#but he needs to have that sort of small humanity to begin with because otherwise... he'd be evil

[msafterhours]

Saccharine | Act One

Male Reader x (G)I-DLE Yuqi

Act 1 (~14.5k words) [Act 2] [Act 3]

Song Yuqi (sôNG yo͞o·kē)

media darling.

an unforgettable dream, stealing fan’s hearts with silky smooth singing and sugary sweet smiles.

an idol’s ideal, image unblemished by a single hint, word, or leak implying otherwise.

absolutely spotless.

nothing messy, nothing toxic, nothing wrong with her in the slightest—

What a load of shit.

They say truth is stranger than fiction, but no story from either source could have prepared you for the things you’ve seen over your few months in this industry. Most who put pen to paper from an early age don’t dream of writing news updates, opinion pieces, or reviews for a K-Pop news site, but you’re not the type to pass up any half-decent opportunity. You’ve learned from your father, who brought this family here before you could read in pursuit of a better life than he could find in the U.S. Thus, when a family friend started up this new business and offered you a job despite your lack of experience, the thought of turning it down never even crossed your mind.

You know full well the life you’ve chosen to enter, with the lies and cover-ups and entire careers that get ruined because they didn’t smile at the right sleazy fuck. You’ve adapted fast, steeling your heart and refusing to let it bother you; after all, rules are allegedly meant to be followed. Thus, you’re happy to play their game, so long as it means you’re learning about the lone aspect that captivates you: the power of leverage. You've heard how one call from an executive can change someone’s life or how the demands of fans manifest change, but it's another thing entirely to see the human reactions behind every ripple in this pond. While you'd love to have the best seats in the house to observe from, you’re well aware of what rung you’re on—painfully aware of how low that rung sits. And as much as you’d love to catch a flight to the top, the skies remain clear. You’ll just have to grit your teeth and climb.

As you work, beginning your ascent, you hear stories. Gossip, whispers in passing, those sorts of things—things that provide context and give you power over someone. You’re constantly attuned to them, writing them down and using your contraband knowledge as bargaining power when securing opportunities. A more honest you might view your methods as underhanded, but this you knows that they’re effective. So, you keep your ears perked and remain vigilant.

Things change when you start hearing the rumors about her: some pre-debut idol who’s too small in stature and reputation to talk the way she does but too egotistical and narcissistic to act otherwise. At first glance, they’re anything but surprising and, more damningly, they’re far from fascinating, so why sidetrack yourself by investigating them? Especially since you know that in this industry, the path to the top is paved by the broken hearts of good people and tread by those willing to crush them under heel.

Then another wave of whispers reaches your ears—this second ripple even passing through some circles of importance—so you do what you do best. You start some conversations, get your contacts laughing before asking them questions—the types they won't even remember answering. Ultimately, it’s a win-win; they get to hear the sound of their own voice and you get the information you need; information that you’re more than happy to save for a rainy day.

It’s not long before you make a promise you don’t intend to keep and secure a favor from one of those contacts. You’re eager to cash in, securing an interview with one of their clients in mainland China and starting off the new year right. With an opportunity like this, you’d be a fool not to go, rumors or otherwise. That being said, there’s no reason you can’t keep an ear to the ground; a trip like this can have more than one purpose. Maybe you’ll even find a sliver of that truth people claim to tell.

The flight’s fine, the weather’s bad, and the place you’re staying is even worse, but hey, at least the food’s bearable. The night's young, so are you, and so is your career. There'll be plenty of time for penthouse hot tub parties later. For now, as the storm outside your window creates a percussive backdrop to your nightly preparations, you settle down early. You allow the night to overtake you well before your usual late hour, hoping that a rested mind will serve you well as you grab your metaphorical pickaxe and head into a potential gold mine of information tomorrow.

You dream not of the moisture outside, but of a complete lack thereof. Your dreams enthrall you with heat, flames, and intoxicating agony. With every step forward, you feel the blaze consume more of your essence, but the ecstasy that fills the void drives you ever onward. You're eager to relish the pain, letting it fuel you just as much as the pleasure as you force yourself closer. You nearly make it to the center of the inferno—getting maddeningly close to witnessing its heart—but your screams of frustration break off as your vision burns away, leaving you staring instead at the first hints of sunrise filtering into your shoddy hotel room.

Once you finish capping off this unique experience with a final, frustrated scream, you ready yourself, allowing your morning to pass by in a blink before you arrive at the talent agency. You imitate a warm smile flawlessly, tapping into some of the residual heat within as you carry a friendly conversation with the receptionist while she confirms your interview appointment.

After a quick, silent elevator ride spent rehearsing the questions you’d prepared, the bell chimes and doors part to reveal your destination. As always, you’re early to being early, allowing plenty of time to chat with the makeup artist and peruse her memories for potential ammunition. You place an attentive nod amidst one of her stories, gently touch her arm as you pretend her joke is hilarious, and allow your gleaming smile to keep the conversation lively as you perform the unspoken, crucial responsibilities your job demands of you. While her tales of past encounters barely satiate your desires, her reaction to the sudden outburst in the next room over is another gift entirely.

You can see it in how her shoulders suddenly slump, how her eyes roll with a practiced grace, and how the sigh escapes unprompted. She deflates, and you immediately ascertain that this is far from the first occurrence of its kind. She meets your gaze, and you understand that it won’t be the last. You’ve seen no face nor heard a name, but you know. It’s her.

The malice dripping off her words is matched only by the malevolence in the deep tone of her voice as it quickly grows in both pitch and volume. Her tirade berates not only the hapless victim trapped in the room with her, but also the irreparably damaged ears of every bystander in the vicinity. Even for you, someone seemingly numb to the ever-present abuse within the industry, time slows to a crawl as her verbal onslaught continues for a minute, then three, then ten.

All the while, you know full well your companion is on the verge of exploding with anticipation, wordlessly begging for you to ask what’s going on. So, when a malnourished conscience or guardian angel or maybe just a need for oxygen leads to silence, you oblige. No reason that your pursuits can’t be mutually beneficial. You wrap your words in sympathy as you whisper, wide-eyed and horrified, “Who is she?”

And as the floodgates open and the stylist tells you of the monster known as Song Yuqi, for the first time in a long time, you have to fight to keep the smile off your face rather than having to maintain the joyful facade. But that struggle quickly fades as your moment of wonderful discovery is replaced by genuine, sympathetic horror. Because she isn’t as bad as the rumors or this latest eruption made her out to be. She’s somehow worse.

And it’s not the verbal outbursts nor the sense of entitlement that makes your lip curl. No, it’s the facade she wears so well when she walks on stage. It’s the soft smile shining brightest under the spotlight’s glow. It’s who she is in the dark—who she becomes when untethered from the ramifications of her actions. It’s the diametric opposition between fact and fiction. And the worst part is, her arrogant swagger is justified. You can do nothing about it.

Yet.

The makeup artist’s story ends—as all must—and the clock mercilessly demands that you fulfill your obligations. You bid your companion farewell, surprising yourself with a rare display of kindness as you write down her name and genuinely tell her you hope to see her again someday. The distance to your destination is short; the journey is long. Each step punctuates another sentence, another line amidst the vast chronicle of misdeeds you’re currently composing. Your hands ache with a storyteller’s strain, but you bite back your desires and let the flames simmer down. It’s time to be a professional.

Your interviews tend to go well, especially whenever you control the conversation and ask the type of questions fans pretend to hate but secretly love. But whether it’s something in the water or your mind still reeling from the day’s earlier revelations, you discard the typical formula and enter the room without an agenda in mind. A pair of introductions are made, you compliment her new hair color, and she thanks you for coming all this way to conduct the interview. It’s polite and sterile and quaint—just like all the other interviews she’s done. But when you pull a pair of chairs over to the glass wall and offer her a seat with a view of Beijing, that piques her interest. And once you both sit down and get comfortable, you pull out no notebook or laptop, instead beginning an audio recording on your phone, you heighten her curiosity even further. Finally, when you begin the interview by inviting her to ask any question about you, she’s completely captivated. And you’re just as riveted as you listen to her response.

If a normal interview is a highway—carefully planned and constructed to fulfill a particular purpose—today’s is a river, naturally forming and freely flowing towards its destination. While you’re able to ask her some questions about her time on Produce 101 and her recent re-debut, you also both stray from the intended topic repeatedly, sharing tangents and truths and things you’ll never get to include. All of it should irritate you, but you know full well you’re far too invested to care. You can see how she matches your focus, see it in the way she leans closer—in the way she laughs openly and freely, unafraid of displaying her enjoyment. She sees the same, sees it in the way you join her laughter just as easily and how you intently hold her gaze as you weave a dialogue together with her. For the first time in as long as you can remember, words with meaning are spoken.

The sands of time flow far too swiftly, denying you further opportunity as your time together nears its end. You watch, noting how her eyes fall slightly at the top of the hour; you listen, ears perking up at the honesty in her hopes that you’ll see each other again. You respond, mirroring her sentiment and bidding her a fond farewell; you exit, leaving the room and finding yourself alone with only a recording and your memories to keep you company.

You know—even before listening back to the recording and transcribing her tales—that it truly is something special, something truly memorable. And it terrifies you. Because here, alone in the silence, you feel. A sensation of impending ruination creeps up your spine and shadows you through every twist and turn of this concrete labyrinth.

The vulnerability in memorability. The expectations and ramifications. The thought of seeing her again. The thought of meeting her. It all circulates through your mind, suffocating any further notions as you carefully reconstruct each particular piece of your professional persona. As the elevator descends to your level, you ponder the potential significance of this day. There’s so much to parse through, yet you’re unable to draw even a single conclusion. Perhaps later, you think as you enter the elevator. For now, you have work to do.

-x-

One step. Another. A door. A shudder. The individual pulls their jacket tight against their body, then pushes the heavy glass door open and steps out into the unforgiving Beijing winter. The wind whips through their hair, mercilessly battering their features as they exit the lobby. Many steps are taken, progressing through the journey until a turn is made. Then, a pause. Another turn, back towards the building. Their eyes climb, methodically, one floor at a time, impossibly high until they reach the top. An instant later, they’re back at ground level. Inhaling takes only a moment. Exhaling takes millennia. Their perspective drops further, to the pavement below. Another gust buffets the figure, and a sense of self-preservation sends them begrudgingly back along their way. It’s time for them to pack their things and go. The plane to Korea awaits.

-x-

You've always laughed at the idea that nothing good happens after midnight. As a seasoned writer and chronic procrastinator, you’ve thrived under the pressure of a morning deadline. Yet here you are, months later, staring at a bright screen in a dark room hours before the sun will give life to this particular Friday, agonizing over the task that you’ve been given.

Six names sit on the page in front of you. All of them “should” matter. One of them does. A fresh group has entered the arena, and their debut is as clean as their name is ridiculous. Your fingers fly across the keyboard, each pixel darkening your screen further as you sing stanza after stanza of praises. But instead of thinking of chord progressions or vocal harmonies, your focus lies solely on silence. Not the one you find yourself in now, but the one after her tirade. The one that’s remained in your mind long after your interview had ended; the one that threatened to betray the pounding hearts of every potential victim in the vicinity.

Five sections are completed, each giving well-earned praise to a deserving individual and highlighting their participation in the finished product. But that's not where your eyes fall, where the blinking cursor awaits. No, the subject of your ire is the final section, where your notes contain a few perfectly legitimate reasons to commend her contributions. A superbly safe option … if you choose to take it. But truth be told, you don’t want to. Admittedly, it’s not for the sake of her victims; you’ve never been one willing to take risks for something as worthless as the wellbeing of others. Your mind just can’t seem to disentangle itself from the fact that mere months later, she’s shining under Korea’s brightest lights. Part of you knows that it’s more petty than principled, but you honestly can’t stand the harsh reality of her getting to play by a different rulebook. So, the cursor blinks on.

Four hours remain, and you remain completely unsure of what to do. You’re stuck grasping at straws, knowing what you’d like to say, but treasuring your personal journey far too much to allow something as trivial as the truth to derail it all. You rack your mind, desperately attempting to find a compromise. Eventually, you wonder if perhaps a statement through omission rather than an overt declaration is the correct approach. It’s a risky idea, but one with great potential, especially in the name of generating clicks via controversy. Fuck it, you think to yourself. It’s worth an attempt. You crack your knuckles, lean forward in your chair, and spin gold.

Three members are chosen, highlighted above the rest for one reason or another. The justifications you give are borderline ostentatious, almost comically complimentary towards the contributions of your chosen trio. Somewhere along the way, a sense of confidence grows within you. Your decayed conscience is an entirely different story.

Two others—their praises already penned—are cast aside; forgotten and discarded in an effort to hide your disdain for their coworker and her offenses. Punished for no fault of their own. The notion would make you sick if it weren’t so damned common. At least you can find solace in the fact that you’re giving her exactly as much praise as she deserves.

One email containing your finished article is all that’s sent. Later today, the fuse will run out and your editor will be confronted by the landmine you’ve so kindly delivered to his inbox. But that’s alright. It is—quite literally—his job to deal with it.

Zero sounds pierce the stillness that permeates every nook and cranny of your apartment. Your breath halts, preserving this moment of tranquility within the ever-beating heart of the nation.

A moment passes.

Another.

The sigh that slips out is unintended, but not unexpected. It’s a deep, dejected exhalation that almost makes you wonder which decision drove you to become such fast friends with 4AM. Alas, the conclusions gleaned from that line of thinking can be drawn another day. Right now, you need coffee. It’s going to be a long day. You can only hope it won’t be an even longer night.

That night, you dream. You burn. You squint through the mess of tears protecting your eyes, trying hopelessly to catch even a glimpse of what lies at the heart of the inferno. Each tendril of flame lashes away at your essence, fracturing it into minute fragments as you endeavor to comprehend the importance of this dream and its sudden return after months of darkness. The experience seems to encompass merely a minute of enormous effort, but reality says otherwise as your alarm ruthlessly rouses you from your slumber and into the awaiting morning.

You’re covered in sweat and frustrated as hell, but that’s nothing that a shower hotter than your dream can’t fix. All throughout your morning routine, you make a conscious effort to avoid your phone. Even on a day like this, on a Saturday where most people are enjoying their weekend, you know that there’s no such thing as “off-the-clock” for you. No, on the other side of the glass screen, the ramifications of your actions—a night’s worth of reactions—await you.

The biggest departure from previous generations of written media is, in your opinion, the immediacy and accessibility of reader feedback. So, when you open a certain bird-themed app to see how people responded to your review of (G)I-DLE’s debut, you see some love. You see plenty of hate. You see … not much in between. K-Pop stans do tend towards hyperbole. Unsurprisingly, your decision to only highlight half the members is the primary subject of their ire. The comments are honestly hilarious, with many demanding an edit, others promising to block you, and one particularly invested individual threatening to revoke your access to the English language.

Might as well toss them a pacifier.

You tweet some apologetic bullshit about how you believed that highlighting all the members would diminish the significance of those who you felt contributed the most, expressing regret that the decision might have conveyed a message that you didn’t believe that all the members brought value to the debut. It’s a lovely set of lies, masking your true intentions with no plans for change. Fortunately, your sickly-sweet words and promise to include other members in future reviews seem to calm the upswell of commenters, at least for now.

And it keeps working. Once. Twice. A third time, even as (G)I-DLE nearly sweeps the “Rookie of the Year” award circuit. Then again, for a fourth time. A fifth. A sixth. Somehow, you get lucky seven times in a row. Somewhere along the path, you’re pretty sure you “should” stop this petty pursuit and play it safe. You don’t. A little further along, you realize you “definitely should” stop and realize what about her makes you feel this way.

You don’t.

There’ll be time for that later. For now, you follow the numbers forward. Along the way, among the complimentary feedback and tearful declarations of love for the group that frequent your comment sections, a slowly growing number of fans begin to notice and call you out for not including her. It adds credence to the argument for stopping, but luckily, they’re lost amongst the sea of engagement, so your growth continues unimpeded.

What isn’t lost to the passage of time are the whispers that continue to reach you, even when she retreats across the pond. The ripples reach you in rapid succession—usually a string of two or more instances where cracks start to show and her unbridled fury bursts forth, burning anyone who dares to get too close. You do your research, but you don’t have to dig very deep to unearth some terrifying truths. One cameraman is more than happy to tell you of the time he saw her punch one of the audio techs because her mic pack short circuited in the rain. A stylist shares a story of her ripping an outfit in half because it was too constrictive. A cup of coffee’s all it takes to convince one Cube employee to expose the eggshells they have to walk on around her and their internal guidelines for how to avoid her bad side. Without even trying, you amass a treasure trove of tales, just waiting to be told to someone who will listen. But you wait, because you know it’s not your time; because you know that you’re building something far too important to risk it all “doing the right thing”.

Growth’s a funny thing, and plenty of it can happen over two years. (G)I-DLE continues their upward trajectory, gaining both domestic and international fame as she becomes their most popular member. Her popularity with the general public is honestly anything but surprising, especially considering her Chinese heritage and English fluency that allow her to tap into two major media markets most groups struggle to find a foothold in. And, of course, there’s her personal appeal. If you had a thousand won for every tweet freaking out about her cute face and shockingly deep voice, you’d be retired before reaching legal drinking age. None of it particularly bothers you—if anything, you can’t help but laugh at the cyclical nature of it all. A comeback will be announced, a significant number of album pre-orders will be purchased by Chinese fans, the promotion cycle will begin, you’ll be told a story of how she lost her mind at some poor member of production, and no one outside of the industry will hear a thing. And most of the time, that’s okay. Until it isn’t.

Until you’re sitting in your apartment transcribing an interview with a nugu group—the type struggling to hit ten thousand views, let alone ten million—because that’s when your conscience crawls back to the forefront of your mind. It’s these moments, the ones where their tears streak down the window to your soul, that nearly make you reconsider your outlook on life. Their tales tug at your heartstrings as you pen them to the page, recounting how they have to work at convenience stores between promotions. It’s so painful to tell their story when they’re doing everything “the right way” while you know that one of the industry’s fastest rising stars is lounging atop a throne built of broken wills and wearing a crown made of crushed dreams. These are the moments where you’d give anything to write the happy ending these hopeful heroines deserve.

But, you know, deep down, that your conscience can’t keep you from doing anything; only keep you from enjoying it. Thus, you calm your heart and carry on. You do as you must, playing by their rules, even if they’re written in ink from bleeding hearts—you learned a long time ago that those with the best intentions leave impact craters, not legacies. So, you continue, because you know there isn’t a damned thing you can do about it.

Yet.

It’s not as if you sit idly during this time, allowing life to pass you by. No, you make the most of your time, fervently penning reviews and posting your thoughts to anyone that will listen. And, unsurprisingly, some do. You manage to carve out a minute slice of the public consciousness to fit your growing personal brand. The company grows alongside you, allowing for more video content that lets people put a face to the name as you interview more idols and grow your following. You know—in heart and mind alike—that it's ultimately just people with too much time on their hands slotting you into their empty schedule. You try not to let it affect you and succeed because they're not the ones you're looking to impress. It might not be ideal, but it’s working. For a while.

Then the world shuts down.

-x-

It’s a bit different the next time her group releases their first single. It’s a bit different when there’s only a pair of shiny new songs to capture the attention of the quarantined addicts. It’s a bit different when the responses grow larger than a vocal minority. It’s a bit different when it’s the eight-ball skirting along the edge of the corner pocket, like a threat from the universe that your luck is running out. It’s definitely different when your CEO calls and asks what exactly is going on. But his fears and fans’ frothing are both addressed with a simple strategy: silence. Less than a week passes before a new, more salacious scandal redirects the focus of the hyperactive hive mind and leaves your DMs deliciously desolate. Soon thereafter, you’re free to announce an upcoming retrospective project you’ve been wanting to start for a while, allowing you to proceed uninhibited. Well, except for your nightmare.

In this period of even further isolation, it’s been your unbidden associate, recurring far more rapidly compared to the previously infrequent incursions. As much as the sustained suffering has indisputably infuriated you, your progress through purgatory has been irrefutably illuminating. At the heart of the inferno, amidst brimstone and blaze, awaits a figure. For once, your headway almost makes you happy; for once, you’re almost anticipating the thought of heading to bed.

Unfortunately, the cruel winds of fate care little for the best laid plans, and the dream disappears less than a week after it reappears. You’re left wanting as one heat abandons you just as another rears its ugly head. It’s a brutal summer, with rising temperatures and quarantine restrictions combining to drive even the most mentally resilient members of society insane. Obviously, it’s even worse for those whose sanity slipped long ago.

Which means it hits a certain someone especially hard. Amid her group’s filming—another freedom she’s offered while you suffer alone—her multitude of misdeeds adds to the growing list of things you can’t escape. You count not one, not two, three, four, five, or even six stories of her wrath being inflicted on the poor production staff working to construct their comeback. Not a single word is whispered of her seven venomous verbal onslaughts. You’d call it unlucky, but years of experience remind you it’s just the norm for people like her.

Fall offers a welcome reprieve as restrictions are loosened, but winter’s arrival and the holiday season lead to an uptick in cases and increased countermeasures. What is often a quiet time for many is a period of ceaseless activity for you as you cover any and every award show related to the industry, capitalizing on any potential opportunity as per usual. It is, unsurprisingly, effective, and you go into the new year with significant progress made and intentions to catch up on some much-needed sleep.

It lasts all of a week before a certain group drops their latest EP.

You can’t help but chuckle at the irony of it all. An EP titled “I Burn” right as you’re on the verge of burning out. You’re too tired for innovation. Too exhausted for subtle additions. Just principled enough for a single exclusion. Your formula has driven engagement thus far; no reason to divert from it now. Somehow, some way, you manage to kindle a small spark of motivation and finish your review on time. After a few agonizing hours of anxious anticipation, your editor deems it ready to post with no significant revisions. You head to bed well before your regular hour, silencing your notifications as you pray that a soothing night of rest will revitalize you and grant you the energy necessary to deal with karma's cruel machinations.

As you slip into the silence of slumber, it’s not serenity that awaits, but sparks. An ignition. An inferno. For once, you hesitate. Instead of wading into the flames, you wait. Watch. Lethargy latches onto you, and you lament the lost opportunity as you’re forced to admit you lack the vitality to attempt this trial tonight. You sigh, turn, and begin to walk away.

A single step. A second. A third. Nine. None.

You freeze in place as you feel an icy hand capture your wrist, wrenching you back and whirling you around to face the figure. The silhouette sports a small stature, cropped black hair, and a featureless face that somehow still stares into your soul. The glacial nucleus of the inferno studies you for a moment, tilting its head curiously, then begins to drag you towards the depths of the hellfire. You fight, digging your heels in and desperately attempting to break its hold on you, but your efforts are in vain as it maintains its grasp on you and seals your fate.

You feel the licks of flame lapping away at you long before you see the damage. No, your eyes are locked on your captor and her silent satisfaction—her contentedness to bathe in the inferno as long as you crumble to ash alongside her. This incineration is nothing short of harrowing and hellish as you’re seared into cinders, but the emotion you experience most is helplessness. Your previous attempts to brave the blaze have at least been marked by your determination, your desire to uncover the truths concealed within the core, but this cremation inspires only dread. The last image that flashes across your mind is the scorching stare of a face without eyes.

For the first time in forever, you’re genuinely grateful for the freedom your alarm clock grants you. You immediately vault out of bed, jumping into an arctic shower and casting aside any concerns about doing so during the height of winter. After roughly an hour, equipped with a clear head and a cup of coffee, you confront the consequences of your choice.

Fortunately, the inflammatory comments you receive in response are primarily concentrated within the private space of your DMs rather than in the public view. You cast aside most of the messages without a second thought … until you reach one that’s a bit more interesting.

A forgettable account name? ✔

Zero comments or original posts across its entire existence? ✔

A string of likes on comments and posts singing her praises? ✔

Oh, and of course the message itself:

ASong4You: No but like seriously, what the fuck is your problem?

Check.

Literally any other idol and your mind wouldn’t be going down the path it’s exploring now. But given the rumors … given your history … even though with all those factors, it’s still one hell of a stretch …

No, it has to be her. It's too vague to be anything else.

So, you respond. Not on your main account, of course; you also have a burner. Obviously.

You compose a message to her burner in the bird app, then an identical one to her main account in the picture app, and send them simultaneously:

TurnThePage: I could ask you the same thing

You see her read it on the first account, then the second. A moment passes, allowing you the briefest bit of calm amidst the coming storm, but it’s gone in an instant as she fires another shot.

ASong4You: Seriously dude, your writer is showing, it's honestly unbearable TurnThePage: I’m sorry you don’t have poetry in your heart TurnThePage: But thank you for the compliment, I'm quite proud of my writing ASong4You: You really shouldn't be, I've seen some of the “fascinating findings” you've posted ASong4You: They make a shampoo bottle look like a New York Times bestseller by comparison TurnThePage: You'll have to send me your hair care recommendations! I love a good read :D TurnThePage: And thank you for supporting my work! It's always a pleasure to meet a fan ASong4You: Ahhh, now I see why you have to pay people to talk to you ASong4You: But yeah, before this conversation ruins my appetite, I gotta ask, what's your deal with me? I’ve literally done nothing to you TurnThePage: Like you said, people are usually paid to answer questions like that, but I'm sure we can meet in the middle here TurnThePage: What’s your deal? The people you bring to tears have done nothing but try to make your life easier, yet here you are ASong4You: Haven't you ever heard the saying “don't believe everything you hear”? Chill with the drama, I'm sure whatever you've heard is stupidly overblown ASong4You: Besides, anybody I’ve ever yelled at deserved it TurnThePage: I don’t believe you believe that ASong4You: Fuck you, who do you think you are? You don’t even know me TurnThePage: Maybe not yet, but your actions have spoken even louder than your words, and it’s been hard not to hear the echoes of both ASong4You: Do you ever talk like a normal person? TurnThePage: Maybe TurnThePage: Why, hoping I'll humor you long enough for you to find out? ASong4You: Honestly I kinda just wish you'd die in a fire, but that's neither here nor there ASong4You: Aren't there like, actual global events you could write about instead? Or did you just not make the cut? TurnThePage: Maybe ASong4You: Oh, so now that we're talking about your shortcomings, you finally shut up? ASong4You: Good to know TurnThePage: Maybe I'm trying to preserve your appetite. Unlike you, I can be considerate TurnThePage: Can I honestly just ask why? Like I've never heard anything good about you TurnThePage: It'd be impressive if it weren’t so awful ASong4You: Wouldn't you like to know? Just go ask one of the assholes that's lied about me already, I'm sure they'll make up an answer you like TurnThePage: I just figured it'd be a lot better for your members if they weren't constantly worried about the ticking time bomb standing next to them ASong4You: Don't. ASong4You: Don't bring them into this, you haven't even told me why you're being such an ass for no good reason ASong4You: I kinda think it'd just be best for both of us if you forgot about it all and started giving me the credit I deserve TurnThePage: Surely you can't think you'll be able to hide behind that cute face forever. Karma takes notes in pen, not pencil ASong4You: I'll be sure to let you know if things ever do change, but until then? Might as well just keep doing what's working ASong4You: Also thanks for the compliment ;) TurnThePage: Any time, sweetheart ASong4You: Don't call me that TurnThePage: Okay darling ASong4You: Fuck. ASong4You: You. ASong4You: Tbh I'd love nothing more than to toss a match on your greasy ass and toast marshmallows as you burn TurnThePage: Jokes on you, maybe I like to play with fire ASong4You: Then I hope you dream of something you find hotter than your reflection

You type up a couple of responses, but end up deleting all of them, each feeling inadequate to the discomfort her line makes you feel. Oh well, you think to yourself. Not the worst thing if she thinks she got the last word in, gives me more room to do as I please.

Yet you stay—sitting, staring at the screen, wondering what’s lying beyond the glass that’s captured your attention so intensely. Your gaze occasionally drifts elsewhere, but your focus remains drawn to this singular conversation and a certain someone. Someone no more than a couple dozen kilometers away, someone you should have every reason to despise and avoid, yet someone who you can’t help but wonder about. Wonder what lies behind that smile. Wonder what hides behind those eyes. Wonder if they’re staring right back.

-x-

It’s a lonely night, made even worse by the company of their reflection. Two halves of a whole, on mirrored paths with no sense of purpose or direction.

In this absence of light, all they can see is the whites of their eyes. In this moment of peace, all they can hear is their echoing lies.

Outside these walls, the world knows each as a shining star, floating through an astral sea. But deep within, each keeps their true self hidden away, trapped under lock and key.

In their heart and soul, all that is left is hurt and pain. In the years to come, all that matters is selfish gain.

But that’s a problem for another day, a problem that no storm can wash away, a problem they both know is here to stay.

So here they sit, alone again, so here they sit, wondering when. When will they meet, be face to face, and “will they cause my fall from grace?”.

A long night awaits them, one where their dreams will host a war. A routine recurrence, repeating what they’ve done before. Yet still a welcome sight because both know what they’re in for. The inferno beckons, inviting them to find out more.

And so, despite their best judgement, they each choose to proceed. They go, without a second thought, trying to sate a need.

They yearn. They burn.

-x-

A single day of anticipatory silence ages you far more than the decade of peace that’s preceded it. You can feel it in your heart, in your blood, in the way it slogs through your veins. Your fingers bear a peculiar weight as—instead of dancing gracefully over the keyboard—they stumble and crash through your draft, producing an unrecognizable, unacceptable product. Upon the page, imperfection mocks your brittle mentality, taunting you and inviting you to waste more of your time ignoring the only problem that matters right now.

A brief respite presents a far more welcome sight: a message from the girl from that first interview, asking how your holidays were. The notification grabs your attention and excites you … but not as much as it should. Maybe it's because of what lies below—what you see when your eyes drift down. Maybe it's because of the DM sitting right beneath it, where her accusation awaits. Because that message … it incenses you far more than it should. It isn’t the implication of narcissism that so clearly shines through, but something else lying just below the surface—something barely evading your grasp while beguiling your mind.

It takes the whole day and a dozen more before the thought of her finally fucks off and leaves you with the slightest semblance of some peace and quiet—a dozen nights spent in damned inferno, incinerating any chance you’d have of enjoying a rejuvenating rest. Eventually, the distractions fade and the world settles into an undisturbed quiet, the type you love to find yourself in. The type where you can shroud yourself in silence. The type where whispers punch through peaceful tranquility.

You’re not so vain to assume you’re the first to hear the rumblings, but you are shameless enough to admit you’re probably the first person excited by them. Their spread is contagious, chaotic, and anything but controllable. All that you’re missing is a bowl of popcorn as you sit back and watch the show unfold. Someone somewhere leaks the information on their socials, and you’re more than happy to spectate the storm’s rising tides from your perch atop a higher rung … and oh, what a view.

The primary benefit of being “plugged in” to the industry is, of course, the connections. So, when you receive a message informing you of tomorrow’s upcoming announcement, you thank them and plan accordingly. But then there’s another message. And another. And …

ASong4You: Don’t. ASong4You: I know you think you’re so fucking clever and you know just what to say ASong4You: But for once in your life, shut up. TurnThePage: Have you considered saying “please”? ASong4You: No.

Well, when she fires shots like that, what else is there to do but respond in kind?

The night comes. The flames rise. You open your eyes and are greeted by the gorgeous gleaming sunlight and something even more beautiful awaiting you on your nightstand.

“(G)I-DLE member Soojin announces hiatus from the group following alleged bullying accusations from former classmates.”

You, of course, wrote up your response and scheduled the tweet to be sent within minutes of the announcement. It’s nothing crazy, nothing petty, just something to farm engagement:

“There’ve been serious accusations across a number of idols, many of whom deserve judgement. But until we’ve been presented with undeniable proof, we should be patient & not assume that they’d risk years of training & passion just to demean & belittle others. It’d make no sense.”

Okay, maybe a little petty.

You set your phone down, stretch a bit, go for a short walk, and make sure to grab eye protection before checking on the fireworks going off in your DMs.

ASong4You: All you had to do was nothing, and you couldn’t even manage that ASong4You: Like the bar was so low it was literally in hell ASong4You: Yet here you are, doing the limbo with the fucking devil TurnThePage: That’s far too many words for none of them to be “please” ASong4You: I swear, if I ever get my hands on you, the bruises I’ll leave … TurnThePage: Oh good, I could use a little color in my life

And just like that, the conversation comes to a close. This pair of dialogues contains the last words you say to each other for two entire months, months best spent enjoying a world previously hidden behind doors now unlocked by the vaccinations. The heat on your face, the sounds of travel, the sight of familiar landmarks … all of it is a welcome reprieve from the societal incarceration you’ve been taking part in. You feel truly, thankfully, at peace. But while the winds carry the scents of spring, they also carry whispers of what’s to come. And there’s one whisper in particular—one that stands out. One that results in your forehead becoming warmly acquainted with the wood of your desk.

The newly formed couple aren’t allowed to enjoy each other’s company for long, as destiny arrives all too soon and ushers you into the cab. Into the airport. Into the plane. Into the sky. Into China.

Since your last visit to the country, you’ve grown. You’ve risen. You’ve worked and wrote and watched your former peers fade beneath the cloud line. Since your last visit, you’ve lost count of the dramatic declarations and sunrise submissions that define your professional life. You’ve lost track of any consistent characteristics that define your personal life. 

The journey to who and where you are today began in this country nearly four years ago.

The reflection staring back has aged forty.

Hangzhou offers no solace as you depart the airport and are met by the garish glare of the fan-sponsored advertisement for her solo debut. A grimace, glare, and grumble are all you offer in response before turning and merging with the moving mass of travelers dispersing among the city streets. While neither land nor sea seem like enough to escape her reach, maybe you can find a top shelf to hide on.

In the meantime, this’ll be a brief trip, only a couple of days dedicated to as many interviews. The first day is quick and painless—the second is anything but. Free time is to be feared when attempting to keep a mind busy, and the open space in your calendar only allows the laughter of her successes to echo that much louder. Things only worsen when an appointment with a contact falls through because of unexpected rescheduling.

“Yeah, I’m really sorry,” she says, voice crackling slightly through the tenuous connection. “It’s a shame. I was really looking forward to seeing the performances tonight—wait, do you want my ticket? I got a really good seat, great view of the stage.”

“Sure, that sounds great,” you reply, words escaping before your brighter side can block them. “Who’s performing?”

“It’s a whole bunch of acts, but there was specifically one I wanted to see … it was some K-Pop girl group member you’ve probably heard of,” she says, like it’s the most casual thing in the world; like it isn’t the reason you’re desperately searching around the room for a defibrillator. “I forgot her name, but I’m sure you know who she is.”

“Almost certainly,” you choke out, forcing out a laugh through gritted teeth. “Yeah, if you could email me the ticket, that would be awesome, and we’ll definitely have to make sure we do something the next time I come to China or the next time you visit Nayoung, alright?”

“Great, hope you enjoy! Wish me luck!” she responds, blissfully unaware as she ends the call.

Minutes later, you receive an email confirming your suspicions and your fears. It’s a festival with over a dozen acts, but there’s one that stands out: the first performance of her new solo album.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

There’s no way in hell you’re going there. You’d rather watch paint dry than watch her perform. You’ve avoided listening to her solo songs thus far and you have no intention of changing that—especially by seeing her live and in-person.

It’s a ridiculous notion, you think to yourself as you lay back on the bed, hands behind your head as you consider how you’d like to spend the rest of the day.

…

…

…

Fuck, where’s seat 239?

Somewhere amongst the hours of apathy that comprised the afternoon, some dark corner of your brain spawned the idea that this was going to be your best shot at seeing her in-person without financially supporting her. Somehow, that flimsy justification fused with the inexplicable pull you’ve felt and resulted in your decision to show up. Even as you finally find your seat and sit down—just as the lights dim before the first performance—you still don’t know entirely why you’re here.

Luckily, the first couple acts do a wonderful job of distracting you away from overthinking, allowing you to—for the first time since you arrived in the country—relax and enjoy yourself as the true fan of music you’ve always been. That delusion lasts four whole songs before the announcement comes over the loudspeaker and sends a chill down your spine.

She’s next.

You pull out your phone, desperately attempting to draw your eyes anywhere other than the stage. A pair of messages await you and, continuing the trend of bad decisions that’s come to define this particular day, you open them and reveal their contents.

ASong4You: I almost wish you were here to see me perform, hear the roar of the crowd as they scream my name ASong4You: Maybe one day you’ll come to your senses and I’ll make you do the same

The victory lap is … cute. You begin composing a response, but your inner monologue is immediately drowned out by the sounds of screaming as the crowd rumbles to life. You guess, purely based on their reactions, that she’s arrived. You continue your vain quest to refuse to pay her even your attention, instead inspecting the periphery of the stage, where you can see the other participants beginning to appear.

You see the dancers as they dart onto the stage; a dozen join her, then a dozen more. You’re too far to see their eyes, but their bodies tell a sufficient story: one of devotion, determination, and desperation. You wonder what paths their lives have followed—what choices they’ve made to lead them to this place and time. You wonder what they’ve seen, what they’ve heard, what they do when they think of her.

Do they smile? Do they shudder? Does she care if they’ve suffered?

You’ve avoided the inevitable for far too long. You allow your eyes to be drawn to her, pulled in by the magnetism of her performance. You’ve never denied her majesty—never mocked the magic she can create with a microphone. No, it’s her methods, her mentality, her malevolence that’s manifested your misery and madness. The worst part of all is the casual way she carries herself, as if her nationality alone is enough to conceal sins of days long past. It hits particularly close to home for you, especially as you sit here, in a country foreign to the foreign country you reside in. You can’t stop yourself from seething at how she adores the applause, how she cherishes the country and home she holds dear. Any rational thoughts that might have risen to the surface are drowned out by the screams of the fans as they chant her name, cheering for her arrival as she stands atop the stage and the spirits she’s broken.

It’s almost too much. Seeing her here, in her element, shining under the spotlight as she single-handedly inscribes her song into your memories, you’re so close to giving in.

It’d be so much easier to just follow the fantasy, pretend that her performance ends with the final note. It’d be so much easier to assume that her backup dancers are trained to leave the stage that quickly, that their fervor isn’t driven by an acute anxiety at the thought of meeting her eyes. For once, you wish you could do so—wish you could search her soul for the full story. Because here, in this stadium filled with her adoring fans, you can see, hear, feel the passion in her voice.

All you can do is wonder when it began its mutation into malice.

You slip out shortly thereafter, disregarding the remaining acts as you attempt to shake off the unsettling feeling clinging to your bones. It’s a short walk to the hotel, but the climb back up to where you’re staying feels anything but.

It’s somehow worse when you arrive in your room and another message arrives in your inbox. Continuing your streak of bad decisions, you open it as you flip onto the bed, bracing yourself for her latest assault.

ASong4You: Oh, now you have nothing to say? Figures

And that’s all she has to say.

… that’s it? Really?

You’re definitely disappointed and slightly surprised that she didn’t send more. Wait, no, you’re surprisingly disappointed and definitely surprised that … wait … fuck, which bag contains the cure for this headache?

You’re more than familiar with telling stories despite a tired mind—you’ve built your career upon a foundation of fighting against fatigue. The sensation sitting in the pit of your stomach is neither. It’s a weird feeling, somewhere between weariness and wistfulness, but stronger than your feelings of the former and even less justified than an appearance of the latter. A weird feeling for a weird day, one that was filled with nearly nothing except that one thing, but still so exhausting.

It’s a day you’d like to end. Your head hits the pillow, your eyelids flutter closed, and your consciousness fucks off.

And then the sun rises. But its shine paints the sand, not your sheets. You hear not the honking of cars but the crashing of waves; instead of the smell of fresh linens with a hint of lavender, the salty spray of the sea sends its scent straight into your senses. You shift, stand, shuffle, stretch, squint, and search your surroundings. And you see … the sea. Shocker.

But then, just beneath the squawking of the seagulls, you hear it; no, her. It’s the most intimate, unmistakable voice you’d swear you’ve never heard before. Her siren’s song serenades you, showing you the path, inviting you to join her beyond the veil, guiding you past the barrier separating you two. And there’s nothing you’d rather do than follow.

You step forward, feeling the grains of sand shift beneath your feet as you close the distance between you and the shoreline. As you descend the slope further and further—riding the high ever upward—her melody envelops you in its soothing, loving embrace, warding off some of the ocean's chill. You walk until the slope disappears from under your feet, then you swim until the waves settle to reveal a familiar, unrecognizable figure. You swim forth further, closing the distance until you’re face-to-face with the featureless countenance staring back. Even amidst the sway of the sea, the normally harsh pull of the waves seems harmless—almost as if Poseidon himself chose to grant you this moment of privacy.

You see no mouth, but you hear her words all the same—tantalizing whispers of sweet nothings as she asks everything of you. Your attention. Your time. Your heart. Your ambition. For the second time, she touches you. For the first time, she wraps her arms around you and pulls herself against your body. You look down at her, resting her head against your chest as she whispers these words directly into your heart, transcribing these truths upon the strands of your soul as you hold her. Then you look past her and see the endless void of darkness awaiting below the waves.

A chill runs up your already frigid spine, yet despite the overwhelming terror at the possibilities potentially lurking below, you stay. And unlike before, the figure doesn't drag you into the darkened depths, where your shared doom surely awaits. No, she does the same as you. She stays. In your arms, she finds security. In hers, you find solace. You close your eyes, drowning out any sensations other than the sound of her voice.

You open them, and in your empty hotel room, you find silence. You find solitude. And in this darkness, a depraved desire to deliver a response to her gloating drives you back into your DMs.

TurnThePage: I apologize for shattering the illusion that I'm here at your beck & call TurnThePage: But those of us with the unfortunate label of “contributing members of society” have things to do

Fortunately or otherwise, you don't have to wait long for a response:

ASong4You: Oh fuck off, I’m in a good mood this morning and don’t need you ruining it ASong4You: I’d tell you to go hug the ocean floor, but the walk there would be more than you deserve

It’s not the severity of the insult that unnerves you so significantly. It’s the specificity. It’s the timing. It’s honestly just everything about her and even the things tangentially related to her, but mostly those two. It’s an unidentifiable emotion that ends any response you might have had before it even has a chance to manifest, silencing your snark and settling at the forefront of your mind for the rest of the day and beyond, even long after you leave China.

-x-

Silence between you two is undeniably the norm, but even as other projects and commitments sweep you away, you can’t help but feel anxious. Even as you focus on other opportunities, there’s an inevitability ticking away at the back of your mind. So, when the whispers first resurface, you’re not surprised, nor relieved, nor excited. If anything, you’re just intrigued. And you plan accordingly.

This time, when you hear confirmation from your contacts, you’re not surprised to hear nothing from her. This time, there’s no tweaking of the statement—no attempts to squeeze in exactly as many characters as are allowed. This time, you don’t let even a minute pass before responding to the announcement of Soojin’s departure. No, this time, you load only a single shot into the chamber. 

This time, you aim for the heart.

"I wish the good-hearted members of (G)I-DLE the best of luck as they navigate the ramifications of their members' actions." (Posted at 8:27 PM)

The tiniest of alterations. The smallest of changes. Seemingly a mistake so inconsequential that even your editor wouldn’t catch it. But for one whose hackles were already raised, that implication of multiple members rather than single outlier is a declaration of war. So, when her message arrives in your inbox, you expect it to burn your eyes with the fury of a thousand suns. What you find is something else entirely.

ASong4You: So, how’s your day going?

Well, that’s unexpected. You know better than to drop your guard, but your curiosity demands that you play along, at least for now.

TurnThePage: Pretty good TurnThePage: Very productive, so that’s always nice TurnThePage: What about yours? ASong4You: Could be better ASong4You: Could be worse TurnThePage: Could it? ASong4You: Probably ASong4You: Not exactly looking to find out TurnThePage: Don’t you want me to at least try? ASong4You: No because I’m quite sure you could easily find a way to make it worse TurnThePage: I was talking about making it better

You watch as she begins typing, then pauses. Assumedly, she changes her mind because her next message surprises you.

ASong4You: You know what? Sure ASong4You: Make my day TurnThePage: I’m pretty confident this’ll work ASong4You: You’re pretty confident about a lot of things TurnThePage: You’re not wrong (Image sent at 8:43PM)

Another pause.

ASong4You: Okay I can’t lie that corgi is pretty cute TurnThePage: I know, right? I've been wanting one for years now, but it doesn't seem fair to leave them locked up when I need to travel for work. ASong4You: It’s nice of you to care TurnThePage: Thanks, I try ASong4You: Do you? TurnThePage: I do! TurnThePage: Sometimes I even succeed

This back and forth continues on for a while, neither of you willing to let the other have the last word. While not stated outright, you’ve realized that she’s somehow found herself with the same goal as you: burning down the walls the other hides behind. It’s honestly pretty cute, but more importantly, it’s genuinely dangerous. Now that the boiling point could be reached at seemingly any moment, you’ve realized that in this rivalry, results matter more than reason.

Thus, the dialogue never dies, ranging from carefully probing questions to mild disagreements to stories about funny occurrences but interestingly, never direct insults or aggression. If anything, as time passes, the frequency increases. The timestamps tell a story of two individuals tied up in ceaseless pursuit, with one message being delivered as the sun descends below the skyline and its response arriving as the following school day begins. The density of messages may be irregular, but the consistency of responses is far from it. Both of you adamantly add to the simmering coals, continuing to fan the flames with your words, gladly accepting the risk of joining the other as a pile of ash.

You want, no, need, her facade to fall. She’ll give anything to “expose” you as the type of villain that frequents Saturday morning cartoons. She’s desperately attempting to maintain her veil of innocence. You’d love nothing more than to see it go up in flames and let the world see the truth as the smoke clears. Neither of you is willing to reveal your hand, and folding isn’t an option. So, this cold war wages on.

It’s an otherwise unremarkable afternoon when the first piece falls into place. You’re scrolling through your timeline, seeking both idle entertainment and diamonds in the rough as you await responses from multiple people. You see one post amongst the sea of several, commenting about (G)I-DLE all getting new phones together because one of them got destroyed. Something about the screen getting shattered when dropped, something that seems insignificant. But you have two eyes for a reason, and what’s the point of having both if you can’t catch double meanings?

So, just in case, you file it away for later, maybe for a rainy day. Three days later, you venture back into your DMs, conversing with her as you hide from the downpour outside.

ASong4You: Honestly I think audio issues are the worst ones to deal with ASong4You: Because usually the people fixing them are using headsets to test everything, so we never have any idea if any progress is being made ASong4You: Like at least with lighting, it’s clear as day when it’s working like it’s supposed to TurnThePage: That makes sense, audio’s always been the type of issue I’m most scared of TurnThePage: Because for interviews, usually I just record the audio and transcribe it later. If the audio is fucked up, I’ve wasted hours, if not days’ worth of time TurnThePage: For me and the client TurnThePage: Luckily, not a very frequent issue, but a concern all the same TurnThePage: Feels like you’ve been hitting a lot of production hiccups recently ASong4You: Yeah, seems like a pretty unlucky streak ASong4You: It’s kinda whatever though, I don’t let little things like that bother me

… but honestly, when she lines it up like that, who could blame you for taking a shot?

TurnThePage: Pretty sure your old phone would say otherwise, but go off ASong4You: Fuck. ASong4You: You. ASong4You: Actually, you know what? Fine. ASong4You: It's been obvious for a while now that you're desperate for attention, so here. I'm listening. ASong4You: What the fuck do you want from me?

It’s such a shame, especially since the conversation was going so nicely. Oh well, you flew too close to the sun and ended up reigniting the blaze between you two. Guess that leaves you with no choice but to fight fire with fire.

TurnThePage: The truth would be too rich for your blood, wouldn’t it? ASong4You: That’s a bit rich coming from you, don’t you think? ASong4You: Considering you’ve never even met me and are just going off of what you’ve heard from rumors TurnThePage: I mean, what else am I supposed to go off of? TurnThePage: We’ve barely talked, but even just based on that, I’m pretty sure meeting you would be detrimental to my health ASong4You: Oh come on, don’t tell me you’re gonna let a little danger get in the way of a date with destiny ASong4You: Aren’t you the type who likes to play with fire? TurnThePage: Aren’t you? ASong4You: Now you’re getting it ASong4You: If you didn’t already have a reason to be backstage at Gayo Daejeon in a few weeks, now you do TurnThePage: What, you’re just expecting me to drop everything and dance with the devil on Christmas of all days? ASong4You: Yes. ASong4You: Come on, it’ll be fun! What’s the worst that could happen?

As much as every part of your mind is screaming that this is a terrible idea, you know that it’s too good of an opportunity to pass up.

TurnThePage: Alright, I’ll be there. Just for you TurnThePage: Think of it as an early Christmas present ASong4You: Only if you come gift wrapped with a little bow on top TurnThePage: Only if you ask nicely ASong4You: In your fucking dreams ASong4You: Speaking of, I have to go contribute to society. Until then, enjoy dreaming of me!

You pause, processing the statement for a moment before sending the last thing you'll say to her for quite some time.

TurnThePage: You too

You close the app, discarding your DMs at least for the moment as you allow yourself to reenter the real world—the world where silence awaits, having settled in long before you did. It’s a comfortable silence, the norm you’ve come to rely on when composing messages and emails and blogs and messages and reviews and tweets and captions and messages. It’s an intentional sensation, amplified by the thick walls and specific location away from the chaos of the city you so desperately sought. It’s the warm blanket that wards off the chills creeping in the darkness as you chase the early morning sun. It’s the friend that helped you find yourself.

It’s deafening.

You stand and grab your keys, intent on grabbing some coffee and a bite to eat before the night steals your last chance to do so. As you wait in one line and then another, you plan out your upcoming days, noting openings in your calendar and marking them down for future opportunities. After all, your schedule might already be busy, but that’s no reason it couldn’t be busier. How else would you want to spend your free time?

-x-

The year’s end heralds many things, chief among them the year-end award ceremonies and the annual echoes of insanity you’re forced to subject yourself to once more. One would think that after four iterations of the same song and dance sweeping the circuit, you’d have found a better way to congratulate the usual suspects on their trio of triumphs. While you manage, it’s a slog like nothing you’ve had to fight through since your rookie campaign. The motivation you need to excel always seems to be one cup of coffee or one more procrastinated hour away, yet you continuously fail to muster the energy to snatch it out of the fog afore you.

You somehow manage to write just enough and post it just soon enough to drive the engagement numbers you need to remain ahead of projections for the year. It’s a sigh of relief that’s followed by one of the few exciting traditions amidst an industry filled with formulaic procedures: music festivals.

The KBS Song Festival is a breath of fresh air for you as you go, in-person, for the first time. You’re able to translate your experiences onto the page flawlessly, and the reception to your piece is one of the best yet. It simultaneously excites and pressures you to pay close attention to the next festival you go to in the hopes that you can recreate or even exceed that piece’s success. There’s only one issue.

SBS Gayo Daejun is next.

It’s been complete radio silence since your last message. Two months since she read your response and you each retreated to your bunkers. The war might have grown colder alongside the changing seasons, but you know it’s no less flammable than before. You dress warmly, enough layers to ward off the cold winter air, yet light enough to have options. Just in case.

You arrive early, hours before the event’s 6PM scheduled start time. The Namdong Gymnasium is a massive venue, easily able to seat thousands of rabid fans eager to shake its foundation with their roar. You probably have a press pass somewhere in your email, but you can see the recognition in the eyes of the security when you walk up without a shadow of a doubt; you’ve been to enough of these kinds of events over the past year or so that they’re happy to welcome you in.

Once inside, it takes but a handful of quick conversations over warm handshakes to get a lay of the land and create a mental catalog of where different idols will be waiting and, most importantly, where people won’t be. After all, in life—not just in K-Pop—privacy is priceless. Later, when you find yourself alone, you begin to ponder and plan. You have plenty of time and endless amounts of patience, but not as much of either as you’d like. So, you pull out your phone and do something seemingly detestable. You shatter the silence.

TurnThePage: Tell me when and I’ll tell you where

For once, you’re happy to be swept up into a conversation as the earliest performing groups begin to arrive and greet you warmly. Your ambitions are far too grand to fit within a niche, but as you’ve actively fostered relationships with the brightest rising stars in the business, you’ve kindled a kind of camaraderie over the couple of conversations shared. You wish IVE the best of luck with their upcoming Olympic send-off stage, discuss the remix STAYC will be performing later, and make bets with Aespa whether “Got the Beat” will be weird or wonderful. Of course, the bet ends up being mostly metaphorical since it’s kinda hard to place a wager when all five members of the discussion agree it’ll be the former.

A few hours pass until there’s three until showtime. Your phone vibrates, which could mean many things, but you know what just arrived in your inbox. You allow two more hours to pass before you dip off to the side into a small alcove, allowing you to preview her response in peace.

She sent you a window of time, almost exactly when you’d expected based on the schedule of the performances. You read the message, allow the checkmark to turn blue, then put your phone away. You continue to wait, letting a whole nother hour pass until the broadcast begins, at which point you finally send her your location of choice. It’s an unutilized dressing room about a minute away from where the performers are preparing to go on stage; the perfect spot to find some priceless privacy, leaving you with roughly 10 minutes with which to enjoy it.

As the various artists claim their positions for the opening performance, you decide how best to utilize the upcoming forty minutes. You scope out the scene and develop a plan, starting by targeting those who appear to be anxiously waiting. Those who have a minute to spare, but whose lips are loosened when the second comes around and you’re still asking them to share their story. The hunt pays off, rewarding you with information about Itzy’s upcoming Japan promotions, Oh My Girl’s second album, and Red Velvet’s upcoming concert. You file the information away for later, at the ready just in case it could result in a potential opportunity.

Eventually, your internal clock informs you it’s time. You slip away from the outskirts of the main preparation area, taking a wide berth as you avoid being seen on your way to the intended location. On the way there, you grab a pair of bottles of water, mind already kicking into overdrive as you plan how you want to handle this encounter.

Once you enter the room, you’re pleased to see the mostly bare walls and lack of furnishings aside from a row of mirrors on the far wall and a trio of couches placed around a small table. You note them but disregard them for the moment, instead leaning against one of the smooth concrete walls as you pull out your phone and attempt to respond to a couple of emails. You barely get through one before the turning of a latch and a shock of recently bleached blonde signals her early arrival.

“Hey, glad you could make it,” you say, as if this whole situation were the most casual thing in the world. “Here, catch.”

She deftly snatches the water bottle out of the air, checking the seal immediately as she peers past the plastic with suspicion blatant in her stare. “Thanks, I guess?”

You’re not sure if it’s the room’s acoustics or the unfamiliar lack of a screen or microphone for separation but hearing her voice up close and personal for the first time hits. The sound waves slowly waltz up your spine, sending shockwaves through your synapses as they encircle and entrance your eardrums, then shoot down to the rest of your body and share the sensation. While you smell skepticism coating each third of her trio of words, you also catch something beneath the surface. Intrigue. Amusement. Annoyance. Excitement. And then something else, hidden amongst the huskiest tones of her exhalations. Something even you can’t catch.

You take slow, measured steps as you walk parallel to her, claiming one of the couches as your own as you sit down on one side of the table and she seats herself across from you. “But of course!” you declare jovially, creating an illusion of welcoming even as you reinforce your mental walls. “I can promise it’s not poisoned. There’s far too much I’d love to ask you.”

“Is that so?” she asks, quirking an eyebrow as she puts her feet up on the table. “You seem awfully confident that I’m willing to answer.”

“Can’t help it,” you admit with a shrug, refusing to break eye contact even for a moment as you take a swig of your water. “Side effect of a never-ending streak of successes, I suppose.”

“You’re adorable,” she coos, eyes catching fire for the first time. You watch, gaze unwavering as she leans back, closing her eyes as she takes her own drink of water, then wipes her lips with the back of her hand and holds your eyes once more. “You’re also avoiding the topic at hand.”

“Oh, am I?” you ask, knowing full well what she means but too intrigued to voice the topic yourself. “Please, do tell.”

She leans forward, blowing through any pretense as she demands to know, “Why are you so obsessed with me?”

“Ah, 6:42, starting right on schedule,” you think to yourself, smiling as you shake your head and place your water on the table. “Darling, I love me some self-centeredness, but I think you’ve misunderstood. As much as I refuse to diminish the significance of your sins, I’m nowhere near as invested in your failure as you seem to think. Honestly, if anything, dragging out this ‘drama’ has been great for engagement.”

“Oh, come the fuck on,” she says, hints of a chuckle hidden amongst the darkness in her tone as she stands and uses all 163 centimeters of her figure to barely look down at you. You almost find it ironic that here—in the midst of an argument—is the closest you’ve come to seeing each other eye to eye. “Are you really trying to tell me that the soapbox you preach from was built by the likes, comments, and subscriptions of my stans?”

“I’m not denying that (G)I-DLE’s been a major contributing factor in my growth,” you say, struggling to subdue the smirk attempting to tug at the corner of your lips. “But genuinely, you are just a stepping stone and I’m moving up. It’s nothing personal.”

“Nothing personal?!” she repeats, laughter fully unleashed as she stares at you incredulously. “Stop, it’s so much worse when you lie to both of us.”

“Listen sunshine,” you begin, feeling the smirk seize control as you watch her eye twitch in loathing. “We could have a nice therapeutic conversation where you lie on the big couch between us and I chronicle your odyssey of misdeeds.” You stand, making your way towards the same spot on the wall where you’d waited for her. “Or we could just leave and go back to the silence. Not sure what else we’re here for.”

As you turn and your back hits the wall once more, you see the intensity and intent in her eyes as she closes the distance. You see her muscles tense, you see her arm raise, and you know full well the slap is coming long before it makes contact. But you need no omniscience to identify the most interesting outcome, so you present your left cheek and enjoy the echoes as they reverberate throughout the enclosed space.

“You know, that wasn’t personal,” she says, shaking out her hand like the force of the impact caused her pain too. “Only deserved.”

“Probably,” you admit, savoring the sanguine sensation slowly seeping out behind your smile. “There are probably a couple dozen legitimate reasons to slap me—it’s just a shame that none of them are the one you chose.”

“God fucking damnit,” she growls, low voice dipping even deeper as she clenches her fists. “What do you want from me?”

"What do I want from you?" you repeat, letting the question linger in the air for a moment before meeting her fiery gaze head-on. Your heart pounds at a frantic rate, yet you keep your voice steady and unwavering as you continue. “I want you to drop the act. I want you to stop pretending like you’re some sort of hero when you’re the villain in every story told about you.” 

“What did I say about believing everything you hear?” she purrs, bits of that casual confidence resurfacing even as you see your words shake her to her core.

“Then tell me something different,” you demand, teeth grinding as the conversation goes nowhere. “Tell me something I can believe, even better if it’s the truth. Look me in the eyes and tell me—from the heart—that I’m wrong.”

“I … I can’t,” she admits, hints of vulnerability creeping into those eyes that burned so bright mere moments ago.

“God fucking damnit,” you growl, voice dipping lower once more. “Then why should I care about anything you have to say?”

“Why do you care in the first place?” she snaps back, voice rising with anger. “I don’t remember asking you to stick your nose into my life and threaten everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve!”

The silence weighs heavily on you both, growing more and more deafening as each passing second leaves an impact crater on your eardrum. You have so many reasons—all these puzzle pieces within your mind—yet you can’t seem to assemble a decent response. You’re both just stuck here, with all this emotion and no fucking answers to show for it. Instead, you search, staring into those blazing eyes as if the darkness within hides the truths you’ve been searching for. But in this hell you find no revelations, only the pain you’ve only ever found in your reflection. All you see is the slow infusion of crimson into her visage, the part of her lips as her pained exhalations batter your heaving chest. Your eyes never leave hers, and hers nearly mirror yours. Nearly. She cracks for a single moment—a mere second where her stare flicks down unconsciously. And it’s all the signal you need to capitalize on your chosen position.

With her frame, it truly is as easy as playing with a doll to flip your positions, pinning her against the wall as you tower over her. Her eyes widen with surprise, then narrow with expectation. You slam one hand against the wall, granting you additional leverage and knocking her even further off guard as you lean in, cupping her chin with your other hand and tilting her head up. When your lips first meet, there’s no cliches—no fireworks going off and no chorus accompanying the moment. There’s only friction and the insistent sensation of her pillowy lips against the firm control of your own. The kiss is far from gentle; passionate, yes, but not the sensual, romantic passion that others who use that word would think of. Emotions—ones that are similar, not identical—clash against one another as your tongues find each other and she tastes the metallic tang of the blood she’s spilled.

You thank whoever’s listening for well-tailored clothes as your hand leaves her chin and begins to explore, tracing her collarbone before gliding your fingertips across the bare skin of her arm. You leave goosebumps in your wake as you venture further down to her waistline and under her shirt, nails gently dragging across the toned muscles of her abs and the taut skin concealing her ribcage and hammering heart. Your hand doesn’t even have to slide under her bra for you to earn a moan, slipping past her inhibitions and feeding directly into your ego as you graciously decide to grant her request for escalation. You take advantage of your already slightly bent knees as you raise one between her legs, slipping your thigh past her own as you grind it against her sex and send her pleasure receptors into overdrive. So needy, you whisper, lips ghosting over her jawline as your breaths carry the words into her very soul. We’re barely in the opening measure, and you’re nearly ready for a crescendo.

The resentment in her eyes would hit much harder if she could maintain even a modicum of control, but with the way your knee’s grinding against her sopping heat, you almost manage to muster a miniscule smidgen of sympathy. Almost. Maybe you’ll find it elsewhere. You begin your brazen search, sending your second hand under her shirt and beginning to knead at her hints of breasts as you elicit moans so sinful they'd make Lucifer blush. Even as your knee rises further—its grinding growing in intensity as it pushes her onto the tips of her toes and you send her head above the clouds—you can’t seem to ensnare her stare. Despite her delirium, her gaze instead darts literally anywhere else, inspecting the bare walls of the austere dressing room as if they're the adorned walls of the fucking Louvre as she desperately avoids meeting your eyes. Desperately avoids confirming what her moans have already spoiled. Desperately avoids giving you the credit you know damn well you deserve.

“Come on baby, don’t be like this. You should know it’s so much worse when you lie to both of us.”

Her moans morph into growls as she desperately attempts to catch her breath, trying in vain to fuel her fire while still finding a way to respond. Anything to smother your smugness and wipe out the whispers. “F-fuck off, aren’t there more important things that mouth should be doing?”

Your wild smile widens—nearly to the point of lunacy—as you continue to lead her towards the edge. “Maybe if you ask nicely. A princess like you should know how to speak properly.”

“Fuck off you—fuck!”

Any eloquence remaining within her addled mind is whisked away alongside her scraps of breath as your teeth latch into the crook of her neck, biting with just enough force to mark her without actually breaking the skin. Her mewling in response is both maddening and mesmerizing, magnifying both her mania and magnetism as you devour another sensitive area and amplify your assault on her psyche. Simply continuing your current misdeeds is enough to heighten the tension even further, allowing you the freedom to do as you please. You give her everything she wants, and then a bit more. You give her what she didn’t want, remaining silent for countless seconds as you mark her skin and allow her the opportunity to speak. All she can offer in response are gasps and hiccups and moans—anything to stay coherent enough to experience this ecstasy. Interwoven amongst that need is her want, fragments of phrases and fuck and I and you and oh God and I’m and OH GOD and OH GOD FUCK.

“Yes sweetheart, I know just how badly you wish this could last forever, but we’re on the clock for a reason,” you drawl, dragging your incisor along her throbbing vein up to her jawline. “So why don’t you drop the act and be the good little slut you’re dying to be?” The lightest of kisses placed upon her jaw, the type a fool could misinterpret as affectionate. “Babble whatever you like, but we both know that the truth is already stained into my slacks.” Another—upon her cheek this time. “So just do it.” On her earlobe. “Give in.” Behind her ear. “Cum.” Into her heart.

Her eyes flare with fury for the briefest moments before her tremors tell all and her nails dig into your arms. You hear the desperation she’s been choking back this entire time finally break through as her grip on you tightens, her world goes dark, and she sinks her teeth into your shoulder. She sobs, shaking like a lone leaf amidst the storm as you waltz into her vault of core memories and claim your rightful spot atop them all.

In the following moments, the only thing stopping silence from settling in is the intensity of her breathing as she desperately attempts to calm her thunderous heartbeat and collect her thoughts. As for her pride ...

"Fuck."

The lone word lingers in the air, only heightening the tension as mental fog and fatigue prevent her from relighting the fire that had recently burned so bright. You wait as her breath catches once more and she chokes down oxygen, savoring the silence in the interim. While your patience has often paid off, that’s not why you refuse to speak up now. No, it’s because you know the truth that she’ll never admit—the truth that each moment of recovery acts as further recognition of your performance. So yeah, you’re willing to wait. You may be rock hard and yet to be pleasured, but your ego has been stroked sufficiently enough for seventy centuries, so why not bask in the afterglow?

Once she musters enough mettle to match your gaze, you can’t tell whether she wants to murder or mount you immediately. Likely both. She opens her mouth to speak, but you cut her off with a response, showing her the truth—the higher priority. You show her the time: 6:52. Two minutes until she needs to be back. She immediately understands, and you allow her the room to escape the wall she’s been pinned against. As you make sure the room is in order, she utilizes one of the mirrors to craft her best impression of composure. This time, both of you finish simultaneously, and she turns to leave unceremoniously.

“Wait.” Despite having every reason not to, she stops, listening to your command and turning to face you. You have no words that need to be spoken, but you toss her your scarf, just in case. She nods in understanding, then sighs in realization. Because you’ve helped make sure that no one else will find out. But you’ve also reminded her that she’ll never forget what happened here.

“Daejejeon?” she asks, curiosity peeking through as she references the upcoming music festival.

“And the afterparty,” you affirm, confirming her intrigue and your New Year’s Eve plans.

“I’ll see you then,” she declares as she turns to depart.

“I’ll see you then,” you call out to the retreating form. “You’ll see me much sooner than that.”

A lone finger is her only response. The singular nature of the gesture elicits a chuckle as you begin your own exit down a different path, knowing full well that you’ll be monopolizing her dreams for at least a few nights. And as you exit the building to view the vast darkness overhead, you can’t help but wonder what secrets await you in the silent hours of the next six nights.

Only one way to find out.

Continued in Act Two …

(Special shoutouts to @braaan and @passingnotions for their insights and the time they chose to invest into this fic, I will always be so, so thankful for your support. To you, the reader, I offer both my sincerest appreciation for your patience and a promise that there’s much more to come if you’re willing to continue forth. Yuqi shows up far more frequently moving forward, and there might even be a pretty little powder keg to add in a bit of extra color. Only one way to find out.)

#kpop smut #kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #idol x reader #idol x male reader #yuqi smut #yuqi fanfic #gidle yuqi #gidle #yuqi #song yuqi #slow burn

[cooliestghouliest]

PUTTY, chapter one

(chapter one), (chapter two), (chapter three)

PAIRING: virgin!Eddie/former cheerleader!Reader

SUMMARY: Eddie has a little brother. Eddie’s little brother has a babysitter.

SERIES TAGS and C/W’s: mutual pining, experienced!Reader, inexperienced!Eddie but he’s eager to learn, mostly sub!Eddie, insecurities and self doubt, narcissistic and/or absent parents, jealousy, mean basketball players, hurt/comfort, they smoke weed, eventual smut (18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI), uniform kink, dirty talk, foot jobs, hand jobs, oral (f!receiving and m!receiving), public sex, sex toys, unprotected PiV. more to be added as this progresses!!!

WORD COUNT: 3.7k+

A/N: hi, my friends!!! this is a rewrite/repost and has been edited for a (hopefully) smoother, more enjoyable read. fun fact that this was one of the first Stranger Things fanfics i ever wrote. it was originally titled She Was Straight From Hell, But You Could Never Tell, and featured Eddie alongside an OC. i’ve changed it to be reader-insert, because that seems to be more in my writing wheelhouse nowadays. this fic will be multiple parts — it begins with backstory, but will eventually branch off into a universe of little smutty ficlets where Reader will corrupt virgin!Eddie as much as humanely possible.

—

Eddie hadn't known about the existence of his little brother until two months ago, when Al Munson showed up in the middle of the night with a small child in tow. Eddie didn't even know his dad was out of prison again, and yet here he was, in the flesh, a little boy with a mop of black curls resembling Eddie's own cradled in his leather jacket-clad arms.

Al was lucky Wayne was working or else this family reunion would have gone south fast.

While Wayne wasn't Al's biggest fan, Al was Eddie's dad, and Eddie would always hold onto as many moments with his father as he could get, no matter how sparse, and no matter how much of a self-serving piece of shit asshole Al Munson truly was.

But Eddie didn’t see it like that. Eddie saw it like this: His dad lived a hard life. His dad struggled with addictions. His dad lost a wife, just as Eddie had lost a mother. His dad tried his best with what he had.

Deep down, Eddie knew these were all just sorry excuses, but he kept that truth tucked away, not wanting to deal with the reality that Al truly only cared about himself.

He already had one dead parent. If he cut his dad out of his life, he’d basically have two.

"When'd you get out?" Eddie asked, stepping aside so Al could enter. His eyes followed the child, brows furrowed. The trailer was always Al's first stop on his freedom tour and the older man had always brought some sort of baggage along with him -- never a little kid, though. What the hell kind of trouble had his dad gotten into this time?

"Few days ago," Al replied, heading for the living room. He placed the sleeping child down on the worn sofa, then straightened and faced Eddie. "Listen, son, you gotta do me a favor. I'm not out long this time. I might've robbed an ATM or two last night. I'm kinda on the lam."

Al didn’t even have the decency to look sheepish at his wrongdoing.

Eddie was used to this. Even when Al was a free man, he was never a free man for long. He didn't think his dad knew how to coexist among non-inmate citizens. Eddie didn't think his dad even wanted to. Prison was a creature comfort for the elder Munson. Eddie wasn't necessarily mad at that fact. He was happy when Al was locked up, because then at least he knew where his dad was. Otherwise, Eddie worried his father would eventually get himself into a situation he wouldn't be able to get out of, and Eddie would really never see him again.

Eddie was also used to Al showing up after months and months, sometimes even years and years, such as now, always asking for favors.

"Who is that?" Eddie asked, pointing towards the couch, not being able to ignore the other human in the room any longer.

"Yeah, that's kinda what I need your help with.” Al rubbed at the back of his neck. "Well, no way to do this other than to just say it. That there's your little brother, Eddie. His name's Oliver. And I need you and Wayne to look after him while I'm gone."

"My... what..." Eddie stammered, face scrunching up. He expected Al to burst out laughing and admit he was just fucking around, and that this tiny sleeping stranger was actually just the kid of a fellow convict buddy. Maybe it was said convict buddy’s turn to rob ATMs tonight, leaving Al the babysitter. Irresponsible. Unlikely. And, turns out, untrue.

With Al's silence, Eddie knew his dad’s admission wasn't a joke.

Eddie was beyond confused now.

"Dad, how... you've been in prison for six years!"

"Conjugal visits," Al answered with a bit of a smug shrug.

Eddie shook his head in disbelief. "What the fuck? Wayne can't afford another kid that's not even his... and I'm in school still, I can't watch him... this isn't... I don't know how..."

But Al was already making his way to the door.

"I know you'll figure it out. I can always count on you, my boy," Al prided, tone cheery as if the favor he'd just asked of Eddie was to give him a quick ride somewhere or find an old family recipe.

Al wasn't acting like he was ditching another Munson offspring off on his older brother. He was treating this like an issue of minor importance, just a little speed bump on an otherwise flat road.

Al Munson was not an upstanding person. Never had been, never would be. Because of this, Eddie shouldn't have been surprised or appalled, but here he was, standing with his mouth agape. Surprised. Appalled.

His dad was out the door with a lighthearted, "See ya 'round, son," and Eddie was left speechless in the middle of the living room.

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

Wayne got over the new addition to the Munson household fairly quickly.

While he'd been livid at first, calling up all of Al's old friends he'd still had the numbers of to try and find out where his dumb shit of a younger brother was, Wayne eventually became resigned to the idea that he now had another little boy to rear and mold.

What else could he do?

Wayne took care of his kin, especially if they were innocent bystanders and had no say in being born in the first place. He'd raised Eddie, and although he knew the boy had his struggles, he didn't think he'd done too bad of a job.

Eddie never went hungry, always had clothes to wear, a bed to sleep in, and Wayne was the one who haggled Eddie's van down to a reasonable price so the boy could pay for it with his lunch box salary.

Wayne knew about the weed and the pills, but so long as Eddie stayed smart about where he was selling and who he was selling to, he didn't much mind Eddie's unconventional line of work. It helped his nephew stay somewhat social, and Wayne knew how important that would be for Eddie's future. If the boy was nothing but a lone recluse his whole life, he'd probably end up just like Al. Nobody wanted that.

Eddie was just about grown now. Sure, he was rearing twenty and still in his senior year of high school, but Wayne had an inkling that '86 would be Eddie's year.

Wayne had always thought about selling the trailer and buying an RV with retirement money once Eddie was out on his own. He wanted to travel the country for the remainder of his life.

The idea that he'd have to raise up another wild Munson for the next fifteen or so years caused a knot to form in his stomach.

Would Wayne even be around for that much longer? He may have been relatively healthy, and he was only in his mid 60's, but Wayne wasn't an idiot. He knew anything could happen at any time.

Wayne knew he needed help this time around. He figured he could count on Eddie here and there, but Eddie needed to focus on school this year if he planned on finally walking the stage. Because of this, Wayne decided to enlist the help of someone on the outside. Someone with experience.

So, he posted an ad in the Hawkins Post, looking for a full-time nanny for a five-year-old boy to start as soon as possible, and waited for a response.

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

Wayne didn't have to wait long.

Two mornings following the job post, shortly after he'd returned home from work, he heard a knock on the trailer door.

When he answered, he saw a pretty young thing standing on the front stoop.

"Hi!" you greeted, then immediately began to ramble. "Are you Mr. Munson? I hope it's okay I just showed up... there wasn't a number listed, only an address, and I didn't know if you wanted me to write a response and mail it, but the ad seemed maybe a little urgent, so I thought, hey, what's the harm in just... showing... up..."

You trailed off, feeling silly for word vomiting during your first impression. He was watching you with a small smile, eyes flickering with what looked like amusement, especially as your cheeks began to color to the soft red of embarrassment.

Listing no number on the ad was intentional. He hadn't owned a rotary phone in about ten years, after having tried to cut back on bills, and he knew not just anyone would make the trek to Forest Hills for a potential job offer. He’d figured only committed applicants that wouldn't waste his time would follow through.

"I have a lot of experience," you continued on at his silence, almost as if you couldn't help it, compelled to divulge all the information you could in the first three minutes of meeting. Wayne found it endearing. "I used to babysit for three different families when I was in high school. And I have two little sisters. My mom and dad worked a lot growing up, so I spent a lot of time with them. Didn't get paid, but... I made sure they didn't die or anything..."

From their brief interaction thus far, Wayne knew he succeeded in his method of weeding out flakes. You were obviously serious about the position. He felt he was a decent judge of character, and he'd learned in life that sometimes over-explaining was synonymous with caring.

"Sorry," you said, forcing out a little laugh. "I guess I could have just introduced myself. You didn't really need to know all that." You shot your hand out, giving your name. "I'm here about the nannying gig. Um, obviously. That is, if I didn't already scare you off."

Wayne took your hand in both of his own, shaking it. He placated you with a grin. "It's a lot harder than that to scare off a Munson, sweetheart. Let's go inside and meet Olly."

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

Although Oliver Munson was only five, he had a spectacular vocabulary and a limitless imagination. Wayne knew the boy was a little charmer, quite like how Eddie was when he allowed himself to be, when the teenager wasn't drowning himself in existential teenage angst and nonsense.

You fell under Olly's spell almost instantly.

And it seemed the little boy had fallen under yours as well.

Oliver didn't stop talking to you while you were there, and didn't stop talking about you after you’d left, asking when you’d be back and if next time you could take him to the trailer park's playground and maybe you two could watch G.I. Joe or He-Man together afterward.

Wayne had taken your number down before you’d left and had told you he'd be in touch soon.

Later that evening, after Eddie had gotten back from his club meeting at school, Wayne took the trip into downtown Hawkins to use the payphone and ask you if you wouldn't mind starting as early as tomorrow.

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

You were far from struggling for money.

Your father was a sought-after criminal prosecutor for the entirety of Indiana. Your mother was a real estate agent for high profile clientele who came from old family money; her father was CEO of a day trading business, and his father before him had been the same.

Although you likely would have never had to work a day in your life and could live a comfortable existence off of inheritance alone, handouts and the humdrum of an All-Play-and-No-Work lifestyle was never a dream of yours. That sounded so cookie cutter, so monotonous, so boring.

You liked to feel a sense of accomplishment. You liked setting goals and reaching them. You didn't want to freeload off of money that was gained from the capitalistic professions your parents were a part of. You wanted to be in control of your own finances and be the author of your own future, not have it already be etched into stone simply by being just another rich kid from Hawkins, à la the likes of the Carver's or the Cunningham's or the Harrington's.

You were ecstatic when you got the call from Wayne, asking you if you’d be willing to start the following day. He left for work at 2PM, so you’d have to be there before then, and would need to plan on staying until Wayne's nephew got home around six.

If you were to be completely honest with yourself, you felt a bit nervous, but the job itself wasn't the reason why that writhing feeling accompanied your excitement.

You had more than ten years of babysitting experience under your belt, and you were eager to get back into a job you actually enjoyed as opposed to trying out different careers to see what stuck and what didn't. Having graduated the spring before, you’d been taking an off year to save up money by working odd jobs around Hawkins to be able to buy your own apartment.

You’d worked as a florist for a few weeks, but it turned out your thumb was pitch black instead of green.

You worked as the personal assistant for a group of lawyers from a local law firm, but it turned out they just needed office eye candy and not someone to actually get any sort of work done.

You worked as a veterinary assistant, but it turned out the job was much more than just petting cats and dogs. You couldn't handle it when a sick animal would come in and there would be nothing anyone could do. Your heart broke more at that clinic than it had your entire life.

You were in between jobs when you’d decided to peruse the classified section of the Hawkins post. There, in the shortest blurb on the page, was a listing for a needed nanny, a full-time position offering negotiable pay.

The next bit was where the excitement wavered.

The listing was published by a Wayne Munson of the Forest Hills trailer park.

That had to be Eddie Munson's uncle. There was no way there were two separate Munson families living in the only trailer park in Kerley County.

You couldn't believe that you’d stumbled across this ad, that the geeky metalhead you’d crushed on since your freshman year of high school had a little brother you could be the potential nanny of.

You were two years younger than Eddie, but that hadn't stopped you from losing periods of time to daydreams about the way the wind ruffled his wild mess of curls on breezy days or the way his band tee sleeves always clung perfectly to the soft muscles of his biceps or the way his cheeks dimpled when he teased the other boys he sat with at lunch.

You’d always wanted to introduce yourself, but you didn't run in the same crowds -- you being on the cheer team and Eddie blasting Black Sabbath in the parking lot after his Hellfire meetings. You could never muster the courage. He seemed so carefree, so full of life, so effortlessly funny. Chrissy Cunningham, your best friend, had spoken to him once or twice and had told you how different he was than what other people said about him. He wasn't scary or mean or threatening, and instead was warm and silly and genuine.

But you knew how the people you spent your time around treated people like him. You knew your group of "friends" referred to him as a freak, a Satan worshipper, and did everything in their power to try to bully him into becoming a shell of himself. Thankfully, he never did -- it was almost as if Eddie absorbed the hatefulness and spent it tenfold by mocking the hilarity of the jock hierarchy that ruled the school, as well as using it to strengthen his own ability to embrace every misfit that walked the halls of Hawkins High.

You never introduced yourself because you were afraid he’d think you had an ulterior motive, that you’d be trying to talk to him as a joke or a prank. You knew the company you kept. You were sure Jason Carver had once or twice suggested you do just that, lead Eddie on and make a fool of him in front of the whole school.

You figured it'd be best to just stay away.

But now, you thought finding this ad was possibly a sign from the universe.

Maybe you were getting a second chance.

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

Eddie was running late.

He was supposed to be back home half an hour ago to relieve whoever Olly's new babysitter was of her duties, but the campaign had taken a shocking turn and Hellfire couldn't disband until it had commenced.

The night finally ended with Will's character decapitating Dustin's, and Eddie had to thwart an actual attack when Dustin leapt across the game table at Will in a bout of rage. Dustin was small but mighty, and Eddie had to physically wrestle the boy off of Will's neck, threatening to banish Dustin from the next few campaigns if he didn’t chill out. Henderson had huffed and puffed but had admitted defeat and apologized to Will for the attempted murder.

By the time Eddie arrived back to the trailer park, the sun had almost set. He pulled his van into his parking spot to the right of the trailer and shut it off. Stepping out, he swung his backpack over his shoulder, but came to a halt when he heard Olly's scream sound from behind the trailer.

Dropping his bag and beginning to run toward the noise, Eddie's heart fell to his stomach. Horrible images of what could possibly be pulling that sound from his little brother pervaded Eddie's mind. He had an overactive imagination to begin with, and something like this verbal cue only egged it on. "Olly!" he shouted, panic raising his voice. "Olly, are you okay?! What’s going on, where are --"

Eddie came to a halt when he found the boy in the backyard with a huge smile spread across his small, sweaty face. Olly had a fake crown on, one made of twigs and leaves, and he was carrying one of the biggest sticks Eddie had ever seen. He had a blanket tucked into the back of his shirt, the cloth a makeshift cape. A thin piece of metal, probably from one of the cars Wayne and Eddie sometimes worked on, was wrapped around his center, acting as armor.

Olly had just been playing.

Letting out a heavy breath of relief, Eddie noticed your frame just off to the side. His eyes started from the ground up, noting the shiny red Docs donning your feet, moving up bare legs that were covered mid-thigh by a short black skater dress, one that hugged your curves in a way that had Eddie’s mouth going dry.

By the time he reached your face, your eyes were wide with amusement.

You’d been watching as he slowly drank you in. He didn't mean to ogle. He had to shake his head a few times to clear it, and when he did so, the face before him started looking more and more familiar.

"Wait," he started, head tilting. He spoke your name, tone riddled with confusion. "From high school?"

You were about to answer when Oliver cleared his throat, obviously not wanting to be ignored or to have his playtime interrupted any longer. You looked down at the boy, who pointed up to his head at his crown. You got the gist -- Olly wanted the game to continue. You could indulge him. You’d been doing it all day, and honestly you’d been having the most fun you’d had in a while.

You turned your attention back to Eddie, fixing your posture and jutting your chin out slightly. "I don't know who that is," you began, voice lilting. "I am Princess Guinevere of Kerley County and this here,” you brought your gaze back down to Oliver, “is my most loyal servant, Sir Olly of Castle Munson."

Eddie couldn't help the grin that broke out over his face at your announcement. He then took a moment to fully take in the rest of your appearance. You, too, had on a makeshift crown, this one made up of cherry blossoms and daisies. You had a flowing blanket tucked into the back of your dress, cascading down your back like a veil.

No fucking way were you, last year's cheerleading captain and prom queen, standing in his backyard playing fucking knights and princesses with his little brother. No fucking way.

Olly broke the silence by shouting out, "Hey, Eddie! Who are you gonna be?"

Eddie tore his eyes from you to focus on his brother. He pursed his lips to one side in thought, trying to come up with a character. He was usually quick on his feet when it came to creative play, but he had just spent the last three hours DM'ing a month-long DnD campaign. His brain felt shot. He was pulled from his introspective reverie by your soft, suggestive voice — no, sorry — the soft, suggestive voice of Princess Guinevere.

"Wanna be my dragon, Eddie?" you asked.

Eddie wasn't exactly sure why that made his breath catch in his throat.

He nodded dumbly, silent, then forced himself to speak because he didn't want to look totally lame in front of a Princess. "Okay. Yeah, I'll be your dragon."

You graced him with a smile before Oliver's tiny but booming voice cut through the air of the darkening night. "HEY! Dragons don't talk!" the boy stomped his foot and hit his stick against the muddy ground in annoyance.

A laugh bubbled from your throat and Eddie grinned, jumping into a wide-legged stance before outstretching his arms, tilting his head back, and roaring.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x you #stranger things

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

Ask Me Anything -- Keldin Sands

What were your initial thoughts upon being woken up and told you're the captain now?

For a solid week, I was dead certain that I was dreaming. I mean. I went to sleep under the assumption I’d be waking up in orbit around Hylara, then suddenly I’m waking up in the medbay but we’re still years away and the crew isn’t there and instead there’s these new people and the captain is Doctor Aspen Greaves? And then everyone’s like, oh, actually you’re the captain now? Yeah, I definitely assumed this was a coma dream. It took me a while to accept otherwise.

To be honest, even now, if I do suddenly wake up in orbit around Hylara with Captain Reimann there, I won’t be entirely surprised. I’d definitely be relieved.

Are you concerned that there are also colonists planted on the Courageous by whomever planted the crew members to sabotage/experiment on the ship?

Oh, yes. If that wasn’t a serious risk, I wouldn’t have been recruited.

Do you feel like the stressors of the many situations are getting to you?

I’ve been overstressed since I woke up from chronostasis. At this rate I’m just doing my best to keep the ship in one piece and the crew from degenerating into a violent stress-crazed mob.

When you first read Kinoshita's notes what did you think of former Captain Reimann's admittance that he also had a loved one aboard the ship? Did you sympathise with him?

Well, I went through proper channels and got clearance, and he smuggled someone aboard the ship against the rules, so I’m not sure how well he expected that to pan out. I mean. I do sympathise in that his loved one died; he had no reason to expect that. But he should’ve obeyed the rules, they’re there for a reason.

Do you regret taking the offer to be placed on the Courageous?

Yes! This is NOT what I signed up for!

Are there any Tarandran customs, or holidays you hope to continue on Hylara?

I don’t know how taxation will work on Hylara – I imagine that we’ll be working with a central planned economy for at least the duration of my lifetime so taxes won’t be a thing – but I intend to find some way to continue to celebrate the Yeartithe. It’s a beautiful little celebration done in Tarandra once per year, where families and friends gather for a party and exchange small gifts in thanks for the value that they provide each other. People are assured of what value they bring to the family and the community, and children are encouraged to think of their potential and showered with praise about what strong an asset they will become. Once everyone’s gotten their valuations straight, they’re ready to submit their taxes to the government as a final gift and acknowledgement of mutual value between themselves and Tarandra itself, the largest of their communities below humanity itself. It’s a wonderful celebration of individuals, families and communities, and how we help each other and bring value to the whole. Even if the economics are wildly different on Hylara, I hope to maintain enough of the celebration to keep the spirit.

It’s also a very popular time of year for marriages, adoptions, and sorting out inheritances, because doing so at the very beginning of the financial year makes next year’s Yeartithe so much simpler.

How did you meet your husband? Did you propose, or did he?

He’s a painter. My house needed painting. We got to talking when we were sorting out a shortage of Pigment XV-1994 and whether we should wait a month for resupply or just bite the bullet and go with Pigment XV-1983 instead. Ket looked me right in the eye and told me that I’d be staring at the walls of this living room for years and I didn’t need to settle for second best, snatched the pen out of my hand and rescheduled the painting for a month later on my wall calendar.

Three months later I told him he was right, I wouldn’t need to settle for second best, and I asked him to marry me. The Sands’ were a much more high profile family than the Yorlas, so convincing his family wasn’t hard; I bought him into the family with a three year free property lease for his mother that I borrowed off my grandmother in exchange for a concession on some unrelated complex family issues, and we were married by the end of the year.

If you hadn't joined the Javelin Program, what would your dream life have been?

Probably a peaceful life of designing spaceship engines and sipping tea with Ket in a Pigment XV-1994 coloured living room.

What made you fall in love with your husband?

I’m a stubborn guy, and so is he. We were always there to second-guess each others’ decisions and not let the other one get carried away with something that, in hindsight, would turn out to be very stupid. It’s a valuable asset to bring into a family or a business.

Do you miss Tarandan? What is the one thing you'd bring from there if you could?

My husband! Haha, I know, that’s a coward’s answer. The real answer is the food. The food on this ship is as good as the crew can make it, but it’s always a bit unfamiliar. It reminds me how far from home I really am.

If I could bring anything from Earth, it would be the sunset. I hope that when we build the environmental domes on Hylara, they’re transparent, or at least have windows. I want to sip coffee with Ket while watching the sunset again.

How do you imagine your first sight of Hylara?

Boringly, I expect it will be a long-distance image from the onboard light telescope, followed by an analysis from our Kleiner array to check whether Earth’s long-range data on the exoplanet is correct. We’ll want accurate data on Hylara as quickly as possible. At that distance, it’ll just be a dot in space.

Earth said that there’s a chance that there might be water oceans. I hope they’re right. It would be amazing to see oceans when we get close enough.

What are your hopes for the kind of society you guys will build when you get to the planet?

As stable and prosperous a society as we can. It’s going to be a lot of work. I don’t agree with the selection of colonists – an 80% criminal population is a horribly unstable start, and the non-criminal filtering process wasn’t all that great either. Being able to get these people all working together in a society where all of our needs are provided for and nobody’s going to steal or abuse or kill each other will be a massive challenge.

Fortunately, it won’t be my challenge. My job is to get us to the planet; the establishment of the colony can fall into more professional hands.

Did you have any pets before you left?

I had a small flock of pigeons a few years ago, but I handed them off before being selected for the program.

What do you think of Aspen now that you’ve met them, as opposed to only having read their books?

They’re… not what I expected. In writing, they’re much clearer, more direct, more certain. In person, they’re quite changeable and difficult to understand.

I think I just need to get to know them better.

What will you do if your husband doesn't make it?

I don’t know. I promised him I’d keep going. That was the promise we made to each other before going into chronostasis – if either of us had to keep going alone, we would.

But I can’t do that if he dies here. Too much is riding on my shoulders right now. If he dies, I’m going to be in a bad way for a long time, so that can’t happen until the ship and the colony no longer rely on me.

What was the worst bet you ever lost?

Oh I don’t gamble. Gambling is a mug’s game. I’ll take small ‘bets’ on the ship occasionally to help promote crew cohesion, but since the point of those is the social cohesion and not the stakes, merely taking them is a win.

#ttou #time to orbit: unknown

[writingforatwistedworld]

Hello! I was wondering if I could request Trey Malleus and Azul self aware where the player is slowly losing interest in the game (and on them as well) and not paying them as much attention and focusing on other games or just whatever else the player is doing! Thank u!!

Self-aware au

I do not take any responsibility for you reading this no matter which age group you are from!

WARNINGS: Yandere themes, kidnapping, war, obsession, possessiveness, fire, religion, unhealthy eating habits, unhealthy mindset

Trey Clover/Azul Ashengrotto/Malleus Draconia-Player loses interest in the game

You are seriously doing this to him? (Ok, appearently yes…)

It was a sunny day, Trey was awaiting your return and... you never came

W-well otherworldly beings surely do have a busy schedule, right? Haha... ha...

He looks like someone who got stood up on their own wedding

But hey, he gave you two entire days before the kicked-puppy energy kicked in

And then? The end of Heartslabyul

Ok, maybe not so dramatic but a mini Apocalypse is happening

Trey is really important so that order is being kept within the dorm

And who is supposed to back all these tarts for the unbirthday parties??! Not him!

But then, you came back!

Or rather, you came back for a day before leaving again

This time it hits him even more than the first time

Is this supposed to be some sick joke to you?

Or maybe you are testing his loyalty to the throne?

After this he tries anew to do his best for you

But why are his eyes so cold? Why does he look at everyone like they are dirt whilst muttering “you aren't trying hard enough. That's why they are gone!” why is it that he once beat up that freshman after he broke a rule?

At this point he is even more of a tyrant than Riddle was before his Overblot

Goodness gracious don't do that!

Don't you know how fragile his self-esteem is??!

But ok *ahem* let's start from the beginning

Azul, being the shiny and polished young octopus and wannabe human in training that he is was waiting for your return one day

Only for you not to arrive....

Uh wow... one hour to get ready and you don't even log in...

But the more and longer this happens the more he thinks this is all his fault

He had been eating too much again lately. And he also looks kinda out of shape (no you don't Azul)

No wonder you stay away from him!

Having such a lazy and disgusting follower like him must be so humiliating for you!

After this we can see him not only eat way too less but also having a very unhealthy obsession with him comparing himself to Vil

And how clumsy he is on two legs!

These days he has been running a few rounds just so he can use them better

Sleep? Who needs sleep??!

You are a high and all-knowing scholar who would of course also only look at someone close to your level so the night is ideal for some additional studies!

So look at him! Look at him and let him love you!

Otherwise he will have to find a way into your world and just take you with him...

Oh um... well...

How do I say this...

Night Raven College is burning down...

And the Valley has declared war since they think their world is filled with sinners...

Which had started because you were gone for so long...

Aka two days but shhh we don't talk about the faes obsession with you in the self-aware au

Malleus has noticed very early on that your visits became shorter and shorter

He had hoped that maybe you were just busy, after all he had heard you sometimes say that you needed to go to something to yourself

And then suddenly you were gone

And I'm not just saying away from the screen but gone

Why was this happening? Had he done some sort of mistake? Was he a sinner??!

This may or may not lead to outbursts of emotions and... a not-so-small bonfire

Whilst Malleus searches for the fault in himself the Valley of thorns thinks and acts otherwise

You must have deemed this world too impure for your presence!

How shameful of them not to spread their belief of you to the other regions!

Malleus can only lower his gaze in shame and sadness. He was such a disgrace but if it means getting a second chance then he would do absolutely everything with a simple on his face

Even if that means burning down everything in his path to nothing more than ashes

#yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twst x reader #self aware au #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #twst #twst x reader #yandere trey #yandere trey x reader #yandere trey clover #trey x reader #twst trey #yandere azul #yandere azul x reader #yandere azul ashengrotto #twst azul #azul x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #trey clover x reader #yandere malleus x reader #yandere malleus draconia #yandere malleus #malleus x reader #twst malleus #tw: yandere #tw: religion #tw: kidnapping #tw: war

[aurevell]

The Only Thing Left Sterek | 13k | T

“You don’t need air,” Stiles echoes. “You swim. That doesn’t tell me much. What are you?” Derek stares. He slowly lifts his shoulders and drops them back into the water. Or, Stiles meets a stranger at the spring outside of town.

Read on AO3 (or check out the beginning below)

The town grows less forgiving near its borders. Meaner, Stiles thinks, and uglier too. Once you’re too far from the main streets, the paved asphalt road fractures into rough gravel shot through with weeds. 

To one side of it, the ground slopes into a trash-choked ditch. Supposedly, it used to irrigate crops back before he was born, but that farmland is all overgrown now, the grass and wild shrubs almost hip-height, peppered here and there with the kind of refuse that takes real effort to move. Stiles sometimes likes to imagine how it all must have gotten there: shame-faced strangers lugging their mattress through the mud. Sneaking like thieves in the night to set down the old tires that now shelter stray cats.

And then, wedged right in the middle of the grime and gravel and mud, there’s a patch of dark woods that looks totally untouched. Like no one ever thought to use it or trash it, like everyone quietly agreed to leave it alone.

From the road, the tops of the towering pines whisper in the wind. A glint of silver through their crooked trunks turns out to be a wide spring of green water once you get close enough to see, mirror-smooth and shining. The woods are probably just a few acres in all, large enough to walk the perimeter of the spring in a quarter-hour at a leisurely clip, but not large enough to get lost in them. There are small signs of civilization, sure: some sort of barred drain as you leave the road, the weathered yellow sign warning of drowning risks, the hint of an old wooden structure through the far-off leaves. Otherwise, Stiles can almost pretend he’s in a pristine forest somewhere, the trees ancient and foreign and wild.

He likes to do that, sometimes. Pretend to be somewhere else, pretend this is one tiny touch of magic left in his world, its last remaining thumbprint. It’s nicer than the alternative.

When his mom was alive, she used to believe in that sort of thing. Old magic, she called it. She said that it lingered in some places. That humans had pushed it away little by little, maybe, and there was no room for it anymore except in little pockets you might stumble across by mistake. (When his dad was alive, he used to laugh and say that if magic were real, it was already spent up in things like batteries and planes and computers, because who knew how any of that worked?)

If there’s a magic to these trees or still waters, it must have something to do with how calm Stiles feels when he sits under the trees that stretch their branches over the spring, a calm he rarely otherwise feels. The edge of the water is a deep green ring, teeming here and there with rushes and duckweed. Water lilies too, red as a flare. In the middle of the spring, the water darkens almost to black as the ground slopes steeply out of sight. 

On the surface, the spring is always cool and placid. But that’s deceptive, Stiles knows. Still waters run deep. 

“Hello,” someone says, quiet, and Stiles startles and whips around. 

He’s perched on the bank of the spring, his back against a tree, and he should’ve heard someone stepping through the woods around him. The area is so rarely traveled that he wasn’t anticipating anyone else. But the voice, unexpectedly near, hasn’t come from the trees at all. 

It’s come from the water. Just a few yards away is a man swimming in the spring, only his head and shoulders visible in the green. He must have entered the water somewhere else, swimming in this direction while Stiles was glowering off in the distance. The banks of the spring curve out of sight to one side, dipping into the trees and then back around further off.

“God, you scared me,” Stiles says vehemently. A relieved laugh bubbles up from him after the shock. “Where did you even come from, dude? Isn’t it kind of cold out to be swimming?”

The swimmer barely moves as he treads. “The water.” The words are again quiet, but the still water carries the sound. His voice rasps, as if he hasn’t spoken all day. 

He’s a little older than Stiles, with dark hair plastered to his forehead. He’s markedly handsome, with serious features: his full lips are unsmiling, his strong jaw clenched. The dark water is barely clear enough where he treads to make out a pair of muscled arms sweeping back and forth with slow glace. Even from this far away, his light eyes seem to dance green along with the ripples. 

“You come here often,” the man adds. 

It doesn’t sound like a question, but Stiles answers it like it is. “Yeah, I guess I do. Nice out here.”

“You’re alone.”

Stiles hesitates for a moment, though the answer must be obvious. It’s a weird thing for a stranger to ask someone they just met in the middle of nowhere, especially a stranger who stares as baldly as this one does, but it’s not like the guy has moved to approach. He’s not threatening. He just waits through the pause, letting Stiles respond in his own time.

“Yeah,” Stiles says at last. “You?”

The man’s mouth twists, dissatisfied. “Always.”

This whole thing feels weird, Stiles thinks, this mystery guy. He tries to steer them toward even ground, neutral conversation. “So, uh, you’re not from around here, are you? Did you just come to check out the spring or something?”

“I live here.”

Stiles blinks in surprise. “Really? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in town before.” No, he knows he hasn’t. He’d remember a guy who looks like this. He frowns, adding, “And, what, you know about this place and you come out here to swim anyway? The water’s gotta be freezing.”

“I like the water.”

Which, sure, that isn’t so unusual on paper. Deepwater Well turns into a popular hangout in the summer, and it’s a lure year-round for the local high schoolers who occasionally come to party on the shores. But it doesn’t change the fact that there aren’t that many swimmers, because those brave enough to enter the spring’s waters sometimes end up drowned. Sometimes worse. 

A handful of people have even disappeared from the area over the past few decades, making headlines statewide after searchers found nothing in the woods or water. Something to do with the way the spring connects to underground aquifers, the rumors say, or maybe some sort of current that drags you further down. It’s a karstic spring, full of deep shafts and narrow caverns that have never been fully mapped, and there’s no telling where you’d end up if you sank all the way to the bottom.

That’s probably why the nut jobs come out of the woodwork to talk about it online sometimes, joking about rare cryptids. And why there are conspiracy theories galore from every flavor of armchair detective imaginable. Stiles included. He has a morbid affinity for that sort of research, a shameless interest in the details of disappearances and cold cases, and this place always used to mystify him because it’s right in his backyard. But the internet holds few answers, even for him.

If this guy lives around here, he must know all of that, and yet he’s decided to swim anyway. Dumb decision, but who’s Stiles to judge. Maybe he’s one of those weird thrill-seeking, adventure-type people.

“Sure. It figures. Because of, you know.” Stiles makes a vague gesture at the guy, though he’s thinking in particular of those toned arms. “You, uh, just look like it.”

“Do you swim?”

“Yeah, in the summer. And in a pool. It’s kind of cold for it now.”

“It’s not cold once you’re in the water.”

“Sounds like what some crazy swimming enthusiast would say,” Stiles jokes. Even the thought of getting in the water makes him pull his hoodie a little tighter around himself. It’s not particularly cold today, but the breeze always makes the crisp fall air sting his skin. “That’s a sure-fire recipe for hypothermia. I’m too fragile for that. All skin and bones.”

It’s hard to be sure, but Stiles thinks the man’s lips twitch at that.

“What’s your name?” Stiles demands.

This time, it’s the man who pauses. It’s long enough that Stiles’s eyebrows begin to rise. “Derek.”

Stiles huffs out an incredulous laugh. “Why’d you have to think so hard about it?”

“Long time since I used it. The name.”

“You don’t get out much?”

Derek grunts. “No. What is your name?”

“Oh, yeah. Stiles.”

“Stiles,” Derek says slowly, stretching it out like he’s testing out the word.

“Are you at the community college?” Stiles wonders, still trying to feel Derek out. Gauge his age. “Or do you work?”

“Used to,” Derek says gruffly.

Stiles waits but, he doesn’t offer anything more. Which is fair, Stiles figures, because maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it with a stranger. And Stiles doesn’t like people prying into why he’s not in school. But still. “Really playing the man of mystery angle, are we?”

“Where do you come from?”

“Town.” When Derek just stares at him blankly, Stiles jerks his thumb back toward the road. 

“What is it like there?”

“In…Beacon Hills?” Stiles asks, incredulous. “You’re not really from around here, are you?”

Derek just grunts again. “I have not seen it.”

This guy, Stiles thinks. What the fuck? 

Read the rest on AO3

#sterek #sterek fic #mine #au-gust 2023 #that's a wrap! #crazy that it's over so fast #also i've somehow put derek in a Situation in 1/2 of the au-gust fics this year lol #anyway you know how sometimes you write a thing and it's like #this is gonna please maybe three people and i'm one of them? #this is that fic 😂

[dovahkinniez]

okay hear me out, Miraak bf headcanons?

uh, hell yeah! :D

Remember to not be a silent reader, like and share your thoughts! I love hearing everyone's feedback. <3

MIRAAK BF HEADCANONS!

— what a man.

if you’re a fan for the: ‘they are mean to everyone but me’ trope then he is the man for you. bonus if you also like enemies to lovers.

miraak isn’t easy to love, let’s be honest. but it’s worth it, especially when he loves back. he loves back hard.

whether you are dragonborn or not, there is that push and pull with him, mostly because of him.

the whole ‘what is happening to me? this isn’t me.’ and then disappears to only come back when he realises he misses you.

if you’ve watched ‘once upon a time’, rumple and belle, that sort of dynamic.

he craves power and needs it all, but when his own ‘belle’ - you - comes into his life you, and his own emotions begin to sidetrack him from his ventures to becoming all powerful.

but as time passes he can’t resist his heart anymore, the pounding becomes louder than his thoughts and ultimately he makes his way back to you.

and for the first time in … well forever, he feels human. it’s a process for him, and for you also. but good always wins and love is the strongest power to ever exist.

he realises how much you mean to him when sees you hurt, he’s never felt anger in his life like that until then - and it wasn’t because of his own gain or loss this time.

he’s that ‘i don’t give a shit’ type and then his actions say otherwise.

like you could be walking around tipsy, causing a scene and he’s like: ‘what an idiot. i hate them’ but picks you up and carries you to sleep and makes sure you sleep on your side so you don’t choke if you wake up sick.

and the type to grab your face with both his hands and checks you scarily worried while muttering stuff like, ‘you’re an idiot! you could have gotten killed!’ and kissed your forehead once he’s checked you’re okay.

after years of work and ultimately failing, i see him being worn out and drained - physically, mentally and also emotionally.

you become the reason of his existence, he truly believes if it weren’t for you he’d have ended up killing himself because of his own greed - which is true.

so his best moments are when it’s just you both, bathing with your back pressed against his chest as he washes your hair, or when you’re in bed and you’ve already fallen asleep while he draws pattens on your back gently with his fingers.

it’s the simple times in the quiet with you where he sees how much has changed since you entered his life.

but he rarely vocalises these things, he keeps up his hard-ass cover until small intimate moments happen where you see the mask he wears crack as he begins to smile at you, the corners of his eyes crinkle and when he laughs harder than ever because of something you said.

he reads you to sleep, it happened accidentally once while he began reading out loud for no reason, you were off in seconds and now it’s become a regular thing if you’re finding it hard to doze off.

his reading sleepy voice >>>>. perfect.

his favourite ways to showing love is definitely through acts of service, helping you out. showing he cares because he remembered something you needed to do, which he decided to do for you.

you needed to sell some stuff? he already has, here’s your gold. you need some food after you’ve been busy all day, good because he’s already been cooking for you both.

he also has a sweet tooth, will eat sweetrolls like he’s on man vs. food.

when a guard makes a comment of, ‘let me guess someone stole your sweetroll?’ at first he’s confused and looking around to see who stole his shiz, like an angry chihuahua. then once he realises the guard is just a dick and then he has to hold himself back from head butting him.

you don’t even notice as you’re selling some weapons you found on your travels as he’s glaring at the guard.

definitely a petty idiot.

if someone pickpockets him he will snatch it back and then send them rolling like a bowling ball.

you wake up before him and get out of bed without the daily morning cuddles he takes it very personally, sitting there with a grumpy face and messy morning hair. watching you but refusing to reply until you hug it out.

but like you know.. he totally doesn’t care! your hugs aren’t that great!! (they’re like much needed therapy to him really)

gives you shoulder and forehead kisses a lot, simple and sweet. he does it a lot, to remind you he cares without having to actually say it. especially before bed and when you wake up.

he’s that condescending guy who is oddly soft with you, even you get whiplash from his two sides sometimes.

but he adores you, i mean … he did leave his life’s work behind him and began again with you. must mean something. :]

#☆ — mama dovie writes… #elder scrolls #elder scrolls skyrim #elder scrolls x reader #skyrim #skyrim headcanon #skyrim scenarios #skyrim x dovahkiin #skyrim x reader #miraak #miraak x dragonborn #miraak x reader #miraak skyrim #skyrim miraak #skyrim miraak x reader

[merakiui]

Here is one for you!

⚡️Lightning - Have you ever spontaneously added something to your story that you wouldn't have added normally? If so, what made you do it?

And a surprise addition! Are there any WIP you have unfinished that you aren't sure you will even come back to? If so, why?

(ask game)

⚡️Lightning - Have you ever spontaneously added something to your story that you wouldn't have added normally? If so, what made you do it?

I have! When I first started writing DRU last summer, I wasn't sure how to begin the story. Riddle and Cater weren't planned to be in the fic, as it was mainly a story focused on the trio and the reader. In the early version of the story, Idia was intended to play a role in the plot. I had very basic ideas in mind, but none of them were satisfying enough.

In the midst of my agonizing over where to start, I found an unfinished wip titled "Mimicry," in which you're stalked while you work at an old-fashioned diner with Riddle and Cater. The very first diner scene you read in DRU is actually taken from that wip! I was reading it again and I liked the aesthetic of The Devil's Delight so much that I thought to add it into DRU along with Riddle and Cater. I'm very happy I did because from there the story took such a lively shape!

As for the surprise question, there are quite a few unfinished twst wips I have that I'm not sure if I'll ever return to. There aren't any reasons for why they're unfinished. Although maybe it's because I'm not sure if anyone would find these plots interesting. >_< I'll list some of them below.

the devil and his halo -> it was a story in which you escape an abusive relationship only to meet Jade, and he offers you stay with him in the meantime. He's so creepy and you think he's living a double life of some sort, and after a week you think anywhere would be better than here. But Jade won't let you leave.

npc syndrome -> a story in which Idia traps you in a virtual world and you have to find a way out within a certain timeframe otherwise you'll be his forever.

grim reaping -> less of a yandere story and more of a romantic comedy, in which Grim Reaper Idia is summoning for his favorite character in a game just as you appear before him without warning and meaning. Sadly, he loses his 50/50 in the game and now he's stuck with you, a recently deceased mortal who is begging for a second chance at life. Idia tells you that second chances aren't freely given; they're earned. In order to do that, you have to accumulate enough soul points to be worthy of reincarnation. This is done by doing good deeds to ease the weight of the burdens from your previous life on your soul, which have followed you into the afterlife and have made it impossible for you to settle. Idia hates to be bothered with work and wants nothing more than to be rid of you, so he agrees to take you under his wing and help you get the amount of points needed so you can have your second chance...and so he can return to being a gamer.

monops's reflection -> I wrote half of it and stopped because I hit a writing block for that story. Looking back, I realize the concept of "Jade wanting what Floyd has" is similar to The Most Dangerous Game and so I don't think that story will ever be posted because it follows a similar concept. ^^;;;

moray pit -> this was somewhat of an obscure horror concept I had in which a small pool appears in a shallow cove one day. It looks shallow from the surface, but it goes rather deep and is a tight space that the average human can't quite venture in without getting stuck. People in your small town have started referring to it as a wishing well because if you bring an offering to the pool and drop it in it's said that what you desire most will appear. However, you must never stick your hands into the pool and try to pull up what dwells within. The last person who did that was dragged in and never seen again. But that's just a myth meant to scare people away. Or so you think until the area is roped off and put under investigation after too many souls have disappeared. Foolishly, you accept the dare from a few of your friends and stick your hand into the tiny pool, disobeying all the posted warnings. Some say your fingers will grasp seaweed, others claim the smooth weathering of gold coins. Maybe you'll feel skeletal fingers reaching for yours or a smooth tentacle curling around your wrist in greeting. In your case, you put your hand down there, feel a face that is not quite human, and for a moment all is calm. Until your finger is bitten clean off. :) that should have driven you away for good, but oddly enough you can't ignore the alluring tug the moray pit has on you.

#chit chat #rendy-a

[skyekitsuneart]

Okay for the maybe 3 people interested here is a brief overview of the Lesbian Hidekane Tokyo Ghoul AU

Okay so there are 2 main changes in this AU that effects the timeline of events/other little changes:

Hide and Kaneki are women

Kaneki was turned into a ghoul as a child

How I decided this would go is that Kaneki (age 10) would be walking to the store one night to buy herself dinner (as her cannonically neglectful aunt refused to feed her) and she gets kidnapped by a ghoul from Aogiri and then successfully experimented on by Dr.Kanou.

Aogiri wanting to, you know, increase their numbers and have another one-eyed ghoul in their ranks begin to ‘train’ Kaneki into believing in their ideals and to become a lethal fighter. (I don’t think it needs to be said Aogiri doesn’t care she’s a child when it comes to their methods of doing this)

Kaneki is there for 2 years, and for the most part has the willpower to not completely fall to their side. At the end of these 2 years Kaneki goes to a fit of mental instability and rage. This causes the kaguja that Aogiri was trying to make her to be to break lose and she destroys the hideout she is being kept in as it is at it’s weakest.

Then as you would expect she is found by Antieku and begins her mental recovery, although for a very long time she is selectively mute and adverse to touch.

Through Antieku, Kaneki meets Hide, whose dads start becoming regular customers a few months into Kanekis stay. Kaneki was weary at first but because of Hides persistent interest in her and her willingness to meet Kaneki halfway in ways others never did, they quickly form a deep connection.

Kaneki starts going to school eventually when she starts speaking in small bits again and her and Hide become nearly inseparable.

Hide figures Kaneki is a ghoul a feed months after they start being friends but Hides (overly) intense bind with Kaneki at that point makes her not care. She tells kaneki she knows when they are 14. It is a messy tear filled night for Kaneki.

Surprisingly, Kaneki is the one the confess her romantic feelings to Hide when they are 17. Kaneki can barely finish her confession before Hide is all over her, basically in tears over the fact that they both feel the same.

And the rest is a bit the same as cannon. They both go to Kamii, except they share a cute little apartment together, and Kaneki still works at Antieku and Hide is a mole of sorts inside the CCG as a intern.

That’s the main gist, but here are some other things in this AU I can think of rn:

Rize is a member of Aogiri and is Kanekis ‘caretaker’ (using that term extremely loosely)

Kaneki and Ryoko have a mother daughter relationship

Ryoko still dies tho, but it’s when Kaneki is 17

Ayato at least starts out living at Antieku with Touka, I might have a big conflict arc between them were he temp goes to Aogiri

Hide does eventually tell Antieku she knows they are all ghouls

Hide and Kimi are besties u can’t convince me otherwise

Oh and Nishki is apart of Antieku a lot younger

Hide in general is like the 20th wards Iocal Okay Human tm amongst the ghouls

Hides biological parents were ghoul investigators and were killed in action, but she has 2 dads she lives very much and they are like Kanekis second family

After Kaneki and Hide enter college the plot is just kinda ma whatever I feel like at the moment?? Like there are multiple plots that could happen but I’m bad at writing so like I can’t settle on one so it’s just like whatever I want it to be atm.

N e ways I would DIE for them 💕💕💕

#sketch #tokyo ghoul #hidekane #lgbtqiia+ #alternate universe #tokyo ghoul au #manga #lesbian hidekane #ken kaneki #hideyoshi nagachika #tokyo ghoul re #rize kamishiro

[blaisenova]

how not to talk someone off of a ledge

Miguel O'Hara likes to go up to the roof of Spider-Society to think. What about? That's no one's business but his own. Though, unfortunately, Peter doesn't seem to agree.

or:

Peter B. Parker REALLY doesn't know how to talk someone off of a ledge.

-------------------------------------------

my first TRUE atsv work on here!

it's a bit of an exploration into miguel and the way that he reacts to things in atsv because i think it's really interesting. angry man? aggressive man? no, just stressed and afraid. plus can you really blame a guy for having a bit of a breakdown when everyone keeps pushing all of his buttons and doesn't stop even when he makes it VERY clear that they should?? he needs to learn how to handle his feelings better (read: learn to TALK ABOUT THEM AT ALL) and everyone else needs to learn when to BACK OFF. i'm looking at you peter. i love you so so much but you know how to push miguel's buttons and you USE THAT KNOWLEDGE.

you also get a bit of a parental miguel moment because he is soft for children and i will not be told otherwise. idiot parents or not, miguel would do anything for little mayday. apologies again for if any of my spanish is off at all. i'm fairly advanced but there's still some stuff i struggle with. if you speak spanish, please feel free to correct me! i am always always open and willing to learn!

i should warn you that there's some very brief religious exploration at the very beginning of the work, but it's not the main focus by far so i haven't tagged it. there is, however, a deep exploration of miguel's suicidal thoughts, so please watch out for that!

as always, the link to this work on ao3 is in the reblogs if you prefer to read there like i do, and thank you so much for reading!! <3

--------------------------------------------

A peculiar fact of life, as undeniable as the sky being blue or the sun being a star, was that the wind rushed with more and more desperate urgency the higher up into the atmosphere you got. 

Of course, Miguel knew, logically, why that was – there was less friction at higher altitudes, so the air was able to travel more freely – and he knew, even more logically, that it was stupid to try and find some sort of bigger meaning in something; that it only ever made him feel even more small. But, sometimes, despite knowing it was stupid and that he was indescribably tired of trying to find meaning in the meaningless or humanity in the inhuman, Miguel would get caught up in his own head, and he would begin to wonder if, maybe, the wind at the top of Babylon Towers pulled at him so desperately because it was trying to bring him over the edge. As if it knew that, even though he could catch himself, he wouldn’t. As if it knew that, if he just got one sign that he was meant to fall, he’d let himself.

It shouldn’t have meant anything, that the earth was functioning the way that it was meant to, especially since Miguel was the furthest thing from a spiritual person, but it wasn’t as easy as he’d like to pretend to forget the way that he’d been raised.

Miguel didn’t believe in a god.

Maybe it would have been easier to blame all of his woes on some higher power that had written his suffering into the stars millenia before he was born, but it felt like a shitty excuse for all of the things that he’d done to himself. It was supposed to make him feel better, to know that it wasn’t his fault that everything he touched fell apart, but all it did was make him feel trapped; suffocated. Who would want to be written into a destiny like this?

No, Miguel didn’t believe in a god.

His mother had raised him to be Catholic; fearing of a God with a capital g that had the power to save and destroy him all at once, but Miguel had always thought that his father had possessed that same exact ability and there was nothing all too godly about him. Having power didn’t make you a god, he’d decided, and the sentiment had only been made to feel more and more true as time went on. After all, he had power, and he was even further from god than his dad had been.

Miguel didn’t believe in a god.

But he would be a liar if he said that there weren’t still times that he wanted to break down and pray to a higher power – that either didn’t exist or loathed him completely – to make his pain stop. It was stupid, and childish, and Miguel thought he’d grown out of the urge the first time he realised that he had the power to stop the pain. Miguel was no god, though his life was in his own hands, for better or for worse, so he’d stopped praying. Even when he could think of nothing else to do but plead, Miguel did not pray.

Nevertheless, as his legs hung off of the edge of the roof of Babylon Tower’s – Spider Society’s carefully built and refurbished headquarters and, also, the location of what used to feel like home – Miguel could only silently ask of the wind to do what he was too afraid to.

There was no afterlife. That’s what he was counting on.

Each inhale burned his lungs, and he couldn’t be sure if it was because of all of the pollution in Nueva York’s atmosphere or if it was just because he was trying so hard not to burst into tears. Daring to take a breath would be to invite a sob, and Miguel was far too tired to cry any more tears, so, instead, he stilled his chest until he could no longer, then sucked in as quick of an inhale as he could before stilling once more.

There weren’t even stars anymore. The lights of the city were so blindingly bright that they drowned out the entire sky. Before figuring out how to jump universes, Miguel had never seen a star except for in pictures. Before he knew how beautiful they really were, it hadn’t really bothered him; he couldn’t have known what he was missing without having seen it for himself.

Even the most high definition of screens couldn’t capture the way that a million stars dappled the sky like freckles, twinkling and dancing; unmoving yet ever-changing.

The first time Miguel had seen the stars – really looked at them – on Earth 47219 (he could never forget), he’d been frozen in place. It felt as if he was being gazed upon by the universe itself, and he was staring right back; unabashedly marvelling at them. He remembered feeling small, and that was hardly a new feeling to him but he’d never felt it quite like he had in that moment. It wasn’t something he was being made to feel by another person, and, somehow, that had made it okay. He was small, but small in the way that he never got to be; small in the way a child was, or should have been.

And, really, stars shouldn’t have been the thing to wow him; after all, there was an entire, infinite multiverse with billions of versions of himself and every other person. The scope of the infinity of a single universe shouldn’t have compared to the scope of the infinity of the multiverse that contained it, but they were both infinities, weren’t they? So, in the end, they were the same, right?

Nevertheless, there was something about being faced with the natural vision of space’s endlessness that didn’t compare to computer generated strands of code that simply painted a picture of what infinity might look like. Nothing could be such a wholly genuine picture of boundlessness other than the real thing.

As Miguel looked up at the sky now, though, and was met with nothing but a blank grey-blue, he almost felt even smaller than he did when looking up at the stars. Small, but in the way that he was used to feeling; small, but in the way that made him afraid.

There were more Spider-People resting within the confines of the building beneath him than he would ever bother to count, so why did he still feel so alone? Infinite universes, infinite people, infinite opportunities, and, yet, Miguel had never felt so lonely. He’d searched for a solution to the hollowness once before, and he’d only found great loss – a loss he shouldn’t get to grieve when he was the one who’d caused it. Why weren’t the people he had here enough for him? Why couldn’t he just believe that Gabriel loved him, and that Xina no longer loathed him for how he’d hurt her? 

None of it was ever enough, and, at a certain point, Miguel had to admit that it wasn’t something lacking in anyone else that left him so empty; it was the fact that he tore himself open further and further each day in search of anything to fix him and was bled out in the process.

Infinity really was an unfathomably large concept. How could anyone be expected to stop the bleeding of a wound that was ever-expanding?

The wind whistled loudly in his ears, almost deafening. It urged him ever closer to the edge and the great fall that could swallow him up if he’d let it. It felt like a comfort; an assurance that maybe everything could be okay, even if only in those brief moments before it stopped, though that was a bit of a comforting promise, too.

The wind, thousands of feet in the air on top of Babylon Towers, was so loud, in fact, that Miguel missed the sound of footsteps approaching the door until it had already swung open and it was too late.

“Miguel?!” a voice shouted over the whipping air current.

Miguel’s shoulders grew even more tense, if possible. He peered over his shoulder, scowling at a certain Spider in a fluffy pink robe before he turned his attention back to the cityscape before him. If he tried hard enough, he could almost pretend that the passing headlights of cars and the faraway lit up windows of apartments were a starscape; one that didn’t inspire such unfathomable fear.

“Hey, man, what are you doing up here?” came the call once more, and Miguel tucked his head down as he hunched over.

“Avoiding you,” he shouted back, voice whisked away by the wind, but Peter seemed to hear him anyway.

“Well, you’re not doing a very good job of it!” he said, and Miguel was sure he could almost hear a laugh.

He grumbled, twisting his body just enough so that he could glare at the intruder without breaking his neck in the process. “I was.”

“Yeah, well, you know how it is,” Peter called, stumbling forward against the wind to unceremoniously plop himself down next to Miguel with a huff of exhaustion. He scooted himself over, pressing his shoulder against Miguel’s – which Miguel narrowed his eyes at and leaned, ever so slightly, away – and swung his feet in the open air with an almost irreverent glee. “Spidey-sense takes me all sorts of places that I’m not invited.”

As Miguel opened his mouth to tell Peter off, he felt a small hand press against his arm, and he looked down in horror at the bright eyes and wild red hair of Mayday parker. With one hand, he took her hand into his own, then gently brought up his other to cover her eyes. His gaze immediately darted back up to her father, who he flashed his fangs at unabashedly in a snarl.

“Peter, did you bring your sho- Did you bring your baby up here?” he seethed.

And Peter, in all of his carefree naivete – which Miguel knew wasn’t fair to think when he was well aware of all the hurt the other Spider had gone through to get here – had the gall to shrug. “She needed the fresh air!” Then, after a sniff, he corrected, “air.” Then, another sniff, and his face screwed up into one of disgust. “Actually, I’m not even sure I can call this air. What do they do in your dimension, man?”

Having enough, Miguel hissed out, “Ay, pendejo, ¡cállate!” and he carefully removed his hand from May’s face to give her a fangless smile. “Hola, criatura pequeña,” he cooed, and her hand wrapped around his finger even tighter as she beamed back up at him. “Está bien. Tu papá es un idiota. ¡Sí! ¡Sí! No tiene ningún cerebro. No. Es muy tonto, yo sé. Yo sé.” 

She babbled up at him in glee, and Miguel couldn’t help but to laugh, rubbing his thumb over her little hand as he babbled back.

Apparently deciding that he’d had his fill of being left out, Peter joined in on the laugh a bit awkwardly. “Hey, Miguel, I-”

“¡Cállate!” Miguel hissed again, shooting the other man a glare once more, though far more muted now that Mayday could see. “We’re having a conversation.”

And, seamlessly, he shot back into a stream of lovingly spoken Spanish. “Sí, me entiendes, arañita, yo sé. ¿Puedes decir ‘¡qué lástima!’? ‘¡Es una pena que mi papá sea tan estúpido!’” He hissed the last word with a pointed glare at Peter, knowing the man would know what the word meant, and, sure enough, he frowned. Then, Miguel immediately turned his attention back to Mayday, voice sweet once more. “Está bien, criaturita. No permitiré que nada te pase a ti. Lo prometo.”

“Miguel, please,” Peter interrupted again, tone desperate. “Don’t teach my daughter how to trash talk me in Spanish. I don’t know what I’ll do if I accidentally upset her one day and she starts prattling off fluent Spanish insults that I only half-understand. Or, god forbid, if it happened to M.J. instead. She took French in school, Miguel.”

More than happy to oblige, Miguel sat up, looking Peter straight in the face, and, in the same sweet tone as he’d used with Mayday, deadpanned, “You’re a moron.”

May blew a raspberry up at her father, giggling delightedly.

To his credit, Peter did manage to laugh, albeit a bit breathlessly, and he ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, alright, I guess I did kind of ask for that.”

“Do you ever think?” Miguel shot back, voice finally falling back into frustration, though only enough for Peter to pick up on.

“Well, I do have a degree-” he began only to cut himself at the look he was receiving. “Look, she’s fine!” he insisted, gesturing down to Mayday who was pulling at the yarn ends of her Spider-Man hat as they were whisked in every which way by the wind, secure in her carrier. Peter moved his hand to lay on Miguel’s shoulder, and Miguel immediately batted him away, which earned a frown but, fortunately, a bit of distance. “It’s you that I’m worried about, Mig.”

At that, Miguel’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

A finger pointing to his own skull, Peter smiled a bit grimly. “The Spider-Sense never lies.”

“Right,” Miguel drawled, rolling his eyes and biting down the rising sense of dread in his stomach. “Let’s put complete trust in your magic psychic abilities you got from a Spider over two decades ago. What could go wrong?”

“It hasn’t failed me yet,” Peter hummed. Out of the corner of his eye, Miguel could see the way his hand gripped onto Mayday’s when a particularly strong gust of wind hit their backs and minutely pushed them forward. It was a small comfort. Then, “You never answered my question. What’re you doing on the roof, man?”

Questioning why all of the people he associated himself with now were insufferably stubborn – and, more importantly, what that said about him – Miguel leaned forward, elbow on his knee and head resting on his hand. His other hand was still occupied by a little Mayday hand, and he wouldn’t dare let go until she decided she wanted to. His eyes peered over the edge of the roof, at the staggeringly long way down – so high that it almost gave him vertigo – then shifted slightly up to focus on the buildings that littered the view beneath them.

“Thinking,” he finally replied after a long pause. “I came up here because nobody bothers me.” The words were punctuated with another glare, albeit somewhat half-heartedly.

Smiling a bit sheepishly, Peter leaned back onto his free hand. “Well, you can’t win ‘em all.”

“You make it very difficult to win any,” Miguel grumbled.

“Hey, I have my moments,” came the retort, backed by a snort. Then, “y’know, if you really wanted to be alone, you could’ve just locked yourself in your room, angsty teen style.”

Unamused, Miguel didn’t grace the suggestion with any more than a scoff. His eyes were once again drawn downward, fingers curling upwards around his jaw to dig into his cheek minutely, and he hummed in thought, the sound barely inaudible over the rushing air. The sheer wind cut right through Miguel’s suit, and he shivered as a chill ran over his skin, though the feeling wasn’t entirely unwelcome; a reminder that its silent urges hadn’t given up on him just yet. Unfortunately, though, neither had Peter, who leaned over to briefly brush his shoulder with his own, brows furrowed.

“I don’t like the way you’re looking at that drop, Mig,” he said. Then, with a bit of a nervous laugh, “I mean, I’ve looked at drops plenty of times, but in a ‘I think that’d be fun to skydive off of’ sorta way, not… whatever this is.”

“I’m not talking about this in front of a child, Peter,” came the immediate retort.

“Miguel, she’s a baby,” Peter insisted. “She can’t understand anything that’s going on.”

“You don’t know that,” Miguel insisted in turn, his brows furrowing. He tore his eyes from the ground below to peer at May with thinly veiled concern.

“You can’t keep cutting everyone off, Mig,” he tried again. If Peter was trying to meet Miguel’s eyes, he wouldn’t let him, keeping his full attention on Mayday instead. “You keep finding excuses to not talk about things, and I-”

“It’s not an excuse,” he interrupted, a bit too quickly.

“Miguel-”

“Don’t make me argue with you in front of Mayday,” Miguel practically demanded, finally meeting Peter’s gaze with a vulnerability neither of them were prepared for. “Please.”

Startled, Peter’s eyes went wide, and he immediately went silent, mouth, mercifully, snapping shut. Miguel heaved in a breath and forced himself to look back out at the city. He steeled himself, forcing the weakness back out of his mind, but wasn’t quite prepared for the gentle way that Mayday squeezed his finger. The feeling made Miguel perk up a bit, and he snapped his attention right back onto the baby, on unreasonably high alert. May’s big blue eyes shifted from their hands to Miguel’s face, and she babbled at him, a strange worry in her gaze, too.

“Is- Is she okay?” Miguel asked, hating the way that he stuttered without meaning to.

With a hum, Peter glanced down at the baby, shifting her hat so he could see her face. She glanced up at her father, making more nonsensical sounds that somehow still resounded as urgent in Miguel’s ears, but Peter just smiled at her softly, petting her head. “Seems like she’s worried about you, too, big guy.”

“Wha- Worried about me?” he echoed, voice strained. “Peter, she’s a baby. She can’t understand anything that’s going on.”

“You don’t know that,” Peter countered, giving him such a stupid grin that Miguel couldn’t help but to frown.

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Use my words against me,” Miguel hissed. “That’s not funny.”

Holding back a smile, Peter raised a hand and tilted it from side to side. “It’s a little funny.”

“You brought your baby onto a roof, Peter,” he reminded almost exasperatedly. “Don’t try to act smart now.”

“I have a degree-”

“In what? Incompetency?”

Giving an irritated laugh, Peter shook a finger in Miguel’s direction. “You know, you are a very difficult man to talk off a ledge.”

“I’d say you’re doing a fantastic job,” Miguel said with false sweetness, then pointed towards the ground thousands of feet below, “if that’s the direction you want me to go.”

“Okay. Alright. I’ll give you that one because it was actually kind of funny-”

Miguel scoffed, letting his head fall back onto his hand. “How kind of you.”

“-but I’m being serious here.”

“Wow,” he deadpanned. “First time?”

Seemingly not as amused now, Peter frowned, and his hand gently fell back onto Mayday’s head, who squealed delightedly despite the confrontation. “Alright, you’re pushing your luck now.”

“I am?”

“How is it even possible for one guy to be in this bad of a mood?!” Peter half-shouted, throwing his head back in frustration.

Again, Miguel scoffed, and his head fell to one side to stare at the other man, unimpressed. “Would you like your answer in the form of a list or an essay?”

“I’d like an answer at all, actually,” he said desperately.

“Ah, now that’s asking too much of me,” came the response, and Miguel turned his gaze away once more.

Gawking, Peter sputtered for words for a moment before pausing, falling silent, then trying again. “Are you impossible to talk to on purpose? Jess says it’s on purpose, but Ben… Well, actually, I don’t remember what Ben said.” He laughed awkwardly, waving a hand. “It’s kinda hard to focus on the words coming out of his mouth when he’s basically a clone of me. Or- Or literally a clone of me, actually. Isn’t that freaky? Poor guy. But the point is that it was probably the same answer. Everyone thinks that-”

“Are you done?” Miguel finally interjected, glaring with every bit of vitriol he could muster, but Peter wasn’t impressed.

“I could be,” he hummed, “or I could keep going. I didn’t think you were going to answer the question, and someone’s got to fill the silence.”

Now it was Miguel’s turn to gawk, and it took a few blinks for him to muster up the wherewithal to actually answer. “You are so childish.”

“Sticks and stones, Mig,” Peter mused. “I haven’t even gotten started. I could talk for days, if you let me. Next topic?” 

Still holding onto both of their hands, Mayday squealed and bounced a bit in her carrier with a spitty razzberry, and Peter immediately smiled, drawing a preemptive groan from the man by his side. “Mayday!” he exclaimed. “Oh, I could write a book about Mayday. She’s only a baby, but she really is sophisticated, you know. She’s a baby with layers! With complexities! I know I’ve already shown you all of her pictures, but-”

“Ay, Dios, enough!” Miguel hissed, his free hand running through his hair and his eyes wide with exasperation. “Yes, it’s on purpose. Because I want to avoid this!” He gestured between Peter and himself vigorously. “This drives me nuts, get it? You drive me nuts. I don’t want to talk, and everyone seems to get that but you.”

An exasperated laugh fell from him, though he gently squeezed Mayday’s hand to assure her that everything was okay. “I came up here because I didn’t want to talk to anyone, Peter. Do you not get that? Do you not understand that I don’t want you here?” He pointed a clawed finger in Peter’s face, mouth open in a snarl. “Listen to me closely because I need you to understand this before you get hurt. Leave me alone. Leave me alone.

“If you want to talk to me about work,” Miguel continued, “or if you want to talk to me about Mayday, or M.J., or anything other than this when I’m not trying to be alone, then, please, be my guest. But I am not talking about this.” He pulled his hand to his chest roughly, the fabric of his suit getting caught on the talon he pointed directly at himself. “I will not talk about this. Leave me alone.” Then, more insistently, “leave me alone.”

For a moment, then, there was silence, only filled by the whistling rush of the wind around them and Miguel’s heaving breaths. His nostrils were flared in rage, hand hanging in the air, but his anger faltered when he finally caught sight of the look on the other man’s face; a chill ran over him that was almost worse than the one caused by the roaring wind. Beside him, Peter wore the most impassive expression Miguel had ever seen on him, and the look, admittedly, scared him a bit. His hand fell back to his side, and his brows quirked upward in quiet unease as his eyes darted between Peter and literally anything else.

“Miguel,” Peter finally said, and his tone matched his face, “I’m not just going to leave you to kill yourself on a roof.”

And, all at once, with a startled and impossibly frustrated bark of laughter, the fury returned to Miguel’s chest, chasing away the chill of fear and concern that had previously gripped him. Gently, Miguel slid his hand out of Mayday’s grasp and, less so, stood to his feet.

Immediately, Peter’s eyes widened, and he half-shuffled to get up himself, stumbling onto one knee. “Wait. What are you-”

Without a word, Miguel stepped off the edge and into the open air, a strangled screech following him.

“Miguel!”

A horrified face popped over the edge of the building, where Miguel’s talons dug into the metal plated siding, and he couldn’t help the bitter sort of amusement he found in the reaction. Served him right. The thought was chased away as the wind continued to pull at him, beckoning him downward, but Miguel didn’t give in to its pleas. There was a strange sort of satisfaction to defying what was asked of him both by Peter and by the very world, though such nauseating satisfaction was probably what had kept him around for so long in the first place; whenever the promise to himself to be useful in his wretched existence managed to fail him. Maybe, for now, bitter contentment could be enough.

He snarled up at the other man, pointing at him with his free hand. “I’m not riding the elevator down with you.”

And, with that, he loosed his grip on the building a bit, allowing himself to slide down the side, followed by a half-enraged, half-relieved shout of, “yeah, fuck you, too!” and an even quieter, “don’t repeat that, Mayday.”

#blaise writes #miguel o'hara #peter b parker #mayday parker #spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 comics #spider man 2099 #atsv #across the spiderverse #spider man: across the spider verse #spiderman across the spiderverse #atsv fanfiction #fanfiction #cw: suicide #i do love peter so so much but also i think sometimes he pushes miguel's buttons a bit too much #like i know he means well and that miguel can see and appreciate that but also goddamn he doesn't know when to stop sometimes

[forgwater]

Introducing: Laur Dafin!

"You seem to be up to something. Mind if I join you?"

Close Up

Information

Personality

Laur is more of a laidback kind of person. He spends most his time exploring the campus, reading and watching people get into trouble. Who knows, he might even join them!

Laur enjoys joking and messing around with people! Sometimes he’ll just pop up out of nowhere just to scare his friends… or as a warning to whoever might be on his “enemies” list.

Beware of the well in the courtyard! Way too many students went there to make a wish or enjoy some peace and quiet only to be met with a certain fae.

Laur is also willing to help out students that might be bothered by other students. Might be a one time kind of occurrence, but if one befriends him, he will take them under his wing and make sure no one messes around with his friends! And if someone does… well all he needs to know is who dared do something like that.

Unique Magic

Incantation:

If a treasure’s what you want,

My conditions you must follow

If you’re able to withstand.

Otherwise… It’s all Fool’s Gold!

Laur’s unique magic only works in creating inanimate objects. The way the spell works is similar to a bet. The requester only forfeits the price for the created objects if they fail to follow the conditions set. The requester’s failure also causes the objects to disappear into thin air.

After the request is made and the terms and payment are discussed, Laur begins the incantation. As he does, a lock, key and a chain appear.

The lock is closed using the key and the chain reaches towards the requester. These objects disappear once the incantation is done and the requested item is provided.

The amount of magic used is highly dependent on the number of objects conjured and/or the size of the object(s).

Laur’s Unique Magic is hereditary, being passed down through the generations.

Background

Mostly inhabited by fae, with the occasional human village, the Iron Gates are located in one of Briar Valley’s…well… valleys. A huge river flows though there, parting the province in two. Sheer forests can be found on both banks. Territories there are under the protection of many different kinds of fae, sometimes humans too.

In times past if a human happened to end up there, they would be subjected to many a fetch quests. From the sky to the water below you wouldn’t have been able to find even one small corner where a fae wasn’t trying to trick a human into doing something for them. Some of the more magical residents would even help along the way.

Hey! Don't humans always tell stories where the protagonist goes on a "hero's journey"? Well, why not try one of your own if you ever visit? At this point in time it is a bit of an inside joke between the residents, who many times send their own children on those “journeys”.

Usually people just do their own thing in the province. Though, the Dafin family is regarded as minor nobility and as some sort of rulers, mostly only stepping up as leaders when needed.

Laur’s home, better said castle, is located in the river flowing through the valley, in a similar manner to how Octavinelle is located underwater.

Extra

Why does Laur hate chewing gum? Have you tried chewing gum with shark-adjacent teeth? Not a fun experience.

Laur is ambidextrous, though there are things he can only do with one of his hands and not the other. For example, he can write only with his right hand.

When something happens to his detriment it usually gets resolved pretty quickly and favorably. Things just work out for Laur.

He’s only 176 cm if you count his horns, otherwise he’s around 170 cm tall.

Although he’s in Savanaclaw, Laur doesn’t have much of an interest in the physical activities his dormmates engage in. And no, he’s not waking up at the crack of dawn for Spelldrive practice. If you want him on the field you’ll have to drag him the whole way. And even then, he’d just perform poorly or not at all just so he can get kicked out of the game.

Laur hates hot weather because his scales feel dry when the atmosphere gets suffocating. So, he wasn’t exactly thrilled to be sorted in Savanaclaw. That waterfall is a lifesaver.

Laur’s dislike for salt water stems from it being very uncomfortable for him. Just like hot weather, salt water makes his scales feel dry but also sticky. Breathing in salt water is also very hard for him.

Laur, has been able to stay underwater (freshwater) for a whole day at most! He’s quite proud of that.

Fishing is just a nice, chill thing to do. Laur makes and scavenges for the bait he uses.

Laur is a semiaquatic draconic fae.

As an only child he is expected to take over his father’s role in the province.

#laur dafin #twst oc #twisted wonderland oc #twst #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #disney twst

[theanonymousopossum]

A Court of Trials and Tragedies

Part 2 is here! It's short, and the next part is too (it'll be uploaded very shortly), but I wanted to get the next chapter uploaded in honour of @ultadverb's birthday, so happy birthday to you! I appreciate all your support <3

With that said, let the shenanigans begin.

Feyre collapsed on her bed in complete exhaustion. She hadn’t even bothered to change out of her party dress or take off her makeup. As soon as the party had ended, she had run in a horribly unladylike fashion she knew her mother would scold her for later to her bedroom. 12 marriage proposals. Twelve. And only 2 of them were from people she’d heard of.

Chrysis’ words when they were in the temple together rang through her head. The people believe you are the incarnation of Amarantha. Already a temple is being built for your worship. At your birthday, they plan to offer sacrifices.

He was right. As soon as she finished speaking with him, she went in a hurry back to the palace and saddled up her favourite horse, a beautiful white stallion named Xanthus. She rode to the outskirts of the city, and sure enough, it was just as Chrysis said. No amount of pleading would persuade the people otherwise, and she came home in defeat.

She knew her father would be coming to visit her soon to speak about marriage. He hadn’t accepted any of the offers at her party, but soon he would have to choose lest foreign kings resort to less humane ways to acquire her.

The tears rolled down her face for what felt like centuries before her maids swept in.

Gently, she was bathed and dressed for bed, and after hours of prayers to the gods that they would free her from this living nightmare, she drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

------------------------------------------------------------

Rhysand was fuming even as he jumped off the terrace of Amarantha’s palace, his ebony wings sweeping out behind him as he glided towards the castle of Prythian. Already he was angry at the slaughter he had to commit. So many people dead, simply because they didn’t stroke that horrid woman’s ego, and honestly, he couldn’t say he blamed them.

Just when he thought he would be able to go settle down for the evening and be left alone, no. Her Royal Highness had decided that he needed to go deal with some human princess, as if Amarantha wasn’t perfectly capable of doing it herself.

Rhysand hated Amarantha, which he supposed is why she forced him to do all of these things. She even went so far as to call him her son. Even just thinking of being related to her left a foul taste in his mouth.

Rhys determined that he would find the girl, prick her with an arrow, make her fall in love with some ugly peasant, and the deed would be done. She would be disgraced, the people would return to their worship, and Amarantha would be satisfied again.

He mulled over these thoughts as he landed swiftly and silently outside the front gate. The guards hadn’t noticed him. Good. He moved cautiously, whispering as he did so a small incantation.

“Where can I find Feyre Archeron?” he said pleasantly, as if he weren’t breaking into the home of the royal family in the middle of the night.

The guard turned to him in a sort of confused daze. Mortals, Rhysand thought, so easy to manipulate. All it takes is a little spell and their minds are like wet sand.

“Top…tower…third door…on the left,” he said, smiling as though this was the most normal thing in the world, even though his speech was slurring.

“Thank you,” Rhysand said, and disappeared into shadow, knowing the man would not remember anything in the morning.

He made it to the top tower without incident, appearing next to a gorgeous handmade tapestry of what appeared to be the royal family. He observed his surroundings, his curiosity on the human lifestyle outweighing his desire to go and soak in a warm bath at home. He moved along until he reached a wooden door, the third door on the left. Rhys looked at it for a moment, surprising himself, but it was covered in lovely painted designs of the night sky. Hues of blue and black mixed with hints of purple, so like his eyes, with flickers of white speckled within. Even through his general disdain of humans, he had to admit, the work was beautiful. It would make sense that the human girl-Feyre, his mind reminded him for some reason, like her name was some code he ought to remember-had painted these designs, as well as the swirling flames he’d observed on the first door and the multicoloured flowers on the second.

Rhys shook his head. He was here on a mission, not to look at some human artwork. He opened her door, which thanks to his magic made no sound. The smell hit him then. Most humans had distinct smells, but hers…lilacs and something fruity. Perhaps pears. Strolling over to her bed, he pulled out an arrow. Then he saw her face.

It was the most beautiful face he’d ever seen. She shouldn’t have been pretty, given that her eyes were puffy and tear streaks lined her cheeks. But she had enraptured him. Everything about her was striking, and he could not look away. He wanted her, wanted to take her away somewhere far away, where Amarantha would never find them-but no. He inhaled deeply, trying to clear his thoughts. This was a work mission, not some cheap romance. Rhys pulled out an arrow, fitted it to his bow, and fired. It struck Feyre in the heart, and Rhys knew the deed was done. But what he failed to notice was the steady drip, drip, drip of his golden blood onto the floor from the slice across his finger. Somehow, he’d pricked himself on his own arrow.

Hope you all enjoyed! Next part will be up very soon. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged for future parts!

Love,

opossum

#feyre archeron #rhysand #pro feysand #feysand #feyre x rhysand #theanonymousopossum #a court of trials and tragedies

[i-am-beckyu]

Does tubbo have a role in this au? If so, in what chapter will we see him? Since Tommy has no idea how big the world actually is, and then he sees it on a map, does he think the world is flat? What about his backstory? Did he get bullied back at the colony? If he did, maybe he flinches whenever someone raises their hand. Do the crafts ask where he came from? If so, what's his excuse? Do they believe his lie, or are they suspicious? How do colony's work in this world? Is the reason he was so small to begin something to do with his size shifting ability? What if he meets one of the old borrowers from the colony? What would his relationship have been with Tommy? Nice to him, pitying him, or bullying him. What would their reaction be to him size shifting? I want to know everything.

sorry if I'm asking too much, you don't have too answer everything. Have some cookies as an apology 🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪

-✨anon✨

So for now the main characters are just sbi. I may add other characters if I can think of how it ties in with the story but for now just them. (Although Tubbo and Ranboo are mentioned in this somewhere so you never know)

This is canon. Yep definitely canon. Im going to say in a previous house he saw a map on a table once and heard it was the world. But doesn’t realise it’s obviously not to scale but def thinks the world is flat. He has a very heated argument about this with the twins and refuse to think otherwise without proof.

Constantly. As I said he’s different. The borrowers of this colony really did not like that he was different and they made sure to remind him of that. They’d either outright ignore him or deliberately make him do the worst jobs possible. Some borrowers (especially the ones around his age at the time) would deliberately go out of their way and hurt him for fun. So yes. Tommy in the beginning flinches a lot when he thinks he’s about to get hurt or someone moves to fast. Takes a long time for him to not be so tense about it but everyone is very patient about it and understanding when he semi outlines the abuse. The trauma of it all still a bit too fresh in his mid for detail

Yep of course they ask where he comes from! The Crafts wanna know who they need to go beat up. But I’m not gonna say if Tommy does or doesn’t say yet. Mainly because I’m not sure. But if he hadn’t yet, he’d tell them after the reveal properly.

Colonies in this world work a lot like the one in the 1997 The Borrowers movie in terms of how they have civilisation set up. There’s traders and stores and all sorts of things but they’re spaced out heavily and more built in underground caves then sewers. It’s more common for borrowers to live in forests and such then towns, but they have tunnels connecting places everywhere. This is how Tommy went from living in the smack bang middle of nowhere in the forest to living as an innie borrower in a house. Most borrowers know of the tunnels so a lot of innie borrowers are actually traders in a sorts that they’ll live in houses and bring back the ‘exotic human Bean’ things to trade in the colonies. Tommys parents however we’re not born in a colony, tho they knew of them, and lived mainly outside. But they were not very kind people and when Tommy was born, it just became more obvious to them that their child was different and so rather than waste supplies on a child they now didn’t want, they abandoned him.

Yes. Tommy being smaller than everyone else is because of his sizeshifter abilities. Sizeshifters born are kind of stunted in height. It’s part of how you can identify them. They’re also just a lot thinner and more lanky in appearance because they have the ability to change size and this somewhat allows them to do that. (Or I think it’s just funny to describe Tommy as lanky) but yeah even as they get older, they’re just a lot weaker physically too which would be fine because their shifting sort of makes up for that aspect. So while Tommy is an inch shorter then everyone else his age in the colony, if he knew he could size shift, he wouldn’t have been hindered as much.

If Tommy ever met someone from the old colony again, I think he’d probably just run out of the walls to find Wil, Phil or Techno. I think itd probably be one of his bullies that hurt him the most and Tommy would just go into panic attack mode and run for his life while probably being chased by them. He’d then run screaming into the room for someone while the bully still pursues them, and then of course he shifts. They’d be terrified and book it back to the walls and get away as fast as possible, while Tommy receives comfort cuddles.

Tommy is just scared child that runs from danger. He needs therapy.

You can never ask too many questions. Ask me more! I need the distraction. Thank you for the cookies ✨anon✨! Have some more lollipops 🍭🍭🍭🍭🍭🍭🍭🍭🍭🍭🍭🍭🍭

#✨anon✨ my beloved #giving my Brian more ideas for jornos and I love it! #just out of reach but never out of sight au #mcyt g/t #mcyt gt #tiny!tommy #sizeshifter!tommy #borrower!tommy #beckyu answers

[2lim3rz]

BLANK SLATE BEGINNINGS (40K FIC THING) (OC X HORUS LUPERCAL)

Tomfoolery in the dms happened so have a Sibley x Horus fic because I yearn for big men and small women

There were no words at the time to describe whatever Sibley was. No words except the most scandalous type; cursed.

Given that religion and beliefs of the sort were more or less outlawed, it was the worst sort of insult.

But Sibley was used to it. She was by no conventional means beautiful, perhaps she had a possibility, but it had long passed. Her face and most of her body was torn asunder with poorly healed burns, her nose was bent from an equally daunting gouge in the middle, and several smaller scars speckled her body like gruesome freckles. Her eyes weren't even similar; one brown and one green. The only thing she bothered with was the bleached stripe of blonde hair in her otherwise half-shaved head.

So it was by raw miracle surely, that she ended up serving as one of the many untold underlings in the gilded halls of the Emperor himself. She never was going to question how she had ever gotten there. Never. Her focus was better placed upon her job. Better placed upon ignoring how people refused to work near her.

She was used to the treatment. For as long as she remembered, none enjoyed her presence. From where she knelt at an open floor panel, she stroked the oddly smooth texture of her quartered face. Smearing some oil from the coolant lines upon it. An absent habit of a absent mind.

Sighing, Sibley replaced her screwdriver and lifted a wrench. She needed to get this done. While it wasn't the most well-travelled of halls, it was certainly enough to warrant some form of rush. If only to avoid the terrifying golden soldiers.

Of course, given Sibley's track record of any form of luck.. her work was interrupted by footsteps. Heavy enough she assumed at first that it was one of the Custodians but.. somehow it wasn't. It didn't have the same drumming rhythm that their great marching steps had. It was measured yet still sith enough of a pause to have her do a doubletake over her shoulder.

It was a massive man treading down the halls. Upon him was a long ornate billowing crimson cloak belted to him with a massive orange eye that seemed ever staring. Under that was a shirt of chainmail softly jingling with each gargantuan step. His belt was the whitest color she had ever seen, corners gilded in gold with another one of those massive eyes. At his side was a sword that no human thing but him could wield, his right hand encased in a white and gold gauntlet. The left bore a simple wristband.

Another jingling noise alerted her to a series of coins upon his belt, he was too far for her to see what was upon them. Yet part of her thought the.. almost loincloth-esque structuring of leather looked absurd with the puffed out dark grey pants and the furred boots. Not that.. she judged it too much. Even if she self-consciously pulled her own sleeves down and hiked the collar of her uniform up.

She forced herself to look away. To bury herself in her work and away from the impressive man. Perhaps feeling it a touch odd that she didn't feel the rumored effects some of the more out-there workers whispered about when dealing with the massive men. Other than it was uncanny how well.. big they were.. and until this moment she hadn't realized how handsome. Even if it was a brief glimpse-

"Pardon me, I nearly stepped on you there." A warm yet deep and sonorous voice spoke. A shiver rushed down her spine just as much as confusion made her tremble. Why was he speaking to her? No one spoke to her unless they were forced to. Even before her scars it had been like that. So when she looked up to see a kindly (if not overly handsome) face, she couldn't figure out if she was blushing or paling.

"Gh- It's fine." Her voice was more tense, more rude than what she meant it to be. Yet it was unheard of for apologies to be directed to her. She felt as if she wanted to knock herself over with the wrench in her hand. She was more than certainty blushing now. Staring up at his face like she was. Seeing their true differences. A jaw lightly coated in dark stubble cracked into a grin. It was hard to decide if she wanted to look away or stare into those dark eyes of his. Was his head really as smooth as it looked from down where she was?

"If I didn't know any better, I'd have assumed you weren't good around people." His voice, smooth as gold, was a shattering force to her bewildered mind. Forcing herself to look away, she floundered for a moment at her predicament. She was being disrespectful. She should be in trouble. Not.. having someone speak to her so casually. It was horribly uncanny having someone speak to her as one spoke to a friend.

"'M not." She whispered grumpily to herself. Whipping her head upwards again as he chuckled. How did he hear her?!

"Is that why you're working in this hall?" He mused. That gentle smile still upon his face. It left her more.. just more conflicted. He was certainly shattering a personal record of people willing to be around her asides from whatever thing decided to make sure she lived childhood. Gripping the wrench tightly in one hand, Sibley gave a vague sweeping gesture of her hand.

"...No one likes working this hall. Floor panels get stuck. Not enough malfunctions or priority to justify two man teams." No one appreciated working alone most times. Not in such grandiose halls. Not where one mistake would have the techies breathing on your neck faster than you could say 'frag off'. Not only did you have to work fast, you had to be meticulous.

"Ah, I see. So you are using your job to hide from everyone else?" The man tilted his head down at her before abruptly kneeling down. Bending over to look into the large open panel "You should possibly tighten that bolt on the secondary."

Sibley sputtered for a moment. Suddenly uncomfortable by the proximity of the man. People only got that close when they were crammed in a small room. Her eyebrow twitched as she gawked before huffing and doing as he suggested. Surprisingly, it was actually loose. And it prevented a later malfunction to occur.

"I could say the same about you, you know." Hesitantly, she spoke up. Not daring to eye the man in fear of repercussion. Wincing at the chuckle he gave to her remark. She expected punishment.. not.. this. "How did you have me figured out?" The question was unexpected as she looked up at him once more. Staring up at him even though he had bowed so low. Completely engulfing her entire view.

"..No reasonable person in rich clothes like that walks in the deeper halls. N-Not that they're not allowed to! They just.. don't." she found herself awkwardly sputtering towards the end. Shifting the wrench closer to her so she could hold it in both hands with a frown. Watching the curious expression on the man's face as he hummed low.

"So I've been caught red handed. You're not going to turn me in, are you?" the question confused her as he told it in a lively way. Was he serious? Was this a joke? "..No?" The curious sparkle in his eyes never went away as he rested one arm upon his raised knee. "Don't you know who I am?" the question was out of the blue. Of course she didn't. If she watched the charts for who was entering and who was leaving, she'd be out of work for hours. Never mind wasting precious sleeping (sewing her several-times-mended clothing) time to watch the news. Slowly shrugging, Sibley despised the feeling of being in a spotlight. She just wanted the handsome man to go along on his merry way and so she can waste the rest of her day like usual.

Though those thoughts paused at the genuine surprise that appeared on his face. Tilting his head back in laughter and shaking it. His shoulders trembling before he resumed grinning down at her. "You have to be pulling my leg. You work in the Emperor's castle and yet don't know me?" The incredulous tone made Sibley's skin tingle all over as she stuck out her lips in a pout. Glaring at him with no heart in it as embarrassment chewed at her. Last thing she needed was an uppity noble laughing at her.

"No. Too busy to. I need to get back to work before I get in trouble anyways." Sibley gritted out. She should have known she'd get mocked in the end. If it wasn't from being avoided like she was some plague-pest, it'd be insults because of her face or the subtle (or more than) limp she'd gain on bad days.

"My apologies," she stopped moving at those words as she was stunned to silence "It's just that lately I haven't encountered anyone else on Terra that didn't know me." How was she meant to respond to that? Relaxing the death-grip she had. Sibley realized how tense she was until that moment. Having enough will to resist raising the wrench in the name of self defense as the man extended a hand.

Looking from hand to oddly friendly face; blinking slowly as she did. She waited another awkward moment as he spoke. "Then let me introduce myself, ma'am. I am Horus Lupercal, Lord of the Luna Wolves." vaguely some of it rang a bell in her mind. Though she still stared at his hand.. Ever so reluctantly letting go of the wrench to shake his. Still somehow surprised that he was warmer than the average human was or that his callused hand wrapped hers with complete gentleness. "Sibley.. of nothing." She threw the flair in perhaps a little dramatically. Even if the man.. even if Horus's kindly face shifted the handshake to hold her hand by the fingers. Raising it (and lowering himself further) to lightly brush his lips across her skin. Briefly her thoughts ruefully drifted to horror that he'd even bring himself closer to her ruined flesh.

"It was fun to meet you, Sibley; Lady of the floor panels. I unfortunately have to return to my duties." Horus's voice was lower. Grinning mischievously with a wink and letting go; with clear reluctance, stood. Leaving her to stare in bewilderment and with a hot blush on her face. "..Uh.. I too. I mean- You too!" Why did this Horus fluster her so much? Was it the fact that he was the first man to show just the barest of friendliness to her?

Her wonderings stopped as Horus walked away and looked over his shoulder a final time. "I hope you meet you again. That one wire is about to come loose as well." he called back. Sibley looked down, checked, and noticed he was right again.

Belatedly, she realized he never recoiled from touching her. Nor did he seem to get grumpy at her for any reason. Resuming her work with a sigh, Sibley begrudgingly thought of how she shouldn't had cowed herself so much into distrust.. even if the scars upon her itched and her legs ached. No, perhaps distrust was more of her safety net. After all, it was slim to none that she'd ever encounter him again.

#warhammer 40k #warhammer 30k #horus lupercal #OC #sibley 40k #2lim3rz writes #horus lupercal x sibley #psychic blank

[cactusclaws]

Traffic Games!Hell au part 1

Grian hurts. He’s never hurt like this before, not even when he used to come to Earth in a human body—sometimes the body would experience pain, but it was the body’s pain, not his.

This pain belongs to him now, and he realizes with a sick shudder that it’s because he’s not just inhabiting this body—it’s his body, he’s inside it inextricably, the way humans are before they die. He feels like vomiting, and the urge itself sickens him even more because he shouldn’t need to vomit, he shouldn’t even need to eat—

He pushes that out of his mind. He needs to understand what this body is like. Standing is hard, but he can do it, although he sways. He’s got two legs, although they aren’t exactly human legs. 

It’s a lot like his favorite false form, the one he’d choose when he needed to deliver a message to a human, or otherwise look like something. A sort of bird-thing, with a lot of beautiful wings to frame the face, and two big ones on the back, even more beautiful for their usefulness. Claws. A tail. He can stand, so he tries to flap his wings and take flight, but he can’t. He can’t even flap his wings; he’s only got one, and when he wraps it around himself, it’s sandy, flecked with dark brown and brilliant white. Nothing like the all-colors-and-no-colors wings he’d sported before. He swallows. The swallowing hurts.

Nevermind that. He can’t afford to get caught off guard. He needs to understand his surroundings even more. He looks around. A forest. A river. A hill, all of it looking so familiar somehow, not like he’s been here before, but like…

When he realizes where he is, the body really does try to throw up.

---------

They did talk, although it wasn’t anything like humans talked, and neither you nor anyone would recognize it as speech, if you heard it. A buzz of white noise. A shock of static.

Humans had all sorts of names for them, “angels” being among the most complimentary. The name they called themselves was more like “those who watch”. Although they did a little more than that, watching was their favorite particular activity. 

That day, Grian had something to show them.

“It’s a new idea of mine,” he said. “For what to do with them, after they die. The bad ones, I mean.” 

The other ones murmured at that, an indistinguishable sound like the rustle of feathers. Grian would have smiled at the encouragement if he had a mouth in this form. 

“They’re all quite interesting when they’re on Earth, obviously,” he continued. “But once they get where they’re going, not as much. I don’t think it’d be fair to mess with the good ones too much, but the bad ones…”

He outlined his plan. A world much like Earth, but different, much smaller, but with beauty like Earth’s. A small amount of human souls, about a dozen, so they could get to really know each other.

“This doesn’t sound like much of a punishment,” another one said.

“I’m getting to that.”

The needs of a body, the pain, the hunger, like in life. Limited resources. Dangerous beasts. And most importantly… “They can still die,” Grian said. “More than once. They come back, and they’re different.”

A limited amount of lives. On their last one, a bloodlust takes them, and they are driven to kill the others. 

“I know it’s different.” The others hadn’t made a sound in quite some time, and he was beginning to feel nervous. “But I think that this will be very interesting for all of us, and I hope you can consider it.”

Silence for a timeless moment more. Then the rustle of feathers, louder and louder, and a sound like millions of eyelids opening at once. 

---------

This is the world he’d designed. Once the others had approved his idea, they left forming the worlds up to him. He’d picked each aspect of the landscape out, and all of it is familiar to him as he picks his way across the terrain, wishing desperately that he could still fly. 

He tries to think of the advantages he has over the others. For one, he remembers why he’s here. Across the board, human souls never got to remember why they were in Hell. In most Hells, they didn’t even know they were there. This one was like that; the participants were meant to believe they were truly still alive. 

Secondly, he knows the nature of the game, and its purpose. The others will have a basic sense of it, an instinctual drive, but as its creator, he knows all of it. Every loophole, every tactic, every snag.

Thirdly, he knows there is a demon here. There is no Hell without at least one demon. In discussion with the others, they had decided that the demon should blend in with the other residents. An outside tormentor would make it too obvious where they were, but someone else who can manage and watch and drive things along…

(That was only needed because one of them would never deign to enter a place such as this. Even Grian, as interested as he was in this subject, did not enter Hell willingly.)

He doesn’t know which one of them was the demon. In fact, he doesn’t know anything about any of the human souls here. He was supposed to take part in hand-selecting them, but after he committed his great sin, that was put completely out of the question.

Grian passes over top of a small mountain and sees another figure, the first since he arrived here. When he squints, he can make out a man with blond hair, dressed in something green, picking his way through the copse of empty houses Grian had placed so delicately on the map.

He watches for a moment, then stumbles away. The figure in the distance does not see him.

#Traffic Games!hell au #silly au thing written by my fiance and I drew some little things for it #also hard note this is going to contain a lot of trafficshipping #sorry or you're welcome i guess #not gonna put it in any fandom tags because oh god am i anxious enough posting this as is #no idea how often these will be posted either #benart

[prancingintheshadows]

The Appeal of Kingdom Hearts

A few days ago, a friend of mine accused Kingdom Hearts of being nothing but a huge Disney ad. It was nigh impossible to convince him otherwise, but that’s not really the point of this post. The point is that I got thinking, maybe it’s hard for someone outside of KH to understand the appeal. Because what is it known for? Good gameplay sure, but it’s constantly memed up and jokes about the complexity of the plot have followed it for ages. So the question does persist for outsiders, why do people genuinely care about the original characters of Kingdom Hearts? How can people buy into these characters when its constantly surrounded by KH dialogue and needing to reenact Disney plots

Of course, I am a KH fan, so I already know why I am invested in these goofballs. The problem is explaining it to people who’s only exposure are lines like ‘Who else will I have ice cream with?’ with zero context. I’m going to try anyways now that I have time and sorted my thoughts.

The problem is explaining why I care would normally take awhile or lack the payoff it should if I just explain it word by word. I can’t succinctly talk about Riku path from darkness to dawn without losing something. Boiling Days down kinda ruins the slow burn of Roxas’s life falling apart. So instead of talking about something big, let’s go with something familiar

Yes, this legendary exchange.

I know the point is try to talk about KH’s appeal outside of the nonsense, but stick with me. This is an easy to explain situation that doesn’t require too much investment: Riku’s been cloned, Repliku is trying to surpass Riku to become real, and the two have at it.

Simple

More importantly, I think it’s good to use this as a discussion point since it is pretty memey. How can someone take this dialogue seriously?

Because the characters do take it seriously. This exchange is just a small snippet in a larger cutscene. Despite the awkward beginning, the characters keep going, paying it no mind. They take the scene seriously, so the suspension of disbelief is never really broken.

So where does the scene go after this point? Riku defeats Repliku and Repliku begins to fade away. As he does, he questions where a fake like him will end up. Riku being Riku, he answers sincerely. Repliku will likely end up where Riku ends up when he dies. This brings a small smile to the replica’s face. “A faithful copy to the end...” He accepts it as a fate he wouldn’t mind and passes on.

That is the appeal of Kingdom Hearts. It’s weird and awkward but it’s also sincere, so it can keep going past that and manages to say something in its own way. Sora and Roxas using “Hurt” like a noun may frustrate me to no end, but I’ll still think about Sora coming to the conclusion that if his ‘hurt’ can help him understand how Roxas is hurt, then maybe ‘hurt’ isn’t all bad. “Who else will I eat ice cream with?” is probably the worst thing you can say to someone who will disappear but that’s innately the charm of Roxas awkwardly grasping at what little bit of a normal life he has. Characters may espouse the virtues of the heart ad nauseum, but I still listen because Xemnas realizes a heart carries a lot of pain and Sora clarifies that that’s part of being human then this long time antagonist can’t help but admire the strength one needs to just... exist and be human.

Yeah, this series has a lot of Disney nostalgia and meme worthy moments, but there’s a reason people love this series outside of that. It’s got heart.

#Kingdom Hearts #KH #Rambling

[atomic-taco-muffin]

The Legend of Hana Chapter 120

Warnings: Angst but there’s gonna be fluff at the end 

Rating: SFW

When Sora next opened his eyes, he beheld streets lined with beautiful white buildings beneath a blue sky. 

“Whoa. Where are we?” he said to himself. Vanitas and the others were right beside him, taking in their new surroundings. It was a curious town. The buildings seemed to have grown up through the clear blue surface of the water like trees--or some sort of aquatic plant life. What’s more, there looked to be several more islands like the one they were on. Each one was covered by a large cone-shaped arrangement of small white houses stacked atop one another. Whether this was a lake or an ocean wasn’t immediately apparent, but the water separated these towns all the same. They were all connected only by ropeways. But there wasn’t a single living soul in sight, human or otherwise. 

“Of course Crusty chose this place,” Vanitas grumbled. 

“It's beautiful,” Goofy commented as he surveyed the view. 

“Trust me. This place was a nightmare. Hana and I grew up here and it sucked every second. And it was all because of him.” They were at the end of a pier extending into the water, and there was a bridge that led back into the city itself.

“We need to find him,” Xemnas said, looking at the streets before him. Sora and the others nodded. 

“It sure is quiet here,” Xeha remarked. 

“There’s no one around,” Donald added. 

“It’s always been that way. Crusty never told me the reason why,” Vanitas said. Just then, something caught Sora and Vanitas’s attention--Xehanort was crossing the street a short way ahead of them. 

“Hey!” Sora took off in pursuit of the old man. But then, Luna and Lily saw Xehanort partway up some stairs facing them. All over the streets around the group, there were Xehanorts popping in and out of being. After a while, the Xehanorts began to take on a different appearance. The new Xehanort floated above the ground and wore a black coat embroidered with red lines and a mask topped with three curved horns. There were a total of twelve of them arranged in the air, looking down at the group from all sides. 

“You can’t be serious!” Luna said as she and the others prepared for a battle. 

“The Organization?” Donald asked. 

“I don't think they're the locals,” Xemnas said--just as the twelve Replica Xehanorts blinked out of view. Sora and the others advanced carefully, keeping an eye on their surroundings, when one of the Replicas appeared in front of them and struck. Once the blow had landed, it darted back into the air. Sora leaped up after it to get some hits of his own, and so did the others. The Replicas teleported through the air as they fought, attacking one after the other. Meanwhile, one of their number stayed on the ground to deal with the Nort brothers. But Luna easily destroyed it and they thanked her. Eventually, all twelve of the Replicas took to the air and arranged themselves in a ring overhead. The sky grew dark as an arcane symbol formed and rained bolts of lightning down at the city below. Once the onslaught subsided, the Replicas all charged the group at once. They did their best to beat them back with their weapons. Bit by bit, they began to wear down their foes. 

“Time to end this!” Lily shouted, and then Sora and the others joined her in a final rush. At last--through combined efforts of the light from Keyblades, magic from a staff and Spirits, and a good old-fashioned shield bash--the last of the Replicas expired. The sky cleared, leaving Sora and the others panting under a bright sun. They were completely exhausted. 

“Of all the places to be sent,” someone said. 

“You!” Ansem growled as Sora and the others summoned their weapons back to their hands. The old man turned from his somewhat bemused inspection of a building and held his hands up dramatically, as if he were about to begin a speech. 

“Behold, this town... Once a seat of power for all Keyblade wielders. It is the nexus from which all worlds spring. Here, I and my other selves can be one. United...in Scala ad Caelum,” he said. The twelve Replicas the group had defeated rose again and turned into clouds of black energy that then flew to Xehanort. As he absorbed them all, his body took on a dark aura and floated into the air. The aura wove and twisted like a whirlwind. From the eye of the dark storm emerged Xehanort, now wearing armor and a helmet shaped like the head of a goat. Sora and the others were ready. Xehanort waved his hand, and the world around them began to twist. The buildings suddenly jerked into motion, first turning on their sides, and then upside down. Sora and Vanitas fell to the ground, which had been the sky just moments ago; the city had been completely reversed like they were inside a mirror, confusing their senses so completely that it was almost impossible to tell left from right or up from down. Xehanort remained safely in the air through all of it. 

“Watch out!” Baby shouted from where he was bombarding Xehanort with magic and his Keyblade. One of the spells hit the mark, and Sora took that opportunity to lunge in close. With a flick of his wrist, Xehanort moved the world again, this time ninety degrees to the right. And Sora and the others found themselves falling straight into the water. As they sank, they saw that the layers of buildings continued all the way down into the depths. Maybe these were other cities that had sunk beneath the waves. They didn’t have much time to wonder, though. Xehanort wasn’t going to let a little water get in the way of him and his target, either. Being underwater slowed Sora and the others down. If they couldn’t use their weapons properly while they were swimming, then maybe the answer was--

“Magic!” Donald cried before Sora or the two Spirits could say it themselves. They began to spin around in the water, firing off spells left and right. Xehanort was ready with some magic of his own, but luckily Luna’s shadows blocked them. And then Xehanort was gone. Sora and the others swam to the surface, keeping their eyes peeled for their enemy. Through the water, they could see that the once stunning buildings of the city now lay in ruins. There was rubble strewn all over, and a dim haze hung in the sky. Xehanort slowly drifted down from above. Sora made his way toward him, jumping from one pile of debris to the next. Meanwhile, Xehanort called up pillars of fire from the ground to chase him and the others down. Sora and the others dodged out of harm’s and kept working their way closer as Xehanort laughter rang through the streets. He fired off spheres of black energy that Sora and Vanitas deflected using their Keyblades. But when Vanitas finally got close, Xehanort took him by the throat.

“Vanitas!” his friends cried out. 

“I will finally teach you the futility of your actions,” Xehanort said to Vanitas. 

“Thought you already did,” Vanitas smirked. When Xehanort tossed him away, Luna and Lily were able to catch him with their magic. The group then fought every bit of strength they had and, at the end of a long and exhausting battle, finally brought Xehanort to a standstill. The old man’s armor cracked, and his Keyblade clanged to the ground. He couldn’t even stand straight. After a moment, both his armor and helmet shattered in a flash, leaving him on his knees and defenseless. Sora and the others watched him angrily, their weapons still ready just in case. But then, Xehanort flashed an arrogant smile and vanished in a burst of darkness. Sora scanned the sky and found what looked like a clocktower that stood at the center of this world, facing them and almost daring them to come. The upper portion of the tower was shaped like a T, with the clockface in the center, structures to either side, and a flat roof on the top. Whereas the rest of the city had been destroyed, this tower had been left pristine and untouched. Sora and the others raced for the final stage--the roof of the clocktower. When they arrived, they found a perfectly square arena for their battle. Xehanort was there waiting for them. 

“It's all over! Where is Aine?!” Xemnas demanded, thrusting his Ethereal Blade at him accusingly. 

“You thought you could contain me here...knowing all that you do about connections?” Xehanort asked as he raised his right hand before him, and with a brilliant flash, the χ-Blade materialized in his grasp. “There is one sky, one destiny!” 

He then pointed the χ-Blade toward the heavens above, and the clouds in the sky began swirling ominously, while hazy light peeked through the gaps between them, It was just like the beginning of all this, back in the Keyblade Graveyard. Lily tightened her grip on her Keyblade and Luna quickly summoned her shadows. The gap in the clouds widened in the sky behind Xehanort. 

“For Hana,” Sora said. 

“For Hana,” Vanitas and the others said. The group and Xehanort fought with such vigor. Magic was thrown all over, Keyblades clashing over and over again, and much more. After building up momentum, the group rammed straight into Xehanort. But the old man managed to stop the attack and forced Sora and the others away, then floated upwards, turning to face the sky. A circle of arcane symbols appeared on the ground below and rose up after him, bringing Sora and the others with them. 

“Come, Kingdom Hearts!” he shouted. Xehanort held out the χ-Blade to the sky, and light flew from it into the opening in the clouds. A gigantic glowing heart began shining within. Kingdom Hearts had arrived. Spheres of light began to rain down on Sora and the others. Whether they came from Xehanort, the sky, or Kingdom Hearts--that was uncertain. All they knew was that Xehanort had to be stopped. Xehanort returned to the ground in a column of light. Sora blocked a blow from the χ-Blade, then he and the others retaliated with several of their own. Donald and Goofy hurried over to them and, with a nod showing they had the same idea, all got behind Goofy’s shield and barreled straight into Xehanort. Momentarily stunned, the old man floated back up into the air. 

“Enlighten me!” Xehanort shouted as he turned to face Sora, then pointed the χ-Blade skyward. When Kingdom Hearts pulsed brightly, a heavy feeling hit Sora’s chest. Darkness began pouring over his body, and his eyes took on a crimson glow. Sora could feel the strength draining from his body all at once, and he hunched over almost like a Shadow. Despite his more erratic movements, that didn’t stop him from going after Xehanort. With each hit that connected, light broke off from the old man’s body. Feeling that the glimmering fragments would restore his strength, Sora kept attacking Xehanort with his Keyblade. Suddenly, countless rays of light shot down on the battlefield. Evading them as best he could, he leaped up toward Kingdom Hearts. Still wrapped in darkness, he dropped on Xehanort from above with his Keyblade. Sora’s enemy came crashing down into the center of the floating symbol they stood on, and Sora landed a short distance away, now back to his old self. As he did, tall pillars appeared around the battlefield with figures wearing black coats sitting on thrones atop them. There were thirteen of them, and they would attack, then disappear in a flash. Blocking and countering their attacks seemed to get rid of the pillars for good. Once they were all gone, Xehanort floated up again. Sora aimed his Keyblade at Xehanort, firing a stream of light out at him just like when he opened Keyholes. But the light fell short and Xehanort laughed. 

“It ends here and now!” he bellowed, then soared even higher with the great moon at his back. Kingdom Hearts took on a dark hue, and the beam from the  χ-Blade fired straight at Sora. Sora managed so summon his Keyblade in time, but the force of the impact sent him flying backward into the very depths of darkness. He was on the edge of succumbing to darkness when 9 lights approached. It was Donald, Goofy, and Hana’s family. Sora opened his eyes to see that they had joined him in holding up his Keyblade against Xehanort’s beam. Three lights shone forth from the Keyblade, merging into a radiant beam that utterly destroyed Xehanort’s beam and sent the fallen master toppling from the sky. Back on the roof, Xehanort sank to his knees and then collapsed before the heroes. 

“Why... How...” he asked. 

“It's over now! You lost!” Luna shouted.

“Now tell me where Aine is!” Xemnas said as he pointed his Ethereal Blade at him. But the old man only grinned back, looking up at the sky. 

“You’re too late...” he said as Kingdom Hearts shimmered overhead. Behind Sora and Hana’s family, Donald and Goofy were discussing the matter. 

“Are we really?” Goofy asked. 

“I don't know,” Donald replied, angrily.

“What's gonna happen?” Ansem asked. 

“A purge... The World will be returned whence it started,” Xehanort answered as he slowly pushed himself up and back into a kneeling position. He seemed almost grief-stricken as he explained. “The World began in darkness. And from that darkness came light. From the light came the people, and the people had hearts. Evil burgeoned in those hearts, begetting more darkness. And that darkness spread across the World like a plague. The light, the symbol of the World's hope, was devoured by shadow, leaving nothing but ruin... An utter failure. But, the first light-- the light of Kingdom Hearts--it can give us a new start. An empty World, pure and bright...” 

“It wasn't your decision to make,” Baby told him. Xehanort used the χ-Blade to help himself stand. 

“Then whose was it?” he asked as his voice trembled with anger. “The World needs someone to stand up and lead. Someone strong, to stop the weak from polluting the World with their endless darkness. Someone to dictate their destiny.”

“If so...you're not that person, Xehanort,” Sora responded, telling him the error of his ways.

“He’s right,” Xemnas said. The old master scowled at Sora and Xemnas. “A real leader knows that destiny is beyond his control...and accepts that. It’s one of the many things I learned about as king before you stole my castle.” 

The king of the World That Never Was seemed to pique Xehanort’s interest. 

“You...make me think of an old friend,” he softly said as he narrowed his eyes. 

“Look!” Lily cried. A Keyhole took shape on Kingdom Hearts and grew into a huge magical circle, a beautiful pattern like something in a kaleidoscope. Several streaks of light flew from it--and Sora recognized them. 

“You made it!” he exclaimed. It was Riku, Era, Yui, Roxy, Rumi, Mukuro, Roxas, Xion, Axel, Terra, Aqua, and Ventus--the other guardians of light. 

“Are you okay?” Mickey asked as he walked up to the group.

“Kingdom Hearts is closing on the other side. But we managed to follow our hearts to you,” Riku explained. 

“So, when can I blow the bastard up?” Roxy asked as she glared at the old master and made sparks come out of her hands. 

“Not until he tells me where your mother is,” Xemnas said. Xehanort let out a sigh and opened a dark corridor to reveal the missing queen of the World That Never Was. 

“Aine…” Xemnas gasped. She still looked as beautiful as the day he lost her. Before he could run to her, Ruby and Sapphite trampled over him and over to their mama. The others groaned as if they felt the same pain as Xemnas. 

“H-Hi, babies!” Aine smiled as the two wolves welcomed her back. 

“They’re not pups anymore…” Xemnas groaned. 

“I-I can s-see that.” She was about to walk over to help Xemnas up when she spotted her two daughters who she hadn’t seen in over 16 years. Yui and Roxy sobbed happily and ran to give their long lost mother a huge hug. Xemnas stood up and hugged them as well. “M-my gosh, l-look a-at how much y-you’ve grown! You d-definitely t-took your father’s l-looks.” 

While the royal family where being reunited, Terra turned toward the one who had betrayed him, and he was about to approach him when Aqua caught him by the arm. But after he saw the gentle look on his face, she let him go. Terra walked over and stood before Xehanort.

“There’s more to light than meets the eye. As I told you,” he said. The old man’s eyes widened in surprise at that.

“You sly fox…” he said. Terra began to shine, and then Master Eraqus emerged from within him. He and his five students were together again. “Now, hand over the χ-Blade, Xehanort,” Eraqus said quietly. “It is too late,” Xehanort insisted. Eraqus shook his head slowly, then turned to Sora, Era, and Lily. “For us, perhaps…but not for them,” he said. “No…I can do this.” Xehanort tightened his grip on the χ-Blade, but then Eraqus took one of the grips in his right hand. With a soft smile, he put his left hand on Xehanort’s shoulder.

“Enough. Checkmate,” he said.

                                                          ☽✧☽✧

How many decades had passed since that day? Eraqus and Xehanort, not yet masters, sat across a game board in a room right here in Scala ad Caelum. The only piece on the board was a single white king, declaring victory. 

“I told you that you might be surprised,” Eraqus said, while Xehanort turned his face away in a huff. 

“Yeah, you got me,” he said. 

“Huh? Really?” 

“What?” Xehanort asked. He wasn’t expecting Eraqus to be so surprised.

“It's just, you never admit it when you lose.” 

“That's 'cause I never lose.” 

“Oh, come on.” The two friends grinned and laughed, and Xehanort offered his congratulations. 

“Good game today,” he said. 

“I try,” Eraqus responded. 

“Maybe I won't go as far as you.” Xehanort flicked the king on the board with a finger. “When the World needs a defender, they'll pick you, Eraqus.” 

“Y-you think?” Eraqus said in surprise, then scratched his head bashfully. 

“But that doesn't mean that I can't be there for you,” Xehanort added. 

“Yeah. And I’ll be there for you.” The two shared another smile then laughed.

                                                         ☽✧☽✧

Life had been so peaceful back then. 

“Very well done,” Xehanort said as he approached Sora and offered him the χ-Blade. 

“Terra, Aqua, Ven, Lily, Era. Forgive your foolish teacher,” Eraqus said. Lily and Era sobbed and ran to give their father a hug. Soon, Aqua, Ventus, and Terra joined in. “Ven, I put you through such a harrowing experience. And Aqua, I left you with such a heavy burden. Lily, Era. I made you go on a mission that you were too young for. Terra, look after them for me. Please.” 

Terra met Eraqus’s gaze and nodded. Xehanort, who had been watching the whole thing, began to stumble but his old friend caught him. As he lent Xehanort a shoulder, Eraqus said his final words. 

“Ready, my friend?” he asked. 

“Yes...” Xehanort said with a smile. 

“Oh! Y-Yui, darling. M-may I s-see your g-gun please?” Aine asked as she held her hand out. 

“Um, sure.” Aine thanked her eldest and then shot Xehanort two times in the chest, causing him to disappear. 

“HOLY SHIT!” Mukuro cackled. “This is why we’re best friends!” 

Aine smiled and walked away, leaving the others in shock. Eraqus didn’t know what to do he was that shocked. He eventually made a decision and disappeared just like Xehanort. While the others were recovering from the shock, Kingdom Hearts bathed the world in its radiance.

“Sora, let's close it,” Mickey urged. 

“Wait! I need to do something first,” Sora replied. He found an entrance into the clock tower and searched every hall until he came to Hana’s old room, just like when he saved her. He went inside and searched through it until he came across her old music box and the story book she had. Once he had those, her went back to the top and toward the others. Vanitas spotted what he had in his hands and gave a soft smile. “Everyone help me out!”

At Sora’s signal, all of the guardians and all of the Spirits  came to stand behind him. He pointed the χ-Blade up to the heavens--to Kingdom Hearts--and let the light burst out from its tip. When the beam met Kingdom Hearts, it began to glow until its light covered the entire world. 

                                                        ☽✧☽✧

And then they were back in the Keyblade Graveyard. They had returned from Scala ad Caelum to the crossroads among the ancient Keyblades. 

“It's finally over,” Mickey said with a smile. Sora shook his head, facing away from the others.

“...No,” he said. 

“We'll find Kairi. Let's head back to Master Yen Sid. We can figure it out,” Riku said. 

“No, I know what to do.” Sora raised his head again, then turned toward the others. “My whole journey began the day I lost her. And every time I find her... she slips away again. I thought we'd finally be together. But she's out there, alone. Not for one more second. I need to do this. for Rumi and Ventus.” 

Rumi and Ventus gave Sora a thankful smile while trying not to cry at the same time. Donald and Goofy then walked over to Sora. 

“We'll go too!” Donald said. 

“That's right!” Goofy agreed. But Sora shook his head sadly. 

“Thank you, Donald, Goofy. But this time, I have to go it alone,” he said. Mickey came over and expressed his own worries about the plan. 

“Sora, listen. The power of waking isn't to go chase hearts around! Even if you do locate Kairi, you might never come home to us again. Think about how that will affect Hana,” he said. 

“I will. And we'll both be back before you know it. Vanitas. When you see Hana, give these to her,” Sora said as he handed the music box and storybook to Vanitas. Vanitas nodded and he and the others watched as Sora raise his Keyblade to the sky. A beam of light streaked from it, opening the way forward. 

#hana kingdom hearts #hana imagines #hana kh #hana #lily #lily kingdom hearts #lily kh #lily imagines #luna kingdom hearts #luna imagines #luna kh #luna #kingdom hearts #kingdomhearts #kingdom hearts imagine #kingdom hearts imagines #kingdom hearts OC #kingdom hearts original character #kingdomhearts imagines #kingdomhearts imagine #kingdomhearts oc #kingdomhearts original character