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kiwriteswords · 2 months ago

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Wilted, Yet Wonderful [Aaron Hotchner x Florist!Reader]

Florist!Reader Masterlist|| Main Masterlist [I need to update this, sorry!]|| Ao3||Word Count: 2.3k|| AN: I am in the midst of the craziest week of my professional life and needed to finish this because I haven't been able to stop thinking about it! Tags/Warnings: mentions of wine, alcohol consumption, Female!Reader, Florist!Reader, Non-BAU!Reader, pre-relationship, pre-established relationship, Sassy!Reader, Flirty!Reader, first dates, flirting, pining, fluff, pure fluff honestly Summary: Everything was set up for a perfect first date: the perfect dress, the perfect man, the perfect pairing...except the perfect schedule.

The thing about Aaron Hotchner was that he didn’t do anything impulsively.

Which made the way he kept “finding reasons” to stop by your shop all the more suspicious.

First, it was Jack’s teacher’s birthday.

Then, a condolence bouquet for a neighbor.

A “just thinking of you” arrangement for Jessica.

At one point, he even ordered a “Congratulations on Your New Dog” bouquet, which you were ninety percent sure he made up.

And every time he walked in--

Stoic, devastating, tie a little loose, eyes a little soft--

You felt it.

That pull.

That inevitability.

You flirted. You teased. You played it cool.

But the truth was, you’d bought a new dress two weeks after the first “chance encounter.”

A little over the top.

A little more extravagant than necessary for a first date.

Still hanging on the back of your office door.

Waiting.

Waiting to be worn.

Waiting for him to finally ask.

It was a Thursday afternoon when it finally happened.

You were elbow-deep in a last-minute baby shower arrangement when the bell jingled, and you looked up, expecting another frantic client.

Instead--

Hotch.

Tie loosened. Jacket slung over his arm. Eyes darker than usual.

He crossed the floor with more purpose than usual, stopping just short of your workspace.

You arched a brow. “Forgot another fake dog birthday?”

He smiled--

Small, genuine. “No.”

You wiped your hands on a towel. “Then to what do I owe the honor?”

He hesitated. Just for a second. The kind of pause that meant something. Meant something for a man like Aaron Hotchner: calculated.

Then he said, steady and low, “I was wondering if you’d let me take you to dinner.”

You froze, towel halfway across the counter.

Your heart did a weird, hiccuping thing in your chest.

You managed--barely--to keep your voice even.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

The catch, of course, was this:

You were a florist.

He was a federal agent.

And life, as it turned out, had other plans.

You cleared a Friday night. Even closed early.

Your hair? Perfect. That dress? To die for.

Five minutes before you locked up, a funeral home called.

Emergency casket spray needed. Tonight.

You guessed there really was some weight to the “to die for dress” since someone really had to die before you could even wear it!

You texted him, fingers flying: I’m so sorry. I have to save a funeral. Rain check?

Hotch replied almost immediately: Of course. Go save the day.

You melted a little. Okay. Not dead yet. (No pun intended.)

New plan: Sunday brunch.

You pulled the dress out. Smoothed it. Stared at it like it owed you money. At this point you did. And a goodnight kiss from those lips you just couldn;t keep thinking about.

Twenty minutes before you were supposed to meet him--

Your shop’s phone rang.

Biggest wedding you’d booked all season?

Thousands and THOUSANDS of dollars hanging on this one?

Canceled.

Needed every arrangement reworked into “congratulations on the divorce” bouquets. “Too bad you already got legally married before the big day, now you need a lawyer” arrangements.

You called Hotch, mortified.

He answered on the first ring.

“Go handle it,” he said, so gentle it made your throat burn.

Most men would have already written you off as uninterested, problematic, or too much to handle (rightfully so).

Third time’s the charm, right?

Right?

…right?

You rescheduled. Thursday night. You did your hair. Your makeup. Even slipped into the dress, heart hammering against the zipper.

Then your phone buzzed.

You didn’t even have to look.

This dress was bad luck, you assumed.

Sure enough--

Hotch’s name.

A voicemail.

You pressed it to your ear.

“I’m so sorry. We caught a case out of state. Jack’s with Jess, and the jet leaves in twenty minutes. Rain check? Please? I want this. I just--"

You shut your eyes. Listened to the strain in his voice.

The honesty.

You texted back: Stay safe. I’m not going anywhere.

You weren’t. You really, really weren’t.

You hadn’t felt butterflies like this in…in…well, ages. It had been so long, and something in your gut (which was annoyingly always right) told you that he was so worth it.

So, the dress stayed on the hanger.

You walked around the shop that night barefoot, music low, half arranging, half daydreaming.

You thought about him--

Exhausted, fighting monsters across state lines.

And you thought about you--

Fighting your own quiet battles with petals and grief and celebration and apology.

You thought about how love--real love--wasn’t about perfect timing.

It was about showing up.

Even if you kept missing the mark.

Even if the universe threw every damn wrench it could find.

Because eventually?

You were going to meet in the middle.

It had been a day from hell.

The kind of day that made you seriously consider shutting off your neon OPEN sign and fleeing to some remote corner of Maine where no one would ever ask you for "something simple, like a dozen custom corsages" twenty minutes before their event started.

First, it was a man in khakis and a Bluetooth headset trying to mansplain carnation symbolism to you.

("Tacky," you muttered the second he left, slamming the register shut.)

Then, it was a woman with sharp nails and sharper words, complaining the "white" roses for her late husband’s memorial were "too cream-colored." (As if you could bleach the petals yourself.)

You wanted to ask if the dead knew the difference between stark white, cream, and ivory. There was none! Not in flower-land. Maybe at the Home Depot picking out paint swatches, but not in garden roses.

Then, a six-year-old threw a full-blown war tantrum over bouquet ribbon colors, knocking over two display vases and turning the aisle into a slip-and-slide of glass and gerbera daisies.

And to top it all off?

A corporate client cancelled a $700 custom standing order after you'd already made it--

Costing you precious materials, time, and, arguably, pieces of your soul.

By mid-afternoon, your hands were cut and sticky from thorns and tape, your back ached, your head pounded, and your patience?

Nonexistent.

Gone. Out the freaking window!!

You were halfway through re-tying a sympathy bouquet (at this point, you needed a sympathy boquet) when your phone buzzed on the counter.

You sighed, ready to ignore it--

But the name flashing on the screen stopped you cold.

Aaron Hotchner.

Your heart did a little stutter step in your chest.

You wiped your hands on your apron and answered, trying not to sound as drained as you felt.

“Hey, you,” you said, voice lighter already. Ah, there it was. The little beacon of peace he brought you.

“Hey, yourself.” His voice was warm, low, steady. Like a hand on your back.

You leaned your hip against the counter, closing your eyes for a second. Just listening.

Rough day?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“The kind where you consider setting the shop on fire and starting over,” you deadpanned.

You could hear the faint smile in his voice when he said, “Need backup?”

“Only if you have a riot shield and a bottle of wine.”

There was a pause. A shift.

Then--

“I was calling to tell you,” he said, “I can see you tonight.”

You froze.

“What?”

“I’ll be back by seven. No cases. No cancellations. Nothing standing between us this time.”

You swallowed hard, heart hammering.

“I--” you laughed a little, breathless. Looking over to yourdress hanging in your backroom, “So, I have this dress.”

“You mentioned it once.” His voice got a little quieter. A little rougher. “You said it was a little much.”

You bit your lip, your cheeks heating. “It’s covered in sequins and flowers.”

There was a low, amused exhale through the phone, “That sounds very you.”

You smiled, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear automatically. “You really want to see it?”

“I really want to see you.”

Your chest ached in the best way.

You leaned harder into the counter, as if your body needed the support against the sudden weight of happiness.

“I’ll make sure I’m there,” he said.

“Promise?”

“I swear.”

You closed your eyes, the tiredness in your body sinking a little, but the excitement thrumming harder.

You talked for a few more minutes--

Nothing urgent, nothing critical.

Just… normal. Him asking if you’d eaten. You teasing him about his inability to distinguish between peonies and garden roses. Both of you dancing around how much you just wanted to be in the same room already.

When you hung up, the shop still smelled like roses and regret.

The vases were still broken.

The sympathy card still needed signing.

But it didn’t matter as much.

Because in the back room, on a hanger above your workbench, there was a dress waiting.

Sequins and silk.

Wild and beautiful.

Just like the way you felt when you thought about seeing him tonight.

And for the first time all day--

You smiled.

You still had chaos to deal with.

You had no business wearing the dress.

By the time you dragged yourself into the back room, every part of you ached--

Your lower back, your ankles, your wrists from tying bows too tight, your pride from one too many cranky customers.

But you’d made a promise.

You slipped the dress on slowly, sequins catching the overhead light like they were mocking you. It felt heavier than you remembered--

Maybe because your limbs were made of cement today. You pulled on your heels, gritting your teeth as your poor, abused feet screamed in protest.

At the mirror by your desk, you dabbed concealer under your eyes. It barely made a dent in the dark circles hollowing your face. So you swept some glitter across your eyelids too, because screw it, maybe they’d distract from everything else.

You looked at yourself for a long second.

And then laughed, a little breathless, a little defeated.

You looked like a raccoon who’d crashed a New Year’s Eve party.

Perfect.

The bell over the shop door jingled.

You didn’t even have the energy to call out. You just grabbed your purse and stumbled toward the front.

And there he was.

Aaron Hotchner.

Leaning in the doorway like he had the weight of a thousand worlds on his shoulders. His dress shirt was rumpled, tie hanging loose around his neck, hair tousled like he'd run his hands through it a dozen times. His eyes were rimmed with exhaustion. He looked like someone had physically dragged him through the worst day imaginable.

You stopped short, blinking at each other.

Two poster children for a sleep aid commercial.

You snorted before you could help it.

He smiled, slow and genuine, like seeing you was the first good thing that had happened to him in days.

And then--

Hotch actually blinked, taking you in fully for the first time.

The dress.

The glitter.

The heels.

You shifted on your aching feet. “This was supposed to look..better.”

He shook his head, slow and certain. “You’re perfect.”

You scoffed, walking past him and locking the door behind you. “Liar.”

He grabbed your hand before you could turn back, lacing his fingers through yours with a firm squeeze.

“I mean it,” he said, voice low. And wow. Could you believe it.

You turned to him fully, heart flipping over despite yourself.

“You look good too,” you said, grinning. “Very ‘FBI agent whose soul just left his body.’ It’s a strong aesthetic for you.”

He laughed under his breat--really laughed--and you felt his hand tighten around yours.

You tugged him toward the door. “Come on. I’m not wasting this dress on a bunch of dead hydrangeas.”

“Where are we going?” He looked at you confused, “I have reservations for us at that tiny italian place downtown?”

“Do you see us right now?” You raised an eyebrow at him, “My place. Wine. Couch. Mutual commiseration.”

“No kidnapping involved?” he teased.

You grinned over your shoulder. “Not unless you ask nicely.”

You barely made it inside your apartment before both of you were kicking your shoes off like they were instruments of torture.

You plopped onto the couch, dress flaring around you, head falling back against the cushions with a groan.

Hotch followed, loosening his tie and dropping it on your coffee table like a white flag.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” you said, reaching for the bottle of wine you kept in your emergency stash, right on bar cart that was just within reach of your sofa, “but you look like shit.”

“You’re not far behind.”

You giggled, handing him the corkscrew.

He popped the bottle open with military efficiency, pouring two glasses without even sitting up fully. You clinked your glass against his and muttered:

“To almost dates.”

“To surviving another day.”

You drank. Deep.

Halfway through the first glass, you shifted closer, curling your legs up under you.

Hotch turned his body toward you, watching you over the rim of his glass, something soft and fond blooming in his eyes.

“I think,” you said, swirling your wine lazily, “this is the best first date I’ve ever had.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying that while we’re both dead on our feet, covered in floral debris, drinking emergency wine?”

You nodded, smiling up at him. “Exactly.”

“High standards.”

God, he was so quick and smooth. Always. You were almost a little envious.

You leaned your head onto his shoulder, feeling him chuckle quietly against you.

“Maybe I just like the company,” you murmured.

You felt him shift, felt his hand find your knee, steady and warm, “I do too,” he said, softer now. “More than you know.”

You didn’t even make it through the second glass.

Somewhere between laughing about the angry carnation guy and ever the dramatic, Hotch pretending to die of exhaustion across your couch, you both slid lower, lower--

Until you were lying tangled up in the same blanket, your dress half crumpled, his shirt wrinkled beyond recognition.

No funny business. (not yet anyway.)

Just warmth.

Steady breathing.

The occasional brush of fingertips.

And the unspoken truth humming louder than anything:

You’d found each other.

Even when the world made it impossible.

Even on the worst days.

You’d come to know, especially then.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016 @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @Sweethotchlogy @softtdaisy @stilestotherescue @midnghtprentiss @thebestqueenoftheworld @Bookaddictlatina @superlegend216

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jungkoode · 4 months ago

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𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 14

˗ˏˋ laundry day ˎˊ˗

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

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8k

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

✧ author's note ✧

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

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

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

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

The thing is… it’s a 2 month cycle.

I’m basically on week 7/8 already.

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

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

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

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

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

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

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

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

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

So. Jungkook's sweater it is.

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

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

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

Actually, scratch that.

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

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

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

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

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

You check your pocket for quarters and detergent pods.

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

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

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

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

Right. Not weird at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's just laundry day. Just another Sunday.

And the laundry room is still a goddamn joke.

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

And on Sundays?

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

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

Just. Fucking. Great.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Griffin.

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

And yet...

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

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

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

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

What the fuck is happening to you?

Maybe it's sleep deprivation.

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

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

It's a lifestyle you can respect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a split second, your brain halts.

Boyfriend? What boyfriend? And then—

Ah.

The hoodie.

Jungkook's hoodie that you're swimming in.

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

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

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

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

Wait, what?

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

"I—"

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

Well, shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, well, well."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hmm."

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

Puts his basket down.

Stands too close.

“But the hoodie isn't yours."

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

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

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

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

"Right."

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

Damn your body and its complete lack of dignity.

"You're late, boy."

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

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

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

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

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

What the actual fuck?

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

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

Like this is normal.

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

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

"Since when?"

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

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

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

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

He huffs a laugh. "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wouldn't put it past you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like she doesn't find him utterly repulsive.

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

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

You thought Jungkook had more of a backbone than that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frown, trying to make it make sense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

Oh shit.

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

Shame.

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

That maybe she uses sharpness as a shield.

The same way you use sarcasm as one.

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

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

"Wouldn't miss it."

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

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

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

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

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

It's not working very well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's not a big deal."

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

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

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

"And the groceries?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's... interesting.

Weird.

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

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

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

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

Not just a grumpy old woman.

A widow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She likes you," you observe quietly.

Jungkook glances at you, then back at his machine.

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

"She doesn't even tolerate me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can't help it—you laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's Tuesday?"

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

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

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

"And you know this because...?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It's fine."

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

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

"Right." You nod, getting it now.

He really doesn't want the recognition.

Doesn't want the attention for doing something decent.

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

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

Not... this. Whatever this is.

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

You blink at the unexpected question.

“Not since I was a kid."

He nods, considering this.

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

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

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

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

"Right."

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

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

And if so, why?

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

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

"Cool."

Another silence falls.

You don’t say anything.

He doesn’t say anything.

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

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

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

Because that's not what this is.

That's not what you are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just grins, following behind you.

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, just—"

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

Wait.

What the fuck are you doing?

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

Neither of you moves.

His eyes dart between both of your pupils.

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

Smooth. Really smooth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So why does your chest feel tight?

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

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

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

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

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

It's weird.

This whole morning has been weird.

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

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

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

It's not like he meant anything by it.

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

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

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

It doesn't mean anything.

It doesn't mean anything at all.

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

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

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

"I'm not helpless."

"Never said you were."

"So give me my laundry, asshole."

"Nope."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait, I'm missing a sock."

"Huh?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Seriously? For a sock?"

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

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

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

Get a grip, bitch.

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

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

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

You hate him. You definitely hate him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don't ask. Not your business.

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

God, you need a lobotomy.

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

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

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

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

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

"Huh?"

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Surprise?

Interest?

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I literally did nothing."

"Your energy kept me going."

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

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

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

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

Ah. Barnes & Noble.

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

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

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

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

About nothing. Because you don’t care.

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

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

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

It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

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

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amirawrah · 2 months ago

Text

⭐︎In Every Lifetime, It’s You

with MICHAEL OLISE⭐︎

synopsis: In the soft glow of a slow morning, Michael shows his love the way he always does—quiet glances, gentle hands, no words wasted.

You always knew he wasn’t the loud type.

Michael didn’t make grand speeches or throw out sweet nothings over FaceTime. He wasn’t one to shout his feelings across a room or drown you in compliments. He was reserved. Soft-spoken. Almost unreadable if you didn’t know where to look.

But you knew. You always knew.

It was in the way he tied your shoelace when it came undone—wordlessly crouching down, double-knotting it without a second glance, like it was muscle memory. It was in the way he always walked on the outside of the sidewalk, swapping sides with his hand gently grazing the small of your back. In the playlists that mysteriously updated each week with your comfort songs—tracks you had only mentioned once in passing, lyrics he must’ve held onto without saying a thing.

Michael loved you in the quietest ways.

And you never asked for more.

But some days… some days, your heart wanted to hear it out loud. Just once.

It was a slow Sunday when the ache crept in again.

Your best friend had sent a voice note. “So he still hasn’t said it yet? I mean, babe, I know he loves you, but what is he waiting for?”

You laughed it off, answering something breezy. “It’s Michael. He says things differently.”

And it was true.

But that night, as the rain tapped against the windows and you lay curled up on the sofa beside him—your head on his chest, his fingers stroking idle shapes on your arm—you whispered, “You ever think it’s weird how some people say ‘I love you’ like… all the time?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Just hummed.

Pressed a kiss into your hair.

And you let it go. Because that’s how it always was.

Still, the ache stayed. Just a little.

The moment it changed didn’t come like a movie. No swelling music, no teary arguments, no dramatic declarations.

It was Tuesday. You had just washed your hair and were towel-drying it when he came up behind you. Quietly, he took the towel from your hands and gently ran it over the strands, careful not to pull. Neither of you spoke. The moment was still. Easy.

Then he looked at you—eyes soft, expression unreadable—and tucked a curl behind your ear. You looked at him, heart skipping, and asked without thinking:

“Why do you do that?”

He blinked. “Do what?”

“These things.”

He was quiet for a moment. So quiet you almost filled in the silence yourself. Then:

“Because I love you.”

You froze. The world did too.

He said it like he’d been holding it in for a while. Like it had lived in his chest forever, slowly blooming with each unspoken gesture. And now, finally, it had found its voice.

You stared at him, lips parted. “You—what?”

He shrugged a little. Eyes on yours. “I love you. Always have. I just… needed you to know before I ever said it.”

And somehow, that meant more than any romantic speech ever could.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t squeal. You just reached out, placed your hand on his cheek, and kissed him slow.

And that was all he needed.

The next morning was just like any other.

You were brushing your teeth. He wandered in with sleep still in his eyes and your bonnet on crooked from the night before.

He tugged on your shirt as he passed, pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder, and whispered, “Morning, baby.”

You smiled into the mirror.

Because now, even in his silences, you could hear it echoing.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

In the way he handed you your mug without being asked. In the way his fingers found yours during quiet walks. In the way his playlists still updated every week.

He still wasn’t loud.

But now, his love was.

And it was everywhere.

The kettle whistled, steam curling toward the kitchen ceiling in lazy spirals. Your socks slid across the tiles as you moved from cupboard to counter, pulling down two mugs—his usual dark grey one, and yours with the little cartoon peaches.

You were humming something low, soft. It wasn’t really a song, more like a half-thought melody stuck in your head.

He watched you from the doorway.

Still shirtless, his hair a little wild from sleep, chain glinting faintly in the morning light. He leaned against the frame like he had nowhere to be—not today, not ever—hands in his sweats, gaze quiet but unwavering.

“What?” you asked, not turning fully, but feeling his eyes like sunlight on your back.

He didn’t say anything. Just smiled. A slow, sleepy kind of smile that started at the corner of his lips and tugged all the way to his eyes.

You walked over, slid the mug into his hands.

“Extra honey. Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

He took it wordlessly. Still smiling. Still looking.

“Michael,” you said through a laugh. “Stop staring.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Okay,” he murmured, gaze never leaving your face. “So what if I am?”

You tried to play it cool, like your heart wasn’t doing cartwheels.

“Then I’ll start charging you.”

He stepped closer, arms looping around your waist like instinct. His mug, still warm, pressed gently into the small of your back as he leaned down to kiss your shoulder.

Then your cheek.

Then finally, just below your jaw, where your pulse thudded loudest.

“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he said quietly. Almost like he was telling you a secret.

Your breath caught. Not because you didn’t know, but because even now—especially now—it still hit you like the first time.

“I’m not doing this with you,” you mumbled, hiding your face in his neck, the laughter creeping into your voice. “It’s too early.”

“Too bad.”

You felt his smile against your skin.

And then, without another word, he picked up your playlist on his phone—the one labeled her hands smell like peaches—and let it play through the kitchen speaker as you danced around the kitchen like you hadn’t heard the words I love you just days ago.

Because now, you didn’t just know he loved you.

You felt it, every day.

In the silence. In the glances.

In the way he looked at you now.

The music floated around you both—gentle, soulful, laced with bass. Something from the playlist he never let anyone else hear.

He kissed your neck again. A little lower this time.

You stilled. Not because you were nervous—but because you knew that shift. The way his hands settled heavier on your hips, fingertips sliding under your oversized tee. His breath slowed. His grip firmed. The calm before the fire.

Your voice was a whisper, teasing. “Thought you wanted tea.”

He kissed beneath your jaw, lips dragging warm across your skin.

“I did.”

You rolled your eyes, but your body betrayed you—leaning in, tilting your head just enough to let him keep going.

His hands moved up under your shirt, skimming the bare skin of your waist. He didn’t rush. Michael was never rushed when it came to you.

Instead, he lifted the hem, pausing only to meet your eyes with that unreadable look—the one he always gave you before pulling you under.

“Take it off,” he said lowly.

You did. Slowly. Letting the fabric fall to the floor with no drama, no theatrics—just trust. Familiarity. Heat curling under your skin.

His gaze traveled over you, slow and deliberate, his tongue running across his bottom lip like he was trying to remember how to breathe.

“I swear,” he muttered, voice hoarse, “you ruin me.”

Before you could make a snarky remark, he had you up on the kitchen counter—hands firm around your thighs, parting them with a quiet authority that made your breath hitch.

Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, and his mouth was on yours before the thought even registered.

It wasn’t soft now. Not like before.

This kiss was heat and hunger and everything unsaid between the hours of sunrise and now. You tasted your name in the way he groaned into your mouth, felt the way he needed you in the press of his body, hard and hot against yours.

The ceramic mugs clinked as he slid them aside, clearing space like it didn’t matter. All that mattered was you.

“I’m not gentle today,” he warned, voice all gravel and want.

You just smirked, fingers tangling in his locs.

“Then don’t be.”

Hours later, your empty mugs were cold, your kitchen was a mess, and your voice was wrecked from the way he kept making you say his name like a prayer.

But when he brought you tea in bed, wearing nothing but his chain and your peach-print bonnet, you realized—

Love didn’t always have to be loud.

Sometimes, it just had to be felt.

Again and again and again.

#mirahsworks🦫#michael olise x black reader #michael olise x reader #mirah thoughts #michael olise #jamal musiala x reader #jamal musiala #footballer x black reader #footballer x y/n #footballer imagine

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bittertasteofhoney · 2 months ago

Text

Good Day Sunshine | Ch. 10

Fight a Little Harder

Summary: Roberta attempts to pull you out of your Joel-induced coma with a trip to the Tipsy Bison.

|| angst, jackson!joel, jackson!joel x f!reader, age gap (but legal!), reader is afab, physical violence, graphic language||

Notes: Oh boy did I make some peeps upset on my last update…so to continue to say I’m so sorry and grovel at your feet (like Joel really should), here is a super quick update! Thank you for sticking with this fic and showing support even though it is frustrating atm! I promise, more smut, banter and tension is coming your way lovelies.

(Also def still need to edit this so please ignore any typos or weird edits!)

The characters, names and characterizations belong to HBO Max and The Last of Us franchise. This work is my creative property and aside from re-blogs and shares, I do not give permission to share or copy my work without permission or consent.

Previous Chapter.

For days, you walked in a daze. You couldn’t get his empty words out of your mind. You knew he was lying to you, but whatever lie he was telling himself won out in the end.

You did the bare minimum - went to work and home. You didn’t stop by the mess hall or volunteer to deliver rations or welcome packs. The only people that really saw you were your coworkers. You were a shell and you kicked yourself daily for letting Joel make you feel this way.

Anger now filled your evenings. Where did he get off deciding when your age difference was a problem? He seemed just fine when he was buried between your legs and when you spent every single night together. He was happy. You saw it in his eyes. So why the hell did he do this?

You knew he had to have heard something around town, but the obstacle that kept you in a roadblock was why he didn’t just come to you about it? Of course, you were bothered by the careless things people were saying but every night that he walked through your door and made you smile proved them wrong.

But now? Was it all true? Your inner demons were fighting each other for dominance, and it was leaving your mind in a fractured place.

After the fifth or sixth day watching you slumped over that week’s produce almost mute, Roberta finally lost all her patience. You were wrestling with a turnip plant when her shadow covered you.

“You’re really pissing me off.” You looked up at her in confusion, adjusting your hat to meet her eye. She was backlit by the midday sun, but even you could see the disappointed look on her face and those green eyes narrowed at you.

You shook your head in confusion as a response so she continued. “Don’t get me wrong. I want to wring Joel’s neck, but I’m also mad at you for letting a guy affect you like this. He isn’t worth all this moping if he was stupid enough to let you go.”

You sat back on your heels and released a deep sigh. “Trust me, I know. I hate who I’ve become but…what happened between us hurt, and I’m not ashamed to say my ego is bruised and I’m hurt and confused and…” Your voice caught and you took another intake of oxygen to steady yourself. “I don’t know. I guess I thought we were something special.”

She just stared at you, letting you speak. “And it just came out of nowhere. I know people were talking-”

“Fuck those morons.” A clipped laugh escaped your lips at her interjection.

“They didn’t know the whole story. I can see how it looked to the outside, but that night when everything changed. God, Roberta. I’ve never felt like that. It was…”

She held up a hand with a disgusted look on her face. “I really don't need the details. He made you happy. I got it. But he’s still an asshole for doing this. I don’t care about his reasoning.”

You nodded and dug a finger into the dirt, tracing a pattern.

“So, the only natural thing we can do to get you out of this funk? We gotta get you drunk, my friend. Andy is watching the kids tonight so I’m intending on drinking until I can’t feel my feet. ” Another laugh escaped you. “Your ass better be at the Tipsy Bison tonight at eight or so help me, I will drag you all the way to the bar top.”

She stomped away but for the first time in days, a small smile ghosted your lips.

Once eight rolled around, you already had a tumbler of whiskey in your hand and a gaggle of coworkers surrounding you in the warm-lit bar. You distractedly swirled the liquid in your glass when you felt a nudge and looked up to Roberta frowning at you. You flashed her a smile to appease her and spun around on your chair to motion to Tommy who was working the bar that night.

The second he caught your eye, he bounded over and gave you a wink. “How’s my favorite ray of sunshine doin’?”

You shrugged and swallowed what remained in your glass, sliding it his way. He grabbed a bottle from behind him and topped it off. “Just peachy. Thanks for asking.”

He leaned on the waxed wooden counter and you tentatively met his gaze. He looked at you for a long moment before simply saying, “He’s a goddamn idiot for hurtin’ the both of you.”

You barely had a chance to react or ask him more about what he meant when a rowdy group entered the bar. You took a healthy swallow of your refreshed glass when a whistle rang out across the crowded space.

“Sunshine! Just the girl I’ve been waiting to see.” Confused, you spun back around and wished you could take the action back when you met the searching eye of Roddy.

Roberta immediately grabbed your arm to move you away when you patted it to tell her you were fine. At least for now.

You felt Tommy stiffen behind you. He was the first to speak. “Roddy, you ain’t supposed to be in here and I suggest you turn your ass around before openin’ that big mouth of yours.”

Roddy threw his hands up, smirking to himself. “I mean no harm, Tommy. I promise. I just had a question I wanted to ask her.” You moved to stand, and he took a step toward you. Roberta shot him a murderous glance and he just laughed. “Why didn’t you tell me I had to basically be an octogenarian to even interest you? I didn’t realize soft dicks were your thing.”

You looked at your shoes, feeling your cheeks heat. Joel maybe wasn’t your favorite person at the moment, but his dick sure wasn’t soft.

The entire bar was watching your exchange. You felt Roberta’s hand on your shoulder.

“Roddy, get the fuck out of here. Nobody asked for your bullshit.”

Once again, Roddy pushed forward and Tommy hopped over the bar to put himself between the two of you. “You better not fuckin’ touch her.”

The asshole just kept laughing with his eyes glued on you. “Tell me, was it good? Did you enjoy that old man fucking you? Or was it him who enjoyed having you sit back riding his cock while you-”

Someone grabbed Roddy by the collar of his jacket, yanking him back and hauling him to the floor with a loud grunt. That someone was a person you didn’t even notice sitting in the corner of the bar accompanied by Maria while Tommy worked his shift for the night. You also somehow didn’t notice those chocolate brown eyes clocking your every movement from the moment you walked in.

Hell, you would’ve been surprised to see how long he held himself back before he just couldn’t take one more word out of that asshole’s mouth. And when your eyes clocked Joel on top of Roddy, the wave of deja vu that hit you was lethal.

His fists were flying at a rate that seemed humanly impossible, and you barely registered your choice to launch yourself toward the fray until you felt a strong pair of arms holding you back. You screamed his name and other townspeople in the bar tried to intervene, but no one could get close enough to stop those fists from connecting with Roddy’s cheek, ribs, mouth and nose. They just kept coming.

You screamed his name again, and for a brief moment, he paused but the sound of your scared voice only renewed his anger. You fought against Tommy and finally found a break in his grip. Instead of once again trying to intervene like many expected you to, you beelined for the door.

You ran outside and paused when your feet hit the packed mud, heaving in breaths. You leaned forward on your knees and tried to breathe deeply, but the tears finally came. The words Roddy said and seeing Joel for the first time since he broke things off hit you like a brick wall. The tears turned into soft sobs and you brought a hand to your chest as you heard another set of feet barrel outside.

You spun around and saw Joel standing there, panting and spotting yet another bloody lip. At least Roddy is consistent.

Your breaths came quicker and soon, you too were panting in anger. He opened his mouth to speak but you stole his moment away. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

You closed the space between you and shoved him. “Why are you doing this?!”

Joel’s eyes were dark and angry, and even he couldn’t keep that from his voice. “Like hell am I going to stand around and watch while he talks to you like that. That little shit has no business-”

“No! You have no business.” Your hands were flying in vague gestures as the adrenaline and anger flowed through you and demanded to be emoted. “How can you tell me you want nothing more to do with me? And that I make you feel dirty. Then, turn around and waltz in with your fucking white horse?”

He just looked at you with angry eyes and you couldn’t stand it. “Say something!”

He brought a hand to his mouth and rubbed it, trying to control his own emotions. He’d never seen you this angry. Hell, no one had.

“Why did you treat me like I didn’t matter to you if you’re going to continue using your fists every time someone is nasty to me?!” He still couldn’t speak.

“I’ll give you this, Joel. At least you're consistent in your bullshit. Because none of it makes any sense. In theory, you shouldn’t care if what we had together felt so wrong.”

He stepped forward without thinking and bracketed your shoulders with his hands. You shoved him away again.

“No. You don’t get to do that anymore. You don’t get to touch me.” Your tears were coming in streams and covering your face in a wet shine. You touched your chest again to still your breath and the hiccups that were puncturing your words. “None of it makes any sense. Unless you lied to me.” You hated that your voice cracked.

He took a step back and whispered your name. You shook your head angrily. “Did you lie to me?”

His eyes pleaded with you to do something but you didn’t know what because the coward couldn’t even speak a goddamn syllable other than your name. “Is it because of what people were saying? Does small-town talk really matter that much to you?”

He just shook his head.

“Well, whatever it was, it sure made that decision a quick one for you.”

Again, he whispered your name and tried to close the gap between you. You let him, briefly. You met his eyes and wanted to fall back into time before any of this happened. You just wanted your nights back with him. You wanted him back.

“I’m sure you’ll get over this quickly, too.” You tore his arms off you and stormed down the road and back to your home that was no longer a place he could escape to.

As soon as you were out of sight, Tommy slowly walked down the steps and turned to his brother with a hard look on his face.

“You deserved everythin’ she threw at you. You’re a goddamn coward, Joel. You don’t fuckin’ deserve her.”

Next Chapter.

Tag List :) @silksepia @hello-nah817 @longlivetheloneliness @keseqna @millers-girl @treacherqus @lemonboi @spnfic85 @secretlettersfromyourlove @nosebeers @boscogirlsworld @aleemendoza2425-blog @puppi-sonnenschein

#bitter taste of honey #good day sunshine #joel miller #joel miller angst #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #spotify #the last of us #joel miller tlou #tlou #Spotify

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corruptedcaps · 5 months ago

Text

Out of Office

Dr. Morgan stood at the threshold of his lab, his pulse quickening as he stared at his phone. He had just returned from a week-long vacation in the remote mountains, completely cut off from civilization. It was supposed to be a simple break from his intense work of studying alien biological samples recovered from a meteorite impact site.

His assistant, Claire, had assured him that everything would be fine in his absence. But as he listened to her voicemails, a growing dread gripped him. Something had gone wrong.

At first, her messages were normal but they got increasingly... odd. He had listened to them in the car on the way to the lab and with each subsuquent message he sped up faster.

VOICEMAIL 1 Monday, 8:32 AM

"Hey, Doctor! It’s Claire. Just wanted to check in and let you know everything’s good here. The samples are stable, no unexpected changes. I’ll keep logging their activity and make sure nothing gets near the containment units. No need to worry. Enjoy your time off! You deserve the break."

VOICEMAIL 2 Wednesday, 10:17 AM

"Hi, Doctor. So… small update. One of the samples, Sample B, showed a bit of activity. It pulsed for a second, almost like it was… alive. Weird, right? Anyway, it’s back to normal now. Probably some environmental fluctuation. I’ll keep monitoring it, just to be safe."

VOICEMAIL 3 Thursday, 11:43 PM

"Doctor… something’s happening. Sample D started moving on its own. And B, it’s… growing. It’s not contained to its chamber anymore. I tried to secure it, but it, it touched me. I feel… strange. My skin’s warm, almost buzzing. I don’t know what it’s doing to me. I need you to call me as soon as you get this."

VOICEMAIL 4 Friday, 2:27 PM

"Hey, Doctor. You know what? I was totally overreacting. I think… I was afraid of something I didn’t understand. But now, I see it. The samples… they’re not hostile. They’re… welcoming. When Sample B made contact with me, it didn’t hurt. It felt incredible. Like it was… part of me. I feel connected to something bigger, something extraordinary. You should experience it too."

VOICEMAIL 5 Saturday, 8:19 PM

"Doctor… The samples, they’ve helped me so much. My skin is softer, my body… enhanced in ways I can’t describe. I look in the mirror and barely recognize myself… but I love it. My lips are fuller, my boobs are big and perfect. I feel… powerful, seductive, radiant. Every inch of me hums with energy. The samples made me better. That’s why I’m going to release the rest of them. I can feel their eagerness to touch me."

VOICEMAIL 6 Sunday, 6:00 AM

"Evan… come to the lab. They’re waiting for you. I’m waiting for you. We’ll be whole, together. I’ve missed you… so much."

Evan’s breath quickened as the last message ended as he stood in front of his lab door. He hesitated. Something was clearly wrong with Claire and the samples but maybe he could help her. He threw open the door and rushed toward the lab. But just as he stepped into the hall, he skidded to a stop.

Claire stood there, waiting for him.

Her once-pristine lab coat had now morphed into a tight and shiny black dress that barely clung to her body. Speaking of her body, it was now the most perfect female form Evan had ever seen. Her skin was flawless, her breasts envious and her curves made Evan feel weak. Her eyes were now black pools of liquid light, swirling with alien energy. She smiled, her lips impossibly perfect, her voice honey-sweet yet filled with something darker.

"We’ve missed you, Doctor." She said softly, stepping closer.

Before he could react, she reached out and pressed her hand against his chest. The black goo slithered off her fingertips and onto his shirt, spreading like liquid fire across his skin. Evan stumbled back, gasping as the substance soaked through his clothes, cold and burning all at once.

He tried to scream, but the goo surged upward, a wave of darkness pouring into his mouth and down his throat, silencing him. He thrashed, struggling to resist, but the alien substance had a mind of its own. It moved inside him, rewriting him. His muscles bulged, growing stronger, leaner. His skin tightened, taking on a flawless sheen. His features sharpened, transforming him into a figure of striking beauty and power.

Claire watched with a wicked smile as he convulsed, his body remade in the image of something far beyond human.

Evan fought against the alien organisms infecting his body and mind. He couldn’t give in.

“No! This is wrong. We have to fight it Claire!” He said trying to plead with her humanity but she wasn’t human anymore.

“Shh…” She whispered. “Don’t fight it. You’re becoming what we need you to be. What I need you to be. We have been chosen for a great purpose Evan, we will birth a new race to conquer this worthless planet. You and I are will be the first. I will be the queen and if you give in, you shall be the king.”

Evan tried to fight the pleasure now coursing through his body. He felt strong, powerful, alive. The alien organism showed him images of a world that he controlled, of an army that bowed before him. It was an intoxicating sight but what tipped him over the edge were the images of Claire, his wicked queen, moaning in carnal pleasure as he fucked her with a new more massive cock.

Evan’s body stopped trembling. His breath steadied, his eyes snapping open, jet black, swirling like Claire’s. His lips curled into a slow, hungry smile as he looked at her, desire and power coursing through him.

“Yessss…” He hissed, his voice thick with newfound strength. “Give in… I want to give in!”

The black goo solidified, wrapping around his body like armor, transforming his vacation wear into a sleek, obsidian suit that clung to him as tightly as Claire’s did to her. His hands flexed, marveling at the raw power that surged through him. He stepped toward Claire, his eyes burning with lust and purpose.

“My queen.” He said, his voice like velvet. “There’s much work to do.”

Claire’s eyes gleamed with delight. She traced her finger down his chest, her touch electric.

“So much glorious work, my king.” She whispered. “And we’ll make this world kneel before us.”

"This world is merely an appetiser. Once it is under our heel our destiny awaits out in the stars." He said with a dark and triumphant laugh that Claire soon joined in on. Their reign was about to begin.

#f2f #corruption #bitchification #evil bitch #cc2025 #outofoffice #corrupted couple #corrupted item

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sen-ya · 1 year ago

Text

Life After Info Post

[Click here to access the Life After Digital Comic Book]

Summary: Two years ago, a viral outbreak rose the dead. Considering how his life had gone up to this point, surgeon Trafalgar Law figured this might as well happen too. When a supply run into the nearby city gets intercepted by a seemingly reckless and impulsive former patient, the dependable routine Law had settled into in this new life shatters. He finds himself exposed — his body out in the infected landscape, his conscious clawing to define what he believes is right, his heart begrudgingly deciding to find a new home on his sleeve. Maybe there’s more than a virus roaming the new world that can bring a dead man back to life.

Content Warnings: Canon typical violence, zombies/body horror (but lbr I am not good at making scary things look scary)

Relationships: Luffy x Law

Update Schedule: New page every Monday/Wednesday/Friday

Page Count: [37 posted | 55 drawn]

Latest Update: [7/21/24] WOWEE did I get myself carried away this morning. I just spent 5 hours organizing my comics and creating the digital comic book pages. I could have spent that time drawing or idk not doing what I do for my job, but I cannot be stopped. Anyway I blocked out 30 pages of this comic last week and they include the most intense action sequence I've ever done in my gotdang life. Wish me luck because I am nervous about tying down all my drawings lmao.

OLD UPDATES:

[6/29/24] HULLO! I'm doing so bad at keeping my masterposts updated lately I am sorry. All pages of life after are tagged life after if you're ever looking between masterpost updates! Also exciting update, I finally have figured out all the different plot points i'm gonna be hitting (yay!). I got hung up on something for awhile that made me not wanna work on this project, but I'm back at it. I think we'll end up with 6-7 parts! I have probably another 80-100 pages to draw lol. Also i got the app Magic Poser and it's AWESOME and I immediately used it to block out sets cuz MAN I hate backgrounds.

[6/10/24] HELLO. I'm sorry I've been shit at updating my masterposts lately. It's easiest to do from my computer, which I rarely use, and life has been happening. I also can't believe I bungled the queue and posted pg19 before pg18 i am very sorry 🤦 Eventually I'll have to turn this into an airtable base I'm sure, but until that day comes where I have like 100 pages of this comic we're stickin to the regular post lmao

[5/26/23] I got real caught up in doing summer of lawlu comics this week and this is the first week since the first week of April I haven't drawn new Life After pages and it feels weird 🙊

[5/19/24] More Luffy backstory comin' this week! :^)

[5/12/24] Updating now so get myself on schedule to update on Sundays like I had been with my other comic master post!

[5/8/24] Thank you to everyone who's liked/reblogged/comment on the first few pages!! It means the world to me that anyone's reading my silly little comics.

[4/28/24] HULLO. It’s happeninnng. I’ve spent the last few weeks working on this comic, and I gotta make this post so I can start queuing pages & link this in them! This is the most like….legit? Comic endeavor I’ve undertaken perhaps….ever. I’m very nervous about committing to how long it will need to be lol. This story is dear to my heart — zombie content is kind of my very favorite. I’ve always found it to be a great backdrop for exploring themes like grief, coping with change, community, and learning to live again. It’ll be a long haul but I hope you’ll ride it out with me!! Tomorrow I’ll be posting the first two pages. After that a page will post every Monday/Wednesday/Friday. As of this post I’ve completed over 20 pages so that I have a good lead on what’s posting and continuing to write, so I’m hopeful that’s a cadence I’ll be able to maintain. I’ll update this post weekly to include the most recent pages the way I do with my main comics master post. All pages will be tagged 'Life After' and I'll tag any pages with zombies in them with 'zombie' for blacklisting etc.

#my art #life after

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kaoriartss-blog · 1 month ago

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Starburst

Chapter 12 – “A Day with No Schedule”

Previous Chapter Masterlist Next Chapter

Pairing: Poly Skz OT8 x Reader idol

Genre: Romance, angst, female Oc

Warning: Use of Oc, romance, angst, swearing, Idol x Idol, 18+ progressive, use of swear words, use of translator.

Series: Starbursts

Summary: The story centers on Lia, a newly debuted solo idol struggling to find her place in the K-pop industry. Despite her talent, she feels like she's missing something, a special connection that helps her shine. The members of Stray Kids, who are at the height of their careers, are drawn to Lia's unique energy when she's invited to collaborate with them on a new album. As they work together, the connection between Lia and the boys intensifies. With pressure from the media and fan expectations, they must find a balance between their careers and personal lives.

Comment: Hello, first of all I want to thank you all for the support that the work is receiving, I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart. Second, I would like to clarify a few things: I started writing this story after reading many other stories on ao3 that for their proper reasons did not have an ending, so this is more of a very personal thing that I am willing to share with you. This brings me to the third point, my story is very, TOO, advanced compared to what I am currently writing, so if you don't like something or have suggestions, let me know and I could fix certain things in the next chapters that have not yet been published. And one last and fourth thing, to the person who told me that I cannot use the term "x reader" because I am using "a damn oc" please, keep your venom to yourself and if you don't like it, just don't read it, nobody forces you to. Thank you 💞

Updates on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays. I also remind you that English is not my first language.

After weeks of rehearsals, recordings, creative meetings, and a teaser filmed outdoors, the house finally woke up without rush or alarms. It was a day off. No cameras, no staff, no timetables. Just the nine of them… and the gentle sound of the coffee machine bubbling in the kitchen.

08:39 AM. Kitchen.

Chan, wearing a gray hoodie and with messy hair, was pouring two cups of coffee when he heard barefoot steps behind him. Lia, in an oversized t-shirt and her hair in a high bun, came in rubbing her eyes.

“Is that… real coffee?” she mumbled, still half-asleep.

Chan smiled and offered her a cup.

“I wouldn’t cheat on our day off. Did you sleep well?”

“Like a rock.” She took a sip. “You?”

“I had a weird dream. Hyunjin was singing opera and Lino was crying because his ice cream melted.”

“That sounds 100% realistic,” she laughed.

09:10 AM. Living Room.

Felix and Seungmin had built a blanket fort between the couch and the coffee table. Jeongin watched them with a mix of fascination and horror while Lino ignored them completely, focused on watering the backyard plants.

“Do you really need that many pillows?” asked Jeongin, arms crossed.

“It’s art,” said Felix, seriously. “The art of rest.”

Lia dropped onto the couch next to Han, who was flipping through a poetry book.

“What are you reading?”

“One of those books that seem deep but you don’t understand anything. Makes me feel more interesting.”

11:27 AM. Kitchen.

Minho and Changbin were cooking together. Soft music played, both wearing aprons. Minho was chopping ingredients with precision while Changbin tasted the sauce and frowned.

“This needs more… something,” he said.

“Thanks, Gordon Ramsay. Add garlic and don’t distract me.”

“Why are you always so bossy in the kitchen?”

“Because you get distracted too easily. Like with Lia, for example,” Minho said, not even looking up.

Changbin glanced at him, blushing, and then pretended to be busy checking the noodles.

13:15 PM. Dining Room.

Everyone was eating together around the big living room table, laughing over some story Jeongin and Han told about a cockroach in the bathroom. Lia had a napkin on her head, crowned the “lunch queen” for making raisin rice as a side dish.

“Rimi-ya, can I have another serving of this?” Hyunjin asked with shining eyes.

“After saying it looked like grandma food?”

“Grandmas are the best chefs. I take it back.”

15:30 PM. Backyard.

The sun gently fell over the pool. Some were on lounge chairs, others dipping their feet in the water. Chan read quietly, Seungmin napped with a cap over his face, and Hyunjin took selfies with Lia.

“One more! This time with a duck face,” Hyunjin said, laughing.

“That trend died in 2014!”

“Then we’re vintage art. Shhh.”

17:45 PM. Music Room.

Lia walked in looking for her lyrics notebook but found Changbin playing the keyboard softly, humming a gentle melody. He looked up and gave a shy smile.

“Is that the new demo?”

“Just messing around.” He scooted over. “Want to try something?”

She sat beside him, her fingers gently pressing the keys. They improvised something simple, a chord progression with a couple of English lines. No effort. No pressure. Just music.

20:00 PM. Movie Night.

Everyone was gathered in front of the TV. Popcorn, blankets, and a democratic vote that ended with a Korean rom-com chosen by majority.

Lia snuggled between Felix and Seungmin, her feet resting on Han’s thighs. Jeongin had fallen asleep within the first ten minutes, and Minho was drawing mustaches on him with lipstick.

“I don’t know if this counts as rest or group therapy,” Chan said with a smile.

“Both,” Lia replied, happy.

01:03 AM. Living Room.

The house was quiet. The dim kitchen lights still flickered softly, and the echo of the romantic comedy lingered from the now-blank TV. Lia had gone to bed a while ago, exhausted from the day, leaving the boys scattered among cushions, couches, and rugs.

Chan was sitting on the floor, staring distractedly at a steaming cup of tea when he spoke in a low voice:

“We need to talk… all of us.”

All eyes turned to him. It wasn’t a commanding tone, but it carried seriousness. One by one, the members stopped what they were doing: Seungmin removed his headphones, Changbin put down his phone, Hyunjin sat cross-legged, Felix straightened up. Even Han and Jeongin, who had been playing with a silly app, looked up attentively.

“It’s about Lia,” Chan said, getting straight to the point.

A heavy silence fell. No one said anything, but no one looked away.

“I’m not going to judge anyone. In fact… I’d be stupid to. I care about her a lot, and I understand perfectly why you all feel this way,” he said with a soft smile. “But it’s not just intuition anymore. I see it. In the way you look at her, how you worry about her, how each of you reacts differently when she enters the room.”

Changbin looked down. Seungmin pressed his lips together. Hyunjin took a deep breath.

“There’s nothing wrong with having feelings for someone,” Chan continued. “But we’re eight people living together, working together… and in love with the same girl.”

“It’s not just a crush,” Han murmured.

“No,” said Hyunjin, arms crossed. “It’s not.”

Felix nodded slowly.

“I want her to be happy. And I want to be there if she lets me.”

“So what do we do? Compete?” Jeongin asked with a grimace. “Or ignore our feelings and pretend?”

“I don’t think Lia would like us fighting over her,” Seungmin said, looking at his cup. “In fact, I think that would make her feel guilty. And she shouldn’t carry that.”

Chan stood up slowly and looked at them one by one.

“I’m just proposing something. Something… crazy, maybe. But healthier than hiding feelings or creating tension between us. If everyone agrees, and if Lia agrees too, we could… share this affection.”

“How?” asked Changbin, frowning.

“No lies. No double games. If she feels like having romantic moments with one of us, or with several… let her. With freedom. With respect. And if at any moment she feels uncomfortable or wants to stop, we all accept her decision.”

Hyunjin ran a hand through his hair.

“An emotional agreement?”

“A way to not break as a group or pressure her.” Chan paused. “This only works if there’s no toxic jealousy, no dirty games. If what we feel is real, then the deepest respect should come from that.”

Everyone stayed silent for a few seconds. And slowly, they nodded.

“It’s not conventional…” Felix said.

“But nothing in our life is,” Han added, smiling tiredly.

“Then it’s a deal.” Seungmin looked at them all. “But no one says anything until she’s ready. Or until we’re sure she is.”

Chan nodded, relieved.

“Good. We’re a family. Let’s not let this tear us apart. If she loves several of us, or just one, or none at all… we’ll accept it. But until then, we have the green light to be honest. With her and with each other.”

The tension gave way to a strange calm. It wasn’t a normal solution, but it was theirs. A silent pact sealed in the early morning.

And while Lia slept, unaware in her room, eight hearts aligned with a promise: to protect her world and the bond they shared, no matter what comes next.

#bang chan x reader #changbin x reader #felix x reader #hyunjin x reader #seungmin x reader #stray kids x reader #han jisung x reader #jeongin x reader #in x reader #kim seungmin x reader #lee know x reader #stray kids ot8 #stray kids fanfic #skz ot8 x reader #skz poly x reader #poly skz x reader #skz x reader

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imaginespazzi · 1 year ago

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Part 6: Leaps of Faith

Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 7

I hope that you catch me, cause I'm already falling (you put your arms around me and I'm home)

(In which a writer who can see the end approaching starts building towards that ending)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Angst and Fluff

Words: 8.0K

TW: Swearing, Alludes to Sexual Content

A/N: Good evening my lovelies <3. Happy Sunday and Happy Mothers day! First of all, I wanna thank y'all for being ever so patient with me. I know I've been pretty bad about updating lately and y'all have been so sweet with your asks and I really appreciate it. This fic is very close to its end. I probably could have ended it with this chapter but there's a very specific ending I want to write so this one is more of a self-indulgent filler but I think y'all will like this one. There will be one more chapter and then an epilogue of sorts. Once again, there are most likely logistical inaccuracies. I'm not even gonna lie, the editing on this one is shoddy so there are definitely grammar errors/typos. For now, ignore them and I'll go fix them later. As always, even if we're near the end, feel free let me know what you liked, what you didn't and anything you'd like to see before we get to the end. Have a wonderful week my angels <3

April 2024

“It’s a little early for ice cream hon,” Azzi jumps at the sound of her mother’s voice, startled eyes following the direction of the noise to find Katie leaning against the kitchen door, with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s a little early to scare the living bejesus out of me mom,” she says with a hand to her chest.

If possible, Katie’s eyes roll even further at her daughter’s sarcastic tone as she makes her way over to the kitchen counter. She’s gotten herself a spoon and everything, ready to steal some ice cream for herself, when she notices the flavour. Next to her, Azzi stiffens.

“You hate mint chocolate chip Az,” Katie says quietly.

“I couldn’t find the strawberry ice cream,” Azzi defends stubbornly, her face taking on a guarded expression.

Katie walks over to the freezer, opening it and pointing at the strawberry ice cream, Azzi’s favourite, that’s sitting in plain sight, “it’s right there.”

“Well,” Azzi splutters, “I’m trying something new,”.

“You hate trying new things.”

“I’ve grown up I guess.”

“Azzi.”

“Mom.”

“Azzi, why are you eating ice cream you hate at 4 in the morning?” Katie finally asks in her best mom voice, sighing when she gets a mumbled response from her daughter, “in words Az, please.”

“Paige likes it,” Azzi admits slowly, and before Katie can say anything, before Azzi can dwell on what she’s said, she launches into a rant, “god knows why. Actually I know why because she’s stupid and weird and likes the dumbest shit. Who the fuck likes mint? Who the fuck likes mint and chocolate together? Gross. This shit is disgusting. It tastes all wrong. Paige is just-,” Azzi throws her hands up in the air, “she just doesn’t understand that some things don’t belong together. They can’t. They’re too different and it just- there’s a fucking balance to things you know? And she just- she doesn’t get that. It’s just- it’s not meant to be.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re eating it right now,” Katie says carefully.

“Because I miss her,” the truth bursts out of Azzi like an erupting volcano, burning itself into every crevice of her skin, “because for some fucking reason I don’t hate the taste of mint chocolate chip. Because maybe they do go together and maybe I’ve been the stupid one this whole time.”

Since she’d stepped out of the hotel in Cleveland, all Azzi could think about was going back, saying fuck it to all the useless logic she’d come up with and going back to the only thing in her life that had ever made sense her Paige. But as it often did in that clichéd battle between head and heart, her head had won out. And she’s never questioned why her head wins so much, why she’s always chosen to listen to the practical side of her brain, until now. Until now when the urge to turn back time, to make herself stay in that hotel room, is all that’s consumed her for the last week.

“Azzi,” Katie wraps her arms around the younger girl, “what happened with you and Paige?”

Azzi hesitates for a second and then everything’s spilling out of her lips, the good, the bad, the inbetween, all of it tumbles out like an uncontrollable waterfall. There’s something freeing about being able to say it all out loud, something freeing about the tears Azzi finally lets roll down her cheeks. She grips the edge of the counter to keep herself from keeling over, starting to feel herself crumble under the heaviness of all these stupid feelings.

“It shouldn’t be this hard,” Azzi whispers, “we used to be so easy.”

“Oh Az,” Katie rubs a thumb against her daughter’s cheek, “you used to be kids. You’re all grown up now. It’s always harder when you’re older.”

“Well, I don’t like it. I just want to be the way we were again.”

“So why don’t you?” Katie asks like it’s the most simple solution in the world and Azzi shoots her mother an exasperated look.

“What do you mean? How do we even do that? We can’t be just friends again. We tried. Were you not listening at all?”

“Azzi, sweetheart, you’ve never been just friends.”

“That’s not true,” it’s a futile attempt at arguing against what’s become more of a fact than an opinion in Azzi’s life. It’s a truth she’d let herself acknowledge once and then buried deep within her, scared that once unleashed, it would ruin everything. Except, it turns out, even without it, things had still turned to dust.

“Do you remember when you came home from Minnesota that first summer with Paige? You were either moping around or you were on call with her. There was no in between. It got better eventually, the moping stopped but the calls? I think you fell asleep on facetime with her almost every night. And you were tired every morning after, you barely had time to eat before school but every time I suggested that maybe you cut back, that was never an option,” Katie smiles fondly, “it’s when I knew.”

Azzi does remember, remembers talking about everything and nothing, remembers laughing and crying, remembers when Paige’s breathing was the only lullaby that could relax her into sleeping. And she remembers battling with that voice in her head, the one convinced there’s something more, silencing it with I’d do this with anyone. But that wasn’t true then and it’s not true now because Paige has never been just anyone, never been just a friend. Because even if Azzi’s never been brave enough to say it out loud, Paige is and has always been everything.

Despite knowing the answer and maybe dreading it just a little bit, Azzi asks it to her mom anyway, “what did you know?”

“That she was your person. You were too young, I couldn’t call it love just yet but I knew Paige was different then, she was yours in a way none of your other friends were. You were different around her,” Katie nudges her daughter, “Azzi you’ve always been just a little bit in love with her and she’s always been just a little bit in love with you too. The two of you have just been a matter of time.”

Azzi closes her eyes, and unlike other people, she doesn’t see darkness or little spots of light, she just sees Paige. Her mother’s words wash over her, like acid in her self-inflicted fight the feelings wounds and yet, the idea of she’s loved me too feels like a band-aid being delicately placed on the scars of her heart.

“And place,” she whispers, eyes still closed, “we never seem to get time and place right.”

“Why do you need to?”

Another exasperated look is sent Katie’s way at that question, “we live on different sides of the country mom, what do you mean why do we need to?”

“I mean the two of you have barely ever been in the same place. But you made it work, when you had even less, when you felt even less. But you’re adults now. You have other resources now. And I know timing is difficult but- it’s you and Paige. What are you so scared of Azzi?”

Azzi sucks in a deep breath, “what if Paige runs away again?”

“What if you run away again?”

“Excuse me?”

“Who was the last person to walk away, Azzi?,” Katie sighs when Azzi is adamantly silent, “I know she hurt you by leaving. I know she hurt you by pushing you away. But you did the same thing. You chose UCLA,” Katie holds up a hand when a frustrated Azzi tries to interrupt, “and it was the right decision for you Azzi and she should have supported it. But that doesn’t meant you didn’t hurt her and then you chose Zoe-”

“I didn’t choose Zoe-”

“Yes you did Azzi. Sweetheart you’re my daughter and I will always tell you the complete truth even if it’s not what you wanna hear. And the truth Azzi is that Paige might have hurt you in 101 different ways but that doesn’t mean you didn’t hurt her back in 99 different ways too.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Azzi whispers, “that’s the problem mom. It hurts when she hurts me but it hurts even more when I hurt her. I don’t want that for us but I just- I just don’t know how to stop it without stopping us.”

“You haven’t even tried, baby. Paige held out a hand and you ran away.”

“She left first. How am I supposed to trust that she won’t just do that again," all that’s missing from Azzi’s stubborn whine is a foot stomp.

“Because she came back. It took her a little bit, I know, but she came back and she’s ready to fight, the question is, are you?”

“Why are you defending her?” Azzi splutters, “who’s side are you even on?”

“There are no sides to this sweetheart. The two of you are on the same side. So maybe instead of fighting against her, take that hand, fight with her.”

***

The WNBA draft is a momentous occasion this year. With a hyped draft class like no other, and the promise of even greater ones in the future, there’s a sense of celebratory hope dangling in the air. When the invite had first come in, Azzi had known the same one would be sent to a certain blonde in Connecticut as well. And a part of her had wanted to hide herself away from that possible collision, but every other part of her wanted nothing more than to get just a glimpse of the blonde.

One moment Azzi is surrounded by flashing cameras and the echo of her name on everyone’s lips, the next everything around her is fading away her eyes meet Paige’s on the other end of the WNBA draft orange carpet. It’s nothing new really. Since she’s met her, the blonde has commandeered all of Azzi’s attention whenever she’s nearby. Sometimes it feels like all of her other five senses fade away to give birth to a secret sixth one, one that’s solely dedicated to Paige, one that’s terrifyingly all-consuming. And yet, despite the heaviness of we’ve said too many goodbyes, for the first time in what feels like eternity, Azzi feels like she can finally breathe.

And then Paige looks away.

And Azzi’s back to struggling for air.

It’s selfish of her, she knows, to expect something, not when she’d been the one to leave them stranded on different islands. But Azzi doesn’t seem to think logically when it comes to Paige and even as she tries to turn her focus back to posing for the camera, every inch of her body is dangerously aware of the blonde’s every move, just a mere few feet away from her. Her conversation with her mother is echoing in her head, giving rise to dangerous desires of what if i grabbed your hand and we ran away together.

Paige is a natural on the orange carpet, all dazzling smiles and twinkling eyes. She glides through it, inching closer and closer to Azzi, but never giving away any sense of discomfort. And if it was anybody else, maybe they’d never catch onto the nerves hidden beneath Paige’s facade of calm, cool and collected. But once upon a time Paige used to be Azzi’s favourite puzzle and she has every part of the blonde committed to memory. It’s in the way Paige’s teeth gnaw at her lips for the briefest of seconds, in the way her right index finger is begging to tap a beat against where her hands rests on hips, in the way she’s blinking just one too many times.

And then with one more heavy footed step from Paige, the distance between them is barely a couple inches and they let out identical breaths of air, both of them keeping their focus on the cameras in front of them. It’s loud, too loud, and still all Azzi can focus on is the sound of Paige breathing. The air around them is thick with tension. It feels a bit like they’re silhouetted against a sky made of words they’ve left unsaid and clouds of all the bitter mistakes they’ve made are hanging over their heads. And when their pinkies brush together, and a jolt of electricity sends shivers of I miss you more every day again her skin, Azzi questions if she’s ever made the right decision when it comes to Paige.

“Wait wait wait,” Ari cuts in, as she squeezes herself in between the two of them, “I wanna get in between the two of you.”

A harsh cry of no sits heavily on the top of Azzi’s tongue as the older woman forces a break in whatever little bit of contact she’d had with Paige. She feels a little pathetic, the way every little inch of her skin is craving for that touch back. It had been nothing, a barely there moment and still Azzi thinks, when she goes to bed tonight, if that was all she’d get of Paige, then it’ll be the only thing that’ll feature in her dreams.

“Alright one with just Paige and Azzi,” Ari directs the media, stepping out of the way and pushing the two younger girls together. And it’s laughable that a little brush of their pinkies had Azzi feeling any type of way because when they’re suddenly pressed together, every inch of Paige’s side fitting into Azzi’s like it belongs, the way the world suddenly bursts with light and colours makes Azzi wonder if every moment without Paige has simply been monochrome.

It comes to them naturally how to pose together, arms winding around each other’s waist, heads involuntarily leaning against the other’s. And the smiles might be for the cameras but Azzi knows hers is the most real it’s been all night. It might be temporary, she might lose Paige in the chaos, but for now Paige is here and Azzi has learned how to be content with whatever little she can get.

As the media moves to capture other people, the logical thing to do would be to separate, to let go of each other. But instead they stand there, still completely wrapped around each other, heart rates in sync as they breathe in each other’s presence. And then Paige’s hand falls from the small of Azzi’s back to tangle their fingers together and they let out identical sighs of relief, something so cathartic in the purposefulness of that touch. Everyone is too busy to notice that the two of them have fallen into a whole other world, one where there’s only two of them and every emotion that they’ve only reserved for the other. There’s no words exchanged as Paige guides the two of them out of the spotlight, somehow keeping their hands clasped together in secret, despite the ever growing crowd. And Azzi doesn’t know this building at all, doesn’t have the faintest clue where she’s being led to, but as long as it’s Paige pulling her along, she doesn’t care where, she thinks she’d go anywhere.

Paige stops abruptly in a secluded corridor, turning to fully face Azzi. And the sincerity in the blonde’s crystalline blue eyes, as they roam every inch of Azzi’s body before coming to fixate on her face, steals the air away from Azzi’s lungs. Paige has gotten better over the years at building walls, but with every new lock she places on her emotions, there’s a key to open them that seems to always find its way to Azzi. In the delicate golden hue, Paige shines brighter than any star ever could and in the dim light Azzi can make out every bit of hurt and love and please can we just have this moment that Paige can’t put into words.

“Hi,” Azzi whispers softly, hands itching to reach out and caress Paige’s skin.

“Hi,” Paige says back, even quieter. She stares at Azzi as if she’s memorising every little detail and then her face crumbles. Azzi feels her heart drop at the single tear that trickles down Paige’s cheek as she lets out a broken whimper. And this, this unspoken power they seem to have over each other, the uncanny ability to just hurt each other without any bit of effort, is what scares Azzi the most. It’s too much. They shouldn’t be able to do this.

“Paige,” Azzi’s fingers twitch but she hesitates, not knowing if it’s the right thing, “fuck- P what’s wrong?”

Paige doesn’t reply, eyes wandering down to where Azzi’s trying to keep her hands still against her sides and when she looks back up, her eyes are bloodshot, “what’s wrong? What’s not wrong Azzi? You won’t even fucking touch me.”

“I didn’t-” Azzi struggles to speak, “I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

“Can you just- fuck- can you just stop overthinking things for once in your life. Of course I want you to touch- you know what nevermind. This was a bad idea. You made yourself clear and I’m just- fuck- I should- I should just go.”

She sounds adamant enough but all it takes, when Paige moves to leave, is the strangled cry that leaves Azzi’s lips. The sound is enough to pull Paige right back in. She takes one look at the tears brimming in Azzi’s eyes. And then she’s pushing Azzi against a wall, hands on either side caging the younger girl between her body and the hard surface behind. She presses their foreheads together and Azzi feels like every part of her might just be a part of Paige too.

“I miss you. I miss you so fucking much. It’s barely been two weeks and I- fuck- Azzi- I’ve missed you every single second and now you’re here and I still miss you. And it really fucking hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” Azzi whispers, finally letting her hands cup Paige’s cheeks, and it’s worth it for the way Paige seems to completely melt into her touch, “I’m sorry I keep hurting you. I keep thinking I’m doing the right thing but- I don’t know- I feel like I’m always doing the wrong thing when it comes to you. I don’t- I don’t know what to do.”

“Just let me be with you,” Paige’s voice is wrecked with desperation as she presses herself as close to Azzi as possible, “I’ll be your whatever- whatever you give me- whatever you want- I just- I just want you Az- whatever little bit you’re willing to give me- I’ll take it- and if you want me to wait- fuck Azzi- I’d wait forever- you know that right? However long it takes, baby. Just want you- just want us.”

Leaps of faith are scary. Azzi’s never been great at taking them, too cautious, too much of a worrier. She’s more of a step back from the cliff kind of person. If she doesn’t jump, she can’t fall. But here’s the thing, when she was fourteen, Azzi jumped off of her first hypothetical cliff. It had been on a plane, when after avoiding one too many deep questions, Azzi had admitted to a girl she barely knew,that maybe she could like girls. It was the first time she’d ever let herself acknowledge that truth about herself and the girl next to her was a stranger but there was something about her, something that screamed i’ll hold your hand and if you jump it’ll never be alone. And ever since then, that girl, Paige, has always been there. Hands outstretched, ready to jump off any ledge. Because if there’s hard ground underneath, then they’ll learn how to fly together and if there’s water, they’ll figure out how to swim. With Paige there has always been the promise that, whatever it is, they’ll figure it out together. And it’s with that promise in mind, that Azzi takes the leap of faith.

“Me too,” Azzi whispers, heart beating erratically.

“What?” Paige searches Azzi’s face, as if waiting for her to take it back.

“Us. You. You and me. I want that too,” a ghost of a smile begins to creep onto Azzi’s face, and for the first time in god knows how long, she feels feather light, a little bit like she’s floating on a rainbow.

“You mean it?” Paige asks earnestly, hands moving from the wall to clutch at Azzi’s waist, “don’t play-Azzi- okay- you mean it for real?”

“I do. I want this- I want this so much and I’m still- I’m still really scared and maybe it’ll be a disaster but I- I want to try. With you.”

Azzi used to think she knew all of Paige’s smiles. Her small, not quite fake, but only for cameras and people she didn’t quite know, smiles. Her just for my friends smile that was filled with mirth and childlike joy. Her basketball smile that transformed into a smirk when she got too cocky. Her only for Drew smile, soft and filled with so much adoration and pride. Her Azzi smile, the one only the brown-skinned girl gets to experience, a smile that made Azzi’s her heart swell with love. But the smile that stretches across Paige’s face now, is one Azzi’s never seen before. This one throws Azzi’s entire world of balance, so bright, so big, so full of emotions. If she could, she’d tattoo that smile onto her skin forever.

“We’re really doing this?” Paige asks, still a little stunned. It wasn’t what Azzi had planned for tonight. She hadn’t really had any plans for what would really happen. But then Paige had walked in and all Azzi could see was forever she was tired of fighting against.

“We should take it slow okay-” Azzi wraps her arms around the older girl’s neck, keeping their foreheads still against each other’s, “I don’t- I don’t wanna rush into things and fuck it up. I can’t- fuck- I can’t lose y-”

“You won’t,” Paige swears, squeezing at Azzi’s wait, “I won’t let you. We can take it slow. We can take it however you want- I just- we’re doing this?”

“Yeah,” Azzi can’t help the grin that fills up her entire face, “yeah we’re doing this.”

And as they surge forward to claim each other’s lips, and as they meld every inch of themselves into each other, and as they smile and cry into the kiss simultaneously, and as they etch promises into each other skin, and as they let themselves finally fall into each other, for each other, it feels a lot like coming home.

***

July 2024

The early morning sunlight casts a dark shadow across Paige’s face, causing the still asleep blonde to scrunch up her face in irritation. Azzi, who’s been awake for nearly half an hour now, can’t help the fond smile that creeps onto her own lips. She shifts herself to block the sun and Paige lets out a content sigh, burrowing herself further into her pillows. And the thing is every moment with Paige is special but there’s something about waking up to her in the morning. Azzi’s always awake first and it gives her ample time to just admire the girl in her arms, blond hair tousled all over her pillow, lips parted slightly open, and one arm always, always, splayed across Azzi’s torso, holding her close. Over the course of time, Azzi’s found out that the second she moves, Paige seems to feel her leave, waking up instantly.

There had been an adjustment period if Azzi's honest. It had taken her a while to shake that fear of Paige not being there in the morning. The first morning, she’d been scared to open her eyes, even if she could feel Paige’s presence right next to her. That had been one of the few mornings that Paige was fully awake first, hovering above Azzi to wake her up. And when she finally did get the courage to open her eyes, the first thing Azzi had seen was Paige, blue eyes sparkling with unfiltered adoration, a smile filled with promises of every morning just like this. And that had been enough.

Azzi reaches out to brush a hand through Paige’s soft blond hair, mesmerised by how pretty Paige looks in the morning glow. A lot of Paige belongs to the world now and Azzi’s not opposed to sharing really, because someone so fucking perfect, deserves to be celebrated like that. But there are some parts of Paige that belong to Azzi and Azzi only, some parts Azzi cherishes as being only hers. This is one of them and Azzi takes a snapshot of it, knowing she’ll need it to function in a few months, when she won’t get the real thing.

“Are you watching Paige sleep?” Azzi almost jumps at the sound of Drew’s voice at the doorway, having been too immersed in Paige to have even heard the door open, “that’s kinda creepy Azzi.”

“Jesus Drew, whatever happened to knocking?”

“I forgot?” Drew grins, before he plops on the bed, the force of it making the whole frame shake a little bit.

“Drew!” Azzi chides, “you’re gonna wake her up.”

Drew cocks his eyebrows, sparing his sister, who seems unphased by the sudden little bit of chaos around her, still fast asleep, an unimpressive look, “please she can sleep through anything. Besides, it’s already 9. I thought we were gonna do things. I been up for aaaages.”

“She’ll be awake soon,” Azzi smiles, ruffling the younger boy's hair. Drew rolls his eyes and it’s remarkable how much he resembles Paige, not just by face, but the mannerisms too.

He huffs for a second before his eyes sparkle with an idea, “what if we pour water on her!”

“Drew!” Azzi chastises again, trying not to giggle.

“Boo,” Drew crosses his arms across his chest, “you used to be so cool Azzi.”

Azzi laughs as she’s reminded of a younger version of herself, scheming with Drew on how to wake Paige up. And it’s not that she’s beyond that really, tucking the water idea for a rainy day, but Paige looks too peaceful this morning and she wants to preserve that look of serenity on the older girl’s face for just a little bit longer.

“Hey Azzi,” Drew says after a while and Azzi hums in response, “when you and Paige get married, I can still be a groomsman right? Even if there’s no grooms?”

“Wha- where did that come from?” the brunette’s eyes widened at the question, sitting up a little straighter.

Drew peers up at her with all the innocence of a pre-teen, “you are gonna get married right?”

“I don’t-”

“It’s too early for your yapping Drew,” Azzi’s saved from answering by Paige’s tired voice entering the conversation. She looks over to find Paige’s eyes already on her, a soft smile playing on her lips as she looks up at Azzi. If Drew wasn’t sitting right there, Azzi would lean over and kiss her and let Paige deepen it until they were both satisfied.

“Oh thank god,” Drew cheers dramatically, “I thought you were gonna sleep forever.”

Paige scoffs, the arm that’s still wrapped around Azzi’s torso tightening its hold, “I wish.”

“Well you’re awake now so get up,” Drew whines, moving from his spot on the end of the bed, to flop on top of Paige’s body instead, “get up, get up, GET UP.”

“Get off,” Paige groans but there’s no real force behind it. Azzi watches with a fond smile, as Paige flips Drew over so that she can tickle him, eliciting rounds of laughter from the younger boy. Something in her heart flutters, her mind going back to Drew’s question. She’s never really been one to think too hard about marriage and children and that domestic suburban life, leaving it up to fate, but now- well, maybe.

“Okay aight aight enough. Go get ready for breakfast and we’ll be down in a second,” Paige says, ushering Drew off of the bed.

“You can just tell me you want me to leave so you can kiss Azzi you know?” Drew scrunches up his nose, “you two are gross.”

Paige sends him a stern look and gets a dramatic eye roll in return but as he always does, Drew does as he’s told, mock saluting the two of them and skipping out of the room.

“He’s right by the way,” Paige says softly, turning back to where Azzi’s leaning against the backboard, “I do want to kiss you.”

Azzi smirks lopsidedly, “what’s stopping you?”

She squeals in surprise when Paige pulls her, the force of it causing both of them to tumble onto the front-end of the bed. Azzi ends up on top of Paige, hands resting around her neck, the blonde’s hands holding her waist in place.

“Good morning,” Paige grins, clearly proud of herself as she chases Azzi’s lips to pull her into a searing kiss.

“Good morning,” Azzi whispers back, thumb caressing Paige’s left cheek.

“Just so you know,” Paige pulls away, a determined glint in her eyes, “we’re so getting married one day.”

***

October 2024

Azzi’s mood has been rancid for the last couple of weeks. It’s terrible she knows; it makes her irritating to play with and a nightmare to live with. But even if this had been expected, that she would be on one end of the country and her heart would be on the other side, it doesn’t stop her from constantly being in a state of missing Paige. And it’s different from before, now that there’s a certain surety of of course i’ll see you soon but soon never really feels soon enough.

“Azzi can you please get the door,” Kiki calls from her room when the doorbell rings.

“I’m busy,” Azzi grunts back, snuggling further into her pillow with a book she isn’t actually reading, “you go get it.”

��Azzi please, I’m literally in the middle of getting dressed,” Kiki yells exasperatedly.

If it wasn’t for the fact that she’s pretty sure her teammates are about this close to plotting her murder, and deservedly so, Azzi would sink back onto her bed and let the incessant doorbell noise continue. But she does love her teammates, thinks Kiki probably deserves to change in peace, and it forces her out of bed, grumbling away about annoying visitors. Until she actually gets a look at the visitor. Paige stands on the doorstep, confident as ever, a bouquet of roses and peonies and lilies in her hand.

“You’re here,” Azzi breathes out, staring in awe.

“And thank fucking god she is,” Kiki quips from behind her, “maybe we can finally get our old happy Azzi back and not this bitch.”

Paige laughs, “watch how you talk about my girl Rice.”

“You’re here. You’re really here,” Azzi whispers again.

“I heard you missed me baby,” Paige says, her cocky smirk betrayed by the softness in her voice. And then Azzi is flying into her arms, throwing Paige off balance.

“So fucking much,” Azzi admits into Paige’s neck, eliciting a giggle from the blonde, “Kiki’s right. I have been a bitch.”

“Just a little bit,” Kiki calls out again but there’s a new fondness in her voice. It’s funny how her team, even the haters, have slowly become Paige fans. They’d been hesitant at first, just like the UConn girls, but now well, it seems the basketball world’s Montagues and Capulets have learned to accept their star players’ relationship.

“Missed you too Az,” Paige’s tone is vulnerable as they break away, “alright, go get changed, I wanna take you somewhere.”

“Or…,” Azzi presses her lips to Paige’s neck, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses, “we could stay here and do something else.”

Paige shivers under her touch, stepping away to keep some semblance of control “n-no I have plans,” but she can’t help but kiss Azzi’s pout away, “it’ll be worth it, I promise. Besides,” she bites at Azzi’s ear, “there’s always later.”

***

“Your big plans are to bring me to the supermarket,” Azzi cocks an eyebrow as they walk down one of the many aisles, “you turned down sex for this? Should I be offended?”

Paige doesn’t say anything, concentratedly looking at signs, trying to figure out a specific section, before an aha! moment dances over her face, and she pulls Azzi with her, the younger girl going willingly, despite the eye roll. She stops triumphantly in front of the sushi section and Azzi looks at her quizzically.

“I’m getting you supermarket sushi,” Paige says pointedly, “and then you can get me mac and cheese.”

And if you brought me sushi I’d have brought you your favourite mac and cheese. Oh. The realisation of what Paige is doing trickles around Azzi a little bit like rain after a long summer drought. She thinks back to the bouquet, everything suddenly making sense.

“You’re such a dork Paige Bueckers,” Azzi says softly, tapping the older girl’s nose.

“Your dork,” Paige grins cheesily, “now hurry up and pick one. I don’t wanna miss the sunset.”

***

Once she catches on it, it doesn’t surprise Azzi to find that Paige has everything planned out perfectly, down to the exact spot in the park- the one by Paige’s recovery airBnB, the one they’d taken countless walks in trying to repair their friendship- where the two of them can be away from everybody else, in their own little bubble. And she has a picnic blanket, that’s a little small but they don’t really want space from each other anyways. They lean against a tree, food set up in front of them, Paige’s laptop, carefully piled on top of a couple of books to be the perfect height, set a little bit further away.

“So what NBA game are we watching?” Azzi asks with a smile and Paige groans, “what? Was that not part of the plan?”

“Dude come on. It’s the beginning of October. Please tell me you know the NBA season isn’t happening yet,” Paige rubs her temple, only a little endeared by the comment, “are you sure you’re a basketball player?”

“There are games in October. I swear I’ve seen them before,” Azzi says sceptically.

“Yeah at the very end of the month, not right now.”

“Well then close enough,” Azzi says indignantly, “I don’t need to know the exact day.”

“Whatever you say baby,” Paige acquiesces with a smirk and it earns her an elbow to the stomach, “what the fuck? That shit’s domestic violence you know?”

“Big words Bueckers, didn’t think you knew them,” Azzi teases, placing a kiss against Paige’s offended expression, before settling herself against the blonde’s side, sighing contentedly when she gets a kiss on her temple in return. They’re cliché enough to put on Love and Basketball, but Azzi doesn’t really end up watching much at all. In between slow kisses, she almost falls asleep a couple of times, the comfort of Paige’s arms like a blanket wrapping her in the warmth of this is my fairytale.

“THE POLAROID,” Paige’s shout breaks Azzi out of her haze as she feels her body being shaken off, the blonde rummaging through her bag for the camera, “we have to take the polaroid. My wall needs it.”

“Oh yeah a tiny polaroid picture of us inbetween all your Lebron posters, a perfect fit,” Azzi drawls only to be met with a scathing look from Paige.

“It’s for important things and Lebron is the most important of them all,” Paige explains with complete seriousness, as she finally finds the polaroid camera and shimmies back to Azzi with it in hand.

The sunset is beautiful. Pink, purple, orange and blue, all blending together to create the perfect picture. But Azzi thinks it’s not nearly as beautiful as the girl in front of her, not nearly as beautiful as the date Paige had planned, not nearly as beautiful as the future she can so clearly see now. Her mind drifts back to the night of the phone call, and she can almost hear Paige’s sobs again, can still hear her own voice breaking. Back then, they had seemed impossible, a butterfly like dream that danced out of their grasp.

“Hey,” Paige captures her chin with two fingers, “where’d you go?”

Azzi shakes her head, “nowhere. I’m right here. With you. Where I should be.”

“Sappy goof,” Paige snorts but she kisses Azzi like she’ll take those words and hide them in the labyrinth of her mind, protect them there forever.

Taking the picture is a task, both of them bickering about angles and lights. It’s unnecessary arguing, in true Paige and Azzi fashion really but there’s something so mundanely domestic about it that Azzi finds herself wanting to memorise this moment too. They finally get the frame just right, somewhere in between what they both wanted. Azzi smiles at the camera, her Paige smile, as the blonde in question presses her lips against her cheeks.

Click.

And Azzi hopes, that however many years later, when they have a home of their own, amidst all the photos that they’ll take over the next years, this one will be hung somewhere on their wall, a testament to finally realising every dream they’d dared to dream together.

***

December 2024

There are pebbles being thrown at her window and Azzi has to stop herself from laughing when she peers down to see Paige, freezing cold in the Virginia December air, staring up at her with a goofy smile. She shakes her head when her phone rings, knowing it’s Paige and answers it with her own foolish grin.

“What exactly are you doing?” Azzi asks, “come back to bed.”

“You said I was unromantic. I’m trying to be romantic,” Paige’s teeth chatter in the cold, as she balances her phone in one hand, still throwing rocks with the other.

“I didn’t say that and throwing rocks at my window is supposed to be romantic? You’re going to wake the whole house up.”

“That’s what they do in all the good rom coms. And you said and I quote ‘we’re kind of boring’. You might be boring Azzi Fudd but I most definitely am not.”

It had been a throwaway comment Azzi had made at dinner with some friends from high school. One of her friends had been going on and on about some adventurous trip that she and her boyfriend were going on, and then asked Paige and Azzi if they had any of that planned. To which Azzi had replied that they were a little too busy, considering they were college basketball players still in season, and besides they were “kind of boring” people. She hadn’t meant it in any type of way. Personally, Azzi likes boring. Paige however, seemed to have taken the comment to heart and Azzi had woken up at 2 a.m. to an empty bed and the sound of something being thrown at her window.

“Okay I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You're really interesting baby and the most romantic person in the world. Now will you please come back to bed,” Azzi concedes, already missing the feeling of being cuddled up in her blankets with Paige’s body heat keeping her nice and toasty.

“No,” Paige says indignantly, “come down here.”

“Paige, it's freezing. It’s gonna start snowing any minute.”

“Exactly. That’s exciting.”

“Sleep is exciting,” Azzi whines, but she’s already padding around her room looking for a warm sweater, grumbling under her breath about the warm California sun she’s missing. She tiptoes down the staircase, wincing at the one step that creaks just a little too much, before pushing herself out the door. And it’s freezing cold, there’s sleep in her eyes, but it’s all worth it Azzi thinks, it’ll always be worth it, just to experience Paige’s smile.

“Knew you’d come,” Paige grins cockily, mittened hands pulling Azzi into her.

“Yeah yeah. What are we even doing?”

“Azzi Fudd,” Paige bellows dramatically, “may I have this dance.”

Azzi stares at Paige’s outstretched hand wondering if this is some sort of cry for help, but one look at Paige’s face tells her that the girl in front of her is being absolutely serious.

“This is your idea of exciting? Dancing in the street while it’s freezing with no music?” Azzi raises an eyebrow, but she takes Paige’s hand.

“It’s spontaneous,” Paige says the last word with a flourish, as she spins Azzi, “why not dance in the street when it’s freezing with no music?”

And well, that’s a fair point. If anyone were to look out their window that night, they’d probably think the two girls were somewhat crazy. Laughing and giggling and tripping over each other as Paige hums a melody and Azzi occasionally joins in. It’s ridiculous and corny and cliché and perfect. And then the first little bit of snow falls, white drops circling around the two dancing girls, snowflakes catching on their eyelashes. The dim glow of the streetlight is enough to catch identical smiles on the two girl’s faces as they revel in each other.

“You know some people say if you make a wish during the first snowfall, it’ll come true,” Paige whispers, still waltzing the two of them around, cheek pressed to Azzi’s, “you wanna try?”

And the thing is Azzi doesn’t really believe in all of that, in magic but something about Paige, something about this moment feels magical. It makes a believer out of Azzi.

“Yeah,” Azzi smiles, “let’s make a wish.”

They stand still, holding hands, eyes closed, both a little breathless, as they make their wishes. And when they open them, if it feels a little bit like maybe their wishes have already been granted, well they’ll share it in a secret smile but never out loud. After all, wishes don’t come true if you speak of them.

***

April 2025

7 seconds to go in the National Championship and Azzi’s UCLA Bruins are down by two points. It’s her last chance, having already declared for the 2025 WNBA draft, to win a national championship, to bring home their first basketball national championship since the 1978 team that had won the AIAW championship, to win their first NCAA championship ever. It had taken some sheer luck to get to this point if Azzi’s honest. As a two-seed in the Spokane region, they’d benefitted from their one-seed having been eliminated early and then getting to face a Cinderella six-seed in the final four. On the other side of the bracket, UConn, the favourites coming for a repeat, had been stunned by another team, the team that UCLA was now facing. That had caused a bit of a second-hand sting and Azzi’s not really trying to take revenge for Paige, but it'd be a lie to say the get back at them for me babe from earlier this morning isn’t ringing in her head.

The play is simple, set screens for Azzi, get her open, get her the ball. A two would get them to a tie and three would win it outright. Either will do. It’s a little too reminiscent of last year when Azzi had failed at tying the final 4 game and she can still feel that loss on the tips of her fingers. They break out from their last timeout, breathlessly running to their spots on the floor. The whistle blows, Kiki inbounds the ball and everything is a blur. All Azzi knows is the shot clock is winding down. She runs off of what feels like a million screens. And then she’s open on the wing, for a millisecond. A perfect pass from Kiki makes sure the ball lands straight in Azzi’s hand. And she doesn’t think, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t even notice the defender put up a hand, she shoots the ball. There’s two people on the court that know for sure that ball is going in the minute it leaves Azzi’s fingers, the shooter herself and her biggest fan in the stands, who’s been just a little bit in love with that shooting stroke, since before anything else had even begun.

With a delicate swish, the ball falls through the net, the buzzer sounds around the arena, the crowd explodes in blue and gold, as the UCLA Bruins win the 2025 national championship.

Everything stills in Azzi’s brain for a second, her thoughts taking a second to catch up to reality. She’s never really been one to emotion on the court, keeping herself steely guarded through most games, even at the very end. But now, triumph and pride and just utter happiness at finally achieving one of her biggest dreams, comes roaring to the surface, manifesting itself throughout her entire body, as she lets out a scream of joy. Her teammates engulf her and she gets lost in a sea of hugs and tears and bright, decadent smiles.

As thing start to calm down, there’s really only one thing on Azzi’s mind and Paige’s words echo in her ears, because if I’m gonna end up fucking crying, then I want it to be on your shoulder. And if I’m gonna end up celebrating, I want it to be in your arms. And Azzi thinks maybe Paige had discovered one of the biggest truths of their life with that, the truth that at the end of day, in any moment, big or small, happy or sad, the one person Azzi wants next to her, is her Paige. It’s been that way since she was fourteen, and too young to really understand the meaning of wanting someone forever, and she thinks if she has her way, it’ll be like that for the rest of her life, the rest of their life.

Paige is beaming in the crowd, standing next to Jon and José, a #35 jersey proudly adorning her torso. She waves when she catches Azzi’s eyes, always her biggest cheerleader. And Azzi throws caution to the wind, fuck it, not caring that there’s still a large crowd or that cameras are likely to follow her every move. She pushes her way into the stands, stopping right in front of the blonde.

“On a scale of one to ten, how bad would kissing you right now be?” Azzi asks, still a little breathless.

A myriad of emotions flicker through Paige’s face before settling on a mischievous smirk, “probably pretty bad but you should do it anyways.”

Azzi grins before merging their lips together and everything else fades to the background, until she’s consumed by nothing but Paige. They break apart far quicker than either of them would like and Azzi expects to feel just a little bit of fear at what she’s just done, likely given the media a spectacle they could run a million and one stories about but instead, with her forehead still pressed against Paige’s, she feels nothing but calm.

“I’m so in love with you,” Azzi whispers and Paige’s eyes widen. They’ve known it for a while now but it’s the first time either of them have said it.

“Say it again,” Paige demands.

“I’m so in love with you,” Azzi says again, grinning so hard, she thinks it might become her permanent expression, “like really fucking in love with you.”

“I’m so in love with you,” Paige whispers, pulling Azzi into a bone-crushing hug.

And this might not be the moment where everything finally comes together. There’s still so much life left to live, so much that they still need to work through, so much they’ve yet to deal with. But for now, Azzi has a national championship and she has the love of her life, the rest will work itself out, or so she hopes.

#pazzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #wcbb

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twig-tea · 8 months ago

Text

GL odds and ends 10 November 2024

Still feeling out how regularly it makes sense to do this; first one was 2 weeks ago on 6 October, second was--oops--3 weeks ago on 20 October. If you're interested in GL older than that, check out my GL rec list through Feb 2024 and my update in July 2024. New series marked with an asterisk*.

Currently airing (with thoughts up to 10 Nov):

*The Fragrance You inherit 1/8 (Japanese, Friday/Saturday-ish, no official distribution but fansub on @isaksbestpillow's blog [thank you Siiri!] I wrote about episode 1 already, but just to keep it all in one place: this one looks great. Not really a GL, more a family drama with a lesbian at the center of the story. I'm doubtful we're going to actually get anything other than closure for the romance in this one.

Pluto ep 4/12 (Thai, Saturdays 9:30 AM EDT, YouTube) This plot continues to be absolutely wild (at this point both of them have suspected the other of being involved in attempted murder?!) but Namtan and Film stay gorgeous and serving so I am still tuned in.

Apple My Love ep 5/7 (Thai, Saturdays 11:45 AM EDT, GagaOOLala and YouTube) This show is very sweet and continues to hold up the recent Kongthup pattern of being great about things like sidestepping the most annoying drama tropes, showing great friendship dynamics including asking your friends about sex, and in this one, excellent sibling dynamics too.

The Loyal Pin ep 15/16 (Thai, Sundays 12:15 PM EDT, YouTube) Anin remains so brave. This latest episode felt a little like we rushed to the finish line, but I've really enjoyed the way this show has handled things overall to date. The show continues to enjoy faking us out in previews so I'm not going to speculate on the ending until we get it.

Red Whisper ep 7/8 (Korea, [schedule is kinda unpredictable; vaguely every 5 days??], YouTube) Oof we've graduated to actively upsetting me with the way this show has depicted nonmonogamy and bisexuality. For the record: Not all bisexuals are nonmonogamous, and entering a monogamous relationship under false pretenses and then acting like your partner is being unreasonable by not wanting an open relationship is shitty behaviour.

*The Nipple Talk 5/10 (Taiwanese, weird schedule: the first 5 dropped on Nov 8 and the last 5 will air Nov 22, GagaOOLala) I honestly owe this show a separate post, it is great! This is an ensemble show with the main character being a heterosexual woman but her two besties are a gay man and a lesbian woman, and the show follows all of them through relationship issues. There is a lot of sex, great conversations about sex, and different relationship styles from one night stand casual flings, to nonmonogamous casual regular sex partners, to long term monogamous relationships. It is very funny, fun, and charming as all hell. It's made a couple small stumbles in the first 5 episodes but I'm still enjoying it a lot. If you liked Diary of Tootsies, this is highly recommended!

Recently Completed:

Reverse 4 U 8eps (Thai, 3 Sept-22 Oct 2024, Netflix / YouTube) I did not like this finale--in the end I was sad where we ended up with this show and I hope we get to see these actors in something else. Also looking forward to more genre GL, which is in the works!

Unlock Your Love 8eps (Thai, 11 Sept-30 Oct 2024, GagaOOLala / YouTube) This show was a little slow, but it stayed cute and relatively low stakes, and the actors had excellent chemistry when they were allowed to do their thing, which was relatively often--I appreciated the amount of good kissing in this show lol. The plot meandered, and we forgot we were in a worklpace GL by the end, but I enjoyed this in spite of that.

Chaser Game W s2 8eps (Japanese, 19 Sept-7 Nov 2024, GagaOOLala) @lurkingshan is already doing a great summary of this week to week in her JQL weekly round-up, but I'll add my thoughts to the finale here. Honestly this show did not do it for me for several reasons, but the main thing this final arc did that bothered me was introduce lesbian motherhood as a serious conflict, and then seemed to suggest that homophobia only exists because queer people are not brave enough. It rubbed me the wrong way. Plus the boss who sexually harassed characters in the first season was back to sexually harass characters in the second season with no consequence. I think this show was trying to do to much and as a result it didn't feel coherent.

Recent One-offs, Side Couples, etc.:

A very short and cute Chinese GL Oh General! My General! aired on bilibili and was subtitled by @douqi7s on YouTube This short manages to speedrun training, shared bath, cheek kiss, forced separation, timeskip, and happy ending in 2 minutes

The sapphic backstory in The Hidden Moon concluded with a happy-in-the-afterlife ending

We also got more of the Aim as a Lesbian plotline in the new Love Sick 2024 remake again (this was not a plotline in the 2014 version and it's one of the changes I really like and that I think works really well; her conversation with her mother was a good scene)

The Thai lakorn The Empress of Ayodhaya had a kiss that earned very high ratings on Thai television (This show does not have international distribution so I can't cover it in any detail unfortunately)

Sastra film app YouTube channel has several short Cambodian GL series that come out weekly Honestly they are not to my taste but I don't like gatekeeping GL especially from smaller markets. I check in on these time to time and if there are any that I think are great I'll give them a shout-out

Ditto above with JPC media YouTube channel for Thai GL shorts if there are any that stand out to me I'll say so; that being said I haven't had time recently so if I've missed anything good let me know!

Starting soon:

My Ex's Wedding [in theatres in Thailand 14 November]

Mom Ped Sawan, Thai, 17 November [international distribution uncertain; it should be on VIPA app with subs, but that is region-locked]

Petrichor, Thai, 23 November, iQIYI

Mate, Thai, 26 November, WeTV

#gl series #gl recs #gl meta #sapphic media #typed so that i can stop thinking it #kimi no tsugu kaori wa #the fragrance you inherit #pluto the series #apple my love #the loyal pin #red whisper #the nipple talk #reverse 4 you #unlock your love the series #chaser game w

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sol-consort · 11 months ago

Note

Regarding the human kink thing when it comes to turians, some people actually do be nesting, omega-verse style. Imagine being a human assigned to a turian ship, and you just over here in your bunk, innocently arranging the pillows and stuffies, while these guys are just standing there, slack-jawed and harmonizing their subvocals lol

[updated post]

A/B/O is not for me, but I dig the concept of aliens being intrigued by plushies. They are weird when you think about it.

The weird part isn't the plushies–it makes sense for warm-blooded mammals who value skinship to enjoy cuddling soft things, hugs are fundamental for your health—No, The weird part is how the most popular plushies aren't human shaped.

You could argue dolls, but dolls aren't used as plushies. They're more hard and sturdy, something that can withstand being played with. they have joints and brushable hair. Dolls are puppets to tell a story with, a psychological form of play through creativity.

I want you for a moment to imagine an advanced civilisation of bears with me.

With metropolises and bustling economy, they haven't mastered space travel yet but they've been eyeing the planet closest to them, bringing back rocks from the moon, etc.

In one apartment complex, there lives a bear family. The furniture is more accommodating to their larger build, clothes are more of an accessory to them considering their luxurious fur coats keeping them warm.

It's nighttime, tomorrow's a Sunday and mom bear has to leave to work early, she's currently washing the dishes leftover from the wonderful dinner the family just had. Her wife, however, is putting their son to bed. it's his second week in elementary bear school! he's unhappy with his seating arrangement in class however, the teacher placed him too far from his best friend.

His mother promises to have a chat with the teacher about it when she drops him off tomorrow, the son bear is very delighted and roars happily. A big yawn escapes him as his eyelids get heavy.

In his arms, there lies a cotton friend. His most beloved treasure, the most precious inanimate object to his heart. His plushie!

He adores it. It makes him so happy. It helped make him feel safe when he first started sleeping alone after his moms got him his own bed.

Now, I need you to tell me what does the plushie look like?

For me, these are the options that instinctively came to my mind when attempting to imagine what sentient bear cubs living in a 21st century would gravitate towards in a plushie.

A) a teddybear, more fluffy, abstract, and cartoonish looking

B) a plushie in the shape of a honeyjar

C) a plushie in the shape of a fish–more specifically, salmon or trout

D) fuck idk man leave me alone

When compressed down to their core, in the most simplfied form, the choices are:

A) Identity

B) Food

C) Food

D) How did you get into my house?

With that long analogy out of the way, when you compare that limited selection to the actual things humans have already turned into plushies, it just doesn't make sense.

Food, yes we have plushies of food but also of animals we do not eat. rabbits, cats, dogs, dolphins, bugs. We have plushies of predetors even, things that once hunted us down, beings that still could very well kill us if we meet face to face, tigers, sharks, bears themselves even.

Animal cartoons are much more popular amongst kids. Fables about talking animals have been a stable genre ever since humans invented writing. Animal plushies are popular amongst adults too.

Plushies of inanimate objects, of plants, of fictional characters and fantasy creatures.

I'm willing to bet that humans already made plushies of verans since the first year they came into space, that they sold out on earth immediately. Hell, I'm sure there are plushies of reapers, of protheons and even of turians and other species.

Not even abstract ideas were spared from being into marketable plushies! isn't there a series designed to raise awareness for mental illness?

The whole meme of "turns your fav into a marketable plushie" spread so much because it is true. If there is one thing humans love, is making plushies of anything not human.

And that's the weird part to aliens, the big boy of human anomalies. "Why do they want to cuddle literally everything in this universe? and how come plushies of other humans is the last thing on that list"

You try to explain it to a salarian once but they just look at you in confusion. What do you mean you sleeping with plushes resembling your species is "weird"?? Don't you humans like hugging each other so much? Yet cuddling the soft imitation of a reaper each night isn't weird to you????

That's not even mentioning how the bear society analogy is flawed because we are biased by nature. We projected the bear society onto our human agriculture and based it upon our own popculture.

When in reality they would hold very different values, a different emotional range. They'd be as diverse as the other alien species in mass effect, sharing more resemblance to them than to humans.

We see someone sad, and we have this need to touch them, pat their shoulder, rub their back, hold their hands, and give a hug. Bears let their children walk on their own while we carry our young more, much like aquatic birds in more ways than we'd think.

A/B/O nesting isn't my cup of tea, but with turians, it's easier to digest. Yeah, they are birds. It would be literal nesting. That's kinda cute.

We like caves, it's also cute. Would turians prefer the top bunkbed? Anyway.

Birds usually throw clutter away from their nests, anything that's not a straw or building material is disposed off to make space for their eggs.

While we like the opposite, clutter fucking rocks! at least for humans.

We have a mattress, then a mattress cover, then a sheet.

Then we have pillows, stuffing, then pillow covers, decorative pillows.

After it, multiple blankets! a soft one, a heavy one, an airy one. Sometimes, blankets come with blanket covers.

Finally, the plushies arrive. Multiple of course, some for decorations, others well worn with cuddles. Sometimes a gaint big one to fully wrap all of our limbs around.

Sometimes our beds have crumbs from food we eat in it, othertimes it has a stray sock we took off while in bed and forgot.

Most of the time it has our phone in it, a pet joins us there, book we're reading, laundry we were supposed to fold but forgot, a bag, or several outfits as we get ready to go out.

That's a cave, much like bears leave the skeletal remains of their prey, we have crumbs from the cookie we suddenly craved at 3am.

Nests are neat and clutter-free, at least the bird ones, always getting cleaned from waste. Eggshells are thrown out as they hatch, baby birds waste are immediately disposed of.

Lizard nests aren't that different.

Because the equivalent to a nest foundation isn't the blankets, plushies, or pillows. it's the house foundation itself!

The concrete walls and the sturdy floorboards. The whole bedroom is already a well-built nest. The bed is just an extra cushion. The fluffy material and loose feathers birds leave at the very top, so the twigs don't scratch the fragile eggs.

So, in conclusion. Turians and Salarians would get VERY overwhelmed in a human bedroom, let alone a human bed with plushies, stuffies, and blankets.

They're like, "Are you expecting a baby???" When they notice what their brain consider is extra protective fluffing for eggs.

Turians even more because of their lack of skin nerves, hard plating, and all. Their outershell makes it hard to appreciate soft things, let alone hugging them, when they can barely feel it.

Salarains? They're softer, more squishy, and they might enjoy the way it feels against their skin. Most reptiles do, and they're the closest thing for reference.

They're warm-blooded, but they do originate from a fully tropical planet + they're amphibians and might have used to be semi-aquatic? Meaning that while they still produce their own bodyheat, it wouldn't be that much to begin with. Space is definitely much colder to them than to a human.

That's why hugging a human is so nice to them! They can leech off of your body heat as their very own sun–or at least a substitute for a heatlamp.

But plushies and blankets are a different story. With blankets, they might make them cold or freeze since they blocked whatever light or heatlamp the salarians must need for sleep when they're not wearing their temperature adjustment suits.

And if you sleep next to them under the blanket, your trapped body heat will cause the temperature to rise above what's comfortable for them and risk overheating them. Same with the fluffy sheets, pillows or plushies.

there's the risk of overheating them with your body as the blanket traps in the heat. it will happen slowly, but that just makes it more dangerous. A slow simmer of rising body temperature as they realise what a death trap a human bed actually is.

Plus, salarians only need one hour of sleep per cycle, it seems very excessive to them that you'd build a whole room and make the biggest piece of furniture in it solely for the purpose of sleep. All of those plushies just to hug to sleep?

Drell, who breathe through their skin, would view blankets as a total nightmare. Their clothes already need a lot of adjustment to accommodate their conditions, only certain material is airy enough to allow them to get a lungfull, and you want to suffocate them with cotton or polyester?

They know you only breathe through your nose, but it still...makes them feel uneasy. Seeing you covered completely in stuffies and thick blankets, only your head poking out. Much like what it would feel for us to see someone go to sleep underwater with a flimsy mask connected to an oxygen tank. Now, this is truly a death trap–the salarians were right.

As long as you forgo the blanket and...allow them to fully strip down, they will give this whole human bed thing a try. Silk or satin sheets and pillow covers feel the best against their skin, smooth surfaces that seamlessly glide, air particles passing through it with little trouble.

Anything fluffy, feathery, or with fur will irritate their skin. It's like something brushing against your nose. They sacrifice a lot of comfort when it comes to indulging the human need to cuddle, but most drell rarely complain as they accommodate to your need, even if it meant you'd be slightly cutting off their air circulation.

Maybe their society is exceptionally polite? Maybe devotion and sacrifice for the ones you love are just ingrained in their biology? It would explain their endless royalty to the hanar despite how staying on that planet is literally killing them.

Oh yeah, owning a humidifier in your room will cause them a lot of pain and discomfort. Turn it off, or if you really want to woo a drell, get a dehumidifier.

Krogans would fucking love our beds tho. Might make fun of it at first, but they secretly also want a soft mattress and plushies to cuddle with.

Get close enough with a Krogan, and they'll start crashing in your room and taking naps on your own bed whenever the chance presents itself.

Don't the asari sleep in pods? I'm thinking of that sex scene in ME, she fucks you in a pod. That's something. At least...Liara gets used to human beds?

Anway! having established all of that definitely vital and necessary world building, I can finally talk smut about the turians! the original context of this request!

One look at a human's bed and their minds are definitely going south. First of all, human, you're in desperate need of a mate because your nest is a mess! Why do you have so many different fabrics? Aren't you worried you'll suffocate yourself with a plushie or too while sleeping?

Second of all...they didn't know humans were this soft. You mean, most humans sleep like this? In very comfortable beds? Even like...the army tough ones? Oh, that's why they get so excited for shore leave? so they can return to their actual comfortable nests–sorry yes "beds" and have some decent sleep?

huh.

And none of you are expecting children, correct? This is just how the average adult human goes to sleep?

Turians don't have the heart to tell you that they associate soft beds–ones like yours—to the human equivalent of a heart-shaped bed with rose petals scattered around, candles illuminating the room and a very deliberate lack of condoms.

They try not to...think about it whenever they come into the room. A bluish hue adorning their cheeks, trying to avoid eye-contact as they explain that uh...fuck, they accidentally glanced towards your bed and forgot what they came here to say.

I talked before how jarring it's to them that humans easily allow others on their bed, be it human or not. You just casually invite your friends to sit on it? The same sheets you sleep on each night? the one so heavy with your delicious scent they can practically smell it the second they stepped foot into this room?

And now you're telling them to take a seat, even handing them one of your plushies to keep in their lap. What's a friendly gesture and a show of trust is being very very badly misinterpreted by their brain chemistry, their biology going haywire at what they consider the declaration of "Get me pregnant" Whether you're actually capable of it or not.

Sidenote, the angara might be the only ones to share our bed preferences, not only that but show enthusiasm at the mention of plushies.

The only difference is that their society values plushies that resemble people more, angara like them. The dolls and plushie lineup are very intertwined.

Cuddling very intimately with someone isn't sexualised either, nor presented under a romantic light necessarily. Their society prides itself on love and affection; they're direct with expressing their emotions.

A single angara family can have many mothers and fathers, tens of sisters and brothers. Cuddling and sharing a bed is very normalised even far into adulthood.

They might be the ones giving humans the wrong idea by immediately inviting them back to cuddle on their bed after only the second meeting. Just because they decided they like you :) It's the equivalent of going out for coffee.

Protheoans, meanwhile, fall on the opposite spectrum. Javik doesn't have a bed, does he? He never asks for one either. They're a society of warriors, they value strength and abhor tenderness. Brutal honesty is their forte.

But...they also read each other's emotions through touch.

While beds are a foreign concept, plushies are not. Javik can sense the history of a room just by directly touching its floorboards. Plushies and other sentimental objects must be valued very greatly in their society, doesn't he hold onto the disk of memories from his time back before being frozen?

He understands why his own species came to value plushies, but why the hell does yours do it? You lack his abilities, all humans do.

You try to explain it to him, but it just sounds like you're describing vague and badly done emotion reading with extra steps.

He concludes that humans must hold traces of these abilities. It just translates into safety and the need to cuddle others. Also, it is clearly inferior to the protheon's advanced ability, so yeah.

Javik dislikes your bed but likes your plushies and actually welcomes cuddling. He remains stoic throughout it but you can feel him poking through your memories.

Same with your plushies, he asks that he may keep one as a relic. A piece of your soul, your history is encased in it like an artifact in amber.

Touching it almost feels exactly like travelling in time to meet your old self, getting to part the curtians of space itself and get a front row view on the person you used to be.

Plushies immortalise you to protheans, who would've thought.

I had so much fun with this an analysis it <333 I know it isn't exactly what you had in mind anon, I'm sorry, A/B/O is listed as a "no" in my requesting list. But the concept was so good I had to approach it in a different direction.

I hope you still enjoyed it!

#☆humans #☆human kink #☆Javik #☆turians #☆Krogans #☆salarians #☆character study #☆drell #☆protheans

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shigayokagayama · 1 year ago

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The Beach Omake And Authorial Intent

initially i was going to save this for a big teru analysis i had cooking however i eventually ended up deciding that it would feel like a really long tangent in its original context and probably deserves a separate post.

when it comes to the whole "teru's parents" thing i generally see two competing ideas on it

a. terus absent parents are the real villains of mob psycho and are the direct cause of everything wrong with his life and any and all teru analysis must center around this fact

b. terus parents being absent in the first place is only revealed in an omake and only exists for plot convenience and is not something that should be focused on at all when writing him

and whenever i see either of these my mind always drifts to the question of authorial intent. i know how people are reading this information, but how are we supposed to? i know death of the author is becoming more of a common thing in fandom spaces (albeit usually misused) but i feel like a better understanding of why this omake exists and how we're supposed to read it might help to better synthesize two takes that seems to be completely at odds with each other.

okay first i want to go over the actual placement of the beach omake in the update schedule of the manga because, unlike most other omakes, i feel like this ones placement in the schedule of page releases is actually super relevant

the vast majority of omakes come at the end of weekly updates. you finish reading the usually 15-20 pages ONE put out and then you get a little bonus comic at the end, usually something funny or a slice of life but but occasionally more serious. multi part omakes are usually spread out over multiple updates, making you wait a couple weeks for a punchline.

beach omake is not that. between chapters 99 (mob gets hit by a car) and 100 (the whole rest of the omake) there was a 6 week hiatus from normal pages and in this hiatus is where we get beach omake. reading it all together immediately cuts away the sort of "slice of life sunday paper comic" tone other multi part omakes have and make you read it as a part of the actual main story, since that's how you're used to reading these weekly updates.

now the actual tone. generally the multi part omakes exist to be long punchlines and the rare emotional ones are a single page for maximum impact. beach omake has a very different structure compared to, say, the haunted doll omake or the pot of happiness.

off the bat from the first two pages there's not really a joke. the tone mostly seems kind of melancholic. mobs expression for the middle section of the second page (maybe purposely) is obscured by the panel breaking off, it's hard to tell his reaction, all our attention is directed at teru. with all of the panels taken up by dialogue (primarily his own), we're being asked to focus on what he's saying:

-teru lives alone

-he lives alone because his parents live overseas

-he hasnt seen them in a while

-he doesnt like having nothing to do

-he doesnt like being alone

all of this information is delivered with an extremely casual expression from him, implying that it's not something that seems ll the out of the ordinary for him. mob, on the other hand...

the hesitation before he says anything and the way his expression is obscured seems to imply something is... off... about this information to him. this isn't a handwaved "oh mob is walking home from school after passing out because he needs to for plot reasons", we're reacting to this information like it's weird.

the next two pages are, mostly, a lot more of what we expect out of a mob psycho omake. the first one works as a standalone joke page, teru is bad at identifying animals which leads to him showing reigen a roach, something reigen is terrified of, instead of a beetle.

the second page starts similarly, we get a dumbass joke about reigen trying to pick up women at the beach (note: i think this is the singular time we get an indication reigen is even into women) but then the next two panels take on a more melancholic tone again. we get a small panel of mob and ritsu playing on the beach and a much, much larger panel of teru sitting on the beach, watching them. the dialogue bubble forces us to pay attention to the fact that he is silent.

the ending of this omake is where we bring it home. generally the last panel centers the punchline of the page, or of the whole omake, but the final panel of this isn't really what was being built to in this case.

we start our second page on teru. his expression is obscured, reigens speech bubble is shoved to the side so we can see that teru's hat is being held in his hands.

when we see his face in full view he looks... confused. he looks like he doesn't know how to react to someone going through all this trouble for him. teru is a character who, up to this moment, we have seen as extremely independent. he always rushes into things alone, he always has to be the hero, he always has to be the one to save the day. hell, this omake is immediately followed by the confession arc. where... you know.

so what are we supposed to get out of this omake?

teru's been doing everything on his own up to this point

but he doesn't have to anymore

#mp100 #mob psycho 100 #teruki hanazawa #pic #edit: even though the hair makes this difficult to date timeline wise #i like to picture this as post confession arc #i feel like it makes the most sense

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superlarva · 2 years ago

Text

Fives, Tup, and Dogma in a fort!

Soooo sorry about last week, I've been ridiculously busy, but we're back to my usual weekly Sunday updates of Raising Dominoes for the foreseeable future!

Anyways, here is Chapter 8 - Furniture and Forts. It was mostly just an excuse to draw the boys in a blanket fort :)

Prologue: 00 Previous chapter: 07 Next chapter: 09

Summary: Tup and Dogma help Fives set up his new room before a power outage frightens them.

CW: Implied/referenced child abuse, panic attacks, power outages

Chapter 8 - Furniture and Forts

Fives had not been able to fall back asleep after his nightmare, so after Cody left they spent the rest of the morning playing with the toys that Rex had bought the day before. At first Fives seemed to have trouble with the concept of playing. He would just sit in front of the toys staring at them blankly until Rex told him to do something specific with them, at which point he would comply, but after a while he seemed to get the gist of it. He began to make up little scenarios with the action figures and would have them battle each other.

It did not sit well with Rex that fighting seemed to be the only thing his son knew well enough to recreate in play, but Fives did seem to be having fun, so he tried not to intervene. Well, he might have been trying to coax Fives into helping him build a racetrack out of Legos for the matchbox cars, but the boy was too busy bashing the small plastic soldiers together and making blaster noises to notice.

By early afternoon Fives seemed to be running out of energy. The workers also arrived to deliver the boys’ furniture, so Rex turned the TV on to a random cartoon channel and let Fives curl up on the couch and watch it while he helped the guys set up the room.

When they were done the workers left and Rex found Fives still watching the show. He had hoped the boy would have fallen asleep, but he supposed it had probably been a little loud for that.

“Hey, buddy,” Rex sank down on the couch next to Fives.

Fives quickly turned his attention to Rex, television forgotten, “Are they done? Can I see?”

Rex chuckled, “Yep.”

Fives grinned and jumped up. He ran to his new room and stopped in the doorway. Rex joined him.

The furniture was all from the same set, so every piece had the same dark stained wood. It was a little weird to see the room with just furniture and no decorations, but Fives did not seem to mind. The kid was practically trembling with excitement.

Each side of the room had a bed with a bare mattress sitting in the far corner, and a nightstand, desk, dresser, and bookshelf up against the wall. Fives looked up at Rex, “This is really all just for me and Echo?”

“This is your room, yeah.”

“Wow.”

Rex grinned and pushed Fives lightly into the room, “Go on. Pick which side you want.”

Fives looked around the room and took a tentative step forward before looking back to Rex uncertainly.

“It’s okay,” Rex tried to reassure, “Just pick which bed you want to sleep in.”

Fives looked like he was making the hardest decision of his life before stepping over to the bed on the left and turning back to Rex, “This one?”

“Perfect.”

Fives beamed, “Can we-”

He was cut off by the sound of muffled voices:

“No, you have to knock louder, Tup. He’s not gonna hear that.”

The second voice was too soft to hear through the walls, but a loud knock rang through the apartment.

Fives looked up at Rex, his brows drawn together, and a tight frown tugged down the corners of his lips.

“It’s alright, those are my friends,” Rex said, flicking on the light in Fives’s room and motioning for the boy to follow him as he made his way down the hallway towards the door, turning on all the lights as he went. “You remember Hardcase?”

“Y-yeah,” Fives answered.

“These are his little cousins Dogma and Tup. They’re just a bit older than you.”

Fives nodded, but hesitated as they reached the entryway, “Why’d you turn on all the lights?”

“Oh, uh, they don’t like the dark,” Rex said softly, opening the door before Fives could ask why not.

They were met with a scowling preteen with close cropped hair and a boy with longer wavy hair that could have been the other’s twin if he was not a few years younger standing in front of a large box.

It took Rex a second to register, but when he did he grinned, “Thanks. This is your guys’ old stuff?”

The boys nodded.

Rex pulled the container into his apartment, “Awesome. This is great.”

Fives peered out from behind Rex and gave the older boys a small wave. Tup offered a shy smile and inched a bit closer to Dogma, who wrapped his arm around his brother and attempted a smile of his own, but it did not quite reach his eyes.

Dogma craned his neck to see into the apartment, “What were all those people doing?”

“Setting up Fives and Echo’s new room,” Rex said, ruffling Fives’s hair.

Tup’s eyebrows raised in interest. Rex new the look well and smiled at the boy, “If it’s okay with Fives, you guys can check it out. It’s not finished or anything though.”

Tup and Dogma exchanged a glance before looking to Fives.

“It’s okay,” Fives said, shifting a little behind Rex even as the words left his mouth.

Tup smiled and followed Dogma as he made his way into the apartment.

Dogma puffed out his chest and turned to address Fives, “My name is Dogma, I’m twelve years old and 3 months. This is my brother Tup. He’s ten.”

Fives’s large brown eyes darted between the boys, “I’m Fives.”

Dogma and Tup stayed to help unpack and decorate the bedroom. Dogma was helping Rex make the beds and the younger boys were putting Tup’s hand-me-downs in the dresser. Fives pulled out a shirt and passed it to Tup, “Echo.”

Tup hesitated, “Are you sure? You’re giving way more clothes to Echo than to yourself.” Fives shrugged, “That shirt is red. Echo likes red.”

Rex looked over to the dresser and saw that Echo’s was full and Fives��s practically empty, “Tup’s right, Fives. You need clothes to wear too. Why don’t you start putting more things in your dresser.”

Fives’s eyebrows pushed together, and he looked down into the box of clothes, “But- but what if Echo wants them?”

Rex shrugged, “When Echo gets home you guys can trade if you want, but for now you need to give yourself more clothes.”

Fives still looked a little confused and when Tup moved to place the red shirt in his dresser rather than Echo’s, he shook his head.

Tup froze, looking from Fives to the dresser to Rex, who was busy tucking in sheets. Dogma had been listening to the exchange while making Fives’s bed and looked up at the silence. He caught on quick and scowled at Fives, “Rex said-”

“But Echo would really like that shirt!” Fives interrupted, voice hitting a whiney pitch.

Dogma’s scowl deepened and Tup looked like he would rather be anywhere than caught in this crossfire.

Rex looked over and was about to say something, but Fives beat him to it, “I-I’ll take the rest of them, just- just Echo would really like that one.”

“But-” Dogma started, confusion replacing his scowl.

“It’s fine,” Rex interjected, he had heard the panic in Fives’s voice, and he did not want to make it any worse.

Dogma opened his mouth to say something.

“It’s fine, Dogma,” Rex repeated with a bit more force.

Dogma mumbled out a quiet apology and turned back to Fives’s bed, his ears turning red.

“Tup, why don’t you put that one in Echo’s drawer,” Rex nodded to the red tee still clutched in Tup’s hand. The boy obliged and Rex continued, “But the rest go to Fives, okay?”

Fives nodded seriously.

With four sets of helping hands, they were able to finish setting up the room fairly quickly. After learning that Jesse was out taking Hardcase to his drum lesson and Kix had picked up an extra shift at the hospital (which Rex could not help but feel responsible for), Rex insisted on Dogma and Tup staying for dinner. The boys did not complain.

While they were eating Dogma suddenly pointed out the window, “Hey, it’s snowing!”

“Really?” Tup jumped up and ran to the window.

Fives joined Tup, “Whoa, it’s so fluffy.”

Dogma’s eyes darted between his plate and the window, clearly debating something. Rex felt an odd pang in his chest at how hard this decision seemed to be for the kid. He smiled gently, “You can go take a closer look.”

Dogma’s eyes snapped to his, “But we’re eating?”

“The food will still be here after you take a look.”

“Come on, Dogma!” Tup exclaimed, unable to hide his excitement.

Dogma slowly and a little rigidly got up from the table and made his way over to his brother, glancing back uncertainly at Rex every few feet.

Rex nodded encouragingly. He had known Dogma and Tup ever since Kix had taken them in six years ago. The boys had been scared and nervous and so afraid of the dark that they refused to sleep until they all but collapsed. As the years went on, they acclimated to their new environment as well as one could expect, but Tup was still a shy bundle of worry and Dogma was still overly compliant to what he believed the “rules” were. And they were both still scared of the dark.

“It’s windy,” Fives noted.

“Really windy,” Dogma breathed, sounding lost in thought.

Tup turned from the window to look at Rex, his face scrunched up with worry, “Do you think the power’s gonna go out?”

Rex shook his head, “Probably not.”

Tup turned back to the window and Rex grimaced; he could hear the wind howling outside.

The boys had taken to playing in the twins’ room after dinner while Rex cleaned up. From what he could hear in the kitchen, it sounded like Dogma was teaching Fives some sort of card game. Rex smiled; he was glad they were getting along.

As soon as he finished scrubbing the last dish, the lights flickered in the apartment. Rex dropped the plate back into the sink and ran to the bedroom.

Dogma sat cross legged on the floor in front of a game of palace, back stiff as a board, eyes wide and focused on a space just in front of Rex. Tup had thrown himself over his older brother and was clinging to him, eyes just as wide and filled with terror.

Fives’s back was to Rex, and he turned, a frown tugging down the corners of his lips, “What-”

Just then the lights went out and they were plunged into darkness.

Rex moved quickly, scooping up Tup and pulling him into his lap, just as he had seen Kix do a million times before. The boy was already hyperventilating, his small chest rising and falling quickly with each shallow, ragged breath. Rex pulled his hand through Tup’s wavy hair, and exaggerated his breathing in the hopes that Tup would feel it and it would help him regulate his own.

“You’re safe, Tup. It’s me, Rex. You’re in my apartment.”

Tup clung to Rex a little tighter, but his breathing remained quick and shallow.

Rex turned to Fives, whose outline he could see in the dim light from the window, “Fives, there’s a flashlight on my nightstand in my room. Do you think you could get it for me?”

Fives made an affirmative noise and scurried into the darkness.

“How are you doing, Dogma?” Rex asked, turning his attention to the older boy for a moment.

Dogma did not respond, so Rex pulled him in close to his side, “I got you, you’re safe.” Dogma rested his head against Rex’s shoulder and trembled, speaking softly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to.”

Rex felt hot tears seeping into his shirt and could not help but feel like he was in way over his head. He had no idea what Dogma was apologizing for, but he supposed that did not matter.

“I know,” Rex said gently, even though did not, “It’s alright.”

Fives reappeared with the flashlight in hand and passed it to Rex. Rex switched it on immediately and it flickered to life, bathing the room in a golden light. He felt Dogma relax a bit beside him and gave the sniffling boy a quick squeeze before turning his attention back to Tup.

Tup was still in the throws of a panic attack and clung to Rex with a force and determination he did not know the ten-year-old had. Rex gently pried one of Tup’s hand off him and pressed the flashlight into it, “Here, have the light.”

Tup clutched the flashlight and slumped against Rex, his breaths erratic as he struggled to calm down.

“Breath with me, Tup. In,” Rex took a deep breath in before letting it out slowly, “Out.”

Rex kept inhaling and exhaling with Tup and eventually got the boy to slow his breathing. All the fight left Tup’s body and he slumped weakly against Rex.

“You want me to call Kix?” Rex asked gently.

Tup shook his head.

“Jesse?”

“No.”

“It wouldn’t be a bother.”

“No. I’m- I’m okay now,” Tup said shakily.

Rex frowned, Tup was far from okay, “You’ll stay here until Kix or Jesse get home.”

Tup nodded against him.

“Um, excuse me, sir?” Fives pipped up from the doorway of his bedroom where he had watched the scene unfold.

“Yes, little soldier?” Rex said the joking nickname coming automatically.

“Can we build a fort?”

“Like a blanket fort?” Rex asked, a little surprised Fives even knew what that was.

Fives nodded, “When we were scared like this, we would hide in a fort.”

“Yeah,” Rex said slowly, wondering how many times the twins had been “scared like this.”

Fives grinned and turned to Dogma, “Dogma, there are extra blankets in the closet in the hallway. We need three.”

The preteen sniffled and wiped his face, but got up and swiftly made his way out of the room, following the orders like his life depended on it.

Once Dogma had his mission, Fives sat down next to Tup—who was curled up in Rex’s lap and did not seem like he planned on leaving anytime soon—and explained his architectural vision for the fort. The plan distracted Tup from the power outage and Rex had to admit that there was no way he could have handled the situation better than his seven-year-old son currently was.

Dogma returned from the dimly lit hallway quickly and handed the blankets over to Fives.

The construction of the fort was left mostly to Fives and Dogma, but Tup did seem to be taking an interest in it. Rex nudged the boy in his lap as the other two finished up the fort and began crawling around in it, “Want to play with Dogma and Fives?”

Tup hesitated, “Can I keep the flashlight?”

“Of course,” Rex nodded, giving the kid a gentle push towards the others.

Tup crawled over to join his brother and Fives, who were now talking enthusiastically about “defense systems” they could put in place to fortify their creation.

Rex could have sworn he even saw Dogma smiling.

@marierg @stressed-cherry @ffdemon @renton6echo @bambambunny @tearfulsolace @rndmpeep @brokenphoenix99 @nerdy-valkyrie @xylionet @tazmbc1 @eyayah123 @the-bad-batch-baroness @sarcastic-nebula @ihaventpickedausername @sexysmeagolshitposting @emma-1409

#There are some chapters that actually have Echo in them coming up #Sorry about the wait #the clone wars #clone trooper fives #clone trooper echo #arc trooper echo #arc trooper fives #captain rex #clone wars #tcw #clone trooper tup #clone trooper dogma #domino twins #baby dominos #superlarva

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