#and I actively thought “oh that's not....”

[dcxdpdabbles]

I love love all your writings!!

I like your depictions of John Constantine.

I'd like to see you write the sad trenchcoat persona as just that a persona in the same fashion as how Brucie Wayne is a persona.

Maybe he's been the de-aged Danny/Dannies father for years and is an actual functional adult. The sad trenchcoat is just used to keep people from calling on him to frequently because he's a dad and has dad-like things to do.

He could help tim with the time stream thing, like 'oh, yeah that does look like Bruce. Alright kid pack a bag we're going in the time stream I know a guy. No Nightwing I'm not joking this looks like solid proof'.

Maybe Bruce has a oh shit he's actually competent and could kill me, that's hot moment. (Kids I have found your other father, help me get him home)

"I would love to offer more of my time to waste on monitor duty, but I have a previous engagement. A particular fit lady needs help getting her dress on the floor. The cloth always gets stuck on her horns. " John leers, wagging his eyebrows at the grimaces his words cause.

He takes a puff of his cigarette, inhaling the smoke like a drowning man. He never smokes at home, not with Danny's sensitive lungs or Dani's general disgust at smoking, so he only had the chance when called away on missions.

Plus, Danny was trying out for ballet soon, and he wasn't going to ruin his son's chances of being a star because of his own poor habits.

It helped that the rest of the heroes believed he was consistently pumping nicotine into his system. Rather irresponsible for the hero to publicly commit frowned-upon activities - at least in the States. Back home, no one cared that much.

It didn't matter that the Justice League was a global team; the main hard hitters and founders were nearly all American, and they tended to uphold those social expectations, either subconsciously or not.

One more reason why they shouldn't bother John, he can't have him smoking at a big awards ceremony or seen going through an entire pack of cigarettes mid-fight. Oh no.

John Constantine was one of the best magic users of this universe, but he was a last resort. There were plenty of other magic users like Zatanna, Dr. Fate, Zatara, or even Etrigan that came to mind first.

John was likely too busy drowning his misery in bottles or the arms of any willing partner. That's what they all thought.

Or more importantly than what he wanted them to think.

"Well, this has been a time." He announces, snapping his fingers to open a portal to his house. "But I have to run. My lady needs a knowledgeable hand to help her-"

"Enough," Batman growls. Though he has complete control over his emotions, John can tell he's irritated by the meaningless detail. He smirks as the hero waves a hand, "Just go."

He offers the rest of the meeting room a cheeky two-finger salute as he struts out, letting the portal close behind him so his trench coat flares dramatically. It's a nice view, he's sure, but it's also unnecessarily showy, and he is sure at least three pairs of eyes are rolling at his exit.

A chuckle escapes his mouth, straightening from his slouch to properly stand straight and bend it far enough to pop. Goodness, his act always leaves him with a sore upper back; maybe he shouldn't hunch over so much, even if he was playing the part of a no-good punk.

John only had a few seconds to shiver at his own thoughts- he was a punk. A real one! He was in a band!- before he heard the tell-tell sign of a rapidly approaching double set of footsteps echo down the hall. He scrambles to fling his lit cigarette into a water portal, chucking the pack for double security, while summoning a random suitcase from thin air.

All that's left is his rather eye-catching coat, a little too worn down and old to work well with his well-put-together outfit underneath. Without it, John has a clean, pressed white shirt, a respectful tie, and a pair of slacks that make more than one head turn as he walks.

All in all, he looks like the office businessman his worthless father always wanted to be.

John throws off his coat over a chair at the same time the door is thrown open with a pair of excited yells. "Welcome home, Dad!"

A grin stretched across his face before he could think about it, feeling his heart swell at the sight of them, as he knelt down, arms open wide. Two tiny bodies slam into him without a second of hesitation, nearly knocking John backwards.

He lets out a soft grunt as Dani's arms attempt to wrap around his left arm and right shoulder. She clashes against Danny, who's trying to bury himself into John's right side, little face squished against one of John's pecs, like a bunny burrowing into the snow.

"Hello, my little lambs!" He gushes, squeezing the kids close. "How was your day with the House of Mystery? Did you two behave?"

"They were angels," Black Orchid confirms, gliding into the room at a much slower pace. They had their regular, impassive expression on their faces, but John could tell that Orchid was happy with the kids by the way they gently tapped the tops of the children's black hair.

"Dad! Dad! Now that you're home, can we please go get my new ballet shoes?" Danny begs, bouncing on his toes.

For a moment, John doesn't see his son, but rather his own blue eyes staring up at his father, when he was also five, begging to join Lily, the next-door neighbor, in beginners' ballet class.

His father had beaten him nearly to death for wanting such a girly interest. It was the last time they spoke about it. It was also the last time John ever bothered asking to start new hobbies.

"Dad! Dad! Can I do Karate?" Dani asks then, snapping John from his memories better left buried, as she presses her check against her brother's in an attempt to get John's attention. "I want to break a board with my fist!"

He gives the children another squeeze, laughing at the squeals he gets. "Of course you can do karate, little lamb. We're going to get your brother his shoes, and then I'll find a gym that offers the classes at the same time."

"I already provided that service." Orchid cuts in, holding a flyer for Flying Graysons' gym, founded and run by the eldest Wayne in Gotham. "I took the liberty of signing Danny up for a class with Casnadra Wayne, and Dani will join Duke Thomas's class. It starts in a week."

"Plenty of time to go get them everything they need and a new book series for our bedtime stories," John announces, loosening his arms so his children can cheer and bounce up and down in excitement. His knee is starting to cramp up, but he ignores it so he can hold his kids.

It's moments like these, so small and mundane, that John is grateful he thought of his persona. When he first learned how to use the magic he was gifted, he always made himself available for any crisis.

This was before the Justice League days, so anyone who sought him out was familiar with the occult world. He adored helping, and he built an incredible amount of skill and knowledge in magic, but soon John was facing disaster after disaster, dragging his exhausted body from one place to another.

Those who came searching for him never cared. They wanted John to jump at the drop of a hat. He tried for years to always be ready, always be willing, but years of isolation and desperate battles tried him to the core.

Then he took in Danny and Dani, finding the pair of babies in a basket at the feet of the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep. He had gone to investigate the legends of the famous King Pariah Dark, only to find what he assumed were originally sacrifices, well and truly alive.

Their names were attached to their feet with a letter written by a Jazz Fenton begging the two to grow and live well. She had died to save them. In her honor, John kept their names.

Daniel "Danny" Fenton and Danielle "Dani" Fenton. He often wondered what Jazz had been to the kids, with their identical last names. It is a question he will never get the answer to.

They could have been no older than five months, but when they opened their eyes and reached up for him, John realized he no longer wanted to be the go-to man of magic.

He wanted to be their father.

To discourage people from calling him away from his children, John created his persona of a man barely honorable enough to join a team. Over the five years of his raising his kids, his reputation plummeted until only Batman called to him unless absolutely necessary.

It was a breath of fresh air. John had fought for too long and too hard. He was retired now, just like his band days, the days when John would speed off to save the world were behind him. He only stepped in if a friend asked for a favor.

He had other priorities now.

The best part? The Justice League would never know that.

"Dad!" Dani screamed into his ear, making him grimace.

"Inside voice, darling."

"Sorry." She twirls her fingers, a nervous habit she picked up from John, before brightening up "I'm just super excited. Orichad said Mr. Bruce Wayne will be at the gym! Do you think he'll sign my Wayne Space shirt?"

Ah, yes, the man who was funding some space program or another. He only knew about this because his twins adored anything to do with space travel, as if though he couldn't just teleport them to a different planet.

"I'm sure he will, darling."

[sightseertrespasser]

Odds of Survival part 9

Jazz has an itty bitty teeny weeny severe mental breakdown.

Credit once more to @keferon for starting this au.

———————————————————————

Jazz never thought he’d find himself deeply empathizing with the xenomorph from Alien, but here he was.

Doing freak shit.

A lone lifeform trapped on a spaceship with no idea how their technology works, no means of escape and no way to sustain themselves. Skittering across the ceiling and one wrong move away from murdering someone on contact.

Plus, I pop out of my mecha like an actual motherfucking chest burster. So I’m sure that’ll go over GREAT.

The parallels were compounding into existential crisis territory.

It got way too fucking close handling that checkup with the medic. Trying to keep his cool felt like he was trapped in an hours long quick time event. Every question had to be snap judged for the safest possible answer. Completely make shit up and risk getting caught in the act, don’t give away any information and they’ll know you’re hiding something.

Jazz juggled that damn Catch 22 like a professional. Thank you.

Case in point, while one of his mechas arms was still non functional, Jazz managed to maneuver his actual arm inside the cabin to grope around for some water to chug. Without disconnecting from the mecha.

That particular stunt felt like splitting his brain in half with a splintery wedge. The water was absolutely necessary, but the pressure inside his skull rang like an air horn zip-tied open.

Right now the only coherent thought he could form was the overwhelming animal desire to find a dark hidden hole and crawl up inside it. Then repeat that motion by disconnecting from his mecha, finding the most secure hiding spot inside that, and passing out for oh just a quick little 24 to 36 hours.

The pilot paused. Down the hall, mechas- giant alien robots- had noticed his disappearance. Even through the language barrier, Jazz would recognize the opening lyrics to his personal theme song anywhere: “Oh fuck where’d he go?”

Hidden behind rows of pipes, Jazz counted his inhalations until the thuds of metal feet passed him by.

Was the alien invader from The Thing scared? If it had finished building its spaceship would the Thing really have tried to take over the world? Or was it just desperate to go home?

Jazz was panting. Or maybe hyperventilating. He made a conscious effort to pull air through his grit teeth at an even flow. Even though he couldn’t actively feel his human body, the dull droning dread pressed through the disconnect to whisper “You’re running out of time.”

He didn’t know how long he had left before his stupid flesh sack would start giving out, but he needed to be somewhere safe when it happened. He’d make it. He’d make it because he had to to make it. He was the best goddamn pilot in the entire program and that was for one reason and one reason alone: Failure Was Not A Motherfucking Option.

If his options were do it the hard way or not at all, then the hard way was what the world got.

Once the guards passed, Jazz slunk along the wall, reaching upside down to fry another security pad, only for the door to open automatically.

Risking it, Jazz peaked into the room and not seeing or hearing anyone, slipped inside.

Once the door slid shut behind him, Jazz lowered himself to the ground one handed, scanning the room more thoroughly.

More screens, inactive. A chair and a couch. Miscellaneous wall kibbling, a table, cabinets. Windows.

Jazz gasped.

Glowing clouds of light, layered like sheets stretching into infinity. Star clusters like paint splatters on black velvet.

White and amber. A haze of something pink.

Unconsciously, Jazz moved towards the window, until he could lightly tap his visor against the glass. His field of view consumed by galaxies.

Back when they first launched him into space, Jazz had come to terms with the let down that all he’d get to see was a black slate and maybe a couple dots. The space station didn’t have many windows to start with, and all his space walks took place when the sun was “out”, so Jazz never really got to see as much of the Milky Way as his inner child hoped.

Now, the child was quiet. Face pressed against the glass, Jazz felt his throat closing up.

At least I got this. Even if I’ve got a half life, I got to see the stars the way they were meant to be.

He hovered. Wanting to find a song to match this moment, but couldn’t find anything more fitting than his own breathing. The rush of blood in his ears was still loud, but a white noise that could substitute for silence.

Like a marble rolling off a table, Jazz felt his stomach drop a moment before his conscious mind could follow.

“It’s wonderful isn’t it?”

Jazz had his arm cocked back to turn the poor fuckers face into a plate but locked himself mid swing at the last second. The mech had lifted a tablet to protect himself, and the move was such a Bullied Nerd cliche it stopped Jazz cold.

Now that his heart rate was breaking highway speed limits again, the angry radio static that was his racing thoughts drowned out any coherent thoughts of what to say.

The mech peeked out from behind the tablet and wow. That’s a guy. That’s just a straight up dude. Prowl and Elita were bulky enough that Jazz could at least imagine where a pilot could sit. But this guy? He looked like the only thing he could throw out was his back. Jazz didn’t even know “elderly twink” was a look possible for a giant robot.

Mystery Codger was staring at him. Jazz still had a fist raised.

Do something say something do something say something you fucked up you fucked up either kill him or start lying just do anything brain please.

“Could you help me find my glasses?”

Jazz faltered. “Wu- What?”

The mech uncurled from his brief defensive huddle. “My glasses? Spectacles? Ah, object-sight-improve-positive?”

The pistons in his arm faintly hissed as the tension released.

Maybe-

As if this was all normal, the mech gently set the tablet on the table, before squatting and squinting at the floor.

Maybe I just have actual brain damage.

Acting on mental autopilot, Jazz took the opening to behave like a normal person. Crouching and scanning the floor for giant alien robot spectacles.

“My name is Rung by the way. I actually don’t think we’ve met previously.” Rung said that last bit with an odd inflection Jazz didn’t have the brain power to think about.

“Jazz. We definitely haven’t met.” He couldn’t quite keep the exhaustion from making that last bit come out snippy.

Rung simply hummed and continued his search. For his part, Jazz was taking the moment to center himself, preparing the best mask he could on short notice.

How long could he keep faking it? Prowl had been with him since he woke up and he didn’t show any signs of needing to sleep. They had doctors. Prowl cared enough about his “health” to take him to one. If Jazz collapsed in front of anyone, they’d drag his sorry ass back to the medbay and it’d be game over. He couldn’t just ask for a place to crash or else he ran the risk of tipping them off he wasn’t one of them if they really didn’t sleep.

A faint tapping sound made him twitch in his stupor.

“Now where could the blasted thing have gone.” Rung was sat crossed legged on the ground.

With Jazz. Who’d vaguely crumbled into a kneeling ball under a table.

Jazz stared at Rung tapping his glasses against his chin. The orange mech made eye contact, and Jazz swore to god he caught him smile.

He reached out a hand, pointing, “Found ‘em.”

The smile came to fruition. Rung aha-ed and held his glasses before himself, inspecting them fondly.

“All that trouble for such a small problem. And all I needed was to ask for help.”

Jazz let himself sag slightly against the wall. Dully thudding the back of his head. “Okay. I’ll cop that was a good trick.”

“It did pull you out of your spiral didn’t it?” Rung said sounding way too smug. He pulled a cloth out from where-ever-the-fuck and cleaned his glasses with it.

He’d been seeing these mechs pull out and disappear objects all day like a bunch of Looney Toons characters. That kind of lapse in logic didn’t bode well for Jazz’s mental condition.

He let his eyes close, rationing his remaining focus.

“How’d you know that’d work?” He mumbled.

“You seemed afraid. You stalled out when you saw I was afraid.” Rung simply stated before he then asked rhetorically, “You’re a protector aren’t you?”

Jazz made a noncommittal sound. Lying was his first impulse, but he really didn’t feel like giving this guy more material to hook him with.

The mech laughed once anyways, “You are. Unorthodox too. I can see why you have such a hold over Prowl.”

That got his attention, “I do?”

“Oh yes.” He heard Rung shift into a more comfortable position on the floor. “Even if he can’t recognize the feeling anymore, I think you give him hope.”

Jazz wanted to laugh and he would if he had the energy.

Instead Jazz sighed. “I’m kinda at rock bottom right now man. And currently? Lil bit fresh outta hope myself.”

And ideas.

Jazz was of the opinion that any problem was solvable if you were willing to get crazy enough, but this was like trying to solve treading water a million miles from shore with only sharks for company. He either drown slowly or get torn apart the moment the sharks realized he was there.

“Hopeless mechs don’t stop to stare at the stars in wonder, Jazz.” When he opened his eyes, Jazz saw Rung staring him down like he was insulted. “To be hopeless is to let yourself die. Do you intend to die today?”

“No.” He challenged back, body minutely tensing.

“Are you willing to do absolutely anything to keep living?” Rung poked him in the chest.

“Yes.” He responded just as quickly, but there was a rasp to his voice. Something small and quiet. Not easily caught. Not easily killed.

“Even ask for help?” Rung quirked his head at him, shit eating grin growing by the second.

Jazz deflated, groaning loud enough for his mecha’s speakers to vibrate his bones.

“Look, I appreciate the therapy session doc, but asking for help is legitimately not an option for me right now.”

Rung leaned forward, resting his chin on a servo, “Alright then. List your current alternative options that you alone can accomplish, devoid of any assistance whatsoever.”

Jazz didn’t respond.

The silence continued to linger.

“Go on.” Rung gestured.

Cornered, Jazz could feel his horns pin back and a burning sensation in his eyes. He rubbed a hand over his visor even though it didn’t actually help.

“Where’s Prowl?”

Rung chuckled, victorious. The scrawny orange mech scooted out from under the table and stood, offering a servo to Jazz to do the same.

The brief rest left Jazz jelly limbed, which was evidently bad enough to translate to a faint tremble in his mecha. Despite that, Jazz didn’t take Rungs hand because there’s no way in hell that guy could support him if he fell. Elita’s threat over harming her crew was still fresh and shiny in his mind.

“You’ll find his office down that way.” Rung pointed out the direction. “Down the hall, turn left at the first junction, pass by two more doors, turn right at that junction and then keep walking until you reach the end of the hall. His office isn’t labeled but I don’t think that’ll be an issue.”

Rung opened the door and then took a seat in the chair next to the couch. “I’d offer to have Prowl come to meet you here, but I have another appointment coming up shortly.”

Oh uh. He actually is a therapist.

Jazz laughed humorlessly, “Why not invite them to join the party? Make it a group session.”

Avoiding eye contact, Rung fiddled with a stylus, “Ah, that would not do I’m afraid. My next patient recently figured out how to “bite” people by quickly jabbing his helm forward and I’d rather that not be your first encounter with him.”

“Ah. Gotcha.” Jazz simply nodded numbly.

He paused at the doorway, running the directions through his head again, before turning back slightly. “Hey Rung? Thanks.”

“It’s Rung, and you’re… welcome?” The mech trailed off, looking at Jazz with surprise as the door slid shut behind him.

Walking away, Jazz got about thirty feet before realizing he couldn’t turn his head too quickly or else he’d start seeing double. Feeling the countdown drop into double digits, Jazz hurried along Rungs path.

And nearly crashed into another mech.

It had a head like an old school security camera, a single yellow camera lense cycling down to a pinprick at his appearance. The chassis was crazy long and pointed. Out of habit, Jazz tried mapping out what the interior would look like. The pilot seat would need to be horizontal but it was pretty doable. The limbs were definitely on the skinny side but sharp and fast looking. Bonus points for what was definitely front mounted guns.

All in all, solid design. 7/10.

“Hey.” The mech rasped.

Oh fuck right, Alien.

“Sup.” Jazz replied eloquently.

The camera lense eye loosed, upgrading to a coin sized pupil and clearly looking him over.

“Empurata?” The mech said casually pointing to his legs and visor.

“Uh, sure.” Jazz shrugged.

“Same.” Nodded camera-head.

“Cool.”

The two of them awkwardly stood in the hall. Camera-head seemed content to block traffic and Jazz was mentally banging rocks together in hopes of getting a spark of intelligent thought.

“Can I peel off your visor with a knife?”

The mech held a dagger pinched between its crab claws and Jazz had to bite his tongue not to ask why it didn’t just use those.

Instead, the brain rocks came through.

“Rung lost his glasses.” Jazz threw up a thumb, gesturing over his shoulder. “Needs help. Now.”

Good job brain rocks.

“What? He does?” The mechs head popped up like some kind of fucked up goose, before shoving past Jazz, knocking him into the wall.

“HOLD ON DOC I’M COMING!”

The mech folded inside out into a mother fucking helicopter?! Charging down the hall in a whirlwind so strong Jazz could feel it through his mecha.

Jazz counted to five, and crawled back up into the safety of the ceiling pipes.

He blinks, and he’s staring down another hall. Left turn, two doors, right turn. . . Wait. Was that a right or left he just did? He’s upside down so everything should be reversed right?

He doesn’t remember blinking but the hall is at a different angle. New hall? Or did he just turn his head?

Jazz wants to press the heels of his palms into his eyes until everything holds still but he can’t. So he keeps moving. Keeps hiding.

And then he sees the most beautiful goddamn mech in the universe marching down the hall. Followed by half a dozen substantially less impressive mechs with guns drawn.

Stilling, Jazz remained hidden behind the pipes. Evidently alien robots had the same peripheral blindness to ceilings that human security guards did, as none of them noticed him.

Except for Prowl.

Through the gaps, Jazz watched as Prowl gave rapid fire orders to the armed soldiers behind him. Six mechs. Six guns. Three too many for Jazz to take in his current state. Prowl went silent and his wings twitched. Shivering, Jazz got the deeply uncanny sense he was being intimately observed.

The lights were ringing in a tinnitus B flat. He had the audio feed from his mecha dialed way too high but he couldn’t afford to miss any detail of what would happen next.

Whatever Prowl was said next, it must have been in his native language. Which Jazz found deeply unfair after all the work he’d put into learning Common.

The black and white mech turned to his cohort, waving them down the hall ahead of them. Prowl did not follow, wings still minutely shifting position. Once they were out of sight, Prowl turned on his heel back the way he came. Flicking a single piercing look to Jazz.

Silently. Shakily. Jazz skulked along the shadows after him.

He mental map was fucked. Every time he blinked, Jazz lost track of the most recent few seconds of his life. If Prowl wasn’t stopping every fifty feet to not-so-subtly check that Jazz was still following him, the human didn’t know where he’d end up.

Finally, Prowl reached a door at the end of a hall and entered without any delay. Jazz dropped, moving inside before the door could close again.

“Please don’t freak out.” Jazz cut him off before Prowl could set the tone of this conversation. The mech closed his mouth and after a moment’s consideration, assumed a tense but mostly neutral stance.

“I will not ‘freak out’.” Prowl looked like wanted to say more, but Jazz couldn’t afford that right now.

“Awesome! Because right now I’m freaking out and I won’t be able to keep it together if you start freaking out too.” He was pacing back and forth, not really seeing the mech beside him anymore. “.”

“Jazz.” A servo caught his elbow, stopping him in place. “Where have you been?”

“Oh you know. Here. There. Ceiling mostly. Shockingly unrelated, but I think a talking helicopter wants to wear my face as a hat.” Jazz nodded way too enthusiastically in a manner he hoped translated into an appropriately manic “Please god help me.” grit toothed grin.

Prowl was momentarily speechless before physically shaking off the latest deluge of confusion, “That sounds like Whirl. You would not have encountered them had you stayed in the med bay like you were supposed to. Now I’m asking you again: What are you doing and why are you doing it?”

Audibly cracking, Jazz tried to answer honestly but found his voice locked up. He couldn’t, why couldn’t he..? Why was talking suddenly so fucking hard?

Meanwhile, Prowl just looked defeated. He rubbed that spot between his eyes, not yet letting him go.

“If you cannot provide a reasonable explanation for your sudden shift in behavior, I will have to assume the worst. You leave me no choice but to-“

“I’M REALLY SHORT.” Great. Fantastic. Incredible work brain. Take five.

Prowls optics flickered. Brow furrowing as he looked up at Jazz’s clearly taller mecha.

“That’s not- I mean-.” Jazz clasped his head in his hands, switching back to English. “{I- I- don’t know if this is even real.}”

Something was gripping his arms. Black and white appeared in his vision. “Jazz, please. I can’t help you if I don’t understand what’s happening.”

Common was easy to learn but right now it felt like Jazz was playing Scrabble with a bad hand.

“Prowl, where do you go when you- when you change-body-shape?” He had to stop to breath midway.

Please, please, please this is the last chance for anything to make sense.

But instead the mech slowly shook his head in disbelief, “Where do I..? Nowhere Jazz, it’s still me, I’m not ‘going’ anywhere. My alt form is not a different person.”

The mech gently pulled Jazz’s hands off his head from where he’d been stressing the damage from earlier. “I understand if you’ve never seen an alt mode before but your behavior, your questions, they’re not making any sense.”

Prowl stopped. Optics going wide as placed his servos on Jazz’s wrists. “Jazz are you Crashing?!”

“What? What is that what you call a mental breakdown? Cause yeah I’m having one of those.” He said a little too breathlessly.

“Sit-“ Prowl pulled him down to the floor. “Sit down. I’m calling for a medic.”

“No!” Desperately, Jazz grabbed onto Prowl who was helpless but to join him on the floor. The floodgates opened and Jazz couldn’t stop.

“No no no no, please god no. They’re gonna find out. I need to to tell you. I need to tell you myself. Just, please I’m begging you don’t do it. Give me a chance. Just give me a chance to explain, I don’t want to wake up on a table, please Prowler.”

For his part, Prowl was handling the situation as well as to be expected. He didn’t try to leave again but did get into a more comfortable kneeling position next to the panicking mecha.

“Alright. Alright, I won’t leave. Speak.”

Jazz tried tapping an alternating rhythm on the floor, giving himself literally anything else to focus on. He swallowed back bile and his thrashing fight or flight instincts.

“I’m not-“ Jazz grit his teeth. Telling the truth felt like trying to pop a dislocation back into place. Actually no. Jazz had done that before and it had felt infinitely less unnatural than what he was trying to do now.

Prowl was patient. Bless his heart, motor, whatever he’s got in there. Remaining silent beside him.

The pilot forced himself to take complete breaths, “l. Am not. The same. As you.” One, one two, one two, one two, Jazz counted in time.

“I noticed.” Prowl stated flatly, then softening his expression, “You hadn’t realized you were an alien until now, didn’t you?”

Jazz laughed a little too hysterically, “No, no I Fraggin’ did not. Please don’t freak out.”

“Jazz, you are hardly the first alien species I’ve ever encountered. At least you actually look like a person.”

The pilot got very, very quiet.

“Prowl, what do you think of organics.” Resolutely, Jazz stared down the floor panels, refusing to look anywhere else.

Momentarily, Prowl opened his mouth to speak and shut it again. He shifted to kneel in front of Jazz. Sharp optics darting across his frame. Lightly, Jazz could feel him trace something along his undamaged shoulder. He shivered against his will.

“Jazz.” Prowl got down to where he had to look at him. He spoke so, so softly, “Were you created by organics?”

Well, when a mommy human and a daddy human love each other very much…

“You could say that.” Jazz rasped instead.

He hadn’t even moved, but the energy in the air just went burning cold. Prowl went from soft to deathly serious so fast Jazz visibly flinched.

“Listen to me. You do not have to go back. You do not ever have to go back. I swear on everything I stand for I will not let another one of those things anywhere near you again.” Unintentionally, Prowl was crowding into his space.

Despite himself, Jazz just kept drawing himself in smaller and smaller as Prowl closed in.

“No no no no you don’t get it, that’s not what I meant. That’s not what I am!” He started quiet and steadily grew in volume.

Prowl wasn’t getting it. Instead, raising his voice to match, “No you are wrong! You have a choice now! You aren’t just your function and you aren’t just something they made to die!”

He grabbed Prowl by the shoulders, shaking him, “I DID CHOSE THIS. I KNOW I’M GONNA DIE, BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT I’M FUCKING TALKING ABOUT.”

“Then what ARE you talking about?!” He shouted back.

“I’M ONE OF THEM.” His microphone peaked, and his voice broke.

The quiet hurt. Anything that wasn’t numb hurt. He gulped down air and couldn’t keep more than one eyelid up at a time.

Prowl ground his jaw tightly, practically steaming from reeling back a sense of calm by force, “You are not shorter than me. You are not thinking straight. And You. Are not. An organic.”

Jazz only semi involuntarily rolled his eyes.

“Fuck it.”

He disconnected, and everything hit at once.

Vision went and came back out of focus and way too close. His ears were ringing too badly to hear the sound of his mecha’s chest plates opening, though he knew that they were.

Every fiber of muscle in his body was torn and screaming, he’d throw up later if he had the strength. Jazz did not so much stand as he did lift off the pilot seat and then buckle forward. The hard shell of his pilot suit saved his knee from getting gouged by the corner of the platform he was slipping off of.

That’s fine. He’d land on the steps.

Except, his mecha had been leaning forward hadn’t it?

Like a rag doll, over the edge he went. A huge and blurry and black shape rushing to meet him.

——————————���————————————

Is Jazz capable of telling the truth when it’s to save his life? No.

Will he do it out of spite just to prove someone wrong? Yes.

Also, secret props to @somerandomcockroach for showing how fun Rung is to write.

Bonus bit, Prowl finally let his EM field loose far enough for Jazz to notice! It was bad.

-SSTP

[twotwofroote]

When I was a kid, I wanted to break a bone. It happened often enough to other kids and I saw how people treated them. They'd excitedly sign your cast, offer to carry your books, bring you your lunch, etc. I wanted so badly to be looked after like that; to be thought about like that.

I tried to break my bones often. I would hear how someone else did it and try to replicate it. It never worked. Breaking a bone is surprisingly difficult but oh so easy at the same time.

I broke my wrist two years ago. I had stopped trying or actively wanting that over a decade prior. It was simply an accident - a fall when rollerblading. But it was nothing like I'd imagined as a kid.

TLDR: Being sick or injured doesn't give you what you want. It's a fantasy. The reality is painful and scary. I have a support system but it's just that, support. They can't be there 24/7. At the end of the day, I can be alone with my good health or alone with bad health. I'd much rather have the former.

(more context after the break)

For starters, I live in Japan. I had been for 3 years at that point but I'd never had significant medical problems. I had to learn so much while dealing with so much.

When it happened, it felt like a cartoon crunch at first. Like that scene in Teen Titans when Robin breaks his arm. But immediately after was a blinding pain I've never experienced before. I was crying and screaming for my friend but it took him a minute to come back and see what had happened. He was sweet. Trying to comfort me and make jokes. I'm glad I wasn't alone.

But when the Japanese staff came, I had to answer questions in Japanese. I can speak Japanese well enough but that pain. My god that pain. I could hardly breathe, let alone think in another language.

My friend called a Japanese friend to come get us. I stupidly thought we'd go right to the hospital and get me patched up. But it was a Thursday. Silly me breaking my wrist on a Thursday! I quickly learned that hospitals are "closed" on Thursdays. The staff kept saying "it's a bad day for this to happen. You can't go to the hospital on Thursdays. You should be more careful."

I couldn't believe it! What do you mean they're CLOSED? It's a hospital! I found out later that of course they will accept people but only if they go by ambulance. I knew that an American ambulance cost so I thought I had lucked out not going that route in hindsight. Then, I found out an ambulance here is only like $80. Live and learn.

Instead, my Japanese friend drove me to a clinic for x-rays. And boy howdy was it bad. That gave me a temporary cast/splint situation, set up an appointment at the hospital for the next day, and sent me on my way.

At the hospital appointment, I had more imaging to see just how bad it was. The doctor said I needed surgery... but that the schedule was booked up for a week. So, I went home and I waited.

It was so lonely. Nothing like I'd imagined as a kid. As a kid, I thought people could help me 24/7 and honestly I think it might have been like that. Friends and teachers to help you at school and parents to help you at home. But as an adult? My friends have jobs. They couldn't help me for 8+ hours a day. I couldn't go to work so I couldn't get help from coworkers. My family was thousands of miles away. I was so desperately alone.

I sat on my couch for a week. Scratching at my itchy splint, struggling to shower, struggling to eat. I thought surely that was going to be the worst of it. But then the surgery day came.

For better or worse, I was naively unaware of what was in store for me. I knew I was going to have to be awake which worried me at first. But then I figured, if they keep you awake, it must not be that bad, right? So I downloaded music and books on my phone. I pictured it like a tattoo - laying on a bed, one arm stretched out. I listen to some stuff, an hour or so later and boom I'm an fixed up! Like I said, naive.

The nurses were surprised when I said I wasn't nervous or scared. I thought it was silly they thought I would be. This sucked but it was still kind of interesting. Seeing an OR and being in a Japanese hospital! It was going to be such a good story to tell!

But then it was time for surgery. They strapped me down to a table - arms, legs, torso. Covered me in blankets which I thought was odd, it was August after all. I was starting to get nervous. This isn't what I expected after all. But it'd probably still be fine!

It was not fine. It was like torture. That's an hour and a half of my life that I'll never forget. It started well enough. My arm was numb so I couldn't feel anything and there were x ray cameras that I could see showing what they were doing. That was fine, I could just close my eyes after all but the sounds? I couldn't avoid the sounds. Then, idk how long in, I started to feel pain. The numbing was wearing off and I could FEEL them digging around in there. But I'd forgotten how to speak. The doctors didn't know English and I couldn't remember any Japanese. The pain was too much, I was so cold, and I couldn't move. I started to panic. I was scratching at the bed with my good hand and twisting. I tried to speak but I didn't know how to explain what I was feeling. Everyone was panicking trying to understand what this wounded animal wanted to convey. Eventually I got out the word for "hurt" and the doctor started asking me questions. It was easy to say yes or no from there. They gave me more medicine and the pain went away but the fear didn't.

The surgery took longer than estimated but eventually it was done. They took me off the table, sweating but freezing, and put me in a wheelchair. My whole arm was red and purple. I'd never seen anything like it. It didn't belong to me. The nurse went to adjust my sling but the arm escaped, hitting the table with surprising force. They apologized but I couldn't understand why. That wasn't mine after all.

I thought the worst was over. Now I could just go to sleep and when I woke the pain would be much more manageable. But I couldn't sleep. My arm was on fire. It felt like I was clutching the sun to myself. It radiated heat. The night nurse gave me an ice pack and some medicine but it didn't help. What is an ice pack to the sun?

Eventually morning came and I was discharged. The worst was behind me now but there was so so much more ahead of me that I hadn't considered. I had to go to the doctor once a month for x-rays. I had to go to rehab for 3 months, 2/3x a week. All of the doctors were friendly and I got better little by little. But I was so depressed. I just wanted my life back, my time back.

I had friends, doctors, and coworkers to help me but at the end of the day, I was at home alone. That wasn't new, of course, but the pain was, the scar was, the lack of control in my body was. I realized that the desire I had as a kid was so misplaced.

Being sick or injured doesn't give you what you want. It's a fantasy. The reality is painful and scary. I have a support system but it's just that, support. They can't be there 24/7. At the end of the day, I can be alone with my good health or alone with bad health. I'd much rather have the former.

Me: You know how when you were a kid and you’d wish that you’d get sick or injured in a way that would justify why you didn’t live up to your potential?

Everybody, apparently: No?

[hannie-dul-set]

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline) — THREE.

SYNOPSIS. having fought tooth and nail out of high school, university, and law school, only to end up working for a law firm that basically serves as a clean up dog after the biggest organized crime group in the district, you thought you couldn’t get any lower than this. 

the bar is in hell, and yet you’ve managed to limbo six feet beneath that. alternatively— na jaemin is the personification of hell, and your very existence just makes him even worse than he already is. 

PAIRING. na jaemin x female! reader. GENRE. gang! au, lawyer! au, office! au, comedy, drama, romance, very light angst, this is a sitcom, hate to love(?), a somewhat questionable power dynamic, asshole! jaemin (my beloved…my kryptonite…) but he’s also an idiot, jaemin has an eye contact thing, inspired by the manhwas “weak hero” and “study group.” WARNINGS. an abundance of criminal activity (including but not limited to organized crime, fraud, blackmail, DUIs, unethical and illegal occupational practices, etc.), blood and violence, suggestive themes, eventual non explicit sex, jaemin with a tattoo, legal inaccuracies because i am not familiar with south korean laws, so i’m just using my own country’s as reference. also because this is just a stupid thirst fic. who gives a damn. WORD COUNT. 5.8k.

NOTE. there was supposed to be more to this chapter, but it’d end up being way too long so i reserved it for the next one. anyway, hope you enjoy your first week at nalkeutta. feedback and comments much appreciated. happy reading! NEXT CHAPTER TO BE PUBLISHED.

AFTER ONE ANGRY PHONE CALL, YOU FIND OUT MORE FROM MARK THE INTERNAL AGREEMENT BETWEEN JSS NALKEUTTA. Mark understands the precarious spot JSS is in, but can’t risk losing his major legal recourse whenever things get icky within his gang dealings. JSS recognizes the significant benefits it had been receiving by partnering with Nalkeutta, but this continued arrangement would be inimical in the long run.

So they came up with a very simple compromise. Nalkeutta will stop hiring lawyers from JSS if the firm simply hands over one of their lawyers to them, effectively cutting public ties between the two parties. However, Mark Lee will continue supporting JSS as a private investor, all while retaining the protection fee benefits that the firm has been enjoying thus far.

It’s a win-win situation for all. All except you.

You’re the only loser in this situation. These fuckers are tossing and trading you around like some sort of commodity.

“Are you happy that you’ve finally managed to poach me after all this time?”

Knowing very well how pissed you are, Mark offered to pick you up from your apartment. Today’s scheduled to be your first official day at Nalkeutta. He’s smiling in the driver’s seat of his fucking Bugatti, and it just makes you feel even shittier as your ass lands on the plush cushions of his unreasonably expensive car. “Seatbelt,” he simply tells you. You grunt and fasten it on. “I hope you’d change your mind about your transfer once you get a tour of our building.”

Oh, joy. A building tour. The best description for you and Mark in the car right now, driving down the sepia streets of Yeongdeungpo district, would be that of a chipper mom taking her angsty teen daughter to a birthday party, chin on palm, staring out the window and all.

He eventually pulls up to a tall, multi-windowed building. Very tall, wedged between two shorter establishments. You look at the towering building from inside the car, noticing the sign greeting you right above the well-mainted glass doors— Daybreak Security Company, it says. You release a scoff. Wow, what a disguise. 

Come to think of it, in the months you’ve worked with Nalkeutta, you’ve never actually been here before. Mark’s always the one visiting JSS, never the other way around, so there is the barest amount of curiosity here. “You can head in first and wait in the lobby,” he tells you. “I need to park this thing in the basement.” Your hand stops at the door handle, squinting back at Mark’s instruction. He laughs. “The staff are informed about your arrival. Most of them are out, anyway, so you have nothing to worry about.”

Dubious, but you don’t protest. Mark Lee stays hazarding by the sidewalk with one car window open, watching you as you make your way to the entrance. You tentatively look behind, only to be met by Mark’s close-eyed smile, waving a hand to prompt you inside the building. You grimace and spin your heels. What a psycho, you think, and you finally hear him restarting the car to leave once you’re already halfway through Nalkeutta’s doors.

Jeez. He and Doyoung are on the opposite ends of the boss spectrum— both equally despicable— but at least your former boss wasn’t as creepy or an active threat to your life. Heck, he was even a source of entertainment sometimes. You don’t think you can get away with the same disrespectful shit you’ve been pulling on Doyoung with Mark. The only reason why the latter has been letting you talk back so much is because he never saw you as a threat. Now that you’re in his territory, you can’t be so complacent.

Anyhow, you do as instructed and are currently waiting in the lobby, collecting curious stares here and there from an incorrigible amount of men coming in and out, and your best attempt at an impatient resting bitch face so that none of these fuckers try to talk to you is starting to be overcome by queasiness. When the hell is he coming back? You notice a group of guys in their early twenties whisper while sneaking glances at you from the corner— one of them you’re pretty sure you’d had to bail out before for a DUI.

Besides that glimmer of abnormality, the rest of the lobby is eerily normal, harboring the appearance of any other company office with potted plants and clean sofas and a receptionist corner. Granted, they are trying to pose as a very legal, very unsuspicious security company, but knowing what you know about Nalkeutta, it just makes you sick to the bones.

Eventually, Mark Lee shows up, emerging from the ground floor elevator near the couch you’ve been waiting on. You don’t even try to hide your annoyance. “Sorry, Had to take a phone call,” he says, smiling and sounding not very sorry at all while nudging you out of your seat. “C’mon, attorney. Let’s start the tour.”

You release a dead and pained groan. Mark pats you on the back for your enthusiasm, leading the way through.

Nalkeutta has four floors in total. The first floor is basically the entirety of Nalkeuta’s front— Daybreak Security Company, all decked out with an abundance of private meeting rooms for clients, consultation offices, and a bunch of flat out empty rooms labelled as storage, and bathrooms on each wing. There’s both a staircase and an elevator leading further up the floors or down to the basement parking lot. Mark says he’ll show you to your reserved parking spot later, and that alone is already tipping the scales between him and Doyoung on who is the better bad boss.

The second floor is reserved for the general office— divided into Nalkeutta’s four divisions and a common break area in the center, cushions and sofas already occupied by less than familiar faces. You don’t look at any of them and instead feast your eyes “You’ll also be stationed on this floor,” he tells you, smiling. “But we’ll save that part of the tour for last.”

Wow. You can’t wait to have another crowded cubicle sandwiched between roughed up gangsters who probably don’t know how to work a printer. Now that you think about it, it’s kind of uncanny that this notorious gang operates in a sterilized office setting. Mark Lee never fails to send you to the depths of discomfort.

“Now, to the next floor.” Up another level in the elevator are two very large conference rooms, an entire fucking gym area, and rooms and rooms of organized files and storages, each tightly chained with locks, but that’s not the point.

They have a gym here. There’s a freaking fully-equipped gym in the middle of all this corporate bullshit. Of fucking course there is.

“I’ll give you the keys to the locked rooms later,” he informs with a hum. “And you’re free to use the amenities up here.”

There’s no point hiding the sheer disgust on your face. “You’re offering me up to a biohazard chamber.” This is a male dominated building. You may be stereotyping, but you can’t imagine how hygienic these roughed up gangsters are. Mark always smells like baby lotion and fabric softener, but hospitals hide the smell of blood and death with a noxious amount of industrial chemicals and disinfectant. Look at him laughing at your repugnance. Evil, evil man.

“Alright, now let’s head up to the fifth floor.”

Riding up the elevator, you notice quickly that the uppermost floor has a lot less going on than the three below it. The first and only place Mark lets you enter is his private office— instructing you to knock thrice in case you have an urgent matter to discuss with him without informing him beforehand. The rest of the rooms on the floor are confidential, beyond your scope of authority.

He drops a set of keys onto your open palm. “But once you’ve worked with us for around three or four years, I might change my mind.”

It’s concerning how employee access to restricted information depends on the insane boss’s fickleness of mind. “Sure.” You pocket the keys. “Is there anything else I need to know?”

“Yeah,” he smiles. “Let me show you to your office.”

Your palm, still inside your slacks pocket, tightens around the keys. Office? No. No fucking way. Haha. He probably means just a cubicle. Your heart starts racing. Mark starts walking, and you hear the thumping in your ears coincide with your clacking heels against the hollow hallway. 

Office. Office. Your hopes are starting to rise up as the elevator brings you a level down. It dings. Mark leads you back into the fourth floor, and when you pass by the sets of cubicles divided in the open office area without your boss turning his head or stopping or even batting an eye— you start losing your shit. Holy crap. He stops in front of a close-doored room, interiors concealed by large blinds from the inside. 

There’s an acrylic placard attached to the door. It says Chief Legal Officer.

“This room is yours.”

When he opens the door, the first thing that greets you is the glistening name plate sitting parallel before you atop the sleek mahogany desk. 

It has your name on it. Gold. Avenir font. Engraved. Heavy enough to knock a man unconscious with one blow. You’re about to cry. Nevermind all that you said earlier. Fuck Kim Doyoung. Mark Lee is the best boss you could ever ask for.

“Hope the interior is to your liking, but you can change it up however you like.” 

That prompts you to actually take a look around, and holy shit— it’s almost as big as Doyoung’s office. There’s a substantial amount of organizers and cabinets. At the center sits a set of low, mustard settees and a small black coffee table to match. The floor is carpeted and lint-free. There’s a fucking mini fridge near the artificial potted plant in the corner. Your head snaps towards Mark. He laughs at your, speechless, open-mouthed, teary-eyed reaction to his surprise. 

“I’m guessing you’re satisfied with the office,” he says, looking like he’s about to say more but is interrupted by a silent buzz from his phone. He pulls it open, and his brows furrow for a split second. “Hmm. I still have to introduce you to Nalkeutta’s Executives, but something came up.” Mark pockets back his phone, and his usually pleasant expression takes over once more. “For now, I’ll let you get yourself settled in your office. I’ll send someone to pick you up in a while.”

The moment Mark Lee leaves the premises, you let out a scream, walk forward, drop down to your knees, and attempt to hug the entire length of your desk. 

“Oh my god,” you breathe out, cheek pressed against the cold surface of the red mahogany wood. “Oh my god, I’m naming you Savannah and you’ll be my new best friend.”

Savannah does not reciprocate your affections, but who gives a damn. You’re not sure how long you’ve been embracing your desk and inhaling the new office smell, but apparently long enough for someone to knock and push open your door with a sing-songy “Hellooo—!” The greeting quickly gets cut off the moment your widened eyes meet that of the intruder’s. Your knees are kissing the carpeted ground. Your head is cocked in a very uncomfortable manner in order to face the direction of the door— but not as uncomfortable as how the guy who just entered looks at the moment.

“Whoa, uh,” he double-takes. “Mark asked me to pick you up. You must be our new lawyer…?” 

You continue meeting the man’s gaze. You force your stiff shoulders back and slowly pull yourself up, patting down your pencil skirt. “Yes,” you start, promptly introducing yourself. “And you are?”

Very smooth. His gaze flickers down, making its way back up to meet your eyes— of which a wide grin starts to unfurl on his face. Your brow twitches. “Lee Haechan. Head of the Yoosun Department. My office is right across from yours.” He called Mark by his first name. Meaning, he must be one of his higher-ups. You wonder if it’s a Nalkeutta requirement to be rude and pretty in order to be promoted. “Nice to meet you, attorney. Seems like you’ll have no problem fitting right in.”

Haechan extends an arm for a handshake as if he didn’t just hit you with the worst insult you’ve been slapped with his fucking week. You respond with one firm shake before wiping the same palm against your blazer. 

He notices. You intended for him to notice. You beam at him with a smile. He’s still grinning, but slightly taken aback. “You’re fun.”

Mark has yet to orient you with the general organizational structure of Nalkeutta, but at the very least, there’s one thing you’re certain of.

“And you’re wasting time. What did Mark send you for?”

You answer to no one but him. Meaning, you’ve no reason to fake pleasantries with this Haechan guy. He barged into your office without waiting for admission. This guy needs to be taught a lesson.

“Oh, right,” he huffs. “He called us for a sudden meeting to meet the new head of our legal department, or something. I didn’t even know we had a legal department! Anyway, follow me, let’s head to the conference room. By the way, do you have a boyfriend?” The elevator doors close before you. You grace him with a response the moment he presses the floor button.

“You saw me in carnal embrace with my desk earlier. The only thing fucking me is my impending workload.”

Haechan chokes out a snorting laugh. “Holy shit,” he wheezes. “Is that a call for help? If so, I’m a pretty helpful guy.” 

You look at him, smiling. “Unless you’re a seventy-inch mahogany wood in width, I’m not interested.”

“Damn. High standards. I give, I give.”

You roll your eyes, taking the liberty of twisting the doorknob to the conference room before you. Your entrance is accompanied by a creak. At once, four sets of eyes immediately fall on you.

The first is the usual creepy ass gaze of Mark Lee, way too happy to see you. The next one is unfamiliar, covered by the glint of his glasses lens, but you don’t sense any animosity. The third is both blurry yet somewhat recognizable at the same time— a shiver down your spine when you meet his sharp glare. What the hell? This guy looks terrifying.

And the last one feels like walking back into a den that you swore you’d never return to. 

Na Jaemin’s eyes flicker up from his phone the moment you enter. You stifle a swear under your breath and shoot your gaze down. He flashes you a smile. Ah, fuck. Of course he’d be here. It totally slipped your mind thanks to the high from your new office and Lee Haechan trying to hook up with you. You’ve yet to judge whether or not a sick new office outweighs having to deal with this sick freak’s face every day. 

“Attorney!” he chirps from across the room, comfortably lounging on one of the office chairs lining the long conference table. A squeak accompanies every time the chair swivels from left to right, back and forth. “Long time no see.”

Yeah, you hoped it’d stay that way, but when did the scales ever tip in your favor? You swallow down any attempt of fear trying to break out and turn your head to the side. “Mark, what are we discussing?”

Standing at the head of the table, your new boss smiles at you. Not because of your flat enthusiasm. No way. He seems to be amused that you just ignored Na Jaemin point blank. “Ah, yes. I wanted to properly introduce you to our division executives and give you a briefer on the company.”

The annoying swiveling sound has stopped. You don’t dare look at that side in the room throughout the rest of the meeting.

“Alright, now that everyone’s here, let’s get started.”

Nalkeutta is divided into four divisions, and the other four brutes you’re trapped in this room right now are the executives of those four divisions respectively. You already know Na Jaemin is the man in charge of Ganghak. Lee Haechan has Yoosun. Glasses is introduced as Huang Renjun, who’s in charge of Hyeongshin. Big scary guy is Daehyeon’s Lee Jeno.

There’s a familiar ring to all of these division names. They’re all high schools in Yeongdeungpo. It starts to all make sense when Mark Lee tells you that this gang of his was founded nine years ago. 

Nalkeutta started as a juvenile gang by a bunch of fucked up high schoolers. And those schools continue to serve as breeding grounds for scumbags like them. This shit is insane.

“Hold on.” 

Your voice echoes, freezing the entire room. You narrow your eyes at the very comprehensive diagram of Nalkeutta’s organizational structure Huang Renjun is presenting up front on a laptop screen. 

“There’s something wrong with this.” You get up from your seat. You squeeze past Mark and Renjun, taking control of the touchpad to zoom into the upper part of the chart. Your name is underneath Mark’s, and on the same level as the four executives, but that’s not the problem here. “Why am I the only one under the legal department?” you lift your head up as you say this, eyes firmly locked into Mark. “Where are the rest of the lawyers?”

Mark Lee attempts to look apologetic and remorseful. “Attorney,” he starts, walking up. “You know well how hard it is for Nalkeutta to establish trust between our partners. We are in fact extremely grateful that we managed to get someone we trust very deeply to finally work with us directly.”

This son of a bitch. They couldn’t have at least pretended to give a fuck about your position.

How—how does he expect you to manage the legal affairs of this messed up organization all by yourself? Your blood starts to simmer. Fuck it, it’s already boiling, and you’re just about to blow up when Mark Lee opens his mouth before you could.

“Anyhow, let’s talk salary.”

Goddammit. This guy sure knows how to pacify you.

Jeno hands him a binded folder. He smiles and hands it over to you. “This is our employment contract. Let me know if you find any issues so we can negotiate, but the important part is here.” 

You glance down at the part of the page he’s tapping. Yearly salary. Your eyes fly wide open when you see the numbers on the page.

150,000,000 KRW. 

Your head shoots up from the folder. You look at him like he’s joking. He isn’t.

“Does this meet your standards, attorney?”

Motherfucker. First, a new office. Now this. It’s like he wants to strip you from your rights to complain.

‎*‎

Your first job under Nalkeutta is accompanying Huang Renjun to a client meeting in Yeongdeungpo’s Chinatown.

“Good to have you around, attorney.”

Well. Client meeting is a stretch. The quote-unquote client is a mixed-martial arts gym under Hyeongshin that’s been paying protection fees very diligently until last month. Hyeongshin’s grunts were sent to sniff around the other week to see what was up, and the owner of the gym was caught rendezvousing with a Cheongang under the bridge connecting Yeongdeungpo and Map.

Cheongang. If Yeongdeungpo has Nalkeutta, Map is controlled by a different gang called Cheongang. You don’t have much intel on them, save for the fact that this district was once part of their territory until Mark Lee came into the picture. Needless to say, the two gangs don’t have the most amicable relationship. This is going to be less of a client meeting and more of a beatdown for sure.

“Why am I even here?” you grunt in the car on the way to your destination. Huang Renjun is scrolling through his ipad as he sits next to you. He’s kind enough to respond to your mindless grumbles.

“Having a lawyer around is always useful,” he simply says. “Mark says this is your first exposure to the organization’s operations. You don’t have to do anything. Just observe.”

You peer at the side mirror and look at the other two Nalkeutta cars trailing behind this one. Huang Renjun is actually a lot nicer than you expected. Considering your first introductions to Nalkeutta were Na Jaemin and Mark Lee, this guys is a breath of fresh air.

The air turns rancid the moment you cross the paifang gate, and you watch as all hell breaks loose at the Rongyu Mixed-Martial Arts Gym at four in the fucking afternoon.

“Gijeol-ah I thought we had a relationship!”

You wince at the sound of Renjun’s voice.

“How could you cheat on us with these ugly Cheongang pricks?”

The gym’s doors are closed, but there’s almost a dozen people guarding it— all looking like they’re one second away from jumping the nearest person and beating the shit out of them. A few moments later, the door rattles open. A head pops out. He looks like he’s about to crap his pants.

“You— you Nalketta fuckers ask for too much shit! How could you raise the protection fees overnight? That’s not fucking fair!

You really feel like you shouldn’t be here, but for once in your life, you feel pretty thankful that there are lines and lines of tank built men surrounding you as a protective shield.

“Well, it’s part of the contract you signed, Gijeol-ah! This is your fingerprint isn’t it?” Renjun taunts further, holding up a contract before tapping on the bottom right page. “If you were having trouble, you could’ve just gone to me directly. Hyeongshin is pretty understanding, you know. We even let you off with just a warning last time when you were three months late in paying your loans. You should’ve been grateful that you’re not under Ganghak or Daehyeon.”

Nevermind. You no longer feel safe. You hear the nearest Hyeongshin guy next to you crack his knuckles. Another one starts warming up. You won’t be surprised if one of them is currently frothing at the mouth.

Huang Renjun drops his hands down. He sighs and hands you the contract. 

“But you went off to stab us in the back, Gijeol-ah. Unfortunately this is as far as my understanding extends.” 

You briefly skim over it. Wow. Mark Lee put work into this. It’s vague enough to bypass statutory limitations. They’re using Daybreak Security Company as the legal entity to ensure the contract’s validity. You see a few questionable provisions that might void this contract. And that’s gonna be your job to fix. Lucky you.

“You— you can go and shove your understanding up your ass! I’m sick and tired of Nalkeutta’s bullshit!”

“You’re breaking up with us? That’s too bad.” It’s starting. Huang Renjun lands a hand on one of his men’s shoulder. “Give me a call once you’re done.”

With that, they start to move forward. Renjun walks up to you and you hear a yell and the sounds of fists being thrown the moment he spins you around and prods you to the opposite direction of the noise. Various thuds and screams flood you from behind, the sounds of bones crushing and bodies crashing getting dimmer as you both continue to walk back to the car. 

“You hungry, attorney?” Huang Renjun asks. “I know a good dim sum place nearby.”

“Wait, what the fuck, hold on,” you stop. He turns to you, brow raised. “We’re leaving? Just like that?”

Renjun narrows his eyes. “What? You want to watch that disgusting mess?”

With that prompt, you hesitantly turn around, and there you see a Nalkeutta guy swinging a metal bat straight into the ribcage of one Cheongag grunt. Oof. You wince. What a waste of a good sunset.

“I don’t fight. What’s the point of having men working under you if you won’t put them to good use?” The both of you make it back to the car. The driver inside greets Renjun, and the latter waves him off. “But if it’s a hard job, then I just transfer the case to Ganghak or Daehyeon. Usually Ganghak. Most of those guys are just like their psychopath of a boss.”

Yeah. This guy isn’t normal, either. What did you expect? At least he’s polite to you.

You slide into the backset. “Dim sum sounds nice.”

“Great.” He follows not long after, leaving an instruction to the driver. “Take us to Mama Hong’s.”

Renjun was right. Mama Hong has a killer dim sum selection, and you’d bookmark it on your maps if this place didn’t remind you of a massacre that’s currently ongoing. You can’t exactly enjoy your pork buns to the fullest knowing full well that someone’s head is getting bashed in right now. The silver lining is the fact that Huang Renjun is a good conversationalist and has not once called you a bitch nor tried to get in your pants in the past two hours that you’ve been with him. 

He’s a pretty cool guy. He joined the gang for money because he was a dirt poor immigrant in high school but then at one point he realized he was in too deep to quit.

It’s good to know you’re both stuck in Nalkeutta because you treasure your lives. It’s like Mark Lee has an invisible loaded gun perpetually pointed at your heads. What a way to bond in solidarity.

The sun had long set when Renjun received the text that the job was done. “Let’s go,” he tells you. “Two hours of overtime is good enough.”

See, this guy speaks your language. 

It takes another twenty minutes to get back to the Nalkeutta building, jotting another extra hour on your DTR. Meaning three total hours of overtime pay. Fucking amazing. If things continue speeding at this rate, then you won’t be entirely miserable working here. You’re already walking out the sliding doors of hell and thinking about harvesting your crops the moment you get home— but that’s exactly the moment the world decides that you haven’t filled your daily quota of dread yet.

“Attorney.”

Goddammit. You should know by now that the moment you think things are going well, god’s just gonna immediately spit in your mouth and tell you to enjoy it.

Na Jaemin lights the cigarette between his teeth, embers cascading onto the ground only for a good second before he stops on it to flash you a smile. “Took you fucking long enough,” he says. “Come with me. New recruits screening.”

Your brows furrow. When you don’t move for ten seconds too long, Na Jaemin’s smile drops.

“Mark’s orders. Notarize their contracts, or some shit.”

For fuck’s sake, you just clocked out. Disgruntled, you force your body out of its frozen state and you hear the psycho walking in front of you mutter something under his breath— something you’re not curious enough to find out. He leads you to a parking garage just a few blocks away, and it’s at this moment that you realize that maybe he lied to beat the shit out of you without anything knowing.

That fear is shut down when the dim, flickering lights of the rundown garage reveal seven teenage boys standing in one line as if they’re about to run a military drill. They’re all wearing Ganghak uniforms. This is some kind of sick mockery.

“Alright, you fucking maggots.”

Jesus christ. The way you flinch at Na Jaemin’s voice is purely instinctual— something that hasn’t been deeply ingrained into the seven boys before you, it seems, because they continue standing stiff and still with their chins up as Na Jaemin saunters up to them. He fishes something out from his pocket. You squint. It’s a car key. He clicks on it. You wince, a sudden glaring of lights from behind the boys.

“There’s only one car. There’s seven of you.”

You hear his voice speak as your vision readjusts.

“Get to it.”

Hold on a second.

“Hey, hurry the fuck up. Why aren’t any of you moving?” Your mouth gapes. You watch the realization slowly sink into the seven faces in front of you— an expression that Na Jaemin doesn’t share because more than anything, he looks pretty annoyed right now. He lets out a grunt and flicks his wrist up to check the time. The look on his face when he drops it back down is enough to send at least three of the kids stuttering. “If no one hits the ground in three seconds, you’re all fucking death for wasting my time. One. Two. Thr—”

The sound of a knuckle hitting a jaw. You shut your eyes and look away. 

There’s nothing enjoyable about watching a bunch of teenagers beating the shit out of each other, but your co-worker seems to fashion a different opinion. “Whew.”  A nasty grin spreads on his face, just as one of the boys drops onto dusty cement, no sign of getting back up any time soon. “One down. Can’t wait for this shitshow to be fucking over.”

You’re horrified as you look at him, but that’s the problem— you’re looking at him, and this doesn’t go under his notice. 

Na Jaemin locks into you. He tosses his unfinished cigarette behind and traps you into an unwanted conversation. “We haven’t seen each other in a while, attorney,” he starts with a hum. “You haven’t even spared me a hello since you got here. It’s almost like all those weeks we spent in prison together are nothing to you.”

Even if you want to talk to him, what the hell are you supposed to say to that?

You resign by flitting your eyes to the side and looking away. You hear a scoff and the sound of a lighter click, followed by the reintroduction of his foul cigarette smoke wafting through the air around you. “Want a hit?” he asks. You grimace. You get a feeling that he won’t appreciate being ignored a third time. So you force an answer out of your suffocating throat, and you try your best to make it entertaining so he doesn’t sock you in the face for being dull and boring.

“No, thank you,” you quickly say. “I intend on dying from heart failure, not from my lungs collapsing.”

He lets out a huff. You almost mistake it for laughter. “Either way, you die.”

“That’s true, but I don’t want my breath smelling like rot before the rest of my body does.”

Silence. Uh-oh. You’re met with a prolonged silence, followed by the click of his tongue and you notice him tossing the second cigarette like the first one, a little less willingly this time. God. There’s no place for your eyes around here. In front, there’s a teen battle royale and to your left is a bastard who gets triggered by eye contact. There’s nowhere for you to look but down, and even then you can still hear the cacophony of pained groans and punches hitting.

“Had fun on your little excursion with Renjun?”

Why the fuck is he trying to make small talk now? “A bit. He didn’t force me to watch a massacre and treated me out to dim sum. It was great.”

“Hah.” 

The hairs on the back of your neck jolt.

“Ain’t that pretty fucking nice.”

Why the fuck is he mad about that?

You snap your head up, about to look at Na Jaemin, but your attention is pried off from him when you hear the gravelled roar of one of the Ganghak students in front. Your eyes blur from the whiplash— then you notice one boy battered with deep heavy breaths, standing above his fallen peers. His eyes are wide. There’s multiple bruises on the visible parts of his skin. The weight of your worry is trumped by Na Jaemin’s sheer apathy.

“I—I did it,” the boy breathes out. “I did it, hyung-nim.”

Na Jaemin looked like he was just watching his favorite show earlier. Now he looks like he can give less than two shits about what this kid had just pulled off. “Name.” You can never fucking figure him out.

“Sion…Oh Sion.”

He grunts. “Yeah, congrats, whatever.” He tosses the car keys to the ground. It lands next to one of the writhing kids groaning in pain. “Now get lost.”

Na Jaemin’s heels turn back and he quickly starts walking away. You’re flabbergasted. Your feet move one way, then quickly reverse. What the fuck. What are you supposed to do now?

“Hey!” You catch up to him, still looking back at the sight you’re leaving behind. “We’re leaving already? Doesn’t the kid need to sign a contract?” He’s walking way too fast. He leers at you with an annoyed grunt and starts walking even faster.

“I don’t have it. Fuck, whatever, he can do that shit tomorrow.”

“What?” It comes off as a screech. “I thought Mark asked me to be here!”

Na Jaemin suddenly stops. You bump into his shoulder and stumble back with a swear. When you draw your breath in to look up, you see that Na Jaemin is already looking at you with an intensity that burns away all the venom out of your throat, leaving nothing but silence behind.

“Mark didn’t say shit,” he spits out. You think he’s about to toss you into the nearest dumpster, but then you notice a wrinkle between his brows. It’s deep. It’s troubled. And then he lets out an exasperated groan. “Whatever.” 

Na Jaemin stomps away, leaving you in the dead of night to figure out what the fuck just happened.

‎*‎

Before making it back home to your apartment, you stop by a public phone booth to call an ambulance to the scene of the altercation. This is way too much overtime for your first official day, and the last hour wasn’t even paid because you already clocked out before Na Jaemin lied to your face just to make you watch a teenage fight right and throw a tantrum at the very end with no fucking explanation.

Needless to say, it was an eventful day. It gets even more eventful when you reach the door of your apartment, about to key in your passcode, until you notice a piece of paper sticking out from underneath the door gap.

Your brows knit together. You snap a picture of it before slipping it out of the door and finally letting yourself in, dropping your work bag onto the floor of your entryway to examine what had been lodged into your apartment.

It’s an envelope. A cream colored envelope with a few smudges on the paper.

You open it. You couldn’t be less prepared with what you’re about to read.

You’re fucking dead, bitch.

Wow. Now a literal death threat. It’s almost as if you’re not allowed to catch a fucking break.

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline). © hannie-dul-set, 2025.

[vibelladonna]

❛ 𝑔𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝓍 𝑔𝓃!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Half a brutal week of finals, your idea of short recovery is simple: horror games, dim lights, and your boyfriend Sol breathing in your ear through voice chat like he isn’t actively trying to ruin your focus. It was supposed to be just another cursed indie night — you, the monster, and a few well-aimed insults...

...until Sol’s reactions hijack the match entirely. One death screen, one whispered apology, and one desperate Discord call later, and suddenly you’re the one getting hunted — not by pixelated nightmares, but by your very real, very flushed, very wrecked boyfriend begging for your attention like his life depends on it. Turns out, surviving finals was the easy part.

…Surviving him? Yeah, good luck with that.

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒��𝓉: soooo, on April 7th, while I was supposed to be studying for my psych and chem midterms, I stumbled across some [ art ] by @bonw0n — and yeah, I was this close to dropping everything to write this immediately. I behaved… mostly. Might’ve snuck a few "study breaks" to get some of it out. I’ve seen others write for this request too, so here’s my take — hope you love it, dearest.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: sol x gn! reader, smut, masturbation, voyeurism, mutual pining, voice kink, begging, desperate sol, one-sided voice chat (at first), tension so thick you could choke on it, accidentally turning him on, slight corruption kink if you squint, dirty thoughts two idiots falling harder than they realize, and sol is down bad and it’s so funny.

April is hell for college students. fucking tell me about...

Anyone who says otherwise has either dropped out, is lying, or majors in something unserious like something dumb—underwater basket weaving.

It’s exam season—a month-long bloodbath where coffee becomes a food group, sleep is theoretical, and your notes look like they were written by a madman mid-breakdown. You’ve been living in libraries, buried in color-coded flashcards and PDF textbooks you don’t even remember downloading. Your backpack weighs more than your will to live, and your playlist? Just sad lo-fi beats and the occasional mental breakdown.

But you did it.

You clawed your way through a few of your finals already, each one more cursed than the last. You turned in essays with hands that felt like claws, circled scantron bubbles like your life depended on it. And when the last “Submit” button was pressed today—you didn’t cry.

You almost did. But instead, you stared at your ceiling for twenty minutes contemplating existence… then decided to not kill yourself with another night of studying.

Tonight? You earned a break. And your poison of choice?

Well, overall, after exams, most people do one of three things:

Talk about the exam like it was a shared war trauma.

Vanish the second time’s up—those lucky bastards just evaporate into thin air.

Crash into bed, possibly start crying because of overthinking. Bonus points if you start crashing out.

Then there’s the rest—out at some crusty frat party, doing keg stands like their brain cells aren’t already on life support. Or sparking up until they’re spiritually ascending, eyes redder than the F they just got in psych stats. But not you.

Oh no, you? You’ve got taste. Elegance.

Horror Video Games.

And not the cute, fluffy kind either. You’re not out here playing some "build your dream town" simulator, collecting adorable animals with quirky little personalities who talk about their feelings. Nope, not you. You're not clicking through endless dialogue trees in a visual novel where every decision leads to either a hug or a heartbroken confession—though, let's be real, you’ve totally dipped your toes in those a couple of times. It's fine. No one's judging.

But nope, you're deep in the muck of horror.  The darker, the better. 

The more twisted, morally questionable, and "I probably shouldn't be playing this at 2 AM" the story is? That's the kind of game you're downloading like it’s got a bill overdue. You don’t need to sip on some overpriced vodka. You don’t need to hit the vape and pretend you’re too cool for life.

What you need is pure, unfiltered psychological trauma in 1080p.

Forget a chill evening—you want to feel like your mind might short-circuit at any second. You need the cozy glow of your LED lights bleeding across a desk littered with energy drinks and half-functioning headphones. You need your haunted little playlist of indie nightmares and "this game is banned in 12 countries" storylines.

This is your version of therapy. Replacing exam stress with the emotional damage of a pixelated ghost child whispering from behind a locked door.

There’s just something magical about sinking into your chair like a sentient blanket burrito, headset on, game booted up, and letting the real world dissolve into static.

Just you, the dark, and whatever fresh hell is waiting around the next virtual corner to emotionally ruin you. Again.

That was all you could think about during your god-awful fifty-minute-long lectures—well, that and how your professor’s voice sounded like someone chewing chalk while reading a textbook aloud. Especially on your longer days, where it felt like your brain was actively trying to escape through your ears or your eyes get heavy—despite sitting right up front of the class you deadass fall asleep in the middle of lecture…

Still, you powered through. Took notes. Faked interest. Dodged a group project like it owed you money. You even hit the library for a hot minute, pretended to be productive, and then finally dragged yourself back to your dorm like a half-dead NPC on a quest for salvation.

First stop? Food. 

You threw something questionable-but-edible into the microwave leftover take out you ordered yesterday and stared at it like it held all the answers to your suffering. Greasy, hot, probably taking a year off your life, but comforting in a ‘screw it, I survived today’ kind of way.

Then came homework. Ugh. 

You sat down, cracked open your laptop, and forced yourself to speed-run your assignments like you were defusing a bomb. Brain on autopilot. Tabs everywhere. Safari sounded like it was about to take off with your laptop. But you got it done—somehow. Whether your answers make sense? Always, make sure to check everything before you turn in, timestamp and all.

Then finally—finally—you hit the shower.

The hot water came down like it had a personal vendetta, absolutely obliterating your stress, your regrets, and possibly your skin barrier. You just stood there, letting it scald you like a rotisserie chicken, steam turning your bathroom into a sad little sauna with zero luxury but maximum existential crisis.

You hummed. You danced. You nearly slipped. You played that one song—the one you’ve been listening to on loop for days like it’s the soundtrack to your life’s fake documentary. You know, the one that starts off giving you chills and ends up giving you a migraine once your brain decides it’s time to ruin it. Classic move.

Then you stood there longer than you needed to, contemplating your next victim in the horror game queue. Real priorities.

Afterward showering, you did your usual post shower routine then you pulled on your favorite set—something soft and chill but definitely showing more skin than necessary. But who were you trying to impress? No one. You just liked how your blanket felt better that way. Priorities.

Besides, the whole point was to feel the warmth of your blanket better. You wrapped yourself in it, a cozy cocoon, and sank into your gamer chair, legs tucked beneath you, heart already settling into that familiar rhythm.

Your desk was a beautiful kind of chaos—lived-in, deliberate, curated for comfort and carnage. At the center of it all stood your mid-sized monitor, propped on a stack of mismatched textbooks like some sacred relic. It bathed the room in soft, moody colors, its screen already alive with the eerie flicker of the horror game’s menu.

Game boxes were stacked like grim little trophies on your shelves, each one a memory of a night spent half-screaming and half-laughing, usually with Sol on the other end. 

Twisted monster figurines stared blankly from their perches, arranged meticulously from “mildly unsettling” to “this one gave me a complex.” And the posters? Cult-classic psychological thrillers and cursed films—tattered at the edges, warped slightly by years of devotion. They stared back at you from the walls, their looming silhouettes shifting every time the screen flashed with static or movement.

Your gamer chair was a throne, worn-in just right—soft, broken in by years of sleepless nights and stress-fueled gaming binges. Draped across it was your oversized blanket, the one that swallowed you whole and made you feel like a cryptid rising from a cocoon. There was something sacred about that chair. It knew things. It had been with you through exam week breakdowns, existential dread marathons, and now, it was your command post.

Your controller was resting on the desk beside you, waiting.

The game was already launched, the lobby open, and your headset nestled comfortably over your ears. The built-in proximity voice chat was activated—just you and Sol in your own little bubble. The room was quiet but not silent. The faint buzz of the monitor, the gentle hum of your fan, the occasional creak of your chair when you shifted—it all became part of the ambiance.

And right on cue… Sol was already online.

His username—pumpkinlover00—pulsed softly in the game lobby like a heartbeat. Waiting. Always waiting. Same time, every night. Like a ritual. Like a promise.

There was no need for a message. No awkward small talk. No fumbling attempts at icebreakers. You two had long since passed that stage. This was muscle memory now—deadass unspoken rhythm built on laggy screams, ill-timed reloading, and the electric hum of shared adrenaline.

You reached for the controller, the soft click of your grip syncing perfectly with the moment his voice crackled through the in-game chat.

“Yo,” Sol murmured, his tone rough and low like he hadn’t spoken all day—maybe he hadn’t.

You grinned, stretching out in your throne of a chair and tugging the blanket tighter around you. “Yo yourself,” you said, thumbing through the loadout menu lazily. “By the way… when were you gonna tell me your gamertag was pumpkinlover00?”

There was a few seconds of silence.

Then, a sigh. The kind that screamed regret.

“It was a dare,” Sol said, as if that explained anything.

You snorted, already grinning as you adjusted in your seat, “Yeah, okay. But pumpkinlover00, though? Be honest. Did you also bake it a pie and whisper sweet nothings to your jack-o-lantern?”

“You keep talking and I will leave you mid-extraction,” he warned, dry as dust.

“Do it. I’ll tell everyone in the dorm that you made a shrine out of pumpkin guts and played Linkin Park while crying.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t just tell them,” you said, spinning your controller in hand with flair. “I’d make PowerPoint slides. Full color. Transitions. Soundtrack.”

He groaned, however you heard the little snort of laughter he tried to bury. Then his eyes landed on your own in-game tag floating proudly above your character’s head: DumpsterSnacc_.

“…You named yourself after trash food,” he muttered.

“Excuse me? I named myself after a rare and powerful snack born in the fires of poor life decisions and gas station cuisine. I am the forbidden flavor.”

“Sounds like you were found in the dumpster.”

“Bold talk from a guy whose username sounds like a seasonal candle from fucking grocery store.”

He laughed at that—low, sudden, genuine. “Alright, alright. Let’s see which one of us gets ghost-murdered first.”

The game flickered to life with its usual guttural startup scream, the kind that sounded like it had regrets and 3 unpaid debts. Your mission scrolled across the screen in grim text, paired with a deep voiceover that could narrate your funeral.

You selected your loadout: flashlight, flares and, of course, your unshakable sense of superiority.

“Alright, Pumpkin Spice,” you said, cracking your knuckles. “Ready to yank some haunted toaster ovens outta Satan’s basement?”

Sol chuckled. “Lead the way, Snaccrifice.”

The screen cut to black. And the horror began. Eveything loaded in with an unholy screech—part static, part radio distortion, part something that sounded like it came from a throat that shouldn’t exist.

You and Sol had just booted up the latest co-op indie horror hit: R.E.P.O. session. A physics-heavy, proximity-voice nightmare where you and a friend sneak into abandoned, rotting buildings to repossess cursed artifacts... all while being stalked by something that learns how you play.

Smart. Fast. Shapeshifting. The kind of monster that knew your patterns better than your therapist. Naturally, you both took it dead seriously. It was so serious, in fact, that your characters were dressed like absolute clowns. Literally.

You had picked grey skin with the bright neon outfit, oversized heart sunglasses, and an inflatable donut ring as a belt. Sol, not to be outdone, went full chaos: Green skin, a banana suit, and ski goggles, paired with bright orange gloves. His character model moved like a confused mall Santa.

“I swear to god,” he muttered through the proximity voice chat, distorted by digital reverb, “if we die looking like this, I’m logging off forever.”

“No you’re not. You're emotionally attached now,” you replied, confidently stomping your ridiculous pink boots toward the first hallway.

You’d already picked your roles.

You were the lead retriever—the brave idiot who runs in, grabs the cursed junk, and throws it back like it’s Black Friday at a pawn shop.

Sol? He was the cart dude—your ever-loyal partner who stayed behind just far enough to avoid immediate death, but close enough to catch whatever hell you flung his way.

He pushed the in-game collection cart behind you with janky, glitchy physics, the wheels squeaking like it was haunted by a grocery store demon. You turned around dramatically, forcing your character model to do a sudden 180.

Because the game used proximity-based voice chat, this also forced your character and Sol’s to make deep, intense eye contact. Eye contact that was only made worse by the exaggerated googly eyes stuck to your sunglasses. “Alright,” you said in your Serious Voice™, stepping forward with authority.  “Game plan.”

Sol’s character nodded, “Hit me.”

“We’re hitting the west wing first. Storage room. There's an artifact in there worth at least $1800 in-game bucks. Probably cursed. Probably breathing. I’ll go in, grab it, scream if I die. You stand back, push the cart, and if something runs at you, throw it my way and run.”

There was a pause.

“That’s… that’s your plan?” he asked.

“It’s a working plan.”

“It’s a dumbass plan.”

“It’s our dumbass plan.”

You both stared in silence again, your avatars breathing heavily, noses almost touching on screen. Sol finally sighed. “I hate that I trust you.”

“I hate that I’m the brains of this operation.” You smirked, turned on your flashlight, and marched forward.

The darkness swallowed you both whole. 

Behind you, the sound of a cart creaking along… and the soft jingle of a banana suit bouncing into the unknown.

You were just finishing loading a creepy little porcelain baby head into the cart—its painted eyes were scratched out and it laughed when you dropped it, so that was great—when the game's staticy radio pinged.

Incoming call.

Username: Hyugo_WasHere

You froze. So did Sol.

“No,” Sol said immediately, full volume, the word sharp enough to slice the tension. “Do not answer that.” Too late. You were already clicking accept.

The call connected with a loud, cheerful “Yooo! Pumpkin Boy! You in that haunted IKEA game?”

You grinned. “Hyugo, you tryna R.E.P.O some haunted junk with us?”

“Am I?” he said. “Am I ever. I’ve been watching Sol’s stream on Discord on mute for like ten minutes. Sol’s scream when the mannequin fell was a chef’s kiss.”

“It fell from the ceiling,” Sol hissed. “And it grabbed my shoulder. You would’ve screamed too.”

“I would’ve shot it,” Hyugo replied flatly.

Sol groaned, already defeated. “I swear to god, if he logs in—”

“He’s already at the party,” you said casually, watching the character list update.

A second later, a new player spawned in the safe zone, cyan color. And dressed like a goddamn menace. Hyugo’s avatar was in tight metallic leggings, a sparkly vest, and a jester hat with bells that jingled with every movement. His character moved with the swagger of someone who wanted to be shot first.

“Why are you like this?” Sol muttered.

“Stealth is a suggestion,” Hyugo declared, spinning in place.

“You’re going to get us murdered,” Sol added.

But you? You were already laughing. “Let’s go, Yessss, let’s go team. The ghost’s not ready.”

As the mission progressed, the building changed. Literally.

The layout shifted the deeper you went, doors that led to supply closets now opening into winding hallways, entire wings that didn’t exist in the beginning of the match suddenly sprouting up like tumors. The wallpaper pulsed. The ceilings dripped. Somewhere in the distance, something screamed like it had teeth where lungs should be.

You, Sol, and Hyugo pushed on. Slowly, methodically.

You led the charge, grabbing cursed relics and slapping them into the cart with casual violence. Sol stuck close, flashlight flickering, cart wheels creaking, muttering price estimates like a haunted appraiser.

Hyugo, despite all odds, actually helped. He wandered ahead with a scanner, pinging valuable loot and joking in proximity chat about how your footsteps sounded like wet noodles. “$1200 mirror up here,” Hyugo called once, voice crackling. “Probably possessed. Can I make it kiss itself?”

“No,” you and Sol said at the same time.

Still, you were doing fine. 

The cart was getting full. The radio said Extraction Ready in 3 Items. You were winning. So, you split up briefly—Sol stayed behind with the cart while you moved into a shadowy side room to grab what looked like a golden antique camera. It was twitching in your hand as you placed it in the cart with a clang.

That’s when Sol ran in. Not walked. Not jogged.

He sprinted in like something was directly behind him, eyes wide, headset audio crackling with his panicked breath. “Gun.”

You looked up. “What?”

“Gun!” he barked again.

“Dude, what—?”

“GUN!!” He was just repeating it now, flailing his arms like his in-game model was having a seizure. “BIG—GUN—HE HAS A GUN—”

“Who has a gun?!”

“THE BLIND GUY!!” Sol whisper-shouted. “HE ALMOST SHOT ME!”

You blinked, slowly crouching. “You mean the monster has a gun? Like an actual gun?”

“Yes! A fucking shotgun. Like He’s blind, but he’s got aimbot—he hears you, and just—” Sol mimed a gun recoil. “Pop. Dead. No warning. No build-up. Just excellent ass hearing and bullets.”

You snorted. “So what I’m hearing is: don’t make noise.”

Because the Blind Huntsman was coming.

The cart was half full, sitting between the overturned desks and office rubble. You had all scrambled to hide, moving fast as the soft, dragging footsteps of the Huntsman echoed from the hallway—his boots heavy, and his breath sharp, unfiltered, like someone breathing through shredded cloth.

You dove under a busted-ass metal table in the middle of the room, the thing barely standing on three legs and draped with old-ass hanging wires and paper folders that probably hadn’t been touched since the building caught its first haunting. The light was dim, pulsing like a dying heartbeat from some emergency light in the hall. Dust settled thick on the floor, the smell of old rot and burning metal clinging to the air.

Across from you, Hyugo’s stupid cyan avatar ducked under another table, practically hugging the wall like some horror-movie goblin. He looked so ridiculous in that clown-ass outfit y’all let him pick, and the way he moved just made it worse—jerky, crouched, twitchy, like someone who was definitely going to get caught first.

And then there was Sol. Goddamn Sol. Man had one job—hide. But instead of tucking under a desk like a normal person, he panicked and wedged himself behind the door. Behind. The. Door. Like the Huntsman wasn't gonna swing it open and yeet him into next week.

Earlier, before shit hit the fan, he had said all calm like, “I’m gonna scope the hallway next. The cart’s almost full. Let me just—wait, hold on—” His mic clicked. That dreaded click.

You knew something was wrong. So did Hyugo. 

Both of your avatars shifted ever so slightly—tense, alert.

Then Sol said it. “I’m getting a call.”

You silently screamed. Huygo’s shoulders went up like “no way this idiot’s serious.”

You hissed, “Sol, no—”

But he said it. Out loud. “Hello?”

The door didn’t creak open. It detonated—BOOM.

The sound rattled your headset so hard your mic peaked. Splinters flew, chunks of drywall exploded like confetti, and dust swallowed the whole room. The screen shook like a natural disaster, and you actually jumped IRL, heart hammering. Sol’s body got flung back like a ragdoll—slammed straight into a metal filing cabinet, bounced, and crumpled like a puppet with cut strings. It was the worst-looking hit you’d ever seen in-game. Just flopped there, half-folded behind some drawers.

And yet… somehow… the bastard lived.

He slowly sat up, stunned as hell. Twitchy, like he had just experienced every lifetime trauma at once. His mic crackled in all staticky, and he muttered: “…what the fuck.”

You were dying. Not in-game. In reality. Trying so hard not to lose it. Your whole body was trembling from how bad you wanted to laugh. You slapped both hands over your mouth and held them there like a makeshift muzzle, eyes wide, shoulders shaking.

You peeked out at Sol’s avatar.

He was looking dead at you.

And you felt it. The shame. The betrayal. The comedy. Whoever coded that eye tracking in this cursed game deserved an Oscar. Sol just sat there, traumatized, and stared at you like “you saw that, didn’t you?” And yeah. Yeah, you did. And it was the funniest shit you’d seen all week. Then Hyugo’s dumbass peeked out too.

Hyugo peeked out from his hiding spot—real slow, real cautious—and locked eyes with Sol first. Sol’s avatar, still slumped against the cabinet like a traumatized Victorian ghost, stared back. No words. Just… the kind of look that said "Don't you dare."

Then Hyugo turned and looked at you. Your own avatar, tucked safely under the rust-ridden desk, met his gaze with the same energy. A silent pact. Do not make a sound. Not a breath. Not a giggle. Not even a pixel twitch. 

And Hyugo? He was trying, man. He really was.

You could see it—his character model shook slightly, his shoulders giving that telltale twitch. Like he was holding in a sneeze. You knew the warning signs. The snort was coming. And then—“Pfft.”

CRACK.

The Blind Huntsman didn’t even hesitate. Didn’t pause. That cursed bastard snapped around the second he heard the slip. One single shot. Pinpoint. Surgical. Hyugo’s head went supernova. Cyan body parts everywhere. His avatar’s body slammed into the edge of the metal table with this sickening clunk, arms flailing once before collapsing in a stiff, horrifying ragdoll motion. His limbs twitched for half a second… then silence.

Just the head left. Rolling. 

Like the Huntsman said, “shut the hell up” with extreme prejudice.

Dead. Instant. No revive. No second chances.

The man got deleted like he owed the server money.

You were fully biting down on the sleeve of your hoodie now, hands over your face, trying not to scream with laughter. Shoulders shaking, breath hiccupping through your nose like a possessed hamster. Your eyes were stinging from how hard you were crying—silent tears of pure, uncut chaos.

Sol’s mic crackled again, dry as hell. No emotion. Just raw judgment. “…I hope you get haunted, bro. I really do.”

You couldn’t even answer. You were beyond words. The cart you were supposed to be pushing? Yeah. You just stared at it. Like maybe if you focused hard enough, you could will the mission to complete itself.

And the Huntsman? Still there.

Pacing slow. Heavy boots echoing through the static haze. He hadn’t forgotten. Not about Sol. Not about you. He was still walking. Still waiting for someone to slip up. And you could feel it—He was pissed.

You and Sol managed to slip out while the Huntsman circled the wreckage, still checking corners like a paranoid ex. You bolted left, Sol darted right—no words, just instinct and pure panic-fueled coordination. Both of you were half limping, half sliding into the hallway, ducking behind the rusted lockers and broken shelving until the Huntsman's heavy steps grew distant.

There was a long, quiet beat once you were safe.

Then—“…Did we just leave Hyugo’s decapitated ass in there?”

You stared at Sol. He stared back. Then you both turned to look at the cart you’d spent ten minutes loading, still sitting abandoned in the middle of the room next to Hyugo’s... head. 

“Motherf—”

The next ten minutes were pure stealth-game agony. Crawling back, avoiding cameras, sensors, trying not to alert any monster. You had to watch the Huntsman loop its route three times before Sol gave you the go-ahead. He moved to the body. You got the cart.

Teamwork, right?

Eventually, you loaded the final files, got the cart into the hallway, and hit the extraction point with barely a second to spare. The screen faded to black.

Round complete.

The next scene dumped the three of you back into the familiar starting truck. Same cramped space. Same dim, flickering fluorescent light humming overhead like an anxious fly. The air in the truck felt heavier than before, like it still remembered the chaos from the last round.

Sol stood in the corner, arms crossed, glaring at absolutely nothing with the weight of every bad decision Hyugo had ever made. You were perched on one of the benches, legs pulled up, hoodie sleeve still a bit damp from when you nearly choked on your own laughter earlier.

And then there was Hyugo.

His avatar spawned in silently, just standing there for a long second like he was processing his own digital funeral.

Then he exhaled like someone twice his age. “…damn, I got clapped.” 

That was all it took.

You started laughing again, that quiet, breathless kind that rocked your shoulders and made your stomach hurt. Hyugo cracked up beside you, doubling over, no shame at all.

“Who the hell answers a phone call in the middle of a mission, bro?” you snorted, elbowing his character like it could knock some sense into him.

Sol didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. Just slowly raised his arm and pointed at Hyugo like he was pressing a mental “report player” button.

“That's what your ass get,” he said flatly. “Prank-calling me mid-hide with your creepy-ass burner number? You deserved that karma in 4K, dumbass.”

Moving on, the next map flickered into existence as the truck doors groaned open. Bright, sterile white lights cut through the foggy interior, revealing a massive abandoned science lab, all clean metal, reinforced glass, and flickering emergency signs that suggested terrible things had happened here. The air was thick with strange green mist hissing from the vents, swirling in ghostly patterns around overturned desks and shattered containment pods.

Hyugo was still sprawled on the floor from his latest brush with death, groaning dramatically. You and Sol stepped over him like he was part of the scenery.

"Science lab, huh?" you muttered, adjusting your gear.

"Great," Sol sighed. "Haunted test tubes. Love that."

Hyugo finally pushed himself up, grinning like he hadn’t just been yeeted toward acid twice in the last five minutes. “Oh, y’all are gonna love this.”

He opened his inventory with a smug flourish, the soft chime echoing like a game show reveal. And there it was:

The Hourglass.

Not just rare—stupid rare. Glowing in vibrant shades of purple and pink, pulsing slightly like it had its heartbeat. The mist around your group even seemed to freeze for a second, as if reality itself was like, wait, what.

You and Sol both just stared. At it. At Hyugo. Then, back at the Hourglass, like you were waiting for a hidden camera reveal.

“You found that?” you asked, taking a cautious step forward.

“Yup,” Hyugo said proudly, hands on his hips. “Just vibing in the vents. Found it near a corpse. Thought it was lore or something.”

Sol blinked like a tired professor dealing with the world’s most dramatic intern. “Hyugo.”

“Yeah?”

Then it happened.

Hyugo’s model jerked slightly, like a status effect triggered, and when his mic crackled back to life, he was no longer speaking like Hyugo. No. Now, he was channeling something deeper. Something ancient. Something theatrical.

He straightened up with cartoonish grandeur and spoke in the slow, wise tone of a final boss monologue. “Sunny,” he began—Sol’s cursed nickname—“I have acquired… the capsule.”

You blinked. “The what?”

“The capsules. Of time. The very essence of fate distilled into radiant fragments. This—” he gestured dramatically to the Hourglass, “—is our salvation. Our burden. Our destiny.”

Sol deadpanned. “…You’ve been holding it for three seconds.”

Hyugo ignored him. Spun on his heel with dramatic flair. “We are going to win this game. For the realm. For the vent corpses that came before us.”

You crossed your arms. “Hyugo—”

“If it means I have to sacrifice my life…” Hyugo continued, raising one hand to the digital ceiling like a knight accepting a divine quest, “so be it. Let my KD be shattered. My dignity obliterated. My outfit scuffed—”

Sol raised his weapon slightly. “Don’t tempt me.”

Hyugo gasped. “You would turn on me now, Sunny? After all we’ve been through? After I carried you through that cursed stairwell map with the glitchy ass doors? Have you no heart?”

You tried not to laugh. Failed.

“Onward, you two!” Hyugo declared suddenly, pointing dramatically at the truck doors as they creaked open to reveal the misty lab ahead. “We must go! For glory! For loot! For Sunny’s tragic lack of skills!”

Sol muttered, “I have skills—”

“SILENCE! The prophecy unfolds!”

And with that, Hyugo bolted forward, cape fluttering—he didn’t have one, but you felt like he did—into the ominous green mist, yelling something incoherent about “ether trails” and “data packets of destiny.”

You glanced at Sol. Sol glanced at you.

“I’m not reviving him when he gets face-checked by a mimic chest,” Sol said, voice flat as asphalt.

You tilted your head, smirking. “You know we’re following him anyway.”

“…Yeah. I hate that,” he muttered, already moving.

Without a second of hesitation, Sol opened his inventory with the resigned grace of someone prepping for a ritual he swore he wouldn’t take part in. One swift flick later, he pulled out the gun—the gun. Sleek, matte black, gold trim. The kind of in-game weapon that costs 7,000 currency, your soul, and your firstborn. Came with a single magazine and a kill count higher than most player stats.

Your eyes widened. “Sol—”

Before you could even finish your sentence—BANG. 

Hyugo collapsed like a folding chair. A single headshot. Dead. Instant. No fanfare. His body rag-dolled across the floor and slammed into the lab wall with a sad little clunk, the Hourglass clattering beside him like a dropped Fabergé egg. “…WHAT THE HELL?!” Hyugo’s mic exploded back to life as his model twitched on the floor.

You exhaled. “What the helly?”

Hyugo groaned. “What the helly??”

“What the helleante?” “What the helleon musk?” “What the helleberry pie?”

“What the Hellebron James?” “What the Helly Rae Jepsen?” 

“Guys.” Sol’s voice cut in, calm but worn, like a man hanging by a single thread of patience. “Shut the fuck up.”

He walked over, still holding that overkill gun in one hand like it weighed nothing, then, without missing a beat, used the grab function to hoist Hyugo’s limp avatar off the ground. His digital arms dangled, legs flopping like a sack of potatoes in skinny jeans. “Bro—BRO,” Hyugo shrieked, squirming. “Put me down! What are you doing?! SOL—Sol stop—STOP—”

You trailed after them, watching like an exhausted parent witnessing their two chaotic ass sons take very different approaches to conflict resolution. 

“Sol. Come on.”

Sol’s avatar stopped just at the edge of the glowing, toxic pit bubbling in the middle of the containment zone. The green light cast eerie shadows across the lab walls. He slowly turned his character model, head cocked toward you.

One word. “Justice.”

“BRO I’LL BUY YOU A SKIN,” Hyugo screamed. “A WHOLE PACK! LIMITED EDITION! I’LL PAY FOR IT WITH MY OWN CURRENCY—”

Sol took a step closer to the pit. Paused.

Hyugo whimpered. “Please don’t Wario-yeet me into acid, I’m useful…”

Another step. The acid hissed below, eager. Hungry.

You raised a hand like a referee about to blow the whistle. “Sol. We do need him to activate the switch in the next room. You remember the puzzle door.”

Sol sighed, heavy and reluctant. “I hate teamwork.”

Hyugo, still dangling: “I LOVE teamwork.”

After a long moment, Sol dropped him. Hyugo screamed like a dying fax machine as his avatar plummeted toward the acid below—arms flailing, mic peaking—until you lunged. Frame-perfect grab. Caught him by the hoodie just before he splashed into the bubbling green abyss. His scream cut off immediately. For a second, the whole game seemed to lag, his body glitching mid-air as you held him up like some divine intervention.

Silence. Then: “—Y-you saved me,” Hyugo breathed.

You dropped him. He hit the floor with a loud thunk.

"Don't thank me," you muttered, brushing off your sleeves. "I just didn't wanna hear that scream again."

Hyugo groaned, rolling onto his side. "You two are bullies."

Sol casually reloaded his gun. “You’re welcome for the content.”

Hyugo sat up, rubbing his digital head like he could still feel the gunshot. “I’m getting a new squad.”

"You say that every round," you smirked, already scanning the lab. Beyond the glowing acid pit, the corridors stretched into eerie, sterile hallways, the green mist rolling between shattered glass panels. 

Oh, yeah—and the rest of the game? Oh, it completely fell apart. What started as a semi-coordinated dungeon crawl quickly devolved into Hyugo’s personal chaos playground.

You were trying to play with some semblance of focus. Sol was attempting to maintain professionalism, a beacon of composure in the chaos. And then there was Hyugo, who effortlessly turned the entire game from a tense "sci-fi horror dungeon crawl" to a wild, unhinged improv comedy show—complete with light war crimes.

He was a menace. No—he was the menace. A digital gremlin incarnate. One moment, you’re creeping down a shadowy lab corridor, the eerie hum of the ambient music seeping into your headphones, the air thick with tension. You’re on edge, weapons ready, your mind focused on the mission at hand… and then—BOOM.

Big Sean’s “I Don’t F*ck With You” intro explodes through team chat, its intro blaring like a furious soundboard god had just unleashed chaos upon you. You whip around the corner just in time to see Hyugo, arms flailing, sprinting full speed through a doorway, the music pounding in the background. Behind him? A grotesque, duck-shaped miniboss, honking like a malfunctioning bike horn and spewing acid everywhere.

You couldn’t help it. 

You were dying from laughter, struggling to even aim properly, your screen a blur from tears of hilarity.

Sol, on the other hand?

“TURN IT OFF,” he growled, weapon drawn, hands visibly shaking with frustration. His usual calm demeanor? Gone.

Hyugo didn’t even flinch. “I WOULD RATHER DIE!”Instead, he leapt. A full-on swan dive off a second-story catwalk, arms spread wide in dramatic, angelic fashion, while the music still blared through the speakers. His avatar ragdoling gracefully down to the depths below, and that ridiculous duck miniboss followed right after.

You? Hysterical. Barely holding it together.

Sol? “I hope it eats him.”

The only thing more ridiculous than Hyugo's antics was the fact that you all still couldn't stop.

The next round? It was a complete disaster.

You were trying to maintain some semblance of control, moving stealthily through a high-alert containment zone. Alarms blared in your ears, the shrill sound slicing through your focus. Enemies were everywhere, ready to pounce at the first sign of trouble. Sol was on point, carefully lining up a perfect shot on a sniper perched high in the rafters. It was the kind of moment that made you feel like you were finally in control.

And then, suddenly—LOUD BABY CRYING.

The mic exploded with static, the shrieks vibrating through your headset. You froze, your camera whipping around to see what the hell was going on. There, crouched behind Sol, was Hyugo.

And he wasn’t even doing anything. He was just vibing. No weapons, no tactics. Just existing, silently in the corner. 

The worst part?

Every time you looked directly at him, he shot off like a rogue NPC with a death wish. His character zigzagged around the hallway, darting every which way, a trail of baby wails following him like an ominous echo through the halls. It felt like you were being haunted by the ghost of daycare past, each screeching cry more absurd than the last.

Sol's jaw was clenched so hard you could practically hear his teeth grinding together. He spun on you, his frustration practically palpable. “I’m this close to uninstalling.”

You shrugged, not even bothering to hide your grin. “Let him live. He’s the only one distracting the minibosses.”

Sol’s glare could’ve burned a hole through steel. “He’s distracting me.”

Of course, things didn’t get better.

You were one artifact away from completing the mission. 

Going back for the legendary Hourglass. 

A cursed, time-warping relic that everyone knew was crucial to the final steps. You had made it this far, fighting tooth and nail to stay alive, to push forward. The whole mission had come down to this one piece.

Sol exhaled slowly, trying to keep it together. “Alright. Where’s the Hourglass?”

Before you could even answer, Hyugo shot up from the corner where he’d been hiding, far too excited. “Ooh! I’ll get it!”

You and Sol both said it in unison. “NO.”

You pointed at him, voice firm. “I’ll get it.” 

You sprinted off, cursing under your breath as you dashed through the corridor, praying to every god in existence that Hyugo wouldn't somehow decide to follow you and make the situation even worse. The last thing you needed was him trailing behind you like a damn toddler in a toy store, causing chaos at every corner.

When you finally returned, panting, gripping the eerie-looking relic in your hands, you were met with a sight that made your blood boil: Hyugo, standing atop a console, looking absolutely delightful in that damn ugly seasonal cosmetic hat.

He spun around like he was auditioning for a low-budget action movie, and before you could even blink, he started blasting the most obnoxious clapping sound effect. His character mimicked a ridiculously exaggerated movement, like he was giving backshots to Sol's and yours.

That was it. You were done.

No more laughter. No more tolerance for his nonsense. The mission was right there, within reach, and yet here he was, ruining everything with his antics.

You slammed your hand down on your mic key. “Hyugo, what the hell is wrong with you?” you growled, voice dripping with annoyance. “You can’t be serious. Every time we get anywhere, you turn this game into a circus. We’re not here to play dress-up and throw sound effects around. This isn’t a comedy show!”

You glared at him through the screen, fury bubbling up. “I’ve been trying to finish this mission for hours, and all you’ve done is run around like a damn gremlin, causing chaos and wasting everyone’s time! I swear to god, if you don’t knock it off—”

Hyugo, of course, just stood there, you knew for a fact that he’s grinning like an idiot behind his fuck ass character. The last shred of your patience snapped. You looked at Sol’s character on the screen, knowing he was feeling the exact same way. Sol’s normally calm demeanor was clearly strained, but he wasn’t saying a word.

“Hyugo,” you seethed, “I’m done. Just—get out. If you can’t take this seriously, then don’t waste our time. You’re a walking distraction and a complete menace. Maybe if you stopped playing clown, you’d actually be useful for once.”

Without waiting for any kind of response, you spun around in your seat, fingers slamming against the buttons in a blur of frustration. The shot rang out, and with a satisfying pop, Hyugo's avatar’s head crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

There was a long, tense silence. You were still fuming, but you didn’t care anymore. Hyugo was out of your hair. The relic was in your hands. The mission was finally going to be over.

Or so you thought.

Then, out of nowhere, his voice crackled through the mic, calm and far too chipper. "Alright, I’m logging off for the night," Hyugo announced, as if he hadn't just spent the last hour turning the game into a goddamn circus. "I’m gonna play something else. This is... yeah, this is too much for me."

You blinked, taken aback. He was serious? After everything? You were half-expecting him to jump back in and say, "Just kidding!" or somehow start another round of chaotic shenanigans. But no. This time, he wasn’t even bothering to tease Sol. No baby were crying sound effects, no loud meme noises blaring through the speakers, no swan dives off catwalks. 

You let out a long sigh as the weight of the chaos slowly lifted from your shoulders, but just when you thought you could finally call it a night, Sol shot you a look that could only be described as a challenge.

“Don’t tell me you're actually done,” he said, a smirk creeping into his voice. “Come on, it’s late, but we’re so close. You’ve gotta finish the level with me. I dare you.”

You raised an eyebrow. You were exhausted, physically and mentally. 

The idea of continuing felt like a cruel joke, but you knew one thing: Sol wasn’t backing down, and he had a way of wearing you down with that competitive streak of his. "Fine," you muttered, giving in. "But if I regret this in the morning, I’m blaming you."

Sol gave you a look through the camera—equal parts smug and tired triumph—as you queued up a new level, eyes bleary but still gleaming with challenge.

“You sure?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, stretching like a smug cat. “This one’s deep in the DLC vault. Real freakshow hours.”

You smirked, fingers already flying across the controller. “Bring it on, coward.”

What loaded next was an obscure, borderline-broken DLC map—one of those buggy, cursed messes made by a dev who clearly needed therapy and a hug. Everything about it was off: the lighting was dim and sickly, the corridors were way too narrow, and worst of all, voice proximity was cranked up to hell. It didn’t just pick up speech. It picked up breathing.

Neither of you noticed it right away—until Sol whispered a dumb joke and the monster twitched on the screen.

“Oh hell no,” he muttered, sitting up straighter. “This thing reacts to voice pitch?”

You hummed, too tired to even laugh properly. “Mmhm. Screeches at loud noises, tracks whispers like a bloodhound.”

“Great,” he deadpanned. “So basically, I die if I sneeze.”

You forged ahead anyway, navigating through the maze of twisted hallways and creaky floorboards. The monster’s guttural growls kept brushing up against your nerves, but your exhaustion forced you into a kind of laser-focused calm. Your voice dropped lower, slower, softer—soothing, unintentional, intimate.

“Go left,” you murmured. “No—wait... not yet... okay, now. Stay close to the wall.”

There was silence on Sol’s end. Long, uncomfortable silence.

“Why are you... whispering like that?” he asked, voice a little thinner now.

You didn’t even look up. “Monster hears pitch. Screams attract it. I’m trying to not to get us murdered.”

“Sure,” he said, and then quieter, “It’s just... wow. Okay.”

Another corridor, another wave of tension. You were crouched behind a rusted shelf, heart thumping, flashlight flickering like it had stage fright, as the game’s monster—this twitchy, multi-limbed freak that sprinted at sound—skulked somewhere nearby. 

You leaned into your mic, voice steady, low, breath soft. “Hold your position… grab the crowbar… don’t move… until I say so.” Smooth. Silky. Calculated.

And then—“Sol?” Nothing.

“Sol?” Still nothing.

You peeked down the hallway just in time to see Sol’s in-game avatar standing completely still like some tragic mannequin left in a post-apocalyptic mall. Just… chilling. No movement, no reaction—man really just decided to embrace the void mid-mission. Then, out of the shadows, the monster shrieked like a dying lawnmower and launched itself at him.

“SOL—WHAT THE FUCK?!”

You screamed his name like he’d walked into oncoming traffic. His character didn’t even flinch. He just stood there, stoic as hell, right until the monster decapitated him with enough force to send his character’s head flying halfway across the screen like it owed him money. 

“Oh my god—SOL, YOU DIED, YOUR HEAD—YOUR FUCKING HEAD WENT INTO THE SKY.”

Still no response. 

Just the sound of the monster doing a victory screech and your own mic picking up your frantic panting as you became the hunted next. Now it was your turn to run. You booked it, chart in hand, tripping over half-looted shelves and whispering panicked commands to no one. You were not about to leave those high-priced relic items behind. No way. That shit was worth more than your character’s life, and you were committed.

You could feel the vibration through your controller ramping up—like it was trying to match your pulse. The sound of claws scraping concrete got closer. Louder. 

Then—“Nnnh…” A noise. Quiet. Way too quiet. But there.

You froze mid-run. “Sol?” No answer.

“…Are you—are you for real jacking off right now?!”

A pause. Then, barely audible through your headset, a low mumble:

“Keep talking… please,”

“I AM IN A GAME, YOU SICK LITTLE FREAK! THERE IS A DEMON CENTIPEDE THING TWO FEET BEHIND ME—I AM FIGHTING FOR MY LIFE—AND YOU’RE TRYNA BUST?!” 

The controller was still buzzing in your hands like it had a personal vendetta. Maybe it was the in-game monster. Maybe it was your own nerves. Or maybe—just maybe—it was Sol, breathing way too hard in your headset and dragging your sanity down with him.

And the worst part? It was funny. Because you'd forgotten—actually forgotten—you were even dating him. You were so used to Sol being somewhat mean, clingy, pouty, and generally up in your business that his little habits no longer register. Until now. Until this very cursed match. Because this? 

This was a whole other level.

Just when you rounded the next corner—BAM. The monster dropped from the ceiling vents like it had a grudge, tackled your character, and splattered your health bar in one hit. Your screen flashed a dramatic, unforgiving red:

YOU DIED.

You blinked at the screen. Jaw slack. Controller limp in your hands.

“…Are you kidding me?” you said, voice cracking. “I just got jump-scared to death because you decided to moan in my ear like we’re in some low-budget audio drama.”

Nothing. Just silence. Then, his mic crackled.

There was rustling, a shift, the soft sound of movement, and then Sol exhaled. Shaky. Like he’d just run a marathon—or committed a sin.

“I-I’m sorry,” he muttered, breathless and too soft for comfort. “I couldn’t help it. Your voice… it was driving me crazy.”

Your face went hot. Neck, ears, everything. You curled your toes on instinct. That stupid familiar twist of heat hit your stomach before you could even think to shut him up.

“Sol,” you hissed, but it came out more like a whimper.

“I—can we switch to Discord?” he asked suddenly, almost desperate. “Please, please, Pumpkin. Just for a sec. I need you to see what you’re doing to me.” He begged, using said nickname.

Your heart stuttered. 

You weren’t proud of it, but the way he begged—soft, needy, breath catching like he was barely holding it together—yeah.

You were a little turned on.

Fine. Maybe more than a little.

You stared at the screen, still frozen on your defeat, the red YOU DIED taunting you like it knew exactly why. The headset felt suddenly too hot on your ears, like it was echoing back his voice over and over again. Your fingers flexed around the controller like it owed you an explanation.

“Sol, we’re in the middle of a game,” you muttered, but the protest was flimsy, half-hearted at best. Because let’s be real, your fingers were already flying to open Discord with the kind of speed that betrayed just how curious you really were. How desperate, aww.

“Then quit it.” His voice was a rough whisper, thick like honey poured over gravel, dark and syrupy-sweet. “Quit the game. I don’t give a damn if it’s ranked, or cursed, or if the final boss was personally designed by the devil anymore. I just need—”

A low, broken groan tore from his throat, vibrating through the call and sending an electric shiver straight down your spine.

“—need you to look at me.”

And when the video call connected?

God. You looked. And you immediately regretted it.

The screen flickered to life, and there he was—Sol, wrecked and breathless, like he’d been fighting for control and lost. His black and neon-green hair was a disheveled mess, sweat-damp strands clinging to his forehead. His shirt was rucked up past his hips, revealing the sharp cut of his abdomen, the tantalizing dip of his V-line—like he’d gotten impatient, like he’d been touching himself just thinking about you—well, of course, all he thinks about is you after all.

Bruises littered his skin, dark and possessive, marking him up in a way that only made him look wilder, more feral. His red-orange eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowing the color, glassy with desperation. His hands trembled where they braced against his desk, mic discarded like even that was too much to hold onto.

“You did this,” he accused, voice raw, wrecked. A confession. A prayer.

Your throat went dry. Heat flooded your veins, crawling up your neck, your cheeks, your ears—everywhere. You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to sting, just to keep yourself from whimpering.

“You’re insane,” you breathed.

Sol nodded, feverish, eager. “For you? Every damn second.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out shaky, breathless. “We were just gaming—”

“No.” His voice dropped, sharp and dangerous. “You were gaming. I was trying not to lose my goddamn mind listening to you—your threats, your fucking voice, whispering curses like you were trying to ruin me.”

“I was not!” you protested, weak, already squirming. 

“‘I’m gonna shove this bat so far up your undead ass, you’ll respawn with it sticking out your mouth,’” he quoted, verbatim, voice dripping with accusation. His gaze burned into you, unwavering. “Tell me that wasn’t filthy. Tell me you didn’t know what you were doing.”

You swallowed hard. “Okay,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe that one was a little hot.”

His grin was wicked, triumphant, as he leaned closer to the screen, like he could taste your surrender. “So,” he murmured, voice dipping into something dark, hungry, “still think we’re finishing that match?”

Your cursor hovered over “Rejoin Game.”

Then, with a slow, deliberate click, you closed the tab.

“…I hope that monster knows it died for a very good cause.”

Your breath hitched as Sol leaned back, his fingers hooking under the hem of his shirt with a slow, deliberate smirk. "You wanna see more?" he taunted, voice dripping with sinful amusement. "Then say it."

Your lips parted, heat coiling low in your stomach as you narrowed your eyes. "Take it off. Now."

A sharp, breathy laugh escaped him as he obeyed, dragging the fabric up and over his head in one smooth motion. His chest was perfectly—toned, flushed, his pierced nipples glinting under the dim light of his room.

You hadn’t noticed before, but each one was adorned with a small silver med-sized bars, the metal catching the light as his breathing quickened. "Fuck," you muttered, biting your lip. “Aww, you’ve been hiding these from me?"

Sol’s grin was all teeth. "Not hiding. Just waiting for you to ask."

Your gaze raked over him, lingering on the way his stomach tensed as he shifted, his fingers toying with the waistband of his pants. "And what else are you hiding, huh?" you challenged, voice dropping into something darker. 

"You gonna show me everything, or do I have to make you?"

A shudder ran through him at the command, his pupils blown wide. "Fuck—" His fingers trembled as he undid the button, the zipper sliding down with a hiss that sent a jolt straight to your core.

And then—"Holy shit."

Your eyes locked onto the glint of metal there, nestled along the length of his cock, a delicate Frenum piercing tracing from the tip down to the flushed, aching pink of him. He was big, thick, and heavy in his hand as he gave himself a slow stroke, the silver bead catching the light obscenely.

"You—" Your voice cracked. "You’ve had this the whole time?"

Sol’s breath came in ragged bursts, his free hand gripping the edge of his desk. "Yeah," he admitted, voice wrecked. "Thought you’d—ah—like it."

You did. God, you did.

“Play with yourself,” you ordered, rather quickly—voice dripping with dark command, leaving no room for hesitation. “Let me see how pathetic you look when you’re desperate for me.”

A sharp, wounded whine tore from Sol’s throat, but his hand obeyed instantly, sliding down his stomach to wrap around his cock—already hard, already dripping, the metal of his Frenum piercing glinting under the dim light. His fingers moved in slow, torturous drags, his breath hitching as he squeezed just the way he knew you liked to watch.

“Fuck—fuck—” His hips jerked, chasing his own touch, his thighs trembling. “Tell me—” he gasped, voice wrecked, “tell me how I look.”

You leaned closer to the screen, lips curling into a cruel smirk as you drank in the sight of him—his black and green hair sticking to his sweat-slicked forehead, his pierced nipples pebbled tight under your gaze, his abs flexing with every ragged breath.

“Like a whore,” you purred, low and filthy. “All these piercings, all these pretty little decorations—just for me to look at, huh? You like showing off? Like knowing I’m staring at your cock and thinking about how mine it is?”

Sol moaned, high and broken, his free hand flying up to pinch and twist at his nipple, the metal barbell catching the light. His back arched off the bed, his whole body shuddering. “Yours,” he gasped, voice cracking. “Always—fuck—always yours.”

You watched, transfixed, as his fingers moved faster, his strokes turning messy, needy. His other hand kept playing with his nipple, tugging at the piercing just to hear himself whimper, just to feel something sharper.

And God, you were losing it too.

Your thighs pressed together, trying to relieve the ache building between them, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. Not when you could see the way his cock twitched in his grip, the way his stomach muscles clenched as he got closer. Not when you could hear every broken gasp, every bitten-off moan.

Your mind raced with want—with the desperate, clawing need to have him here, in your room, on your bed, begging for you to climb into his lap and ride him until neither of you could think. 

You imagined his rough, massive hands dragging down your body, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he whined into your ear. You could almost feel the heat of his skin under your palms, the way his muscles would tense as you traced every scar, every bruise, every inch of him.

And his piercings—fuck. 

You wanted to lick them, to bite down just hard enough to make him gasp, to suck his nipples until they were red and swollen. You wanted to taste every part of him, to sink onto his cock and feel that Frenum piercing drag inside you, hitting every perfect spot until you were both sobbing.

But most of all?

You wanted to see those eyes—those obsessive, red-orange eyes—locked onto yours as he came undone beneath you, whispering your name like a prayer.

"Be careful with yourself, pretty boy," you murmured into the mic, voice dripping with false sweetness—but the tremor in your breath gave you away. Your fingers slid between your thighs, slow, teasing, just enough to make your hips twitch. "Wouldn’t want you to break before I’m done with you."

"Sol," you breathed, voice dripping with sin as your fingers traced slow, teasing circles over your own skin—just watching the way his eyes darkened, the way his breath hitched when you bit your lip. "You have no idea how badly I want to touch you right now."

His throat bobbed, his grip tightening around his cock like he was barely holding on. "Fuck—tell me," he begged, voice already wrecked.

You tilted your head, letting him see the hunger in your eyes—the way you ached for him. "I’d start with your face," you murmured, dragging your fingertips down your neck, mimicking the path you’d take on him. "Kissing you so deep you forget how to breathe. Then your neck—" 

Your teeth grazed your lower lip, just imagining the way he’d shudder. "Biting you just how you like it. Gentle? Or hard enough to make you whimper?"

Sol’s hips jerked, a broken sound escaping. "Hard—fuck, please—"

You smirked, dragging your nails down your chest, watching his gaze follow every movement. "Then I’d take my time with these," you purred, rubbing your own nipple just to watch him lose it. "Your piercings—god, I’ve thought about them so much. The way they’d feel against my lips, cold metal and hot skin. I’d tease you until you were begging me to move lower."

His breath came in ragged pants, his hand moving faster, desperate. "Lower—where—?"

You let out a slow, sinful laugh. "Guess." 

Your fingers trailed down your stomach, lower, lower, until his eyes burned with recognition. "Oh, Sol," you sighed, voice thick with want. "You liar, such a bad boy. All this time, you never told me about this." 

You licked your lips, imagining the weight of him, the way that frenum piercing would feel pressing against your tongue. "I’d take my time tasting you, savoring every inch—until you were shaking, until you couldn’t stand it."

Sol’s back arched, his free hand gripping the edge of his desk like he was about to snap. "You—you knew—?"

‘No," you admitted, your own fingers slipping between your thighs, moaning softly at the contact. "But I dreamed about it. About how it’d feel when you fucked my throat, when that little metal bar hit the back of my tongue. You’d try so hard to be good, wouldn’t you? But I’d make you lose control. Make you push deeper, until I was choking on you—until you came so hard you screamed."

He let out a strangled groan, his thighs trembling. "Or—fuck—or you could ride me," he gasped, his voice raw with need. "Take what you want, use me—‘

You cut him off, “Fuck—fuck—fuck—“ 

Your breath hitched as you rocked against your own fingers, Sol’s blown-out, filthy gaze locked onto you through the screen. He was watching—watching every twitch of your thighs, every shuddering gasp, every slick, desperate stroke of your fingers. And God, the way his lips parted, his chest heaving, his cock twitching against his stomach—like he was made for this. For you.

"That’s it, pumpkin," Sol groaned, voice wrecked, his fingers digging into his own thighs as he fought not to touch himself yet. "Look at you—fuck—look at you, taking yourself apart just ‘cause I’m watching."

You whimpered, arching off your gamer chair, your free hand fisting the blanket. "S-Sol—"

"Tell me," he demanded, his voice rough, needy. "Tell me what you’ve been thinking about. What you dream about when you’re pretending to focus on your goddamn finals."

Your hips stuttered. Fuck.

"Y-You—" you gasped, your mind spinning with him—Sol, yours, always yours, forever yours—jumping on him, riding him, your mouth around your cock as you ordered him to take it and be still until he was sobbing your name. Or maybe him pounding into you—vice versa if you have to be honest, his thick cock splitting you open, filling you up so good, so perfect, slow and deep one second, then brutal the next, fucking you senseless until neither of you could think—

"Fuck, Sol—!" You bit your lip hard, your thighs trembling. "I—I want you—inside—want you to fucking ruin me—"

A sharp, punched-out moan tore from Sol’s throat, his hand finally—finally—wrapping around his cock, stroking hard, fast, like he couldn’t hold back anymore. "Yeah? Where?" he growled, his hips jerking up into his fist. 

"Tell me exactly where you want me, pumpkin—"

"E-Everywhere—" you whined, your fingers working faster, your body burning. "My mouth—my hole—fuck, just—fill me up, Sol, please—"

"Fuck—" His head tipped back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. 

“J-just you—fuck, you cumming so deep inside me—gonna make me drip with it—" You moaned, loud and shameless, your climax crashing into you like a fucking tsunami—and just as you came, shaking, screwing your eyes shut, you heard Sol break.

Sol’s breath hitched, his rhythm faltering. "I’m—I’m close—"

You locked eyes with him, your own pleasure coiling tight, unbearable. "Then come," you demanded, your voice a dark, delicious command. 

"Come for me, Sol. Let me hear how much you need this."

And when he did—when his whole body shook, when his voice broke into a desperate, pleading cry—"Ngh—pumpkin.”

His back arched off his chair, his cum flying—literally hitting his camera with a wet splat, his cock pulsing in his hand as he kept stroking, milking himself through it, his moans filthy, pathetic, perfect.

"Shit—look what you did—" he panted, his voice wrecked, his cum streaked across the screen like some kind of obscene trophy. "Fuckin’—everywhere—"

You laughed, breathless, your body still buzzing. "Mmm… should’ve been inside me instead."

Sol’s eyes darkened, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Next time," he promised, his voice low, dangerous, "I’ll make sure none of it goes to waste."

Then, with a smirk that sent a fresh jolt of heat straight to your core, he leaned closer to the camera—and licked a stripe right through his own mess.

"Fuck," you breathed.

Sol just grinned, his lips glistening. "Better than video games?"

You groaned, throwing an arm over your face. "Shut up."

He laughed—warm, bright, yours—and you couldn’t help but smile.

The screen between you flickered with the remnants of what just happened—Sol’s chest still heaving, his lips parted, his skin flushed down to his collarbones. You both just breathed for a second, the air thick with satisfaction, the kind of exhaustion that curled warm in your stomach.

“Fuck,” Sol muttered, voice rough, dragging a hand down his face. “We’re gonna have to clean this shit up.”

You snorted, stretching lazily, your muscles loose and tingling. “Your camera’s never gonna recover.”

He glanced at the mess streaked across his lens and groaned, but there was a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Worth it.”

You both took a second to recover—him wiping his screen with the hem of his shirt, you grabbing tissues to clean yourself up—moving in comfortable silence, the kind that only came when words weren’t necessary. When the heat between you spoke louder than anything else.

Then, softer: “Exams fucking suck,” you sighed, flopping back onto your chair, legs still trembling slightly.

Sol huffed a laugh, rough and warm. “Tell me about it. I think my brain’s just soup at this point.”

“Same.” You grinned at the ceiling, still feeling the ghost of his gaze on you. “But at least we’ve got this.”

“This?”

“Yeah. This.” You gestured vaguely between you, as he shifted in his seat, giving you another glimpse of his toned stomach, the way his sweatpants rode low on his hips. “The games. The dumbass voice chats. The… other stuff.”

There was a pause.

Then, so quiet you almost missed it—

“This is the only part of the day I actually look forward to.” Sol admitted.

Your breath caught. “…Yeah,” you murmured after a beat, voice softening. “Same.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was loaded—warm and electric, like the air right before a thunderstorm. Then Sol broke it, his voice dipping into something teasing but dangerously sincere.

“Your voice is dangerous, you know.”

You laughed. “Why? ‘Cause it almost got you killed in-game?”

“No.” His tone shifted, low and deliberate. 

“Because I think I’m kind of into it.”

“Oh my god—” You grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it across your room, your face burning.

Sol laughed, the sound bright and unguarded, and you could picture him—sprawled back in his chair, smug as hell, that lazy grin playing on his lips.

You both laughed it off—mostly—but when the moment settled, neither of you moved to leave the call. The screen stayed open, Sol’s heavy-lidded gaze still fixed on you, lingering like he was memorizing every detail.

Fuck. The night couldn’t end like this.

You glanced at your clock. “…I don’t have another final until Friday.”

Sol’s eyebrow arched. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You bit your lip, then slowly—deliberately—spread your legs, letting him see the mess you’d made, still glistening between your thighs. “So… you could come over. Bring snacks.”

His breath hitched. His fingers twitched against his desk, like he was fighting the urge to reach through the screen.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice rough.

You smirked, then—just as his eyes darkened with hunger—you poked at the screen, sticking your tongue out before abruptly ending the call.

Leaving him with nothing but the image of you.

And another hard bulge in his sweatpants.

“Fuck,” Sol groaned to the empty room, already scrambling for his keys. He grabbed his jacket, his pulse racing. 

Yeah. This was so much fucking better than video games.

The call between you and Sol was already too much—voices tangled in panting breaths, the slick, filthy sound of skin on skin, the way Sol whined your name like a prayer. It was overwhelming. Distracting. So much so that you didn’t even notice the other set of ragged breathing.

A third participant in the call.

Hidden in the shadows of the voice channel—camera off, letting go rugged breaths —Hyugo sat frozen at his desk, bathed in the dim blue glow of his monitor. All he’d meant to do was pop in, apologize for trolling you both earlier, maybe convince you to queue up another round. But then he’d heard your voice. Sol’s voice. And then—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

His fingers, which had been idly scratching at his thigh, froze. His breath hitched, sharp and sudden—like he’d just taken a hit straight to the chest.

This wasn’t just a call.

This was filth. A live, unfiltered, obscene performance—and he was the unseen, uninvited spectator.

And that alone made him hard, fast.

It wasn’t long before Hyugo’s baby-blue hair, usually tied back in a neat half-pony, now hung loose—sweat-damp strands clinging to his flushed cheeks. His lips—god, his lips—were bitten raw, his teeth sinking into the fabric of his own shirt to stifle the pathetic little noises threatening to spill out.

He hadn’t meant to stay.

He definitely hadn’t meant to touch himself.

But the way you talked to Sol—low, commanding, dripping with filthy promises—it wrecked him. The way Sol begged for you, voice cracking on your name, the way he whimpered when you teased him—

Hyugo’s hand was already slipping past the waistband of his sweats before he could stop himself.

“Fuck,” he breathed, silent, trembling.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Wasn’t supposed to be listening.

But god, the way you talked about ruining Sol—

His cock twitched in his palm, already leaking, already aching as he quickly fisted himself, trying to be quiet. He could’ve put himself on mute, but—

The risk of getting caught turned him on more.

So he tested himself, gagged by his own shirt, watching his cock pulse in his grip, his thighs tensing as he fought to keep his hips from jerking forward.

He should leave. He should close the call.

But instead, his fingers tightened, stroking slow, so fucking slow, just to drag it out, just to hear more.

By the time Sol left the call, Hyugo was ruined.

His thighs shook. His free hand clutched at his own shirt, dragging it up to his mouth to bite down as his hips jerked forward—

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck—

He barely had the presence of mind to grab a few napkin from his desk, cupping it over the tip just as his orgasm ripped through him—a silent, shuddering cry muffled into fabric as he spilled into his palm, his cock throbbing with every pulse.

“F-fuck—!”

He slumped back in his chair, chest heaving, skin burning, his cock still twitching as he dabbed himself clean, careful not to let a single drop ruin his precious gaming setup.

Disgusting. Pathetic. And so fucking good.

He still couldn’t believe you two—blissfully unaware, oblivious to the fact that he’d just come to the sound of you and Sol falling apart.

Hyugo’s lips curled into a shaky, guilty smirk.

"Maybe I should still be annoying in y’all’s games more often," he thought, breathless, wicked. 

This wasn’t better than video games, but—Fuck.

He didn’t mind shit like this now. He’d take it every damn time.

…y’all… should I write a threesome? jkjk…

Also... not gonna lie, writing this made me like Sol. Just a tiny bit.

[goorgeousz]

emily mentions your underwear once and your brain short circuits

drabble

pairing: emily prentiss x fem!reader

content/tw: alcohol, mentions of underwears, reader wears a g-string, spencer gets super flustered, emily and reader flirt around like derek and garcia

a/n: I’ve listened to “guess” over 15 times in a row yesterday and this scenario keept popping up in my mind. anyways, hope you enjoy it <3

dividers by @uzmacchiato

“Ugh. Why do men.” you groaned, placing your phone back down on the table after checking your new notification.

“What did he say now?” Garcia asked, leaning towards you.

“He asked me the color of my underwear.” you handed her the phone. Morgan and Reid, on each of her sides, leaned closer to see the text, in amusement and disgust, respectively.

“Reid, why do men seem to be so fascinated with women’s clothing?” Emily asked him.

“This is not… exactly my…field of expertise.” he started, blushing slightly, but excited as he always gets when someone encourages his ramblings. “But I do think it’s similar to the thought of people preferring privacy accounts over porn videos. It adds a level of intimacy and personal connection to the fantasy. He could just… masturbate thinking about you or looking for a picture. But when he asks you this, he’s bringing you into his imagination, making you actively participate in it. That’s my take, I think.” he shrugged.

“That’s… very smart.” you state, amazed. He smiles. “But I still think men are horrible. Terrible.”

“Don’t generalize.” Morgan pointed out, which earned him eye rolling from you, Emily and Penelope “Okay, okay!” he raised his hands in mock surrender “I’ll get another round of shots to apologize on our behalf.”

That earned him a kiss on the cheek from Garcia. She followed him toward the bar, leaving on the table only you, Spencer and Emily.

“I still don’t see the appeal. It doesn’t turn me on thinking about what kind of clothing he has on right now.”

“Well, women's undergarments are much more attractive than men’s.” Spender answers to you, blushing again furiously

“Let’s test that theory.” Emily suggests, turning her body completely towards you.

Mirroring her move, you turned on your seat to face her “What’s the color of your underwear?” you asked between giggles, trying (and failing) to make your voice sound low and sexy.

Emily, on the other hand, managed to bite back a laugh just fine, her amused smile turning into a smug smirk in a second. She leaned in, “I’m wearing a dark purple lace bra. It has a white bow between my… you know.” she winked.

Instantly you felt your mouth dry, the loud music from the bar faded away and it was only you and her. And her dark purple lace bra. You and her are used to jokingly flirting here and there, but, for some reason, it never actually felt real until that moment.

Your mind went blank, the only thing you could come up with was “Yeah?”

Her smirk grew, like she knew what it was doing to you “Mhmm. And it’s a set. My underwear is just like my bra: dark purple and lace, with the white little bow on the top. A g-string, just like yours.”

And that’s when you collapsed. Your eyes widened slightly, your face heating like she just slapped you.

Then, she switched it off. Her teasing posture was gone and she laughed loudly. Because you had no idea what just happened or what to do, you laughed with her, but clearly fakely. She turned towards Reid, whose eyes were about to pop out of his head, his face somehow redder than yours.

“I see the appeal.” she confessed to him, like she wanted him to add that to his database.

“Woah, what happened here? Why does Reid look like he just got a second-degree burn?” Morgan asked, setting the five glass shots on the table.

“They were flirting. Again. Guys, you know it breaks Reid.” Garcia chimed in, placing down a little plate with salt and lemon slices.

“Leave the foreplay to the bedroom, Misses.” he added, giving you a teasing wink.

“Oh, I wish. She likes boys.” Emily said, putting salt on her wrist before turning to you with a knowing smirk “But she knows I’d hit it.”

[norristrii]

STAND BY YOU.

Engaged on a Las Vegas pavement, you and Lando now look forward to the next chapter—your wedding awaits.

pairing. fiancé! Lando Norris x bsf! fiancée! fem! reader.

warnings. none, just fluff. This is part2 of Stand By Me ! Glad you liked it <3 For better understanding, I recommend to read it first.

THE WEEKS BLURRED TOGETHER in a whirlwind of planning, laughter, and Carlos’s dramatic antics. True to his word, Carlos had insisted—demanded, really—that he would officiate your wedding. The delay for the certificate became a running joke, his overly enthusiastic updates on the process making it impossible to take anything too seriously.

Still, amidst all the chaos, being engaged to Lando felt strangely… natural. The teasing, the inside jokes, the easy camaraderie—all of it had shifted subtly into something deeper, more meaningful. You couldn’t help but think about how absurdly obvious it seemed now, how perfectly it all fit together. Why hadn’t you done this earlier? The thought lingered in your mind, bringing a smile to your face every time it crossed your thoughts.

The room buzzed with excitement as Rebecca, Lily, and Alex worked tirelessly to perfect every detail of your dress. You stood in front of the mirror, the reflection staring back at you almost surreal. The gown flowed effortlessly, hugging you in all the right places and radiating an elegance you hadn’t quite imagined for yourself. Your bridesmaids hovered around you, adjusting tiny details, smoothing fabric, and offering reassurances that you looked stunning.

“Who will walk you down the aisle?” Lily asked casually, her voice breaking through your thoughts. The question hit you like a thunderbolt. Your eyes widened, panic bubbling to the surface as realization struck. Oh fuck. Of course, there was something you’d forgotten—there had to be.

Your gaze darted around the room as your mind raced. The answer you sought came in the form of Lewis. He seemed oblivious to the whirlwind of activity around him, his presence grounding in a way only Lewis could manage. In many ways, he had always been like an older brother to you—constant, supportive, and unshakable in his quiet strength.

You quickly texted him, your fingers flying over the screen as you summoned him to the room. Moments later, the door swung open, and there he was, his expression curious as he stepped inside. “What do you need, Y/n?” he asked, his tone casual but tinged with concern.

“I need you to walk me down the aisle,” you said, the words tumbling out in your moment of desperation. His eyes widened in horror, the surprise evident in his reaction.

“What? Me? I don’t know, Y/n—” he hesitated, his voice trailing off as he processed the request.

“C’mon, Lewis, you are perfect for that,” you assured him, your voice carrying all the conviction he needed.

He raised an eyebrow, his teasing nature kicking in despite the seriousness of the moment. “Do I look like your father? Am I that old?” he joked, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

You rolled your eyes, exasperated but amused. “Lewisss,” you said, drawing out his name in a way that left no room for argument.

He paused for a moment, then nodded, his expression softening. “I’ll do it,” he said simply, his voice steady and warm.

The avenue was alive with chaos, a far cry from the calm serenity one might expect at a wedding. Flower petals littered the ground, already prematurely scattered by Kimi and Isack, who stood off to the side with expressions that ranged between regret and mischief. “Can you remind me why we agreed to do this?” Kimi muttered under his breath, his tone dripping with quiet exasperation.

Carlos, however, was having none of it. His booming voice cut through the disarray, rising above the hum of last-minute preparations and hushed conversations. “C’mon, boys! You’re not at a funeral, you’re at a wedding!” he shouted, his arms flailing for emphasis. His enthusiasm, as always, was impossible to ignore, and it served as an attempt—albeit futile—to inject some order into the madness.

By the arch, Lando shifted uncomfortably, his nerves all too evident as he tried not to let the chaos get to him. Carlos stood next to him, a grin playing on his face despite the commotion. “Relax, mate,” Carlos teased, nudging Lando lightly. But Lando barely reacted, his focus elsewhere—on you, on the moment to come, and on the reality of what was about to unfold. Chaos or not, this was happening, and he couldn’t hide the nervous excitement bubbling under the surface.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Lando muttered to Carlos, his voice carrying a mix of disbelief and nervous excitement. His hands fidgeted slightly, as if his body hadn’t quite caught up with the enormity of the moment. The chaos surrounding them—Kimi and Isack’s antics with flower petals, Carlos shouting directions, and the hum of last-minute preparations—almost felt distant, the weight of the occasion taking center stage.

“And I can’t believe you actually got the certificate,” Lando added with a laugh, the tension breaking just enough to let a grin tug at his lips. Carlos smirked in return, pride evident in his expression. “I’m a man of my word,” Carlos said dramatically, adjusting his position by the arch with a flourish that bordered on theatrical.

Lando chuckled, shaking his head as he cast a glance towards the avenue where you were still out of view. This was it—the moment he never imagined he’d experience, but now couldn’t fathom it happening any other way. This was happening, and the thought alone made his heart race.

The soft hum of conversation in the avenue was replaced by the first notes of the music, filling the air with an elegant melody that signaled the beginning of something extraordinary. The bridesmaids walked out one by one, their dresses flowing gracefully as they moved in sync, their smiles radiant and genuine. The crowd stirred, heads turning to watch Rebecca, Lily, and Alex take their places.

Carlos, now standing taller by the arch, adjusted his jacket as he stole a glance at Lando, whose nerves seemed to return with a vengeance. Lando’s eyes darted toward the aisle, the anticipation in his expression palpable. The music swelled, each note carrying the promise of what was to come, and the avenue seemed to hold its breath as the moment unfolded.

The soft hum of the music filled the venue as you entered, Lewis walking confidently by your side. All eyes turned towards you, the room buzzing with quiet awe as you made your way down the aisle. You couldn’t help but grin, the joy radiating from you as you took in the sight of your friends standing together, groomsmen perfectly aligned—Charles, Oscar, and Max—all dressed immaculately, each wearing a mix of pride and amusement on their faces.

But your gaze lingered longest on Lando. The way he looked at you—eyes full of love, amazement, and just the tiniest glimmer of nerves—made your heart soar. For a moment, it felt like time slowed, as if the chaos of the world outside had melted away, leaving just the two of you in this perfect bubble.

“I think I’m going to cry,” Max whispered, breaking the spell as his voice carried to Charles and Oscar beside him. Oscar gave him a sideways glance, half amused, while Charles raised an eyebrow in mock judgment.

“It’s not even your own wedding,” Charles muttered, his dry humor earning a quiet chuckle from Oscar.

Max wiped at an imaginary tear, a playful grin breaking across his face. “Doesn’t mean I can’t be emotional,” he quipped, his dramatic flair adding yet another layer of charm to the moment.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, their banter grounding the surreal beauty of the day. But when your eyes flicked back to Lando, the world around you seemed to fall quiet again. This was your moment.

As you reached Lando under the arch, the music softened, replaced by the warm sound of Carlos clearing his throat. Standing tall, his charisma on full display, Carlos began his speech with a tone that was equal parts heartfelt and lighthearted. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he started, his smile broad as his gaze swept across the crowd, “we’re gathered here today to celebrate a very unique love story.”

His words resonated, and the crowd quieted, eager to soak in the moment. “What started years ago as a friendship,” Carlos continued, “is now turning into marriage.”

Lando’s hands found yours, his touch grounding you as Carlos spoke. You could feel the slight tremble in Lando’s grip, betraying his nervous excitement, even as his grin remained unwavering. Carlos threw a playful glance Lando’s way, his tone shifting into something cheekier. “I still remember how Lando simped over Y/n into my DMs,” he said, his laughter spilling out in a way that drew chuckles from the crowd. Lando’s blush deepened as his eyes momentarily dropped to the floor, his embarrassment evident but undeniably endearing.

Carlos grinned at the memory, glancing back at you both. “And how we planned the proposal,” he added, his expression growing warmer as he recalled the effort and camaraderie that went into orchestrating the big moment.

“And, to be honest,” Carlos said, turning to meet your gaze directly, “I didn’t think she would say yes.” His words carried a teasing note, but his sincerity was unmistakable. “But here we are now.”

The crowd erupted in laughter and applause, the warmth and joy of the speech permeating the venue. You caught Lando’s eyes, his blush still lingering, but his expression was full of love, gratitude, and a quiet thrill that made your heart flutter. Carlos’ words captured the essence of your journey—unconventional, chaotic, and perfectly yours.

Carlos cleared his throat, adopting a playful yet sincere tone as he began, “So, Lando, do you promise to always stand by Y/n? Even when she’s yelling at you for something that, let’s be honest, you probably deserved?”

The crowd chuckled softly, the humor in his words breaking the tension of the moment. Lando smiled, his eyes never leaving yours as he answered confidently, “I do.” His voice was steady, carrying every ounce of love and commitment he felt in that moment.

“And Y/n,” Carlos continued, his tone teasing yet undeniably warm, “do you promise you’ll always stand by Lando—through wins, through losses—and do you promise to always love him, even though he’s going to complain about, well, almost everything?”

A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd, the lightheartedness of Carlos’s words easing the tension of the moment. You turned to Lando, who was already grinning, his cheeks slightly flushed with embarrassment at Carlos’s playful jab. His eyes locked onto yours, full of love and anticipation.

“I do,” you replied, your voice steady and filled with certainty, carrying the weight of everything this promise meant. The simplicity of those two words held all the chaotic adventures, heartfelt moments, and laughter you’d shared—and all the beautiful unknowns still waiting ahead.

Carlos beamed, spreading his arms wide as he declared with flair, “Well then, with that, I now pronounce you husband and wife! You may kiss the bride!” The cheers and applause erupted around you, the joy and celebration wrapping you both in a perfect, unforgettable moment.

Lando didn’t hesitate for even a heartbeat. The moment Carlos’s words faded into the cheers of the crowd, he closed the distance between you, his hands gently cupping your face as his lips found yours with an intensity that made the world around you disappear. The kiss was full of emotion—love, relief, and the overwhelming joy of finally reaching this moment.

The crowd erupted into applause and cheers, but it all felt distant, like background noise to the electricity sparking between you and Lando. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his grin wide and uncontainable. “You’re stuck with me now,” he whispered, his voice low and teasing, though the love in his eyes was anything but playful.

“No way, Oscar is crying!” Max exclaimed, his voice loud enough to turn a few heads. You and Lando glanced back, curiosity piqued as you looked over at Oscar. Sure enough, there he was, subtly wiping at his eyes, clearly trying—and failing—to be discreet about it.

Oscar noticed the attention and immediately straightened, his expression shifting into something resembling nonchalance. “I’m not crying,” he muttered, though the slightly red hue in his eyes betrayed him. “There’s just… something in the air.”

“In my wildest dreams, I never imagined Lando would be the first of us to get married,” Charles said, shaking his head with a playful shrug. His words drew a few laughs from the group, but his expression held a touch of genuine disbelief.

“Especially to Y/n,” he added, glancing over at you and Lando with a grin that bordered on teasing. “I mean, she’s everything—smart, beautiful— and he’s... well, he’s Lando.”

“Shut up, Charles,” Lando retorted, rolling his eyes as a smirk tugged at his lips. His tone was playful, though it was clear he wasn’t going to let Charles get away with his teasing without firing back.

The group erupted in laughter, Max clapping Charles on the shoulder as if to commend him for stirring the pot. “Come on, he’s just jealous,” Max added with a grin.

“I’m not jealous!!” Charles exclaimed, rolling his eyes so dramatically it was almost theatrical. The emphasis in his voice only made his claim less convincing, and you couldn’t help but suppress a laugh as you exchanged a knowing glance with Lando.

“Yeah, definitely not,” Lando muttered under his breath, a cheeky smirk lighting up his face. Max burst into laughter, clapping Charles on the back. “Sure, mate,” Max said, his tone dripping with amusement. “We totally believe you.”

Charles crossed his arms, trying to hold his ground, but the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth betrayed him. The playful banter continued, fueling the lighthearted, chaotic energy of the day—a perfect reflection of your close-knit group of friends.

You just smiled at them, their playful banter fading into the background as you stood next to Lando. The moment felt surreal, like something out of a dream you’d never dared to believe could come true. From childhood best friends, sharing secrets and laughter, to that impulsive, imperfectly perfect engagement on the pavement—just the two of you and the overwhelming love you couldn’t contain. And now, here you were, standing together in front of everyone who mattered, taking the next step into forever.

Lando must have sensed your thoughts, because when you glanced at him, his soft smile told you everything without saying a word. The way he looked at you—the same way he always had, but now with the added weight of this day, this moment—made your heart swell. What started as a friendship built on late-night chats and shared dreams had grown into something deeper, stronger, and absolutely unshakable. This was your story, and it was only just beginning.

@haniette , @ughyoustink , @quinquinquincy

[stillwatervoid]

Do you have any Mark headcanons? If yes please share :)

Heeey! So, I’m not sure if there’s a specific ‘right’ way to do headcanons, but here’s my take on it:

Mark Grayson is basically a "friends to lovers" kind of character. It doesn’t matter if you’re childhood friends, met at school by chance, or bonded on the field as heroes (if reader has powers)—if you’re friends, he’s eventually going to fall for you.

The thing is, he doesn’t even realize it at first. He’s just used to feeling light and warm and happy around you. That’s just how it is. That’s just how you two are. The feelings are there, shimmering quietly beneath the surface, but he’s either too oblivious to notice or actively ignoring them—thinking it’s easier to let them sit there, harmless, until they magically fade away.

Except they don’t go away, and every brush of your fingers, every quiet laugh, every lingering look leaves him spiraling—his heart stumbling, his thoughts a mess, his words tripping over themselves. And eventually, after weeks of denial, of pretending he’s content to remain just friends, Mark finally admits to himself that his feelings go far deeper than that.

And oh, he’s so down bad.

When Mark Grayson falls, he falls hard—and once he stops ignoring it, he’s not subtle about it either. He’s suddenly offering to carry your stuff, always walking close beside you in the hallways, casually throwing his arm around your shoulders while you’re talking, sliding his hand around your waist when you’re chatting with someone else—little touches that linger just long enough to mean something.

Just enough for you to start noticing.

Just enough for you to start returning the favor.

Mark nearly faceplants into the pavement when you kiss his cheek goodbye after school for the first time.

“What—what was that for?” he stammers, mouth dry, cheeks flaming red like he’s about to combust on the spot.

You huff a laugh, clearly enjoying how flustered he is.

“It’s payback,” you say, a teasing glint in your eyes. You’re thinking of all the times he got a little too close, held you just a bit too tight, gently nudged you when someone else had your attention—like he couldn’t stand not being the one you were looking at. Like he needed to remind you exactly where you belonged. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Grayson.”

That shuts him up real quick—but it leaves him reeling. And absolutely ready to make his next move.

Mark Grayson kisses like he’s starving.

Yup, that’s right. I’ll say it here and I’ll scream it in every piece I write.

Mark Grayson 🗣️kisses you 🗣️like he’s 🗣️ starving 🗣️ 🗣️

When he finally confesses, when he finally admits what’s been building inside him, and you—oh thank god—you return his feelings, the kiss that follows is desperate, hungry, and filled with everything he’s been holding back for so long.

His hands are shaky and unsteady, but it’s clear he’s been waiting for this moment longer than you realized. Every inch of him buzzes where he touches you, like he can’t contain it anymore. His lips seek yours with an urgency that takes your breath away, his hands trembling as they pull you closer, pressing you into him as if he’s terrified he's dreaming or something.

And despite all his nervous, jittery energy, Mark devours you.

He makes all kinds of sounds when he kisses—groans, sighs, low hums that vibrate against your mouth. His tongue searches, teeth nip, and the wet, messy sounds filling the room would absolutely make you blush if anyone else ever got the chance to hear them.

Mark kisses you like he’s thirsty. Like he’s hungry. Like you’re the last bit of air left on Earth.

And sometimes, yeah, you genuinely have to stop him before you black out.

“Mark—mmh—Mark, I need—” you mumble, half-laughing, breathless, trapped between his arms and the mess of his bed. “I need to breathe, babe. I’m not—mmh—I can’t hold my breath like you.”

Yeah, he needs a daily reminder that you’re just human and your lungs can’t handle what his Viltrumite ones can. Mark can hold his breath for hours if he needs to. And if you could too? He’d be kissing you until your lips went purple, until they were swollen and bruised and completely wrecked.

And let’s be honest—he’s not the only one starving.

You kiss him back like you’ve been waiting just as long.

Like you’ve been hungry too.

Mark Grayson takes you flying wherever you want, whenever you want.

Just being able to call you his boyfriend, to say your relationship is official, isn’t enough for him. Not even close. Mark can’t help but go above and beyond to prove—over and over—that he loves you every single day. Because as much as he tries, his hero life always pulls him away. He’s constantly injured, constantly exhausted, constantly needed somewhere else. And it’s not like you hold that against him. When you said yes to dating Mark Grayson, you also said yes to dating Invincible—and you’re not backing out now.

Still, he hates when plans get canceled, when hangouts have to be rescheduled, when he finally climbs through your window only to find you already asleep, waiting for him until you couldn’t keep your eyes open anymore. So he does what he can to make it up to you, to make it unforgetable.

When he can make time, he takes you to places you’ve only ever seen in movies. In under six months, you’ve visited half the globe. Breakfast in Italy, lunch in Egypt, dinner in Seoul. Mark makes a habit of picking you up, arms sliding around your waist, and asking, “What do you fancy eating today?” like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

And when you spot a cool place online, you don’t even have to finish the sentence.

“Hey, Mark, there’s this new themed café in Japan. You think we could—”

“Yes,” he answers before you can even finish, already lifting off the ground with you scooped in his arms. “Let’s go right now.”

You barely have time to grab your jacket.

That’s how he is with you—immediate, eager, shamelessly in love.

If you want something, Mark is already three steps ahead trying to give it to you.

Flying with him becomes your new normal—not just for spontaneous getaways or international dates, but for the quiet moments too. Sometimes, when you're hunched over your desk, buried in homework or stress, he just shows up at your window, a soft tap against the glass, and before you know it, he’s convincing you to join him in the sky for a quiet moment alone. Mark treasures these moments more than anything. Just the two of you, alone above the city, with only the stars as company. Your head resting against his, temple pressed to his, as the world below fades into nothingness.

Because while Mark may not always have the time to give you during the day—between his duties as Invincible, the injuries, the endless missions—he has enough to give you at night. And he hopes that these quiet, stolen moments under the stars will somehow make up for all the things he can’t be there for.

[ebodebo]

i’m fucking back w virgin!whitaker x abbott’s daughter!reader…MDNI

-

“Your dad's in trauma one,” Langdon calls from behind the triage desk, focused on reviewing a patient file.

You hum. “Well, good thing I’m not here to see him,” you lean over the desk, eyeing him.

He tilts his head and nods, his eyes shifting toward you as he incorrectly states why you are here. “You didn’t come to see Abbott, which means you came here to bother me,” he quips with a knowing brow as if he’s correct.

You playfully roll your eyes. “Whoa. So loud and so wrong. I actually came to see my boyfriend,” you raise your brows.

He narrows his eyes and moves the file to his side. “Don’t tell me it’s the basketball player in 15.”

“Definitely not,” you laugh.

He contemplates, the gears in his brain turning. “The college student in 20?

“No,” you affirm, your eyes moving past Langdon to see Whitaker approaching him. “He’s right behind—”

Whittaker interjects, quickly asking Langdon a question, unaware of your presence. “What’s the status on—”

“Hold on,” Langdon says with a grin. “I'm trying to guess her boyfriend. Is it the guy with the fractured leg in five?”

“Frank,” you say. “Follow my finger,” you hold your finger up in his line of sight.

He gives you a confused expression as his eyes follow the tip of your finger, moving in the air. He then turns to his side and sees Whitaker standing beside him with a smile.

Langdon's face contorts with confusion before it finally dawns on him. "Whi—Whitaker?" His tone is surprised.

You nod slightly, a smile spreading across your face. “Yes, you dummy.”

“How did that happen?” Langdon asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Oh, you know...things and such,” you say vaguely, your eyes shifting to Whitaker. You tilt your head to the side, signaling him to move to a more secluded area.

“Thanks for agreeing to cover for me, Langdon,” Whitaker jests, handing him another file as Langdon’s mouth hangs open at the new revelation. “I’ll be back in twenty.”

Langdon absentmindedly grabs the file, his mouth slightly ajar, and his eyes narrow in contemplation.

“How long is your shift, doc?” you ask Whitaker as he approaches you.

“Get off at 10,” his hand moves through his hair, and his eyes move rapidly around the ER.

It was filled, every inch occupied and bustling with activity.

Nurses and doctors are busy trying to address the backlog of patient care, though to no avail.

It was too overwhelming to handle all in one day.

You pull your purse onto your shoulder as your teeth chew on your lip. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes move to you, a breath of relief escaping his chest. “I—nothing. I’m okay,” he gives you a half-smile, trying to assure you.

“Are you feeling stressed?” you ask, a concerned frown crossing your face as you notice the tension in his shoulders.

It may seem silly to ask, given that every ER staff member is stressed, but you thought you would ask anyway.

“I—well, you know…” he trails off, scratching his neck. “I’m not exactly feeling relaxed.”

Your eyes narrow in thought before they grow wide with an idea. “I have an idea,” a smirk forms on your lips as you grab his hand, dragging him away. “Follow me.”

“Where are you taking me?” he laughs out, hand gripping yours.

“Shh. Just come on,” you hush his questions. You drag him sneakily into an empty patient room, shove him inside, and follow behind, locking the door after you.

“What are you—” he starts, brow furrowing before he sees the glint sparking in your eyes, teeth digging into your bottom lip.

“Thought we could try something new?” You pose the question, bashfully moving closer to him.

"Like what?" he asks, his tone filled with curiosity.

You raise your hands to press against his chest. “Like sex,” you say easily. “Only if you want to, of course,” you add quickly as your eyes lock.

“Here?” His voice cracks with surprise.

“Could be fun,” you shrug, your hands resting on his shoulders. “You look so hot in your scrubs,” you lean in and kiss his lips. “And it could help reduce your stress, right?”

He tips his head back and gives you a thoughtful smile. “Sexual intercourse does alleviate stress because it releases hormones like endorphins and oxytocin, which promote relaxation.”

“Oh, yeah,” you purr as you return your lips to his. “I love when you talk all doctor, baby,” you murmur against his lips. “Keep talking.”

“It, uh, can also improve your sleep quality,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours with equal passion.

“Can it?” you ask, lightly gliding your fingers over the back of his neck. “Seems like it’s really good for you, huh?” you tease, your hands gripping the hem of his scrub top. “You can touch me,” you assure him, your tongue teasingly licking a stripe across his bottom lip. “But I might bite.”

He releases a shaky groan against your lips that makes your knees lock in place. “Tell me no,” you breathe out, your fingers already popping open the buttons of your top.

He grips you tightly as you pop open the last button. “I want you,” his low voice says, certainty rolling off his tongue. “Show me.”

You give him a devilish smile, dropping your top to the ground and your fingers reaching to pull his scrub top off before discarding it across the room. “Do you masturbate?” you randomly mutter, kicking off your shoes before you slip your jeans off.

He tilts his head, pulling off his scrub bottoms. “Don’t really have the time,” he says honestly before looking at you and contemplating whether he should ask. Eventually, he does. “Do…you?”

"Every night," you say without hesitation, leaning in to press your lips against his once more.

His lips move against yours. “To what?”

"You," you say, nipping at his bottom lip and eliciting a slight whimper.

Your eyes hang lazily, full of desire. “Chair. Now,” you instruct, hands pushing against his chest as you direct him to sit.

You move to straddle his lap, your lips connecting again immediately. “You’re sure about this, right?” you ask again, not wanting to pressure him.

“Please,” he groans against your lips, hands gripping your waist tightly.

Your hand finds its way between your bodies, slipping his boxers down to reach for his hard-on. You pull your panties to the slide before you line him up with your slit, sinking down to accommodate him.

He releases a deep groan, head moving back against the wall, as you hiss at the contact. You grip his shoulders tightly, beginning to rock against him slowly.

"You okay, baby?" you ask gently, your gaze lingering on him.

His eyes are closing tightly as his mouth hangs open. “Yeah,” he chokes out, gripping your hips tight. “I can—I can,” he stutters, unable to get the words out.

“You feel me?” you ask, sweetness coating your voice. “It’s okay,” you affirm. “You can tell me. I wanna hear you,” you murmur, bracing your hand against the wall to get more support.

“Y—yeah,” he chokes out, gripping you tighter. “It feels nice.”

You choke back a laugh so as not to embarrass him. “Good. That’s good,” your voice is low as your movements pick up.

“Can feel you,” his words come out more confident. “Tight.”

You release a shallow moan at his words. “You’re getting good at the dirty talk,” you praise, gripping his shoulders tighter.

“Yeah?” he asks, voice strained.

“Mhm,” you can feel your lower stomach tightening. “I’m close.”

He doesn’t answer, he can’t speak, and he’s too transfixed by your movements.

But you can tell.

He’s close too.

But, before either of you can come, a loud knock on the door has you both jumping. You have to stifle a moan as Whitaker moves inside you deeper.

“Doors been closed a while. Need to get patients in and out quickly,” Dr. Robby grunts from outside the door.

“I’m just finishing up,” Whitaker choked out, rushing to stand and nearly causing you to fall as he hurriedly searched for his scrubs.

As he slides into his scrubs, his shirt is inside out, and his pants are on backward. He turns towards you, seeing your face trying to contain a laugh.

“Not funny,” he says, his voice serious, though a smirk plays at the corner of his lips.

“No. I know—it’s not,” you say, trying to keep your voice serious, but you find yourself laughing. “Sorry, baby,” you say as you chew on your lip and reach for your shirt. “Your pants are on backward.”

He looks down and realizes his pants are on backward and his shirt is inside out. He lets out an amused breath and quickly fixes his clothing as you laugh.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he mutters humorously, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

You laugh softly. “I should get going; I know how Robby is,” you said, kissing him. “I’ll text you later.” With that, you leave, leaving Whitaker to alone.

He lets out a deep breath, his heart still pounding, and his mind still racing.

When he finally leaves the room to head to the triage desk, Dr. Robby is waiting for him.

“Whitaker,” Dr. Robby says, eyes narrowed.

Whitaker spins on his heels. “Yeah, Dr. Robby?”

“You got…,” Dr. Robby trails off, bringing up a finger to gesture to his face. “…lipstick,” he confirms, eyebrow raised.

“Oh,” Whitaker brings his hand up, maniacally swiping his skin to try and get rid of your lipstick.

“Let’s keep the after-work activities, after work, yeah?” Dr. Robby says, patting Whitaker on the shoulder as he wipes your lipstick off his face. “And let’s make sure they’re at least a few hundred feet away from, you know who,” he adds, discreetly nodding towards Dr. Abbott, who is typing furiously on a computer.

Whitaker sheepishly nods, his face reddening as Dr. Robby gives him an amused smile before moving back towards a patient room.

Whitaker ducks his head down, eyes going wide as Dr. Abbott looks at him with his signature stern expression. He then moves to the lounge, taking his phone out of his pocket to text you.

Him: Robby knows.

Me: you're alive! i thought i was gonna have to start dating robby's daughter lol

Me: he’s not one to gossip, so don’t worry too much!

Him: It's comforting to hear that you would have moved on not even one hour after being with me.

Me: i'm just kidding drama-queen!

Me: besides, she has a secret bf i don't know about...

Him: Are you just speculating? You tend to do that a lot…

Me: no…i KNOW she does. i can just feel it.

Me: i think he works at the hospital…

Him: Alright, so you are just speculating.

Me: i will hunt you for sport.

Him: Back to my problem, what if he tells your dad? Will he kill me?

Me: um…that’s hard to say…

Him: Dana just came into the lounge and slid three condoms into my hand.

Me: score lmao come over after your shift?

Him: Of course. Can we try some more things?

Me: what things are you referring to?

Him: You know…sex things.

Me: oh my god. i’ve created a monster…

Him: Is that a no or?

Me: it’s a hell yes.

Me: you’ll get to finish this time and like three other times:)

Him: Optimistic I see. Thank God. I’m feeling all achy.

Me: uh oh you have blue balls, babe…LMAO (sorry love u) bring dana's condoms and so many electrolyte packets, you sex maniac.

Me: i’ll take good care of you

Him: Yes ma’am.

-

author’s note: this is so self indulgent i can’t. nobody wanted this but me lmaoo

[theoretically-questionable]

I've often found myself confused by people who use LLMs for tasks that involve communication, even in an office or other setting where a non-trivial portion of emails/messages are 'box-checking' rather than strictly interpersonally communicative.

Having thought it over, I think the difference in attitudes is probably akin to the split between people who value small talk and people who regard it, with extreme distaste, as "pointless and annoying": i.e., there is something the former is getting out of small talk that the latter group is not.

This is mostly just a rambling tangent, but oh well.

I like communicating and I do so with intent. I've heard the sentiment from some other autistic people that they'd love to have an 'autoresponder'-style module for their brain to automate away layers of necessary-but-draining/pointless conversation. Never been able to relate, in significant part because doing so would give people communicating with said autoresponder the entirely wrong impression about how I was feeling.

The purpose to communication is to transmit information from one person to another. There are so many layers to this information — something I have definitely struggled with, as an autistic person. Some of those layers were totally opaque to me for a long time. Hell, sometimes I didn't even know some layers existed.

In a collaborative environment, even rote/'pointless' communication rituals have a huge density of information. That is the point. It is important. If Joe Bloggs over in HR replies to my routine email confirming details for this week's parking garage allotments in a more abrupt way than usual, or slower than usual, that's contextual information.

Maybe I'll pick up that he's probably got a lot on his plate or feeling stressed. Maybe that's not relevant. Maybe I need someone from HR to do something later that day, and then I can either loop in someone else from the department or just know to approach Joe tactfully, rather than just passing the task along as I usually would.

When people start using LLMs to write emails, summarize meetings, and 'touch up' all of their work, all of that context turns to unparseable sludge. It's entirely random. You can't "get used to" how someone writes and learn to pick up context clues when everything longer than a single-sentence reply is being filtered through an LLM.

It genuinely ends up being a bit of a nightmare for me, having absolutely no access to any kind of context, just taking a ride down a river of vaguely polite- and professional-sounding drivel, all without even the barest grace of useful context. It just... makes things worse. It becomes a self-perpetuating loop with no eject button.

If it's really easy for everyone to maintain the 'professionalspeak' facade, nobody ever has times when they break the facade. And *breaking the facade* is important. Being able to shape the communication norms of your department/company over time is... I mean, I think it's essential? Willingly choosing "we all communicate via LLM" seems horrifying, like not just acquiescing to but actively reinforcing the worst parts of corporate expectations of overly sanitized communication standards handed down from your manager's manager.

And yeah, some of my feelings on the matter are definitely my own baggage, but it feels just as frustrating as having to work with someone who actively scorns 'small talk' and deliberately makes every single communication as stripped-down as possible — and ends up being less efficient overall, not more, because what they're actually doing is refusing to engage with their colleagues or make sure they're getting all the right information across.

The other thing is that LLMs don't actually, by default, have access to all the information you do. If you want to get specific information across in the output, you have to give it to the LLM first. I've never hit a scenario where I would have preferred an LLM-generated email instead of. like. just the bullet-point list of information that was used when prompting it.

If you're time-poor and easily frustrated by communication tedium, I would rather *know that*, and know for sure that none of the information you're giving me has been twiddled accidentally to be slightly wrong by a context-free LLM, than get 'professionally formatted' emails from you all the time.

the scariest thing about the generative AI thing is how quickly people have accepted it as an indefinite, irrevocable part of their reality. people have genuinely convinced themselves that ChatGPT is the only solution to most tasks - tasks they did with their own brain without any large effort two years ago. like you know damn well all of us used to write emails ourselves why are we pretending like this is an impossible task to do with your own two hands. what's with the fucking. AI revisionism. i feel like i am going insane.

[xoxochb]

“baths are supposed to be relaxing.”

“alone.”

you sigh and smooth out your hair, all moved to drape over one of your shoulders. “I’ll have to start taking baths alone then.”

percy gasps and lifts his head from his bath toys to you. you shrug and take a shark, skimming it over the water slowly.

“it might benefit us both. I’ll get silence, you’ll get to play with your toys alone.”

“these aren’t toys… they’re… rubber ducks.”

“toys!” you laugh and let go of the shark. “and they’re not ducks they’re fish. and sharks.”

“rubber fish. rubber sharks. rubber ducks, they’re all the same thing, sweet girl.”

you shrug again, climbing onto percy’s lap. your arms curl around his shoulders while his own encircle your waist.

the heat of the water has your eyes drooping and mixed with your fiancé’s comforting touch and strong arms you may just fall asleep. and your pre-bath activity isn’t help your drowsiness either.

“does this mean we can stay in here longer?” percy’s hand rubs your back.

you sigh and drop your face to his shoulders while, inhaling the scent of his previously applied soaps. “no. we’ll shrivel up like prunes.”

“if you’re worried, I think you’ll still look sexy as ever with wrinkles.”

“I’m not worried but thanks.”

“what about me?”

you think for a moment. “turn off.”

“are you sure?”

“uhm. yes.”

percy pinches your waist and you giggle over hat you wanted to be a yelp.

“get your hands off me, weirdo.”

“oh, but, sweet girl, twenty mines ago I remember you begging me to—”

you swiftly lift your head and glare. “moment of weakness.”

“moment,” percy laughs. “is that what they’re calling a half an hour these days?”

“it’s not funny I’m ovulating.” you drop your head back to his neck to hide your pink blush.

his index traces your spine gently. “I hear excuses.”

“you hear a valid response. so fuck you, percy.”

“been there, done that. and it’s pretty fucking great.”

“okay.” you slip out of his arms and quickly exit the bathtub before he’s able to pull you back. “coming?”

“oh yeah!”

you ignore that innuendo and grab a towel, wrapping it around your damp frame. it’s not long before percy follows your actions, though his towel hangs dangerously low around his hips.

you almost want to loop your fingers around the edges and yank—

your thoughts are interrupted by the said boy. his arms wrap around your towel clad frame, tugging your cheek to his tanned chest. you melt into it easily, your sleepiness not yet worn off.

“I’m ready for bed,” you mumble against his skin.

percy pats your back lightly in response. “I know, I am too, sweet girl.”

“great.” you perk your head up to peer at him before you begin walking back into the bedroom.

and to bed you went, very swiftly.

[wigglesdtuff]

favorite robin panels? i'm looking for a new pfp

It looks like I was too late for the pfp change so I am sorry, but I will ramble about some Robin panels that aren't super pfp worthy. I may or may not have like 7000+ screenshots from the manga saved and most of them are an attempt to screen Every Robin Panel. I have made it to the end of Wano lol.

Anyways. I wanted to post some that aren't really talked about as much alongside some obvious ones.

A lot are from Skypiea, and this as another angle of the bonfire I talked about in my previous post (see here). Again, I love that she's apart from the group, but she's still enjoying herself. It's so important to see this before the Water 7 saga.

I don't really see anyone ever bringing this panel up, but I love it so much. stark shadows on the edges contrasting the pure light where she's sitting is just so poignant to me. She's seeing the city of gold for the first time, but we can actively see the light in her life being reignited throughout Skypiea, and this panel just illustrates that for me so concisely.

Same with this one here. I love that again, she's sitting away from the group, but she's listening. She's allllllways listening. It's very important to note what she's hearing here though. For the first time in her life, she's joined a group that's helped others for the sake of just doing what they wanted to and because it felt like the right thing for them to do. It wasn't to be rewarded, it wasn't to gain any glory, it was to show an old man down on the island below that he wasn't searching for nothing and he could stop trying to kill himself to do it. That's HUGE for her to witness. I don't think she'd ever experience another group thinking "oh well, we're still poor, but that was cool!"

Okay last Skypiea panel, even though I could probably find more. I am in love with the deliberate separation of her silhouette here. She is still part of the crew, but it's still so clear that she is visibly detached at this point. It's a really good way to depict this subtly.

You can barely see her there but I love the way he encourages her to be enthusiastic about traveling and she indulges. They just understand each other in such a fundamental way lol This part is so cute to me.

We're onto Water 7, and I'll try and be brief. The entirety of the Water 7 saga is masterful, I'm not wavering on that. This panel hurts the more context we get. He is such a scary threat, but when we find out he genuinely thought he was committing an act of misguided mercy, the fact that he goes in for a HUG? That's so fucking tragic to me. Kuzan fascinates me, because the horror of Ohara does seem to genuinely shake him. Robin has had such a rough life because he let her live, so it's so sad to me that one of her only experiences of any sort of physical affection in recent memory is an attempt at a frozen coup de gras.

The tragedy of Water 7 continues. I love this panel so much. The broken smile thinking about the Straw Hats, thinking she did the best thing for them in letting them live, not realizing just how much they loved her and would have been tortured knowing she died for them. It's such a simple panel of her covering her face, but ugh. So good.

Heartbreaking. But also the fire of Ohara burning behind them while they have this one quiet moment. God. I'm a little speechless about this one so I'll just let it sit.

I'm skipping "I Want to Live" because we've all seen it and there's no question it's one of the best manga panels of all time. Sorry I don't make the rules.

This is maybe the most raw moment of "I want to stay alive, I have to stay alive," I have ever witnessed in something and it very well maybe be the hardest moment in One Piece for me. That is her TEETH on STONE. She is hanging on to life and the love of her friends BY HER TEETH. There is quite literally nothing more metal to me than this I'm sorry power scalers you can suck it.

Wrapping up Enies Lobby specifically, I adore this moment between Luffy and Robin so much. The way he tries to thank HER after he literally gave his everything to save her - and he's not even thinking about that??? And she's like ? No you don't get to thank ME I have to thank you all. Ugh. I love. Their friendship. So much.

I'm curious if we're going to see the outcome of this conversation between them - we don't really NEED to, we know where they both are, but with an inevitable clash of the SHs and the Blackbeard pirates, it could be interesting. I love the division between them with the wall, and the genuine question of "did I do the right thing?" I am compelled.

We've reached the timeskip.... I love her so much waahhh. There's a lot that I love in FMI - Dressrosa, but not nearly as much as I love her in Zou.

A silly entry - but this is on purpose! I love. Love. Love. Where she's at by Zou. She is so comfortable with her friends. She's able to be goofy. I also love that this implies she has some level of cuteness aggression and I think that's so funny.

To go from. Feeling like a burden and thinking death is easier than trusting anyone to fight for you to accepting that you are loved and full of love is such a fucking beautiful message. I love the way they're so pumped up too. They LOVE her!!!! ME tOO!!

I can't not mention this lmao. I'm so glad she gets to be included in ugly face gags. She's just as silly (if not more) as the rest of the crew!!! She's so happy at first too lmao

This is like what fans talking about her sounds like. "She didn't do enough in x arc" meanwhile she's like carrying the story on her back via the poneglyphs LMAO She's so funny.

Extending that love from Zou to be there for her friends and taking the moniker those who hunted her through her whole life... Well I just think this page speaks for itself.

Shut the fuck up this is the cutest, sweetest, perfectest panel I've ever seen in my life.

Um the entirety of chapter 1133 is catharsis in a can. I don't have words in my goopy goblin artist brain to express how much this chapter means to me.

Covers/Color Spreads I really love (sorry not sorry there's a ton)!

They're doing fish experiments (I'll reblog with a part 2 with more color spreads/covers)

[cabintenangel]

filling in the blanks as we go

jason grace x roman!reader ♡

author’s notes ౨ৎ part two of this jason fic! i also posted this last year and after this part it’ll all be new writing 😋 enjoy

disclaimers ౨ৎ nothing really, a bit of swearing and pop culture references LOL :)

You liked to think of your life as pretty normal.

Training sessions, mythology studies, war games, the usual. In your free time, you would hang out with your friends, visit New Rome, read books, listen to music, and occasionally sneak out to the mortal world.

But the praetor pretending to be your boyfriend? That was new.

Walking out of Cyclops Books, you thought about what to do next. You’d just finished baking the cupcakes with Tyson, and he’d let you take the extras home. You were planning to share them with Piper and relay the recent events, since who was better to tell than the daughter of love?

Just then, you saw your SPQR tattoo emanate a dark purple glow – the sign to return to barracks immediately.

A few months ago, the Council had proposed that all probatio and those of higher ranking have some way to be alerted if there was an emergency. In response, the praetors had worked with the children of Vulcan to design a little chip that would be placed underneath one’s forearm skin. It was connected to a special device that could activate a color change to the Camp Jupiter purple when needed. Probatio didn’t have tattoos yet, so they got the smallest (and least painful) chips, while other rankings received slightly larger ones so all their SPQR markings lit up. It was nasty to get them inserted, but if anyone complained, Reyna would list off a variety of unpleasant situations where they might be killed if they didn’t have the system. If anyone chose to ignore the alert, they were guaranteed to drop a rank.

You hurried back to the New Rome entrance and exit area. Upon seeing your glowing tattoo, Terminus (surprisingly) made no judgemental comments and ushered you out of the city. At least, you thought he did. It was hard to tell, since he had no arms.

As you headed inside the official campgrounds, you spotted a circle of worried-looking demigods waiting near the barracks. The two praetors as well as Hazel, Frank, Percy, Annabeth, Grover, and another boy you didn’t know were at the front, urgently discussing something in hushed tones. You suddenly realized that this probably had to do with the reason Jason had abruptly left Cyclops Books – something about needing to help out a soldier?

Piper, Leo, and Nico were all gathered near their friends, but the two groups weren’t speaking. Piper had her arms crossed and was talking to Leo as he nodded along.

You rushed to them, out of breath. “Hey. Do you guys know what’s going on?”

Leo shook his head. “No. We tried asking them about it, but they said they’d tell us soon enough. We didn’t push it any further, since they seemed really stressed. Honestly, considering the last time this alert was triggered, it’s probably nothing too serious. Gods, that was embarrassing. People can’t even enjoy Sabrina anymore, man.”

(Last time, Frank had caught Leo at a party dancing shirtless on top of a table while Espresso by Sabrina Carpenter played. The big guy panicked and sent out a signal to the entire camp. After that incident, Reyna banned him from using the device any more.)

Piper looked at you and grinned mischievously. “Speaking of Jason, he’s been glancing at you a lot since you arrived. Anything you want to tell me?” You almost choked on air.

Nico sighs. “Just because a person looks at another person doesn’t mean there’s something between them, Piper. We’re not all like you and Shel who give each other heart eyes when you’re not sitting together at the campfire.”

“Can’t a girl admire her beautiful and perfect girlfriend? Anyway, stop pretending you and Solace weren’t staring at each other like forbidden lovers last night just because you were on different Monopoly teams–”

“That’s different!”

“Oh, are you being sexist right now? You clearly haven’t unlearned the ways of the 1930s–”

“Attention!” Reyna’s firm voice silenced everyone in the area. “We have assembled here today due to a missing young soldier from the Fifth Cohort. We have good reason to believe she is in the woods just beyond the Field of Mars. With the help of Jake Mason, a son of Hephaestus from Camp Half-Blood–” She gestured to the boy that had been talking to their group earlier. “–we plan to send two soldiers as scouts.”

Whispers broke out among the demigods when Reyna said the last bit. They didn’t last long, however; Aurum and Argentum barked furiously, which was enough to make people listen.

The praetor continued. “Recently, we’ve discovered that more than one individual may have an empathy link as long as a satyr is involved, so we plan to set up one between the two soldiers and Grover Underwood here in case any danger is encountered on the way. Jake has found an old device that scans brain similarities: thought process, frequent emotions, cognitive functions, and so on. We will select the individuals with the most alike minds so the empathy link takes up the least energy. Please gather in a line for this assessment.”

You and your fellow campers (plus Reyna’s group) quickly did as she said, and Jake came around. The machine was pretty simple – it looked a little like those no-touch forehead thermometers a doctor in the mortal world would use. The purpose was entirely different, though, as with any demigod contraption. Everyone was a little restless until the son of Hephaestus tested himself and announced the results.

He cleared his throat before saying, “The two soldiers are–” He pointed at you. “Uh, what’s your name? Sorry.”

Stunned, you told him.

He nodded. “Ok. You and Praetor Grace will go to the woods together.”

You didn’t dare look at Piper.

“Are you sure you’ve got everything?” asked Nico, his voice full of concern.

You gave him a small smile. “Yes. You really didn’t have to pack for me, you know. I could have done it myself.” The empathy links had been set up and you were just about to leave.

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m aware. You’re very independent. Just let me do this one thing. For all we know, this trip is a death wish.”

“Very motivating, Nico,” Piper said dryly. “No but seriously, stay safe out there. And don’t have too much fun with Jason. You are on a professional mission, after all.” She winked.

Now you rolled your eyes. “Pipes, you need to let that go.”

You caught a whiff of something that smelled like… clean laundry? Turning around, you found yourself looking at a certain blonde boy, except this time he was wearing a dark blue New Rome University hoodie and a silver dog tag necklace on top, paired with baggy gray cargo pants.

He really had to stop sneaking up on you like that.

“Um, hi. You ready to go?” Jason’s voice was a little rough, like he’d been talking for a while and was now tired.

You nodded and waved to your friends. “Bye, guys.”

For the first ten minutes or so, it was painfully awkward. As you two walked to the woods, the only sound was chatting from the barracks and the crunchy gravel underneath your feet. When you reached your destination, nothing much changed apart from instead hearing the crickets sing and the leaves rustle. You were also half-expecting a monster to pop out of nowhere – there was a reason people avoided this grove.

Venus was probably having the time of her life watching.

“I feel like I owe you an explanation.”

You looked at Jason, startled.

“It was kind of a dick move to just throw that whole boyfriend thing on you. I wasn’t thinking, and now we’ve got to commit to this act, and now you’ve got to lie to your friend, and go on a whole fake date with me, and it’s really all my fault, sorry. If you’re mad, that’s totally fine–”

“You know, you really talk too much.” You were surprised that your voice came out so calmly, considering that you were kind of freaking out. “Yes, you did not make the smartest move there. But that’s okay. Just because you’re a praetor doesn’t mean you can’t fuck up sometimes. Besides, we don’t really have a way out of this.”

For a few seconds, there was no response.

Until Jason chuckled, deep and gravelly. “Wow. That was probably the most honest yet most comforting thing I’ve ever been told.”

“You’re welcome. So how are you thinking we execute this whole… situation? The date shouldn’t be too bad, but I’m mostly worried about how we’ll have to make it public to the camp. Tyson and Percy are half-brothers, and you know how Percy is–”

“He loves gossip. I’m guessing both camps will find out within a day if he knows.” Jason smiled. “I propose we reveal it in a subtle way, so people take a while to piece together that we’re, you know, quote unquote dating.”

You looked at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Are you cold?”

“No?” Jason frowned. He smirked and added, “Quite the opposite, actually.”

Raising an eyebrow, you replied, “Okay, Mason.” (He flushed.) “Give me your hoodie. I’ll probably get a load of it from Piper when we get back, but I think it’ll help our plan work.”

The boy did as you said and handed the hoodie over. You put it on, not expecting it to be so comfy. Jason was wearing a shirt underneath that read “I ♡ SABRINA SLUTS” which very much did not hug his biceps a little too tightly. You guessed the clothing choice was courtesy of Leo.

You were about to compliment it when you heard a faint sobbing echo through the woods.

The praetor looked at you. “Think that’s our soldier?”

You both jogged towards where the sound came from. Sitting against the trunk of a willow tree, you saw a dark-haired girl that looked about 10 years old. Her denim shorts had dark splotches from where her tears had fallen. Upon hearing you approach, she quickly wiped her face.

Jason knelt down next to her and gently took her hand. “Hi.”

You copied his actions, taking her other hand. Softly, you asked, “What’s your name?”

“Gracie.”

Jason smiled. “That’s a very pretty name. You wanna tell us what’s going on?”

The girl put her head in her hands and took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I was just thinking about how much I miss my mortal home and how scared I am now. It feels like there’s danger everywhere and I can never feel safe. I wish I was back at school like a normal kid, but instead I’m preparing for battles and having wolf ladies train me. I started feeling really bad so I came here, hoping it would help. I’m sorry, it’s really stupid and probably caused a fuss if you both had to come find me–”

“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t say that. It’s okay to feel that way. There are so, so many demigods who have thought the same things as you. Even I did, and I’m the praetor.” Gracie laughed a little at the last bit Jason said.

“Exactly,” you agreed. “You are being so brave right now. Just telling two people you haven’t ever talked to before about how you’re feeling takes courage.”

“You really think so?” Her voice was small.

“We know so.” Jason squeezed her hand. “Now, do you want to sit down here for a little longer, and we’ll tell camp you’re okay? We can stay with you.”

Gracie shook her head and declared, “I’m ready to go back now.”

“Okay.” He grinned. “Wait. I know what to do.”

Jason picked her up, bridal-style, and the girl squealed. Looking at him, with his slightly messy hair and huge smile, you felt closer somehow. Perhaps it was the empathy link, but it was like you were seeing a side of him that not many people knew. You were seeing Jason Grace, the boy who loses his glasses and thinks he’s being a burden (even though he isn’t) rather than Jason Grace, the praetor who fought the Titan Krios.

You liked this look better on him.

“Hello? Are you there?” Jason was staring at you intently, which made your cheeks grow warm. You hadn’t realized the two expected a response.

“Sorry, what?” You started walking back to camp, and they followed.

“Gracie here was just telling me that key lime pie is her comfort food, so I asked you if you’d like to bake it with us.”

“Oh, I love key lime pie! Sure.”

He beamed at you. Gracie continued her conversation, and you listened to her talk about the time she almost burned down her house a few years ago trying to make it. It was a peaceful walk, and you felt like you were with old friends.

Maybe, you thought, you could get used to Jason Grace.

[iamthatonefangirl]

Please please please make NSFW alphabet or headcanons with the winter soldier it's for my mental health ofc

anon you are literally a genius. how have I never thought about this before. this is a brilliant idea

here you can find my backstory/context for my version of the winter soldier. I wrote the nsfw alphabet based directly off this.

~~~

aftercare: this man sucks at aftercare, but he will always eat you out afterwards, no matter what.

more importantly, he stays. he doesn’t get up and walk away and leave you to feel abandoned. he’s not actively aware of it, but he's got his own abandonment issues, and he won't put you through that.

body part: total ass man, probably because he’s always fucking you from behind. he loves the view, loves grabbing your plush skin, giving you it a little smack to see it jiggle. 

on him, he's not picky. but whenever you try to touch his metal arm, or the scarring around it, he flinches away. he just doesn’t like it.

there was one time, though, when you were both laying in bed trying to fall asleep. you lightly traced your fingers over the outline of the red star on his bicep, and he just... let you. now that’s about the extent to which he’ll let you touch it (excluding when you’re having sex. he could give a fuck then.) 

cum: oh god it’s everywhere. he’s a fucking super soldier, he makes a mess all over the place. he’ll be jacking himself between your legs, coming all over your cunt, and somehow it’ll get in your hair. how? just,,, how??? you’ll never know.

in terms of making you cum, he’s still working on getting you to squirt. it’s like a challenge for him. and of course you’re not allowed to come without his permission. he loves knowing he controls your orgasms cuz he's a little shit.

dirty secret: he’ll never tell.

(he wants to get you pregnant just for the satisfaction of knowing he did. not to actually have a child. that’s his worst nightmare, so kind of a double-edged sword. (thank god for your birth control.))

experience: he’s not crazy experienced but he knows what he’s doing. he’s insanely observant, so in the beginning, he would watch you super intently for every single moan and reaction you’d give to his actions. he's pretty much got it down to a science now to make your body do exactly what he wants.

favorite position: he loves taking you from behind. it fills some deep primal urge within him that’s just about taking what he wants and making you take it. especially when he gets you on your hands and knees, and he gets to push your head into the pillow, making your arms give out… he could come on the spot. 

goofy: have you seen this man. not a goofy bone in his body. sad.

hair: he’s a hairy motherfucker. entirely unkempt. does not give a flying fuck about hair on you, either (he throws away your razor every time you buy a new one.) and of course he’s got the prettiest happy trail you ever did see. 

intimacy: he’s not really intimate by nature, more focused on getting you both off when he's fucking you, but every once in a while he'll give it to you soft and take his time to savor it.

there's little things, though, that he'll do, just the small actions like burying his face in your hair; brushing his nose with yours; running his hands over your scars, stretch marks, etc., that give you some semblance of closeness/intimacy even when he's fucking you within an inch of your life.

jack-off: he has an insanely high libido, which you can keep up with most of the time. when he’s gone on a job, he does what he has to do, but normally, there’s no time for that. so if he does jack off, it’s pretty rare. he’ll do it over your tits, though. 

kink: bondage, obviously. he loves to feel like he's in control, so most of the time, he's just tying your wrists together and pushing your hands out of his way so he can do his thing.

again with the control thing, he loves to choke you. the look of his hand around your pretty little throat does things to him. he's trying to decide if a collar would look as good as his hand.

location: anywhere in the house is fair game. and he means anywhere. there’s not a surface in the place that hasn’t been christened. 

motivation: his big thing is fucking you when he gets back from a job. he’s pent up, and tired, and needs to feel you the second he steps inside. there’s something about killing that makes his dick hard.

no: he’s all for being rough and giving you a few slaps when you ask for it, but he won’t ever do anything to legitimately hurt you. you’re still his and he doesn't damage his things. 

oral: doesn’t really care about receiving. if he wants to get his dick wet, it’s gonna be between your legs. he TOTALLY gets off on eating you out, though. when he's gone, alone, and missing you (he'll never admit to missing you) he thinks about the next time he gets to make out with your pussy.

pace: rough. fast. hard. he loves shoving himself into you and just letting loose without a care in the world. it's over in a heartbeat. but of course, that means you've got a few more rounds upcoming.

quickie: he’s gone about 85% of the time, meaning when he gets home and he fucks you, he’s going to do it rough and hard. you could argue that you mostly only have quickies, if you think about it hard enough.

risk: in terms of fucking anywhere else outside the house, it won’t happen. he honestly just can’t risk being seen in daylight. he also doesn't really see much as risky, given that he's a human weapon, but he's not really into doing anything risky anyways.

stamina: this goes without saying. he’s a super soldier. this man can and will fuck for HOURS at a time. at that point, you’re so tired and worn out, he slows his pace to softly fuck you to sleep. he’ll just keep going for hours and hours while you're knocked out. you’re more than happy to let him. 

toys: he sees toys as a threat, not a friend. he knows you have them and use them when he’s gone, but it pisses him off. he’s constantly trying to one-up himself from the last time he fucked you to prove to you that the real thing is better. 

unfair: have you seen him. every single thing he does is unfair, constantly teasing you to make you beg for him to fuck you. he loves bringing you to climax and then telling you no when you ask permission. if it was anyone else, you'd tell them to fuck off, but he makes it worth your while.

volume: he’s very quiet. he’s uber-focused on the feeling of you and would rather pay attention to the way you sound than himself, some part of him always trying to learn new things that make you moan.

he can’t help but hiss whenever he pushes past the stretch of how tight you are, and eventually lets out a few rough groans when he comes. 

he does let himself go when he’s using his mouth on you; it’s his fucking favorite thing, and he can’t help but whine and moan when he tastes you. one time you commented on it and he just grunted and kissed you to shut you up. 

wild card: the talking stage you had before him? yeah he killed that guy. (he doesn’t know you know.) 

oh, and the guy you said catcalled you on the block near your place. 

oh, and…

x-ray: for a man with that much aura, it’s a given that he’s highkey packing. dresses left and lovessss coming up behind you just to grind against your ass when he feels like it. you try to unbutton your pants to let him fuck you and he grunts no so you have to just let him do his thing until he's coming on your lower back.

yearning: you’re both horny motherfuckers who can’t keep it in your pants for a second. he’s on you all the goddamn time when he’s not off working. 

zzz: he doesn’t sleep much anyways, so it takes him a while to decompress and finally get to sleep afterwards. sometimes he’ll just lay there and watch you sleep, making sure your heart is still beating and your lungs are still breathing. he's so used to seeing people's bodies just... stop. and go cold. you’re the one person he actually cares to protect and make sure that never happens to. he'd probably burn down all of new york if that happened.

~~~

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[bomusims]

introducing: THE BRUNCH CLUB

finally, at long last... my entry for peachi's april challenge! have at em queers xx

0X // INDEX

01 // profiles 02 // character notes 03 // lore 04 // naming notes 05 // glossary* 06 // author's notes

*for terms and phrases marked with an asterisk, please refer to the glossary.

01 // PROFILES

PRISCILLA DE VERE

The Princess Snob, Self-absorbed, Mean 4th year Class 4-A Pronouns: She/her Height: 163cm Birthday: 17th October Favorite Food: Avocado toast with honey and red pepper chili flakes Current Concern: Her classmates won't shut up.

from the peanut gallery…

"She's a total bitch, but y' didn't hear it from me." - Anonymous "There's a sinister energy about her... I can sense the Spirit of Darkness (?) within me stir whenever she nears." - Kouzai Hayashi "No comment." - Anonymous "She's really pretty!! I think she'd be a lot happier if she smiled more!!!" - Aaron Campbell

GWENNETH MARÍA "GWEN" RIZAL DE LA CRUZ

The Yankee* Hot-Headed, Loyal, Cat Lover 4th year Class 4-A Pronouns: She/any Height: 177cm Birthday: 12th January Favorite Food: Pineapple buns Current Concern: Her hair roots are already growing back in...

from the peanut gallery…

"Do not associate me with that delinquent or her gaggle of lackeys." - Priscilla De Vere "They have the potential to become a worthy adversary of mine… [dark chuckle] (??)" - Kouzai Hayashi "No comment." - Anonymous "They’re super cool and really good at fighting!!" - Aaron Campbell

KOUZAI HAYASHI

The Chuunibyou* Erratic, Macabre, Paranoid 4th year Class 4-A Pronouns: He/they Height: 170cm Birthday: 9th July Favorite Food: Pudding cups Current Concern: What he should do if he ever got hit by a truck and isekai’d (??) into his favorite manga.

from the peanut gallery…

"Who?" - Priscilla De Vere "Y’ mean that kid? Oh, don’t worry about ‘im. He’s just like that." - Anonymous "No comment." - Anonymous "I think he’s got a really fun and interesting personality!! And also I think he’d be a cool guy to hang out with!!!" - Aaron Campbell

JAMES BROOK

The Nerd Genius, Overachiever, Perfectionist 4th year Class 4-A Pronouns: He/him Height: 173cm Birthday: 23rd December Favorite Food: Neapolitan ice cream Current Concern: He’s running out of quiet, isolated spaces to study in.

from the peanut gallery…

"Why should I care about that little nerd?" - Priscilla De Vere "I see ‘im in the infirmary a lot. Not really sure what he’s got goin’ on there, but that's none o' my business.” - Anonymous "There are no doubts about his intelligence—of course, he's still incomparable to the great and noble Scion of Darkness (???).” - Kouzai Hayashi "He's super cool and smart and always gets the top score!!!" - Aaron Campbell

AARON CAMPBELL!!!

The Moodmaker!! Active, Adventurous, Bro! 4th year Class 4-A! Pronouns: He/him! Height: 181cm! Birthday: 15th April! Favorite Food: Five Sims bacon cheeseburger! (with tomato and lettuce!!) Current Concern: None!!!

from the peanut gallery…

“He would do the world a great service if he learned how to shut the hell up.” - Priscilla De Vere "He means well, but he’s very, uh… Clumsy? Accident-prone? Great guy either way.” - Anonymous "No comment." - Anonymous "Should he ally himself against The Society (????), he would be a most suitable sidekick for the likes of myself.” - Kouzai Hayashi

02 // CHARACTER NOTES

priscilla

rich, spoiled, prissy princess with one hell of an attitude

cis femme lesbian. what, you thought i was gonna make a str**ght person?

greatly values peace and quiet—that is, everyone else immediately ceasing conversation the moment she walks into a room and only speaking when she permits them to

del sol valley born and bred, as one can imagine

very pretty until she opens her mouth

dresses head to toe in designer clothing, owns a walk-in closet the size of an average studio apartment in san myshuno, and has a 42-step skincare routine

it’s actually kinda impressive how early she gets up in the mornings to make sure she looks impeccable at all times

nepo baby (judith ward’s granddaughter, because i can)

has a somewhat warped relationship with her family. they’re all very distant with each other only know how to shower someone in material gifts instead of proper love and affection

for some reason, the boys at their school haven’t caught on to the fact that she’s gay yet. they just think that she’s playing hard to get and/or out of everyone else’s league (it’s the latter and also she is a lesbian)

she dgaf about anyone else in the class unless they are disturbing her aforementioned peace and quiet. some things can be tuned out, others not so easily (i.e. aaron’s lack of an ‘inside voice’)

her hobby? spending money, of course

has a fake id that she uses to get into upscale clubs and bars, but she doesn’t drink or smoke (it’s terrible for her skin. obviously). she’s just there for the mocktails and vibes

surprisingly, she doesn’t attack people people unprovoked, though it can be contested what is considered provocation to some people. don’t bother her and she won’t bother you—unless you’re wearing a lumpy knit sweater so tacky and garish that it’s an assault on the human eyes, or something along those lines

gwen

wannabe yankee and de facto leader of their school’s gang fight club

nonbinary bisexual

often gets into physical fights with other delinquent types (regardless of which school they go to) and frequents the infirmary

always got a bruise and a bandage on somewhere

big fan of cats. as all delinquents ought to be

contrary to popular belief, she’s quite the early bird and arrives at school wayyyy before the bell rings

she’s also very studious and pays attention in class, but jumps ship as soon as she’s done with the classwork

they can’t really ding her for skipping classes when her grades are on par with james’ grades, so instead she gets double the detention for fights

genuinely looks up to the yakuza/mafia groups that still practice the code of chivalry and wants to join one as soon as she graduates

she won’t hesitate to beat you up if you deserve it, but she’ll refuse to fight dirty even it means defeat. a person who lives whole-heartedly by their integrity—a rare find these days

has a sort of accent that developed after watching a bunch of animes with characters speaking in kansai-ben. she started watching those animes fairly early on in her childhood, so it’s been stuck with her since elementary school. yes mt. komorebi has regional dialects, including kansai-ben, which has absolutely zero relation to the dialect spoken by those from the kansai region in japan

originally she was gonna be more masc/androgynous, but then the trinity collection dropped and i said fuck it we’re going vivienne westwood

kouzai

grown ass man (? boy? idk) with chuunibyou syndrome

probably gay and nonbinary but he’s busy suppressing the darkness inside of him so he doesn’t really care about that rn

has a scar across his left eye from a traumatic accident early on in his childhood. the chuunibyou started right after he regained consciousness in the hospital as a defense mechanism that ‘shielded’ him from that trauma, but it didn’t become an point of concern until he entered high school because everyone thought it was just the nonsensical whims of a child

convinced there’s a “spirit of darkness” or whatever sealed in his left eye

calls himself the “scion of darkness” (?) and notes “the society” (??) as his archnemesis. no one really knows or cares what any of that means

constantly poses with one hand shrouding his face a bit (you know the one..)

randomly chuckles darkly and audibly mutters to himself things like “heh… these fools don’t even know who they’re messing with”

only child

lowkey a really talented artist but that’s commonly overlooked bc of his, ah… antics

terrible at sports. like baddddd

when they were freshman everyone was either like “ermmm freak!!” or “oh god he’s at it again”

but by the time senior year rolled around everyone got used to it and no one gaf. except for new/transfer students, who are thoroughly confused as to why no one’s reacting to this weirdo

has he been bullied? yes! but for the most part it just went over his head or he’d say something like “[dramatic pose] an amateur move… if i were to unseal the spirit of darkness, the lot of you would have been vaporized to ashes where you stand. consider your foolish selves lucky that i, the great and noble scion of darkness, have chosen to pardon your transgressions” and then eventually bullies would just give up on trying to pick on him bc it’s pointless

james

so-called ‘brainiac’ and consistently places the first on the academic scoreboards but isn’t on the student government or class rep because he keeps beating up his bullies

cis and probably gay but he’s busy with school so he doesn’t really care about that rn

whole personality is being a stick in the mud

but like. he will punch you in the face if you piss him off

is he a victim of teasing and bullying? yes! will he stand up for himself? also yes!

he’s got a tongue on him for sure

the type to remind the teacher that they’ve got homework

as one might imagine, not many students are a fan of him

also, he’s got zero (0) friends. the only person that would qualify is his cousin that’s older by a few years and studying over in britechester. and he prefers it that way! he’s very much an introvert and is more than happy to spend his time immersed in research instead of socializing with his peers

very frank and does not sugarcoat things, but will lie (mostly by omission or white lie) to get out of bothersome situations, such as bumping into priscilla in the hallways and accidentally stepping on her custom sentate pink patent leather pumps

james and gwen are the most ‘sane’ of the bunch. like yeah both of them get into scuffles for various reasons, but aside from that they’ve got their head square on their shoulders and can look at things fairly objectively

why do the bullies keep coming back for him, you ask? well, if you poke and prod at him then he’ll just say something like “you ought to be using this free time for self study”, which eventually escalates to increasingly over-specific insults. this, of course, provokes the bullies, who will then throw the first punch. james lets himself get hit a few times to prove self-defense before promptly socking them in the face a few times, then kneeing them in the groin for the finishing move. by that point, faculty have already been alerted of the situation, so they send all the kids to the infirmary before dishing their respective punishments. at the very least, james will get a reduced sentence and serve his detention separately from the bullies—but now, the bullies’ egos have been thoroughly bruised and by the time their sentences are over, they’re already itching to get their revenge on james… and so the cycle continues

to clarify, he’s never had formal martial arts lessons. it just so happens that his leaner build typically allows him more agility than his larger opponents, so he can dodge fairly easily. (also, these are just high school thugs with zero technique whatsoever, so all you really need is a well-timed knee to the groin in order to win)

aaron

somewhat dense but energetic, charismatic, good-spirited moodmaker (jock..?)

cis bisexual but he doesn’t know about the bisexual bit because he’s never pondered the subject of his sexuality before… he’ll figure it out

every class needs at least one kid that can rile up the whole class with their energy and enthusiasm

absurdly strong and athletic but has a hard time controlling his strength, resulting in many, many accidents

generally well liked by the student population, but not so much the faculty (see: frequent destruction of school property)

incredibly optimistic and strives to see the good in other people

his general opinion on things can be ranked on a scale of “totally cool!!!” to “totally not cool :(“

he’s not on any of the sports teams despite being naturally talented at pretty much all of them (see: frequent destruction of school property) but he tends to gravitate towards baseball during phys ed. and yes, he took phys ed as an elective in their 3rd and 4th years

bottomless stomach and a ridiculously high metabolism

runs to school. not walking, not jogging, not biking, but runs. sometimes even full on sprinting

lowkey cannot read the room

definitely has more than a few secret admirers (thanks to his good looks), but he doesn’t know about that either. he is NOT gonna notice any innuendos or subliminal messaging. you have to walk straight up to his face and say “i like you”. but even then, there’s a good chance that he’ll say something like “woah thats cool because i like you too!! and also classmate x and classmate y and classmate z and—“

he’s very easy to get along with if you can handle extroverts

probably has undiagnosed adhd

i mean honestly, he’s just a simple guy with a lotta love in his heart

03 // LORE

what the hell are they doing in detention, you ask? what a great question!

priscilla backed her car straight into the principal’s rear bumper in the school parking lot (it’s a widely known yet unspoken fact that she’s a terrible driver, but the usual victims are other students’ cars getting a little scratch or dent here and there, courtesy of her porsche boxster with custom hot pink detailing)

gwen got into a fight with kids from the neighboring school. again. (this is a daily occurrence and no one is surprised)

kouzai blew up the chemistry lab while brewing up a “draught of the eclipse”. no one knows wtf he put in that beaker or wtf a “draught of the eclipse” is, but he did steal a bunch of random chemicals from the storage room, so…

james was being heckled by his bullies (again) so he socked them all in the nuts (again). (this, too, is a daily occurrence and no one is surprised)

aaron accidentally threw a baseball at a window and destroyed it during phys ed. (aaron accidentally breaks school property on a daily basis. once again, no one is surprised)

unfortunately, i didn’t have enough time to write more of this… so i’ll leave the rest up to your imagination ;)

04 // NAMING NOTES

priscilla de vere

priscilla being her first name simply makes sense—i can’t imagine it being anything else. as for her last name, the house of de vere was a very old and powerful english aristocratic family! it also has ties to british royalty, which i think is quite fitting given priscilla's personality.

gwenneth maría rizal de la cruz

gwen is tsinoy* like me! their first name is gwenneth maría. many tsinoys (or pinoys in general) have 2-in-1 first names, but only go by one of them and/or a nickname—gwen is no exception to this. her middle name is rizal, because pinoy people will literally name their kid after anything, and i like to think that her parents named her after josé rizal, a national hero of the philippines. de la cruz is simply her parents’ surname, and now it’s gwen’s. of course, her full name is a bit of a mouthful, so she mainly goes by gwenneth maría rizal aside from the legal stuff.

kouzai hayashi

kouzai roughly translates to “both good and evil” (kou - light/happiness; zai - darkness/evil). it took me a lot of searching to find it because i wanted something very specific, and i think this suits him well especially given the chuunibyou syndrome.

james brook

a simple, sensible name for a simple, sensible man.

aaron campbell

i was operating off of pure vibes at this point. i used all my brain juice for naming the first three, so i hit the rng button until i got something that fit him. don’t you think he looks like an aaron?

05 // GLOSSARY

in order of appearance:

yankee: a japanese term used to refer to a type of delinquent youth associated with motorcycle gangs and frequently sporting dyed blond hair [via wikipedia]

chuunibyou: also called middle school or eighth-grader syndrome, a japanese term used to refer to adolescents with delusions of grandeur [via wikipedia]

tsinoy: filipinos of chinese descent, but born and raised in the philippines [via wikipedia]

06 // AUTHOR’S NOTES

aaaaand that's all he wrote

if you’ve made it this far, thank you for staying and reading! this really was a passion project for me over the last few weeks, and i had a ball of a time while working on it. there's so many things i wish i had time to add or improve, but alas, deadlines and time constraints are things that exist. i don’t even care about winning at this point, i’m just so glad i was able to finish this in the first place. i also added in a bunch of little references here n there but i'm not gonna tell you which ones. iykyk ;)

some miscellaneous notes:

if you've heard of the saturday breakfast club, then get ready for the... sunday brunch club

there’s no intended romantic subplot, but if i had to choose then i’m team priscilla x gwen all the way. if anyone’s got ship name suggestions lmk

yeah gwen is my favorite

i imagine the hypothetical interviewer/surveyor gathering responses for the profiles going “WHAT IS BRO TALKING ABOUTTTT 🔥🔥🔥🔥💥💥💥💥💥💥🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️” in his head every time kouzai opens his mouth

also, i really love kouzai’s design, but god DAMN was he annoying to edit. chromakeying was a nightmare i’ll tell you that much

the movie poster features brand new poses by me! the student id cards were also made from scratch by me. idk if i’ll ever share them or not since i made them custom for each sim but if people are interested i’ll polish them up and drop them in a patreon post one day :)

maybe i’ll do a sim dump too but i'll be busy for several weeks after i drop this so that probably won't be for a hot minute

i’ll also definitely add to their lore and maybe even make some more edits n stuff for them! there’s so much more i want to do with these characters but once again.. not for a while cus irl stuff

i scrapped the initial ideas for the brunch club poster at least ten times over. at first they were gonna be sitting in a classroom, but then i started building a scene and then i was like No thank you too many objects so i tried using premade scenes but those weren’t working out either. but then i had the genius idea of recreating the original breakfast club poster! which was only great in theory because the only poses i could find on the internet were very outdated and didn’t work well with vyxated’s rigplus. i already knew i was going to have to make kouzai’s pose from scratch (searched high and low for good chuuni poses but to no avail) but now i had to make poses for all five of them… not a fun time in the beginning but once i got the hang of maneuvering the rigs it was chill!

you can find all my previous brunch club posts (and future ones as well) here!

in case the quality gets squashed by tumblr, i'll be uploading all the pictures + a bonus version of the poster without signatures over on my patreon (free, duh)

i just noticed i made a typo in james’ bio pls dont flame me

thanks and credits: @peachibunnii and the bunni discord for the prompt and encouragement; @vyxated for the life-saving ea rig+; @surely-sims and @solitasims4 for their posing tutorials; @salemssimblr for literally everything on @salemsimsrender; @xiuminuwu for the yearbook poses and @someone-elsa for the yearbook backdrop textures; all the amazing creators whose cc i used to make the sims (it’s a very long list and i don’t want to tag too many people cus that would be annoying); blender, sims 4 studio, photopea, and clip studio paint pro (the programs i primarily used); and last but not least, beerkyeg for the emotional support. there’s definitely a lot more people i’m forgetting, but know that i love and appreciate u all <3

[mono-dontidae]

say it

c/w: pointing out insecurities (everyone except kenma cause i dunno how kenma woukd make point an insecurity out), cheating (just kenma), pure angst no fluff, not proofead

a/n: no lev because i love lev he could never be mean!! haha!! (im running out of shit to write pls recc me a school or 3 ppl to continue this idek)

pairing(s): kuroo, kenma, yaku x !fem reader

kuroo

you weren't the brightest. but you certainly weren't dumb. you just needed a little help with your studies. however, you were amazing at other things; sports, curricular activities and communication pursuits. kuroo admired how determined you were at trying to be better with your studies though. the way you'd do your best to help your other classmates with things neither you understood. he caught himself smiling at the sight of it. maybe that's why he loves you so much. all up until one day, it's been a particularly hard day for him. training's been horrible and you just kept bugging him for a study date. "does it have to be me? i'm sure you could ask like.. kenma or something", he asked you, trying to contain his annoyance. you refused, wanting your boyfriend to help him. you felt more comfortable around him and you feel that spending time together was a good idea. he thought otherwise. "fuck, can't you just get the hint? i'm fucking tired. why can't you be like [girl's name]? she's pretty, funny and smart. you're just a good face with no thought behind it. just get the hint, okay? it's real fucking annoying.", his words harsh and blunt. he couldn't think. "what? don't be petty, tell me directly 'no'. there was no need to compare me with her anyways.", you replied back, hurt. you didn't mean to act so persistant on it. "you're almost worst than lev. it's embarrassing enough to have a girlfriend who's shitty at school, like, why're you here in the first place?", he laughed almost, seemingly twisting the knife. he walked away while you just stood there, insecure.

kenma

"pfft.. haha..", kenma kept smiling as he texted on his phone. you were both eating a bento you made at a park, afterschool. he hasn't had a single bite yet and making conversation with him was impossible. "mm.." "uhuh" "yeah." "crazy." "oh?" "ah." was all he ever replied back with his eyeballs staring at his screen, his fingers making a longer sentence than his mouth ever could. "oh, for fucks sake.", you finally spat. you snatched kenma's phone away, getting him to finally look at you. "what're you doing? i'm talking to a brick wall here ken, what could be mor-", you paused as you looked at what the contact was saved as. "honey ♡". a heart? are you serious? "ken? what in the fuck is this?", you got up, angry and fuming. understandable honestly, who wouldn't be? "oh. that's.. uhm", he darted his eyes to the side, unable to answer you. ".. an online friend..", that answer of his only filled your rage. "no friend would ever be thought to be named 'honey' with a heart, ken. what the hell, what gives? i thought we were good, what's up with this?!", you asked him, confused. you sounded desperate for an answer from him, a boy who's always of few words. "i don't know. she's always been.. available. she plays all the same games as me, likes the same anime's as me and always been interested in what i like.", he said, matter of factly. you placed his phone onto the banch you were both sitting on a bit too harshly. "and what, that justifies you to just cheat on me?! you could have just broken up with me!", you stepped forward, now facing infront of him. this was all so stupid. "you and i have never been in the same intrest bubbles. she's more fun. you're boring. she's cool about anything too, you're super uptight. i just stayed to make you pleased i guess. i don't know.", he replied half-assed. it's almost like he was never bothered. almost like you never mattered. you were just another person to him and he kept the lable going to delude you of happiness. how embarrassing it must be to be so unaware.

yaku

you were cool, tall, charming and apart of the nekoma female volleyball team. it's how you and yaku met in the first place. deep down, you weren't as masculine or stoic like how you seemed on the outside. you didn't dig your stereotyoe much and hid how you were girly, sweet, nice and overall being pretty feminine knowing it didn't suit you. your height and athletism has been an insecurity and always wanted to be "pretty like other girls". obviously, you both got stared at in school or public by the height difference and such but it never mattered. or did it? "hey, suke? you wanna have lunch later?", you appoached him in class that morning, happy to see your boyfriend. he looked a bit startled when you approached his desk. he looked up, seeing you tower over him. you were a foot taller but you didn't mind being taller than him. however, yaku has always been insecure of his height. lately the teasing of his classmates and team has gotten to him. "oh, hey. no thanks, babe. i'll be eatingg with the guys today.", he replied curtly. you felt a bit dissapointed but you still festered a smile. you handed him a packed lunch. "alright. here, then. i made you something.", it was cute, floral patterned wrapping cloth containing a little surprise note you wrote inside. "oh. thanks.", he stared at it. you waved him goodbye before walking to the other side of the classroom to your desk. later at lunch, he walked to the class next door where kuroo, kenma, fukunaga, yamamoto and inuoka were. they waved him a hello as he approach, your bento in hand. yamamoto pointed it out first, "yo, your little girlfriend made you lunch? oh, wait. you're the little one, sorry!", then laughed and the rest followed. "pfft, lay off him. we all know height doesn't matter. but how's being the girlfriend, huh?", kuroo barked next. the rest laughed once more, irritating yaku more. he sat, unveiling the lunch. your note was his last straw, 'hope u love this, honey! lot's of love, y/n. p.s, i made sure to cut the crust off your sandwich this time!'. "nevermind!! she's just your mom at this point, man! haha!", yamamoto laughed as he peeped at the note. he got up angrily and threw the bento onto the floor. "look, it's not my fault my girfriend's a freak. she's tall as shit and theres nothing i can do about it. she can't even be girly 'cause let's face it, it'll never suit her. she chose me 'cause i'm the only person willing of taking her. no dude in the right mind would date her; you're right, she's a boyfriend at most! i shouldnt've even dated her from how embarrassing it is!", he rambled as the class was silent. then there you were, in the doorway watching. you were just walking past the class to head to the canteen and he was exploding before your eyes. everyone looked from him to you, crickets playing. some were staring at you with pity, some trying not to laugh, some in shock and some confused.

ts so ass highkey 🥀