#golden hour man that lighting is magical

[ghostoffuturespast]

Mirage

#cyberpunk 2077 #virtual photography #night city streets #console shots #from the top #oc: valerie hye jin li #my grandpa v #stinky not fresh #golden hour man that lighting is magical #fem v #fem v friday #the real illusion is that i photographed this under an underpass...

[qingxin-dream]

“The Afterparty”

summary | lyney is the face of fontaine’s entertainment industry, stealing hearts with every flourish of his magic. however, in the night, lyney tends to entertain a different kind of crowd.

warnings | written pre-4.0, ooc lyney, light yandere themes (stalking/manipulation/obsession), a sprinkle of smut (creampie/implied dubcon) [18+, MDNI], brief mention of drugs/alcohol, reader is neutral but wears a dress, lyney uses a little french

genre | yandere, slight smut

word count | 1.6k

pairing | lyney x reader

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

It’s no mystery that the Great Magician of Fontaine is a man of many talents. His shows are famous across Teyvat for their grandeur and flare. Beautiful venues draped in red curtains frame the scene before a sea of velvety theater seats, skilled acrobats maneuver themselves among rings suspended in the air. Blazes of fire erupt from the stage dramatically. A master of misdirection, the audience falls for his tricks every time as he effortlessly makes the impossible possible.

Lyney is incredibly perceptive. He knows how to read people, as a showman can read his audience, a small smug smile crinkling the corner of his eyes if you’re paying attention. It’s an art form—the way he flips through the pages of your soul, licking his fingers to reveal the next juicy detail with ease. Rarely ever does anyone truly surprise someone as cynical as him, who has been personally privy to the vile nature of the Fatui.

A life of fame is never kind to anyone. The planning and training for shows is incredibly rigorous. Executing the stunts in front of a live audience is equally thrilling and terrifying. Without fail, the crowd is mesmerized and the show ends in a shower of roses and marriage proposals. Rinse and repeat. Though, this is only what Lyney allows the public to know of him.

It’s after hours, when the theater is empty and the stage is dim, when the mask begins to slip.

Lyney is the lead, the star, and as such he maintains his appearance by rubbing elbows with the elite of Fontaine. You’d never catch him amid the nightlife of the city, no. You wouldn’t believe the sheer grandeur of the dazzling, flamboyant parties thrown every night at the country’s largest mansions.

It was Arlecchino who insisted that he attends these lavish parties, rampant with the city’s darkest vices between drugs, alcohol, and sex. But Lyney is a cynical man, so this much is to be expected of wealthy aristocrats.

It was all a façade, couldn’t they see? It sickened him, how gullible people were and how obsessed they were with status. Not to mention the inevitable hordes of women who threw themselves at him.

Nevertheless, Lyney played the game well and with a bewitching, handsome smile. Eventually he had learned to take pleasure in this little game.

As fate would have it, you let your friend convince you to crash one of these extravagant parties with them. You had heard whispers of what takes place at night behind the golden gates of Fontaine’s richest residences. Why wouldn’t you want to have a taste of the finest wine, dressed in designer, getting lost in the magnificent corridors of a packed mansion of partygoers?

It’s something straight from the movies.

You emerged from the bushes to sneak inside, which wasn’t that difficult surprisingly. You wore your best dress, not knowing what to expect. It was a floor length, silky black dress with a sexy slit that traveled all the way up to your mid-thigh. You had a lovely string of pearls dangling from your pretty neck. A classic choice.

Unfortunately for you, Lyney is a man who is extremely attentive to his surroundings. After all, an illusionist must be a master of his environment as well. The moment he spots you, a mere reflection of something new and fascinating for him to discover, he gravitates to you smoothly.

“Mm, I don’t believe we’ve met,” his voice is an alluring, a well-practiced approach. Before you could even answer, Lyney had already taken note of your little mannerisms and nuances just in these few passing moments. He had already adjusted the figurative mirrors of misdirection in this little trick, assuring your undivided attention.

You glance to your friend, who isn’t there. Oh. You had been cornered without even the opportunity to explore the party.

More of a wallflower type, you found yourself struggling to conjure up a confident answer. You were acutely aware of who this gentleman is, and his egotistical demeanor was already a huge turn off.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know who I am,” he chuckled lightheartedly, yet there was a peculiar undertone hidden beneath. It was hard to place. He kisses your hand. “Lyney, the Great Magician.”

You withdrew your hand, unable to hide the way your eyebrows crinkled together with disinterest. Perhaps you should’ve been more prepared for these guests to be more brazen and unapologetic when they see something—or someone—they want.

Taking no for an answer is not even in the realm of possibility for these people.

The party continued on, gorgeous partygoers dancing and drinking to their heart’s content. All the while, Lyney kept his eyes trained on you. It wasn’t necessarily out of admiration; rather, it was curiosity. Why didn’t you bat your eyelashes at him like a good girl? Bite your lip when he kissed your hand?

He followed you like a ghost, slinking through the crowd tactfully to observe you. You were a rare creature indeed. None of the other women could hold a candle to you. Archons, he felt this unsettling churning in his stomach everyone your glimmering irises met his. His heart would tense instantaneously, threatening to explode within his chest.

You saw through Lyney from the moment he kissed your hand, and he hated it.

Through the night, you both danced this delicate tango around the massive mansion, a palpable tension tethering him to you. He was equally appalled and fascinated by you, never wasting any opportunity to slip in an innocent question or two to learn about you.

“A beautiful lady like you in a place like this… Do you feel lost in Wonderland yet, Alice?” Lyney had persuaded you to follow him to an unoccupied balcony, closing the French doors behind him.

He stalks toward you, his soft lavender irises cool and calculated. In an ashy flourish of embers, a deck of onyx cards materialized in his gloved hands. It had taken all evening, but just enough wine had passed beyond your lips to give Lyney the opportunity to disarm you.

“Not scared of a little fire, are you, love?” His voice was warm and inviting as a hearth, though it held a hint of mischief like that of a crackling inferno. Each mysterious card in his hand is shuffled with a distinct flick.

You were much more susceptible to his charm now more than ever, allowing him to weave glittering silk strands of harmless sweet nothings to entice you. Had you taken a step back, you would’ve seen the web for what it is. The grand reveal was imminent.

“Now, now, don’t fret. I won’t let anything harm you, chérie,” Lyney chuckles lightheartedly, as if he hadn’t been playing and pawing at you like a cat ready to pounce all night.

Your poor little breath hitched at every whisper and touch he gifted you. It started by fatefully picking the Queen of Hearts from his custom deck of cards. You should’ve known better. Maybe you should’ve picked the one next to it. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered.

Lyney’s lilac eyes spark with intrigue at your choice. How fitting. Had you paid any attention to the magician’s sneaky maneuvers, you would have seen that every card in the deck was from the suite of Hearts.

The illusion of choice.

He takes this as an opportunity to step closer, his hands reaching forward. Your chest is beating wildly, begging for relief from how he intoxicates you with just a flutter of his long lashes.

Lyney rests his hands on the marble railing on either side of your hips, drinking in your anticipation, your fear, and your desire. A small, smug smirk pulls at the corner of his pretty lips. He takes the liberty of helping you meet his gaze by bringing his wrist to his mouth, white teeth tugging to remove his glove. Your body feels weightless when he lifts your chin with his bare index finger and thumb.

The Great Magician would argue that he took extreme precautions to ensure the success of this escapade. It was all carefully calculated and orchestrated according to his whim. He had you exactly where he wanted you, blissfully unaware of how deep these exhilarating feelings for you had rooted themselves into his guarded heart.

“Do you feel the magic in my fingertips? Hehe, tonight’s show will be a private event for only for you, mon trésor.”

The night was a blur. Fading in and out of consciousness, one moment you were dancing with him in empty halls and the next you were enveloped in his embrace against a wall. Lyney would pin your hands above your head before pushing you onto the bed, catapulting you into his next breathtaking trick like one of the acrobats in his show.

The silhouettes of your frames were shadowed in the moonlight that bathed the sheets in silver. Lyney skillfully unzipped your dress. Clothes fell to the wayside, vanishing in a flourish of passion. There was no denying it. He had to have you, and you were such a willing participant in his performance.

Of course, the wealthy partygoers were none the wiser, the echoes of pleasure the Great Magician was able to rip from your lungs were easily deafened by the music of their own opulent fantasies.

What is a magician if not an artist who must mark what is rightfully his—painting your womb with a decadent display, a growl escaping his throat.

However, Lyney is a perfectionist. When he catches a glimpse of his seed spilling out of you, he is quick to stuff his slender fingers into your overstimulated hole and seal the masterpiece with a final kiss on your bruised lips.

“Magnifique…” ❤️

thanks for reading! reblogs are appreciated! my masterlist.

#[opulent dreams].✿ #[dreams of delusion].✿ #genshin impact #genshin #genshin impact imagines #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #genshin yandere #genshin smut #genshin lyney #lyney x reader #yandere lyney #lyney smut

[swappingbryn]

It’s Your Soul, Cry If You Want To

We’d been on several dates, had never had sex, she kept saying she was old fashioned and didn’t want to rush. However, she finally agreed to stay the night and as you were getting ready, pumped up if you will, when his insecurities got the better of him.

I wasn’t ugly, and had sent a picture of myself, but I knew I could look better, I wasn’t short, but just being average FEELS short, and my dick was fine, but bigger is always better. I knew I couldn’t change any of this, I just wish I had all these ideal qualities. I sighed “I wish I was that version of myself.”

Suddenly, a cloud of blue smoke swirled in front of me, solidifying into a tall, horned man.

“Mortal, I will grant you anything you desire, but there is a price, the only question is, are you willing to pay it?” He questioned.

“What? Who are you?” I replied.

“Who, rather what, I am matters not. What matters is what you want and what you’ll pay for it” he answered while waving a hand. I went to protest, but suddenly felt the need to not ask anymore questions.

“I have a big date, and I really like her, but I don’t know if she’ll like me. I just want to be different, like the best version of me.” I said.

“I can do that for you. Make you taller, better looking, muscular, more endowed, even richer, smarter, and can even guarantee she will like you. But that is not free.” It replied.

“What will it cost me? I don’t have much money.” I told him.

“I have no need for money, and I’m offering YOU wealth. What I want is your soul.” As he said this I recoiled, “But worry not, you will retain most of it for the rest of your life, I will only claim it after you’ve lived a long, healthy life. You’ll have fifty good years living as the best possible version of yourself, happy, with a loving wife and large family. All you give is the time after you die.” He finished.

“I can’t, this is so wrong.” I quickly said.

“I understand, I will leave you.” And with that, he swirled back into a cloud of smoke. As he was vanishing, I couldn’t help myself.

“Wait, I accept” I yelled.

The blue cloud enveloped me and then solidified again, but everything was different. My apartment was larger, filled with nicer things, better view, my clothes were nicer, I was taller and could feel my mind running faster, and a heavy weight in my pants.

He snapped his fingers and a speck of light, smaller than the head of a match, flew out of me. It hovered in the air until he took a deep, magically deep breath, almost like a vacuum sucking it into him. He held that breath for a long time, and as he did, his body changed.

As he held that breath, his horns receded into his head, his skin turned a human shade of tanned white, he looked almost normal, except the eyes, his eyes stayed eerily golden. After what seemed like hours, but was really less than a minute, he exhaled, and then his eyes changed to blue, the same shade mine are, or were, as it looks like mine turned a dull brown.

He walked out of my penthouse apartment, looking entirely human now. Showing off his body, acting cocky and sure of himself.

“See you later bro, not too soon, I think you have, hmm, fifty seven years. I hope you enjoy your new life. Don’t worry, to everyone else, this has always been this way, so you don’t need to be afraid of people noticing.” And with that, he left.

Thank you @swapsrus for suggesting this model.

[julisthings]

Noise 🎧

Carmen Berzatto x fem(reader)

Part 1!

Plot: You’re an up and coming chef who just moved to Chicago for culinary school. As you search for work while completing school, you stumble upon an old Italian sandwich shop.

Warnings: Excessive Profanity, mentions of smoking and anxiety

Themes: eventual smut, slow burn, mentor/mentee dynamic

Author’s Note: Lmk if you enjoy this and if you’re interested in more :D.

*Tick, Tick, Tick*

The train clammers along its tracks everywhere you go, the sounds are thunderous but calming to the soul. Many people may say cities like Chicago are too busy to live in, but the chaos and bustle is where you thrive. The streets are busy, the lights are constantly gleaming, and best of all the food is amazing. This couldn’t be a more perfect place to be, Chicago was where it was at.

As the pulse of the city continues to beat within itself, the bills rack up. Student tuition ain’t going to pay itself so you find yourself in a desperate need of work. You’ve been applying to numerous places but no dice. Dejected, you walk home from a failed job interview, but as you walk heavily in your interview attire you see a sign on a small sandwich shop saying “ Help Wanted”. Curious, you step into the shop seeing what this opportunity may offer.

The moment you walk in, you hear chaos in the kitchen. Yelling from the front to the back of the shop. The shop itself is quite shabby, not the cleanest but it has its charm. You walk up to the register to see a tall dude with a beard yelling profanities and crude remarks as all hell breaks loose.

*Ding Ding*

“Uh hi! I saw you guys were offering employing opportunities, is there anyone I could possibly talk to about it?”

The guy, mid fight, stops and looks at you confused. He looks at the front window then yells to the back of the shop.

“HEY CUZ! SOMEONE’S LOOKING TO TALK ABOUT YOUR BITCH ASS HELP WANTED SIGN!”

You hear a voice come from the back.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, WE NEED THE HELP RICHIE.”

…

*pots clamoring*

“ Fuck- I’LL TALK TO THEM IN A BIT JUST TELL THEM TO WAIT”

The tall guy looks back at you with slight annoyance from the interaction but he keeps his best to stay calm to you.

“Just sit tight sweetheart, that asshole will probably take a while. “

He points at the menu

“ Want to order something in the meantime?”

You look at the menu and see that there’s a new menu item with “NEW” in bold.

“Uh… I’ll just take the new braised meat sandwich.”

After you order your sandwich, you wait by the seats at the front of the store. Amongst all the chaos, the view outside is nice. You pop in your ear buds and once you get your sandwich you just stare out the window and eat.

The shop seemed to be having a slow day, only one person came in every other 20 minutes. Poor dudes. The owner seems to be dealing with other shit so you decided to give the sandwich a chance. As you grasp the crisp yet pillowy bread, the crackle of the exterior creates a beautiful melody to the ear.

*crunch*

You bite down.

Holy. shit. The first bite into the sandwich was pure magic. The meat was tender, braised to the perfect temperature with great aromatics. The vegetables pair perfectly to the salty savory flavor of the meat. Such complex flavors in one sandwich. Who would’ve thought a place like this would have something this special.

*CRASH*

You’ve waited for almost an hour at this point. You get about halfway through the sandwich before you hear a distant voice getting closer. A man with wavy golden brown hair appears looking stressed out of his mind. He argues with the tall dude with the beard for a bit before seeing you by the front.

*tap tap tap*

You hear footsteps behind you.

(C)“ Hey, uhm are you the person asking about employment?”

You turn around, face to face with piercing blue eyes. You take your earphones out.

“Oh, uh yes! I’m y/n, it’s nice to meet you“. *reaches out hand*

He shakes it firmly. His eyes look into your soul, they blaze with a determination and firmness but there’s a strange beauty behind their bluish clarity. Their borderline disconcerting and beautiful.

(C)“Yes, hi. My name is Carmen Berzatto but my friends call me Carmy. I’m uh the owner of this place and it’s really great that you’ve got an interest here.”

His eyes linger, along with an air that lasts a beat too long.

(C)“ Shit uh… Please! Come with me so we can talk about this further. “

He guides you towards the back of the kitchen. As you make your way through the kitchen you hear

“Corner!”

You whirl to the side as a tall burley man with a beanie comes through with a tray of bread. You try your best following Carmen as he keeps moving forward, you lag behind a bit. He says

(C)“Right, so uhm do you have a resume or anything?”

You look at him and remember you have your bag.

“Ah yes yes of course.”

You hand him your resume and as he grabs it he peruses through your credentials. As you look around in the meantime, amongst the chaos there’s a homey feeling about this place. You can see and smell the history of the place. Not only with the food, but a teeny bit of mold you see in the corner of the ceiling. As you recoil a bit from seeing that you find yourself face to face with an office door.

*Creak*

Close to smacking your head on the sudden change, you feel a rough callused hand gently cover your head.

(C)“Careful. There’s a dip”

You enter the office and Carmen sits down, putting your resume to the side.

(C)“ Sooo… what kind of positions are you interested in.”

“Ideally would like to work my way up from a line cook to a sous chef. Big dreams for such little time haha.”

His eyes light up a bit. Your charm has intrigued him.

(C) “Ha, ok. Driven I see. Well you’ve got some great heat in some kitchens. Good stuff on here. New Orleans, Vegas, Italy. Not a Chicago native huh?”

“ Yeah no I’ve just started settling. Already love it though.”

The sides of his mouth rise slightly.

*Tick, Tick, Tick*

(C)“ Ok, so what are you doing here? “

“Hm?”

He leans back on his chair

(C) “ You’re experienced, if not overqualified to work here. So why are you here and not at a Michelin?”

You stare at him unsure how to answer at first. You decide to just tell the truth.

“ I need a job. I have talent but you can’t ride on that forever. Got lucky in the past with it but I’m going to culinary school to get more refined. “

His face is hard to read. It gets you a bit more anxious.

“ Look I’ve got student loans to pay off and I just got here so rent ain’t cheap. Im not picky. A job is a job, so I’ll treat it like any other place. “

You can see a spark of excitement in Carmen’s eyes

(C) “ just like a Michelin?”

“ For sure. ”

Carmen looks at you for a second and then looks at your resume. You can see his deep lines from all the furrowing he does with his brows. He sets it down

(C) “ We’re family here. If I say yes I gotta know if you’re a team player or not. Even if people get on your fucking nerves I gotta know if you’ll keep a cool head. “

You nod. Carmen sees this and shows a small smile and nods his head.

(C) “ Ok. I think you got potential.”

You beam

(C) “ Get here at 6am sharp for prep. You got that chef?”

You smile widely

“ Yes chef!”

#the bear #carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto x reader #slow burn

[solecize]

  ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ  𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 | 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: every summer on your grandpa's farm was real-life magic to your younger self, who left a piece of her heart in amber valley when the years went on and the town became nothing but a faint childhood memory. soon enough, you become rocked by his death and realize the dead end in your bustling city world. this leads to you making an abrupt decision.

despite knowing nothing but designer purses and the corporate ladder, you uproot your entire life to take over your grandfather's old farm in the town you were desperately trying to remember - alongside a familiar face from your youth that permanently finds his way into your heart.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: jungkook/reader 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. inspired heavily by stardew valley, friends to lovers, childhood friends, cowboy jungkook, small town alternate universe, slice of life, grief, growing up, mutual pining, jungkook as a parental figure 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. 3.8k 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒. no warning except main characters being dumb and some SERIOUS tension

part six: the dreams and the sunday market ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ   ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ   ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ previous. next. masterlist

xv. the dreams

you were dreaming of kissing jeon jungkook.

  it was akin to a recurring nightmare, the way you woke up in cold sweat after picturing his beautiful lips on yours in your sleep. ever since the night where the two of you shared dinner, the image haunted you and chased you even in your lack of consciousness. it didn’t help that your day always began at five a.m, leaving you waking up, distraught, and no sun to warm your surroundings. 

  today in particular was not looking to be on your side. you slept through your first two alarms after getting lost in the dream of kissing jungkook on a beach in front of luscious palm trees and golden sand. even worse, it was the day of jungkook’s return to the farm.

  in the hours between your awakening and jungkook’s arrival, your nerves casted away your grogginess. you wondered why you didn’t decline his offer to finish the gate, but remembered he made it clear he didn’t have feelings for you - there should be no problem, then.

  since he was coming in the evening, you had an entire day ahead of you. somehow, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. it was maddening, as if the thoughts of jeon jungkook settled beneath your skin and chased your every move. it was a gloomy day with light showers, but the thoughts kept you warm and you didn’t like it one bit. 

  by 5 p.m, you were wrapped up for the day. it shouldn’t have taken so long, but with your late wake-up and the plaguing image of your childhood best friend, you found yourself sluggish. you decided that you were going to proceed like you’d done in the weeks prior.

  the last thing you wanted to take care of was inspect the garage once more. you’d been meaning to test out the old tractor inside to determine if you could sell it off or not, but it was a problem when the door was stuck in the same place. now, you were outside, wrestling with the garage, once again.

  “i guess this does have to be fixed. . .” you mumbled to yourself, remembering jungkook’s words.

  then, you heard your name being called. it startled you, since you hadn’t had any visitors in quite some time, considering jungkook’s absence. however, you knew that voice from a mile away and weren’t surprised when you turned around, taking notice of him approaching across the fields, coming face to face with the man in question.

  you hastily wiped the beads of sweat on your temple. “hey,” you said when you saw jungkook, who likely wandered to the fields when you didn’t answer the front door.

  “hey, y/n,” jungkook replied, setting his toolbox down by the fence he was to work on. today, he was wearing a black button down over a white t-shirt with jeans. his hair had grown slightly longer since you first arrived to amber valley and you liked the way it fell over his eyebrows. 

  as you always did, you graciously thanked him. “i really appreciate you coming to help me out.” even though he essentially shut down any possibility of you being able to come to terms with any feelings you had. you didn’t say that part out loud. 

  “stop that, you know i just want to lend a hand,” he waved you off and you wondered if that was what you knew. you weren’t sure if that was what your silent agreement with jungkook truly involved, with his persistence and your strong will - two things that were not easily challenged, but crumbled at one another.

"you still fighting with that old thing?" jungkook chuckled softly, looking at the garage door behind you.  

you only rolled your eyes. "i thought i could get it."  

he shook his head, continuing to laugh, and then glanced at the watch on his wrist. “oh, i guess this is the first time i’ve come by in the evening. you’re done work for once.”  

you didn’t realize this fact either and tried to fight a silent panic - you usually had a task that you could pretend to be busy with, in order to distract yourself from jungkook’s presence. then, you began what to wonder what was wrong with you? it was just jungkook. were your vivid dreams really chasing you into acting strangely? and was he not quieter than usual, or were you overthinking things?

  jungkook eventually excused himself to get to work and you decided that you needed to push your barrage of thoughts and questions away. instead, you entered the kitchen and proceeded to make dinner as usual, except a bit extra for your handyman of a friend.

  when you peeked outside after finishing, you saw that jungkook was drilling something into place. he’d taken off his button down shirt at some point, tying it around his waist. you cleared your throat loudly to get his attention, but it didn’t stand a chance against the sound of the drill.

  “jeon jungkook!” you yelled, but he still couldn’t hear you. it was only when you brought your hands to your lips and let out a loud whistle when he finally caught your eye, turning the drill off promptly.

  jungkook shook his head in disbelief, walking towards you with a laugh. “namjoon was right, that is a really loud whistle you can do.”

  “i made dinner,” you said, hiding your nerves. in reality, you knew little could go wrong, as the two of you were sharing meals together for weeks. unless, of course, if he tried setting you up with a friend again.

  “you know, i took you as someone who would be shit at cooking, but you’re pretty good,” jungkook teased, as he left his tools on the ground and walked towards you. “and thanks, of course.”

  you rolled your eyes. “i’m good at everything.”

  “lies. there’s a bunch of things i’m better than you at,” he mused, as he opened the door back inside for you. 

  the half-serious bickering made you drop your shoulders in ease, settling back into the same comfortable atmosphere that you always shared with jungkook. this was still the brat that used to whine if you got a better guitar hero score than him.

  the two of you soon settled into some local gossip. jungkook began telling you about how your grandpa used to constantly predict that the lee family would divorce sooner or later, which was apparently now in progress. you wondered how close he really was to him.

  “i wish we gave him one more summer with the three of us,” you said, as the two of you moved in fluid motions around the kitchen. the movements were natural and almost domestic, with jungkook knowing where all of the plates and silverware was and made it his job to set the table. meanwhile, you began getting the food ready.

  he nodded. “i think he would have liked that. he’s probably happy that we’ve become friends again.”

  the image of your dreams last night flashed before your eyes when jungkook said the word “friends” and you chose to ignore it. 

  instead, you responded, “i’d like to think that we never stopped.” your voice was quiet, unsure of the statement that you just offered. 

  it was nice, the way that you and jungkook managed to pick up your friendship after thirteen years as if nothing happened in between. and, even then, over the past month, the two of you slowly began to grasp the lives you led in the time apart. the people you grew into. somehow, it still clicked.

  jungkook paused, in the middle of bringing out plates from the cupboards. “you know, me too,” he said. “too bad you stopped responding to my letters.”

  this made you also freeze in place, eyebrows furrowed at his remark. “what do you mean? i didn’t stop responding,” you turned around to face him. “you’re the one that stopped replying.”

  “i’m pretty sure i was the last one to send a letter, bunny,” jungkook chuckled, but you sensed some bitterness. “i sent you a letter one spring and then when june rolled around, your grandpa randomly told me you weren’t coming back.”

  you shook your head, lips parted. “i never got a letter.”

by now, you finished setting food on the table. it was a full american-style breakfast, with chicken and waffles, scrambled eggs, and a platter of fruit from the farm. you made a jug of iced tea and set out some water. jungkook’s eyes trailed to the table and his eyes were unreadable.

  “that’s too bad,” he spoke slowly, as if remembering something. “breakfast for dinner?” then, jungkook shook his head, as if shaking the thoughts off, and proceeded to set the rest of the table.

  your eyes widened. “sorry, do you not like it? i thought it would be a good change - “

  “no, it’s not that! thank you, it looks delicious. i love breakfast for dinner,” jungkook smiled. it was as if he flipped a switch and you were itching to know what he was thinking before.

  “if you’re not up for it - “

  “you’re annoying, come sit down with me,” jungkook interjected again, but was playful and rubbed his hands together, ready to dig in.

  you punched his shoulder, which you knew did little damage, but he yelped anyway. sitting down across from him, jungkook began serving the both of you and you didn’t object when he plopped food on your plate for you. it was the same routine that you had before and frankly, it was nice.

  “i just didn’t think it would you’d never come back to town again,” he commented and you were confused, until you remembered what he said earlier. 

  you found yourself biting the inside of your cheek. “me neither. i don’t know what hapened, i used to love it here. . “ you trailed off, looking around your surroundings and out the window, where the silver of the amber valley sky looked down on you. “i did try looking for you at some point, but you aren’t on social media.”

  jungkook shook his head, pouring two cups of iced tea. “not really. and especially not after i started taking care of jiwon.” he passed one cup to your side, which you quietly thanked him for. “i think i saw you one time online, in early high school, but you looked different and i wasn’t sure.”

  like every teenager, you had a phase of experimenting with your look and went through different kinds of hair colours and makeup styles. now, in your twenties, you’d grown tired of constant change and like your city life, settled for mundane and simple. just before his passing, your grandpa once remarked that you began to look like yourself again.

  “we would’ve still been best friends in high school. i’d keep you around to copy off your homework,” you joked, cutting into a waffle. you weren’t kidding when you told jiwon about how smart jungkook was, as he’d always been since you two were young. though you were academically gifted yourself, you’d held jealousy for the way jungkook learned every hobby you liked at twice the learning speed.

  “aw, i was your best friend?” jungkook banterd, which made you kick him underneath the table. “i’m joking. we’re best friends forever, isn’t what we put on the tree?”

  “oh my god, don’t remind me of that!” your cheeks went hot, as you recalled that memory that jungkook was referring to.

  when you were about nine years old, you and jungkook had the genius idea to carve your names into a random tree by the town square. while doing so, you were caught by mayor kim walking by, who made a big deal out of you kids “defacing” town property. when he scolded you and told your grandpa though, the latter got a kick out of it. 

  the rest of the conversation was light, which was exactly what you needed. in spite of this, jungkook’s remarks about your letters echoed in the back of your mind. you made a mental note to look into his claim - though the said letters from your childhood likely lived in your dad’s apartment, where you had spent your middle school to high school years at.

  midway through the dinner-slash-breakfast, you caught the way jungkook’s eyes were fixated on you and didn’t move. you gave him a questioning look and he sighed.

  jungkook said, “there’s jam on your face.” his tone was pretending to be disappointing, but holding back a laugh.

  “oh, where?” you began wiping your cheek, which turned out to be dry. you continued swiping around, still missing.

  he groaned. “it’s literally right there. by your nose, bunny. come on.” 

  after looking like he was about to simultaneously lose his mind and burst out laughing, his chair creaked loudly against the wooden flooring and jungkook stood up. he made strides around the table over to you and bent down to meet you at eye-level. you jumped at the sudden movement and the fact that jungkook’s face was inches away from yours. he was so close that you could count every single one of his long eyelashes if you tried.

  “it’s right. . .here.” at some point, jungkook ripped away a piece of paper towel from your side and you nearly flinched when you felt his touch on your cheek. 

  he gently wiped away the spread with a tilted head and a crease forming in between his brows, seemingly looking everywhere but in your eyes. you were so close to him that you could hear his steady breathing. you wondered if he was close enough to hear the army marching in the middle of your chest. it was hard for you to breathe yourself when your entire body froze at the contact.

  you managed to let out a whisper, fighting the shiver creeping up your spine. “thanks.”

  jungkook’s lips looked exactly like they did in your dreams. “no problem.” his voice was low and you swore you saw his eyes flash to your own lips, before looking up at you.

  you weren’t sure how long the two of you were still for. the only thing in your ears was the sound of your heart, which was amplified over the ticking of the grandfather clock several feet away. nobody dared to move until the ringing of a cell phone, which caused both of you to jump.

  it was jungkook’s. the phone was sitting on the dining table and it rang because you knew he always kept his phone off vibrate for his sister. when you saw a picture of jiwon and jungkook making silly faces at each other flash on the screen, you cleared your throat and scooted backwards, knowing that jungkook was going to immediately take the call.

  “sorry, one sec,” jungkook eventually snapped back into reality when he saw his screen. he picked up his phone and trailed into the living room to take the call.

  it was time for you snap back into reality, too. you felt stupid and like you wanted to bang your head into the table in front of you. there was no way he was going to kiss you, you’d witnessed one too many reruns of this fantasy in your dreams. you just spoke about how great your friendship was.

  best friends forever. you repeated that in your mind, along with jungkook talking your ear off about how great you and taehyung would look together.

xvi. the sunday market

on the last sunday of each month, the valley closed up most of its main roads for pedestrian access only and the community came out to hold a market in the town square. local busineses came out to sell their usual and offer up fun, seasonal products to buy. your grandfather usually set up a stand, but you found yourself a little too shy to be doing it alone for your first month in town. thankfully, you were wedged between jimin and hoseok, right in between their booths. 

  “honestly, i’m glad you’re with us, y/n. at least we can all smell like fish,” hoseok hummed, as he began unfolding a tablecloth.

  to this, jimin rolled his eyes and continued shuffling through some flyers in his hand. “we’re not even selling fresh fish this month.” in front of him was instead a variety of different seafood products, such as artisanal spread, marinated seafood in jars and sustainably sourced caviar. 

  meanwhile, you were proud of what you scrambled together last minute. cartons of eggs, jugs of milk, yogurt, and quick-growing crops like microgreens and radishes. you took your job very seriously and wanted to make a good impression on the townsfolk.

  “thank you, y/n! hoseok, can you put some sunblock on for once? sheesh, you’re going to get burnt!” hoseok’s mom, mrs. jung, was one of your first customers that day and happily took home some fresh basil and eggs. her sneer at hoseok was clear as day, even underneath her floppy hat, snapping at her son from right beside you.

  hoseok groaned. “mom, i’m almost thirty. stop!” and still, he reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle of sunscreen. 

  mrs. jung ignored him. “bye, y/n! bye jiminnie!” she blew a kiss to jimin, which made hoseok grumble.

  you laughed at the interaction, as you fanned yourself with one of jimin’s flyers. it’d been less than an hour since the market began and it was still early in the morning, so the square was sparse. you could even look down to your left and still see seokjin’s booth on the other side of the market, beside the mayor’s booth manned by namjoon. 

  it was now the end of june and marked your first month in town. the skies were clear and bright, a sight that you promised yourself you wouldn’t take for granted. every morning, you woke up before the sun did and by the time the morning came up to greet you, you were filled with vibrant energy for the day.

  “hi unnie! you look like you’re in a good mood today!” it was jiwon, holding onto peanut with one hand and her teddy bear in another. she was stylish for a kid her age, wearing jeans and a trendy graphic t-shirt that you suspected was jungkook’s influence.

  taking a cautious scan of your surroundings, you let out a quiet breath of relief when you saw that jungkook wasn’t around. he was definitely nearby, though, you had a feeling he wouldn’t let jiwon roam around with the puppy with anyone else.

  you greeted, “hi jiwon! you’re up early.” it was about nine in the morning and if you were a kid, you would not be a morning person during summer vacation.

  “yeah, oppa made me come with him,” she yawned extra loud, clutching her leash close.

  to your right, jimin cleared his throat. “where is jungkook?” he asked.

  “he’s avoiding y/n,” jiwon sang, like it was a normal thing to say out of the blue.

  your ears turned pink. you thought the two of you were good. it’d been over a week since your dinner with him at the saloon. now come to think about it, since your last encounter, jungkook had yet to make another return to the farm to finish whatever gate he was repairing - you stopped keeping track at some point, just letting him come over and continuing to hope that he found something new to fix. 

  hoseok pinched his nose. “jiwon, you can’t rat my boy out like that,” he whispered, side-eying you, even though you could clearly see. 

  to add fuel to the fire, you noticed the way jimin was scoping his surroundings. his eyes narrowed over to a corner, where you finally saw jungkook talking to mayor kim. when you did so, he looked over and made eye contact with you for the briefest of seconds, before darting away. before you knew it, jimin began hollering.

  “hey! jungkook! come here!”

  “what are you doing?” you hissed, taking a step towards jimin’s booth. “i thought we made a truce, park jimin.”

  “trust me, i’m helping you out.” jimin’s cheeky grin made you take a deep breath, holding back profanity for jiwon.

  you weren’t sure if the boys knew anything about what was going on with you and jungkook. hell, you weren’t even sure what was going on with you and jungkook. ever since he began detatching, you’d become confused and kept second guessing if you said or did something wrong. maybe coming by his house randomly was weird, but he did the exact same thing. the way he randomly suggested taehyung as a date for you also sent mixed signals.

  jungkook and mayor kim looked towards your direction, taken aback. then, jungkook gave the latter a polite smile, before walking in your direction. great.

  “did you need help with something, jimin?” the tight-lipped smile and tone coming from jungkook indicated he didn’t want to help with anything at all.

  jimin’s smile remained on his face, as he shook his head. “have you seen y/n’s, uh, cilantro? so fresh.”

  you turned to jimin, dumbfounded, but also irritated that you got roped into the conversation. meanwhile, jiwon batted her eyelashes, looking back and forth between you and her brother. her innocent demeanour was almost convincing, but you knew you were dealing with a jeon here. 

  “oh, hi. i didn’t see you there, y/n,” jungkook said. 

  bullshit. your tablecloth was bright yellow, compared to jimin and hoseok using the same white for their booths. you were wearing red lipstick and a sundress. he definitely noticed you. this made your jaw tense, annoyed that jungkook was acting different out of nowhere.

  “yup,” was all you could say, a dry tone settling in your voice.

  jungkook raised his eyebrows. “late night or something?” he asked, as if your voice indicated fatigue.

  “no.”

  “your eyebags say otherwise.” usually, jungkook teased you with a certain playfulness, but he instead matched your dry tone.

  hoseok immediately interjected, “oh, haha! ha - uh, haha!” he forced laughter out as if pushing with brute force, looking at you and jungkook strangely. the question in his eyes read what’s wrong with you two clear as day.

  you shrugged and luckily at that very moment, a small family began walking in your direction and approached your booth. on the other hand, jungkook suddenly became fascinated with the infused syrups at hoseok’s table and found the energy to talk his ear off about the ingredients. you missed the way jiwon shot a dirty look at jimin, as if this was his fault.

  “why are they acting weird?” jimin whispered to the smaller girl, as if buddies gossiping on the playground. 

  jiwon only rolled her eyes and huffed, walking away with peanut. she murmured things under her breath about adults being useless, wondering why she had to wake up early all to witness a dumpster fire between you and jungkook. she walked away, muttering to herself something about how she was determined to prove she was the only one with brains around here.

  𝐓𝐀𝐆 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓. @sstrongstyletyle @wobblewobble822@taiwan0618 @seokout @firelcrds @xwniazx @shellyyy177

#jungkook fanfic #kpop fanfic #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #bts x reader #bts imagine #bts au #bts series #jungkook imagine #jungkook au #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #bts fluff #bts angst #kpop imagine #kpop scenarios #jungkook scenarios #jungkook x oc #jungkook x y/n

[some-bunniii]

— self indulgence time, say howdy to my hellaverse oc! [+ a fic]

Kokabiel, one of Hell’s original celebrities and fashion icons [art by mamma_hisa]

I have a 6k word fic that’s been sitting in my drafts for awhile, and i worked long enough on it so i think it deserves some sunlight

i wrote the first chapter to a lucifer x oc story in an AU where Lilith leaves when Charlie is a baby and Kokabiel accidentally becomes her maternal figure, and it was going to be long but then I never touched it again ☠️ she was made originally made for the fic but she’s so gorgeous and mommy i spent days fleshing her out as my main bbyg.

working on a few things so take this for now to get a taste of her and some morningstar love! no romance, just introductions.

“Charlie, please go to sleep” The pearlescent figure next to the small bed begged the toddler, who was trying to scramble out of his grip and away from the covers that were wrapped around her waist.

The man’s platinum-blonde hair was disheveled, dark bags under his eyes from the lack of sleep that was quite evident on his features as he tiredly pulled the girl back onto the bed, holding her still as she whined against his hands. 

His mouth opened in a wide yawn, his shark-like teeth glinting in the soft light that emanated from the bedside lamp next to him. He blinked slowly, trying to rid himself of the exhaustion that was trying to overtake him, his eyelids beginning to droop even as he continued to wrestle his daughter. 

Charlie shot her father a nasty glare, brows furrowed as she frowned deeply. The bright red spots that graced the chub of her cheeks lowered as her lips curled downward. They were one of the many features she shared with the pale man before her, including those soft, sun-kissed locks and snow-bathed skin. 

She also shared the same tired eyes that met hers sternly, but her mind was too active to allow her body those much-needed hours of rest. 

The rest her father, Lucifer Morningstar, also needed.

“I know you’re sleepy, sweetheart! Just lay still so daddy can get some shut-eye too, hm?”

“No!” Charlie whined, lips puckered in distraught as her strength began to wane. Why would she sleep when she could be playing with her stuffed goats instead?! It just wasn’t fair!

“Yes!” Lucifer commanded, before he growled softly and lifted a finger towards the small child, a glint of golden light lit on the tip of his claw as he pressed it softly against Charlie’s forehead. 

For a moment it flickered against her pale skin, and Lucifer removed his finger as Charlie froze at the sudden tingling sensation.

Her mouth was in the shape of a small o as she tried to get a look at whatever her father had placed on her, but the only clue in her vision was the twinkle of aurum light. A warmth began to seep into her skin, emanating from the magic blooming across her face.

Like a firework launching into the night sky, the tiny orb shot from her forehead up towards the ceiling, before it burst into a flurry of sparks that glimmered in the darkness, casting the walls with their vibrant hues.

The golden light danced above Charlie’s head, her eyes wide and in awe as the golden sparks began to melt into rippling waves that spiraled across the ceiling.

Lucifer flicked off the bedside light, the room darkening slightly as the magic above basked the room in a subtle warm glow as it pulsed rhythmically.

He still sat beside the bed, hand resting limply against Charlie’s chest as the interest in her eyes soon turned to sleepiness, and her eyelids began to droop.

Lucifer watched with a small smile as a magical display began to lull Charlie into sleep, and it only took a few more minutes before her face relaxed into a peaceful expression and her breathing swallowed.

Roughling rubbing a hand down his face with a sigh, Lucifer stood from the floor. His fuzzy pink robe drooped from his shoulders just enough to expose his bare, finely chiseled chest.

Quietly, he tip-toed across the bedroom, stepping over dolls, stuffed animals, and other trinkets that littered the floor. As long as he was careful, he wouldn’t risk waking the child.

Lucifer’s fingers wrapped around the door handle, before he waved his hand in the air, and the golden light dispersed, showering the room in shadows once more.

Cracking open the door just a tad, he slipped into the hallway. Lucifer’s back hit the door’s solid, oak frame as he exhaled a sigh of relief. The fallen angel felt like he could slide down onto the plush red carpet and hibernate right there, but he was the King of Hell, he had too much self-respect for that.

Raking a hand through his disheveled hair, Lucifer began to drag his feet down the hall, fatigue gnawing at his mind as he passed by the large paintings that hung upon the dark red walls, a perfect backdrop to the fair-skinned figures that posed elegantly inside the gold-framed portraits.

A man, his apple-red cheeks practically brushing against the edges of his face as he smiled brightly. A woman stood tall beside him, a dark purple dress hugging her curved figure as she posed regally. Her fingers entwined with her counterpart, their intimacy evident.

Lucifer would take that down, eventually. It only ever reminded him of painful memories, of that violet, sultry gaze through which she would send him as they basked in the warmth of the large fireplace in the large lounge in their castle. 

Wine glasses emptied again and again as the King listened to her gentle humming, her fingers laced with his as she pulled him closer. Her lips left wet, sloppy kisses against his chin. The faint trail of black lipstick as her mouth connected with his in a passionate embrace of body and soul, intertwined.

Lilith, the previous Queen of Hell. Lucifer’s ex-wife, Charlie’s mother.

How long had she been gone now? Lucifer knew the exact day, he practically memorized the minute and hour when she left. When Lilith had sent him one last look from the open front door, her gaze unreadable through the black shades on her face, her honey-colored hair flowing like water around her figure as the two lovers locked eyes for the final time.

“Goodbye, Lou,” Lilith had whispered, her voice like silk against his ears even in such an anguished moment. Strands of hair covered her features as she spoke, shielding her expression as she turned her head, her back facing the fallen angel as she stepped through the threshold. 

Out of his home, out of his world. 

And, Charlie’s too. It’s hard explaining to a child that their mommy went on a very, very long vacation. He’d have the courage to tell her… eventually. Except, that meant she might one day blame him, too.

What could Lilith have been feeling, happiness, sorrow, anger? Lucifer would never know, he had tried so desperately to even understand why she had left in the first place. Had there been signs? An argument of some kind he had forgotten? What had he done wrong, that his first love and the mother of his child, would leave him to care for Charlie and the realm, all alone?

It was Lilith who held most of the influence when it came to the lower-classed demons, her words and songs enlightening the residents of Hell, cultivating the realm like a garden as she watered the needy and uprooted those with dark intentions like invasive weeds.

To the people of Hell, Lucifer was the epitome of complete, ultimate power. The embodiment of pride, and the reminder of who would always have control. 

He was rarely seen in public, especially in his own Ring, full of the very demons he despised the most. Sure, he had his covers on magazines and face plastered all over LuLu World, but that was where it ended.

Instead, the King kept his duties strictly to those most loyal and most powerful. The rest of the Deadly Sins, the Ars Goetia family, and once in a while joining on an overlord meeting. 

As long as they understood who not to cross, the safety and security of his family would never be at risk, if one could even try and pose any threat to one of the first creations. The Morningstar that shone before Lilith, before Earth, before everything.

In all honesty, Lucifer didn’t really do… anything, when it came to his subjects. 

It was Lilith whose appearance was imprinted into the minds of her subjects through her many concerts and powerful political influence. It was she who had given them the confidence to defy Heaven, to stand against their exterminations that plagued the Pride Ring once a year.

Now, Lucifer was left to hold up face, to keep the realm from divulging into chaos, as the stability of the hierarchy of Hell slipped slowly and slowly through his fingers. No matter how many demons he could smite with the snap of his fingers, the sinful on Earth would always be sent to him as punishment, for the both of them. 

He needed to keep them all in line, as respectfully as possible.

Which meant Lucifer was alone to take care of Charlie, who was insanely active and needy for attention, like any demon her age. She couldn’t stay out of trouble, and Lucifer had to juggle her, his own volatile emotions that had been causing him to skip more and more meals, and the piling events that always filled his days this time of the year. 

The annual gatherings with the Ars Goetia that he had to attend symbiotically to keep their unwavering loyalty, the meetings to make sure the rest of the Sins were keeping their rings afloat, and flaunting a little bit of his power to the Overlords in Pentagram City that liked to stir trouble in his own ring.

Hell needed a future so that his daughter would have something to rule over when she came of age and wisdom. No matter how he tried to push the thoughts of his little girl growing up and leaving him, sooner or later, the fledgling would have to leave the nest.

Lucifer could see it, clear as day, his spirit and creative spark deep in her gaze when she listened to his many ideas and visions of what could have been and what surely will be. The way she giggled quietly as he presented her toys of his creation, her soft gaze looking at each little trinket with adoration and inspiration.

If she was anything like the man Lucifer used to be, that meant she would no doubt rebel against his views of Hell and his subjects, and that scared the King. 

Lucifer continued to pass more portraits, dimly lit by the warm glow of the wall lamps dotting the hallway. Pictures of his daughter, the other Sins, and the grand opening of LuLu World. The final portrait next to his bedroom door was a small painting, an almost-perfect recreation of the only Heavenly creation he still held close to his heart. 

The Morning Star.

The large ball of bright, white light illuminated against the oily-black backdrop that was also speckled with smaller, glittering stars. Some shone in vibrant, multi-colored hues that lit the painted night sky with a soft celestial light.

Except, none of those stars shone as bright as his star, the star specifically created for him by a face whose familiarity had been long lost in time. A face that still gnawed at the edge of his mind every time he stared at that painting, those long-buried memories slowly crawling from the depths of his soul.

Maybe, one day, he’d have the strength to remember.

When the door to his room was pushed open softly, Lucifer’s eyes hit the digital clock on his nightstand. It was one in the afternoon, and Charlie would only nap for a few hours before she awakened with renewed energy. 

The toddler has grown restless lately, anxious to see a new face, to take a peek outside of the confines of their large home. No matter how many magical displays Lucifer presented the child, she always grew bored, and that frown was becoming more permanent on her lips as the days passed.

It must be tiring waking up and practically seeing your reflection almost every minute of your day.

There was no one Lucifer could trust in the presence of his daughter, though. No one he could see fit enough to care for her, not even himself. He struggled, being a father, for his little apple pie.

Parenting was not easy, especially when you had no idea what you were doing. It was especially hard when you were too afraid to upset your daughter with stern words and an authoritative voice, which meant the toddler ran the house.

The most powerful being in Hell would have to put his foot down to his little girl… eventually. After this quick nap, maybe. 

The large bed, much too big for only one person, beckoned Lucifer with an irresistible invitation. His legs moved with renewed strength before he fell face flat into the soft, cool duvet that welcomed him kindly. His muscles relaxed instantly, his feet dangling limply from the end of the bed as he finally opened his mind to the idea of sleep.

Slowly, Lucifer’s consciousness began to ebb, and his snores echoed around the room as his mind stilled into blackness.

What he wasn’t aware of, as the fallen angel sunk deeper into the plush, red blankets, was that the small bed on the opposite side of the hall was empty. Its previous inhabitant was currently tottling towards the door to his workshop that had been slightly ajar just across from her bedroom.

With wide eyes, Charlie scanned the room as she poked her head through the crack in the doorway, her little button nose twitching as she drank in all the little knick-knacks and prototypes of fantastical ideas that would never see the light of day.

It was dimly lit, save for the faint red glow pouring in from the large circular window above the desk across the room. There was nothing of interest on its smooth, wooden surface to the tiny awe-struck eyes. Instead, it was the soft, chromatic light that caught her gaze on a low shelf right next door. 

Floating elegantly above a short, circular pedestal were seven glowing rings, stacked above each other a few inches apart with zero gravity. Each held a unique hue, from green to pink, as they lured Charlie with their ethereal glow. If she could lift her little body just slightly onto the chair against the desk, she could reach them. 

What could they be, so pretty just floating like that? They looked just like glow-stick necklaces! Would Daddy think she was pretty if she put them on and showed him?

With a large smile and slightly unsteady steps, Charlie crossed the room, her tiny feet pitter-pattering against the soft carpet as she beelined for the colorful display. When she reached the wooden chair, her chin barely grazed against the cushioned seating as she placed her palms gingerly against its plush surface.

With a mighty heave and a sharp inhale of breath, the toddler began kicking her legs wildly as she tried gaining momentum to hoist herself onto the chair. 

Charlie sputtered for breath as her grip loosened due to her sweaty palms, but then her leg hooked onto the seat railing, which gave her momentarily support to pull herself farther up until her knee grazed the top of the cushion. 

Placing one arm underneath her for support, the toddler reached the other out towards the ring. Her fingers splayed out, the whites of her eyes glowing red as they reflected the ring’s vibrant hue. 

Charlie held her breath, beginning to tip over just as her index finger grazed the very edge of the ring’s surface. Red energy shot down her spine, sending her hair to stick out with static 

The girl barely got a squeak in before she vanished in a burst of lightning that barely resonated a sound as it zapped her away. 

The red ring flickered once, faltering above the rest for only a moment, before it stilled into place.

And the room was empty once more.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀🤍🤍🤍

On the outskirts of the Pride Ring was a small, white villa nestled against a rocky cliff face, surrounded by tall, black fencing that ended in sharp, spiked ends. Purple magic sizzled off of the tips, a clear warning to anyone who wanted to enter: They would not be welcome.

Inside the powerful barrier, was a large garden filled with a surreal combination of beauty and decay. Vibrant flowers bloomed amidst twisted, blackened trees that seemed to reach out with gnarled branches like skeletal fingers. 

The floral scent that wafted from the blossoms permeated the air, mixed with the slight tinge of sulfur of Hell’s odor.  

Nestled among the dark purple bushes and other hellish flora, were tall snow-white sculptures of men and women, their stone eyes staring lifelessly across the garden’s expanse. 

A diverse cast of figures, short and brawny, too tall and lanky. Each unique from the rest.

Except, for their facial expressions, in which they each held a similar look of terror. As if they had been frozen in place during a time of anguish, of a terrifying encounter that left them to rot inside their pretty stone casks. 

They were positioned across the lawn in a perfect, meticulous manner. As if someone spent day in and day out holed up inside the black fencing, with nothing to do but continuously cultivate their blooming garden. 

One particular statue, which held the image of a goat-like man, staring up at the sky as if in one final prayer, was currently being inspected by a gracefully poised woman standing before it. Painted on his frozen cheek, was a small black lipstick-stained kiss.

From a distance, you’d think she was human. The silky, black dress that hugged her curves was reminiscent of ancient Greek fashion. Her shoulders were fully exposed, garment held up by a high neckline that tickled at her throat as she leisured, a glass of alcohol in her hand.

Her rich, deep brown skin stood out among the pearlescent, marble statues. Practically shimmering against the red hues that basked her home with the midday light. 

An ethereal radiance seemed to seep from her skin, giving her silhouette a faint, golden glow that made her skin shimmer like light on morning dew.

Her hairstyle was similar to a ponytail, a partial updo that sat at the top of her head like a bun, before the long, white locs cascaded down her back.Along with two large strands that framed the sides of her angled face.

The big differential between her and a woman strolling down the street? The horns that graced the top of her head. They curved to end just above her forehead, a black crown that cemented her place as another resident of Hell.

Travel a bit farther down her figure, and you’d find those large, white tendrils of hair that swished as she turned slightly had a funny texture to them that most would mistake for thick braids. 

Except, braids aren’t made of scales, are they? 

At her ankles, a multitude of snakeheads stuck out their tongues, tasting the air as their beady red eyes scanned across the grassy scape. 

They twisted around each other, curling into themselves to keep a tighter form as they wriggled against the woman’s back, interest peaked at their surroundings as their tongues flicked in and out.

Once in a while, a head would spot some small, hellish critter skittering across the yard looking for food. And, before one could blink, its jaws would open wide as it shot forward, pulling slightly at the woman’s scalp as it clamped its maw around the tiny creature.

It would slink back near her ankles, trying to gulp down the tasty delicacy as the other snakes around it poked and prodded for a taste. They hissed and snapped at one another, fighting for a morsel.

The woman turned her head, shooting the reptilian mass a glare as they wrapped around her legs. Milky white pools met multiple red, glowing eyes as they slunk back slightly at her scolding, giving time for the one snake to finish gobbling up his snack without fuss.

The two smaller serpents that framed her face weren’t as long as the rest of their siblings, instead reaching to her breasts as they lazily rested on the fabric of her dress. 

Tenderly, the woman lifted an arm, and her shorter serpent curled delicately around her hand, until its head rested gingerly on her palm. 

Gently, she brushed a thumb along its snout, and it hissed softly with pleasure, its eyes closing shut as it nestled farther into her warm skin.

“Jameson, another margarita, please.”

“Yes, Lady Kokabiel,” a small imp butler bowed, his cropped, curly white hair bouncing slightly as he lowered his head. 

Turning, the imp trotted towards a shaded area underneath a weeping willow tree, its low-hanging branches that grazed against his shoulders were dark red, shielding the large mixture of alcohol from the heat of the day as he poured another glass of the blue liquid.

When Jameson returned, Kokabiel handed him the empty glass before plucking the margarita from his grasp. She sent him an appreciative smile, her white freckles sparkling like starlight as they curved with her lips.

She swirled the alcohol in the glass, watching the small vortex for a few moments, before lifting it to her lips and taking a sip. 

That’s how Kokabiel spent most of her days in Hell, nowadays. Getting a buzz off of fruity liquor and fawning over her snakes, as she lounged in her garden with no one to bother her. 

It had been a long time since she left the spotlight, previously a fashion and sex icon, Kokabiel had flaunted her good looks and curves to promote all kinds of products and events, dominating the biggest runways. She even starred in a couple of A-list movies, growing her until she reached the peak of stardom.

Kokabiel had earned her place at the top of the pyramid, right next to many older, successful celebrities in the industry. Lilith was a big name, even bigger than Koko’s with how beautiful of a singer she was, pulling in fans like a siren with her honeyed voice. 

Even with such cutthroat competition, Kokabiel never felt that she was fading out of the audience’s vision with how fast her mailbox would fill with writings from her fans

Fanart, declarations of love written in sparkly pink ink, and invitations to large parties and prestigious events. Even now, she still received fan mail here or there, although they were usually left unanswered. 

She had never wanted to retire in the first place, her plans for the future only confining to grow bigger by the day. Until one night, during a party hosted by the overlords of the city, was Kokabiel confronted with an ultimatum. 

“I know your secret,” he had smiled devilishly. That flat-faced, know-it-all smirk the man sent her one evening, as he confronted her in the darkness of a hallway. 

“What secret?” Kokabiel laughed dryly, shooting him a question glare. 

“Oh, you know,” his pixelated eyes lifted to the darkened sky through the ceiling-high windows nearby, Heaven’s white glow cascading through the panes, “The one about where you really came from, not the Lust Ring lie you like to spin to the audience.” 

The alcoholic buzz in Kokabiel’s system faded in an instant, and her snakes coiled against her back, hissing loudly as she shot him a deathly glare. It had seemed he had chosen to give the news from a safe distance, too far for her snakes to reach. A smart man. 

How did he find out, and what did he plan to do with that information?

That smile of his had only widened further, giddy at the fact he had her in his grasp. He could pull the strings, keep her away from his industry. This secret, that he had only stumbled upon accidently, was going to make sure she stayed gone.

Kokabiel had never caused trouble, never flaunted her power to rise up Hell’s hierarchy, never made any public displays of how easily she could rip demon’s souls out of their bodies if they got too close. 

Nor did any demon claim to be owned by her, as they were too busy being decorative pieces to tell their tale. 

Kokabiel’s presence was a mystery to her powerful counterparts. Her aura was too clean, too ethereal to be a sinner or an average hellborn. But, she had never actually said the words ‘Yes, I’m from Heaven.’ 

She didn’t need to, anymore. After that little conversation, the talking TV had made a deal. Keep that pretty face away from the cameras, and his lips were sealed for eternity. 

Kokabiel had announced her retirement a day later, not answering a single question about why or where she was going. Those cameras and microphones that had gotten shoved in her face received no words as received hurried into her limo. 

How could Kokabiel, someone whose face was once plastered onto entire sides of buildings, fall so hard because of some up-and-coming overlord with the intent to control the masses? She’d had bigger spats with the paparazzi on the side of the street than this!

Now, she didn’t have to worry about those annoying flies anymore, with their constant flashes that always anguished her snakes and the peppering of questions.

Finally away from any prying eyes and those awful, bright flashes that plagued every step Kokabiel took out in public. Here, she could do and say anything, without someone waiting to jump at the opportunity to sell a shitty, non-contextual picture to the highest tabloid bidder.

Solitude gets boring, though. Even with her snakes to crawl over and her garden to tend, one could only vent to the marble figures for so long before they felt their sanity slipping.

That was until an imp had squeezed his way through the thick pickets of her fence, those short white curls singed at the tips from the magic that stung him. 

Whatever was chasing the small man was more dangerous as he continued to beeline toward the bushes that could shelter him.

The imp had turned his head, catching the sight of his pursuers as they reached the fence. Three burly, tall shark demons roared as his tiny frame sped off.

That only led him to meet horns first into the stomach of the owner of the fence, and the land he was currently trespassing on. With an oomph he landed on hit, gaze darting at the being standing above him.

Kokabiel had quirked a brow, unamused as she wiped the dirt from the front of her dress. It wasn’t until one shark demon rammed into the fence, did she lifted her head and a dark frown played on her lips. 

He had seen it, the power behind her gaze, when the loan sharks blew up one of her favorite rose bushes as they broke through the gates.

“How dare you,” she had hissed, her white gaze boring into the thugs, glowing with a much fiercer intensity as she bared her teeth, “Get out!” 

The imp had flinched, but Kokabiel’s anger was not directed at him as she stepped right above his quivering body, and he could feel the soft grazing of scales against his raised arms before he turned to watch the woman continue to meet the loan sharks halfway.

“Not without our little friend there,” one sneered, his teeth glinting as he gave the woman a silent warning of his strength.

“Unfortunate that you aren’t the one making the demands,” she retorted, putting herself between the sharks and their prey. 

With a loud, collective hiss, the bodies of her snakes lifted, encircling her head, and they opened their maws with extended fangs, displaying their own grim warning with bright red eyes.

The aggressor didn’t like that so much, as he opened he pulled out a large, glowing steel-laced ax and charged right for the duo. The imp squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the killing blow. 

The Kokabiel’s pupils shifted from that starlit glint into black pools of emptiness, and the air sizzled with a powerful energy right as the shark-faced man swung his weapon to connect with her shoulder. At the last moment, the fallen angel ducked and backpedaled, right as one of her snakes lashed forward, jaw wide to reveal twin, deadly fangs and struck the demon right in the eye. 

The scales of her snakes pulsed with a golden shimmer, and the demon’s mouth opened in a painful scream as his feet took on an ivory color, hardening to stone. 

The other sharks near him tensed, the rage on their faces instantly draining as their comrade's feet cemented to the ground, that stone plague creeping farther up his waist as he writhed in place, clutching his eye as black blood seeped from the large gash. 

They took a step back, then another, and another as the only blubber left on the struggling man was his large head. His teeth gnashed in mixture of anger and pain, but his good eye only showed fear, right as it was glazed over by white stone.

After that, the rest of the loan sharks had fled, huffing and puffing as they tumbled through the broken fence. 

Then, the snake that had bit the demon began to convulse, writhing with an open maw like it had something stuck in its throat as black blood from its victim landed on the grass below.

Like some hellish form of mitosis, the scales of the serpent began to stretch and split, revealing a mirrored version of the reptile that began to take form and separate from its twin. 

With wide eyes, the imp watched the two snakes finally , this new, fresh face shaking its head in confusion, before the rest of the scaly follicles began to surround and inspect their new friend with flicking tongues.

Kokabiel only watched the demons scurry off, before she sighed and adjusted her dress. Pivoting, she turned to face the imp, her arms crossed as she regarded him curiously. 

The scrawny demon gulped as he stared wide-eyed. Was he next?

“What’s your name?”

“W-what?” The imp replied hoarsely.

“Your name. You have one, don’t you?”

“it’s… Jameson, madam,” 

“Thank you, and I assume they’ll kill you if you try and go back into the city?”

Jameson nodded slowly, rising tentatively from the ground to look up at the woman. 

“Well, it seems you are out of options, Jameson,” Kokabeil had quirked a brow, a small smile on her lips, “but, it appears I’m in need of a butler. What do you say to free room and board in exchange for your services? I’ll let you keep your soul, I promise.” 

He had looked at her, suspicion in his gaze as his eyes darted to the snakes that coiled around her, shooting him hungry glares. How could someone with power like that be so… nice? If it were any overlord back in the city, they’d have taken his soul and his free will.

But, the offer didn’t sound too bad, and she didn’t look crazy. Just… lonely. Maybe, staying here would be so bad.

That’s how Jameson had begun working for the retired celebrity he now called master. Weirdly, he didn’t do many things a butler would do.

Sure, he cleaned and was at her beck and call most of the time, but Kokabiel did most of the things on her own. She cooked, tended to her garden which was slowly growing by the day, and kept up on the juicy rumors that circled the city. 

Usually, Jameson spent the day as entertainment for her. As an ex-clown in the circus, Jameson had a few tricks up his sleeve he’d showcase for the fallen angel, and she seemed to eat it up with amusement.

Kokabiel’s thoughts towards him? He wasn’t exactly sure. Obviously, she was much kinder to him than anyone else he’d worked for, but her zipped lips on anything related to her past or what kind of demon she was made him unsure.

There were times she got… sad. That was the best way to put it. Jameson never saw her cry or have a tantrum, but sometimes she’d get so sullen even her snakes seemed rather depressed.

And, once a year there was a day that Kokabiel would lock herself away in her room, and would not call for him at all the entire day. Not even for food to feed her snakes. What could make her so depressed for that one day? A lost loved one? Her death day, perhaps? 

She rarely mentioned her influential era as one of the largest fashion icons and models Hell had seen, although she didn’t need to with her collection of the seductive, sultry gazes she on the many ripped out pages of magazine covers she had framed on her walls. 

The few times he did go into the city, heavily disguised to run errands for Kokabiel, he’d pick up the newest tabloids or fill her ears with the latest gossip circling the entertainment industry.

“That’s what that old fart is up to now?” She had chuckled about an old acquaintance as she moisturized her snakes with a scale-safe lotion, “He used to be an A-list actor, and now he’s selling retinol cream? Ha!” 

The snakes had hissed with a chuckle-like sound, mirroring their mother as she coddled them. They still made Jameson nervous, even after all these years, they had a mind of their own, each individual one it appeared. But, they all seemed to have the same thoughts when it came to him: hungry.

Watching the snake finish its snack made Jameson a little uneasy as Kokabiel turned away from the statue and she took another sip of her drink.

“I’m getting tired, Jameson. I think I'm going to go inside, maybe take a nice, warm bath to relax.” 

“Would you like me to get the water heated?”

“No, thanks. I can do it myself.” She said, beginning to walk towards the patio doors. 

Jameson’s eyes flicked past her shoulder, at the very moment the statue began to sizzle with a powerful energy that even made his curls stand on end. 

Red sparks erupted from the front of the statue, right on the pedestal it was standing on which raised a few feet in the air. Jameson could only stare in disbelief as the sparks began to swirl like a vortex, until they burst and sprayed like confetti and a figure materialized an inch off the marble surface.

The tiny stranger landed with a quiet oomf, before she stood on her feet with a slight wobble, her little hands held out in front of her for balance. 

Jameson’s eyes flew open at the sight. It was a child! Her platinum-blonde hair disheveled, and her large eyes were darting around the area with confusion and fear. 

When her eyes landed on him, she took a tiny step back, her eyes growing wide as she stared nervously at the new face. 

“M-m-madam!” Jameson finally croaked, his finger pointed towards the girl with a slight quiver as he tried to get the words out. 

“What..?” Kokabiel quirked an eyebrow at his stammering figure. Jameson’s eyes never left the strange girl, and she slowly followed his gaze to the statue.

The toddler and the fallen angel locked eyes, before Kokabiel’s mouth fell open and she stood there silently for a few moments. Charlie’s eyes widened, and she pulled her arms to herself in comfort at the shocked faces.

“What…. is this?” Kokabiel finally spoke slowly, eyes trained on the little being standing awkwardly on the statue. Her snakes lifted their heads slightly, tongues flicking the air as they tried to get a scent of the girl.

“It’s a child, madam,” Jameson whispered.

“I know that! But, how did it get here? What’s the point of having a magical fence if everybody can just walk right through it?!”

“She didn’t get through the fence, madam!” Jameson squeaked, shaking his head furiously as he explained, “She just… appeared here, like out of thin air! I saw it all!”

How could that be possible? There’s no way a child could harness such strong magic. It must be some kind of illusion, trickery by a powerful demon trying to use her empathy to get the best of her!

“You!” Kokabiel pointed an accusatory finger at Charlie, taking a small step forward “How did you get in my garden?”

“Um…” Charlie started, but her words—of what little she had—died in her throat. She only took a step backward, trying to escape from the attention 

“You’re trespassing on private property!” Kokabiel continued to stalk forward, she was only a few feet away now, her snakes becoming antsy as they curled around her, hissing softly.

“Oh…”

“Who are you?” 

Charlie took another step back, her hair grazing the leg of the marble figure. Where was she? 

“…Char—eep!”

Charlie’s heel hit the foot of the statue, and she tripped, her back hitting its leg as she slid awkwardly sideways. Her tiny fingers grasped desperately at the smooth, white stone, but to no avail, as she tumbled right off the edge of the pedestal.

Jameson squeaked in terror, before throwing his hands over his eyes to protect him from any grisly sight. He heard Kokabiel gasp, but no sickening thump or terrible crack of bones meeting the firm ground.

Slowly, he splayed his fingers and lowered his hands, his eyes widening. He stood there gobsmacked at the scene, mouth agape in silence. 

Yes, Charlie had been unable to save herself, falling helplessly in the air…. right into the arms of a shocked Kokabiel. 

Kokabiel stared wide-eyed at her own reaction to the split second of instinct that propelled her to catch the child. Charlie was tightly secured in her hands, being held at arm's-length as far as possible. 

Charlie blinked, before her eyes met those glowing white pupils with a slowly growing smile. She had one hand wrapped around the wrist of the taller woman, as she lifted up her free hand and sent a small, shy wave.

“Hi!”

[art i commissioned for the chapter by ruspettaa]

woahhh nice little(ha!) introduction to my oc, with some cute art of charlie! If I were to ever continue writing this fic, the relationship would be more focused on charlies than lucifers, at least at first. Slow-burn/co-parenting kinda thing bc Koko can def exist without being a relationship with our handsome king. she’s sipping margaritas free as a bird rn.

kokabiel is a loosely based version of the biblical figure with the same name who created the stars and constellations. One of the reasons she fell was for teaching humanity astronomy. A few others fell with her too, but she instead melded into demon society instead of her heavenly counterparts.

the only people that know of her true identity are Hell’s royalty, and Stolas probably has a signed autograph of hers somewhere around his office seeing as his duties are closely bound with her creations.

she’s a business woman too, though i am trying to figure out whether she sells snake-skinned accessories as a fashion line or diluted venom that’s a psychedelic drug which makes you feel all euphoric and stuff. l

I also have no idea who her voice claim is 😭 i imagine it being smooth and buttery like Beyoncé, but i’m sure there’s other voices similar to hers that I haven’t found yet.

i’ve got a comm [by wkyarts51243] in the works that will be styled closer to the show, so here’s a sneak peak i guess ☠️ I’d say her height is slightly shorter than charlie (not counting her horns lol), but I haven’t settled yet.

i have more art (one of her and luci hehe), which i might share either. but you can have the full version of the first art pic, with an extra piece from the same artist 🤭

also making this post so i can cement her backstory and stop changing it up ☠️ it’s its writing officially now yall

anyway, enough rambling, back to writing!! have a great weekend 🤍

#kokabiel 🤍 #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel oc #helluva boss oc #look at her so yummy #a literal goddess #hazbin hotel au #hellaverse #lucifer morningstar x oc #that one fic forgot #yes her snakes are souls #they have the same personality as before but cuter

[5starluvr]

Link up

Paring:Yang Jeongin × Reader

Genre:fluff,angst(just a tiny bit)

Warnings:fighting

Spider Kids

Something sweet before It gets angsty again ~

"Jeongin, you'll be partnered with Y/n," Ms. Jung declared, her voice booming across the classroom.

Jeongin's heart lurched. Y/n, the brilliant girl who seemed to exist on a different academic plane altogether? He stole a glance, catching her surprised gaze before she quickly returned to her meticulously highlighted notes.

The initial awkwardness was palpable. Summoning his courage, Jeongin mumbled a hesitant hello. Y/n offered a shy smile in return, her usual focus on academics momentarily broken. They settled on bioluminescence, a topic Y/n suggested with a shy smile. As they delved into research, a hesitant camaraderie blossomed.

———

One afternoon, hunched over laptops at the library, Jeongin blurted out, "You know, Spiderman uses bioluminescent material in his suit to blend in with the shadows."

Y/n's eyes widened in surprise. "Really? I never thought about that!" A spark ignited, and for the next hour, they weren't just classmates, they were co-conspirators, weaving science and fiction into a captivating presentation.

Weeks leading to the science fair flew by in a flurry of activity. Their project evolved into a dazzling display of glowing concoctions bubbling away in beakers and informative posters that showcased bioluminescence in nature and its potential applications. But the real magic happened during their presentation. Jeongin, usually tongue-tied, spoke with newfound confidence, his enthusiasm infectious. Y/n, at his side, chimed in with insightful details, her voice brimming with a shared passion.

They didn't just win first place; they won the respect and admiration of their classmates. As they packed up their project later, a comfortable silence hung between them. "Hey," Jeongin stammered, "maybe we could hang out sometime, outside of school?"

Y/n's cheeks flushed a rosy pink. "I'd like that," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

The weight of her backpack seemed to lessen as Y/n spotted Jeongin by the school gates the following afternoon. A nervous thrill danced in her stomach, a new sensation when it came to him. This wasn't just about dissecting the science fair aftermath; it was about exploring a newfound connection.

They walked side-by-side, replaying the highlights of the day. The golden light of the setting sun painted the world in warm hues as they found a quiet corner in the park. Jeongin pulled out a notebook, causing Y/n's heart to do a little skip.

"I was thinking about our project," he began, a hint of shyness tinging his voice.

"Me too," she admitted, excitement bubbling within her. "There's so much more to explore. Perhaps other bioluminescent organisms?"

His eyes lit up, mirroring her enthusiasm. "That's a great idea! We could even try creating a prototype for… hmm, maybe a self-illuminating bike path?"

Hours melted away as they delved into a whirlwind of ideas. They sketched diagrams, debated possibilities, and bounced thoughts off each other like fireflies flitting through the gathering dusk. The science project, a forced partnership at first, had blossomed into something more – a shared passion for science that crackled with intellectual curiosity.

As the stars began to pepper the darkening sky, reality intruded. "We should probably head home," Y/n said with a reluctant sigh.

Jeongin nodded, a similar sentiment etched on his face. "But hey," he added, a playful glint in his eyes, "who says the brainstorming has to stop here?"

Y/n's heart did a little flip. "Right," she managed, a smile blooming on her face. "Your place or mine?"

"My place," he blurted out, then cleared his throat. "If that's alright with you."

The warmth in his voice sent shivers down her spine. "Perfect," she replied, a feeling far stronger than just liking blooming within her.

——

The crisp autumn air swirled fallen leaves around their ankles as Jeongin and Y/n walked home from their usual science hangout. Laughter bubbled between them as they debated about various things.

Suddenly, a guttural roar shattered the peaceful evening. A hulking figure, shrouded in shadow, emerged from a deserted alleyway. Venom, the symbiote-enhanced villain, loomed before them, his glistening black form radiating menace.

Y/n's breath hitched. Fear, icy and sharp, clawed at her throat. Jeongin's face paled, but his stance remained resolute. He knew he had to act fast.

"Y/n, stay behind me!" he commanded, his voice firm despite the tremor within.

Y/n scrambled back, her eyes wide with terror. In a single, practiced motion, Jeongin ripped off his sweatshirt, revealing the now-familiar red and blue suit clinging to his skin. A mask materialized over his face, obscuring his features.

"Venom," Spiderman's voice, distorted by the mask, rang out. "Leave her alone."

Venom chuckled, a grotesque sound that sent shivers down Y/n's spine. "Another spider to squish," he snarled, his razor-sharp teeth glinting in the streetlight.

A brutal fight ensued. Venom, fueled by a dark rage, unleashed a barrage of razor-sharp tendrils. Spiderman, nimble and agile, dodged each attack with practiced ease. He countered with precisely placed web shots, attempting to immobilize the monstrous villain.

Y/n watched in stunned silence as the boy she knew as Jeongin, the one who stammered over complex scientific theories and built glowing concoctions, battled a monstrous creature with superhuman speed and agility. A newfound respect, tinged with a sliver of fear, bloomed in her chest.

As the fight raged, Y/n noticed a shift in Venom's movements. The symbiote seemed to be struggling, its black form flickering erratically. It was then she remembered something from their recent bioluminescence research – certain frequencies of light could disrupt some bioluminescent organisms.

"Jeongin!" she yelled, a desperate plea escaping her lips. "Light! You need light!"

Spiderman, momentarily distracted, caught her frantic scream. He glanced at the traffic light above, an idea sparking in his mind. With a well-aimed web shot, he triggered a short circuit, showering the area in a chaotic flicker of red, yellow, and green.

The effect was instantaneous. Venom recoiled, the symbiote writhing in agitation. Disoriented and weakened, the villain stumbled back, a frustrated screech tearing from his throat. Seizing this opportunity, Spiderman launched a final web attack, successfully encasing Venom in a sticky cocoon.

The air crackled with an unsettling silence as the villain struggled, his black form pulsating against the white webbing. Y/n rushed to Jeongin's side, relief washing over her features.

Jeongin, panting and slightly bruised, turned to face her. The mask felt suffocating, the secret it held a heavy burden. Yet, seeing the awe and gratitude in Y/n's eyes, he knew he couldn't keep hiding.

"Y/n..." he began, his voice strained. But before he could confess his dual identity, a wave of dizziness washed over him. The exertion of the fight, coupled with the emotional strain, took its toll. He stumbled, his vision blurring.

Y/n caught him before he could fall. As he looked into her worried eyes, he knew the truth would come out anyway. With a shaky breath, he pulled off the mask, revealing his face etched with exhaustion but resolute.

Y/n stared at him, her eyes wide with surprise, then with a slow dawning realization. Recognition flickered in her gaze, followed by a hesitant smile. "Jeongin?" she breathed.

A wave of relief washed over him. He wasn't sure what he'd expected – fear, anger, even disgust. But instead, he saw acceptance, a spark of something more complex in her eyes.

"It's me," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper.

A beat of silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the distant wail of approaching sirens. Then, to his utter astonishment, Y/n burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the deserted street.

"Oh my gosh, Jeongin," she said, wiping a tear from her eye. "You're Spiderman!"

Jeongin stared at her, surprised by her reaction. "You're not mad?"

Y/n shook her head, her eyes sparkling with a newfound respect. "Mad? No way! That was amazing! You saved me!"

Jeongin let out a shaky breath of relief. The relief that washed over Jeongin was so profound it almost knocked him off his feet. Here he was, exposed, vulnerable, and… met with laughter and admiration?

Y/n, still wiping tears from her eyes, reached out and squeezed his hand. "Seriously, Jeongin, that was incredible! The way you moved, the strategy with the lights – you're a genius, even without a lab coat!"

A nervous chuckle escaped his lips. "Thanks, Y/n. I… I just wanted to protect you."

Her smile softened. "I know," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "And you did. You're my hero, Jeongin. Spiderman and… just Jeongin."

He couldn't help but grin, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the exertion of the fight. The secret was out, a weight lifted from his shoulders. But more importantly, a deeper connection had formed between them, forged in the crucible of danger and a shared secret.

The wail of approaching sirens grew louder. Y/n glanced down the street, her smile fading slightly. "We should probably get out of here before the police arrive,baby."

Taglist:open : @juskz @blackhairandbangs @sxnset-angel @emossssss @hanjsquokka @feelikecinderella @starlostastronaut @kpopsstuffs @lixxpix @jinnie-ret @bangchans-angel @puppyminnnie @michelle4eve @skzswife @saiko-skz @quailbagutte @briqnne @ilychee08 @dollce-exe

#Spotify #stray kids #skz x reader #skz fluff #skz imagine #skz scenarios #stray kids x reader #stray kids fluff #skz #jeongin x reader #jeongin #yang jeongin #skz jeongin #skz angst #•~spider kids~•

[promptthebear]

🐰 Edmund Pevensie #14 please

Edmund Pevensie x Reader- "Please, tell me this is not why you woke me up.”

Part 1/2 <- ***UP NOW!!!!***

Summary: Soulmate AU. Set during the "Golden Age", Edmund thinks he's doomed to be alone for the rest of his life. Until his fated match appears in the most unlikely of places. 2nd person, reader is written as "you"

A/N: Hey guys, sorry I've been go so long. Part two for this is literally being written right now and will hopefully be up very soon. I just thought I should give y'all SOMETHING to end the dry spell. Enjoy!

TW: None that I know of, but please message me if you need something tagged.

Rain was falling in sheets outside his study window, and the sound of the drops against the panes had soothed Edmund into a light doze. It was late, most likely past midnight, and his candles had burned down to almost stubs in their holders. He’d been reading for hours, lost in tomes of Narnian history and retrospects on ancient magic traditions. As fascinated as he’d been, he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes from growing heavy, and the blue velvet chair felt almost like a lover’s embrace.

Not that Edmund would have any idea what that actually felt like, though he could muster up a pretty good guess. Over the years, he’d watched his brothers and sisters find partners, wed, and have children of their own. Even little Lucy had been married last summer, leaving Edmund as the last bachelor among the family. That was one of the many reasons he’d been taking solace in his study over the last few weeks. He was plenty used to being alone, but there were only so many nights in a cold bed one could take before it started driving him a little mad.

Another man may have sought out comfort in the village pubs, but the idea of a hot, stuffy room and the press of drunken, sweaty bodies held about as much appeal to Edmund as driving straws under his fingernails. So, instead, he filled his waking hours in the company of books, often choosing to fall asleep among them than make the long, solitary walk back to his dark and empty chambers. This would be the third night in a row he’d spend here, and regardless of how Susan chided him that sleeping in his chair would ruin his back, Edmund also knew it wouldn’t be the last either.

A sudden, sharp rap at the door startled the young king from his near stupor. With a snort and a grumble, he rose from his chair, rubbing at his stiff muscles and silently cursing whoever chose to disturb him at this hour.

The hallway felt far too bright after the dim, golden light in the library, and for a moment after he opened the door, Edmund stood there, dazzled and blinking away stars from his eyes. When his vision cleared, he found himself staring into the face of one of the city guards. The young man seemed nervous, shifting from side to side and not quite able to meet Edmund’s gaze. Aside from the familiar uniform, the young man was little more than a stranger to him, and Edmund wondered why the captain would have sent someone so young to speak with one of the high kings.

“Your majesty. I beg forgiveness at the disturbance, would this matter have waited until morning I assure you I would not be here now.”

His voice betrayed his age, confirming Edmund’s suspicions that he was a new recruit, barely older than sixteen and almost twelve years his junior.

“Speak your piece and be on your way,” he replied, running a hand over his face to try and clear away any drowsiness that still clung on “It is far too late for either of us to be away from our beds”

The guard jumped at the sound of Edmund’s voice, and did some sort of half nod, half bow that made him look like a fish jerking around in a net.

“Again, my most sincere apologies your majesty. Once more, if it were not for the urgency of the situation I would not have caused you upset. My captain insisted that you be spoken with directly and that this message reach no ears but your own. I tried to tell him you’d be abed by now but-”

“Out with it, lad. The longer you speak, the longer the hour grows and the more weary I become.”

The edge to his words almost made Edmund wince. He hadn’t meant to be so sharp with the boy, but Susan had been right. Spending nights in his chair had made him incredibly sore, and had kept him from having a decent rest for far too long. The combination of both was not providing him with an overabundance of courtesy.

“We caught a pick pocket, your majesty. In the market, earlier this evening.”

Edmund reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying desperately to ease the throbbing that was starting to grow behind his eyes.

“Please, tell me this is not why you woke me up.”

Yes, Edmund acted as the King’s Justice and presided over all cases brought into court, even trifling ones like pick-pocketing. However, as far as he could tell, there was no reason something that simple would bring a guard to his door in the middle of the night.

“It is, your majesty”

“And? Have you all suddenly forgotten how to do your jobs? The thief can spend the night in lockup with your other petty criminals, and I’ll be there to preside over their trial in the morning. If that’s all you came to tell me, then I suggest you be on your way before I take it upon myself to serve you with a demerit and suspend you from service for the next week.”

The door was halfway closed when the young guard’s boot wedged itself between the door and the wall. Edmund stared down at it for a moment, trying to process the sheer gall of this otherwise seemingly placid young man. Nobody, in his recent memory, had ever kept him from closing a door when he wished. If he wasn’t contemplating sending this man to scrub out the barracks privvies for the rest of his natural life, he almost would’ve been impressed at his tenacity.

“Alright, that does it, I’m giving you until the count of three to get out of my sight and if you aren’t gone by two then so help me-”

“She has the mark, your Majesty”

It felt as though someone had just dumped a bucket of freezing water upon Edmund’s head. For a moment he stood, still as a statue while his mind raced at frantic speeds to try and make sense of what he was hearing. The lad had to be joking, there simply was no other explanation. This was all part of an elaborate prank someone was pulling on him, like Peter maybe, and Edmund would walk all the way down to the dungeons only to find a sow or donkey painted with a mark that matched his own rather than the girl he’d been promised.

He opened his mouth to tell the young guard he was a liar, along with a few other choice phrases, only to find his voice had left him. What was the worst that could happen, if he followed this boy? Experience told Edmund that he could end up being the kingdom laughingstock the next morning, but what of it? Most of his subjects, noble and common alike, either ridiculed him behind closed doors or pitied him to his face, which was somehow worse. The Lonely King, they called him. A solitary man in a world where everyone was fated to find their perfect match at some point or another. Would a lifetime of isolation be truly worth avoiding a few moments of ridicule?

The carved animals in the wooden door stared blankly back at Edmund, and though the flickering candlelight made their faces seem to dance and move among the shadows, they had no more answers for him than the young King had for himself. With a sigh, he clasped the edge of the door and pulled it open. It creaked loudly, a sound made louder still by the otherwise hushed air in the sleeping castle. The young guard waiting beyond started at the noise, and took a step back towards the far wall as though he expected Edmund to leap out and bite him.

Now standing in the full light of the hall, Edmund saw in earnest how young the guard really was. He may have been a youth of sixteen, but he had the face of a twelve or eleven year old, making him look like a squire rather than the soldier he was. A light dusting of fuzz across the boy’s cheeks, a hint of a beard, was the only thing to suggest he was near manhood and it made Edmund feel all the more guilty for being so hard on him.

“Come on,” he said, clapping a friendly hand down on the guard’s soldier as he moved past him “Let’s get this over with.”

#easter askbox event #edmund pevensie x reader #edmund pevensie x you #edmund pevensie #narnia fic #narnia imagines

[twogyuu]

snow in august

pairing: wonwoo x fem!reader

genre: fluff/angst(?) - just soft! comfort, kind of implications of mythical/magical/sci-fi(?) bc why not!

warnings: reader is sad for an unspecified reason bc that is not the point of this lolol

wc: 604

a/n: this is your fault @wisteria-woo - i hope you know that.

. . . .

wonwoo was like autumn.

something comfortable, in between the scorching sun of the summer and icy winds of the winter. as silly and simple as it sounds, being loved by him felt like being wrapped in a fluffy blanket during a chilly fall day.

jeon wonwoo did not love recklessly - he loved firmly.

jeon wonwoo did not love with fury - he loved with care.

jeon wonwoo did not love with a hard-heart - he loved with a tender one.

for that reason, he was out here, in the park just outside your shared apartment, in the dead of the night when most people were tucked away in the comfort of their beds and only cicadas and owls were awake, with you.

your hands gripped the rusty, metal chains of the swing, your gaze downcasted. only sorrow painted your pretty face, tears staining your cheek, shining like crystals under the golden light emulating from the lamppost. and though wonwoo did not know what exactly got your heart in a wrench, he would stay here with you and wait for you to tell him. not only because he cared deeply for you, but he was a practical man as well - for your safety too.

seconds turned into minutes, and minutes turned into an hour. wonwoo finally dismounted from his swing and knelt in front of you. he reached over, thumb pressing gently under your eye to swipe away a tear clinging onto your lash. he bumps your chin playfully and chuckled when your finally looked up at him, something of a scowl.

"let's go back," wonwoo said quietly. he swatted at the air, shooing away the invisible gnats as if to make a point. "it helps no one to sit out here and sulk."

you clenched your jaw and he noted how your hands tighten around the swing set.

that seemed to break you.

"we don't have to talk about it tonight," he reached for your hand and you let him take it. he rubbed soothing circles into the back. "or tomorrow even." wonwoo smiles tenderly, "i just . . . want you to be safe, and um," he chortled nervously, worried that it might sound cheesy if he said it out loud, "you know, feel loved and cherished - no matter what it is."

slipping off the swing, you launched yourself into his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck. you bury your face into the crook of his neck, taking in the scent of the sandwood and lemon of his cologne.

wonwoo let's out a quiet 'umph' as you nearly take him out. his glasses were definitely crooked on his face from the impact, but he doesn't mind. he's quick grab onto your waist and steady the both of you. he patted your back, and though you couldn't see him, he was grinning sheepishly from ear to ear.

"thank you," you told him.

"always," he responded immediately.

you paused, hesitant because you've never quite said the 'L-word' before, but perhaps it was warranted when he was so patient and kind with you.

at least once, before it's too late, right?

that was always the lesson to be learned in the movies.

"i love you," you peeped.

this made wonwoo laugh - loud and heartily, out of nervousness and giddiness.

he wanted you to feel loved, but it never occurred to him to say the words himself either.

"i . . . i love you too."

he squeezed you extra tight to further his point.

you were grateful to have met him when it snowed in august. if it was any other way, perhaps a normal august, you might not be here right now, in his arms, exchanging simple i love you's.

#wonwoo x reader #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo scenarios #seventeen x reader #seventeen fluff #seventeen scenarios

[javiddenkins]

Javid Denkins is not interested in answering questions. 

It's 9:30 in the morning and I'm sitting across from Denkins in a conference room at the AMC Studios offices. Denkins declined to meet anywhere more personal than this beige and glass room, impersonal Muzak buzzing through the speakers, windows overlooking an empty studio lot. There are posters on the wall but none, strangely, for Blow the Man Down, the runaway hit Denkins conceived, writes, and now showruns. 

Blow the Man Down, or BTMD as it's frequently referred to by fans and journalists alike, is a workplace comedy set in the Golden Age of Piracy. This unusual premise would be interesting enough even without the top-tier leads brought on by AMC to play opposing pirate captains Sam Bellamy and Olivier Levasseur—Oscar Issac and John Boyega light up the screen and bring surprising comedy chops to the pirate-filled stage they share with such talents as Michelle Yeoh ("Zheng Yi Sao") and Sam Neill ("Captain Benjamin Hornigold"). 

But beyond that, BTMD seems to be that rare thing in mainstream media: a slow romance between two middle-aged men finding love for the first time. The first—and so far, only—season ends on a cliffhanger, our heroes separated by an ocean but determined to reach one another, and their love story—if it is one—stays unresolved. 

Usually an interview like this—between seasons, after renewal and filming but before advertising—would be the perfect opportunity to delve into the mind behind the magic and attempt to tease out hints about what's to come. 

But Denkins seems determined to ignore Hollywood's traditional playbook. 

Whether this is the standard conference room used for interviewing reluctant showrunners, or if Denkins picked it especially for the purpose, I'll never find out. I've already been waiting half an hour, uncertain if Denkins intends to join me at all. When he does finally arrive, he makes his position clear. 

"I'm only doing this because you agreed to my terms," he says. 

I'd describe what he looked like, if he had a coffee or a snack or a smoker's twitching nerves, if he sounded tired or amused or angry—but I can't. If you see a description here, it's because Denkins decided, for whatever reason, to approve it. Otherwise, sharing my impression of Denkins is off the table, one of many terms and conditions my editorial team and I had to agree to before Denkins would accept this meeting. 

Denkins doesn't want to make my job easy. Photos of him do exist from the few red carpets he's attended; enthusiastic interviews with the cast, writers, and production team of BTMD definitely paint a picture that belies Denkins's apparent efforts to avoid perception. But here and now, in the oppressive air conditioning of the AMC offices, I am contractually obligated to interview a cipher.

If he can be all business, though, then so can I. I hit a button on my phone's recording app, set it down between us, and ask what made him decide to tell the story of an obscure pair of pirates like Sam Bellamy and Olivier Levasseur.

He shrugs. "Why does anyone write anything? This is my job." 

It's not the kind of answer I was expecting. Something must show on my face, because he follows with, "That's unsatisfying, isn't it. No definitive answer."

"It's not what I expected," I hedge.

"What did you want to hear?"

I try to gather my thoughts, but I'm definitely stalling, uncertain that this is what Denkins intends. "I did a little research," I say. "Not as much as I imagine you did, but I found some of Bellamy and Levasseur's history together and, later, apart. Bellamy's ship is the only fully authenticated Golden Age shipwreck in the world, so it makes sense that the wrecking of the Whydah is an important turning point in season one. Levasseur, on the other hand, is best known for the mystery of his encoded treasure map, flung into the crowd at his hanging and only ever partially solved, which you seem to have used as a foundation for the coding and decoding motifs throughout. But for a show that seems determined to discuss the consequences of fame and reputation, it's fascinating that you've chosen two men most casual viewers have never heard of."

"Outside the narrative they built for themselves," Denkins corrects. "Is there a question in there?"

I remember again that Denkins isn't here to make this easy for me. "Why not choose one of the more well-known pirates of the era? Henry Morgan, Captain Kidd, and Blackbeard are all arguably more famous both now and when they were alive. What made you choose Bellamy and Levasseur for this story?"

"I think," Denkins says, "I just answered that. There's a difference between how you perceive yourself, and how the world perceives you. Those famous pirates retained their notoriety even after death. Sam and Ollie did have reputations when they were alive, but if people today know them at all, it's typically for reasons completely unrelated to whatever little fame they achieved in life."

"And that fascinates you?"

Denkins looks irritated. "It doesn't matter what fascinates me. That's the story, that's—look, I don't know how to write a puff piece like this," Denkins says. "I don't know if it would really sound like this, if anyone would bother caring enough about what I want to get this far."

"Excuse me?" I say.

"Do you honestly think," Denkins says, "there's a single journalist out there that would actually agree to these interview conditions? This is a fantasy, a what-if, and it still doesn't work."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," says Denkins, "I didn't even give you a name."

And that's true, I realize. I don't have a name. 

"Right," says Denkins, as if hearing my thoughts—and I suppose, in a way, he does. "And you don't know how you got here, and you don't know where you'll go after. I made you up. I made all this up."

I look at my recorder, which isn't a recorder. I look at the room, which isn't a room. 

"Okay," I say. "So what did you want to happen?"

Denkins taps my phone's screen to stop the recording. Denkins imagines me noticing that he taps the screen, and so this must have meaning. There is no room for junk words and actions in prose, and even less in television. Whatever's on the page has to have meaning, or it's wasted space, wasted time, a moment that could have been useful now gone and never coming back.

Denkins shoves my phone back to the center of the table and says, "I wanted to see if I could just talk about the story without making it about me."

"But you're part of it," I point out. "You have to be. It came from you. It was something you thought was important, and then you put the effort in to create it. The story exists because of you, in relation to you. That's why people, why fans, want to know more about you. They love the story, and you made it, so they want to love you, too."

"I don't like that," says Denkins. "Rephrase it."

"They love the story," I say, parroting back at my creator, "and you made it. They want to know about you so they can know more about what the story means."

Denkins's chair creaks as he pushes it back, puts his head in his hands. I wonder if he's doing that in the real world, too, in the place where he's imagining this interview that will never exist. 

(Except I'm not the one wondering. He is. He's wondering what an interviewer would think of him if he allowed himself to show this weakness. Rephrase. Show this ache. Rephrase. Show this.)

"I'm not a story," Denkins says, face still hidden. The Muzak piped into the room seems too loud, too discordant now. Maybe that's what the world sounds like to him. "I'm not imaginary. I'm not a specimen to study under a microscope until every part of me is uncovered and connected one by one to every part of the show." He drags his hands back down and I think I can say that he looks very, very tired. 

"Yes, maybe I put some of myself in Blow the Man Down," he continues. "Maybe I did in season two as well. Maybe I put something in The Gang, and maybe I'll put something into whatever else I make for the next fifty years. And what I put there is—will be—has to be—my choice. All things I chose to share. But this?" He waves a hand at the nonexistent conference room, at nonexistent me. "This isn't a choice. It's a demand. I'm being held hostage for answers, as if me keeping my boundaries somehow ruins the show, ruins the story."

"Because you're not a story," I repeat back, watching for confirmation. "Because what you choose to reveal is the only story the audience should need."

"Yes," says Denkins. "That's it."

That's not it, though. I know this, because I'm him, talking to himself. Thinking all this through. 

"So you cut yourself off," I say. "No one can know anything about you, because they're already clawing for what you're not willing to share—so how much worse would it get if you gave them a chance to come closer, right?" 

"To take, and get it wrong anyway," he says. "Or get it right, but not like it. Not like me. How I'm perceived might change how the story is perceived. And even skipping over the whole art of it all—this is a business. How the story is perceived affects dozens, if not hundreds of people and careers. And all of it can get destroyed in an instant if there's some aspect of me that the audience decides is wrong."

Denkins pushes back from the table, stands up as if to leave. I'm not done yet, though. He's not done yet.

"Sounds lonely," I say.

"Sounds like something a fan would say," he shoots back, and I shrug.

"Blame yourself for thinking it and making me say it, then. It sounds lonely. It is lonely. It's lonely to think there's no way that you could open yourself up, talk about who you are and what your art means to you, without feeling like someone, everyone, will take advantage of that vulnerability."

I pause, and in that pause I find something to latch onto. "You've imagined me," I say. "You've imagined this scenario, where you stay cut off and oblique and hidden." I pick up my phone from where it's placed between us, and I shut it down completely—not because it exists, but because it's a symbol he understands. "What would happen if you imagined being part of the story?" I ask. Rephrase. "What would happen if you imagined being free?"

We look at each other. The tinny music of this artificial space comes to a sudden halt.

Denkins leaves the room. 

I am—

Denkins comes back. He sits down. He looks at me.

Time doesn't exist in the beige and glass room. But behind him, now, there is a poster of Sam Bellamy and Olivier Levasseur, a drilled coin on a cord stretched taut between them. And the Muzak hasn't restarted.

Denkins looks different. Or maybe he just feels different. Those things are functionally the same, here.

"You know the old movie trailers?" Denkins starts, not really a question. "The ones that start with 'in a world…'"

I nod. 

He smiles a little. "Okay. In a world where Blow the Man Down doesn't exist. Let's say there's something else instead. Let's say it's called Our Flag Means Death. It's a workplace comedy, it's the Golden Age of Piracy, the works. They even manage to kiss in the first season, though the cliffhanger is worse. And in that world, there's a different guy who runs it, a guy named David Jenkins, who seems nicer and more outgoing and shares a lot more of himself than I do. And I think it goes mostly okay for him, except he has to scrub his social media, delete most of his Instagram, and never gets to name his wife anywhere in case a fan might notice and start following her around."

"Sounds grim," I say.

He shrugs. "It's another way of handling it. David, in that world, has made a choice to draw the enemy fire toward himself, instead of hiding away and letting it scatter at random. It seems to work okay for him, and maybe it would for me too, but, you know. Maybe that's a little of myself I gave Ollie. Because I also like the idea of testing something first, all the way to destruction."

A little of myself. This—this is personal information. Something that, in the negotiations that never happened, he said he'd never give me.

My phone, with its blackened screen, is right there. I keep my hands still, folded together, decidedly not reaching for the phone. Denkins watches, sees. His shoulders loosen; neither of us, I think, realized how tense he'd been.

"In that world," he says, "there's a second season coming that no one knows anything about and there's a fandom going feral. Echo chambers that feed off their own theories because there's nothing new to add to the pot. Just like our world, right? In the absence of good data, overwrought ideology works just as well.

"And in the middle of this, to provide a distraction, maybe, or to draw that enemy fire like he so often does, David Jenkins says he'll get a Tumblr—you know, one of those not-really-social-media internet places. And maybe he does. He doesn't tell anyone his username, so it's a mystery whether he really did it or not. But someone opens an account. And someone says they're definitely not David Jenkins."

Javid Denkins is holding a cup of coffee. So am I, now. We take sips, mirrors of each other. The coffee tastes like it has seven sugars in it.

Denkins swirls his cup gently, not looking up at me. "When you're trying to figure out something that's terrifying," he says, slow and careful, "and enraging, and so big and so much that it feels like you'll collapse under the weight of it…sometimes you need to find a way to conceptualize it more abstractly. Make it manageable. Put it in bite-sized chunks. 

"So instead of me, dealing with all this fame, and these expectations, and these pulls to turn me from a person into a plot point…maybe there's this other guy. In this other universe, with this other pirate show. Another writer, who says he's definitely not David Jenkins. But—he could be. He could be. And either way, there's enough uncertainty that the fandom can't tell right away."

"Schrödinger's showrunner," I say. 

Denkins tips his mug at me. "Yeah, that gets pointed out, too. Because either it's really him and the fandom will eat at him—death by a thousand needy bites of demand, and something that feels like connection but by its nature can't be—or it's not him, just a fan pretending to be him, attention-seeking, scamming, stealing unearned laurels to crown a meaningless triumph: successfully mimicking the concept of David Jenkins."

"Pretty binary."

Denkins shrugs. "You saw the first season. I'm a sucker for duality." 

He hums and looks out the conference room's window. The AMC lot is gone. More accurately, it was never there. Outside the window is an ocean. The water is green-screen perfect, and there are two tall-masted ships in the distance: Bellamy's Whydah Gally and Levasseur's La Louise. They float angled toward one another, counterpart to their captains on the poster behind Jenkins, missing only the drilled coin between them.

"Except," says Denkins, slow and musing as he watches the distant ships, "in the vast multiverse of imaginable possible outcomes, it turns out that there is the very slimmest possible chance of a third thing happening."

There is another ship floating now between the Whydah and La Louise. It's freshly painted, poorly rigged, and its figurehead is a unicorn. Instead of one flag, it has half a dozen. And I know, because Denkins knows, that instead of gunpowder in its hold, it carries jars and jars of harmless marmalade.

"So," I say, "David Jenkins—"

"Oh, definitely not David Jenkins," says Javid Denkins, amusement lighting up his face. He keeps his eyes on that third ship.

"So the person who is definitely not David Jenkins," I say. "He comes and starts a social media account. He answers questions."

"Sort of. Nothing specific, really. Just…narrative likelihoods. Enough to dangle hope. But the fandom wants more. There's a Richard Siken line he sees, that if he'd chosen to stay anonymous maybe he could've actually posted: 'but monsters are always hungry, darling.' It's like that. So he backs up a little, and considers how to hold off the inevitable. The season two hints are vague? Make them vaguer. Add some smoke and mirrors to hide how little substance they have. There are only so many general pirate tropes around? Stretch out how long it takes to get the ones he has. Add steps. Add puzzles. Make the fandom work for it, and maybe they won't notice how little there is to find. Give them an interesting enough box to open, and they'll ignore the fact that there isn't an answer on the inside, just another, smaller box." He tilts his head and looks at me. The light outside is now luminous pink and yellow, flashing off the water and highlighting his face like a duotone painting. "Then he…" Denkins sighs. Puts down his mug. "Then I sit back and see what happens. I see if it's as bad as I think it would be if I did it here, in the real world."

"And is it?"

Denkins reaches out with one hand, tugging my phone over to his side of the table. He starts fiddling with the buttons, attention on it instead of me. "To start with? Yes. And no. It didn't matter that the one thing I promised was that I wasn't David Jenkins. They—the fandom—found me anyway. They assumed I was him. And I was right, of course I was right, they asked me questions. Hundreds of them. Like that was the only reason I existed, like I couldn't just be a regular person like the rest of them, just on Tumblr to read about the Carpathia and get taken out by the color of the sky."

"For better or for worse, you're a public person," I say. "They think they know what it means when a public person breaks down the barrier between themselves and the fans. Even well-meaning people make assumptions."

The recorder is no longer a phone and app; it's an old cassette player with thick plastic buttons like I, or more accurately Denkins, had as a child. It matches the ones his elementary school classrooms had, which in turn looked like the device Mr. Spock carried at his hip to record and interpret data from strange new worlds. 

Denkins, in the here and now, half-presses the play and record buttons, which would trigger the record function if pushed down completely. He holds back. Riding the edge of commitment. Over and over. 

"Yeah," he says. "Yes. That's true. And I could've been completely anonymous if I wanted to be left alone entirely. I suppose I wanted to prove that everything I believe—everything I'm afraid of—is true, and that I'm justified in hiding away, refusing to be 'known' by anyone I haven't specifically agreed to. Hence the thought exercise. And when I was done, and I had my proof," he says, leaving off the recorder buttons to raise a pointed finger at me, "I wouldn't have to see you again either."

We look at each other. "But here you are," I say.

He laughs. It's rusty, but sure. "Here I am," he agrees.

"So what happened?"

"Turns out," he says, "that in that infinite universe of possibilities a writer can dream up, there's a world where, yes, all my worst fears are confirmed…but that's not all that happens."

He stops, and we are both silent for a long, long moment. His fingertips brush over the recorder buttons, repetitive and soothing, like he's calming something feral and unused to human touch.

"Would you believe," he says at last, hushed and small in this glass and beige room floating on a digital sea, "that there is a world where fans—people—don't ask for more than I want to give? Who see the box I'm in, and instead of ripping it open to grasp for whatever good thing they think they can find inside…they give something back. 

"I played it all out, you see." He waves his hand over the recorder. Now there are two of them, sitting side by side, each with a row of thick black plastic buttons along the edge: one to play, one to rewind, one to record, and one to pop open its lid so that the cassette can be changed. One of the recorders is a little bigger than the other. "If I can imagine it," he says, "it has to be possible."

He looks at the two recorders; he's quiet now, talking to himself rather than me. I don't think I'm as necessary as I was before. I think maybe this is just him. Just Denkins in this lonely little room. He moves the smaller recorder so that it's lined up with the larger one, like he's lining up Matryoshka dolls as he reveals them.

"It started small," he says. "There were people who saw my puzzles, and made puzzles back for me, just to play along. People who saw my puzzles, and shared what they knew about them, just to help others play too. Small things. Little things. Possible things. I liked it. I didn't expect it. I…wanted to give back, too. Not just in the story, I mean. It was me who wanted it. Wanted to add to a world, to a community, where that sort of giving could happen. So I went further. I didn't just try to hint at common story beats this other show might hit—I started listening, following, asking what would be most welcome, and then gave that instead. And it grew. It grew until it wasn't really just an experiment anymore. It stopped being an adversarial proof. It started being…something else."

Denkins reaches out, and now there are three recorders on the table. The newest one is the smallest. He lines it up with the others.

"I'd already made David Jenkins," he says, "and in turn he'd made his own Javid Denkins. So why not do it again? This other Javid Denkins, this me who's me but not me, goes deeper. He uses the tools at his disposal. Our Flag Means Death has pirates named Edward Teach and Stede Bonnet. OFMD has a fandom like BTMD does, where people write stories about the characters, for themselves and—for others. Fan fiction. A thing that can be a gift, if you want it to be. So I started to write one."

One by one, Denkins hits the 'play' button on each of the recorders. The cassettes whir, a steady background hum. Each starts playing a part of some orchestral piece. Not the individual instruments, but something stranger. It's as if each cassette contains the whole work, but with fragments missing that the others complete. There are still some gaps in the playback.

Denkins waves his hand over the collection again, and a fourth recorder, smallest of all, appears. He presses play on it too, and the music fills in. It's a pretty little melody. Simple, if you know how to hear it.

Denkins hums a little of it before looking up, seeing me again. "That was it, really. That's what finally made all this small enough for me to understand. Made it small enough, far enough away from my actual world that I could finally let myself feel it. In this story that I'm telling, here is Edward Teach." Denkins touches the smallest recorder very, very gently. "Teach lives in a world where he's not the main character; he's just a fan of a gay pirate romcom called Blow the Man Down. He's tired, and he's angry, and he doesn't know how to deal with the world the way it is, with the fandom as he perceives it. He makes a Twitter account, anonymously, to prove that what he fears is real."

Denkins covers the recorder with both hands, only muffling the music a little. "Here's Edward Teach, made up of all my fears and saying them out loud."

He raises his hands, and now there are two little recorders, the same size, both playing the same parts together. He touches the new recorder with his fingertip, as if it's a bubble that could too easily break. "Here's Stede Bonnet," he says, "made up of all my fears coming true. And then having to live through it anyway." He stares down at this new recorder; the same as the Edward Teach one, but evidently special in some way to Denkins. He says, to me, to it, to the room: "It's a hell of a thing, to need to go so far away just to see what you've been carrying on your back the whole time."

After a moment, he looks back up at me. "In my story," he says, "Stede survives the disaster. My disaster. He survives it, because he has Ed—a love interest, yes, but not just that. He's someone he opened up to. And more than that, I saw—because I could imagine it, and so it must be possible, it has to actually be possible—I saw the fandom become…people."

With both hands, Denkins presses a button on each of these two small recorders.

Their lids pop open.

And from the walls, from the ceiling, from the glass windows and the limitless sea, there comes a multiverse of music.

"These people," says Denkins, tilting his head to listen as the swells of unseen instruments add to the gentle overture of his pocket worlds and turn the piece into something greater than the sum of its parts. "They're not some nameless collective made up of their worst impulses. They're just people. People are complicated. You can never know them completely; they can never know you. All you really get is what they—we—choose to do. 

"And I saw people try to help Stede. People, strangers, who didn't know who he was, not really. And they felt compassion anyway."

After a long moment, just taking in the music, Denkins sighs and carefully closes the lids on the two small recorders. The singing universe becomes just a recorded orchestral piece once again—though no less beautiful for it. He gently pushes the two recorders together until they're touching, side by side, and covers them with his hand. He says, "Ed got to see this. He got to know that even if his worst fear happens, he'll be okay on the other side of it. And he won't be alone." 

He lifts his hand; the two are now one, still playing its little melody.

Denkins picks up this amalgamated recorder and sets it on top of the next largest. He puts his hand over the stack he's just made. "Move it up a level," Denkins says. "David Jenkins, or someone who is definitely not David Jenkins, runs a Tumblr with games and puzzles and digital tools that stretch the boundaries of the narrative. He sees the reactions to his story. Sees fans who know it isn't real, who know that Stede and Ed are characters in a narrative—and nevertheless, these fans, these people, see that these characters are hurting. They try to help. They don't know who's behind the masks labeled 'Stede' and 'Ed,' not really. But they feel compassion anyway."

He lifts his hand. The little recorder atop the larger is gone. The music is different. Not lessened, but changed. It's come closer. 

Once more, Denkins moves the smaller combined recorder onto the last one—or, I suppose, the first of all of them. "So move it up one more time," he says. The music isn't audible in the room now; but I hear it anyway. It's in me. Us. The last little notes coming from the final recorders just a reminder of what the world could sound like.

He covers the top recorder with both hands. His touch is aching and very, very soft. "Here's me. Javid Denkins. I don't know if there's a world where I could open myself up and not have everything burn down in flames. I don't know if it could ever be possible for me to leave this room, open my laptop, and start something, somewhere, called 'definitely not Javid Denkins,' and have it be as beautiful and awe-inspiring as it was in my thought experiment.

"But God," he says, "I want it."

He lifts his hands, and all that's left is the final recorder, the one that was my phone to begin with. The music dissipates completely. But the feeling of it remains. Denkins rests his hands on either side of this solitary recorder. He says, "I don't know if all of that—all of them, my fans, my friends, all of what we made together…I don't know if it already exists for me in the real world. Just waiting for me to be brave enough to look. I don't know. But I think I have to believe that it does. That they do. I have to believe that it's possible not just to imagine that kind of grace, but to live it." 

Denkins brushes his thumb over the last recorder's play button. "I think that's what it means to be human," he says. "To try anyway. To unlock yourself despite your fears, and find hope there waiting for you."

He closes his eyes. I close my eyes. We take a deep breath together.

We open our eyes.

After a moment, I smile at Denkins, a little crooked. I've got one last question to ask, and it's one he might even answer. 

"Who are you, really?" I ask. 

It's something we all have to answer about ourselves eventually, and it seems particularly relevant now.

Denkins shrugs, and his smile mirrors mine. "Does it matter?"

"It feels like it does."

"How about this," he says. "Who are you, really?"

And knowing what I know now…if I'm anyone at all, then I suppose I'm Javid Denkins. An aspect. A reflection. A dream.

And so, in these universes he's imagined, is everyone.

"So," Denkins says. "You think I can start over?"

I smile wider. It feels good. "I'd love that."

He pushes the recorder back to me, and in my heart I hear his laughing request for one last rephrase—

Javid Denkins has been waiting for me.

It's 9:30 in the morning and I'm sitting across the table from a cheerful enigma. Denkins was already in the room when I arrived, a hot coffee by my seat and a box filled with fresh breakfast pastries and marmalade open and ready to be enjoyed. An advertising standup emblazoned with the unreleased (at time of writing) air date for season two of Denkins's Blow the Man Down takes pride of place at the head of the table. Through the windows opposite, bright sunlight bounces off the buzzing AMC studio lot, and I think I hear a certain pirate romcom's theme music playing quietly over the room's speakers.

Denkins grins at me, and it's easy to see why his actors and writers speak so highly of the experience of working with him. Because I can tell already: this is going to be fun. 

It starts when he leans forward, eyes bright, and presses the record button on my phone for me.

"Let's play," he says, and—we do.

#definitely not david jenkins #definitely not javid denkins #btmd #ofmd

[mcgnagallsarmy]

Top 10 Spuffy fics I’ve read (March 2024)

A Different Kind of (Sunny)hell by OffYourBird [Adult Only]

Between juggling a New World Order, a bothersome Council, wayward magic, and – as always – some much with the confusing time travel, there is never a dull moment in Sunnydale for Liz and Elly. This is Season 6 as it exists in the Jumpverse (beginning with A Different Kind of Hell and followed up by A Different Kind of Wedding). Fair warning: if you have not read the previous installments of the Jumpverse, this will not make any sense.

A Totally Random Occurrence by Herself [NC-17]

The stake slipped from her fingers, and she had to take a deep breath to stave off the dizziness descending on her like a hood over her head. "You—I thought you were dead." A reunion in New York City. Set post-NFA, spoilers for all of BtVS and AtS.

Cavalry by Holly [NC-17]

Buffy and Spike are enjoying life on the open road, but when they learn monsters have taken over Sunnydale, they have no choice but to head back to the Hellmouth.

Dusk Rising by HappyWhenItRains [NC-17]

"It doesn't matter. If Dawn dies, I'm done with it, I'm quitting." What if quitting wasn't all Buffy promised? -Challenge by Loup Noir Glory is defeated. The portal is closed. Except this time, the Scoobies decided to take matters into their own hands. While Willow restrains Buffy, Xander pushes Dawn off the tower. The rest is darkness. In the absence of Dawn, Buffy becomes Dusk.

The Footprints Left Behind by Willow91 [NC-17]

In the wake of an unknown attack on the American Frontier and the subsequent loss of contact with the friends they still had stateside, Buffy and Xander sneak into the country and begin a long, dangerous journey to find old friends and the source of the near apocalypse before it spreads throughout the rest of the world.

For You To Be You by lafillesauvage [Adult Only]

Alternate ending for 7x13 The Killer in Me. What happened after Buffy and Spike returned to an empty Revello Drive following the chipectomy? Well, in this story, Buffy realises just how much she cares for Spike, which leads to some fluffy reconciliations involving chocolate ice cream and Walker, Texas Ranger. She also gets her period, and adult-only fun is had by all.

Golden Hour by kennedynoelle [R]

Response to a challenge set by emilise: Spike never came to Sunnydale during the first few seasons. The first time Buffy sees him is during The Harsh Light of Day, sunbathing on campus adorned with the Gem of Amara. Oh no, she thinks, the pit of her stomach dropping and sending tinglies all over, he's hot. They start dating, Buffy unaware that her new boyfriend is a member of the undead. Of course, she has to find out eventually…

Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger by fortes775 [NC-17]

Buffy has spent the summer grasping for something just out of reach, but when Dracula arrives at the peak of her frustration, all bets are off. In which Buffy finds her fix, her man, and herself, not necessarily in that order…

Manifest by EllieRose101 [R]

The hardest demons you have to fight are your very own, but a little help can go a long way—if it’s the right kind. (Set after Tabula Rasa but before Smashed.)

Mixed Signals by phoenixjustice [NC-17]

Two people who were never supposed to meet. She had seen everything, up to the Dragon that destroyed everything she loved. He had only the lasting memory of her words of love before he burned to cinders. Could they bridge the gap between them?

#buffy the vampire slayer #btvs #spuffy #ficrec #monthly ficrec #elysianholly #isevery0nehereverystoned #tvylrswift

[riordanness]

better than revenge — [k.jones]

wordcount: 2.1K

warnings: none???

requested: no

“C’mon lass, you get what you want, and I get what I want.”

I raise my eyebrows at this. “Oh?” I question, sipping from my goblet, keeping my eyes on him.

“What do I get out of this?” I ask, my voice hard and my gaze resolute. If I knew one thing, it was to never let down my guard, never show weakness.

The man laughs, tips his head back and gulps the rest of his alcohol down. He looks me in the eye. “I’ll let you live, lass… and I’ll even throw in a few pieces of gold for your trouble.”

I stare at him for the count of four.

“Deal.”

Hours later, under cover of nightfall, I tiptoe down the docks. My leather boots are soft and worn from use, and I have perfected the art of silent footsteps.

My fingers curl around the hilt of my sword, ready to pull it from its sheath the moment I perceive a threat of any kind.

I silently go through my mission once again, knowing full well a single mistake will result in my death. If the pirates aboard this ship don’t get me, the man who sent me on this mission surely will.

I have a simple goal: sneak aboard the Jolly Roger, find a magical compass, and get out alive.

My eyes rest on the ship itself, its name painted in cursive letters right on the waterline, so as the ship moves slightly on the waves, the words appear to dance.

I slip forward, seeing no one on deck. With one swift, fluid movement, I place my right hand on the starboard railing, then I use the momentum from a scissor kick to propel myself from the dock to the deck, dropping without a sound onto my feet.

I quickly shift my body to the shadows, crouching down and moving fast, getting to the doors leading to the lower deck.

Opening it, I slip inside, shutting it quietly behind me. I hadn’t spent the greatest amount of time on boats in my short life, and I haven’t the faintest idea of where to search for a compass of all things.

Luckily for me, I have a locator. I pull it from my pocket now, a shiny white stone, glowing faintly. Apparently, the closer to the compass I get, the brighter the light will shine.

I turn in a slow circle, and when I face the corridor to my left, the brightness of the stone becomes more obvious, in a way I can’t describe. It didn’t become literally brighter, exactly, but it was suddenly very clear which direction I should take.

I follow the stone’s magical light, until it leads me to a small desk inside what I think is the captain’s chambers. Luckily for me, no one is at home. I’m daft. the entire ship is empty. The crew must be out for a night at the pub, and good for me too.

I yank at the top drawer of the desk, its hinges crusty and rough. When the drawer finally slides open, my eyes come to rest on the only object inside.

A golden compass.

I smile, and reach towards the compass. The metal is cool to my touch, and my fingertips glide over it as smoothly as if it was polished merely moments earlier.

I lift it up out of the drawer, dangling it in the air in front of me. I stare in awe, watching as the compass catches the light, glittering and flashing. Rainbows dance across the chamber’s walls, filling the room with colour.

I am just about to drop the compass into my dress pocket, when a voice behind me scares the daylight out of me.

“And what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

I whirl around, shoving the compass into the deep pocket of my skirts. It was safest there; the pocket easily missed due to the many folds of my skirts. I draw my sword, and stare at the dark figure lurking in the doorway.

Shadows dance across his face, distorting his features. He’s tall, and I can tell his sword is also drawn, the blade catching the light of the only lamp in the room. My eyes drop to the lamp on the desk beside me. Without thinking, I blow out the flame.

It’s completely dark. I use this to my advantage, running fast at the doorway, crashing into the figure. We both land hard on the floor, and I scramble to my feet, ready to run.

But then, hands grab at my waist, hold me fast, and my hopes of escape crumble.

“You aren’t getting away that easily, love,” an accented voice whispers in my ear, before something hits my head, and I remember nothing else.

•••

My head pounds, and I dread opening my eyes. When I do, I immediately cringe in pain as light seemingly floods my vision, increasing my headache by tenfold.

I push myself up to a sitting position, taking in my surroundings. I’m in a bed, a simple woven blanket over me. I’m still in my normal clothes, which means no one changed me, thank goodness.

With a slight gasp, I hastily check my pocket. Of course, no compass. I shouldn’t have even dared to hope it remained in my possession. Of course that pirate would have taken it back.

Speaking of that pirate, I frown. Turning over all the events of last night (or what I assume was the last night; I’m not sure how much time has passed since I was knocked out; or even what time of day it is. Whoever’s cabin this is, they clearly hate windows), I shiver slightly. The memory of that voice in my ear, whispering seductively…

I shake myself, and climb out of the bed. I must find that compass, even if I am now a prisoner on this bloody pirate ship.

I leave the cabin, finding my way down the corridor, trying to find the familiar door that leads to the upper deck. When I finally find it, I can hear voices from outside. Pirates laughing and shouting and jeering at each other. At least half of the voices are obviously drunk.

My choice is a simple one, but I still hesitate. Remain a prisoner on this ship? Or risk dying in the battle across the deck?

My father always used to call me his little daredevil, before he died, so I decide to live up to his nickname for me, and push open the door.

The moment I step onto the deck, into the harsh sunlight, the chatter all around me stops. A dozen pairs of pirate eyes gape at me in curiosity. I wonder how often a woman has been on this ship.

Suddenly, someone drops down in front of me, swinging off a top with one hand, and landing on his feet. Startled, I take a step backwards, almost losing my balance.

The man straightens, and locks eyes with me. He smiles, but it’s not a nice smile. I mean, it’s nice. He’s fairly attractive, but his smile leaks devilishness.

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced, love,” the man says, and I would recognise that voice anywhere. He’s the man from last night, the man who knocked me out.

“I’m Killian Jones,” he continues. “Or as I’m not commonly known as, Captain Hook. To whom do I owe the honour?”

My eyes narrow suspiciously. I am a girl who has tried to steal from him, and yet he seems unaffected by this fact. My guard is instantly up, and I prepare for a fight.

“You are going to let me go,” I say stubbornly, wishing badly that I had my sword. I hadn’t noticed it right away when I’d awoken, but they’d taken it from me. “And I require your golden compass as well as my freedom.”

Killian Jones stares at me for a moment, then throws his head back and laughs.

His crew joins in the laughter, some pointing their fingers at me, some jeering and making stupid noises and gestures.

I roll my eyes at them. I have no time for men who aren’t my father. They’re a troublesome species that require a great deal too much effort for my own personal liking.

The captain gains his composure, and stares at me, rather dumbfounded.

“Love, there’s no way in hell I am giving you this compass, just like that.”

I narrow my eyes. “Then fight me for it. A duel. Winner gets the compass.”

Killian Jones raises an eyebrow at me apprehensively. “I don’t fight women. At least not with a sword.”

I roll my eyes at him. “Then this’ll be an easy win.” I step quickly towards one of the crew members, elbow him in the chest and pull at his sword at the same time, yanking it from its sheath as he stumbles backwards.

I launch an attack on Killian, my sword coming down on his head. In a flash, he brings his arm up to stop my blade.

My sword clangs against metal, and I stare in shock at what should be Killian’s hand… but isn’t. Replacing his hand is a shiny hook, which has caught my blade mid-air.

I blink in surprise. “You…”

“Yes, I know,” Killian sighs. “Captain Hook isn’t just a catchy nickname.” With his other hand, he gently pries my fingers off the hilt of the borrowed sword.

“Now, love, you’re going to stop attacking me, and do what I say. Or else you’re not going to get a very happy ending.”

I stand, deflated, and watch as he tells a crew mate to tie my hands together, and lash me to the main mast. I slump to the ground, a heavy feeling of defeat clouding over me. I watch in silence as Killian and his crew go back to their loud, joyful drinking. I seem to be forgotten, just like that.

I grit my teeth in frustration, but am suddenly aware of how loosely my bonds have been tied. Clearly, the crew member Killian Jones elected to tie me up was more than a little bit drunk. I smirk to myself as I wriggle my fingers, working at the poorly made knots.

Once my hands are free, I still, watching carefully, planning my escape. Most of the crew have wandered below decks now, and only Killian Jones and another man with a red beanie over his messy hair (who I guess is first mate), stand against the ship’s railing across the other end of the Jolly Roger.

Killian seems to bore of the first mate, and dismisses him, waving his hand at the man. The man disappears into one of the doorways at the back of the ship.

I wait, silent, hoping Hook will follow his mate. He doesn’t seem to have any plans of doing this. For a while, I just sit and watch him as he leans his back against the railing, picking at his metal hook, running his forefinger up and down it, tracing the sharp edges.

“You alright there, love?”

The break in silence startles me so much I barely hear the question. “I–what?”

Kilian looks up, meets my eyes, and smirks slowly, his chin tilting up a little as he does so. His tongue traces his upper teeth, his eyes studying me hard.

“I can’t let you go, you know,” he says.

“Why?” I refuse to believe him. There has to be a way for me to get out of this. Silently, I curse that random, awful man in the tavern for getting me into this mess. Even for a bit of gold and my life, I doubt this is worth it. A whole lot of hassle for not much gain, it was starting to seem.

“Because,” Hook replies, apparently not wanting to elaborate.

I roll my eyes. I am done with this rubbish. I stand quickly, my ropes dropping to the deck.

Killian’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t seem especially surprised at my escape. “What exactly are you going to do now?” he asks me, a glint in his eyes. Whether it’s from amusement or pure evil, I don’t exactly know.

“Get out of here and kill you,” I say, eyes narrowed.

He laughs. “Okay, love. You do that.” For a moment, he does nothing but play with the hilt of his sword. Then he looks up at me. “You know, you could always join my crew.”

I frown immediately. “What do you mean? Why on earth would I do that?”

He smirks. “Because… I want you to.”

I stare at him, unsure if he’s serious or joking. Then, I make a dumb decision and decide, “Why not.”

#killian jones #ouat #ouat fanfic #fanfiction #killian jones x reader #once upon a time #ouat x reader #captain hook #hook x reader

[steddieasitgoes]

@steddiemas Day 12 Prompt: Hallmark Movie Tropes

Tags: Pre-Relationship, Dual POV, Getting Trapped In A Small Town, Stobin Owns A B&B, Rockstar Eddie Munson, Inspired By Hallmark Christmas Movies, Meet Cute,

wc: 3188 | Rating: G

Read on ao3 | ao3 collection

Eddie doesn’t know how luck works, but he’s pretty sure he’s used up his lifetime allotment.

It’s the only way he can explain the last 72 hours without launching himself into a multi-day meltdown. Honestly, who the fuck did he piss off? How did he go from landing in New York after the biggest and most successful Corroded Coffin world tour yet, only to be thrust into the nearest recording studio because somehow the entire third album they recorded on the road is, ironically, corroded and unable to be played?

Eddie and the rest of the guys holed up in that dimly lit studio for 48 hours recreating only half the magic they’d manage to create on the road. If he’s straight with himself, he’s not even sure the songs they churned out are even close to the original. It would be easy to go back and check if he had his trusty laptop and notebook full of lyrics and chords and the like. Unfortunately, they’re a victim of his bad luck too — having been left and lost on the bus ride from the airport to the secluded studio in upstate New York. after their private car no-showed.

Naively, Eddie had thought nothing could get any worse when they finally saw daylight and handed over the second draft of their third album. But then disaster struck again in the form of a blown engine and a fucking snowstorm to end all snowstorms that has him stranded, alone, and cold in middle of nowhere New York.

All he wants is to get home to Wayne and drink his sorrows away with the famous Munson spiked hot chocolate, but no. Life has other plans for him, apparently.

Fresh off the Australian leg of the tour where the sun was shining, Eddie’s not dressed or prepared for this winter weather. Already shivering in the dead van, he bundles himself up in his leather jacket and ratty blanket he hasn’t washed in god-knows how many years and gets to walking.

On one hand, the fact that the snow is still falling is a massive pain in the ass. Eddie’s boots are quickly filling up with liquid and he’s pretty sure his face is going to be frozen if he has to stay out here for more than five minutes. On the other hand, the bright white shines in the evening light, making it so that he’s not tricking through bumfuck New York in the pitch black.

Unfortunately, there’s no pay phone in sight (his cell went dead hours ago) and most of the small shops Eddie passes on his trudge through town have their lights shut off and doors locked. He’s about to cut his losses and accept the fact he’s going to be sleeping (and dying) in his van when he spots a sign for a Bed and Breakfast up ahead.

Eddie’s senses are flooded the minute he pushes the heavy, Victorian-style door open. The air wafts over him like a warm blanket, heating up his frozen fingers and nose in a way that would make him cry if he could even produce tears right now. There’s a cacophony of noise coming from a nearby room — a piano and singing, plus tons of laughter. And don’t even get him started on the smell. Pine and apple cinnamon, hints of vanilla, maybe even fresh gingerbread. His stomach growls on cue.

There’s a small desk stationed in the center of the foyer, a golden bell sits beside a foot-tall Christmas tree decorated to the nines. A small welcome plaque sits in front of it. Brushing off his soaking shoes on the festive welcome rug, Eddie makes his way to the desk and rings the bell.

A second or two later, a similarly aged man appears. A Santa hat sits askew on his head, cheeks flushed from the warmth inside, and a smile so bright he’s pretty sure it could be used as a homing beacon. He’s beautiful.

“Hi there,” the man greets, mossing his way over to the desk. “Welcome to Buckington B&B. How can I help you?”

🎄 🏠 🎄🎄 🏠 🎄🎄 🏠 🎄

“Robs,” Steve whisper shouts, pushing his way past the swinging doors that separate the dining room from their private kitchen. He tries again, a little louder this time but still nothing. He can hear the piano in the other room, the hoard of guests singing along to whatever Christmas song is being plucked out by the five-year-old piano genius on vacation with her parents.

“Robin!” he shouts louder this time, pocking his head out into the backyard that’s currently two feet deep in powder, fresh snow. “Dammit, Robin. Where are you?”

“What’s all the yelling for?” she asks, appearing behind him.

“There’s a guy out front looking for a place to stay. Says his car broke down like a block or two away.”

“Okay, well, that sucks for him, majorly. But we’re already at capacity. You’re going to have to tell him to try Elaine’s or something.”

Steve knows Robin is right. They’re already at max capacity. Max-max capacity if he wants to get technical considering he gave up his room yesterday to the newlyweds who got stranded trying to get to the airport. It’s just well… Well, Steve’s always had a thing for unlucky people, especially when they’ve got a pretty face and a warm smile.

“See, the thing is,” he pauses, scratching nervously at his chin while trying to avoid Robin’s steadfast gaze. “I sort of already told him he could stay.”

“Steve!” Robin scolds, rolling her eyes. “We have no room!”

“I mean, yeah, you’re right. We don’t technically have any visitor rooms left. But, we still have your room.”

“Absolutely not,” she growls, crossing her arms. “No. Not gonna happen. I can’t believe you’re even asking me to give up my personal bed to a stranger! Nope.”

“Oh, come on, Robs!” Steve groans, throwing his hands on her shoulders to stop her vicious shaking. “Remember two summers ago when you made me give up my room for those best friends who fought the entire trip? You know the one you ended up hooking up with? I didn’t complain once!”

“That was different.”

Steve snorts, shaking his head. Definitely not different, but he’s not going to get what he wants if he argues with Robin. It’s not how their friendship turned business partnership works. “You owe me. I never cashed it on it, but now I am.”

Robin huffs and Steve knows she’s mentally stomping her foot like a child. If they weren’t overflowing with paying guests, he knows he’d be getting a long-winded lecture right now.

“Fine.”

He doesn’t wait to hear the list of conditions he knows Robin is going to have. She can’t even call him rude when he rushes out. After all, a freezing cold guest is waiting to be taken care of in the lobby.

🎄 🏠 🎄🎄 🏠 🎄🎄 🏠 🎄

It’s been a long time since Eddie’s been in a quirky room like the one he’s ushered into by Steve’s warm touch. Gone are the days of sleeping in motels on the side of the road on good nights, and shoved into the back of the van between equipment on bad days. Corroded’s management loves to book them the swankiest of hotels. Always looking for ways to send the label a massive bill — one that always ends up coming out of their own paychecks.

If it was up to Eddie, they’d be staying in places like this instead of the godawful monochromatic luxury prisons they get shoved into night after night. As an artist, he doesn’t get a say though. At least, that’s what he’s been told.

Glancing around, he takes in the bright-colored wallpaper. The dresser is cluttered with frames and other tchotchkes. A burnt orange rug takes up most of the floor and there’s an overflowing box of records perched in the corner by a small record player.

Eddie knows this isn’t a normal guest room — Steve had told him as much while guiding him up the stairs — and yet, he feels more at home in this quirky room than he has in months. Probably since the last time he visited Wayne.

Shit. He needs to call Wayne.

That unlucky string rears its head again as Eddie is met with dead silence when he picks up the pale blue landline. Of fucking course the phone lines would be down. The snow is dropping in sheets now. The telephone poles didn’t stand a chance.

At least he was lucky enough to land a place to sleep tonight, now all he needs is a —

“Hi, sorry to bother,” Steve says, pocking his head in. “I noticed you didn’t have any luggage with you when you checked in. It’s probably best to get out of those wet clothes. Hopefully, these will do.”

Eddie watches as Steve enters the room with a stack of clothes in hand. A pair of jeans and sweatpants sits at the bottom. Various shirts and sweaters stacked neatly on top. He’s pretty sure he spots a fluffy pair of socks at the top of the pile too. He might cry at the generous hospitality. After all, it’s a bed and breakfast not a fucking clothing store which means the clothes folded neatly must belong to Steve.

“You can leave the wet clothes outside the door when you’re done and me or Robin will come get them and throw them in the wash for you,” Steve says, setting the stack of clothes down. Then he’s moving again, hand reaching behind him before pulling out a laminated piece of paper from his back pocket. “I also brought you our itinerary for the evening. There are a few activities and tonight’s dinner menu. No pressure to join us. We also deliver food to rooms.”

“Damn,” Eddie whistles, glancing at the itinerary. “You guys really know how to take care of people around here, don’t you?”

“We try our best,” Steve smiles. “If you need anything else, just give us a shout.”

🎄 🏠 🎄🎄 🏠 🎄🎄 🏠 🎄

Steve doesn’t expect to see Eddie for the rest of the night. Especially not after a freakout from one of the teenagers vacationing tips him off on just who he’s agreed to let stay in Robin’s bedroom. He knew Eddie looked familiar. Wait until he tells Dustin about this — the shithead is going to be so mad he passed up a Christmas at Buckington B&B with Eddie Munson for some cruise.

Color him pleasantly surprised when he walks into the main room a few hours later to find Eddie behind the keys of the baby grand piano. The excited teenager from earlier sits to his left, a few of the ladies circle the edge of the piano as they wait for their cue to start singing “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.”

He’s caught in a trance, watching Eddie in the soft maroon sweater he’s borrowed from Steve professionally stroke the keys of the piano. It only gets worse when he starts singing himself. Rich baritone cutting through the breathy singing of the ladies, carrying the tune in a way Steve’s never heard before.

Usually, Steve hates Christmas carols, but maybe he’s just never heard them sung right before.

He’s the first to break into applause when the song ends. Hands coming together before he even registers he’s the one responsible for the thundering noise. Thankfully, he’s quickly joined by the rest of the guests of the B&B. It makes the embarrassment wane inside for a moment until his eyes scan the room and discover that Eddie’s only looking at him.

“Well, then,” Robin says, sauntering over to him from the kitchen. “Now I see why you couldn’t turn him away.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says and deliberately looks anywhere but in the direction of Eddie and the grand baby piano. Not that it really matters. He can feel Eddie’s warm gaze on him without even looking.

Robin hums, shaking her head. “Sure you don’t.”

“I don’t!”

“Just remember that he’s staying in my bed and payback is one of the only dishes I know how to serve,” she says, winking before she’s whisked away by one of the young children looking for a game to play.

🎄 🏠 🎄🎄 🏠 🎄🎄 🏠 🎄

The quiet of the early morning should be a welcome reprieve from the cacophony of sound from last night. He had started as a gentle observer in the celebration, but when the young child holding court at the piano was sent to bed, well, Eddie stepped up as the piano player of the evening. It wasn’t long before he had everyone putting a rock and roll twist on those stuffy Christmas carols.

Maybe Corroded Coffin’s fourth album should be a holiday one.

Drinks were poured and ready before he even had to ask and his stomach was treated to a delicious spread of meats and cheese. The gooiest brownies he’s ever experienced and a perfect Gingerbread recipe that would have put his Nana to shame.

It was nice. Existing with others. Reminding himself that life doesn’t always have to be moving at 100 miles an hour like it does when he’s on tour. Sure, he still wished he was home with Wayne, but a call to his uncle when the phone lines came back washed away any of the guilt he felt.

Now, though, alone in his room as the sun begins to rise over the mountains of snow outside. Well, now, he feels that same sense of restlessness he always feels when he’s in one place for too long.

Sliding into a pair of slippers Steve dropped off last night, Eddie carefully pulls open the door and sticks his head out into the hallway. It’s quiet aside from a few muffled snores coming from down the hall. With the coast clear, Eddie tip-toes his way down the hall and to the stairs.

He didn’t get a formal tour when he arrived, but he’s pretty sure Steve mentioned something about a stocked coffee bar on the first floor that was available to them whenever they needed. The first two doors he opens reveal a closet and a bathroom and a wrong turn has him standing amongst cluttered laundry. Not ready to give up, Eddie pushes his way through a swinging door and finds himself face-to-face with Steve himself.

“Oh, hi,” Steve says, voice thick with sleep though his appearance makes it look like he’s been up for hours.

He’s in a yellow sweater and jeans. Hair tousled in a way that definitely doesn’t look like he just rolled out of bed like that. His eyes are bright and shining, just like they were last night. Eddie really has to squint to notice the subtle bags under Steve’s eyes.

“Shit, sorry. M’not supposed to be here, am I?” Eddie asks as he looks around the room. It’s a standard kitchen, except for the two pale yellow fridges that take up an entire wall. A window hangs over the sink just like it does at his uncle’s place and he’s pretty sure they have the same green stove too.

“You’re not,” Steve smiles. “But it’s okay. Robin’s not up yet and I don’t mind the company. Can I get you a cup of coffee? Orange juice? Hot chocolate?”

“Are you sure you’re not running a coffee bar here instead of a bed and breakfast?” Eddie teases, leaning against the kitchen island. “Hot chocolate sounds delightful, thanks.”

“We strive too please,” Steve says before fumbling through the cabinets for a mug. “So, what has you awake at this hour? Was the room not to your standard?”

“The room is great! I’m honestly just not used to the quiet,” Eddie says, eyes trained on Steve as he flits around the kitchen preparing their drinks. It’s weird to find someone so attractive when they’re doing nothing out of the ordinary. But he can’t help it. Steve is beautiful in a way Eddie can’t really comprehend. “What about you? Are you always an early riser?”

“Robin and I usually take turns on the morning shit. Technically it’s her turn, but I told her I’d handle it,” he pauses, shaking his head as he looks out the kitchen window to the snow-covered backyard. “Definitely regretting it now. There’s no way m’shoveling all that snow today.”

Pushing up from the island, Eddie crosses the small distance and joins Steve at the window. Steve isn’t exaggerating in the slightest. The entire yard is covered in at least three feet of snow. Some parts even deeper judging by the absence of a fence he knows should be there.

“Guess m’staying another night.”

Steve hums, sidestepping away from Eddie to finish making the hot chocolate. When he turns back around, his cheeks are the slightest bit pink and Eddie can’t help but wonder if it was the steam of the hot chocolates doing or his own words.

“One cup of hot chocolate,” Steve says, handing him a pipping hot mug.

It’s decent. Not legendary like last night's brownies, but then again hot chocolate never is. Nothing ever stands up to the famous Munson spiked hot chocolate. There’s too much chocolate and not enough milk. And it’s severely lacking in the alcohol department. Though, he supposes, five am is a bit too early for liquor.

It would be easy to ask Steve for a shot of whisky to add, he knows they’ve got a stocked bar around here somewhere judging by last night's festivities. But he’s not about to impose more. Nor does he want to risk giving away his and Wayne’s hot chocolate secrets. At least, not to a guy he’s known for less than 24 hours. No matter how cute he is.

“So, Eddie, where were you headed before you got trapped here?”

“Well, I don’t know that I’d call it trapped,” Eddie says, hiding his smile behind the mug. “I actually think this is the nicest place I’ve stayed in a long time.”

🎄 🏠 🎄🎄 🏠 🎄🎄 🏠 🎄

Steve’s never been one to believe in luck.

He got dealt a shitty card right out of the gate, born to parents who could provide for him financially but never emotionally. Throw in falling into the wrong crowd and struggling through school, and well, Steve’s the poster child for privileged unluckiness.

Some might say luck found him in the form of Robin, but he thinks that a copout. Luck had nothing to do with bringing them together, nor did it have anything to do with the success they’ve found. That was all them. Blood, sweat, and tears.

Wishing on stars and believing in luck only happened in fairytales.

At least, that’s what he’s always told himself.

But now, standing in the kitchen listening to Eddie ramble on and on and on about how great the bed and breakfast is without ever breaking eye contact with him.

Well, maybe luck has finally found its way to him in the form of one stranded rockstar.

#steddiemas #steddie #steddie ficlet #steddie fic #steddie fan fic #steve harrington #steve harrington fic #steve harrington ficlet #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #eddie munson ficlet #rockstar eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things fic #dani writes

[canolaaoil]

To all my best friends, only twelve leagues and one text message away

1. Dearly Departed, Brockhampton. // 2. The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion. // 3. unsent project. // 4. I am in Eskew. // 5. His dark materials. // 6. Where did you go? Hishaam Siddiqui. // 7. parts in motion, Vera Much. // 8. Your Name Engraved, Herein. 9. Hmu, spacegirl GEMMY.

Description follows

[ID: song lyrics reading, "What's the point of havin' a best friend if you / end up losin' him?" end ID]

[[ID: a photograph in the style of an early digital camera of two teenage girls cuddling under blankets on a couch watching something on a computer. end ID]

[ID: a poem reading, "Life changes fast. / Life changes in the instant. / You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends. end ID]

[ID: a fuzzy photograph in the style of an early digital camera of three people huddled around a fridge. All of the people have brown hair, glowing golden from the lighting and only one of their faces is turned toward the camera. end ID]

[ID: a text entry on a pink background reading, "To: Harry I / i've written 43 / poems about you. / come back and i / won't have to write anymore. / -asle" end ID]

[ID: a photograph in the style of an early digital camera of a couple in a photobooth with only their feet and legs visible behind the curtain. one is sitting on the other's lap. ]

[ID: text reading, "The problem is, my love, is that I can't sustain the fact of your death. / I can convince myself that it's true, force myself to picture your rotting, ruined face dumped in a mass grave somewhere out in the world... / ...and then my phone buzzes and I'm still expecting an unexpected message from you, telling me what corner of the globe you've holed up in, the foods you're eating, the card-players you're outwitting." end ID]

[ID: a photograph of two people in an aquarium, shot from behind. they stand in front of a large window showing a tank of water and seaweed. the two pose as if dancing grandiosely with no one else around. end ID]

[ID: a paragraph reading, "And it was comforting to think she and Will had another thing in common. She wondered if there would ever come an hour in her life when she didn't think of him- didn't speak to him in her head, didn't relive every moment they'd been together, didn't long for his voice and his hands and his love. She had never dreamed of what it would feel like to love someone so much; of all the things that astonished her in her adventures, that was what astonished her the most. She thought the tenderness it left in her heart was like a bruise that would never go away, but she would cherish it forever." end ID]

[ID: a photograph from behind of a group of people walking together down a city street. two of the people have their arms around each other shoulders. another two link arms. the image is slightly blurry. end ID]

[ID: a couplet reading, "One day I woke up and we no longer spoke the / same language. I haven't heard from you since." end ID]

[ID: a photograph of two people, focused on one in the foreground. A young woman looks lovingly towards something out of frame, her face resting on the meat of her hand. In the background a man looks away towards another subject. The lighting is dreamy and yellow. end ID]

[ID: lyrics reading, "Show me it all / Tell me what's wrong / You got your hard drive stolen / Your phone's been broken / Play me a song off of mine / Show me it all / Show me a rise / Show me a fall / Pay me no mind / Paint me in gold / I don't mean to pry, but give me a call" end ID]

[ID: a gif from the movie 'Your Name Engraved Herein' of Birdy and A-han riding a motorbike through the streets at night. Both smile widely as they breeze along, Birdy sitting behind A-han with his shirt off over his head, yelling happily. End ID]

[ID: lyrics reading, "They say everything has reason / Life fluctuates like seasons / And maybe someday soon we'll both find our reason / But bitch you're still the bro / Never letting go / Of the friendship bracelets we made when we were twelve // I'll be waiting by my phone / For you to hit me up / For you to hit me up / Hit me hit me up" end ID]

[ID: a photograph of a plaque on an outside wall reading, "LIFE HAPPENS BUT I STILL CARE FOR YOU. I HOPE YOU'RE DOING WELL." end ID]

#web weaving #parallels #comparatives #brockhampton #i am in eskew #vera much #his dark materials #the unsent project #back on my quest to make people cry in the brockhampton tag apparently #the caption is a reference to the epic of gilgamesh #when gilgamesh has to cross twelve leagues of darkness to get to the realm of heaven/the gods #but uh yeah madilyn i hate you (your dad) for moving away and im so happy you escaped and we didn't die but i fucking miss you and i hat #that you're taller than me its rude #that spacegirl gemmy song makes me crazy fr though #also listen to vera much. now <3

[kawaiikenna]

Angry Dragons are Never Good

AO3 link for anyone that’s interested. ^w^ Here’s the original prompt and posting if y’all want.

Danny could tell that he was destroying things and hurting people. His core aches at every person he can hear scream and building crashing down. He was clinging onto the barest sliver of sentience through the painfully blinding rage that burned in his chest and tore at his soul. His mind’s eye was hazy and he could only catch snippets of what was happening and what he was doing. Initially Danny had been in Amity but within the last…hour? He thinks it’s been an hour. But within that time he fled from his hometown and was now in the outskirts of a much larger city.

There were also people. At first they all ran away from him screaming. Good, that way he couldn’t accidentally hurt more than he had already. But soon after that a new group of people came. They threw weapons and shot guns at Danny’s gleaming white hide. No mortal weapon could harm him in this form. If anything, it just annoyed and aggravated him further, making him rampage more violently. More people came and tried to hurt Danny. Some of it worked, but most did not.

Danny struggled to keep conscious but once they started throwing magic at him it was a lost battle. The magic was hurting him and binding his wings. So he switched forms. Though still a dragon, his bright white scales became black as pitch and he felt gravity take a hold of him again. The attacking people didn’t stop. Instead they tried harder to hurt him. They bound his wings further, making it impossible to move them. They tethered him down to the earth. Muzzled him when he had tried to snap at a few of the people that approached. Now everything hurt and he just wanted it to stop. Just stop! Please, it hurts! It hurts! Stop, stop, stopstop STOP !

And suddenly it did.

The blazing rage receded and the cool balm of his core started working on healing his injuries. Danny felt himself start to shrink and become smaller, closer to his original size. The magic binding him tried to adapt to his sudden size change but instead of tightly holding and wrapping around him, it instead looped loosely around his much smaller body. And now that the rage and anger had completely vanished, anxiety and panic flooded through him. He had hurt people. Even if it wasn’t intentional he had hurt people. That went against every instinct that he had had from the moment his accident had happened.

Danny falls to the ground in a crumpled heap. He somewhat succeeds in sitting up. His first thought is that he’s back in Phantom form. His second thought immediately after that was to get the amulet off as soon as he possibly could. So he reaches towards his neck and pulls at the golden chain. The serpentine eye glinting in the low light of the polluted city. Almost as if it was maliciously mocking him.

It doesn’t budge. It’s not moving. Why isn’t it moving?

His panicked breathing hitches and picks up. His hands start to shake uncontrollably. He pulls again, this time trying to put as much strength into the gesture as possible. The cold metal chain only bites further into his skin.

No! Nononono, no! He has to get it off! He has to keep everyone safe and he isn’t safe with this thing clasped around his neck. He has to get it off. He has to get it off. He hAS TO GET-

An unfamiliar set of hands try to help him. Danny jerks out of their grasp. “NO!” Danny yells, his Wail tinged the word. It knocks back whoever was in front of him a few steps and rattles whatever debris around him. Tears are freely flowing down his face to drip to the ground or onto himself. When had he started crying?

The set of hands approach again and hover in front of the teen. Danny looks past the hands to see a bedraggled blond haired man in a rumpled trench coat with tired eyes. He’s saying something but Danny can’t hear him over the ringing in his ears. More tears well in the panicking teen’s eyes as he lets out a broken sob.

“I didn’t mean to hurt everyone! I don’t want to hurt anyone!” Danny harshly pulls at the golden chain around his throat. “I just want it off. I just want it off! But it won’t come off! Why won’t it come off?” Another sob wracked his body as Danny stops pulling at the amulet and just grasps it limply instead.

The man in the trench coat offers a hand and says something again. Danny still can’t understand what he’s saying, but the emotions he’s detecting are calm and reassuring. So he eyes the hand but doesn’t do anything other than sob brokenly and pull at the chain with less and less strength. And before he knows it the amulet drops from around his neck and lays uselessly in Danny’s hands and across his lap.

Utter relief floods through him. Then absolute terror before he throws the now broken amulet in a random direction and tries to get further away. Danny stumbles two steps before he runs face first into someone, therefore losing what balance he had. The person he ran into holds him up, gently supporting Danny to stand.

The teen’s blurred vision makes out a leather jacket and the color red. But there’s something soothing about this person. Something that sings safe to Danny’s distressed core. So the extremely exhausted teen winds his arms around a strong torso, grips fistfuls of leather, and fully collapses into this safe person. Not even a moment passes before Danny has slipped into the blissful realm of sleep and unconsciousness.

#danny phantom #dp x dc #danny fenton #dc #dc x dp #batman #dp #dc comics #jason todd #dpxdc #dp x dc prompt #writing prompts #red hood #dp x dc crossover #john constantine #magical artifacts #dragon Danny #cross posted on ao3

[aeor-is-for-reccing]

Hidden Gems: Less than 150 Kudos

This week, we have one of our recurring rec lists - fics that you might have overlooked. Enjoy 13 fics that involve highly specific AU's, kink, Ludinus being evil, and of course, trips to Aeor. Check them out underneath the cut and of course, remember to comment and kudos if you like them!

Ages Past, Ages Hence by AthenaVine (12589, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Mostly canon-compliant fic series. The slow & careful courtship of Caleb & Essek during their trips to Aeor.

Reccer says: Omniscient perspective & visceral descriptions of the wizards' feelings

I used to hear a simple song by Amiactuallydoingthis (1378, General) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Meet cute in a university library

Reccer says: I liked it!

inked in skin; etched in bone by QuenaSparquea (56047, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Saving the world for a second time had a way of putting things in perspective. An exploration of magic and relationships in 31 pieces

Reccer says: This collection of interconnected stories sheds light on a slightly AU version of the Mighty Nein, in particular the Shadowhand as he navigates his past while planning for his future.

you must first invent the universe by renquise (3466, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

a snippet of a sci-fi take on the pre-aeor mission

Reccer says: Suuuuper fascinating take on the group in a sci-fi world. The interactions btwn Essek and Caleb are so interesting and you call practically feel all the world building even in the short amount of time.

Frozen Ink by Beauteousmajesty (1663, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek’s chronic pain gets worse once winter has arrived in Rexxentrum. Luckily, Caleb is good at fire.

Reccer says: Domestic and sweet ❤️

Golden hour by Technojuicebox (1914, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek needs help after an experiment of intimate nature has gone wrong.

Reccer says: I love the sexual tension between them

Suspicions (The Empire Spy) by Im_sorry_dont_judge_me (8249, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Dubcon/Consensual Non Consent

Essek learns of one of Caleb's fantasies and agrees to play it out with him. Then Caleb insists on returning the favor.

Reccer says: I really like that some of the kink negotiation scenes are included - communication is sexy.

farewell star by narspicious (8297, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn, Major Character Death

When Caleb Widogast dies in Aeor, Essek vows that not even the gods will stop him from bringing back the man he loves.

Reccer says: I loved the atmosphere and the premise a lot!

so volatile an equation by bloodredribbon (8459, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: Mutual dubcon, manipulation

After Caleb witnesses Essek's conversation with Da'leth, Essek kidnaps him before he can tell the Nein what he saw.

Reccer says: It's so messy, a lovely dark fic of what could have happened had Essek seen Caleb

of things yet to come by ghostsquidswrites (10467, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Ludinus imprisons Caleb in a sleeping spell to try and get Essek to do his bidding. Essek tries to use magic to figure out a way out of it.

Reccer says: I love it when Essek interacts with the rest of the nein - and here, also other NPCs - and I'm a big fan of the wizards nerding out about spells.

The Icarus to Your Certainty by ithilielthechosenone (14091, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

In Aeor, just the two of them, there are many things to finally resolve. Not least of all the question of what they could be to one another.

Reccer says: This fic has so many of the things I love about Shadowgast - Essek hanging out with Reani, pining, travels to Aeor, considerations of time travel shenanigans, guilt and learning to love themselves through loving others - it's a fantastic read and deserves to be a classic.

I want you to hold me (don't let me go) by Multifandom_damnation (2316, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

After the final battle with Trent Ikithon, Caleb goes home to a worried and waiting Essek, who puts him back together as best he can

Reccer says: The soft coda to Echoes of the Solstice that they deserve

some branch of stars we see by SongOfWizardry (1721, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: WIP

A shadowgast teaching AU where Caleb is training Essek to be a secondary school teacher.

Reccer says: It's a highly specific AU in terms of author's experience, and I love how it also fills in the relationships that Caleb has with the rest of the Nein.

Aeor is for Lovers is an 18+ Shadowgast Discord server. The above fanfic recommendations were pulled from our community for this weekly event. All fics, unless otherwise specified, will primarily feature Shadowgast.

Check out the previous Hidden Gem Recs Lists here [1] [2] [3] [4]

Have any questions about what this is? Check out the FAQ! Next week, we'll be featuring spanking!

#shadowgast #caleb widogast #essek thelyss #critical role #cr fic recs #fan fiction rec list