you see the same building stood before you and open the same front door, ready for the comfort of a place you’ve made your own.

You enter this space that you’ve known for so long and you notice something is wrong. The first clue is something small, perhaps a lamp missing from its usual spot, or you collide with furniture moved somewhere unexpected. You feel for a light switch that is now on a different wall. You stumble on the stairs as you make your way to a bed that is hard and unwelcoming. In the morning, the light from the window is not only a different shape, but cast in the opposite direction.

The changes stop being so subtle. After you notice that a carpet is suddenly faded and pale, you open a closet to find it is twice as deep. Some of your possessions are missing. The spare room no longer has a skylight. The kitchen is a different colour, with different appliances, with no back door, half the size it once was because the walls have been moved. There are new rooms whose arrival and contents are both equally inexplicable. Your most cozy corner is now cold and uncomfortable. You must relearn the entire layout, from bathroom to basement, because moving around the way you once would only causes you to stub your toes, to trip, even to fall.

Your friends don’t understand why you no longer enjoy going back to your house, your home. They don’t understand why you screamed at the different closet, why the sunlight on the wall makes you nervous. Being in your own home now hurts and scares you. How can you possibly relax here? But this is still your same house, at your same address, the one that everybody knows. You can’t argue that it isn’t. And if you invite a friend inside, after ranting about everything that is different, they ask “Why did you change all this? It’s so much worse.”

What can you even say in return? “I didn’t”? That shit’s insane.

But that is how it feels, like I live in a house that isn’t my home. Sometimes I don’t recognise myself. Sometimes, on the worst days, I don’t know who I am any more.

“Where did you go?” ask the voices, entering through every crack. “What happened?”

---

Last summer, a man came roaring down my street in his flawless luxury emerald convertible. I remember him well. He had dark sunglasses and a tan suit jacket and a hairstyle slick with oil, like he was being a parody of a rich man from an eighties film. He surged through the stop sign right in front of me and I let him know what I thought of his public display of privilege and indifference.

“Go a little faster, you cunt,” I yelled. “Maybe you can hit a kid.”

He swivelled his head, looked back over his shoulder and stared straight at me.

He also slowed down.

It was then that I realised the volume I must have used to project myself, over the noise of his engine and toward a driver already continuing down the street, meant a few of my neighbours had likely heard me too.

I’m not sure I cared.

I used to be a more modest and deferential person, and often that is still the case. But often it is not. I have less patience. I have less fear. And I have less trust.

The fear thing is great. Last autumn I walked across a narrow, quivering suspension bridge with no care for the drop below. Later, I found another far narrower, far smaller one and, all by myself, alone in the woods sixteen kilometres up a trail, I jumped up and down on the thing until it shook and swung.

I used to be terrified of heights.

My sense of fear isn’t gone. But it’s both so much more manageable and also, quite often, a thrill. It’s taken me a while to realise that I increasingly seek out things that are exciting, risky or extremely stimulating. I am frank with strangers. I am quick to make decisions. I am keen to try new things.

It doesn’t sound so bad, does it? That’s because it isn’t. Not all change is bad and not every consequence of my experience has been negative. Slowly, gradually, I am learning to appreciate a few of the changes, to lean into them. While one part of me feels sad that I’m less trusting than I used to be, another part of me sees this as more practical. I’m far quicker to drop something or someone like a rock the moment I sense things that I don’t like, and my sense for such things is certainly sharper than it used to be. Am I always right? I don’t know about that. Perhaps some people have been casualties of an overabundance of caution. Or paranoia.

That might just be the new cost of doing business.

---

It was some time in early 2020, while talking with my GP and taking some evaluations, that we began to look at my behaviour more closely. A year before, I’d talked extensively with a therapist about anxiety and about a growing sense of discomfort and distrust. I had far less patience, particularly for those who pushed boundaries, violated or were exploitative, often regardless of whether these things even involved or affected me. Anything that felt uncomfortably familiar, whether it was something I saw in a film, caught on the news or heard about on social media, could ruin my day. I would become jumpy, irritable, scared, or simply unable to do much beyond lie down and try everything I could to banish the feeling that my chest was being crushed. This might take hours. One evening, an ex found me curled up on the floor, ashamed of my own sadness. On another evening, a routine trip to see an exciting film turned into a sleepless night of panic and distress.

I began taking tests and found myself either dismissing the results or retaking them over and over in an attempt to get different answers. The outcomes kept telling me I had the symptoms of PTSD. This was far too dramatic a result and there had already been enough drama in my life already. I myself was too much drama.

Anyway, I thought, having the symptoms isn’t the same as having.

Sometimes I think about how, during some of my most difficult moments, the toughest weeks and months that I didn’t really know how I was going to get through, I made a lot of haphazard decisions motivated by panic and fear and ignorance, by doing my best to improvise and cope and adapt. Some things worked out. Some things did not. Probably the deciding factor there was luck and I’m not really sure I can look back with any wisdom or insight.

I didn’t always know what to do, what to say, who to trust, or how much to trust, how to respond to new information and changing situations, or what in holy hell might ever work out. My response to all of this was to keep secrets or to be cagey, to avoid places and people, to suddenly and liberally cut others off through a mix of ghosting, avoidance and outright blocking, or to occasionally have three-day long anxiety spikes in which I remained highly activated, oversensitive and endlessly insecure. During one of these, someone teasingly pushed me to take part in something that I didn’t want to, something that wasn’t even a big deal, and I was so close to breaking down that I had to almost run from my friends and find a quiet place to catch my breath, all the emotions in my body somehow pinched into a single point somewhere in my gut. During another, a laptop accidentally nudged half an inch sent me into panic mode, manifesting a feeling like a blade of ice slicing straight through my pulmonary artery.

These sorts of responses and behaviours would happen even in spite of all the various combinations of therapy and medication and support I was cycling my way through. I don’t feel proud of how I handled many of these things. I would love to be able to say that I handle them so much better now, with the aid of wisdom and insight. Perhaps sometimes I do.

Sometimes I have simply made terrible decisions and, looking back, I am still not sure how I might have ever done any different. I am lucky that the vast, vast majority of those decisions didn’t fuck things up further.

---

It’s a magnificent day as I write this. The world is jade and azure and gold. The sky is exquisitely, flawlessly blue. Every leaf is rich with the gloss of summer. The sun is setting into the sparkling sea beside a succession of fading distant mountain ridges, each hazier than the last, the furthest so indistinct it looks almost like mist, a ghost of an idea two thousand metres tall. Container ships the size of city blocks sleep in the bay, their hulls traced and wrinkled with rust from a lifetime of global migration. As the growing shadows of slowly swaying trees reach their way toward me, the last light of the day glides over the ground, over the grass and even over my body itself, like spilled wine gushing from a glass. It colours everything the sweet shade of nostalgia. The air is gently warm and the grass is soft beneath me.

I love days like this. They are one of the reasons why I moved here, why I put so much time and effort and energy into relocating halfway around the world. Into building the life that I wanted, piece by piece.

And I love so many of those pieces. I love my little apartment, with the balcony that I always wanted, with its ragtag assortment of secondhand furniture collected one item at a time, with its shelves tucked in here or squeezed in there, never quite tidy enough to look presentable. I love my walkable neighbourhood, with its shops and cafés and cats that follow me from block to block, or critters that peer out from between bushes in the rustling dusk. I love how low cloud creeps in to cover the tips of the skyscrapers downtown, or how the jagged outline of mountains shape the horizon in almost every direction. I love trying to make things, especially with other people, and the reward of being creative, of being silly or being funny. I love all the things I’ve learned to cook, or the ways I can warm myself up on a cold day, or the late nights I can so often indulge, with no care for what might come tomorrow.

I have so much to be grateful for and so much to be proud of. So much here. So much now.

Pretty soon, the sunset will transform the whole sky into a gradient of colour. Someone somewhere will be playing guitar on the beach, and maybe they’ll be good. Stars will appear in the sky, above the familiar urban zodiac traced out by the city lights of apartment buildings. If I stay up late again, the dawn sky will turn the royal blue of an emperor’s cloak. And then all of this will happen again.

I have so much to be grateful for. So much to appreciate.

---

A few weeks ago I had my first nightmare in some time. They still happen. The specifics matter less than the broad themes. Deception. Gaslighting. Manipulation. Boundary violation. All of it in plain sight, yet still unseen, making me feel like I’m helpless, like I’m crazy, like I have no hope of ever being believed.

I thought about it all day. The situations, the faces and the fears. This is the way it’s always been and once one of these nightmares visits you, it stays for a while. It’s like a small stain, an odour that gets into your clothes, the stink of cigarettes after a party the evening before.

Can you wash out a stain? Sometimes. With the right substances, with the correct regimen. And with some aggressive, persistent scrubbing.

One summer night years ago an ex woke me up because I had been thrashing about in my sleep. I had worried her by rolling around and muttering like a madman. Was I having a nightmare, she asked, and it wasn’t just that I was, but that I had them all the time. Every week, at least, each leaving that same gross feeling of violation and abuse. The anxiety medication that I had been prescribed was helping me sleep more, but it also seemed to make my dreams more vivid and profound. It was either that or barely being able to sleep at all, woken by the slightest of noises, up before the crack of dawn because some unresolved tension in my body overpowered all tiredness and fatigue. Even with medication, the smallest of things could still turn me into a nervous wreck, and one night I cried cross-legged on my bed as I explained to my ex not just that I had interpreted a few of her utterly inconsequential actions as a sign she wanted to leave me, but also that I might always be like this. Forever.

The nightmares began a few months after I burned my note. It was right after I opened up to another friend about what was going on in my life, and their response was to tell me about something else that had happened, the full story of an event from another six years before, from distant 2012.

It’s not my tale to tell, but six years is a long time to not know the full story of something. A long time to be deceived, to find out you’ve been lied to by someone you trust and that your ignorance has affected many decisions that you’ve made. Again, I am lucky that the vast, vast majority of those decisions didn’t fuck things up further. But some did.

Six years. It hit me then how long it can take for people to feel able to talk about something, as well as continue to be affected by it. How far the ripples travel and who they touch. And now, here I am, with my own six years.

That discovery was one of several experiences that transformed me into that person having three-day long anxiety spikes, remaining highly activated, oversensitive and endlessly insecure. That person thrashing about in his sleep. That person yelling “You cunt,” down his street.

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I’ve written before about my physical health and my relationship to my body. I was anxious about things being wrong with it long before I had thorough examinations and validating diagnoses, but as part of those treatments I wrote about, a trio of doctors warned me about how stress was worsening every condition and symptom I experienced. Stress was ruining my health. I was having so many migraines that my GP sent me for an MRI that revealed how those migraines were changing the white matter in my brain.

I would have to do something about this.

Those doctors would help me do something about this, as would other professionals, and their help was invaluable. This would be impossible to tackle alone.

Sometimes I think about people I’ve heard say such things as “It’s not your responsibility to fix someone else,” and, while I don’t disagree, doesn’t such a phrase also imply it’s surely somebody’s responsibility, in this society that we all share, built from things that help us support one another?

Otherwise we’d be suggesting that people fix themselves.

Sometimes I think about people I’ve heard tell others, or themselves, or sometimes the world via the spontaneous and sneeze-like broadcasts of social media “It’s on you to fix your shit,” and I wonder if that’s where that sentence should terminate, if that’s exactly how it should be phrased, if those are really the words that everyone, or anyone, needs to hear.

Because sometimes I also think of another clumsy analogy I once put together. It’s a scenario in which I describe a pedestrian struck by a car, perhaps one driven by a rich cunt with dark sunglasses and a tan suit jacket, perhaps even one that has mounted the curb or surged into a crossing. The pedestrian is knocked down, maybe immobile from the pain and injury that comes from a broken pelvis or fractured leg. An ambulance is summoned, a customised vehicle equipped to transport them to a hospital. In that hospital, that specialised medical facility, a team of trained experts will use skills and equipment to triage and manage, to analyse the pedestrian’s injuries, to provide relief and to chart a course toward recovery. There will be x-rays, there will be drugs, there may well be physiotherapy. I doubt at any point that the person lying in the street would be told, by someone coming upon the scene, “It’s on you to fix your shit.”

No. Not any more than they’d be expected to walk to the hospital, to interpret their x-rays or to prescribe their own medication. Indeed, if they attempted any of these things themselves I wouldn’t be surprised if someone along the way communicated to them some more polite version of “What the holy fucking fuck do you think you’re doing?” and “You’re in no state to do this yourself, let alone know what you need,” and “Fucking hell. You’re at your most vulnerable right now. Fuuuck.”

Hopefully.

Once, many years ago, I knew someone who broke their pelvis. It takes months to recover, maybe a year or more for a limp to fully disappear. And it requires all kinds of help and oversight. It worked out. Doctors and medical professionals can be remarkable.

I have read a lot of books and papers over the last six years. I have listened to a lot of podcasts and interviews. I have been recommended a lot of material by therapists, by friends, by fellow PTSD sufferers. One well-known trauma expert I was pointed toward is Canadian psychologist Dr. Gabor Maté. And he says this:

”Everybody is born needing help.”

He means that it’s a fundamental element of the human experience.

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Sometimes I go running and sometimes I go to the gym. The reasons I do this are complex, ranging from wanting to be healthier, to wanting to feel better about my body and how it behaves, to feeling like I am making progress with something. That last one is particularly important, because I’m doing something where I’m objectively able to recognise change.

When I run, an app tells me how far I ran and how long it took. I can’t disagree with the app, because it’s entirely objective, and so when I have a bad day, feel terrible and wonder what the point of anything is, the app still shows me that I achieved a reasonable or even an improved time.

It wasn’t always like this. I was bad at these things. I run better than I used to. I perform better at the gym than I used to. I have the metrics to prove it, and while I’m not a particularly dedicated or regular person with my exercise, I still keep at it and I still see improvements.

Whatever it is I’m doing, these apps and their statistics all offer me the same, very simple analysis:

“You’re doing better.”

I motivate myself to run, to go to the gym, to go on twenty-five kilometre hikes over difficult terrain, but I don’t do these things without some kind of help that comes from either expert resources, advice or training.

I don’t exist in a vacuum. None of us do.

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Help is important because it offers things like perspective and expertise and informed advice. And don’t all of those things sound so extremely important?

How about we imagine that our immobilised pedestrian wasn’t collected by an ambulance. Let’s imagine instead that the driver of the car that hit them stepped out of their vehicle, shook their head, put their hands on their hips and said “Look what you’ve done.”

And then “It’s okay, I know what’s best for you,” before carrying the inert person into their car and driving away. Perhaps even unseen. No witnesses.

If such a thing happened, in this society that we all share, with that person at their most vulnerable, who is responsible then? Who is responsible for what happens next? Who is responsible when that pedestrian, forever limping, says things like “It was my fault, I shouldn’t have been walking there,” or “I should have been looking out,” or “I should have been more visible,” and so on?

A lot of accidents and injuries and collisions and whatnot can be traumatic, scary, confusing. “How do I make sense of this?” asks that person, whether carried away alone in a car, or surrounded by doctors in the emergency room, or anywhere else they may happen to find themselves. “How do I deal with this?” And who might be around them at that moment to help answer such things?

And what will they say?

Perhaps you know someone who was, metaphorically, struck by such a car, before being then carried away by a driver with all sorts of ideas about what’s best, and who later blamed themselves for everything that happened. I don’t know.

I do know how important it was to receive the right help from the right people.

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It’s hard to know exactly what to do. You may respond to your trauma with a desire for revenge, retribution or restoration. You may not have the insight or the time or the means to do anything much at all. There is the ideal of what could or should happen when harm has been caused, but there is also the uncomfortable reality of how such things actually play out, of how long justice can take, of who is granted credibility, of how complex social dynamics can quickly become, of how awkwardly and uncomfortably people can react when they discover something they would rather not have, or that they have been misled, or so much more. We’ve all seen such things play out secondhand and firsthand.

I have had six years to consider the most helpful way to respond, the most constructive, the most positive and productive. I am still considering. I don’t have much in the way of answers or advice there.

Sometimes I think about the anonymous Broken Teapot essay, with all it has to say about the complexity of dealing with abuse dynamics, of harm happening within a group or community, about social consequences. It was written over a decade ago now, but it remains a very relevant piece of writing that brings up all sorts of considerations around responsibility, about trying to come to terms with trauma and abuse, and about how people might try to use systems or processes to try to solve things in unhelpful ways or even for their own ends.

People can have a lot of opinions about how to handle trauma, how to respond to abuse and how to leap into some sort of process of justice or accountability or reparation or even plain old revenge. So many opinions.

It’s exhausting.

Back in 2020 I tried to write something about all these complications and considerations that I was going to title The Calculus of Abuse. Like much else, it rots in my drafts folder.

Sometimes I think about how many of the ways that we push people to address both their trauma and the things or people that have caused their trauma only makes things worse. I am sceptical about the practicality, value and effectiveness of processes of justice, reparation and accountability. I think a lot of people believe that they will fix things, that they will be fair, that they will spotlight situations and systems and people that cause harm. That, in this cold and unflinching exposure, justice will be done and books will be closed on long and difficult stories.

And I think that’s because we see this happen now and then. Sometimes it happens very publicly. It seems to at least occasionally all work out.

Sometimes I think about friends who were excluded from social circles because they spoke up about something creepy or problematic, because it mattered less what actions or behaviour someone had demonstrated, even what could be proven, and much more who was more popular, or that the status quo be maintained, or that applecarts not be upset. I think about how different people share or don’t share their traumas and their experiences, what they include and what they leave out. I think about people who weren’t believed, people who were misrepresented, people who were shut down. I think about people who spent so long trying to get a handle on their trauma that any thing or person they might want to stand up to already had so much time to prepare, to seed the ground, to dig in, to get a head start. And I even think about the capacity people have to improve, to feel regret, to move forward as better humans. It’s a potential that I hope exists in us all and the writer Kai Cheng Thom seems to agree, saying that even those who cause harm themselves need help to “exit harmful behaviour patterns.”

Sometimes I think about what a friend of mine said about abusive people just being "regular people with very limited tools." And that’s not so different from a child. Doesn’t that make you feel sad?

I think about all of these things because how could you not? How could you not worry about how taking action to address a terrible thing would, in fact, only make that terrible thing even worse?

There is a paper by the American psychiatrist Judith Lewis Herman called Justice From the Victim’s Perspective that touches on how many processes and pushes toward addressing abuse and trauma can be retraumatising, without any guarantee they will lead to a meaningful outcome or significant change. It touches on how legal processes and systems can be manipulated to further harm and harass those seeking redress, or how disparities of power and status and money can immediately put the damaged and disadvantaged people who try this on the back foot. It touches on difficulties presented by such things as burden of proof, especially combined with the challenge of a memory minced by traumatic events. How does someone demonstrate and prove trauma, or gaslighting, or manipulation, or anything else?

It also talks about how not everybody seeks such things as justice, restitution, revenge, or not always in the ways that we think, and for a multitude of reasons. These can vary from worrying they won’t be believed or that the process will serve them, to wanting to move on, to the idea that it may be pointless, as some “offenders are empathetically disabled… not capable of a meaningful apology, so they can never provide anything to victims that would be useful.”

Both this and the Broken Teapot essay also feature people examining how they themselves have handled abuse and trauma. I think this is probably the most difficult part of many years of therapy, reading and reflection. Sure, it sucks to have been harmed by an event, a situation, a person or a system, but at some point you also start asking yourself difficult questions like “How do I avoid something like this again?” and “Did I do anything that made this worse?” and “Was I codependent, did I enable someone or did I perpetuate something with my reactions or my responses?”

“Abuse dynamics aren’t so simple,” says the Broken Teapot essay, at one small but very important moment, not long after “I was not solely ‘a victim’. Is anyone?” And, after all those years of therapy, reading and reflection, I’ve come to believe that abusive people and systems gain at least some of their power from how you interact with and respond to them. If we were, all of us, perhaps better informed, we might understand, avoid or escape so many difficult things so much sooner.

And while both the Broken Teapot essay and Justice From the Victim’s Perspective talk a lot about sexual assault, their considerations and their examinations of consequence are more broadly applicable. This reflects how I find myself relating to so many stories of trauma and abuse, regardless of what the specifics of any incidents might be. It’s because I recognise the same things in the subsequent developments, reactions and outcomes, much like I might recognise the same chord pattern in different songs. I see people trying to understand their own changing behaviours, trying to articulate why they won’t do a particular thing or go to a particular place any more, trying to both explain and understand how their body or their health has been affected. The specifics don’t need to be the same for so many of the consequences to be. And I recognise and am much more attuned to recognising those consequences.

Both these pieces of writing are also very good at illustrating one of the most important things that you can learn about trauma, and that is, whatever happens or whatever choices you make, things can never be put back in the box.

Trauma is never erased.

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Here’s what I think is another of the most important things we can learn about trauma, which is that people are generally very bad at dealing with it and are even worse at dealing with it if they are unsupported. And even if they have all the support in the world, they are probably still going to make bad choices, self-sabotage, lose perspective and do things they regret.

They will probably be foolish, be confused and be likely to make choices that could hurt other people. They may not have great insight or work against their own best interests. That doesn’t mean that they get a free pass. It doesn’t mean we are obliged to simply accept these behaviours. But I think these are realistic expectations that we should have.

In his pioneering book The Body Keeps the Score, the psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk writes that many trauma responses are “irrational and largely outside people's control,” coming from people who are “rarely in touch with the origins of their alienation.” An awful lot of the book is about helping such people to find ways past this, rather than disregarding them or pushing them away, even though this will be difficult. I don’t remember anything in the book that comes close to “It’s on you to fix your shit.”

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While one part of me wishes many things had not happened, feeling both weaker and sadder, another part of me acknowledges that I have gained new skills and strengths. And one of the best things about what I’ve gained is that all this doesn’t just help me, but can also be applied to help others.

That’s a good thing.

I’m a tiny bit wiser than I used to be. A lot of reading and talking to experts and digesting all sorts of media leaves its mark. It’s not just that I know a little more about myself and my experiences, it’s that I can now better recognise parallels to those experiences in other people’s situations, behaviours and pasts. I anticipate slightly better, seeing problems further ahead, and I have a stronger sense of what I need to drop or to avoid.

I’m doing better.

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I don’t have much that I can write here in terms of the specifics of therapy. I would describe a lot of the process of unpacking and analysing the causes of my PTSD as being extremely painful, like trying to both tidy up and then reassemble broken glass with your bare hands. The things that brought about your PTSD are shameful and harrowing. Their analysis can also be, through a process that can variously be sad, scary, frustrating, educational, validating and empowering. It takes a long time and requires expert assistance, which means the help you need can be a somewhat scarce resource and very, very expensive.

You pay for your trauma for a very long time.

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I discovered one of the most beautiful sounds in the world some time after 2016, some unknown amount of time after I moved into this apartment of mine, with its balcony and its skyscraper views. I don’t remember now when I first heard it, but it’s been years now and I still adore it whenever it happens. It’s small and subtle and can happen at almost any time of night or day. It’s a sound that makes me think of safety and independence, of making my own space and then occupying it. Of security and stability.

I really, really appreciate security and stability. Much as I increasingly seek out change and crave new experiences or opportunities, these things feel so much better if I can enjoy them with the understanding that I have some sort of foundation under me. Something solid. No matter how small or how far away. Some place of safety.

The sound happens when it’s raining. Whatever metal it is that rings my balcony is hollow, so that when rainfall strikes it, it responds with a kind of subtle but sonorous singing. This ringing isn’t the specific sound I’m talking about, though. That sound is slightly different, something that rises above this other background arrangement.

When a particularly large drop of water hits my balcony railing, it gives a flat, gentle ping of appreciation. The background patter of the other raindrops will continue and then, again, after some irregular interval, presumably as water has collected from the balcony above into a particularly large drop, the ping will sound again.

I heard it one morning this spring, months ago now, right after I woke up and not long after I had started writing all this. I lay there in bed on a day the colour of slate and cigarette smoke and I thought about how the world is made up of so many beautiful, tiny things. Ping, goes one of them, and maybe nobody else on the planet notices or cares. But I try to remind myself of this and how my life is full of so many other probably stupid little things that I like, that I love. Don’t lose these things, I try to tell myself. Don’t forget about them and don’t forget to notice them when they happen. You gave yourself so many more of them when you chose to stay alive.

You get a lot of time to think on days the colour of slate and cigarette smoke.

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You’ll notice I say “sometimes I think about” a lot here, when reflecting on less positive things, and you might consider this a writing device or a cheap hook or some other writer’s cheat. It partly is, but it’s also a truth. I do think about these things, and so many other things, very often. I think about one or another of them almost all of the time. I find it very hard not to think, to turn my brain off, and the unfortunate truth is that it reminds me about things to do with my trauma almost every day. It has done so for six years now and, as we’ve already established, six years is a long time.

Evenings can be the most difficult time. While I’ve always had a flippant attitude toward sleep schedules, I never used to have trouble going to bed. Some nights my brain will never switch off. My memory is overflowing. It doesn’t matter if I’m tired, it makes no difference if I’m exhausted. The rules around sleep are different now and I think I’m still trying to relearn them.

One therapist described the traumatised mind as like an overflowing wastepaper basket full of difficult memories that are constantly falling out. Any new addition can cause one or many of them to spill and scatter. Time and therapy can help to more properly sort them and make space for other, new things.

What a good analogy.

Occasionally, there might be a suggestion of ADHD sent my way. I can understand why things would look that way and a lot has been said by people more experienced than I about how ADHD and PTSD can seem similar. I think if ADHD had ever been the case some mental health professional or other member of the medical community that I’ve dealt with would have spotted this by now. But no. I’m distracted by some memory or flashback. I’m avoidant, or I’m in need of some thrill or stimulation. I might be full of nervous energy or unusually, intensely focused on something because it feels so good to be thinking about something I enjoy.

And sometimes things are bounding out of that wastepaper basket like clowns out of a clown car. I can feel like I've lost a lot of control over my mind and it's all I can do to rein it in. Some days I have coping strategies and some days I'm sick of it and wish I didn't need to have to cope.

And so I keep myself busy with the stimulation and the novelty that I crave. With people. With events. With runs, with the gym and with twenty-five kilometre hikes. Whatever it takes, whenever I can. It’s not ideal. I’m still figuring out what I need. I don’t always get the balance right. Sometimes unexpected things make me very emotional, either very sad or very frustrated, and I rarely know in advance what might do that. Sometimes I sleep less than four hours a night. Sometimes I want to be alone. Sometimes I desperately need company. I probably seem very strange.

But, let’s not forget, in the past I would lose whole days. For hours, my chest would feel like it was being crushed. I might be found curled up on the floor, ashamed of my own sadness. The nightmares would come every week. So things have clearly, obviously, demonstrably improved.

I’m doing better.

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I still suck at writing. I don’t know how to fix that yet. I still very regularly feel like there is a gulf between me and so many other people, even my friends. I still have outsize reactions to irrelevant, immaterial things. I still lack confidence in my own personal calibration. "Many traumatised people find themselves chronically out of sync with the people around them,” writes Bessel van der Kolk. Yeah.

Toward the end of its six season existence there is an episode of BoJack Horseman where an actor reacts angrily to some improvisation and unexpected physical contact that happens during filming. Her colleagues are confused as to why she does this, and perhaps she doesn’t understand herself, but we the audience know that this a response to a physical assault by the titular character some time before. She never finds out, but this leads to her missing out on perhaps the biggest opportunity of her life, after a director discreetly describes her as erratic.

There is no further development with this plotline, no resolution to be had. Nobody finds out why she is like this, nor wants to, nor sets things on a new, better course. I try to remind myself that this sort of thing can be happening all the time, to try and grant people some grace and compassion, but also I try to remind myself that this is me. I have my versions of this behaviour. Maybe fewer than I used to, but still. I can be erratic and I have to face the consequences of that, as well as minimise it as much as I can.

I recently stopped buying fresh fruit from my local store because they would repeatedly put mouldy, furry produce on display. The last time I discovered this, I was holding up a box of ostensibly shiny, blood-red strawberries to once again discover the mass of fuzz hidden underneath. Food is expensive enough as it is, I thought, and it doesn’t also need to be garbage. Too late, the look on the face of the customer standing next to me clued me in to how vocal I’d been with my three-word expression of disgust and displeasure.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

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You’ve read a little about my first dream, about old friends. You’ve read a little about my second dream, the nightmare. Here comes my third, from earlier this summer.

I dreamt that I was trying to get home again. I was confused about where I was, trying to remember a route through unfamiliar Vancouver alleys. It was evening, not yet dark, but the time between when you lose the long shadows cast by the last of the sunlight and begin to wear the rich, jewelled canvas of the stars. None of  the people I stopped and spoke to knew the streets I named. None of the alleyways I walked down took me in familiar directions.

I never found my way home, but I never stopped trying. Perhaps this does indeed mean I haven’t reached the end of whatever journey I’m on, that I can’t yet return to the start. I think it’s both practical and pragmatic for me to accept that the next six years might still present me with many challenges. That I will have bad, directionless days. That sometimes I’m going to fuck up and fall short.

I woke up to another bright, warm summer’s day, far later than I meant to, and I made myself a fine cup of coffee and a rich breakfast that I would be foolish not to enjoy.

Sometimes I think about suicide. Those thoughts haven’t left me yet and I’m not sure they ever will. Sometimes they arrive strong and loud and insistent, from out of nowhere and with all the power of a thunderbolt in a storm. Sometimes I want to be a shining example of how to conquer PTSD and sometimes I'm so sad I can’t get out of bed and sometimes I am just pissed off and angry. Each day is still different. But tomorrow I will wake up and perhaps I will think to myself “There are blue skies today,” or perhaps I will hear ping, or perhaps I won’t need anything at all to feel great. And perhaps there will be some undeniable sign in the day’s events, in my behaviour, even in the world around me, that demonstrates to me how much I’ve improved.

Each day is still different and today the glib part of my personality says “I sure hope you’ve improved, it’s been six years! That’s six years of painful PTSD examination, therapy, medication, reading, research, specialist appointments, many thousands of dollars spent and a god damn MRI of your weird and messed up brain.” And am I being disrespectfully flippant of my own experiences when I add that having an MRI of my brain was, at least, kind of cool?

Because another part of my personality wants to remind me I’m wiser, braver and maybe even a little more able to help others, people who I will remind myself can’t be expected to fix their own shit alone. People who shouldn’t be pushed aside, in this society that we all share.

And I don’t regret calling that cunt a cunt.

It’s been six years and each day is still different and this morning, when I pause to ask myself how I’m doing, I find I have the most simple of answers.

It’s three words.

“I’m doing better.”