#school shooting plot
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man what is this
#now im not like trying to apply a nuclear family dynamic on our beloved non-normative family#but someone once said regis is like the mom of the hanza and . yeah i see it. trusted confidant and advisor role. yeah#for the B-plot and one filled with coincidences i always am surprised at how planned out geralt's storyline seems in tower of the swallow#i feel like sapkowski didn't have as much of an exact plan as he had a roadmap (maybe a literal one) with stops they would hit along the wa#those stops being character development or turning points or specific figures they meet#angouleme not supposed to stick around is so funny to me because it's like he forgot to plan a scene where they get rid of her#so he was like you know what. shes a funny girl. dandelion is going to bail in a bit. we will have a vacancy#but what i was saying. the characterization for cahir regis and milva seems planned out in tower of the swallow as a continuation#they start travelling as a group you know... idk. i like it. ttos company dynamic pre-angouleme feels special#and then their world gets flipped turned upside down (again)#and id like to take a minute just sit right there ill tell you how i became a countess in a town called beauclair#frroooooooom west cintra born and raised in a distant relative's household is where i spent most of my days#chilling out maxing relaxing all cool and shooting at some crows outside of the school#when a couple of guys who were up to no good started making trouble in my neighborhood (that's the nilfgaardian empire btw)#the elbow-high diaries#geregis#book: tower of the swallow#excerpt
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💜// feelin' a lil silly and a lil goofy tonight— like this post if you want a starter of undetermined length for GHOST-713 via time shenanigans or any other trope oddities that could make it possible if otherwise not feasible!
specify muse if you wish or go gambling and let me choose !!!
#ᯓ👽˖° ooc#//ghost-713 is like if ophelia was a shivering sad mangy mutt in a cardboard box but instead of biting when scared she shoots laser beams#//i'll also do these in my downtime between school and work !#//if we already have a plot or there's a chance your muse could have feasibly met GHOST-713 out in space prior then ...... >:3c hehee
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want to write a postal/hatred highschool au sooooooooo fucking bad for no reason. i /need/ him to be horribly bullied
#him being pd not nottem but idk him too ig#they don't shoot up the school eye roll emoji. probably idon't have a plot#postal#postal 1997#postal 1#hatred game#postal dude#nottem hatred
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Characters A, B, & C in the tight spot of too little ammo and about to be discovered by the enemy. Character A whips out their phone and points the camera at B & C; "Get to fuckin"
They pretend as if they're filming a porno. 'But using a cellphone??' All part of the aesthetic.
The enemy walks in on B with C split open on their cock.
#A yells 'closed set!' or smth & the enemy walks right back out idk this was a dream#it was more an amorphous series of vignettes with more vibes than dialogue or coherent plot#you can tell bc it barely makes sense :D#ngl#ghoap#was my first thought for this#bc that's the soup my brain been soaking in#A can be Gaz I guess??#but still an original#prompt#v malleable#bonus points if this is their first time!#forgot to mention this all happens in a school btw#they do the shoot in a classroom#haha shoot
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San Antonio Mom OK with Son's School Shooting Plans
33-year-old Ashley Pardo has been charged with aiding in the commission of terrorism after allegedly helping her teenage son plan a mass shooting at Jeremiah Rhodes Middle School in San Antonio, Texas. According to the arrest affidavit, this was not a case of parental neglect. Investigators say Pardo actively enabled her son’s obsession with mass violence by supplying him with tactical gear,…
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I'm so shocked how you managed to make Frederic a much more compelling character in your darkness exists fic! Like his actions in your fic are mostly the same as his actions in the show, but we know where he's coming from and he isn't unreasonable. And he actually tries to make up for his faults.

oh shit, a wild tts post in the midst of all my gay blockman angst! first off i appreciate y’all taking the time to send these in, lots of ppl have a sort of taboo against commenting on old/hiatused fics for some reason so it’s wonderful to know there are still readers out there enjoying it, especially since i had to lock my A03 to users only due to the AI bot problem (for the unaware, all big writing AIs like chatGPT scrape from sites like A03 to fuel their ‘writing.’ it’s like the art theft that art AIs do, which is why i’m against the use of AI in any kind of creative capacity. yes, even character AIs.) at a certain point i think i’ll just have to give up and accept there’s no true way to defend against having my writing stolen by AI, just suck it up and start using A03 again, but i’m not quite there yet. that wound’s still fresh.
BUT I DIGRESS. frederic’s characterization was one of the biggest problems i had w season 1 of tts. like, to a certain extent his motivation was understandable, though still unreasonable, but the biggest thing that annoyed me was how the show tried to paint him in a sympathetic light, and how his own family constantly put up with and excused his horrible behavior bc ‘he was doing it out of love.’ when gothel showed her true colors, rapunzel stood up to her- the woman who raised her for her entire life- without hesitation, no WAY she would sit idly by and let her father treat her that way. and his wife!! the queen!!! a total doormat. very disappointing and a direct result of the showrunner’s own inflated ego and self-admitted self-insertion of the character.
the way i handled frederic in my fic was basically my opportunity to show how i think rapunzel- the real rapunzel, from the movie i love- would have reacted. she’s willing to hear out the concerns of those she loves, but is also willing to put her foot down against injustice, especially in my fic where she has such a protective role as varian’s big sister. that shit just won’t fly. so i’m glad that decision was as gratifying for u to read as it was for me to write 🙏 i’m trying to do right by the king we saw in the movie, who captured so many hearts without saying a single word.
#tangled the series#tts#little brother au#and yea ‘trying’ as in present tense bc i still wanna get back to that fic someday#but that someday will be after graduation for sure#past me like ‘i think i can still update thru vet school just really slowly!’ YEAH RIGHT LMAO#that fic requires a LOT of work per chapter even if it’s not a particularly long or dramatic chapter#bc there’s SO MUCH worldbuilding and plotting going on behind the scenes#gotta make sure i don’t shoot myself in the foot#but anyway THANKS FOR THE INTEREST i hope i can continue it someday <3#my writing
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damn i kind of ate with this
#for context#we had to write short stories in english last year#and i decided to write about being in a school shooting !! :D#(i have not been in a school shooting)#(also the plot twist is that there isn't actually a school shooting in the story it was just a drill)#anyways this blurb was about the feeling i got during an incident in 6th grade where my school had to lock down because some parent#threatened to shoot it up. and i was terrified and was having a panic attack for like 40 minutes#but at some point i just accepted that i was going to die#anyways#the message of this story is talking about how it isn't really that hard for the average american student to imagine this happening to them#that's why it's in 2nd person#i am actually very proud of this story#it's 11 pages long which was over the max my teacher set 😭#but it is double spaced so
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the person robbing me: give me your fucking wallet
me digging through my bag: SHIT ok ok i will!!
the person robbing me: hurry the fuck up i won't fucking hesitate!!!
me finding the realistic model evoker i wasted a shit ton of money on in my bag after leaving the convention last week:
the person robbing me: dont get any funny ideas motherfucker! i'll do it! i'll do it!!!
me trying the most absurd stunt ever, pointing the evoker at the robber: get the fuck away from me
the person robbing me:
me visibly shaking:
the person robbing me: you're... you're pointing that the wrong way.
me frozen in place despairing to whatever horrible god put me in a situation where i have a model gun but the robber somehow knows what persona 3 is:
#plot twist the robber winds up seriously reevaluating the path he's going down in life because of just how similar anyone on the street-#-could be#and before he can make any meaningful change in his life the police shoot both of us dead because they think we're robbing people together#im turning this idea i had for a joke into a fucking fanfiction#fml#to be fair i havent written a fanfiction since i was in middle school#i think#i actually don't remember#it was a while ago#anyway no way im tagging this
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every time i try to read a tom taylor comic i think "surely it cant be that bad this time" and then
#hey did u know he introduced jons bf during a 3 page school shooting plot device. 'hi my names jay- oh shit that guys got a gun'#then jon tackles the shooter and its all fine#shootings are a totally normal thing to use as a cheap plot device to make a character leave an impression on another character (sarcasm)
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i love NMH but every time i get back into it i'm always reminded of how criminally underrated Liberation Maiden is
#dis.txt#can't comment on LM: SIN because i've never played it and AFAIK. there isn't a comprehensive translation out there rn#but god the original is so much fun#lots of fond memories of playing it before class started in middle school homeroom on my 3DS#the only thing i disliked about it was how short it was because i wanted more but i just replayed it a bunch lol#the music and the trailer got me so hyped when i saw it i was like ''YEAHHHHH MECHA SHOOTING GAME YAAAAAY''#i wish it was well-known/well-liked enough for someone to translate SIN. i'd do it if i didn't have zero fucking translation exp#because i know. i'd have to do it manually. and would fuck up a lotttttt. lmao#dont even care if its good i just want to see more of Shoko. the political aspect of the plot sounds interesting though
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watched a 1h video about garten of banban and i now know less things about it than when my only knowledge was "typical kids mascot but Horror game series" before watching it
#what#????#these things TALK ????#they're like. actually sentient and talk and have relationships and wh#one of them is named fucking JOSH?????#what do you mean garten of banban 6 is the 5th game#because garten of banban 5 was never a real game but just some kind of ARG decoy steam page that only existed to drop Lore#what do you mean the devs made another game about school shootings. with memes in it.#what do you Mean there's deep lore and intricate plots about characters called banban josh nabnab and sir dadadoo#what the fuck is any of it#what do you mean all the games suck#what do you MEAN there's a youtube channel that uploads animations of the banbans with bouncy boobes
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DC x DP prompt - Dead Joker (yippee)
So Danny ends up in Gotham, typical stuff. Bad reveal? School? Runaway? Ghost king business? Whatever.
But as soon as he steps into the threshold, everything's screaming and wailing and crying because the souls of the dead are so angry and so scared and so sad and everything else dead people feel after an unjust murder for "humour".
Danny, obviously, can't sleep because well who can sleep listening to children sobbing? (There's a faint sound of laughter if he focuses hard enough, it's always there)
And he ends up in Arkham because he's crashing out so hard he might be going insane. But he doesn't know where's worse. Gotham, he has to fend for himself with a chance of bats and being shot/stabbed but he's basically free? Or Arkham, he's got everything given to him... But he has to be poked with needles and is that the fucking Joker surrounded by angry spirits??
Yeah, he thinks the outside is better.
He's going crazy and they won't let him out of the asylum because he's a medical anomaly and he's clearly insane (rude, it's the fucking clown who's driving him up the walls.)
There's an breakout at some point for plot reasons and Danny's running around the facility trying to find an exit because he refuses to spend another second with that failed clown (clowns are supposed to be funny? Why isn't he funny? Why aren't clowns funny anymore?)
Who does he find? The clown he's trying to avoid. Joker goes on his whole monologue about Batman and Jokes and whatever it is the Joker talks about.
Danny is not taking it so he just grabs a gun from the guard that's dead nearby (maybe he already grabbed it because murder is mostly justified when you're trying to escape Arkham?) and he shoots Joker in the neck.
Why? Because I want that guy to suffer Because Danny wasn't thinking, he was running on 3 hours of sleep he had 4 days ago and very little caffeine and ectoplasm.
And suddenly everything is quiet, the crying spirits are quiet -er at least. And Danny feels a huge weight off his shoulders and Danny just curls up into a ball and sleeps.
Chaos ensues. Because if not chaos why chaos shaped?
#greenmango dump#dcu#dc universe#dc x dp#dc comics#danny phantom#danny fenton#What other tags are there?#feral danny#Feel free to make it a story lol#dp x dc#dp#dpxdc#danny phantom x dc#The J-ker#I spelt scared wrong so corrected it lol
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My absolute favorite official Cyberpunk 2077 art from CDPR is this piece by Łukasz Poller
Not just for the old school Edward Hopper style and Syd Mead vibes that's used, but just because there's something very simple and easy about it. I feel like the plot moves so fast that it never seems like V can catch a break within the story. But in this piece, they're just chilling, shooting the shit, like it's a lazy day in. The air looks still, the conversation seems lazy. V's not even dressed.
I can't even explain it. Guess there's just something comforting about the world as you know it crumbling around you and still being able to find a moment to breathe during it.
#Cyberpunk 2077#CP2077#V#Johnny Silverhand#No other word for it-- it's absolutely domestic. Johnny is V's freeloading roommate#I love them#Aldi speaks#top posts
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backseat | pjs



synopsis: in which your older brothers best friend finally stops teasing you and shows you just how much he wants you.
genre: brothers best friend to lovers
paring: older brothers best friend!jay x afab reader
warnings: teasing, softdom!jay, sort of bratty!reader, fingering, spitting, cum eating? licking?, usage of petname ‘princess’, jungwon watches (kind of), pretty tame… for the first time we have more plot than porn wowza !
wc: 6.2k
a/n: it’s been a minute, but i’m semi back! school is still on my ass but i’ve been procrastinating and wrote this. don’t worry you’ll be getting the rich day jay fic once school is over, im working on it slowly! just thought that id feed yall with this lol. this proves i can write plot and not filth, please guys im a good writer i swear… thank you for 700+ followers! okay now enjoy <33
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"where is he?" you groan.
all your friends had left and now you were sitting on the side of the road like a hobo with all your bags sprawled around you. you felt as if you were going to pass out from a heat stroke, the sun burning so hot that the pavement was beginning to fry your butt.
you had volunteered at a summer camp for underprivileged children this year, thinking that it would look good on your resume and record. i mean, what else did you have going on for you in the summer besides bed rotting.
originally, your parents were supposed to make the 3 hour drive up to pick you up. however, your mom texted you this morning that sunghoon, your older brother, would be picking you up instead.
you mentally prepared yourself for him to be late, but this late? all time low, even for him.
you leaned against the steel pole as support for your aching back only to flinch when the hot metal burned you through your flimsy t-shirt.
you had gotten tanned this summer, but with the way the sun was shooting rays right at you, you were positive you were going to burn.
after what seems like ages, a car honk snaps you out of your daze. a shiny blue honda civic pulls up in front of you, the tinted windows rolling down to reveal none other than satan himself—sunghoon.
"get in loser, it's hot," he says lifting his shades up for a second before letting them drop back down.
cunt.
you groan, the heat making you dizzy as you pick up your bags—ready to bitch him out for being so late. as you get near the car you notice another figure in the passenger seat, your seat.
"hi, __!" jungwon smiles, his voice cheery as he waves at you.
great, you can't bitch your brother out.
"hi wonnie," you reply half heartedly, motioning to open the trunk so you could put your belongings in the back. jungwon didn't deserve to witness you go crazy bitch on your brother.
"are you not going to be a good big brother and help your sister with her bags," you hiss, raising your brows as you stair at sunghoon with a mocking expression.
sunghoon fake laughs before his expression drops to dead serious, "don't be difficult, chop chop get to it."
you roll your eyes. huffing as you grab you bags and shuffle to the back of the car. after lugging your bags into the trunk, you slam it down extra hard to piss sunghoon off. "hey! be careful with that you little shit," you heard him mutter. you flip him off, making sure he could see you before yanking the back door of the car open.
you angrily sit in, shutting the door with more strength than you needed causing the car to shake slightly at the impact.
"relax, __," you heard right next to you. a small scream leaves your mouth, clutching your chest when you see jay in the back seat with you.
he gives you a smirk, his sharp eyes pinning you down before they give you a once over— causing a shiver to run up your spine.
"what the fuck?!"
"stop screaming so much, __. it's just jay," sunghoon rolls his eyes before he shifts gears and begins to drive.
bitch.
"is this why you were late? had to pick up your little friends?" you sneer as you buckle yourself in, making sure to leave the middle seat empty so there was space between you and jay. you give jungwon a small smile that said 'this isn't directed towards you.'
"yeah, i did actually. i can't be stuck in a car with you for 3 long hours," he sneers right back, you could practically see him roll his eyes even though you were glaring down the back of his seat. "jungwon was already over and i asked jay to come for the vibes," he adds on, the car skidding a bit when sunghoon takes to sharp of a turn.
your head hits the window as the car recovers from sunghoons bad driving, the pain you felt almost distracted you from jays palm which seemed to have found itself on your thigh. you guessed that it had landed there when sunghoon took the turn. you stare down at his large veiny hand, the way it gripped your plush thighs fully and how you wished it was around your neck and not leg.
your head snaps up to look at jay who looks almost, smug? you swallow harshly, your leg twitching as he squeezes your thigh softly before slowly removing his hand—his hand lingering.
"sorry," he grins, not looking the least bit apologetic. his smile made your heart pound erratically in your chest, not being able to look away from him.
you give him a stiff nod before turning your head to stare out the window mindlessly, not trusting yourself to talk.
you had always had a small crush on jay, well, maybe not small. it was quite big, and your brother knew about it and he was ruthless with teasing.
you still remember the day when sunghoon had noticed your behaviour towards jay. you were always eager to please him, if he needed help in any way you'd b the first to offer. you never did that for any of sunghoons friends and sunghoon had caught on.
"i see you still have a little crush on jay," he snickered, sliding next to you as you leaned against the kitchen counter—fiddling with your phone.
you tense up, "n-no? pfft, be for real," you to tried brush off but you had failed miserably.
sunghoon grins, "i know that look, that's the same look you had when you crushed on that creepy kid in elementary. oh my god, i still can't believe you had a crush on creepy youngjae. that guy used to pick and flick his boogers in the tube slide, __!" he exclaimed in disbelief, crossing his arms as he stares up in shock—completely forgetting about the issue at hand.
"you're tweaking," you dismiss with a hand, hoping that he forgets about the situation as a whole—but you aren't that lucky.
he would go to great lengths to tease you about your 'small' crush, especially in front of jay himself. sunghoon made sure that you would always end up sitting next to jay, sitting accordingly so you had no other option.
he got the rest of the group in on it, everyone collectively making sure that you and jay were stuck together whenever you happened to be around them.
every time you were out with him in a group setting, sunghoon made sure you and jay end up next to each other.
movie nights? you're squeezed onto the same couch. dinner? your sitting beside jay. traveling in the same car? you're always in the backseat together.
"oops, looks like there's no other seat," jake grins as he 'innocently' slides into the only available chair, leaving the one next to jay wide open.
jay acts unbothered, but the smirk he would shoot to jake said otherwise. it didn't quite make sense to you why he went along with his friends antics, was this some sort of sick joke to him?
every time jay posted a picture of himself on social media, the group relentlessly tagged you in the comments.
"@__ look away." "@__ don't simp too hard." "@__ jay told us he posted this for you."
and when you post something...
"@ jayparked she's literally serving, say something." "jay's typing..." "jay, blink twice if you're sweating."
jay just sends a single fire emoji under your post and the whole group loses their mind, including you.
it got so bad that you took it upon yourself to sneak out of the house whenever jay was around, trying your best to avoid him. you couldn't stand the relentless teasing, it confused you to no end.
however, today you were stuck with him in the back of your brothers car, for a whole 3 hours.
fuck you, sunghoon.
you know he did this on purpose, he didn't have to invite jay, and he surely didn't need to have him sit in the back. sunghoon knew what he was doing and his smug looks that he was passing you through the cars mirror was proving it.
you're not sure why sunghoon was so adamant on teasing you about jay, shouldn't he want to make sure that you and jay stay as far away from each other as possible?
your his baby sister for fucks sake, his best friend should be off limits.
your head rested against the cool glass of the window, spacing out occasionally as you listen to your brother and his friends talk about random shit.
"you're quiet, that's unusual," a voice whispers into your ear. you flinch, turning your head to see jay's face only centimetres away from your own. "w-what," you respond back hazily, mind not working due to the close proximity.
jay smirks, leaning back slightly as his gaze drops down to your lips and then back to your eyes, "i said, you're unusually quiet. i thought you'd bitch out your brother by now. but no, you've just been staring off into who knows where."
you couldn't help but scoff, the noise causing jay's smirk to widen, "i would've if jungwon wasn't in the car, he doesn't deserve to hear the insults i had planned for sunghoon."
jay's brows furrow in almost offended manner, "but i do?" he lets out a small laugh. you shrug your shoulders, "yeah."
his smirk drops and his expression turns serious, "be careful now, __. i'm starting to think you don't like me, but we both know that's not true."
your eyes widen, staring at jay in shock of his words. "w-what?" you ask stupidly.
jay shrugs, "you know exactly what i meant," he hums before he's leaning away, returning to his original position.
your heart stutters in your chest as you look at the boy in shock. you knew you were obvious but not obvious enough to the point where he was confident enough to mention it to you, and why now out of all times?
had sunghoon finally told jay about your little crush on him? he wouldn't. would he?
you catch sunghoon's eyes in the rear view mirror, shooting him a glare before flipping him off. he scoffs in response, muttering something about you being an ungrateful brat.
"tch, that wasn't nice, __," you shiver when you feel jay's cool breath fan against the shell of your ear. you keep your eyes glued to the back of your brother seat, to afraid to look over in jay's direction.
your grip tightens around your seatbelt as jay leans in just slightly, his voice dropping to a taunting murmur.
"what's wrong? cat got your tongue?"
you refuse to turn your head, knowing full well that if you did, you'd be face-to-face with that smug, devastatingly handsome smirk of his. your body betrays you, goosebumps prickling over your arms—your leg twitching under his gaze.
this isn't fair.
you spent years being teased by sunghoon and his idiot friends about your very mild (not really) crush on jay. you never expected jay to play along.
you rather him shut it down and brutally reject you than give you glimmers of hope that your crush on jay was mutual.
sunghoon's voice cuts through the tension. "jay, stop messing with my sister before she starts foaming at the mouth."
your head snaps toward your brother. "oh, fuck off, sunghoon."
jungwon lets out a nervous chuckle, clearly regretting being stuck in the middle of this situation. meanwhile, jay just grins. that slow, lazy grin that makes your stomach do a full goddamn somersault.
"aw, you don't like it when i tease you?" jay asks, voice dripping with amusement.
"i don't like you," you grumble, crossing your arms in defiance.
he hums, tapping his fingers against his thigh. "liar."
you whip your head toward him, scandalized. "excuse me?"
"you're excused."
sunghoon snorts. "damn, she walked right into that one."
you shoot your brother a glare through the rearview mirror again before turning back to jay, your jaw clenched. "i don't know what the hell you're talking about."
jay tilts his head, pretending to think. "hmm. i don't know. maybe it's the way you keep looking at me like you're about to get on one knee and purpose to me," he teases.
your eyes widen. "i'm looking at you like i hate you."
"same thing," he shrugs.
"you're insane," you mutter, trying to shift away, only for jay to lean in again—his broad frame completely invading your space. his scent was clean and musky with a hint of something dangerous and forbidden.
your breath hitches when he lowers his voice just enough that only you can hear.
"i bet if your brother wasn't here," he murmurs, lips barely a breath away from your ear, "you wouldn't be so mouthy."
your body locks up. oh.
the worst part? you don't have a comeback. not one. your brain is short-circuiting, your face burning hotter than the summer sun outside.
jay leans back with a satisfied smirk, watching as you struggle to regain composure.
sunghoon glances in the mirror again, raising a suspicious brow. "why is my sister so quiet all of a sudden?"
"she's just thinking," jay answers smoothly. "maybe about what i just said."
your jaw drops.
sunghoon chokes on his spit, nearly swerving the car off the road. "what the fuck is going on back there?! what the fuck did you say to my baby sister?!"
sure, sunghoon teased you about jay. but he didn't actually want you guys to like each other.
jungwon, the only sane person in the car, sighs loudly. "can we please just make it home alive?" trying to calm down your brother.
you sink into your seat, heat crawling up your neck as jay gives you one last glance. his expression unreadable but his eyes dark, promising something dangerous.
fuck my life.
for the first hour of the drive, you do everything in your power to not acknowledge jay. you scroll through your phone, fiddle with your necklace, even pretend to be deeply interested in the passing scenery outside the window.
but it's impossible to ignore the way his long legs are stretched out beside you, the faint scent of his cologne filling the air, or the way his gaze keeps flickering toward you like he knows he's getting under your skin.
and the worst part?
sunghoon knows too.
"you're awfully quiet back there," your brother comments, smirking as he catches your flushed reflection in the rearview mirror. he had quickly gotten over the thought of you and jay actually being a thing, jay wouldn't do that to him? right?
"usually, you'd be threatening to throw yourself out of the car by now." he snickers obnoxiously.
"maybe i still will," you mutter, shooting him a glare.
"yeah?" jay leans closer, voice low. "need a push?"
you whip your head toward him, narrowing your eyes. "i hate you."
"yeah?" he echoes, tilting his head with that infuriating smirk. "then why are you blushing?" his eyes raking down you face, watching your face turn a deep red.
your mouth opens—only to close when you realize you don't have a comeback.
sunghoon snickers, "damn, she's got nothing. this is a historic moment, note this down you guys."
you sink lower into your seat, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. "i hate you all."
jungwon sighs from the front. "can we go one car ride without you guys fighting?"
"wouldn't be fun," sunghoon says, shifting gears as he takes another reckless turn that nearly sends you into jay's lap.
your hands shoot out to steady yourself—one gripping the handle above the window, the other landing on jay's thigh.
shit.
you freeze.
so does he.
what was this back and fourth you two were doing to one another.
for a split second, neither of you move. your palm is flat against the firm muscle of his thigh, the warmth of his skin seeping through the fabric of his ripped jeans. you can feel how solid he is beneath your fingers, and when your gaze flickers up, jay is already staring at you.
smirking.
slowly, deliberately, he leans down. his voice is soft, but it carries enough weight to send a shiver down your spine.
"if you wanted to touch me," he murmurs, "you could've just asked, princess."
your body goes rigid.
with a yelp, you snatch your hand away like you've been burned, pressing yourself as far against the car door as possible.
sunghoon glances back in the mirror, brows furrowing. "the hell is wrong with you?"
"nothing!" you squeak, face burning.
jay chuckles, shaking his head as he stretches his arms behind his head. "nothing at all."
the drive continues, but now you're hyper-aware of everything. every small shift jay makes, the way his fingers lazily drum against his knee, the occasional glance he throws your way. he's enjoying this, teasing you—making you squirm.
and the worst part?
it's working.
you weren't sure why jay was going out of his way to tease you when he had never done so before. he'd go along with everyone else, but never initiate it.
at some point, sunghoon stops at a gas station to fill up the tank, dragging jungwon inside with him for snacks. you make a move to follow, desperate to put some distance between you and jay—but a firm grip on your wrist stops you.
you turn, heart stuttering when you see jay's fingers curled around your wrist, his thumb brushing lightly against your pulse.
"stay," he says simply.
you swallow. "why?"
his eyes flicker to your lips before meeting your gaze again. "because i want you to."
your breath catches. "you're insufferable."
jay smirks, tugging you closer until you're nearly pressed against him. "and yet," he muses, voice barely above a whisper, "you're still here."
you hate that he's right. you hate the way your pulse jumps at his words, the way your body instinctively leans in despite every alarm going off in your head telling you to move away.
but most of all, you hate the way jay is looking at you—like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.
"you're so full of yourself," you mutter, yanking your wrist from his grip, though it takes more effort than you'd like to admit.
jay chuckles, leaning back against the seat. "maybe. but i think you like it."
you huff, crossing your arms as you look away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. but you can still feel his gaze burning into the side of your face, the smirk practically radiating off of him.
thankfully, the sound of the car doors opening saves you from further embarrassment. sunghoon and jungwon climb back in, the smell of gas station snacks filling the air as they settle into their seats.
"what did we miss?" sunghoon asks, tearing open a bag of chips.
fatass.
"nothing," you say quickly.
"nothing important," jay says at the same time, shooting you a look that makes your stomach twist.
sunghoon eyes the both of you through the mirror, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. "you guys are acting weird.."
"no, we're not," you deadpan.
"uh-huh." he pops a chip into his mouth, clearly unconvinced. "whatever you say, lil sis."
you roll your eyes and sink into your seat, hoping the rest of the ride passes quickly. unfortunately, your hopes are shattered not even fifteen minutes later when sunghoon starts up his favorite pastime: publicly humiliating you.
"hey, jay..." sunghoon starts, shooting you a teasing look through the mirror.
fuck you, sunghoon.
you knew what he was going to do.
jay hums in response, looking up from his phone.
"do you remember that one time, back in high school, when __ wrote you a love letter but chickened out and threw it away?"
your entire body goes stiff.
no, sunghoon. jay did not know that. thanks.
jay raises an eyebrow, turning to you with a slow grin. "oh?"
"sunghoon, i swear to god-" you try to interrupt only for jay to place his hand on your bare knee, his touch silencing you instantly.
sunghoon ignores you, grinning like a devil as he continues. "yeah, she spent like, an hour writing it. had your name written all fancy and everything. she even-"
you lunge forward, smacking your brother on the arm as hard as you could. "shut the fuck up!"
"ow, what the hell!" sunghoon yelps, swerving slightly before regaining control of the wheel. jungwon sighs from the passenger seat, already exhausted.
"i hate you," you seethe.
"oh, come on," sunghoon laughs, rubbing his arm. "it's cute. she was so whipped for you, dude."
jay looks amused, his eyes flickering to you as he rests his chin on his hand. "was?"
your breath hitches.
oh.
"don't." you point a warning finger at him.
jay leans in slightly, a knowing glint in his eyes. "so, what'd you write in the letter?"
"i don't remember," you lie through your teeth, turning your head away to look through the window.
"bullshit," sunghoon scoffs. "you practically memorized that thing."
you shoot him another glare, cheeks burning. "i hope you choke on your stupid chips."
jay chuckles, tilting his head at you. "if you don't remember, maybe you should rewrite it for me."
your jaw drops, "i'd rather die," you scoff.
jay smirks, clearly enjoying your flustered state. "your loss."
sunghoon whistles, shaking his head. "man, i should've done this years ago. this is gold. jungwon, man, why did we just start doing this recently."
jungwon rolls his eyes, muttering something along the lines of 'shit brother.'
you groan, dropping your head into your hands. this is going to be the longest car ride of your life.
the air in the car feels hotter than it should. you're blaming it on the summer heat, on sunghoon's shitty ac in his shitty ass car, on anything but the way jay is looking at you.
because he is looking at you.
his eyes flicker over to you every few seconds, dark and amused, the corner of his lips curled into the kind of smirk that makes your stomach twist and your thighs clench. he's enjoying this. he's enjoying you, watching you squirm under the weight of his gaze.
and you hate that it's working.
"what's the matter?" jay murmurs, voice low enough that only you can hear. "you've been quiet ever since sunghoon mentioned that letter."
you don't respond, gripping the hem of your shorts like their going to disappear. you refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he's affecting you.
but then, as if reading your thoughts, he shifts closer.
his knee bumps against yours, and suddenly you're hyper-aware of how close he is, how his arm is stretched out behind you, fingers lightly brushing the seat just above your shoulder.
"you should've given it to me, you know," jay muses, voice dipping into something softer, something deeper.
you swallow, heart hammering. "why?"
jay tilts his head slightly, gaze flickering down to your lips before meeting your eyes again. "because maybe i would've liked it."
you feel the world stop around you. this was going to far, there was a limit to it.
the way he's looking at you is almost predatory, like he's just waiting for you to slip up, to give him a reason to push further.
"guys, i swear to god," sunghoon groans from the front seat, breaking the tension. "if you two are eye-fucking back there, i'm pulling over and leaving you both on the side of the road."
your face burns. "we're not-"
"-sure," sunghoon deadpans, cutting you off.
jungwon just sighs, shaking his head. "this is getting ridiculous."
jay, on the other hand, just smirks. like he knows exactly what sunghoon's talking about. like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.
and then, as if that wasn't bad enough, he leans in, just enough that his lips barely brush the shell of your ear.
"we could pull over," he murmurs, his tone low. "but i don't think your brother would like what i'd do to you if he did."
your whole body ignites.
you jerk away from him, pressing yourself against the car door like it's the only thing keeping you grounded. "jay," you hiss, your voice somewhere between scandalized and breathless.
jay just chuckles, eyes dark with amusement as he leans back against his seat, stretching his arms over his head like nothing happened.
"relax, princess," he murmurs, his smirk deepening. "we've still got two hours left. i was just getting started."
. . . . . ◟੭
you're not sure how exactly jay got so close to you, but the car ride had become unbearable.
sunghoon was now in the passenger seat, head lulled back as he let out loud snores. he had begun to whine about his neck being sore, asking, no begging, jungwon to switch with him.
grudging, he agreed.
jungwon drove steadily, music blasting as he tried to drown out sunghoon's snores. you huffed, at least your shitface of a brother wouldn't be bothering you anymore.
jay, however, was sitting far too close. his thigh pressed against yours, his scent thick in the small space between you. he hasn't stopped looking at you like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.
his long and thick fingers are now lazily tracing along the edge of your shorts, just barely touching the bare skin of your thigh.
your breath stutters, and you shift in your seat, but he doesn't move his hand away. if anything, he presses in closer.
"you're jumpy," he murmurs, low and teasing, his voice barely audible over the hum of the car engine. "something wrong?"
he watches your thighs clench, his smirk widening as he holds back from slotting his hand between your legs.
you grit your teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. "your hand is somewhere wrong."
jay smirks, his fingers brushing up,"hmm. is it?"
his touch is barely there, teasing, deliberate. he's testing you, seeing how far he can push before you break.
and you're close. so, so close.
your thighs press together involuntarily, and jay notices. of course he notices. his smirk deepens, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against the soft skin above your knee.
your breath catches. "jay—"
"shh." his voice drops an octave, thick with amusement and something else—something darker. his fingers trail up just a little further, grazing the edge of your shorts. "relax, princess."
you could feel your heartbeat in your throat. your fingers dig into the seat, your body betraying you as a slow, burning heat curls in your stomach.
"you ever think about me, __?" he starts, his fingertips now reaching under your shorts. you swallow harshly, holding back a moan.
"you ever think about me, touching you? touching you in places where no one ever has?" his hand had switched from tracing small circles on your skin to full on gripping your thigh.
you let a small whimper escape you, your eyes widening on realization before you slap your hand over your mouth.
jay chuckles, the sound low and knowing, his breath warm against your cheek. his grip on your thigh tightens, his fingers pressing into your skin just enough to make you squirm.
"cute," he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "didn't take you for the type to be shy."
you want to snap back, to tell him to shut up, to tell him anything—but you can't. not when his hand is still on you, his touch searing through your skin, almost as if he was branding you.
branding you, as his.
his fingers move again, trailing feather-light touches along the inside of your thigh, dangerously close, but not nearly enough. your breath stutters, your hips shifting ever so slightly toward him, desperate for more friction, more anything.
jay notices, his smirk deepening as his fingers ghost higher, his lips barely grazing your jaw as he whispers, "so needy."
your fingers tighten around the seat, your body betraying you. "shut up," you mutter, though your voice lacks any bite.
jay hums, his nose brushing against your cheek. "you don't want me to."
it's not a question. it's a statement. one that makes your stomach flip, your skin burning under his touch.
his fingers trace back down, teasing, barely there, and it's driving you insane.
"tell me," he murmurs, his lips so close they almost touch yours. "tell me you want me to stop."
you should. you really should.
your brother and his friend were in the front seats for fucks sake, have you no shame?
"tell me, __. tell me you don't want my fingers in you right now," his voice heavy as his palm cups your pulsating heat.
you look ahead, your brother was still dead asleep and jungwon was focused on driving—eyes not leaving the road. the music he was blasting was loud, loud enough that he couldn't hear your brothers snores.
"jay.." you start, a whine leaving your mouth when you feel him put more pressure against your covered cunt.
"tell me you don't want it."
you shake your head, biting at your lip in embarrassment as you shut your eyes tightly. jay 'tsks's at your lack of response, removing his hand from your aching core. you immediately stop his actions, clenching your thighs so his hand would be trapped between your legs.
jay looks at you, his eyes dark as he stares you down with an unintelligible emotion. he purses his lips, he needed a verbal answer from you.
you shake as your nerves consume you, "i-i want your fingers in me, please," you say breathlessly, your gaze pinned to your lap. you feel jay shift beside you, you feel your head being tilted so your met with jays eyes.
"say it like you mean it, princess."
you feel lightheaded, "please, i want your fingers in me. i need them," you beg, your voice trembling.
jay's eyes flare with victory as your admission slips past your lips, his smirk widening. he had you right where he wanted you, after years of silence and teasing—he finally had you.
he leans in closer, his gaze never leaving yours as his hand slides under your shorts, the heat of his palm searing your dampened underwear.
his thumb circles your clit, making your hips jerk involuntarily as he hums in your ear. "so sensitive," he murmurs.
you gasp, trying to muffle the sound with your hand, but it's no use. he moves your soaked panties to the side, running his fingers along you soaked slit. jay groans when he feels how wet you are, rubbing circles against your clit before he begins to plant soft kisses against your neck.
your body shakes at the foreign feeling, not used to having someone else touch you there.
sure, you had a couple of flings in high school but none of them got far—your brother didn't let them.
your eyes flutter shut, a soft moan escaping you carelessly. unbeknownst to you, jungwon's eyes dart to the rearview mirror, but he doesn't say a word.
jay's eyes never leave yours as he begins to rub firm circles around your clit, small gasps leaving your mouth. his eyes flicker down to your lips, allowing himself to press his lips against yours.
he swallows your moans, his other hand reaching behind you to grab at your waist—making sure you don't move.
you squeal when you feel one of his fingers tease your entrance, your hand coming out to grip at his wrist.
jay pulls away from your lips for a moment, "so fucking pretty, princess. you're going to be a good girl and take my fingers, yeah?" he murmurs against your lips, his eyes sucking you in.
you nod mindlessly, letting jay do whatever he wanted to do to you.
he slips in a finger, groaning when he feels your velvety walls clench around him. "taking me so good, princess," he praises, pressing his lips back on to yours.
he continues to pump his finger into you while simultaneously rubbing your clit, swallowing every moan, whine, and whimper you let out.
your eyes rolls back when you feel him push in a second digit, fucking his fingers in and out of your cunt with each stroke hitting just the right spot— making you squirm.
jay internally groans at the situation, he wishes that he had you all to himself. he could have you in his lap, feel you push up against his throbbing cock while he made you cum with his fingers.
his thumb presses down on your clit, sending waves of pleasure through your body, and you can't help but lean into his touch, silently begging for more.
"look at you, princess. taking my fingers so well. knew you could do it," he coos, his sweet expression not matching his filthy actions. he curls his fingers in you, your mouth dropping open as you lean your head back in pleasure.
"hey, look at me, princess. keep your mouth wide open for me," he demands, stuffing his fingers deeper into your sopping cunt. you obey, looking at him with hazy eyes as you struggle to keep your head up.
you let out a surprised moan when jay spits a glob of his saliva on to your tongue. you swallow on instinct, your eyes fluttering close before he's smashing his lips onto yours again.
the car feels like it's spinning around you as your orgasm builds, your heart racing and your world narrowing down to the feel of his fingers inside you.
just when you think you can't handle it anymore, he speeds up, "fuck, look at you. look at you clenching all over my fingers. getting your pussy played with in the back of your brothers car by his best friend, so fucking dirty," he spits out, his grip on your waist getting tight as you squirm in his hold.
"don't you dare try to move away from me, __. i won't let you cum. take it like a good girl, yeah?"
you nod, a small sob leaving your mouth as you try to control your moans. the music was still blasting through the speakers, but there's only so much that music could hide.
jay captures your lips into a scorching kiss, feeling you clench on his fingers—he knew you were close.
"c'mom, princess. cum for me. cum all over my fingers," he says against your lips.
with a muffled cry into his mouth, you shatter, your body convulsing with the intensity of your climax.
jay groans into your mouth, feeling your walls flutter against his fingers. he helps you ride out your high, his thumb rubbing small circles against your puffy clit.
he pulls away, watching you with hooded eyes as you try to regain your composure, his own breathing labored.
he takes his hand out of your shorts, his hand soaked with your wetness. you make a move to grab some napkins from the side compartments only for jay to slip his fingers into his mouth. you watch him, your mouth falling agape as he cleans every bit of you off of his digits—moaning at the taste.
he smirks at your reaction, tugging you closer before pressing his lips onto yours—making you taste yourself.
"you did so good for me, princess."
you mewl at the praise, not trusting yourself to speak.
a moment goes by where the two of you stare at one another in silence. your head swarming with thoughts of what would happen now?
"hey," jay starts softly. you look at him with confusion, tilting your head.
"stop thinking so much, princess."
you swallow harshly at his words, "o-okay."
he grins, "i still want you to rewrite me that love letter, __," he says suddenly.
you scoff, "as if."
"you will, and i will too."
you look up at him in shock, "why?"
he looks at you incredulously, "what do you mean why? i think it's pretty obvious that i like you too, __. i wouldn't have gone along with the constant teasing if i didn't. i wouldn't have had you cumming over my fingers if i hadn't been in love with you for years," he confesses at the end, his cheeks a soft pink.
you look at him in shock, his confession taking you off guard.
"i know, it seems kind of sudden but you need to realize that me liking you is against bro code. you're my best friends little sister, your off limits. but, fuck that. i can't live any longer like this."
"i love you too," you say quickly, your eyes widening at your own words.
jay chuckles, "i know, princess. i know."
. . . . . ◟੭
"that was disgusting."
jay looks over at his best friend, "then maybe you shouldn't have been looking," he snips back, taking out your bags from the back of the car.
jungwon rolls his eyes, "i didn't mean to. you were like 2 feet away from me bro, i was going to see no matter what. your lucky sunghoon didn't see."
"i didn't see what?"
jay and jungwon both gasp in shock, looking at each other nervously.
"nothing-" jay says.
"jay was fingering your sister in the backseat while you took a nap," jungwon said at the same time.
"WHAT!"
— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!
#jaysbaefie#enha imagines#enha x reader#enhypen#smut#enhypen smut#enha scenarios#enhypen x reader#enhypen jay#park jongseong smut#park sunghoon x reader#park jongseong#jay enhypen#jay smut#jay scenarios#brothers best friend#enhypen fic#enhypen fanfiction#enhypen jongseong
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Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 10

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, family issues, generational trauma, self-growth, personal issues (and dealing with it), hurt and comfort, hmmmm…. let’s leave it at that for now :) A/N: Final chapter, guys! Thanks so much for reading <3
Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue
“Oh, what the hell—since when do you cook?”
“Bitch,” you laugh, nudging past them, the ceramic pot still steaming in your hands. “Do you want the risotto or not?”
The scent of garlic and pecorino permeates the air as you stand in front of the small foyer of the duplex where your friend—questionable, at the moment—lives. Your most recent culinary masterpiece, deemed safe (enough) for public consumption, rests between your hands in silent offering to the skeptic figure who’s barring you from crossing the threshold.
It’s still warm, and you’re not one to brag, but you think you’ve outdone yourself with this one. Not that it matters—everybody’s a fucking critic these days.
“Risotto?” Khol parrots in disbelief. “You don’t show up in forever, suddenly you’re all cuoca straordinario or some shit. Get out of here with your Mario ass–”
“Don’t mind them,” Anna interjects from behind your biggest hater, all cheer as she plucks the pot from your hands. “This smells amazing, actually. Come in!”
With that, she vanishes inside, leaving you and Khol alone in the doorway. You give them a knowing look.
“Oh wow,” you remark, all mock surprise. “You live together now?”
Khol rolls their eyes, already tired of you. “You missed the biggest arc of the last five months, but yeah.”
You step inside, and right away, something feels… different. It could partly be due to how much time has passed since you last visited, and it’s clearly still their place—the brooding industrial-emo aesthetic remains intact, still suspiciously close to resembling the lair of an angsty comic book antihero on acid—but it’s been overtaken by bits of boho-chic scattered all over the space.
Where there was once nothing but charcoal, vinyl, and concrete, there are now textures. Colorful woven throws drape artfully over the arm of the leather Eames sofa they won off a Craigslist bid. Tasseled pillows have multiplied across every seat surface like some kind of fabric-based contagion, while pothos vines dangle lazily from macramé hangers, stretching towards the moody Edison bulbs like they’re trying to escape the existential crisis of living here.
And then there’s the rug. Oh god, the rug.
A comically massive tufted ‘Flower Power’ rug sprawls across the center of the room, a swirling explosion of pinks and oranges—a final, cutesy fuck you to the apartment’s formerly depressing atmosphere before Khol’s new roommate staged her cheerful coup.
It should’ve been a hilarious sight, like a chaotic school art project where every kid picked a different medium to color and refused to compromise. But somehow… it works?
Against all odds, the goth cryptid and the hippie gremlin have found domestic equilibrium.
“Love what you did with the place, Anna,” you call out, toeing off your shoes at the door. “It doesn’t look like a twelve-year-old’s fantasy bedroom anymore.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Khol laughs, shaking their head. “As if you’re one to talk. Last time I visited, you still had that stupid-ass sofa. Is it still there?”
You sniff haughtily. “Excuse you, but that’s a custom piece. You wouldn’t get it.”
"Alright, you two," Anna says, leaning against the archway between the living room and kitchen, one hip propped against the frame. "Both of you have terrible taste in decor. Now, I have a fabulous Prosecco to pair with the risotto." She tilts her head, shooting her partner a pointed look. "Khol, darling, be a dear and grab the crystal from the cupboard?"
"Whipped," you sing as Khol, predictably, does exactly as told. They don’t even bother with a comeback, just flashes you a lazy middle finger over their shoulder as they disappear from view.
You grin, shaking your head. The moment stretches into something easy, comfortable. It’s nice—being here, bantering like no time has passed. You let yourself sink into it, tugging off your beanie as you cross the room.
The creaky couch welcomes you like an old friend, and you flop down unceremoniously, stretching your legs out, rubbing your feet against the oversized monstrosity of a rug that is... honestly, pretty fucking comfortable, actually.
Anna follows suit, settling beside you with far more grace, tucking one foot under the other.
She watches you for a moment, expression warm but slightly inquisitive. “We haven’t seen you in a while.”
You exhale, tipping your head back, staring up at the beams on the ceiling. "Yeah, sorry. Been a little out of it these past… couple of months, I guess."
Anna makes a quiet noise, something between understanding and acknowledgment. "You’re doing okay now?"
The easy answer sits on your tongue—yeah, of course. An automatic response, a reflex built from habit. Another front to put up, another lie to slip behind.
But you’ve been working on this. So instead, you take a breath and say,
"Not… really."
The words feel foreign, heavy, but oddly freeing as they leave your mouth.
Your gaze flickers to the side table; framed photos of Khol and Anna, smiling, sunlit. You don’t linger.
“I mean, better now compared to, maybe, a few weeks ago. I’m getting there.”
Anna’s brows lift slightly – not in surprise at the sentiment itself, but at the fact that you admitted it out loud. There’s something thoughtful in her expression, something softer around the edges. “Good. That’s good.”
You can tell she means it. Maybe even more than you expected.
"Yeah."
There’s a brief lull. You catch yourself tugging at the edge of your cardigan—a nervous habit you never quite broke. The warmth of the apartment is settling in you quite comfortably, but there’s something about sitting still under Anna’s gentle scrutiny that makes you restless.
From the kitchen, there’s the unmistakable clink of glass, followed by a muffled, “shit.”
Anna exhales, long-suffering. “I don’t know why I even bother buying nice things.”
“‘Oy,” Khol’s voice carries from the other room, “get in here and help. We have, like, seven things to carry.”
You take that as your cue, trailing after Anna into the kitchen. Between the three of you, it’s quick work—bowls of warm, brothy risotto in hand, glasses of white wine balanced carefully between fingers.
By the time you step back into the living room, Khol is already dropping onto the blue accent chair near the window with all the dramatics of someone who’s worked far too hard for far too little.
You settle into your usual spot, Anna beside you. You don’t touch your food. Your appetite’s still in remission, though it’s been steadily improving lately.
Khol notices. “Now, why the hell aren’t you eating?” They shoot you a side-eye like you’ve personally offended them. “I knew it. You put something in this, didn’t you?”
“Jesus, Khol,” Anna sighs, exasperated, already two spoonfuls in. “Your diet was literally gas station burritos and eight-pack Coors before I moved in. You’ll live.”
She pauses, though, casting you a look. “Don’t get me wrong—this is really good.”
“Ha,” you retort as Khol prods suspiciously at a floating mushroom. You glare. “Are you fucking kidding me–”
“Alright, alright.” With an exaggerated sigh, Khol finally takes a bite. They chew once, twice—eyes narrowed in concentration, acting like some hard-ass seasoned judge from Top Chef. You can practically see them digging for something snarky to say... until, begrudgingly, they nod.
“Shit. This is actually pretty good. Who are you?”
You preen at the praise.
For a while, there’s nothing but the quiet clinking of spoons against ceramic, the occasional satisfied hum. It’s… nice. Comfortable in a way you haven’t felt in what feels like forever.
You’ve missed this.
Missed being here. Missed being with people.
Somewhere between the second glass of wine and the last few bites of risotto, Khol angles their head toward you, their curiosity piqued. “How come you’re free today? You on leave or something?”
You swirl the drink in your hand, watching the light catch on the amber surface before answering. “Oh, I quit my job.”
There’s a beat of silence. You don’t know what reaction you were expecting, but Khol just blinks at you. "Huh. Finally."
Anna looks mildly more concerned. "You quit?"
You nod, stretching your legs out beneath the coffee table. “Yeah. The OT was getting ridiculous, and they had me working night shifts again. That was kind of the last straw for me.”
Khol grunts in agreement. “Good fucking riddance. That job was killing you.” They pause for a beat, turning serious, contemplative. “You’re not hung up about it, are you? You’ve been bitching about that job for ages.”
You exhale through your nose, staring at the rim of your glass. “Yeah, no. I’m glad I left.” The words come easily, and they’re mostly true. But still—there’s something about suddenly having all this space, this aimless in-between, that makes you antsy.
A thought strikes you, and you glance up. “Hey, you know if Marion's still looking for someone to work part-time at the bistro?”
Khol raises an eyebrow. "You looking to apply? It’s minimum wage, just telling you in advance."
"That’s fine," you assure them. "I just need something on the side. I’m doing freelance work right now, I just want something to fill in the gaps."
Anna perks up at that. "I think that’s a great idea. I can hit up Marion later, but I’m pretty sure they’re still looking."
Khol stares at you, and for once, they don’t have a quip lined up. No sharp-edged humor, no quick banter; just a quiet look of something almost foreign on their face. Pride. Maybe even relief. You’ve worried them. The realization jars you like a pebble dropped into a clear pond, sending ripples through the stillness of your self-imposed isolation. You hadn’t meant to, not really. It wasn’t like you deliberately wanted to disappear... But you did, didn’t you? You let the days blur into weeks, then months, telling yourself naively that no one would notice if you just, vanished for a while. Five months, to be exact.
You press your lips together, clearing your throat against the tightness creeping in. “Thanks,” you say, quiet but sincere. “Really.”
Khol snorts, and the moment shatters. “You can show your thanks by knocking ten percent off the cocktails when we visit.”
You roll your eyes, feigning exasperation. “Get me the job first, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Anna grins, raising her glass. “Now, that’s the spirit.”
––––
You get the job.
You stand in front of the fogged-up mirror, dragging your palm across the wet glass. The reflection that stares back is warped, smudged—half-formed, half-there—but unequivocally yours.
A month ago, you wouldn’t have been able to say that with certainty. Back then, the figure in the mirror had been more ghost than person—distant, spectral. Fractured. Someone you watched from the outside, not as a host of the flesh you inhabit.
Now, though, the pieces are starting to slot back into place. Some are still missing, and others don’t quite fit as they once did. You doubt it will ever return to how it was… But slowly, a familiar shape is coming back into focus. More than the shadow of a woman, but you. Time moves like water carving through rock; gradual, barely perceptible, but steady. Inevitable.
The shifts are diminutive. A morning where you wake up feeling less crushed by the weight of grief in your chest. An afternoon where you suddenly break into laughter, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve heard it in weeks. A quiet night where you go to bed without feeling like you’re stuck frozen in an endless loop of wishing, waiting for the impossible.
You’re here, alive. Present. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you’re doing more than just holding on.
(You think he’d be proud of you.)
And the thought doesn’t leave you aching the way it used to.
––––
“You think I can handle taking care of another living thing? Like a plant?” You ask Maru, glancing at him lounging by the window, right where a sliver of afternoon sunlight spills across the floor. “I mean, I raised you well enough, I think. But you’re pretty self-sufficient anyway.” Maru looks unimpressed. His tail flicks once—dismissive, uninterested—before he returns to grooming himself, utterly indifferent to both your question and your sudden enthusiasm for gardening. “Well, if your dad can grow plants in that dungeon he calls a base, I’m sure I can manage,” you mutter unconvincingly. “How hard can it be?”
–
By the middle of the second week into your little project, you begrudgingly admit that your tiny repotted begonia isn’t exactly thriving. You don’t want to be a pessimist, but the (browning) margins seem to curl inward—more than they should, if the reference pics on that “Indoor Succulents” blog you’re subscribed to are anything to go by.
You eye it dubiously, trying to stay gung-ho about the whole thing, forcing yourself to look up care tips again. It’s just a plant. Not rocket science. So you do the research, gather more supplies, and give it another shot. You reposition it closer to where the sun lands—earning a disgruntled hiss from the sunbathing feline—and sprinkle a careful amount of water just beneath the leaves, closer to the root. Then you lean back, waiting, tapping your foot impatiently like it’s supposed to just... fix itself.
–
The next few days pass with you watching it more than you’d care to admit—checking, hoping, second-guessing yourself.
You narrow your eyes at the leaves, more russet than Inca Flame red, still hanging limp like a sad testament to your lack of skill.
But you keep at it, because you’re nothing if not stubborn.
–
A single flower has bloomed.
You stand there, spray bottle in hand, caught in quiet awe at the metallic pink sprout peeking through the foliage. It’s small, delicate, barely more than a bud, but unmistakably there—nestled among heart-shaped leaves that, for the first time in weeks, look alive. Brighter.
A faint smile tugs at your lips. It’s not groundbreaking, not by a long shot. But it’s something.
The fragile blossom clings onto dear life, stubbornly seeking the sun rays, inching toward the warmth it needs to grow—larger, stronger.
You can’t wait to bear witness to it.
––––
You’re not entirely sure how you ended up in this situation; all you could recall past the sweat blurring your vision is the memory of being in front of the reception desk, pen in hand, scrawling your name onto the sign-up sheet for beginner boxing lessons.
It’s not… something you planned on doing, really. You’d been showing up for the past week, trying to convince yourself that fitness was something you could get into. Something you could stick with. But this one’s more of an impulse decision, fueled by a mix of post-workout endorphins and the misplaced confidence that sometimes follows after an extra few—unpremeditated!—minutes on the elliptical.
It all started with a casual glance at a flyer taped to the wall beside the water dispenser.
GET TOUGHER, FASTER, STRONGER! SIGN UP NOW!
The cheesy tagline stared you down as you were in the middle of refilling your teal green AquaFlask. And for some dumb reason—sheer curiosity, definitely not because it reminded you of a certain someone—you thought: Why not?
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you’d marched straight up to the nearest staff at the counter, credit card in hand, and asked to sign up. Now, as you stare at the buff woman currently goading you to hit harder, reality sets in and you feel a little lightheaded. Even slightly delirious.
“Up, up–” your trainer urges, somehow not even remotely out of breath, despite being thirty grueling minutes into the session. Meanwhile, you’re standing there, red-faced and sweating like a fucking pig. “Keep your arms up at all times, alright?”
You pant, nodding weakly, fixing your posture. She gives you an approving nod in return.
It’s part of the whole self-improvement thing, anyway. Pushing yourself. Fitness, jazz, and all that. You’ve never had much inclination for sports or anything remotely physically taxing, as far as you can recall.
…Or maybe that decision was made for you the moment you tried out for volleyball in high school and took a spike straight to the face. A memory so humiliating, that your brain did you a favor and buried it deep in the recesses of your mind.
But things are different now! You’re trying new things. You’ve done wall climbing, aerobics, even pulled a hamstring attempting HIIT Tae Bo. And if getting punched in the face is the next step in this… wellness journey, then, well, so be it. You’ll take it with a brave face and, hopefully, minimal bruising to both body and ego.
You slog through two sets of combos and thirty jab-straight-hook-uppercuts, punching like your life depends on it. You’re wheezing like an asthmatic child, and you’re about one bad punch away from toppling over.
Then, mercifully—
“Okay, that’s enough for today.”
Oh, thank god.
“You did good,” she tacks on, flashing you an encouraging smile, like you didn’t just spend the last half hour flailing at the focus mitts with all the grace of a wrecking ball.
You stare at her, unconvinced. Did I? Because from where you’re standing—wobbling, really—you’re pretty sure you looked closer to an overstimulated toddler throwing hands with gravity, but sure. It must’ve been in the fine print, to segue in a little positive reinforcement. Probably to keep people from bolting after the first session.
Not that you’re planning to. No, of course not. You’re just... reevaluating some things. Like your life choices. And your capacity to lift your arms tomorrow. As you trudge your way out of the yoga-studio-turned-boxing-area, still gulping for air and very aware of the soreness settling into your limbs, someone calls out.
“Hey! Wait up!”
You turn your head, blinking in confusion. A guy—mid to late twenties, give or take—jogs up to you, looking offensively too fresh compared to how you feel. “Oh, hi. Sorry, do you mean me?”
He laughs as he slows to a stop, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “Yeah, you. I saw you training with Coach. Just wanted to say—you’re improving.”
You blink. Wait, what?
A wave of mortification rolls through you. Shit, you didn’t know you had an audience. “Uh—thanks, I guess?”
You shift your weight awkwardly, clutching your boxing gloves tightly against your chest.
His grin turns sheepish, as though he realizes how that might’ve come off. “Fuck, sorry. That came out weird, didn’t it? I swear, I wasn't, like, watching the whole thing or anything.” He makes a vague gesture to his left. “The studio’s right in my line of sight when I did my TRX reps. Hard not to notice.”
You force a smile. “Ah, yeah. Figures.”
“I’m Byron, by the way,” he offers, sticking out a hand.
Now that you get a proper look at him, you notice he’s got this kind of… geeky charm going for him. Curly hair, sleepy brown eyes behind round, rimless glasses, and shy boy-next-door vibes—except for the fact that he’s jacked.
(Honestly? Work.)
You give him your name, still smiling awkwardly. You’re about to wave goodbye and turn away when— “So, what are you doing later?”
Um.
You hesitate. “I’m, uh… heading straight home after this?” Your voice comes out a little more uncertain than you intended, mostly because you’re not really sure why he’s still talking to you.
“Yeah, ‘course,” he replies quickly, glancing down like he’s suddenly nervous. “I just… thought I’d ask if you’d wanna grab coffee sometime?”
Oh.
It takes a moment for the question to fully register. The first thought that pops in your head is: Wait, how does he know I’m a barista?
… The second thought is one of pure disbelief. Holy shit, did I just get asked out? At the gym? By the Temu version of Peter Parker?
Your face burns hotter than it did mid-workout, caught completely off guard.
“I—woah, um.” You stumble over your words, eyes quickly darting away from him. “Sorry, I already have… a boyfriend. If—if that’s what you’re leading up to.”
You say it like a question. He picks up on it.
“You don’t sound too convinced,” he comments with a light chuckle, shaking his head. “If you’re not interested, you can just say that, you know.”
A prickle of irritation flares up, followed by something sharper—something that stings. You push it down. “No, he’s just… not around.” “Ah.” He clicks his tongue sympathetically. “Long distance?” “…Yeah.” You have no idea.
He shrugs, undeterred. “Alright, no pressure. We could always just hang out as friends, if you want.”
I… don’t think I do. “Um, maybe?” you answer instead, forcing out a laugh.
“Oh, come on,” he says, his grin widening. “You can even introduce me to your boyfriend,” he emphasizes the word out, “when he gets back. Does he work out? We could all hit the gym together.”
Social anxiety is afraid of this man, you think belatedly. Unfortunately for him, you’re the very embodiment of what fears him.
You’re so out of your element that all you can manage is, “He boxes too, actually.”
“Yeah? He any good?”
That gets an involuntary snort out of you. Unthinkingly, you say, “Could probably beat you up.”
Byron laughs, startled but amused, shaking his head as he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright—message received.” He flashes you a wide smile. “Well, if you change your mind about the coffee, I’ll be around.” He jerks his chin toward the pack fly by the corner. “There, usually.”
Okay, nerd. Despite yourself, you can’t help but find the whole thing slightly hilarious. Then again, you find humor in the dumbest things. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
You offer him a quick, half-hearted wave, trying (and failing) to mask your embarrassment with an exaggerated, too-casual show of nonchalance. It’s so painfully awkward, you can feel yourself internally dying from the cringe of it all.
Without another word, you spin on your heel and start speed-walking away, practically running back to the safety of your personal space.
Smooth.
––––
It’s another relatively easy night at the bistro. You’re on the last two hours of your shift, and you’re carrying a single glass of roseberry mule to serve at table four. As you round the corner, you catch sight of a student, glasses perched low on her nose, completely absorbed in a thick coursebook on Programming Languages. Papers are scattered across the table, and she looks to be utterly engrossed in her readings, unaware of the world around her.
You don’t want to bother her more than necessary, about to set the drink down on the only clear space—by the iPad propped up on a tablet holder to her right—when something red catches your attention.
A familiar pair of crimson eyes stops you dead in your tracks.
For a moment, you feel like you’re suspended in time. The sharp memory of a similar instance where you’re in her place, and he’s there, keeping you company while he’s polishing a gun burns through your brain, and you don’t–you can’t think—
You stand there, rooted to the spot, wide-eyed and unmoving. Then, the girl’s gaze shifts to you, and a hot flush spreads across her cheeks, betraying her surprise.
With swift fingers, she locks the screen with a quick flick on the power button, pulling you away and breaking you from the echoes of the past.
“Oh, shit,” she giggles, a nervous edge to her voice. “That’s embarrassing.”
You shake your head, forcing yourself back to the present moment. “No—no, don’t worry about it,” you chuckle weakly, setting the drink down beside her with shaky hands. “Cute guy, honestly.”
That makes her giggle louder, her eyes bright with an almost conspiratorial glint. “Oh my god, you have no idea.”
Fuck—you can’t breathe.
––––
The night hangs thick with stifling heat, accompanied by the steady ticking of the clock as you catch your breath, your broken moans too loud in the heavy silence. The sheets cling to your feverish skin, damp and uncomfortable, as your body moves in a rhythm that feels unnatural now, but still—but always—familiar.
Your chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid breaths as you force the draconic toy deep inside you. The heat, the fire—it licks at your skin, making your whole body yearn for more. To chase more of the feeling, to chase more of the memory of him.
Errant strands of hair stick to your forehead, your chest flushed and burning, a quiet throb spreading through you with every friction, every desperate movement.
Your body aches, a relentless thrum urging you to push deeper, to find something—anything—to fill the gaping hole inside you, a wound you’ve tried to stitch shut over months, now threatening to tear its way open again, once more ripping from the seams.
A sharp pressure builds inside you. Your body stretches too far, too much, struggling to take in what it can’t quite handle. It burns in a way that hurts, but you need it. You need to feel more, to fill the emptiness, to grasp at something that feels real.
“Yours, yours–” you tremble, desperate. “Yours. Just yours. Please.”
-
-
-
You lie in the wake of it—pleasure fading into something heavier, regret creeping in like a shadow, waiting as always.
“I miss you,” you whisper in the dark. You always do.
You try to ignore the pull of it, the sharp descent that comes with the high.
You were doing so well.
But it’s fine. You’re fine.
Everything’s fine.
The words swirl and echo in your mind, until they’re swallowed by sounds that ring hollow. You let the moment wash over you, sinking beneath the weight of the tides, where sorrow and longing blur with the fleeting warmth of what you can’t keep.
Tomorrow will be another day. Another chance to try again.
For now, you let go of your grip on the fragile raft of sanity you’ve built, painstakingly, for months on end.
Tonight, you let yourself drown once more in the somber depths of loneliness and despair, confined within these four walls that feel—once more—like a penitentiary.
––––
The plane begins its slow descent, and through the window, the world comes into view—large swathes of land interrupted by winding roads that seem to follow no rhyme, nor pattern. A river glints faintly beneath the fading sun, while the sky turns a dull blue, a washed-out slate, streaked with the last embers of daylight.
Below, the small city stirs.
Tiny specks of color flicker to life, lanterns strung along the streets like beads on a thread, marking the season, an ending, and the inevitable turning of time. A chill hangs in the air, the wind whipping past you from the half-open window of the taxi, sharp and crisp in a way that you can only find in the province.
Your hometown.
It all rushes past in a blur of light and shadow, an eclectic mix of old and new—some buildings unchanged, others unfamiliar, as if they’d sprung up in the years you’ve been away. It’s been a while since you last came back, long enough for the roads to feel... foreign, almost. Though muscle memory stirs when the car takes a turn. One you could have easily navigated even with your eyes closed.
Only your sister lives here now, her and her family—a couple of hundred miles far. Far enough to feel like another world, yet close enough for the past to catch up the moment you lay eyes on the old two-story house tucked away on the quaint cul-de-sac of this suburban neighborhood.
The residential property was left to her, scrawled onto the title in an act of generosity, perhaps. Or maybe as a weight your mother never intended to carry, something meant to anchor her eldest child while she carved a different life for herself elsewhere. Free-spirited as she is, she left with the ease of someone shedding an old coat, slipping into the shoes of another, barely a glance over her shoulder.
But houses remember. And as you step out of the vehicle, your feet meeting the rough asphalt that once belonged to your childhood, you wonder if they remember you too.
"Maru, Maru!" Your five-year-old niece cries the moment she spots the grumpy feline peering through the mesh of his portable prison.
"What—no excitement for me too?" you tease, ruffling her hair. She giggles, scrunching up her nose.
"Auntie, hi! Hi!"
You snort at her enthusiasm, setting the carrier down. The second you pull at the zipper, Maru springs out, landing with a soft thud before stalking off with his usual air of disdain. Your niece shrieks with delight.
"Ah! Cat!"
"Well, there go the chances of her socializing with her brother," your sister remarks dryly from the doorway, sauntering closer. "Hey, stranger."
"Hey," you greet, hoisting a handful of paper bags. "Where do I dump these?"
She eyes the bags. "Any of those for me?"
"You have three kids, and one of them insisted on a Lego set. Do you know how much those cost?" You shoot her a flat look. "You’re getting socks."
"Wow, stingy." She huffs but takes some of the bags anyway, hitching one onto her hip as she grabs your other hand-carry.
You step inside, and the house greets you with a riot of lights and color. Plastic tinsel and bright string lights drape across every visible surface—along the bannister, around doorways—leaving no space untouched by the festive chaos. A Christmas tree stands proudly in the corner, nearly buried beneath an avalanche of baubles and sentimental ornaments collected over the years.
The room feels swallowed by the exuberance of it all, an almost overwhelming jamboree of holiday cheer.
It’s gaudy, excessive, and completely over-the-top, but beneath it all, the bones of your childhood home remain unchanged—familiar in a way that settles deep in your chest. The Narra wood floors are still scuffed with the marks of time, there’s still the distinct tang of turpentine mixed with waxy resin and citrus you’ve long since associated with home, and the odd decorative masks still line the far wall, their painted expressions frozen in mid-celebration.
Your eyes land on the canvas floater above the mantel—a whimsical cross-stitch of three women flying kites, their stitched dresses rippling in imagined wind. You remember it well, though you never quite understood why your mother had chosen that particular scene to painstakingly sew into existence. Still, it belongs here, another piece of the house's patchwork history.
Your gaze shifts to the couch, where Andrew, your sister's husband, is sprawled out, one arm lazily draped over the backrest, the other holding his phone.
He flicks his gaze up at you, offering a half-hearted wave before turning back to whatever has him so absorbed on the screen. Beside him, your three-year-old nephew is perched on his knees, bouncing with energy as he mirrors Bluey's movements on the TV with exaggerated enthusiasm, his tiny arms flailing in childlike glee.
You sigh inwardly, rolling your eyes. Typical.
“There’s a few more hours before dinner. Want to hang out in the kitchen while I roast the ham?” She asks casually, setting down your bags by the foot of the stairs. “Actually, scratch that—you’re in charge of the punch.”
“You just want a head start on the drinks,” you tease, the banter flowing easily between you. “Hey, where’s the little squirt?”
She points toward the small crib, near the island counter. “She finally stopped crying, thank god. Don’t wake her up, or you’ll be the one in charge of putting her back to sleep.”
The two of you slip into the kitchen, where the air already carries the promise of dinner—cloves and brown sugar blending nicely with the lingering scent of citrus. A tray of ham sits on the counter, prepped and ready, the scored surface glistening under the fluorescent light.
Your sister pulls a bottle of Luisita Oro Rum and Agimat Gin from the second-to-last cupboard and places them on the counter in front of you.
"Go ham," she quips.
You give her a flat look. "You think you’re funny.”
She shrugs, unfazed, and turns her attention back to where she’d left off before your arrival.
The two of you fall into a natural rhythm, the kind that comes from years of cooking together. You work your way through cans of Del Monte, the metallic clinks filling the space as you drain the syrup and dump chunks of mixed fruit into the large punch bowl.
Your sister leans against the counter nearby, arms folded, her gaze fixed on the oven door, as if sheer willpower alone could make the meat cook faster.
In the background, the soft drone of the TV drifts in from the living room, punctuated by your nephew’s occasional giggles.
There’s no rush, no need to fill the silence with anything more than the occasional clang of utensils against glass and the low humming of kitchen appliances. The day is winding down to a close, and for now, everything is alright.
“So, Mom called,” she says casually, one arm braced on the counter as she leans in, glancing at you. “Kept calling, actually.”
“Mm.” You reply noncommittally, shaking the last can’s contents into the crystal bowl, watching as the fruit chunks bob lazily in the pool of alcohol.
“She’s worried about you.”
You don’t answer.
“She was. She is.” Her voice shifts, more serious now. She watches you closely, noting your lack of reaction. “You know that, right?”
Your fingers tighten around the can opener, but you pull your gaze away from the bowl. “I know.”
She sighs, resigned, already familiar with this song and dance. Familiar enough to know there’s no winning this one, not tonight. Not anytime soon. “I am too.”
You blink, before looking away. “Oh.”
And maybe she does worry—your mother. But any hope of truly knowing is swallowed by the chasm between you, the one that keeps your conversations at surface level, never breaching the depths beyond.
Your body, born from hers, perhaps more alike than you realize, might have been brought into this world with the same pains that she’s carried. The pains of separation. The unresolved hurt of being unwillingly removed from your person—her former husband, your father—and that if you and your mother were closer, you could have opened up about your own situation. Perhaps then, you wouldn’t feel like a ship that has lost its ballast, drifting endlessly in the same turbulent seas for the longest time.
But you are your mother’s daughter, and she is her mother’s daughter. There is the truth that the women in your family are not the best communicators, nor do they wear their hearts on their sleeves. So you were born mute and overly sensitive. Pain drips from you, unnoticed, like a purposeless leak in the heart. You’ll carry it with you until you die.
“But you look… okay,” she observes, cocking her head. “Are you okay?”
You swallow. For the same reason you compare your mother to a storm you can't outrun and your sister to an intermittent drizzle, you find it easier to admit, “I haven’t… been okay for a while.”
Not wanting to bring the mood down, especially on a day like today, you quickly add, “Things are better now, though.”
She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “Could be a little more specific there, but I’ll take it.” She gives you an exasperatedly fond look. “You let me know if that changes anytime soon, ‘kay?”
Your lips quirk in the faintest semblance of a smile. “Yeah, okay.”
–
It’s ten minutes before midnight.
You’re leaning against the island counter that separates the kitchen from the living room, nursing a glass of the fruit punch (though it’s mostly gin, with the teensiest amount of fruit), watching your sister’s family at a distance as they eagerly wait for the clock to strike twelve. The blinds of the large living room window have been pulled up, giving an unobstructed view of the sky, ready for the first firework to light up the dark.
For a moment, you feel like an outsider, watching through a lens, as if you’re not quite part of the scene. There’s a strange sense of detachment—voyeuristic, almost—as though you're peering in on a private, intimate moment.
Your sister cradles the infant in her arms, and that all-too-familiar pang stirs to life—the same one that always does when you look at her.
You can't quite place what you're feeling, exactly. It’s tumultuous, and it’s complex. Andrew’s practically dozing off in his seat, and you see your sister shake her head in mild annoyance. Your nephew, fighting to keep his eyes open, starts to fuss.
Something tightens inside your chest.
“Andrew,” she hisses, startling the man awake. He blinks, disoriented, before spotting their son and the early signs of an explosive tantrum.
He sighs, and pulls the boy closer to him. “Hey, hey, little guy. Look at the sky. In just a couple of minutes, the lights are gonna go boom-boom.”
Your nephew sniffs, his eyes blinking up at him as he processes the words. “Boom-boom?”
“Yeah! Just like the one we watched on TV!”
The kid’s face visibly perks up at that, bad mood quickly forgotten. “Boom-boom!”
You watch as your sister’s gaze softens, and a small smile replaces the earlier frown on her face.
And in that instant, you understand.
You look at your sister and, for a brief moment, all you see is a wretched mirror of yourself. She is all of your fears, all of your failures, and all of what you could’ve been rolled into one. Barely in her mid-thirties, and yet already carrying the weight of a family: three kids, a husband who feels like a faded echo of your father—a man who didn’t quite measure up, who never did, and just as unreliable.
You feel the suffocating weight of it all, of being tied to a place that’s meant to be a home but feels more like a tomb, marking the passing of dreams unrealized. She’ll grow old here, buried in the same soil you both sprang from, fading into the landscape of this town that swallows its own.
You look at her and you almost feel the repressed pain of missing the last semester of college to give birth, the lament of a missed opportunity that life has stolen from her.
You feel her pain as if it’s yours. You feel it in the marrow of your bones—her blood flowing through you. “3…” You look at her, and it feels like seeing someone bound, held down by an anchor around her foot, unable to break through the surface of freedom. You look at her and you see dreams once aglow, reduced to cinders. You look at her and see—
She glances up at you.
Oh. “2…” In the fleeting moment where your eyes meet—eyes you two share with your mother—you feel so small.
Just a kid. Shortsighted and unfairly dismissive. Too blind to see your sister’s quiet victories, too selfish to admit you’ve diminished them just so you could feel less alone about your own failures. A child grasping for meaning, unfair in the ways only children can be. “1…” And in the fraction of a second before midnight, it's as if you’ve been doused awake.
You see her anew—what seemed like monotony is really the bedrock of stability; tenacity in place of routine. An almost single-minded doggedness to make something out of this life. You see the steadfast strength she possesses, the kind that gets her up every morning, to face the world and all its demands without question. With purpose.
You see resilience. Compassion. Traits that you’ve always lacked, that you’ve long resented, the same traits your mother never learned to embody.
And now you see your niece in her arms, born from this, and you name the indescribable feeling that dwells in you—borne from the pure look of adoration in your sister’s eyes for her youngest daughter—as envy.
You know, with utmost certainty, that she will be okay, because she has your sister as her mother, and she is so, so loved.
As you watch them, something inside you shifts—a deep, aching realization.
You see… home. Something you've always longed for but never truly found. “Happy new year!” The spell breaks. The two of you startle at the sudden eruption of fireworks, the distant chorus of car horns blaring from the streets outside.
Your niece and nephew jump and shriek, their laughter ringing through the room, celebrating something they barely understand but find joy in anyway. The baby in your sister’s arms lets out a wail at the commotion, and she is soothed instantly with murmurs of soft assurances. Her father struggles upright—then, with no small amount of effort, leans forward to press a kiss to the crown of her head.
The image before you is far from perfect, but it’s theirs.
“Auntie, auntie!” The little rascals cry out in unison, their voices overlapping in excitement. “‘appy n’year!”
A breathless, almost pained laugh escapes you. Still, you smile as you respond with your own, “happy new year!”
You’re tired—tired of running, of measuring yourself against the ghosts of your past. Tired of carrying the weight of a childhood that’s left you with more questions than answers, of making excuses for wounds that should have healed long since. You've spent so much time mourning the growing pains, the irreparable, that you never stopped to see what’s in front of you.
This moment, this realization, feels like the final missing piece in the fractured puzzle of who you are.
The new year arrives, marked by the crackle of fireworks and the loud cheer from your family.
This time, you won’t hesitate. You’ll choose to embrace the change, both good and bad, with open arms. With the quiet resolve of someone finally ready to move forward.
You lift your gaze just as a brilliant burst of red explodes into the night sky, its iridescent glow bleeding into a softer silver before fading into the dark.
A warmth settles deep in your chest—bittersweet, but steady. A quiet peace.
Happy new year, my love. . . . . . . .
.
.
.
.
. . .
The air at the threshold of Vagrant’s land is restless. Volatile. A hazy distortion ripples through it, folding and unfolding, like a lost mirage—an area of transition between worlds. Porch collapse, he calls it.
Sylus has stood here countless times, watching the way this anomalous disturbance twists the very fabric of this reality, how it flickers in and out of form, erratic. Impossible to predict.
It had taken him longer than he likes to admit to understand the phenomena for what it’s truly worth. Not just an alternate space caused by some spartan energy field. Not just any other protofield. But a thread. A connection. A door.
A fault line between realities, an entryway that hums with the possibility of you.
Since the moment the idea took hold, he had thought of little else. It has consumed him in every waking moment; his entire being seeming to bend toward a singular purpose—getting to you. He had torn through endless streams of data, followed every unstable pulse of energy, mapped its fluctuations down to the smallest inconsistency.
Nights bled into days, and days bled into weeks, until he can no longer keep track. Not that the passage of time meant much to him at this point.
He’s worked tirelessly through the stillness, through the storms of uncertainty, through the aching silence left by your absence. Ever since you’ve exchanged your temporary goodbyes.
He had measured everything he could—the unstable frequency of radio signals streaming through the interstice. He had traced the influx in real time; recording the rate of deterioration, isolating the waveform, and filtering out outside interferences.
But for all the data he gathered, for all the precision in his calculations, the core of this phenomenon remained just out of reach. His knowledge on the matter is rudimentary at most. He could waste years observing for abnormalities, trying to decipher how its presence has disrupted the very threads of this universe, but the why and how of it all will still elude him.
Still, theory matters less than function. He doesn’t need to understand the full depth of it. He only needs to harness it.
It’s a gamble.
Contrary to whatever reputation he’s earned for himself, Sylus has never been one to play his cards recklessly. He deals in certainties, in probabilities stacked in his favor, in risks that—while dangerous—are still within his grasp to control. He has never been the type to leap without knowing where he’d land.
But this is different.
He has never needed to, before. Never had a reason to throw himself into the unknown with no assurance of survival, no way to predict the outcome.
He had no reason to—until you.
Now, it matters less whether or not the odds of his survival are abysmal, that he has no precedent to follow. That your world might reject him entirely. None of it matters. Because if the choice is between staying and never reaching you, or plunging into the great, endless unknown—
He’ll take the leap, every time. Without hesitation.
He’ll leave this world behind, step beyond the edges of everything that has ever defined him, and venture into lands unseen, uncharted. Unknown. He doesn’t know what awaits him on the other side. If he’ll make it there in one piece. If he will make it there at all.
Sylus has never really questioned why he’s the anomaly in this world. The curiosities of his existence are yours to ponder. After all, he finds that he doesn’t care much of the answer as much as he cares about being with you.
Because wherever you are—that is home.
He takes a step forward, and the universe dissolves into a blinding light.
-
-
-
Sylus wakes to the sensation of weight.
Something presses on him heavily, sinking into his limbs like gravity itself is wrapping around him for the first time.
The ground beneath him is unfamiliar, uneven—tangible in a way he’s never felt before. His fingertips press into the damp earth, leaving the faintest imprint, yielding beneath his touch. The scent of soil rises around him; a rich, bitter brown.
This world does not recognize him, yet it cradles him like its own all the same.
Above, the sky erupts.
Fireworks split open the night, streaks of color exploding and dissipating in an instant—too fleeting to hold, too bright to ignore. A flashbang of incandescent reds and fluorescent greens, followed by bursts of crackling gold and shimmering silver scatter into tiny pinpricks before fading into the darkness.
The air is heavier here, denser in a way that feels almost… alien. It clings to the contours of his new form, seeps into his lungs with every breath.
And oh, how it burns. Not in pain, but in its sheer presence. It rushes into him not as mere oxygen but as something real. Something palpable. He’s lost in the sensation.
He exhales. Then winces.
Immediately, he feels it—the weakness. The brittleness of this new body. Gone is the invulnerability he once wielded so effortlessly, the certainty that nothing could touch him unless he allowed it.
That certainty is gone now, stripped away the moment he crossed the threshold.
He is flesh and bone. Finite. Mortal.
A lesser man might have feared it.
But in the middle of this empty field, miles away from civilization, Sylus can only laugh.
He tips his head back, reeling from the sheer impossibility of it all, eyes tracing the brilliant display above—as if committing it to memory, a coronation of sorts. Of existence. Of arrival. Of a life finally his own.
Reborn. And for the first time in his existence, he is alive.
––––
It’s summer—the summer that marks two years since he left.
Two years. It’s enough time to feel the weight of it, but not enough to make the events feel like something that happened a lifetime ago.
The seasons cycle once more, as they always do, pushing time forward with a steady, indifferent rhythm. And with that change comes a familiar pang—a bittersweet ache, neither grief nor regret, just the weight of knowing that nothing stays the same. Mono no aware.
You’re closer to thirty now, and the thought doesn’t terrify you as much as it did before. Your hair’s in a pixie cut—short and sleek, although the edges are a little ragged from the half-assed trimming you gave it a few days ago.
It would have made you feel stupid, once upon a time, for trying out something drastic for a new look. Instead, you just take it for what it is—one more thing you did because you wanted to. Like the rest of the choices you’ve made over the past two years. It’s yours. Uneven, impulsive, maybe a little questionable. But yours.
It’s liberating. Even if it makes your head look like a pencil.
The voice—the one that picks at your face, your body, your thoughts, everything down to the last imperfection—never really shuts up. It’s quieter now, easier to ignore, but it still lurks in the background, waiting for an opening, a moment of weakness. Maybe it always will. Maybe that’s just the price of being human.
But you don’t fight it anymore. You don’t let it drag you down to a breaking point. You carry yourself differently now, you'd say. No pep in your step just yet, but you don’t feel the need to drag your heels either. Literally and figuratively.
The change has come in waves—sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh—but it’s there, marking you, marking the passage of time. Just like the earth, just like the seasons, you’ve shifted and grown. And perhaps that’s enough.
The sky is ablaze now, a deepening canvas of pinks and purples as the sun sinks lazily to the west. The fiery orange light spills through the large windows, bleeding into every corner of the room, and the world outside seems to slow, caught in the hour before dusk.
You’re behind the counter, wiping down plates with the kind of ease that comes from repetition, the motion so ingrained in you that it barely registers anymore. It’s all routine—the rhythm of it, the quiet hum of the bistro, the clinking of porcelain. The air is thick with the sticky smell of warm pastries, and it’s the sort of evening that feels almost liminal. A moment suspended in time.
You hear the soft tinkling of the door chimes, signaling the arrival of another customer.
It’s a soft, unassuming sound, barely noticeable against the evening lull. You swipe your hands across your apron, turning on instinct, your mouth already forming the usual greeting.
“Hi, welcome to—”
The words die in your throat.
It’s a slow unfolding—almost a gradual realization that stretches across the seconds like the last rays of sun dipping beneath the horizon. He stands in the doorway, a figure outlined in gold, and his presence fills the space between you, no barrier that separates, and it feels... impossible. Unimaginable. Inevitable.
His height is the first thing you notice. He’s taller than you expected, and you know he’ll tower over you, even at a distance. His hair is dark now, the color of midnight, almost—not the silver you once traced with your fingers in your mind. The cut is still similar to what you’ve always known it to be, though a little more unkempt, as if he’s lived in this body long enough for it to take on its own wear.
Then his eyes. The red is gone—no longer the shade of crimson that used to see right through you, those sanguine pools you once loved. In its place, a stormy grey, deep and impossibly expressive, pulling you in like an undertow. The color is striking, alien in its own way, yet there’s a warmth buried beneath it—and the familiarity of it tugs at you.
Even with the changes, even though you’ve never met the person standing in front of you, you’ll know him anywhere.
There’s a shift in the room, a subtle, yet unmistakable change in the air. It’s as if the whole bistro has drawn in a breath—and you with it. Time stretches thin, each passing second expanding into what feels like an eternity.
Your eyes lock—and for a moment, nothing else exists.
It’s as if the world has shifted off its axis. Or, perhaps more accurately, it’s as though a piece that’s always been missing has finally snapped into place.
Something settles in you, something foreign and indescribably familiar at the same time.
Sylus smiles.
“Hello, my love. Have I kept you waiting?”
It feels like home.
____
“Now I found myself this kind of love, I can't believe it I'll never leave it behind I thought I'd never get to feel another fucking feeling But I feel— This love, this love, this love Oh, I feel it.”
End A/N: So this is done! Wow! I'm kind of proud of myself for writing something this long in the span of, idk, three months? Basically, the entire duration of my "vacation" back home. Now with another term and a busier schedule coming up, I really wanted to finish this series before life catches up to me. *sobs* Anyway, I'm so, so happy about the reception of this fic, and you've all been so sweet :') Again, thank you for reading! I'll see you in the spin-off, or whatever shit I put out next haha <3 Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira
#love and deepspace#lads#lnds#love and deepspace sylus#lads sylus#lnds sylus#sylus x reader#sylus x you#lads x you#lads x reader#sylus x non mc reader#love and deepspace fic#self aware au#sylus qin
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— WIP 𐙚 test run | jjk



pairing: longterm!boyfriend!jungkook x f. reader
genre: smut
rating: 18+
about: due to your adult responsibilities, you haven't sucked your boyfriend's dick in a long time, and it shows.
word count: 0.826
note: i started writing this breeding kink fic super late in the week and because i haven't finished it yet, i'm at least posting a smutty wip for you, my babies. i can't leave you starving on a sunday! big kisses mwah.
context: reader is having a bath. prior this scene, they may or may not talked about having a baby. jungkook came back from work horny. (that's all i can say without spoiling the entire thing skfjlsfjlsfsl. it's vague and simple on purpose, the fic has a different plot i promise).
warnings: stomach kisses, blowjob, male masturbation, jungkookie rubs his dickie in reader's face, he low-key degrades her but softly and lovingly.
taglist | join here: @jjk7k, @tkslovechild, @euphoricmyth, @cinmmongirl, @ririkookiemonster,
@perfectiondazesworld, @https-mei, @bangtansonyeondanue, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl,
@hoseokkie-caeks, @kam9404, @fr0ggieth1nk, @parkinglot-nights, @sadgirlroo
You freed him from his pants. His cock springs in your face, bringing about your drool. You haven’t seen him in the light for quite some time. Your intimacy with him dwells more in the darkness beneath the covers due to adulthood duties, but in the past—when you were still in school, you both used to fuck like rabbits during the day because there was nothing else to do and the sexual attraction was all-too-consuming. It seems as though the test run is changing it, metamorphosing it back to the way it was, so you could devour fistfuls of it before your intertwined life levels up with the baby.
Everything happens for a reason, huh.
When Jungkook stands motionless, the material of his hoodie covering the delicious patch of hair that you want to see, you shoot him a playful dirty look. He blushes in response and you catch his hands trembling as he lifts them to the back of the neckline, ridding himself of the outerwear. He lets it plop to the floor, red in the face, stepping out of his sweats.
Bare, both of you. Emotionally and physically.
Your mouth latches onto the carved out muscle next to his belly button, swirling circles on that special zone, so terribly impatient and hungry for him. Jungkook doubles over, groaning, the spot you’re making love to secretly sensitive, and if there’s anything you love more in this world other than him, it’s secrecy. Doing things in secret with him. Not telling anyone. Finding things undiscovered on his body that he learns he likes. That type of shit.
You were just a twenty year old girl when you brought this sensitivity to light.
His cock twitches on your neck, hardening even more. Out of your peripheral view, you can see him folding his fist around his girth, moving up and down as you descend lower and lower, scattering rough, wet kisses like you scattered the blossoms beneath you. You can’t take your eyes off of it; him pleasuring himself intoxicates you and you missed it.
You missed it so fucking much.
“Fuck, I love it when you do that,” you exclaim, your mouth leaping over to the side base of his cock, trailing your tongue from there all the way up to his fist. Jungkook hisses, and the sound melts into a moan once he feels your tongue.
And it’s like you returned his dominance to him by that gesture.
Taking you by your jaw, he pushes your mouth down onto his cock, but you keep your eyes on his face. While your clit throbs even more energetically by the intrusion, Jungkook throws his head back, his noises becoming louder and louder the more you suck in your cheeks around him—because that’s all you’re able to do. It’s him who sets the pace, who moves your head up and down on him, and when the ecstasy pulls him under, he looks down at you with gritted teeth, growls because you’re watching him. And it’s at this moment that you gag around him.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes out deeply, prolonging the first vowel that penetrates you and teases your clit. His chest heaves as he struggles to take the overpowering delight without bursting in your mouth. “We haven’t done this in so long. Can I fuck your mouth?” You’re dazed, too dazed by the severity of the moment and the beauty of him to respond, by the horniness that overtakes you. Jungkook circles your head on his tip, your tongue following the movement around him, and he loses it. He completely and utterly loses it. “You can’t talk, can you? My poor baby has a mouth full of cock.”
It’s not by your own will that you let out such a squeaky moan—you can’t really help it. It vibrates around him, causing him to whimper and tuck his lips under his teeth, rolling his eyes back. Panting hard, he pulls himself out of you, and you know that is the telltale sign that he’s close. His cock that hovers above your face drools, his red mushroom head reaching your hairline, and your eyes go cross, taking in the size of him as if you’ve never seen him before.
Strangely, everything about this suggests everything pure and new and you’re drunk. Drunk on it all, swaying in the milky pink water while the blossoms brush against your needy feminine parts. And his cock. Jungkook brushes his cock on your face, letting his precum drip onto your forehead, which then rolls down the side plane of your temples. You’re hot all over. He’s never done this before; you’ve never felt the weight of him like this. It connects you to him in a deeper way that your brain is able to comprehend at this moment.
“You want it, baby? You want Oppa to use you like that before he puts a baby in you, hm?”
Your eyes go cross again.
© 2025 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.
WIP masterlist
#divider by plutism#bangtanwhq#lunas dark wips#jungkook x you#jungkook smut#bts smut#bts imagine#jungkook imagine#jeon jungkook#bts scenarios#jungkook scenarios#kpop smut#jungkook one shot#jungkook drabble#jungkook fic
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