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guizhongballista · 5 months

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may time wait for us [ jingren xianxia au ]

summary: what happens to legends after their tale is told? jing yuan lives a content and comfortable life as a highly respected cultivator in this age, long after the days of the glorious high cloud quintet. as its last living member, he finds that the echoes of the past do not fade so easily.

pairing: jing yuan x blade (ren) but it's mostly just sad jing yuan

word count: 2k

a/n: my second fanfic ever and it's still really bad but !! after not writing creatively for three years (endless oc ramblings only) and finally sharing my first fic back in august, i think i am slowly improving... feedback is always appreciated and loved <3 thank you !

special thanks to: @apopcornkernel, twt/Mushuroom1109, twt/fierycree, twt/naihilan_ for beta reading and comments !!!

*accompanying art will be shared later, I am a slow artist hahahh

read my one (1) other work on ao3 (nagazora kiamei pain 700 words)

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glossary

xianren 仙人 - celestial or immortal

laoban 老板 - shop owner

xiuzhe 修者, xiuzhemen 修者们 - cultivator, cultivators

jianbing 兼并 - traditional street food with a savory filling, similar to crepes

baozi 包子 - steamed bun with a filling, can be savory or sweet (i had savory ones in mind for this fic!)

xiaqi 下棋 - play chess

ganbei 干杯 - to drink to a toast but literally means "dry cup" because you're expected to empty your cup after (or try to)

shifu 师傅 - teacher or master

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When the clouds guarding the mountaintops parted, it was always a good day to visit the bustling town at its feet. The sect members would often head down between their studies and training and do everything from enjoying local delicacies to picking up imported goods to simply relaxing.

For one blonde-haired cultivator, though, the highlight of the town was an antique shop. Nestled in a quieter part of town, it boasted an ever-changing selection of fine swords and general weaponry from all corners of the world. Yanqing could chat with the laoban for hours about each sword’s story, and he tended to leave with a lot more than he’d bargained for. As for how he acquired the funds… it was usually thanks to the sect’s resident xianren, a certain white-haired man.

After much convincing, Jing Yuan decided to accompany the youth down the mountain today. Quiet moments in the sect were hard to come by, so when most of the sect members were out and about, he made the most of these moments by partaking in certain leisurely activities. Yanqing was particularly insistent today; Jing Yuan himself hadn’t been to town for a while, so perhaps a change of pace was in store.

The quaint shop was located in the eastern part of the town, a decent walk from the path leading to the sect. Jing Yuan, fan in hand, took in the familiar and unfamiliar sights as the pair made their way through the streets, with Yanqing leading the way.

As with every visit, most things stayed the same. Yet there was always something that had changed.

A new face in town, recently moved in. A new store owner who’d taken over a longstanding business. A new flyer advertising the “best eats in town.”

Or—new things that were now old. An old bulletin forgotten and vandalized. An old kite, beyond retrieval. An old road, still dirt where the others were paved stone.

Such was the passage of time.

The antique shop’s laoban was sitting idly at a table near the shop entrance, polishing a small blade. He brightened up when he saw Jing Yuan and Yanqing approaching, then got up and made his way to them, clasping his fist in greeting.

“Xiuzhemen, it’s been a while.”

Jing Yuan smiled and returned the greeting while Yanqing tried to strike up a conversation immediately off the bat.

“It has! I’ve—ah!” Jing Yuan tapped Yanqing with his fan, and the boy quickly repeated the greeting. The laoban simply laughed.

“We’re all friends here, no need for such formalities.”

Jing Yuan shook his head. “If I let one of our sect’s finest cultivators slack off, what would everyone else think?”

Yanqing rubbed his head, pouting slightly. “Well, as I was saying, I’ve heard really good things about new additions to the collection from my friends. You already know I want a look, and you know what I like!”

“That I do. Please, follow me.”

Yanqing looked up at Jing Yuan cautiously and chuckled abashedly. “Hehe…”

He nodded with a small sigh. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

The man took a seat at the table where the laoban had been and took out a scroll. But he soon found his attention divided between reading and the hustle and bustle of town just a few streets down.

Chatter and laughter mingled with the yells of street hawkers. Delicious aromas wafted toward him—Jing Yuan made out roasted sweet potatoes, jianbing, and… baozi? He smiled. Maybe he did miss freshly steamed baozi after all. He was also sure he’d spotted a vendor selling drinks on the way, specifically zhenzhu naicha. A blend of milk and black tea, plus a chewy tapioca topping. It was very popular among the younger cultivators. The drink had quickly become one of his favorites too, but he would never admit it. After some consideration, Jing Yuan finally put his scroll away. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to look around, if only for a moment.

He began to meander toward the town center, and more and more people filled the streets as he got closer. Soon, he was moving in and out of a sea of townsfolk. Conversations flowed like currents beneath the surface.

…What had he come here for again? The smell of baozi was overpowering now, but Jing Yuan found himself caught in the tides of life, just observing. Everything was constantly moving, constantly shifting; blink, and you would miss something. Life did not really change for one such as him, and so he stood unmoving, as a stone in a river would, mourning the vicissitudes of life. Sinking into mundanity with each passing year. Slowly, yet surely, eroding.

To always want to do something and to not do anything, to have that choice, as opposed to having eternity laid out before oneself and realizing that one can only walk this lonesome path to nowhere for so long.

Everything was constantly moving, constantly shifting; blink, and you would miss something.

A familiar face, one out of dozens, perhaps unremarkable to most, save for crimson eyes that pierced through the soul. A familiar voice, a familiar laugh, almost lost in the thunderous waves around them. At that moment, if Jing Yuan blinked—he feared this would all be but a dream.

It had to be him.

The lone white-haired man was the first to pause in his steps as they strode past each other. “Pardon me, xiuzhe. Have we met before?”

The lone dark-haired man walked a step further before realizing he was being addressed, then came to an abrupt stop. A moment’s hesitation. “No.”

Disappointment flashed imperceptibly across Jing Yuan’s face. “My apologies, then. You… just look like someone I used to know.”

“I see. Good day,” he replied. And there was nothing more to it. The other continued on his way. Time began moving again. The dream shattered.

A quiet sigh escaped Jing Yuan’s lips. As usual, nothing changed. He who had many names, from Yingxing to Ren, and lived many lives, would only remember one life, ever. What was he hoping for? He dared to allow himself this hope—that time could, perhaps, wait.

He had no reason to hope. Time did not wait for him centuries ago, at the precise moment Jing Yuan left everyone behind. Or, did everyone leave him behind? Death is a normal part of life; all would be courted by death someday, though some felt its embrace far too early. And some would never feel its embrace at all.

The same lingering regrets rose to the surface once more. One day, if the man remembered, Jing Yuan would tell him everything, from the long overdue apologies to the dreams they once shared. Let’s xiaqi later, it’s been forever. You owe me that rematch. I’m sorry I cannot be with you now. I haven’t forgotten. The glaive you made for me, I got to show it to heaven’s best swordsmith, and I told them your name. That you were the greatest blacksmith to ever walk this earth. I’m sorry I cannot fulfill our promise.

A promise, made many lifetimes ago, to meet again. The then-white-haired man had made Jing Yuan promise, but at death’s door, he seemed to have forgotten it would always be a one-sided promise.

The cycle of reincarnation wiped one clean, for better or for worse, save for their debt. He who had escaped the cycle watched his friends repay their debt over and over. How cruel of the heavens to spare him.

So he mused bitterly, as Yingxing—or Ren, or whatever he was called now—walked further, and further, and further into the sea. Leaving him behind. It didn’t bother him. He was used to it by now. Used to living through memories. One of the few things he could take solace in was how the choices that the five of them made would never leave him. For better or for worse, he remembered it all. The triumph and defeat. The elation and despair. The way they shook the heavens centuries ago had gone down in history. They were hailed as legends. But even legends die.

Jing Yuan was about to turn around when his eyes fell on a few other familiar faces encircling Yingxing, and his heart skipped a beat.

A young lady with red eyes smiled softly, as she listened to another young man bicker with a fluffy lavender-haired woman. The young man seemed to be motioning animatedly, only for the woman to bat playfully at him.

Their weapons were at their sides. Two swordsmen, an archer, a spearman.

Some things didn’t change after all.

More memories resurfaced now. A call to ganbei, as Baiheng laughed. Frequent sparring sessions with Dan Feng and Yingxing—they were always a delight. Jingliu’s intense gaze and strict training, which often left him panting but exhilarated. Once upon a time, he had made promises with them too. They were all carried away by the currents of time, one by one. When the waves subsided, Jing Yuan found himself completely alone for the last time.

At least in this life, then, they found each other again.

The moment of reminiscence dissipated as their forms blended into the crowd. He became vividly aware of himself, standing in the busy street, as people weaved around him.

This was time. Unceasing, unrelenting, unforgiving. If he didn’t move, time would move regardless.

Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice shout for him and he turned around. He blinked; he hadn’t realized how far he’d wandered. The town’s busiest street was a far cry from the quietude of the antique shop.

“Shifu… shifu!! I… finally caught up…” Yanqing burst out of the crowd, panting heavily.

Jing Yuan raised an eyebrow at the items in the youth’s arms; they weren’t there before. “Who told you to run off and buy swords?”

“But I didn’t! You were the one who said you weren’t going to go anywhere!” Yanqing pouted. “Besides… these are one-of-a-kind!”

Jing Yuan chuckled but faltered as he observed the swords.

The boy gestured to one sword in particular—gleaming ebony with golden cracks. Its tip was crimson, as though it were frozen in the state of creation.

“The laoban said this one was crafted centuries ago by Yingxing! That famous blacksmith! I’ve read all your scrolls on him. Why do you have so many? Anyway, it had to be re-forged, but it’s even more beautiful now… if you ask me,” Yanqing explained as he beamed proudly. “I can’t believe my luck! I’ve always wanted one of his swords.”

Jing Yuan finally smiled again and ruffled Yanqing’s hair. Yes, he was very lucky indeed. His gaze lingered on the weapon.

This was time. Unceasing, unrelenting, unforgiving. If he didn’t move, time would move regardless.

So he moved, and the hand that penned the past stopped. He’d come back to it later. He always did. It was a history worth writing, a proof that he and his friends were not just legends, but that they had lived, too.

But for now, he had new promises to fulfill. New histories to write. New legends to make.

As he and Yanqing began navigating the sea of people, the curious boy posed one more question.

“Shifu… maybe it’s not my place to ask, but what were you looking for?”

Jing Yuan considered his next words carefully.

“I just thought I saw some old friends.” He would say nothing more. “Come on, you’re too slow. That’s what you get for buying so many swords.”

Yanqing groaned as he picked up the pace. “I know…”

The duo, too, eventually disappeared within the sea.

Time… truly waits for no one.

#honkai star rail #honkaistarrail #hsr #honkai #jing yuan #blade #ren #jingren #renjing #jingyuanren #hsr fanfic #honkai star rail fanfic #old man jing yuan #hsr fic #honkai fanfic

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mppmaraudergirl · 1 year

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I have been away from the fandom for way too long and now the only updates I get are just the stuff you're posting. Do you have any good fic recommendations that you're currently reading? Cause I miss reading good fanfictions and because I love everything you write I feel like I would really enjoy the fics that you like as well

Hi there. Thank you for the lovely words and welcome back! 🥰 I'm sorry for the delayed reply. My reading time has been severely limited recently so I don't have a very active reading list to give, but I still wanted to take this opportunity to accumulate a rec list!

First off, the easy blogs to follow: @jilychallenge / @jilychallenge2023, @jilymicrofics, @jilyarchive which are all pretty actively advertising writers and fics! The archive ofc has great tagging so you can get really specific if you have a hankering for something. The jilychallenge is monthly and the microfics is posting pretty much daily.

I try to reblog fics I'm reading/plan to read with the tag "#jily fic recs" on this blog, and as I previously posted, the @jilyawards 2022 list is a fantastic place to start—already broken down by category which is super handy!

I am notoriously bad at bookmarking things on AO3 but there are a handful there that I couldn't recommend enough. Now for some specific recs/favs!

My forever first must-read is my bff @chdarling 's The Last Enemy series which is the best Marauders fic I've ever read. That's right. Ever.

I've been going batshit over @the-dream-team 's Who Knows Who Cares Muggle AU. It warms my lil heart

I'm feral when I so much as think about @wearingaberetinparis 's no body, no crime which sadoigjasidgj have to stop myself from spoiling but check it out!

I'm still awed by @nought-shall-go-ill 's The Light Come Shining which made me sob

Speaking of crying, you can't go wrong with @possessingtheproperspirit for your heartachingly sad angst needs. the way you left me is perfection. Perfection.

If you consider yourself a funny person, I can fix that for you by recommending @mabeltothknows 's We Have Buried the Putrid Corpse of Liberty which is next level

I absolutely loved @annabtg 's AO3 is Down which is as fun/silly as you'd expect for a little Jily AU

This is by no means comprehensive (my brain is useless most days lately) but perhaps a good start for fics! If you have a tumblr I also rec this awesome jily blog/author list created by the immensely talented @startanewdream (who killed me with her fic someday we'll know) which will likely overwhelm you lol.

#jily fic recs #jily fic #i cannot over emphasize how small this list is compared to what it could be #check out the linked accounts and posts for SO MUCH MORE #ty mah for putting together that great post <3

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missgryffin · 1 year

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big, /big/ sigh.

Hi, friends. This is not a post I ever thought I'd make, but since I've been dealing with some behind-the-scenes harassment and another author has posted a tangent of false statements about me, I feel compelled to at least set the record straight and tell you my side.

After @maraudersftw voluntarily stepped in to take over @jilyawards, she tapped me to help with redesigning the JA blog and making the graphics to accompany all the typical posts. Claudia retained sole access to the Awards Google account, was the only person actively running the blog/answering asks, and was the only one keeping up with processing nominations. Neither of us would be voting. I was also intending to decline certain nominations if others made them. All of this was communicated to the author in question.

The only goal here was to move forward with the Jily Awards in as healing and empathetic way possible for everyone. I gave my opinion regarding the decision to not have the dark!James trope in the Awards, yes—as did many others—but it was not my final call to make. Much, much consideration went into that decision, and I stand by it fully. (If anyone wants to discuss my thoughts on that further, I am more than happy to chat over DM.)

When the decision was finalized, I informed an author who has a work that would not be eligible, as the work was and currently remains tagged for "dark!Jily," "Death Eater Lily," and "evil Lily Evans." Obviously, this is a tough conversation to have. We both were affected by the reckoning over dark!Jily/DE James this past spring, and though I knew she would disagree with the decision, I expected to have a civil conversation and hoped to reach a point of understanding.

I discussed our rationale at length, as did Claudia. We explained repeatedly that this was not a "punishment." This is the Jily Awards equivalent of the prior conversation and agreement to tag dark fanfic as "dark!Jily" so as to remove it from the "Jily" tag, where many members of the community voiced valid concerns over being unable to avoid content they found triggering and deeply offensive, despite their best efforts to do so. All of this was communicated to the author in question.

Several hours later, the work in question was updated, along with a corresponding Tumblr post, stating that multiple dark!Jily fan fictions were eligible in the Awards and tagging the Jily Awards Tumblr account, bringing the advertisement to our attention. I confronted the author about this post and requested she take down the misrepresenting language. To date, she has not done so. I shared the conversation with Claudia, and great care went into drafting a post that would correct any misunderstanding without singling out the author (which would have been embarrassing and unnecessary). All of this was communicated to the author in question.

Not long after that, more public/internet harassment started, and I blocked the author in question. Yesterday, on Halloween (the last day of Jily Awards eligibility), the author in question posted the first chapter of a long-hyped, non-dark, Muggle AU story. Unable to reach me otherwise, the story opened with an Author's Note that was a message directed at me. A few hours later, the story was deleted. Had the story remained up, it would have obviously been eligible for the Awards, so why it was deleted remains unclear.

The subsequent behavior of the author in question led to the decision to halt the Awards.

Friends, I am the first one to advocate for DLDR. I dabbled in the DE!James trope, even if my James was really an undercover good guy all along. I believe that fiction does not equal reality, and that creators have every right to explore dark themes and tropes within fiction. I do not, and have never, judged, shamed, or ridiculed any author or reader for engaging with dark fic. I have said all of this before. But I ALSO believe in being a good community member. Community requires listening. Community requires compromise. When people come to you and say, This trope is actually deeply offensive and triggering to me and others, and here's why, ignoring that and continuing to blast that content into community/gen spaces where they can't avoid it (like the Awards) isn't just irresponsible, it's downright cruel.

It's okay to write content that's not for everyone. (I do.) It's okay to have gen fandom Tumblr events that celebrate a ship and exclude fringe content that is not representative of that ship as it's canonically known and sought. It's okay to have gen fandom Tumblr events that celebrate a ship and exclude fringe content that fandom members have expressly stated causes offense and hurt. That is not censorship—that's having a party and setting a menu that's considerate of known dietary restrictions. ***It's not personal. It's a simple respect of community boundaries.*** And maybe boundaries for triggering topics were not always brought up or addressed in prior Awards, but we all know they were brought up after last year's, and under Claudia's leadership and with my help and support, they damn well were going to be respected now.

All of this was communicated to the author in question.

The insinuation that I was trying to "remove the competition" or however it was phrased is so unhinged it's honestly laughable. This is about so, so much more than just getting a cute little Canva-designed card with your name on it. (That's the part that's simply meant to be fun.) It goes without saying, but had the Awards continued, I would have had no qualms about removing myself and my stories from consideration entirely. The engagement I get from readers enjoying stories with me is more than enough; any nomination nod or cute little Canva-designed card, while of course much appreciated, is the icing on top.

I understand that I'm the current target of a lot of vitriolic anger because I was the messenger. I've obviously taken measures to digitally protect myself, including turning off asks entirely. If you actually believe what the author in question said about me, I don't care to hear about it. If you don't like me, I don't care to hear about it. I'm here to write and vibe about Jily.

Maybe the fandom—fractured and traumatized as it is—wasn't ready for this. We wanted to try.

post script: To tHe pErsOn I knOw is rEadiNg tHis riGHt nOw:

#bye for now #I am mentally and emotionally okay I promise #just exhausted from dealing with harassment #I have a great support system of friends in this community #both writers and readers alike #much love to you all #💗💗💗

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magicalgirlmascot · 8 months

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Alright I think this is the last of the old Metru Uni designs I found so here we go

So this had been brought up a bit in the fic but not to the point where anything was done with it, but the Mata were the Metru's younger siblings in this AU. I remember Tahu had been mentioned, Lewa and Gali had shown up briefly, and Kopaka was in one of the side stories, but I don't think Onua or Pohatu were in there at all. Pohatu might have been? I don't remember. The plan was to have them all become Toa eventually, too, but not to have secret identities, I think. I remember someone commenting on this on deviantart back in the day being like "ummmm if this is supposed to be like a group photo why do some of them have their eyes closed" and I was like "my guy have you never seen an anime"

Oh god welcome back to Shojo Legs Time. So I'm not 100% sure why, but I made Takua and Hahli adopted siblings in this for some reason? No idea what the thought process was there. I don't think any of these characters actually appeared in the fic (I don't even think they showed up in any side stories) but I do remember writing stuff about them, it just never got published because it was set to happen way the fuck down the line. You know, Mask of Light stuff. Also for some reason Hahli went to a private girl's school. Not sure what my thinking was there. Love Takua's absolutely vacant expression. No thoughts head empty. Jaller and Takua were Tahu's best friends, and Hahli was one of Gali's best friends.

So this was around when those "keep ___ and carry on" things were popular and I did steal this one directly from a Professor Layton advertisement, but also in my defense Nuparu would love Professor Layton games so there. I think the idea was that Hewkii was into just like All Sports so he'd always be seen doing different sports every time we saw him. Not that either of them ever showed up in the fic. The idea was that (most of) the Inika were the Mata's best friends, so Nuparu was Onua's best friend and Hewkii was Pohatu's, which was all well and good but the fic was focused on the Metru so they never got to do anything lmao.

Yes Macku's last name was a Yugioh reference :P She and Hahli were Gali's besties, Kopeke was Matoro's only friend, and Ehrye was the kid who bullied Matoro in school. The only one who showed up in the fic itself was Ehrye because he did have a minorly important role, but also Macku got to be in a side story that was about her and Hewkii because of course it was

Okay so here are some of the Metru's friends. Kapura never showed up proper, but Vakama made reference to him, and it was generally accepted that he was pretty much Vakama's only friend before college. I think the idea was he was on the track team lol. Vhisola was obviously Nokama's best friend and actually DID show up in the fic itself, but is such a massive case of wasted potential that it just makes me sad. She should've been Nokama's roommate. Kongu was Matau's best friend, and I think they were in a band together in high school before Matau went to college. He is currently hanging around with Tamaru and Lewa, all of whom got like 30 seconds of fame in the fic. Hafu was Onewa's friend from high school, and also showed up for a bit in the fic, but mostly just to introduce Ahkmou, who I don't think I ever drew. Whoops. Kapura really does just look like A Guy here and I love that for him.

Alright so Matoro was Nuju and Kopaka's younger brother, which I think makes him the youngest character in the fic? Not sure. He had a part time job at a pet store, because of course he did. Again only showed up in a side story, but Nuju talked about him a fair bit. Ihu was in one (1) side story where we learned that he was Nuju's only friend pre-college but that he'd died a while before they graduated high school. So. Yeah. Onepu and Taipu were twins and Whenua's friends, but they did not show up at all nor were they even mentioned I don't think. Sorry guys. Taipu my beloved I can't believe I abandoned you like this

I'll be honest I have no idea what I was going for here. This is what I thought was the height of fashion in 2011. Kiina was an international student and also Nokama's roommate for some reason and I'm still mad that I did that instead of making Vhisola an actual character aaaaaaah Kiina I love you but you have no business being here I'm sorry

That's it for designs, maybe one day I'll throw the chapter and a half of manga that I made on here somewhere, thank you for coming with me on this journey of self-rediscovery

#bionicle #come watch me attempt to justify my creative choices from 10+ years ago

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effortandmore · 1 year

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a match made in heaven (knj x pjm)

pairing: namjoon x jimin

genre: coffee shop!au, fluff, hopefully humor

rating: teen

warnings: namjoon overthinks things, slang/swearing, there is the mention of a threesome existing

word count: 2.8k

summary: It’s well past dark on a frigid December evening, and Kim Namjoon is over it. He’s been a good sport, he’s played along, and now he’s just… done. If he hadn’t been getting terrifying death-stares from Yoongi each time he even thinks about getting up from the café table, he would have already been long gone.

a/n: this short fic was written for @chemicalpink for the @bangtansecretsanta exchange. Hi Marinette, I'm your secret santa, Menorah! Have some fluff and my attempt at silly humor in a coffee shop. I hope you enjoy this, and I hope you have a lovely holiday season and a happy new year! thank you to jess, @the-boy-meets-evil for reading this over for me, you are my one true love. And thanks to @ugh-yoongi and @hot-soop and Jess again for the brainstorming that produced this idea—I’m so lucky you all talk to me 💜 this is cross-posted to ao3 here if you prefer

It’s well past dark on a frigid December evening, and Kim Namjoon is over it. He’s been a good sport, he’s played along (even though he’s known all along that this hare-brained plan wasn’t going to work), and now he’s just… done. If he hadn’t been getting terrifying death-stares from Yoongi each time he even thinks about getting up from the café table, he would have already been long gone.

One more date, he tells himself. Just one more of these ridiculous speed dates, and he’ll be free. He can go back to being sort-of-miserable and a little lonely, but instead of putting up with those feelings in the middle of this café, he can wallow in them in the comfort of his own home.

Hoseok and Yoongi mean well, he knows that. The execution has been a little lacking, is all. The road to hell is paved with good intentions and all that. Of course, no one wants to watch one of their closest friends struggle, and Namjoon has definitely been struggling the past few months. Actually, scratch that. He was fine until the last couple of weeks when all the cutesy, coupley Christmas stuff started appearing everywhere. He was supposed to be in a couple—every advertisement with people kissing turned into a superimposition in his mind: himself and Minsoo replacing the print models.

Kim Minsoo, ex-boyfriend, giant asshole, and the person Namjoon was supposed to be moving on from. And, for the most part, he had. He didn’t really miss Minsoo; didn’t miss his condescending tone, the way he wanted Namjoon to dress a certain way or hang out with certain people or enjoy certain things. Ultimately, Minsoo wanted a clone, not a boyfriend, and Namjoon had enough self-worth to walk away when Minsoo suggested Namjoon forego his own birthday celebration to go to some pretentious work function that didn’t sound fun, interesting, or important enough to Namjoon.

So, here he is, approaching Christmas single, which is objectively fine. Namjoon can be a bit of a misanthrope anyway, so even if he weren’t single, he’d probably still find a way to be a little sad. It’s not like there aren’t wars and global warming and the general understanding that we can’t ever escape the existential dilemma to be moody about even if and when you’re getting good dick regularly.

But his best friends and former college roommates, Yoongi and Hoseok, think he needs to “get under someone new to get over Minsoo.” They’ve gone so far as to make it into a chant that they ungraciously repeat to him in English over the phone almost daily. It’s his own fault for teaching them the phrase, but in his defense, he was trying to tell them he didn’t need to “get under someone new.”

Their unwavering belief in the healing power of cock has brought him here, to Slice of Heaven (Heaven for short), the small café they own in Hongdae, where he has sat through three “speed dates,” and has one more remaining. He’s consumed more chocolate cake than anyone should be allowed to, but Hobi’s devil’s food is really beyond reproach (even if Namjoon sort of thinks a café with a theme is cheesy)—it can’t be helped if he thought each of his dates should at least try it. It’s just that now he’s full and a little antsy from his sugar high, and tired of unsuccessful dates.

Their original plan was to send him to some massive world record-breaking speed dating event that happens every year around this time, but Namjoon had been able to shoot that idea down fairly quickly. Sure, he’s an extrovert, but there’s a zero percent chance of him sitting through something like that without wanting to sink into the floor. So, here he sits, awaiting his fourth suitor, who absolutely won’t be the man of his dreams (because he’s decided that soulmates probably don’t exist anyway, and monogamy is a construct, and even if you had one person, how would you even find them and what if they didn’t speak Korean… his English isn’t that good and neither is his Japanese even if he’s willing to study more), someone who Hoseok knows through the dance classes he takes.

At least he likes hanging out in their shop usually; it’s a good place to work and study, steadily busy but never too loud. And the first three dates had been handsome (if not otherwise bad fits for him), and from what Namjoon’s seen of Hobi’s dance friends, bachelor number four has high odds of being nice to look at, too.

Date number one was sort of a warm-up, Yoongi claims. Namjoon had laughed when Jin walked in and plopped into the chair across from him.

“You’re sitting in my date’s chair, you know?” he asked his hyung.

“Yah, I know, Joon-ah. I got the looks and the brains.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “Don’t tell my brother.”

“Well, you should move. He’s going to be here any minute. And according to Yoongi, he’s a real catch.”

Jin’s loud, bright laughter fills the shop. “Yoongi, did you make a fishing pun about me?” he calls over his shoulder in Yoongi’s general direction.

“About… you?” Namjoon is thoroughly confused, because there’s no way that his hyung, his friend, Seokjin is his first date. They’d even already tried dating once in college before Jin decided that Namjoon was never going to wake up early enough or be optimistic enough to be anything more than a good friend.

Jin bows in his seat dramatically. “Your knight in shining armor.”

Namjoon thunks his forehead against the table. “You’ve got to be joking,” he whines.

“Lighten up, Namjoon-ah. What if we have chemistry?” He curls his crooked fingers into air quotes around the word chemistry.

“Our chemistry is like the hydrogenation of succinonitrile…”

“Use words,” Jin says impatiently.

“It’s how you make putrescine… it smells bad?” Jin’s just staring at him with his mouth open, giving him the ‘I’m about to roll my eyes so hard you’re going to regret you’ve ever said any words to me in your life’ look. “Nevermind,” he tacks on.

“Already forgot what you said, since it wasn’t actually words,” Jin replies.

“Go home, hyung.”

Seokjin crosses his arms and leans back in the chair. “You’re turning down all this?” He asks as he looks down at his own torso.

“Yes. One-hundred percent, absolutely turning you down. Go home.”

“Fine.” He sighs before looking at Yoongi over his own shoulder again. “Mission accomplished.”

“What mission?” Namjoon asks.

“They maybe thought that if I was your first date, the other three would look better after. Which is definitely a you problem, Namjoon-ah. Anyone else would jump at a chance with me. Just so we’re clear.”

Namjoon stifles a laugh behind the arm of his sweater. “We’re clear, hyung. Anyone but me would be lucky to date you.”

And with that, “date number one” ends as Jin gets up, and Namjoon watches Yoongi and him bicker over the counter about what takeout to get for dinner.

The Seokjin part of the plan worked at least a little bit, because when bachelor number two shows up, and he’s not one of Namjoon’s friends or exes, it’s a pleasant surprise.

Jeon Jungkook is bright, kind, and objectively beautiful. Namjoon likes him immediately.

He’s a regular at the café—he works as a graphic artist and likes to sit in the corner and work on freelance projects. Namjoon knows he’s seen those big, bright eyes before. He tells Namjoon that he was thoroughly confused when Hoseok had asked him about going on a date with Namjoon.

“He walked right up to me while I was on the phone with a client, and he asked if I was free on Friday night.”

“And he didn’t tell you for what?”

Jungkook blushes. “No! And I’ve barely even spoken to him before. I just see him and Yoongi-ssi making out behind the counter when they think no one’s watching.”

Namjoon would have been surprised that Jungkook’s even sitting here across from him after being propositioned by a stranger, but he remembers how convincing Hoseok can be when he wants something. “But you came anyway…” he says.

“Well, yeah. At first, I thought he and Yoongi had broken up or something,” he says shyly. “And, to be honest, I wouldn’t want to get involved in something like that. I see them together like… every day.”

Namjoon nods.

“But then he told me about you, and… this is embarrassing…”

“More embarrassing than having your friends set you up on blind dates because they think you’re too lonely for Christmas?”

Jungkook purses his lips. “Actually, no.”

And Namjoon laughs so hard he almost shoots americano out of his nose. “Fair,” he says when he catches his breath. “So, what’s embarrassing?”

“ThoughtyouhadnicethighswhenIsawyourpicture.” Jungkook’s words come out fast and strung together, and he blows out a long huff of air when he’s finished.

“Oh,” Namjoon says, sheepish. “Thanks.”

“Told you it was embarrassing.”

“It’s really not,” he replies. “I’m flattered.”

Jungkook gives him a bright smile in return, finally looking up from his lap where his eyes had been fixed almost since he sat down. They talk about their lives a little more, conversation eventually landing on the subject of their dogs, and Namjoon knows it might not work out between them when he says, “Honestly, I spend more time mad at Moni than not.”

His date looks absolutely appalled, and Namjoon doesn’t even get a chance to explain before Hoseok is standing next to the table asking if they had a nice time. Jungkook says he did, but excuses himself quickly and doesn’t bother to get Namjoon’s number or leave his.

“I’m failing, Hobi,” Namjoon laments.

“Don’t worry, two more to go!” Hobi says, patting Namjoon enthusiastically on the shoulder.

The third date isn’t much better, because Taehyung definitely thinks he’s there to date Hobi, not Namjoon. Actually, he seems to think he’s there to date Hobi and Yoongi. And they don’t seem to have a problem with that, either.

He’s watching some strange flirting take place between the three of them, and Namjoon is pretty sure he could manage to escape before the fourth date without Yoongi and Hoseok noticing. They’re completely distracted by Taehyung.

So, it’s totally understandable (he thinks, anyway) that he’s over this speed dating thing. One was his ex, one basically thinks he’s an animal abuser, and one looks to be gunning for a threesome with his best friends. Three strikes and you’re out, right? He’d feel a little guilty about bachelor number four, but not enough for him to stick around.

He’s weighing his options, deciding how he can slip out undetected, when the tinkling of the bell above the entrance pulls Namjoon’s attention just in time for him to witness an angel walking in.

This isn’t an exaggeration.

Making his way into the café is maybe the most gorgeous human Namjoon has seen in his entire life, and he’s got honest to god angel wings on. He knows he’s in trouble when he hears himself actually whimper. He knows he’s really in trouble when the angel whips his head around toward Namjoon because apparently he had also heard the pathetic noise.

The smile he gives Namjoon, though, is worth all the embarrassment in the world. It’s almost a smirk, and under some circumstances it would look borderline predatory, but even if it were, Namjoon thinks he’d be okay being this guy’s prey. One side of his (very plump) lips quirks up and his cheeks become infinitely pinchable and his eyes somehow narrow and darken and sparkle all at the same time. Namjoon’s having a really hard time looking away, and he’s sure it’s creepy at this point, but the half-angel, half (very good looking) man is looking right back at him, so maybe it’s okay to stare. Just this once.

It’s not clear to him how it happens, but soon the angel is standing over him, although it occurs to him that Namjoon is seated and the angel is standing and he’s still not exactly being towered over or anything. So pretty and small, is all that Namjoon can think.

“Are you Namjoon?” the angel says in his equally angelic voice.

“Are you an angel?”

He laughs, loud and bright, before trying to maneuver himself (wings and all) into the chair across from Namjoon. “No,” he says, “and it didn’t hurt when I fell, either.”

“Huh?” Namjoon is sure that somewhere in his brain are complete sentences and polysyllabic words, but they simply don’t seem to be accessible right now.

The angel puts his elbows on the small table and rests his chin in his hands. He watches Namjoon with something that looks like curiosity, and the smirk he’s been sporting never really leaves his face. “It didn’t hurt when I fell from heaven,” he says, shaking his wings playfully.

“Oh… That’s good…”

“‘I’m Jimin. Park Jimin, your date. I think you’ve been waiting for me?”

Namjoon is so happy he didn’t have time to sneak out of the café. “For my whole life,” he mutters, face flushed. He doesn’t think Jimin hears him, but luck has never really been on his side.

“Cute,” Jimin whispers back.

This is a rough first impression, he’s sure. Of course Hoseok’s friend isn’t just pretty, he’s literally perfect. Namjoon isn’t sure what he did in life to deserve sitting across a table from Park Jimin, but he knows he needs to get his shit together yesterday if he doesn’t want to waste his shot.

He clears his throat. “It’s nice to meet you, Jimin-ssi. Can I get you something to drink? Cake? The devil’s food is really something.”

Jimin grins again, somehow even more brightly, and Namjoon decides speed dating isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. He reminds himself to thank Hoseok profusely later. “You think someone in my condition should be seen eating devil’s food cake?” Jimin shakes his wings for the second time, and Namjoon can’t help but laugh.

Turns out, Park Jimin claims he isn’t actually an angel (although Namjoon thinks he’s still not convinced of that), but a ballet dancer who’s featured in the winter season’s big show for his company in a role that requires him to wear wings. He’d been wearing a different pair around to help his body get used to moving in them, and apparently it worked, because he claims he didn’t even realize he still had them on until Namjoon asked if he was an angel.

In the thirty minutes they’re together, Namjoon learns a few things. Jimin absolutely glows when he talks about dancing, he’s a really good listener (putting up with Namjoon’s unfortunate introductory rant about monogamy and gender roles and actually seeming interested), and most of all, he’s kind—getting up to open the door for an older man with a walker, and quietly wishing him a good night.

Namjoon is enamored.

“Time’s up,” he hears Yoongi say from behind the counter.

“No,” Namjoon says, almost reflexively. He likes Jimin too much already and the time has flown by. The objection earns him another almost-smirk from Jimin. ”I mean… if you aren’t busy or something… we could keep talking… if you wanted…”

Jimin’s smile turns a little shy and he nods. Namjoon thinks it's cute. “I’d like that.”

“Cool,” Namjoon says, a response definitely reflective of his high iq and general put-togetherness.

“Very cool, hyung,” Jimin agrees. “You wanna get out of here? Hotteok?”

Namjoon gives an enthusiastic nod. He’s suddenly hungry again now that it means spending more time with Jimin. “It’s my favorite.”

“Something sweet for someone sweet,” Jimin says as he stands. Namjoon positively beams. People call him a lot of things: smart, interesting, tall… not every often does he hear the word “sweet” ascribed to him. He suspects he could get used to it.

He knows he’s just smiling blankly at Jimin, lost in his own thoughts, in how downright pretty Jimin is, in the way Jimin seems to be just as into staring back at him. Then he hears a chorus of groans coming from the general area of the coffee shop counter. Hoseok, Yoongi, Seokjin, and even Taehuyng who he doesn’t know are all watching him and Jimin gather their things to leave.

“What?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer him, just turns to Hoseok and says, “We’ve made a mistake.”

Hoseok and Jin nod. “He’s even worse when he likes someone,” Jin says.

“Hey!” Namjoon protests. It’s weak though. They’re not wrong. He tends to get infatuated quickly. “Sorry,” he says to Jimin. “They’re the worst.”

Jimin just grabs his hand and threads their fingers together like they’ve been at this for ages. “They’re just jealous,” he says, loud enough for them to hear.

“Yeah?”

“Of course, hyung,” Jimin says as he tugs Namjoon toward the exit and looks up at the name of the bakery in glittery golden letters on the door. “We’re literally a match made in Heaven!”

#bss2022 #bangtan secret santa #btswritingcafe #btswritersclub #namjoon fic #jimin fanfic #namjoon x jimin #bts fanfic #bts imagines

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radioactivepeasant · 2 years

Text

Fic Prompts: Free Day Thursday

This is another piece of my Sons of Spargus au that involves The Game We Don't Acknowledge. Because for all its faults, I did like the homage to the Edge Chronicles, and it did corroborate a theory about dark eco I had lol

The edge of the world was strangely peaceful at night. If Jak closed his eyes, the distant thunder of the myriad waterfalls almost sounded like the ocean. Funny that, past or present, home to him meant the sea. That knife's edge between refuge and danger, ever shifting, bringing both life and death. Much like the two mass forms of eco, as his father often had to remind him.

"Dark eco is unstable, aye, but evil?" Damas shook his head scornfully. "It has no mind of it's own. How can it have a morality? It is no more evil than the sea. Unpredictable, dangerous, but not evil."

"You don't have it stuck inside you," Jak had argued, "It didn't make you an eco freak!"

His father had looked both stern and somehow sad at that. "Did you know that long ago it was not unheard of for the House of Mar to have two heirs? It was so that one could study dark eco, and the other would study light. Both sides in balance, in accordance with our House's symbol."

When Jak had given him an incredulous look, he'd smirked. "No, it's not something we advertise anymore. It doesn't generally go over well in polite conversation, as I'm sure you guessed. But people weren't always so...paranoid about the darkness, you know. You may be the first of our line in generations to have mastered both eco in its primordial form and its harmonized form without the use of a prism."

And now they had a prism. Now he understood what Damas and the monks' ancient scrolls meant by "primordial" and "harmonized". Dark eco was no more than the unregulated mixture of all forms of eco at once. He could guess then that light eco must be the same components, but in equal measure to balance themselves out. The difference between coal and a diamond, perhaps?

Jak flexed his fingers slowly, watching a bright yellow spark dance from fingertip to fingertip. He had been so certain that what the Baron did was irreversible. And in a way, it was. The transformation would always be there, waiting, in his darkest moments. But eco wasn't a chain anymore.

For the first time in four years, eco responded to him the way it had during his childhood. It was wild, and exuberant, and full of limitless possibility. It made him feel...renewed. Free.

I wish Father could see this.

Jak leaned back against the rigging with a bittersweet smile.

He was a long way from home.

"Orb for your thoughts?"

Phobos strolled to the railing, flipping her folding knife across her knuckles. She glanced up at him, feigning disinterest. "You've been out here most of the night, kiddo. Worried about your friend? Don't be. Phoenix is liable to talk her ear off, but he won't hurt her."

Jak cracked a smile. "Nah. I'm not worried about Keira. I mean, I reserve the right to hold this stunt over her head the next time she yells at me for being reckless, but I'm not worried."

The captain raised an eyebrow and leaned on the railing beside him. "Then why the long face?"

Because I know who you are and you'll never believe who I am-

Because I'm finally exploring the ends of the earth like I always wanted, but I can’t enjoy it until the eco storms stop-

Because I worry that without access to light eco crystals, Father's old injuries will start hurting him again-

Unable to put his thoughts into the words he wanted, Jak only shrugged and turned to face the stars. "I miss home," he said simply.

Phobos studied him for an uncomfortably long couple of seconds. "Missing Damas too?" she asked shrewdly.

Perhaps he should have been more discreet about his family, but Jak didn't want to lie to her.

"...yeah. Never really got to know what it felt like to actually be a kid until he took me in. Which is messed up, because I was somewhere around seventeen-ish at the time."

"Rough start in life, huh?" Phobos asked.

Jak snorted bitterly. "That's putting it mildly."

The sky pirate digested this in silence. Then she pulled herself up to sit in the rigging beside Jak. "Damas teach you how to find the lighthouse?" she asked.

"Yeah." A self-conscious smile flitted across Jak's face. "Yeah, I know how to get around the desert."

It was one of the only memories from before Haven that Jak had gotten back: being taken into the desert and shown the beacon at the top of the palace. The "lighthouse" all Spargans used as a compass to navigate the Wastelands. The really experienced Wastelanders didn't even need goggles. They could just look to the horizon and judge time and distance by where the beacon showed beyond their fingertips.

"Hm." Phobos raised a hand out in front of her as though she could touch the sky. "You can find Spargus with the stars, too."

Jak craned his neck in an attempt to see which star his mother was looking at.

"How? Where is it?"

With a half smile, Phobos grasped Jak’s hand and raised it up. "Here, look for the green star. The one that's brighter than the others. That's Corvus. It's part of what we call the Polaris galaxy."

"The Polaris galaxy?" Jak repeated, a little breathlessly, "How many planets are in it?"

"Dunno." Phobos shrugged. "But someday we'll figure out how to get up there, like the Precursors. Heck, maybe there's life out there that doesn't want to eat us for lunch. Precursors had to come from somewhere, right?"

She pointed to another speck of light in the sky. "There. Remember that one?"

Jak perked up. "The North Star. You can't see this one from Spargus."

"Wrong hemisphere," Phobos agreed. "But, put your hand up so that your trigger finger looks like it's touching the North Star. Now splay out your fingers until your pinky touches Corvus."

Bemused, Jak did as he was told. Phobos tapped his middle finger over until it touched his ring finger and threw an arm around his shoulders.

"Now say you're at the helm. Instruments are dead, and you've got nothin' but the stars. As long as you can find the midpoint between North and Corvus, you can chart a course straight across to Spargus. That's your lighthouse."

Warmth filled Jak's chest, threatening to sting his eyes. Phobos didn't know he was her son. She probably thought it was weird that her ex had adopted a couple of teenagers out of nowhere. Maybe she even thought it was an attempt to cope with Mar's loss. But here she was all the same, teaching him to find a path to Spargus in the night sky, just because she knew he was homesick. It spoke well of her character, this random act of kindness.

"Thank you, Captain," he said, and meant it.

There was a softness in Phobos's eyes that Jak was beginning to recognize from Damas and Sig. It seemed a little soon for his unknowing mother to already be a little fond of him -- which Jak didn't really understand. He didn't think he was all that lovable. But...it turned out his birth mother was actually a pretty cool person, and one heck of a pilot. There were far worse things than an expert captain and racer thinking you were kind of neat.

"Get some rest, kiddo." Phobos thumped his arm and hopped down from the rigging. "We'll be catching up with the Phantom Blade before too long. You'll have to launch your plane. I don't fire on other sky pirates as a professional courtesy."

Jak took one last look at the stars, then dropped back to the deck. "Aye, Captain."

Phobos nodded approvingly. "We'll make a pirate of you yet."

The idea made Jak snort. "I don't think Damas would like that very much."

"I'll blackmail him to get summer custody, it's fine," Phobos joked.

At least, Jak thought she was joking.

#jak and daxter #jnd #jak and daxter au #fic prompts #writing prompts #free day thursday #we dont talk about tlf no no no #but I'd headcanoned that you could separate dark eco into components and the game did lean into that #so it can stay for now as worldbuilding fodder but its on thin ice #jak's mother #captain phobos: we still don't know if thats a first name or surname and she's still not telling #mother-son bonding #a la Jim and Silver in Treasure Planet #meanwhile Keira is finally realizing that she's just jumped aboard with essentially British Daxter and is questioning her taste in men #sons of Spargus au

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sylphidine · 10 months

Text

[Fic] Call Signs, Chapter 30

Fandom: Deltarune

‘Verse: Human AU

Pairing: Swatch/Spamton [Swatchton]

Characters: Spamton Addison [flashback], Mike Cowley [flashback], the "Serif brothers", as in those two skeletons from UNDERTALE [flashback]

Rating: Mature

Chapter title: Trash Landing, Part One

Chapter summary: Heights and lows.

Author notes:

So much gaslighting that Mike dishes out.

So much whump that Spamton goes through.

[So much Deltarune canon lore and meta references, mixed with my own AU trappings. PLEASE, dear readers, tell me you see some of the Easter eggs I've tossed in here.]

Spamton's first person past tense POV continues straight from the end of the previous chapter as he's trying to explain the last few years to Swatch. Take it as read that Spamton is stuttering away like mad, but he's getting his points across to Swatch while reliving these horrible memories. [Yes, the author's cheating a bit and using a weird narrative device.]

____________________

Mike does his best to cheer me up over the week between Christmas and New Year's.

We'd already discussed neither of us doing a lick of work while I was scheduled to be with my family. Mike had said, while I was packing, that he'd be catching up on some of his hobbies during the downtime, like practicing card tricks and other kinds of sleight of hand.

I had thought he was joking at the time, like a sad clown, but it turns out he's really good at stage magic. We end up at Tannen's Magic Shop after one of our dates.

We go out every afternoon that week, even though it’s cold and windy. No bars. No networking. Just real, honest-to-goodness, down-to-earth dates.

A hole-in-the-wall all-you-can-eat buffet.

Window shopping on Canal Street.

Tea and scones at The Potbelly Stove.

Dance Dance Revolution at an underground arcade.

Jazz at The Blue Note.

On New Year's Eve the wind is much too strong and I’m tired of getting bundled up to fight the bitterly freezing weather, so we stay in to watch the ball drop on television rather than braving the crowds in Times Square and getting frostbite.

I admire our afternoon’s decorating handiwork. Somehow Mike has acquired six or seven canisters of Silly String, and now the living room is festooned with multicolored silicon tangles.

To me… It looks…. Well, silly. Not something two full-grown men would admit to enjoying, but definitely a unique stay-at-home date to wrap up our vacation week.

The tendrils sway in the air coming from our heating vents like wacky wires, or vines. They remind me of the strings on the marionettes we saw yesterday at FAO Schwartz.

Mike comments on my unconscious frown. I mention the accusation about puppets I'd yelled at Ballew; he “hmmms” thoughtfully in response and then changes the subject.

The champagne gets poured at midnight and for the first time in a long time I drink too much. I wake up with a headache to end all headaches, half-dressed in my office, with my arms wrapped around the black rotary phone.

I can see my reflection in its waxy surface.

I can feel fingertip-shaped bruises on my hips.

There are long, long strands of bright green Silly String trailing off both my wrists.

There’s also a note on my desk from Mike that says he tried to talk me out of brainstorming my great new idea for a new advertising campaign until we both went back to work on the 2nd, but that I was very insistent. He ends the message by asking if I want to go out to the neighborhood hangover brunch.

To my sodden brain, that sounds like the best plan ever.

My great new idea, as it turns out, is a slogan I’d written on a cocktail napkin while we were both lifting a toast to a successful 2018 and beyond. In sloppy, blocky, straggling capital letters, it spells out “HAVE YOUR HOME RUN LIKE CLOCKWORK”, accompanied by a stick figure drawing that could either be a robot or a scarecrow.

I’ve never made any claims to be an artist, but even I have to laugh at how crappy it looks.

Mike says that the idea has good bones and we can rough it out over the next few months. He teasingly tells me I was raving for hours about a book I’d read as a kid about a clockwork man.

I vaguely remember the title after a few minutes, including the movie that was made from the book, and I blame the rest of my amnesia from last night on too much bubbly.

We each polish off a huge plateful of greasy scrambled eggs and clink our coffee cups together.

It feels like a great start to a better year, and like I can stop looking in the rear view mirror.

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

We hit the ground running in January.

Mike is either constantly in my office when he’s home, or on the phone with me when he has to work long hours with the science team, whom I’ve never met.

The receiver of the black rotary phone never cools from the heat of my hand, and I feel like I’m never alone.

I desperately, desperately need to NOT BE ALONE.

If I’m not alone, there’s no room in my mind to think about what or who I've left behind.

My New Year’s Eve brilliance inspires Mike to show me a whole series of articles on “mechanical men” built between the 1700s and the 1800s. We pore over them together on my laptop, sitting practically in each other’s laps, his hand always on my shoulder or my thigh.

The automaton that strikes both of us as the most incredible is the Draughtsman-Writer. Mike points out that it even looks like me, if my cheeks were a little rosier. Dark hair, a pointed chin, and a dreamy gaze in its eyes.

It’s a short leap to the next idea. I practice with makeup and a selfie stick before Mike and I storyboard the next GASTER commercial together. His hands guide mine and make me feel like a priceless musical instrument.

And thus “Spamton G. Spamton”, the mechanical salesman, is born.

I’m a bit uncomfortable at first with the look of the hinged jawlines, but I get used to it. I start practicing a new kind of vocal patter that has barely perceptible stops and starts.

In the meantime, I still have sales outreach work to do. I’m back to nineteen-hour workdays, much of which is spent immersed in nightlife, but I’m so energized that I don’t care.

Over the next few months, we shoot four more GASTER commercials that are in constant rotation on the airwaves. I voice the opinion to Mike that maybe the red suit is getting stale after more than a year, and that it might be time to change up my image again. He agrees, but he wants to keep the “mechanical man” look. So I compromise; the makeup can stay, but I want something that’s sharp and memorable.

Tallulah has closed up her Chelsea apartment for the summer and gone to France, so she’s not around to consult with. Not in person, at least. But I start looking at some of her past fashion collections in a retrospective issue of a magazine, and there’s one season’s looks that really grab me, even though I don’t really know why. All the pieces seem to be some variation on tuxedos, but they’re each paired with what I guess Tallulah would call “accessories”, in hot pink and yellow-green.

I lay my hands on some good old-fashioned tracing paper and some colored pencils, and I start sketching. I’ve never done something like this before. It’s like something or someone else is guiding my hand. But when it’s done, I’ve got the look I want. A black single-breasted swallowtail coat with lapels in hot pink and neon yellow, and a pink-and-yellow satin lining. Tailored white suit pants. Crisp white high-collared shirt like the old Leyendecker ads.

Mike… doesn’t hate the new suit, but doesn’t love it, either. It does gradually grow on him, especially when I add a Cungadero-red bowtie, the same shade as his favorite of the red suits, and a pair of sunglasses that are sort of like his eyeglasses… round instead of diamond-shaped, pink and yellow instead of orange and gold. An unspoken compliment and an apology all in one.

It hangs on the closet door in my bedroom and remains undisturbed by probing hands.

________________

The SUIT (I've come to think of it in Capital Letters) gets its debut at my 21st birthday party on the third of May, in The Bellecour Room at Restaurant Daniel.

Twenty of GASTER's biggest corporate sponsors send representatives; the rest of the group of fifty are assorted hangers-on that I've met here and there over time.

I sip on my Merlot; the bitter wine fits my mood tonight.

In my mind's eye the glitterati at the tables around me fade out, and in their places are my old friends.

Gazlay showing off her gorgeous gams in a high kick worthy of a Rockette.

Vazzana tittering behind his ostrich-plumed fan that someday he'll be Queen.

Pitch and Coz engaging good-tempered barbs with one another.

Winkelsas playing one of his toddler sister's compositions on kazoo and passing along the message that she wants me to be in her band.

Jack Sickle reciting Poe's " The Raven '' without a single stammered word when he doesn't know any of us are watching.

And of course I mentally summon the images of my brothers and my sister… and yes, even Saffron.

The images of the past dissolve like burning film, and the sight of the room full of happy strangers returns me to the present.

I’m a stranger here myself, as the saying goes. Might as well put on the mask of a happy one.

The party finally breaks up somewhere around 2am, and Mike doesn't protest when I ask if we can just head straight home.

During the limo ride back to the Pandora Palace, I make the comment that this shindig will be hard to top, but he's got four more years to plan for the next big milestone.

He asks me in seemingly idle curiosity what's more special about being 25 versus being 21.

When I bring up how I'll finally be financially independent by then because of my trust fund, he gets very quiet.

The multicolored glow of street lamps and neon signs shines through the limo windows. The garish light plays over Mike's angular face and casts pockets of shadow. Offset by his black blazer and white turtleneck, his head almost looks like a floating skull.

Then he smiles. It's a soft, fond look.

I'm almost expecting him to propose marriage, with how thick the tension in the air gets, but the moment passes.

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

Spring turns into summer. Summer turns into autumn.

For months we’ve been discussing registering to exhibit GASTER at some of the technological trade shows around the country, and I start looking into travel arrangements for two.

Until Mike yanks me up short by casually mentioning that he’ll be staying behind to run things while I’m on the road.

And he already has an itinerary mapped out for me.

And it’s going to keep me on the road for weeks at a time, over the course of the next year.

My first reaction is that he’s putting me on. My second reaction is panic.

Chicago. Denver. Los Angeles. San Francisco. Seattle. Minneapolis. San Antonio. New Orleans. Nashville. Atlanta. Washington DC. Philadelphia. Finally back in New York in late September of next year.

It doesn't matter what I say, how many logical arguments I try to make. For the first time since I've known him, Mike actually gets visibly angry.

No, it's the second time. The first time was when he chased off Werewolf Guy, way back when.

But it's the first time he's been angry with ME.

It's a cold rage, delivered with the same dry voice he used to use in the classroom. He counters my reasoned protests with logic of his own that I can't fight.

How many people under the age of thirty, he tells me, can say that they've achieved the success I have? It takes work to KEEP the success happening, and if I don't want to do the work, he won't know what to think, other than to be gravely disappointed.

Those are the magic words. With everything Mike has done for me… a home, luxuries, connections… I can't disappoint him. I just can't. I'll be nothing but a sponge, or the lowest kind of worm, if I don't go along with this plan.

So I give in, and tell him I'll do the trade show tour.

Mike practically purrs and lets me know how pleased he is, as he backs me up against my office desk.

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

The itinerary has me traveling the entire country by train. A few weeks in each city, booked into different extended stay suites in the Mansion Hotels chain. The trade shows are each a week long, and the rest of the time, when I'm not on a train, I'm supposed to be schmoozing and glad-handing with the locals.

And I’m traveling with a pair of boneheads.

I should probably be kinder in my thoughts about them; at heart, both the Serif brothers seem to be decent guys. They're along to do the booth set-ups and breakdowns, as well as to make sure I get where I'm supposed to go. They've done this tour before, they both say, with other "heroes", and they know all the weird routes.

But I get very tired, very quickly, of one brother's non-stop puns and the other brother's exaggerated sense of his own importance. Wherever Mike dug these two up, it seems a long way from my old hometown.

Any excitement I might have had about visiting new places gets ground into nothingness pretty quickly. One city feels the same as any other.

The exhibit halls could be interchangeable backlots on a soundstage, for all the individuality they have, which is none. Concrete floors covered in paper-thin carpeting that does nothing to muffle the sound of foot traffic or the voices of the other vendors and attendees. I come back to my hotel room every day with a headache from the stagnant air and the endless noise.

The views from the hotel windows all look the same. And the hotel rooms themselves are so uniform, as befits a national chain, that it really feels like Time is standing still. The windows are always sealed. No sound rises from the streets, unlike the cacophony of the trade show venues.

But even when I’m back in my “home on the road” accommodations after leaving the exhibit halls behind for the day, the constant sound of a phone ringing shatters any peace and quiet I might hope for.

You see, there's one thing that's particularly disturbing about the sameness of each successive Mansion Hotels room I stay in.

They each have the exact same waxy-finish black rotary phone on the room's desk as the one that Mike set up on MY desk in my office, back at the Pandora Palace.

The ringtone is exactly the same, too.

When I unlock the door of my hotel room, the phone always sits in a pool of light from an overhead lamp, just like mine does back in New York.

It doesn’t matter if I’ve turned off the room lights before I head out for the day. The phone has its own spotlight, like Yorick’s skull in a production of HAMLET.

It feels like it never stops ringing.

I almost want to ask the front desk at each hotel whether I can swap out the phone for a more modern model, but I can't think of any way to do so without sounding like a lunatic.

Mike calls frequently, never at consistent times. His calls keep me off-kilter, to the point where I think I'm hearing the phone ring when I'm nowhere near the hotel room. It gets so bad that I have a doctor check me out for tinnitus.

It gives me bad dreams at night.

One of the recurring nightmares has a monstrous version of Proto, telling me to "beware the man who speaks in hands", while pointing to the phone which has no cord and isn't plugged in and shouldn't be able to ring.

It's an unreal life.

Every time I put my makeup on, I feel more and more like a puppet. I am afraid to look too long in any mirror in case I find that I've actually become one.

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

The frequency of the phone calls from Mike slows down noticeably between the San Antonio and Nashville legs of the trade show tour.

The incoming calls stop completely while I'm in DC.

My frantic outgoing calls are not answered.

My sales, which had been stable if not as stellar as when I first started with GASTER, take a sudden nosedive.

I stumble through the DC and Philadelphia trade shows feeling like a corpse. I don't go out painting the town red every night, the way I used to. I get room service when my body reminds me that I need fuel, and I spend the rest of my time just staring at the ubiquitous black rotary phone.

Willing it to ring.

Dialing and hoping to get an answer.

Nothing.

I'm alone.

In my solitude and the fear that solitude inspires, I do some hard thinking.

I'm twenty-two years old, going on twenty-three, yet I have the responsibilities of a middle-aged person, for a company that should have taken fifteen years to get where it is with its market share.

nstead, it's only taken three.

The math doesn't add up.

Could Eos have been right, that GASTER is too good to be true?

I may loathe the name of Addison, but I've picked up enough from the family business that I start having some nasty suspicions.

If those suspicions are true, then my current career track isn't on the up-and-up.

A huge wave of homesickness hits me. I want to see my siblings.

All of them.

Any of them.

And I almost get my wish.

As the saying goes… Be careful what you wish for.

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

At the end of the four weeks in Philadelphia, the Serif brothers give me an unpleasant surprise; they tell me they're not joining me in New York. They've heard from "our boss" that they're supposed to work some other job, and they're taking all the demo devices with them.

When I ask, rather snappishly, what I'm supposed to show off at the Javits Center without the gizmos and gadgets to wow the crowd, the shorter, stockier brother just smiles and hands me the rolled-up booth banner, as though he's passing along a torch to me. Then he walks off whistling.

The taller, lankier brother claps my shoulder, tells me it's a puzzle all right and he wishes he could be the one to solve it, and ambles off to catch up with his kin.

Leaving me to retrieve my own luggage and find my own way from Philly to Penn Station.

I'll be damned if I spend another night in another hotel. I want to go to the Pandora Palace and have it out with Mike and DEMAND to know why he's abandoned me.

And to demand to know what's really up with GASTER.

Of course, when I drag my bags up to the apartment, Mike's not there.

But at least my keys still work. I was afraid for more than a few seconds that they wouldn't.

The apartment seems antiseptic, impersonal, dingy. Mike has probably had a cleaning service in while he's been away, but I'm struck yet again by the perception that this is a workspace, not a home.

I look aimlessly into all the rooms on the lower floor. Mike's office is locked; his bedroom is not, but it's tidy and doesn't look like it's much used.

There's a pile of newspapers stacked on the kitchen floor. The top one has a folded-back page showing photos of my sister's wedding in the society column.

My sister's wedding.

In June.

When I would have been in Atlanta.

Near enough to have flown to New York and back again in a 36-hour turnaround time, and not missed much of anything business-wise.

I wander out of the kitchen in more of a daze than I walked into it.

Mike has left me a long, long, handwritten letter on the coffee table in the living room, which feels as big as a stadium or a skating rink after so many dinky little hotel rooms.

The letter is a strange mix of praise and recriminations. It goes on for five double-sided pages, and leaves me no clearer in my mind at the end than it does at the beginning.

Does he care about me? Does he hate me? Are we partners, or enemies, or just two tired old horses stuck in harness together?

I haven't a clue.

I also haven't got the energy to climb the spiral stairs to my bedroom on the second floor. And I'm too conflicted to just use Mike's bed when he's not here.

So I crash on the couch in the cavernous living room, and curl up into the tiniest ball I can manage.

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

I head to the Electronics Expo at the Javits Center via taxi the next day.

It’s an unmitigated disaster.

All I have to adorn my booth is the now-tired-looking banner with Penniman's clockwork boy as a logo, with the now-faded caption "Have Your Home Run Like Clockwork!".

All I have to display are some ratty business cards and some dog-eared brochures.

Some Big Shot I am.

Billy Joel's lyrics taunt me as an earworm I can't escape.

I don't have to exaggerate my "mechanical man" movements; my limbs feel like lead. And the stilted speech I've been cultivating through this whole tour has taken on a life of its own; I now have a genuine stutter that I can't shake.

People walk past my booth to get to other booths with more enticing setups.

Like I’m invisible.

So it doesn't surprise me that, when I'm feeling at my lowest and least confident, my brother Ballew shows up.

His hair is freshly cut. When he stops in front of my booth, I get a fleeting whiff of his cologne. I don't recognize the scent; it's not the British Sterling that I give him every Christmas.

Used to give him, that is.

He looks so tailored.

So polished.

So disapproving.

The suit that I was so proud of designing all on my own, once upon a time, feels like a cheap Halloween costume now.

He reluctantly takes the business card I reluctantly and silently hand to him.

His bitter comment about my enjoying being a puppet is excruciating and painful. I can't blame him, and I can't dismiss the truth of his words.

I've been Mike's puppet.

I *am* Mike's puppet.

I don't know how to stop being Mike's puppet.

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

The rest of the week at the trade show passes in a blur. I don’t even care about the sales I'm not making. Take a taxi to the Javits Center every morning, take a taxi back to Chelsea every evening. Each day I go through the motions and plaster on the dummy’s grin. Each night I pray for an end to it all.

I feel like I’m coming down with some kind of flu bug. Maybe a delayed reaction to everything. My heart is constantly pounding. I can actually feel my pulse in my ears. My brain is full of cobwebs.

Finally the time comes when I can pack up and go…

Home?

Mike’s apartment isn’t home.

But it’s the only place I’ve got left to go.

So I head there in yet another cab, and have a nasty shock.

My credit card gets declined by the cab driver’s swipe machine. I apologetically give him what cash I have, which pays for the ride but precious little for a tip. The driver yells at me like I'm some annoying dog and zooms off before I realize I’ve left my laptop bag and the trade show banner in the back seat.

Fortunately I still have my wallet and keys, and I’m wearing The SUIT. But everything else I’ve been carting around to do work for Mike for the last year is gone.

I'm feeling hollow as I nod to the doorman, who tilts his head in a birdlike fashion and asks if I'm alright.

The elevator operator gives me a quick look of pity as she takes me up to the fourth floor.

Wait a minute.

Doorman? Elevator operator?

Why don't I remember them? They have to have always been here, right? This is the Pandora Palace, with amenities fit for royalty.

My memory from a week ago, of having to carry my own bags up the stairs of a rodent-infested four-story walk-up, gets overlaid by this current reality.

I must be running a fever. It’s hot behind my eyes. I shakily let myself into the apartment and barely make it to the little bathroom off the foyer before I collapse onto the cold tile floor.

The sound of footsteps approaching registers in my mind, but I keep my eyes tightly shut. Then I feel bony fingers threading themselves through my hair before I’m yanked up into a sitting position.

I have to look at him now.

Mike bends over me, impossibly tall, and says in a hissing whisper that I would be nothing without him, that I owe him everything, and he’s going to get his money’s worth.

And then he picks me up off the floor and cradles me to his chest. As though I were his most cherished possession.

I don’t know how to cope with any of this anymore.

My body does me a kindness and shuts down into unconsciousness.

#deltarune chapter 2 #deltarune fanfiction #spamton g spamton #swatchton #swatchton au #fic: call signs #sylph writes

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phantom-of-the-ruckus · 1 year

Text

Once upon a midnight Dreary picrews

I actually have picrews of the whole gang, but I won't be sharing them until their appearances.

So, have our beloved Narrator, Riley Anne Ruckus and Dr. Gubberson himself

TW: for blood, knife and, scars.

Also, this is not a spoiler for what happened to Riley's father

Cretdits to Brightgoat and link to picrew:

Riley Anne Ruckus, the narrator

Here are some fun facts.

As this fic is heavily inspired by Edgar Allan Poe, she's the person narrating her own tale of the events that led her right at the beginning of "Melancholy" (Chapter 1.) I can't say if she could be an unreliable or a reliable narrator considering Poe has used both. All I know she's the narrator (Not a hint on whether to trust her or not)

The inspirations for Riley in this story (+technically an AU) were of course "The Raven" and "Tell Tale Heart" with some small sprinkles of some of Poe's poems like "The Bells" and "Annabelle Lee." This is not a determinant of whether she's a reliable narrator or not.

Dora (Her mother) is briefly mentioned in the story, but Riley has an uncanny similarity to her with some obvious differences. This was a slight nod to "Morella" and it was briefly mentioned in some line.

I particularly choose her character to have a similar and inspired journey as the narrator from Poe's Poem "The Raven" and the narrator of "The tale heart" as her character is tight to themes of grief and revenge. This all I can say for now about what other inspirations I took.

Dora was not murdered like Manfred was. She in fact died by the sea. Riley believes she drowned, but Dora died of hypothermia. She was buried by the sea that Riley used to visit with her when growing up. If you couldn't tell by the first chapter, Dora's character is a reference to the poem "Annabel Lee." Manfred is also tied to the poem itself, but his character also tied to Lenore (in sense of poem and in the raven, but its more of a fatherly love.)

----

Dr. Owen Joseph Gubberson, the main antagonist

Here's some trivia:

His story and character is also tight to Edgar Allan Poe's "Tale Tell Heart." If you ever read the story or are familiar with it, you could already tell by his blind eye. The story never specified which eye was the "vulture eye on", so this option looked best on the picrew.

Unlike the old man from the story he's from, Owen is far less than nice as the old man from the story was. He does keep his heart.

He is tied to the story "The Tale tell heart" as he's the antagonist of Riley's tale, but Owen (just as the other characters) has his own set of references. I believe Riley mentioned a slight word regarding Owen. It was a quick line but a hint. I won't spoil which other two Stories inspired the character of his, but I would give as many hints as I could.

His scars are not aesthetic. They were made some time ago. There are also tied to the reason of his eye, as he was not born with it.

Owen is not truly evil. He's an egotistical genius trying to prove himself. He's quite an antagonist, and has unknowingly (perhaps on purpose) hurt many others.

His childhood is the same as the cannon version of Hello Puppets.

#hello puppets #once upon a midnight dreary #picrew #tw: blood #tw: scars #tw: injury

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kittyburger · 2 years

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I am very belatedly realizing I should share my submas fic on tumblr dot com as well.

Description:

Dreamshare AU. Emmet has shared his dreams with Ingo for as long as he can remember. For years their dreams were always a landscape of their own creation, a place to have fun and be themselves away from the mayhem and responsibilities of their waking lives. It was always there for them to fall back on, just like each other. But when Ingo went missing, their dreams were broken in two and an impassable wall appeared between them, driving Ingo farther away from him than he could ever imagine. ----- Ingo's dream is always the same, night after night, year after year, for as long as he can remember. The same grassy field, the same weather that reflects his mood, and the same looming wall. ...that is, until one day when the wall suddenly changes and a mysterious figure is on the other side, one that he feels inexplicably connected to. (Even continents away and centuries apart, their bond can't stay uncoupled forever.) Please note: Touch will be an important aspect but this is not a ship fic. With that said, here is chapter 1!

Ingo’s alive.

Emmet believes this. He knows this. Yup.

Yet when he gets home from work and begins going through his mail, he finds an advertisement for funeral services directly addressed to him. Staring at the words, his heart feels like it’s being squeezed tight, tight, too tight. His chest feels both hollow and heavy as he reminds himself Ingo’s alive, I know he’s alive. Ingo’s alive, I know he’s alive. Ingo’s alive I kn-

He must have made a noise because the sound of a pokemon leaving its pokeball snaps him out of his stupor. Before he can process what just happened, Eelektross is in front of him, pushing against his chest. He lets his pokemon shepherd him to the couch. This is routine for them, now, despite Emmet trying to get Eelectross to understand that sleep isn’t going to solve anything. It’s not going to cheer him up.

It hasn’t for two years now.

But he still lets Eelectross try.

As he braces himself to experience the same dream he always has nowadays, he eventually falls asleep to the pressure of Eelectross resting on his chest.

His dreamscape is no longer the exciting space that it used to be. It was different from what most other people called dreams, but to him it was just as normal as breathing. For as long as he could remember, whenever he and Ingo dreamed at the same time they would appear in the same place. They learned to take hold of their dreams the same way one would learn to lucid dream, and soon their dreams became a space to defy reality and just be themselves. Ingo could shout as loud as he liked without hurting anyone’s ears, and Emmet didn’t have to worry about communicating and being polite to strangers. They could go on wild train rides that wouldn’t hurt if they crashed, or create a warm sunny day when it was too cold outside.

They were never able to get their pokemon to join them, but that just gave them a great reason to live out their dreams in the waking world, as well.

It used to be a constant, something he could always rely on being there.

Just like his brother.

From the night Ingo went missing, though, a wall appeared. It was massive, spanning from horizon to horizon, and impenetrable.

Nothing he’s done could break the wall. He tried everything he could think of, from summoning a train to speed to the wall and ram into it to simply willing it away with everything he could muster. Ingo would be proud, he thinks, that he has even tried asking the wall nicely to please go away, I want to see my brother.

But this dreamscape was also how he knew- how he knows, he still knows, that Ingo’s still alive. He has to be. Sometimes the sky would change up next to the wall without him willing it to, or in ways that didn’t reflect his own moods. Sometimes the wall itself would vibrate with the force of his brother’s yell, though the words and meanings were completely indecipherable.

He didn’t want to think about how, in the first few weeks after his brother went missing, a hint of Ingo calling for help could be faintly heard over the wind. He had tried calling back, to tell him I am here, I am Emmet, I am here, tell me where you are! Volume had never been his strong suit, however, and if how faintly Ingo’s call and normally-piercing SOS whistles was anything to go by, he wasn’t sure if his own voice was ever heard on the other end. At the very least, his own calls have never received an answer.

This was not the first time a barrier had appeared in this dream world, though they’d never been so opaque and immovable. Sometimes it was involuntary, like when one of them had a mental breakdown and needed to be alone and somewhere quiet. In those cases, the dream world would reflect their subconscious needs.

Emmet could only remember one time where it was voluntary, when Ingo had been so excited about a surprise present for Emmet that he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it to himself in a dream that reflects their thoughts and emotions. Once Ingo had seen how dismayed Emmet had been at the sudden and deliberate separation, however, he had promised to never do that again, surprises or no.

So much for that, he thinks and he vacantly stares at the wall for yet another night. The thought is spiteful and bitter and he resents himself for it as soon as it’s gone. He should have more faith in Ingo, right?

…but it’s been a long time since he had last heard the faint echoes of his brother calling for help. He supposes it should be a good thing, that his brother didn’t seem as lost as he was before.

It just also means that there was one less way for his brother’s presence to make itself known.

One less reassurance that his brother isn’t gone for good.

He reflects on a recent conversation he’s had with Chandelure, in which he had asked in a moment of desperation whether she could detect his brother’s soul anywhere. If maybe Ingo had become a ghost, and that was the reason he couldn’t connect. Chandelure had simply lowered her head and shook it softly from side to side with a soft, mournful “’Lure…”

Emmet gets the sense that he should be glad. Another proof that Ingo’s still alive, right? Surely the ghost Pokemon that was so close to his brother would know if Ingo… passed? That he should hold on to his hope that he’ll see his brother again?

The hard emotions are still there, though, and he spends the rest of the night trying to think of anything but his problems, despite the looming barrier in his face, seeming to taunt him in his dreams.

He just wants his brother back. Is that really too much to ask?

╰ᕦ╯( O+|+O )╰ᕤ╯

Ingo lays on the rough bedding in his tent, contemplating the memories that had surfaced earlier that day. He had had the fortune to meet the young Miss Akari earlier that morning, and to escort her through Wayward Cave despite Meili’s meddling. He wasn’t sure how to feel about her after learning that she had fallen from the sky, especially once he found out that the Galaxy team’s “hospitality” seemed to be on the condition that she would be required to face dangers greater than anyone else in the team. He is disgusted at the idea of sending a child to the frenzied Lord Electrode’s seat, especially since the Commander’s plan seems to be to leave her to face and cure Lord Electrode virtually alone.

It is a small comfort that he had been asked to help her arrive at her destination safely, though that was probably more because of Lady Sneasler’s abilities and his connection to the Noble pokemon than any apparent concern for Akari’s safety. He thinks back to their walk through the Wayward Cave, trying to identify what about her had brought forward those wisps of memory. Why now, after over three years of grasping at nothing but clouds? Was it the way she spoke? Her accent had felt both foreign and familiar, but he couldn’t place why. Maybe the memories sparked because of the way she interacted with Meili? Or… maybe it was the familiarity of conducting someone to a safe destination.

Maybe it was because, for a small time, he had dwelt on the guilty, selfish hope that she could solve this, that maybe she knew him before, that maybe, just maybe, she could help him figure out what was missing before his precious memories fall between the cracks of his mind again.

He resolves to test her skills in battle before teaching her Lady Sneasler’s call in the morning. If nothing else, having definite proof that she shares a good bond with a strong team of pokemon will reassure him about her safety. The idea of battling someone who might be just as familiar with pokemon as he is is exciting, too, so he holds onto that thought as sleep slowly comes to him.

╰ᕦ╯( O+|+O )╰ᕤ╯

When the feeling of impossibly soft grass brushing against his face replaces the rough-but-warm texture of his tent’s bedding, Ingo knows he’s dreaming. He always dreams of the same thing: a vast but empty grassy plain that extends outwards as far as the eye can see, a sky that changes the weather according to his mood, and a towering, impenetrable wall that extends from horizon to horizon.

He keeps his eyes closed as he resolves to continue to work through the scraps of memory from that day, with the added caution of shying away from anything that might upset him. He doesn’t particularly feel like getting soaked from an emotionally-driven rainstorm right now, memories or no.

The thought reminds him of the partner he remembered, who wielded its flames with mastery. Those gentle flames would certainly be a comfort if he were chilly, and in the same thought he worries whether her flames would be– her flames, that’s right!! …whether her flames would be hurt by some rain. He tries to work from there, but his expertise is slow to come to the surface since he hasn’t had much chance to work with fire types since his arrival in Hisui.

His thoughts are interrupted by a muffled thunk, thunk, thunk coming from behind him. The wall! This is new; the wall had never made noise before. He takes a moment to discern whether or not the source of the sound is a threat, but the rhythmic pounding neither falters nor comes any closer.

Cautiously, he opens his eyes and turns his body towards the sound, hoping to not catch the attention of… whatever is making that noise. His attempt turns out to be unsuccessful, however, as the sound nearly doubles in pace. And…

His eyes widen in disbelief as his mind takes a moment to understand what he is seeing. The wall, which has always been dark and immovable for as long as he can remember, is now… translucent, like the sheets of ice that cover the cliff sides in the wintertime. His eyes are drawn to movement, which causes the gears in his brain to temporarily halt as he takes in what is directly in front of him. There’s a shape on the other end of the glass. The figure looks like a man in white, and he pulls back his arm another time before slamming the side of his fist against the wall, resulting in yet another thunk.

Something feels important about that thought, so he repeats it in his head carefully. A… a man. In white. Who…

His train of thought derails as the figure pounds against the wall again, inclining his body towards Ingo. The small part of his mind that tells him to be cautious reminds him of pokemon that can cast illusions, but… the pounding doesn’t seem to be aggressive. Just… desperate. Familiar. Frantic.

In opposition to his well-honed sense of caution, his heart makes a decision. He’s drawn to the man, his feet carrying him opposite of the figure, his toes just inches from the wall now. The man stopped hitting the wall but is still leaning forward, facing Ingo with his weight on both forearms and his hands still in fists. Ingo reaches up to match his hand to the man’s across the divide, lining his own forearm to where the other’s is pressing but placing an open palm opposite of the man’s fist. The man immediately opens his hand up to match, then they both bring their arms down to eye level simultaneously.

Now that he is closer, it appears that the man on the other side is saying something, one word, over and over again. It’s hard to tell, though, what with how hazy everything appears through it. He almost thinks he hears his name, but it’s so faint that he dismisses it to the wind and some wishful thinking.

They stand like that, face to face but separated by a metre-deep wall that obscures all edges and defining features, frozen. This obscuring, impassible rift feels just like his memories, the details just as foggy as the destination his thoughts always steer him into. But standing here against what feels like a representation of his experiences with memory, he can’t help but feel like it’s so much more… real, more tangible than anything else he’s had to work with. The one opposite of him rests his forehead against the wall, shoulders slumping in what looks to be relief. Or maybe defeat?

Tears spring at the corner of his eyes and his own head bows forward as his heart mourns for something he doesn’t even know he misses. Is it the man? His heart is telling him how important this person is to him even while his mind can’t tell him why. The one trying so desperately to get to him must be someone he was close to… before. Maybe this is the man who looks like him, that likes winning more than anything else!

He wants to hope so. He wants that to be true, to be right, so he can hope for the possibility of meeting him again, even if it’s just a dream.

He wants, needs, his heart to be right.

—--

They both wake up crying. They wipe their tears and run opposing hands through their hair, unknowingly still mirroring each other even hundreds of years apart.

╭╭<^◕°ω°◕^>╮╮

Emmet does not want to be awake.

Awake means not with Ingo, and leaving him behind in the dream was like starting a train with the brakes still on. It was wrong and it hurt.

He replays his dream from the previous night over and over like a broken disk, trying to pull out and inspect every detail he can.

Ingo.

Ingo was there.

He saw Ingo!

For the first time in just over three years, a weight is lifted from his chest. He hadn’t realized how tightly his emotions had been wrapping themselves around his heart until they all loosened at the sight of a dark shape across the rift moving.

Moving!

In their shared dream!

It has to be him. No one else can join their dreams, they've tried.

Ingo’s alive!!

Ingo’s alive.

Ingo’s alive!!

The confirmation of his stubborn belief bursts through him like an electric charge as he lets out a short eeeee! and twiddles his feet in excitement.

Crustle, ever the overprotective one, bursts out of his pokeball at the sound. Emmet calms a little at the disturbance and sits up to soothe the worried pokemon. He repeats “I am Emmet. I am safe! I am fine. I am verrrrrry fine!” over and over again, like a mantra, until Chandelure floats through the door, looking curious about why Emmet is so excited and chatty so early in the morning. The hope in her eyes prompts Emmet to excitedly break the news.

“Ingo! I saw Ingo! In our dream! Ingo is alive! He was verrrrrrry far away, across the wall, but he was there! Ingo’s alive!”

Chandelure’s eyes widen for a moment before she gives a spin, stops, then comes right up to Emmet’s face, enthusiastically calling out. Her call summons the rest of his and Ingo’s team, and soon the whole room is overcrowded with pokemon leaving their pokeballs to chatter excitedly with each other. They all know about his and Ingo’s mysterious connection, even though they’d never been able to join the brothers in the dreams themselves.

“The wall was different today! I could only see a little through it, but Ingo was on the other side! I tried verrrrrry hard to get to him. I think he heard me trying, or maybe he saw me. But he came up to me! It was him! He was there! Yup! We saw each other! He is alive!”

He didn’t notice the tears running down his cheeks until a Joltik Nuzzled against his chin, responding to his excitement. He went to put the sweet bug pokemon down somewhere safer, and felt the wetness on the back of his hand from when he grabbed the little bug.

Oh.

He took a moment to ground himself, as his employment-mandated trauma counselor taught him to do, and identify his emotions. It was hard to pick out his emotions from the buzzing Combee-hive of thoughts and feelings, but the first emotion he recognizes is happiness.

Then relief. Yes, he is verrrrrrrry relieved. It is one thing to believe, to know your brother is still alive, and another thing to see him right there in front of you. Moving! Responding to his own movements! Still in sync, after all of these years.

He takes another breath, trying to pull his focus back to the task at hand. Emotions. What else is he feeling? His mind blanks for a moment when he realizes he’s also feeling… betrayed? No. Betrayal has some anger with it. The thought Ingo’s the one who is good with emotions comes up, unsolicited. He’s surprised to see that the thought not only comes with the normal sharp pain of missing Ingo, but now with some frustration and fondness mixed in as well..

Ah.

Hurt. That’s what it is.

It makes him think back on what that counselor taught him about hurt. Your hurt exists because you care. It’s a part of you, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of.

He takes a look around him, watching the pokemon celebrate his declaration in their own little ways. He thinks back to his interaction with Ingo. How… slow, deliberate, and almost hesitant every movement seemed. How he hadn’t seemed to try to break down the wall with him. Didn’t his brother miss him? Didn’t he want to be reunited just as desperately? A spark of jealousy spikes through his heart, tied together with fear and shame, and he hurriedly files those emotions away to never be seen again. Screw the exercise, he saw his brother and he will be happy or so may Haxorus cause mass panic in the subway with Earthquake again.

Speaking of…

“Alright everrrrrrrybody, there’s too many of you in here and it’s getting stuffy. We’re all excited, but can you go be excited in the living room instead? We might even have a celebratory breakfast if I can get ready early!”

The pokemon all file out with various grunts and grumbles, though Eelektross affectionately nudges him on the way out. He takes one breath, then two. A third, and then a fourth to the count of four. Elesa would be glad to see me doing the exercise.

Elesa!

He excitedly grabs his xtransceiver and dials up Elesa’s number, excited to share the news.

It rings once, twice, three times, four–

Her voice comes through, groggily asking, “Emmet. Do you even know what time it is?”

Emmet glances at the time at the top right-hand corner of his screen.

4:12 AM.

Oops. “...ah. I did not look at a clock first. Are you awake?”

“Well I am now , ya dingus. But what are you doing up? Is everything okay?” The concern in her voice assures him that he’s forgiven, so he gratefully moves on with the conversation.

“Yes! I am Emmet. I am fine. I am fine. Yup. I am verrrrrrrry fine. Ingo–” he cuts off, wondering how he’s going to explain the events of tonight with her. The pokemon know about the dream connection, sure, but he and Ingo never told Elesa. They never told anyone, really, out of fear since they were both drilled into secrecy by their parents and because of that One Time when the kids at school who did hear about it called them freaks and bullied them both instead of being impressed. It had been just a quiet, happy secret for the longest time between the two of them, and they never brought it up to anyone else because they never really needed to.

“Emmet?” Elesa’s worry is more palpable now, and it halts his train of thought. Right. He’s in a call. Elesa is waiting for the good news!

“Yes, I am Emmet.” he answers, trying to think of a way to tell her. Nothing comes to mind, so instead, he stalls for time. “Let’s meet up today. You mentioned a coffee place that has electric pokemon-themed drinks? We’ll check it out.” He pauses for a moment, knowing he’s missing something. He set the place, the time… the time was just ‘“today”. Too broad. He amends this by adding a quick, “Are you free after work?”

Elesa hesitates for a moment, then asks, “Are you sure you’ll be okay for that long? I’m awake now, I can chat if you need!”

Emmet still has not figured out how he will tell her. Plus he does feel a little bad for the rude awakening. Sleep is verrrrry important for safety, after all! So he assures her in the most confident tone he can muster, “Yes, I am Emmet! I will be fine. Sorry for waking you. Go back to sleep.”

Yeesh, he still needs to work on his inflection. His voice had even cracked like a teenager’s in the middle of his reassurances. It makes him miss Ingo all over again, makes him want for times when he didn’t have to worry so much showing people how he feels and instead he could rely on Ingo to get people to understand what he was saying.

Elesa still sounds doubtful, but she gives in. “Alright, Emmet. Don’t you ever feel bad for calling me, though. I’m–” she cuts herself off with a yawn, betraying her tiredness, “...I’m glad you thought to talk to me. I’m… gonna see you later, right?”

Disaster averted. He now has time to think and she was too tired to hear his confident tone not going according to plan. He hastily replies, “Yup! I will see you later. Remember to send me the address of the café!” before hanging up. An address and a GIF of a man pounding his chest then turning it into a peace sign with the caption “Love you Bro” pop up on his message feed with Elesa, leaving him with a soft smile on his face as he straps the Xtransceiver onto his wrist and gets up to prepare for the day.

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myth-blossom · 10 months

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75 and 76 for the fanfic writer ask, please! :)

Hi Ninja! Thank you for the ask 😊

75. Is there a particular fic that readers gravitated towards that you didn’t expect?

Am I allowed to say all of them? 😅 Truly, it’s always a nice surprise when readers like my stuff (especially when new readers find me, as I don’t advertise anywhere other than tumblr). But I certainly didn’t expect Infected With You to get as much attention as it has—it’s over 900 hits now with a fair amount of subscriptions, bookmarks, and comments. It really feels like this:

Being that the series is a canon-divergent AU and one started by a relatively new author to the fandom, I didn’t think it would ever get this attention. But it’s been very heartening to see! I can’t wait to add the next chapter. 🥰

76. How do you deal with writing pressure, whether internal or external?

I often multi-task and my brain is always “on,” so it’s very easy to feel like I’m wasting time if I’m not working towards a writing goal or an idea I’m passionate about. This can certainly be very draining on one’s health and creative energy. I like to remind myself that writing is a pleasure and a passion, not a project or profit. I wouldn’t let my loved ones overwork themselves, so I shouldn’t let it happen to me—for instance, getting worn out by trying to write for hours after work but the flow just isn’t there. I’m trying to set reasonable expectations for my writing, which puts less pressure on myself on days when I just don’t have the energy to create. It works out better for myself and the story I want to share. I also like supporting artists and writers in the community (reading, liking, commenting, and reblogging) because we’re all in this together, sharing ideas about the characters we love—I think a supportive community makes it all the more worthwhile to engage with and write for the fandom. And speaking with the friends I’ve made in this fandom have given my soul so much spark for what I already love to do!

#Ask meme #fanfic writer ask #hitman fandom #hitman fanfiction

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thatoneao3author · 11 months

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fic excerpt - bright as the stars

here’s another excerpt from chapter one of my au, bright as the stars. ian’s an actor who hosts a space-themed kids show called Interstellar Ian

this scene shows svetlana’s role in this universe as ian’s hair stylist/makeup artist and establishes mickey’s existence in this universe. this is like, the end of a larger scene, but I don’t wanna give you guys too much. enjoy!

Svetlana seemed entirely unshocked when words bubbled out of the ginger’s mouth as if he couldn’t stop them, as if he couldn’t possibly stay quiet and let the lady do her job.

That’s something that came with spending your teenage years acting: you get used to always talking.

“How was your weekend?” Ian questioned. Lana thought about it before answering a question he didn’t actually ask,

“They hired a new boy to the set.” she said as if she were just remembering, “I was packing up my supplies on Friday and suddenly, this cigarette-smoking ukrainian man is walking around in blue suit much less glamorous than yours. He was rude. I didn’t like him.”

Ian furrowed his eyebrows. He was usually informed when they casted someone new, but it sounded like this guy wasn’t an actor anyways.

“Oh! It’s the new electrician.” The actor realized after a moment, “I heard a spotlight operator say that something wasn’t working right through last week. And they just finally decided to hire someone long-term for the job.”

Ian remembered how whenever there were technical difficulties on set, the tech crew worked to fix it and if they couldn’t, they called whatever number they could find on local advertisements. It was always a different person that came in, unfamiliar with the wires and lights and sets of the warehouse and always one step in the wrong direction away from knocking over thousands of dollars worth of equipment.

So, by the beginning of season eight, they finally worked out a contract with an on-call electrician that would be around to help with whatever issues arose.

And apparently, said electrician was a rude Ukranian with a nicotine addiction.

“He was handsome, though. Tattoos, dark hair…your type of boy, I’m sure.” Svetlana mused, “You are still sworn off men, yes?”

“That makes me sound like a loner or someone saving myself for marriage.” he groaned. “I’m just…not looking for anything right now, y’know? Especially not with anyone who works on this set. I can’t- and won’t, do that again. Ever.”

“It’s not much of a problem if the man isn’t your costar or boss.” Svetlana pointed out, “Fucking writer’s room boy didn’t have many consequences, no?”

“It’s still not a good idea.” Ian insisted, straightening up slightly when Lana tapped his shoulder. She was now adding some creamy makeup over his eyelids, glancing between the two in order to check if they were even, tapping away with brushes and the tips of her fingers.

“Plus, how do you know ‘my type’? I don’t think I’m crazy for rude electricians.”

Before Svetlana could even try to reply, he was rambling again.

“Men can’t get away with being broke, having a bad personality, and looking mediocre. If you check off all three boxes, you might as well give up on love, I think. Mean electrician checks off two out of three, and he’d have to be crazy hot to rebalance the scale.”

“And what boxes do you check off?” Lana asked, sounding amused now.

“None! I’m perfect!” Ian replied without missing a beat. He wasn’t truly that confident, but the mock-annoyed eye roll he earned from his makeup artist made his face light up.

Even though they had grown, independently and closer, over the course of five years, it felt like their dynamic had been more or less the same since season one. It was a playful thing, where Svetlana pretended not to care for him and expressed annoyance and Ian played into messing with her whenever he got the chance.

Maybe it was childish, but he loved it.

“Shut up and tilt your head back, orange boy.” she ordered, tugging on Ian’s hair gently. She somehow made the motion look rough, though.

Ian complied, smile clear across his face.

The freckles that had once been on his face then were long faded away, but he couldn’t help but compare that moment to one from his first days on that set, when Svetlana was brand new to this career and asking him if he looked okay every few seconds.

There was that same playfulness. That same smile. That building comfort they now had with each other.

Ian loved being Interstellar Ian, because it lead to things- to relationships, like this.

remember to follow me if you’re interested in this au so you know when i get around to posting the first couple chapters of this! feel free to reblog with thoughts and send any questions you have my way! thanks <3

#shameless #Shameless US #shameless fanfiction #shameless fic #ian gallagher #svetlana milkovich #mickey milkovich #gallavich #gallavich fic #gallavich au #Interstellar Ian AU #actor!ian gallagher #mickey is the electrician who works on his set #sneak peek!

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