#so i just have to float here because at least drowning is less shameful than yaving made it to safety and been too weak to grasp it

[plush-rabbit]

Divinity in Impurity

Request: Okay but what if I actually request solo Simeon and him moaning through prayers and being just totally repressed and painfully turned on because his precious lovely MC makes him go doki doki? And of course a shameful messy clean up :3c I love u bestieee ✨✨💋

Word Count: 2.5K

A/N: Couldn’t get this out of my head, I want him to be repressed and emotionally conflicted

-

Simeon enters the House of Lamentation, a gift bag in hand and he’s grateful none of the brothers are home. At least for Beel since the angel is sure that the gluttonous demon would’ve sniffed out the lovely baked goods that he carries. The home is quiet, but he knows you’re here. He sent you a message, confirming that you would be here. The house is empty and it’ll just be you and him, sharing a treat from his home and chatting away. It’s so rare to get you alone and while he’s glad that the brothers are there to protect you, they are also highly possessive, not letting a soul get near you and even less likely to allow someone to be alone with you for so long. There’s a light feeling in his chest, making his lungs expand with air, making him feel as if he’d float away from the simple joy of spending time with you. His cheeks are starting to hurt from the smile he has etched onto his face.

Guilt may lap at him for not informing Luke or Solomon of his whereabouts, but for just once, he wants to be alone with you. He wants to sit and talk about anything other than school work and how everyone can’t seem to focus on the task at hand. He wants to talk with you, learn more about you until you’re all that fills his mind. Or at least, occupy it.

He’s excited, standing at your door and he knocks, a smile on his face. Patience is something that he’s born with, having the time and mind to save those that stray from the path of light, to mentor the young angels, and to grant him his title. Yet, he can’t stay patient. He’s at your door, he can hear you hum and only a piece of wood separates you for him. His patience is thinned, eagerness taking over and he turns the knob to your door. All he wants to do is see you, to be unbothered as he spends time with you and listens to you talk. He wants you, that’s all he wants. The knob is cold underneath his hand, and he steps into your room, greeting you with a wide smile.

The bag tightens in his hands, his eyes widening slightly and smile falling. You stand in front of him, slightly turned away, a shirt pressed against your tummy, your chest bare and legs naked, the only clothing you have on is your underwear, shaped to your body. Your eyes are wide, a heavy flush takes over your face and he’s expecting you to yell, an apology already at his tongue, his eyes dipping for just a moment, catching the swell of your breasts, the lovely aroma of the cream you wear, your fingers that twitch ever so slightly as you grasp the shirt in your hand.

“Simeon?” You call, and he’s quick to dart his eyes back to meet yours- back to where they belong. “I appreciate you coming over, but could you-” you gesture your head towards the door- “you know, leave for a moment?” You smile at him, the shirt in your hands now fisted tightly.

“Ah, yes, of course.” He nods his head, trying painfully to grapes at his composure that is now slipping through his fingers. “I’m terribly sorry,” he mutters, exiting the door, the door clicking behind him.

Rather than sit there and wait, he glances at the door, knowing you’re behind it, your body untethered by cloth and bare. He leaves, his steps quick and quiet, walking away without so much as a goodbye. How could he possibly stay there? How could he look you in the eyes when he was so obviously staring at your body? How could he have done something so raw and primal of him- something that isn’t him.

He hadn’t meant to walk in on you while changing but- he bites his tongue, his face hot and an aching pain in stomach. There is no “buts” or ‘ifs’ or anything of the sort. He should have known to knock before he entered your room. He’s an angel, of course he should have knocked. It doesn’t matter if you two are close, it doesn’t excuse his action for being so forward. He was just so excited to go and see you, to gift you a treat sent from the Celestial Realm. Oh- the treat. It’s still in the bag, protected by a glass casing and covered with tissue papers that glitters under the light. He had forgotten to give it to you in his rush.

There’s no going back now, not when he saw you and had the audacity to even stare at you. He’s humiliated. His face burning and any breath that he has is taken from him, squeezed out of his body and forced out. He runs to the safety of his room, glad that no one seems to be home. He slams the door, his back pressed against the wood and when he closes his eyes, he can still see you- your body bare and nipples pert, your face holding a slight flush. He can see everything behind his eyes. The lock quickly snaps into place, his steps hurried as he walks toward the small table in his room.

He places the bag down on a table as he rests on the chair provided in his room. He leans back, the cushion soft underneath him. The wood is scratched at by his covered hands, his gaze focused on the wall. Simeon mumbles under his breath, an apology said to no one, his bottom lip teased by his teeth.

How could he possibly face you tomorrow? How could he do anything after what he just witnessed and did? He removes his gloves, dragging a free hand down his face, leaving the palm to cover his mouth. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he reaches for it in the same second, half hoping and half dreading that it’ll be you.

It is.

You ask where he went. You even apologize, saying that you mustn’t have heard him.

He laughs bitterly. You apologize to him. He was the one who entered your room without permission, invaded your trust and yet, you were the one who was apologizing. He simply leaves the message on read, not knowing what to tell you. Would you believe him if he told you that he had felt sick? Probably not, but for his sake, you would have, he’s sure of it.

He sucks in a deep breath, his eyes on the wall and there’s an unfamiliar itch in his body. Or rather an itch that he shouldn’t scratch at. Looking down only confirms his suspicion. He’s erect. Could it be from you? He sighs. What a silly question. Of course it is.

It’s wrong of him to even keep the image of you ingrained in his head. “Touch me, O Lord, and fill me with your light and your hope. Amen,” Simeon whispers under his breath, trying so desperately to keep his hands away from his erection. It pains him so, his body growing hotter by the second, sweat starting to bead and eyes watering at the tempting fate of actually touching himself to you. “Please Father,” he whispers, “grant me strength. I can’t- I am but a humble servant of yours. Please take away all these sinful thoughts.”

His chest trembles, his mouth dry and tongue thick. There’s a pressure against his stomach, his hands grip at his thighs, his head bowed and no matter what, you are just in his mind. Perhaps you’re the real sin, the real test in all of God’s Grand Plan. How is he supposed to be an angel when a human of all things is the one that is turning him to sin. The one being who has managed to ruin him, to unthread his wings and have him even think of reaching out to you and be selfish.

The unzipping of his zipper is loud, echoing in his ears, drowning out the holy blood that rushes inside of him. He lets out a sigh when his cock is free, the cool air in his room making contact with the hot flesh. When his hand wraps around himself, he lets out a sob. It’s filthy, but at the same time, it’s something that makes his mouth water and want more. You are the most beautiful sin, the one that he will risk everything for, for just a chance to touch you.

“Please forgive me,” he whispers. He’s unsure of who he’s speaking to. He doesn’t know if he’s asking father for forgiveness, unknowing if his message is reaching out, unknowing if he’s hidden from his light and his view; or if he’s apologizing to you, for walking in on you and now pleasuring himself to the thought of you.

You are all that invades his mind, his hand wrapped tightly around his cock, the ridges underneath his fingertips pulsing with heat. You stand bare in front of him, your body soft and blemished with little scars and ridges. He tightens his grip, his teeth clenched and jaw starting to ache. He’s touched your hand before, felt how soft you are, how loving your touch can be and he can only wonder if you're still gentle in bed. If you’d play the act of the blushing virgin under him, if you’d whimper and buck your hips if he were to kiss at your neck and cup your sex under his hand. You allowed him to stare, even if it was for just a moment, you had reelected so calmly, smiling at him, acting as if he were your lover who had seen your body countless times before. You are molded under God’s light, given freedom and kissed with the gentle lips of God, birthed and given existence, your path defined only by you, and you’ve allowed him to see that. You had acted so calmly, telling him with a smile if he could excuse himself for a bit. It’s almost as if you were used to that sort of thing. He stops in his movements, his eyes wide and breaths coming out in uneven pants. You live with demons, you must be used to that. To have such devils enter unannounced and watch you strip yourselves from your clothes.

The thought fills him with fury, his lips curled and brows knitted together. Yet, his hand continues to pump at his cock. The ridges near his cockhead tingle under his thumb, his head thrown back and eyes shut tightly.

His thighs tense, the muscles in him pulled taut as his grip tightens. “Something so tainted shouldn’t be the thing to witness you,” he hisses through his teeth, brows furrowed and hips bucking. “It’s outrageous that they’re the ones you live with. Beings so full-” his voice cracks, his head dipping down- “full of sin, touching and dirtying you.” His cockhead leaks with pearly white semen, dripping off his cock in heavy, thick strands.

When he closes his eyes, he can imagine you, dressed in white, spread before him, pleading with him to be gentle- you’d be the blushing virgin, ready to take in God’s Grace and kiss lips so pure that you’ll whine against him. You’ll be under him, your fingers lost in your sex as you tell him that you’ve been waiting for this moment. His pace quickens, his eyes closed as he thinks as to how you’d feel. Your thighs plump and your walls tight around his cock, your sex pulsing under his touch. You’d kiss him and he'd return it. He lets out a cracked moan, his breath sharp and head thrown back.

Beside him, his phone rings. He gives a slight turn, his clean hand going to lift the phone. A deep frown settles on his burning face as he realizes what he’s done and to who he’s done it to. Your image fills his phone, a call from you. He clears his throat, and quickly accepts your call.

“Simeon!” You sound worried and the tugs at his heartstrings and further cements his guilt. “I was worried, you didn’t reply to me. Are you okay?”

“I-” his voice cracks, and with a deeper flush, he clears his throat. He wonders if you know what he just did. He wonders if you would figure out what he’s doing as he listens to your voice. “Ah! I’m sorry, I thought I had replied to you but it seems like I hadn’t. I- uh,” he bites on his lip, trying in vain to muffle his moan- “My mistake. I- I just, I needed to get something,” his voice strains at the last word. “I’ll be over shortly. I promise.”

“Simeon,” the way you call his name makes him tug harder at his cock, “if this is about what you saw, then it’s okay. I know you. You didn’t mean to.” You sound so sweet, trying to comfort him while he’s doing something so perverse. “Listen, if you want, we can forget that that happened and start new, okay?”

“Really?” he breathes out, already closer to his high. “I would appreciate that. I-” His nail grazes over a vein and he lets out a deep groan.

“Simeon, you okay?” You say hurriedly. “You sound hurt.”

“I just bumped into a table,” he laughs breathlessly, his phone pressed roughly into his ear. “I’m sorry for worrying you,” he mumbles. “I’ll be over shortly, my dear. Just wait a moment.”

He barely has a chance to hear you say goodbye before he ends the call. “Fuck,” he groans, snapping his mouth close and turning his head, sliding his hand up and down his cock. Clicking noises fill the room, his cock pulsing in his hand, feeling as if it were about to burst. So heavy and foreign in his hand, Simeon pushes past the thought of his own hand touching himself, and tries to imagine yours. He thinks of your voice, of how you said his name, rushed and high, calling out to him.

You’re this glowing thing, something so pure but also full of sin, so human and lovely for it. You’d be this thing he was able to touch, this person who would love him and beg for touch. Under his wing, you’d be protected, cared and loved. Tears brim his eyes, trailing down his cheeks in hot flashes, sparking and disappearing into nothing before they have the chance to wet his hand. He’s already so close, his stomach knotting together, and body beginning to shake. As he releases, his free hand covers his mouth, muffling his moans that are drenched in cries. His seed is thick, coating his hand and leaving him in burning ropes. He looks at his hand covered in semen and he wonders if you would have been so kind to lick it off of him, to treat him as if it were your finest meal. His cock twitches at the thought, dribbling out more semen onto the seat.

Simeon lays in his afterglow, taking deep, slow breaths, his palm open, his seed dripping onto the floor in syrupy strands. The tear tracks begin to dry, his eyes still watery and the image of his ceiling blurry. With a wince, he stands, and grabs at his soft cock, walking to the nightstand and pulling out tissues. It’s humiliating to cleanse himself, to dry off his semen and to wash his hands. He can’t touch you with his hand, with a hand that had sullied the image of you in his mind, that had gripped at his own cock and covered himself in seed. The semen comes off of him in rushed waves, slipping down the drain and leaving his hand wet and clean as if there was nothing there to begin with. In the mirror, he is greeted by his reflection- messy hair and flushed cheeks, tears in his eyes and puffy lips from being bitten by. He wonders if you’d recognize this dirtied version of an angel when he greeted you. He wonders if you’d still hold his hand that grasped his cock not too long ago. With another message from you, he grabs the sweet he was supposed to bring, giving a glance to the gloves that rest on the arm of the chair. With a sigh, he decides to leave them there, hoping to hold your hand and memorize the feel of it

#obey me #obey me swd #obey me simeon smut #obey me simeon x reader #obey me simeon imagines #obey me simeon headcanons #obey me simeon x mc #obey me simeon #i want him to cry #i want him to be a big crier #but i also want him to be super gross and indulge in his sin #like he's pent up #let him ya know #go buck wild and stuff

[fairyoftbz]

aquaphobia | k. sunwoo

(n.) : an irrational or disproportionate fear of water, especially anxiety in deep water or when submerging one's face in water.

🌊 pairing: shy! sunwoo x fem! swimming teacher! reader 🌊 word count: 4.6k 🌊 genre: slight angst, fluff, mentions of suggestive themes at the end. 🌊 tw: aquaphobia, mention of claustrophobia and agoraphobia 🌊 synopsis: a young man approaches you while you give children swimming lessons. you’re far from expecting what he asked you. 🌊 a/n: happy birthday sunwoo! ❣ seeing him so scared of going underwater broke my heart, so i had to write about it! miss swimming so it felt so nice to write something like this!! i hope it’s any good and enjoy! 

╰☆☆☆☆╮

Hands resting on your hips with the whistle in your mouth ready to blow, your eyes followed the children you were teaching to swim, walking at their pace on the side of the pool. Some parents were sitting in the cafeteria, watching you doubtingly and judgmentally from their seats, nervously sipping on their coffee as they were scared of the safety of their kids. They probably hadn't expected you to be this young, but your lifesaving and diving credentials could prove them otherwise.

You inhaled and blew your whistle, the children picking up the pace, making you squint as their feet tapped harder on the surface of the water, splashing it everywhere. You glanced at the clock on the wall and whistled again, ordering them to stop, before repeating this twice until they arrived at the other end of the pool.

"Alright kids, we'll end there for today," you paused your stopwatch, giving them a little time to catch their breath and get a grip onto the edge of the pool with their little hands.

"You're going to swim one last lap, starting in pairs. Once the first pair gets to the other end, two more will leave, etcetera, etcetera," you explained while gesturing everything under the watchful eyes of the parents. Smiling at some to reassuring them, you focused back on your students and calmed down the nervousness creeping in your veins under the parents' watch.  "On your mark... Go!" you yelled, the first pair starting to swim. You kept the whistle close to your lips and followed them with your gaze, clapping your hands to encourage them. 

You helped them out of the pool after everyone had finished the activity, the children scampering towards their parents. You waved with a smile to the few people who greeted and thanked you for your work, and you began to put away the different things used for the class.

"Hum, excuse me?" a voice coming from behind startled you, letting go of the pair of fins you had in hand. "Yes?" you replied in an uncertain voice, still surprised at the young man in front of you.

“I saw you training children just now. Do you happen to teach adults as well?" The question seemed to bother him, but he regained confidence when he saw the kindness and the smile on your face. "Classes are for everyone, no matter how young or old you are," you smiled, and he nodded before briefly looking to the side to escape your gaze. "A-Are you interested?" You dared to ask, and he blinked several times, taken aback by the question. "Let's say… how to put it," he started, and you nodded encouragingly, a smile forming on your lips.

“There is no shame in wanting to take lessons, even the biggest swimmers began with those." "No! This is… it's not it. I actually can't swim,” he confessed in a whisper, and your eyes widened briefly before picking up your towel that was lying on the stack of floats. “It's okay, you know. It's good that you want to experience this new sport," you tried to cheer him on, but it seemed like something was wrong, his gaze didn't light up when you accepted his request. "There’s no rush, I'll give you time to think. But if you want to take the plunge, you can sign up at the pool reception," you beamed, and he nodded another time, thanking you for giving him time.

A few days later, while you were having a coffee next to Sangyeon, your best friend - which was also the volunteering pool lifeguard - the young man who had come to talk to you at the end of class reappeared, a lost and anguished look painted on his face.

“Ah, looks like your first student of the day has arrived,” you laughed as you handed him your cup of coffee, opening your lifeguard jacket before walking down the first few steps to the main pool where the young man was eyeing the water, his face growing livid. "Ew, your coffee is disgusting, it's too sweet," Sangyeon put the mug back on the table with a disgusted look, his grimace making you burst out laughing. "Nobody forced you to drink it though," Sangyeon rushed over to a bottle of water and opened it, lightly waving at you as you started your day.

"Sunwoo, right?" The young man got startled as you announced yourself, causing him to turn around quickly, nodding. "Y-yes, it's me," he put his towel on his bag, and you nodded, setting your belongings next to his. "Good. I'm Y/N, and I'll be your teacher until we reach your goals, okay?" You started to walk towards the small stairs that went into the pool, but Sunwoo stayed on the first step with his feet in the water, muscles visibly clenched. You looked at him with furrowed brows, glancing briefly at Sangyeon in his cabin, who was also looking at you with furrowed brows.

Sunwoo fiddled with his hands, his index finger scratching the skin around his thumb. You could see in the side of his neck that his heart was pounding, and immediately understood what was wrong.

You then got out of the pool and put a hand on his shoulder, leading him back to his belongings. How do you get him to explain the situation without scaring or triggering him? His breathing was jerky and panting, your presence not reassuring him at all.

"Sunwoo? Sunwoo, look at me, please," You pressed your hand further onto his shoulder to force him to look at you, trying to make the young man understand that you didn't mean any harm to him. "Can you tell me what's going on? Are you afraid of water?" You asked in a whisper, and he swallowed hard, giving you a clue that you had hit a nerve.

“You know, it's not a shame to be afraid. Your fear is as acceptable as someone afraid of heights or confined spaces. Just because it's a tad bit less common doesn't mean it's less valid," Sunwoo nodded, your heart skipping a beat when his eyes swelled up with tears. "Do you want to postpone-" "No. No, I want to try," you nodded at his shaky words, relieved that he had built up the courage to overcome his fear. "It's-it's just that..." "You don't need to tell me the reason you're scared, that's none of my business. But simply tell me what scares you, so we can work on-" "I'm afraid to drown," he cut you, and you looked at him, encouraging him to continue, "I almost kicked the bucket once and ever since… I'm afraid of going back in the water. It can be the sea, a lake, a swimming pool, I hate it all." You nodded and stood up, motioning for him to follow you.

"We've already moved forward, you told me the reason for your fear, we can take the problem step by step. Now, would you feel reassured to have the lifeguard by the pool? He's my best friend, and he was a coast guard before he moved to come here, so he can save people in any condition," you suggested while pointing at Sangyeon, the latter standing up immediately. Sunwoo shook his head, and your friend sat back down, giving you a knowing smile that he would come down at any sign from you. "Great, then. Let’s try to get into the water, shall we?” You extended your hand, which he took without hesitation, squeezing your palm tightly. 

You helped him take deep breaths to calm his pulse and train of thoughts, feeling his hand gradually loosen from yours as you encouraged and reassured him. You walked down the second step of the stairs, and he followed you, swallowing hard as you congratulated and cheered him on again.

"Take the time you want, even if you have to spend the session here, it's fine, okay?" He joined you on the third step, water now above mid-thighs, his hand tightening around yours. "It's alright Sunwoo, I'm here. You're okay, we'll get there eventually. Look at me, please," his firmly shut eyes relaxed, and he blinked several times, sighing as he wanted to cheer himself up. "Remember to breathe deeply and clear your thoughts. And if you feel like stopping, tell me, and we’ll do something else," his eyes never left yours, as if he were caught in a trance. A slight smile decorated your face, your eyes filled with kindness acting like a tranquilliser on his heart.

You looked away from Sunwoo for a brief moment to look at your best friend, who gave you a thumbs up with a big smile from his cabin, encouraging you to be the good teacher you were.

"Are you doing fine?" You asked in a soft voice, and he nodded, jaw clenched. The poor boy. You didn't know what had happened to him, but you truly could see that behind his brown eyes laid years of the trauma he had never been able to heal. "Y-yes, I think so," he whispered, taking a deep breath. "Good job. Do you want to try the fourth step, or should we wait for the next lesson?" You asked as you walked down the second to last step, not letting go of your student's clammy hand. You saw his foot hesitate above the step, but he took a step back, then another, letting go of your hand to take refuge on the first step. At least there was something positive, he hadn't run out of the pool completely.

"I-I am sorry," he whispered, and you stepped out of the water too, the wet part of your swimsuit sticking to your skin. "It's okay, Sunwoo. You've made some good progress already," you comforted him with a smile he barely surrendered in return. “It all takes time. Remember, it's better to take small steps than nothing at all." He nodded, but you could tell he wasn't listening to you, a veil of anxiety appearing in his eyes. "See you next week then!" you put your jacket back on, leaving him sitting next to his bag. "Thank you, Y/N," an unconvinced smile spread across his face. You gently pat him on the shoulder before heading back to your best friend, who was standing up to watch the young man you left behind.

"His distress makes me so sad," you said with a sigh, sitting in your best friend's unoccupied chair. Your gaze fell on Sunwoo again, who was staring at the ground as if he were drained of all the energy he had in him. "But I'm sure you'll be able to get him to overcome his fear," Sangyeon was leaning against the window of his cabin, the soft crackle of the radio occupying the silence. “I'm not as confident as you are, but I'll try."

The more Sunwoo came to the pool, the more anxious he seemed, despite making some progress from the previous lesson. He now knew how to stay in the water, all alone where he was, without having to hold onto you or the side of the pool, but it took several weeks of hard work. He still had that panicked look on his face, but he seemed to have mastered that part of his phobia. Sunwoo even confessed to you that he had tried taking one or two baths, which was a big step forward on his part.

"And? How did it feel being in the bath?" “It was weird… I felt a bit uncomfortable, but the hot water felt good. I even wanted to try to put my head underwater, but I didn't have the courage." “Do not forget what I keep telling you over and over, small steps. There's no point in wanting to go too fast, plus you were all alone. One misstep and we can start all over again, so be careful,” you took on a more severe tone to make him understand that he shouldn't let himself be overwhelmed by a sudden rush of confidence, at the risk of losing all the progress you've made so far.

"Do you want to try to float on your back?" He took his gaze away at your suggestion, his eyes moving all over the place as if he were looking for an escape. 

He knew you were only suggesting an activity, but he couldn't help but create horrible scenarios in his head. Sunwoo was reassuring himself as best he could: he had researched you on the swimming pool website, as well as your university, and he had come back more confident than the last time. The sight of all your life-guarding and swimming diplomas featured in the pool staff description reassured him and made you completely trustworthy in the young man's eyes.

"I'm going to ask you to move back, and you bring out your abdomen. Think you want to show everyone how great your abs are,” you explained, and he chuckled through his nose while nodding, dimples appearing on the side of his mouth. You slightly pulled him a little further from the edge, but still close enough in case he panicked. "Remember that you can always set your foot on the ground or grab the pool edge if you don't feel like doing it anymore," he agreed, and you moved closer to him, slipping an arm through the middle of his back to accompany him. 

He had his eyes closed, and he was shakily controlling his breathing, a flinch seized him as his head touched the surface of the water, but he kept going nonetheless.

"You can do it Sunwoo, I believe in you," you whispered, and he nodded weakly, feeling your arm behind his thighs, holding him to the surface. 

He stayed a moment, but he felt a wave of anxiety crash onto him, his heartbeat echoing violently in his ears not helping him to calm down. He opened his eyes, struck dumb with fear, but you caught his gaze instantly. He managed to make out encouraging words coming out of your mouth despite the thickness of the water.

"I'm here, don't worry, I got you, Sunwoo, I got you," you repeated the words over and over to engrave them in his memory, his phobia unfortunately still present despite your ongoing efforts. You moved closer to the edge and rested your knee against the wall, still maintaining Sunwoo on the surface of the water, allowing him to hang onto the edge to feel safe.

"I'm never going to make it," he whispered, rubbing his face, putting his foot on the ground. "No, Sunwoo, it's not the time to let your fear take over and make you give up. Not after all these efforts.You have to pull yourself together and overcome your fear." You let go of him and replaced your hair behind your neck, observing your student. "Easier said than done." He spat involuntarily, his anxiety speaking for him. "I know it's hard, I know it, and I see it, but I'm sure you can do it." "How can you be confident of something so uncertain? What tells you I'm gonna get there?” Sunwoo slightly raised his voice, the frustration flooding his veins. 

"Because you are ready to face your fear! Look at yourself, you came of your own free will to the pool to take lessons, which means you want to progress. If you wanted to remain so fearful of the water and drowning, you wouldn't even have made the effort to get here, let alone be in the water with me. I know it is hard, everyone has a phobia, but you have to be patient and allow time to do what it needs to do. I also have a phobia. I am afraid of confined spaces, elevators, and large crowds. Being stuck on the subway with hundreds of other people always feels like I'm going to suffocate or getting crushed to death. It's a different phobia, but it's just as valid as yours," Sunwoo sighed and folded his arms over his chest, listening wearily.

"Okay Sunwoo, I think we're going to stop there for today," you gave him a slight smile which he didn't answer, lost in thought.

You didn't understand. Yet he was on the right track, making progress, but he was now on the verge of giving up everything. How could you make him enjoy swimming and water again?

This question ran through your mind for the rest of the day, your hand gripping the bar of the subway train as you patiently travelled home. Music at full volume in headphones, you tried to create a safe bubble around you to forget the situation you currently were in. As if talking about it this morning with Sunwoo had triggered something for it to happen.

The subway stopped at a fairly popular station, your eyes widening as you noticed the mass of people who were waiting to climb into the train. You squeezed the bar even tighter, your fingers turning white as the doors opened. Closing your eyes, you internally cursed yourself for not waiting for your best friend to finish his shift. You took a deep breath, now feeling the distress Sunwoo experienced when he was in the water. This feeling of suffocation and helplessness in the face of this fear was starting to take over your whole body. You lowered your head to look at the ground to avoid meeting all eyes and the bodies around you. Chills ran through your spine, and your throat tightened, making your breathing, and swallowing a struggle.

You opened your eyes when a hand grabbed your free one, turning your head sharply to the right as fear rose your heart to your throat. Your grip on the bar slightly relaxed as you recognised Sunwoo beside you, holding your hand as tight as he did when he stepped into the water during your first class. You were ready to cry, but you gritted your teeth, looking away as you felt your eyes fill with tears. Sunwoo shuffled around you, a few people groaning as the coach was packed. He managed to make his way to the automatic doors, where he guided you to the window so that you could focus on something other than the mass surrounding you. His hands were on both sides of your head for him to stand upright, subconsciously creating space for you to have enough room to breathe a little easier.

"Thank you," you whispered, and he smiled compassionately, understanding your distress. He moved closer to you to whisper in your ear, his action making your heart skip a beat. "You did it for me at the pool, I don't see why I shouldn't do it for you on the subway," he wiped a tear away with his thumb and weakly smiled as you fidgeted with your hands. 

The more your classes continued, the closer you got with your student, the subway event from a few weeks ago having acted as a trigger. Sunwoo understood that you were on his side, that you weren't doing this because you wanted to make money or because you had to. He felt that you genuinely wanted to help him surmount his fear, just as much as he wanted to help you with yours. 

Outside of lectures and meetings, you would start spending time together over coffee or chatting, sensing that a friendship was forming. Sunwoo was a very gentle guy, passionate about music and dancing, activities that had helped to drown out his trauma and move on. He was very talented, his ears turning red despite his beanie when you watched his dancing and rapping performances on his phone at a cafe.

___

You took a break from training for a while, you and Sunwoo having to focus on your studies. Despite your part-time job at the pool, you also had a degree to achieve, and it was by far the easiest. You were in law school with Sangyeon, and your student happened to be in biology in a building a few feet from yours. You didn't have time to spend time together. Sangyeon, his girlfriend and you almost lived in each other's house, studying together for your final exams.

Once that affliction was over, you could finally relax, and for both of you, that meant jumping into an Olympic-size pool and swimming laps until you could no longer be able to move. When swimming was your stress reliever, Sangyeon and his girlfriend had some spicy intercourses that allowed them to get rid of the built-up pressure together. Since they were not as tensed as you, Sangyeon gave up earlier than you, wrapping himself in his towel before sitting down to watch you swim.

As you were getting rid of all your frustration and exam stress by pounding your feet in the water, a familiar face appeared from the changing rooms as you lifted your head to breathe. You briefly smiled before putting your head back under the water and swinging your arms above your head, waving your pelvis before repeating the movements.

"Nice to see you here, Sunwoo," you said, stopping at the end of your lap with a smile on your face, lifting your goggles. He sat by the pool and dipped his feet in the water, looking at you with a smirk. "I was bored now that the exams are over, so I thought I could drop by and see you," you placed a hand to your heart, acting fake touched by his words. You started swimming again as not to lose your energy nor the rhythm you had managed to keep after a few laps.

Sunwoo watched you go to the other end of the pool, your movements and form hypnotising him. He desired to become as graceful and comfortable in the water as you were, but he still had a long way to go. You got introduced to swimming as soon as you could walk, your parents wanting to pass on their passion to you.

The lifeguard gently smacked Sunwoo's shoulder and winked to greet him while he was leaving. Your student nodded while shifting his attention back to you, who was coming back to finish your training. Putting a tried hand against the edge of the pool, you grabbed the bottle of water before taking a few gulps as you caught your breath. A sudden, swift movement surprised you, your eyes widening as you saw Sunwoo's figure dive above your head, coming back to the surface with a smile on his face. He laughed when you choked and spat out the water you had in your mouth, shocked at his sudden, magical progress.

"Sunwoo, what the fuck! You were still hesitant to put your head underwater the last time we saw each other! What happened?" You yelled in confusion as you approached the young man, who smiled and ran a hand through his wet hair to get a better look at you. "I… lied. I took classes with Sangyeon while you were studying. I wanted to give you a nice surprise at the end of the exams…" you shook your head, scoffing, slightly offended at the amazing progress he had made with Sangyeon, as you followed him for months. "You made more progress with my best friend in a few weeks than with me in several months," you said, and he chuckled, a big smile on his face. 

Were you doing something wrong?

Sunwoo saw your slightly crestfallen face and moved closer to grab hold of your forearm. You looked at him sideways for long seconds, finally smiling when you saw the teasing look that decorated his eyes.

"You did most of the work, Sangyeon just took the opportunity to show me other things." “Obviously. That fucker always does what’s the easiest. He certainly isn't going to bother to get his hands dirty," Sunwoo laughed at your statement, noting that this wasn't probably the first time your best friend's done this to you. You sighed and instantly lifted your head as your friend took off your swim cap and brushed the baby hair out of your face. "I wouldn't think twice if all of this had to happen again. I would take lessons behind your back with Sangyeon if I had to, again, because nothing can replace the surprise that shone in your eyes when you saw me dive. It was priceless,” you rolled your eyes and looked away, Sunwoo's fingers grabbed your chin to make you look at him in the eyes. 

Not only did Sangyeon teach him how to swim, but now he's a huge flirt! Where did the shy guy that was terrified of water go?

"Whatever," you retorted, and he arched an eyebrow. "Oh. You don't believe me?" "Not so much, no. It sounds like a crappy plan any-" a soft source of warmth rushed to your face, feeling pressure against your lips, allowing you only milliseconds of what was currently happening. 

Sunwoo's arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you to his slender body. One hand running around your curves to come to rest on your cheek, cradling it tenderly, contrasting with the fervour of the kiss you were exchanging. Pressing your hands against his chest after making out for a few minutes, his lips left yours, leaving you both breathless, the workout you had just done not helping you in this situation.

"I wanted to confess to you another way, but you talk too much, I had to do something to make you quiet," you pat him gently on the forearm, laughing, a wave of embarrassment seizing your body. "You're done? Can I start swimming again?" You changed the subject, and Sunwoo smirked, leaning against the wall of the pool. 

The rays of sun hitting the water gave his skin a luminous complexion, his beautiful eyes turning a lighter shade of chocolate brown as he looked at you with a thin, satisfied smirk. He watched you silently, his eyes unrestrainedly longing for your lips. You moved closer to him and planted your eyes in his, finding their dark colour again. He grabbed your cap and threw it behind him, landing near your bag so you couldn’t go back to swimming.

"If I was mean I'd press your head underwater, but I don't want to ruin our efforts, so you better run fast," you threatened him, but he didn't move an inch, always watching you with a teasing look as his elbows rested on the edge of the pool. He cleared his throat and stared at you, a new sparkle lightning his eyes.

“Sangyeon told me about a technique that helps reduce stress well, tested and approved by him and his partner. Do you want to give it a try?" You quirked an eyebrow and your tongue poked the inner part of your cheek, rolling your eyes before staring at him, moving closer to his ear. "I'll meet you in the showers, you better be good if you don’t want me to kick your ass," you said, and he hoisted himself out of the water in no time.

“Noted,” he started and went on one knee to near his face with yours, “teacher,” he winked and threw your towel around his neck before confidently walking towards the showers, sending you an explicit wink as you scoffed at his behaviour, shaking your head as you rushed out of the pool. 

What has Sangyeon done to your student…

#kim sunwoo #sunwoo #sunwoo scenarios #sunwoo imagines #kpop imagines #kpop scenario #kpop scenarios #kpop fluff #the boyz #the boyz imagines #the boyz scenarios #the boyz sunwoo #the boyz soft hours #sunwoo soft hours #the boyz angst #the boyz sunwoo fluff #sunwoo fluff #the boyz fluff #the boyz fics #the boyz sunwoo imagines #sunwoo fics #the boyz x reader #the boyz au #sunwoo x reader #sunwoo soft #kim sunwoo fluff #kim sunwoo the boyz #kim sunwoo angst #kim sunwoo x reader

[audreycritter]

drunk (maybe crash) dev and baby pats

for ashley, in honor of the hours we’ve spent developing YET ANOTHER AU where Bruce gets the batkids little. have a sandbox dev, ashley. <3 ***

Kiran Devabhaktuni was 26 years old, a medical student at Gotham U, still a little drunk, and very, very, extremely dead. He was sitting on the grass-- perfectly trim, perfectly green-- staring at his car smashed into shrubbery and a low wall, the passenger side tyre flat and bumper smashed in. They were as ruined as his future. 

He could see it now, drenched with petrol and on fire. He’d be suspended, his student visa would be revoked, he’d go back to England and have to live with…

Kiran swallowed, hard, to keep the bile down. He’d already thrown up once, in the car, on the passenger seat, before he’d scrambled out the driver’s window and landed on the gravel beside the road. The bonnet had been smoking, black plumes hissing out, and he’d stumbled back while two little boys emerged atop the shubbery screeching in delight like some strange, incoherent avenging angels. 

It had taken his still-not-sober brain a bit too long to process that they weren’t bizarre, floating bush creatures, but were standing on the stone wall the bush had swallowed some years ago, watching the car with boyish, pyromanic glee. 

A harsh bark of an order behind them made Kiran flinch, and both of them jump backward. Kiran tried standing and only succeeded in falling a few feet further away, into the grass, where he still sat. The gate several meters down the road swung open, and a man strode out with a child on his hip, and two more boys jumping along at his heels like eager puppies. 

“Are you alright?” he called, sounding more concerned than angry. Kiran blinked and stared at the car, and then at the man. He looked familiar.

“You’re bleeding,” one boy announced, leaning close to his face. Kiran startled and winced, cradling his arm automatically when pain shot up into his shoulder. 

“I’m...drunk,” he said, honestly, because his life was already over and he’d learned early on it was best to get the worst part over soonest. His da’s lecturing was still ringing in his head from the phone call earlier; the alcohol hadn’t drowned it out, after all. He’d ruined his life and his brain hadn’t even gotten properly numb yet. 

“Dick, come here,” the man said, gesturing for the taller of the two boys to back away from the car. The smoke died with a final fizzle and the boy looked plainly disappointed. He didn’t go back to the man, but instead yelled, “I’ll get Alfred!” and climbed over the wall rather than go back to the gate.

The boy closer to Kiran prodded experimentally at Kiran’s forehead and Kiran shifted away.

“The car might blow up,” he said. “Tell me where it hurts. I’m five.”

“Are not!” a yell came from over the wall. “You’re four and you know it!”

“Almost!” the boy leaned his head back to howl into the air. He looked back at the man. “I don’t think he talks, Daddy.” 

“Jason, give him some space. He’s probably in shock. Did you hit your head?” 

“I was going to be a sodding neurosurgeon,” Kiran said faintly, as things began to truly sink in. “I...smashed up your gate.” He put his forehead on his arm, propped on his knee, to let a wave of dizziness-- concussion and failure alike-- wash over him. 

“We’ll call an ambulance. How much were you drinking? Can I look at your eyes?” 

“Vodka. Not a full bottle,” Kiran said, automatically. A screaming lecture on telling the truth was mixing with a rotation lecture on accurate charting in the ER in his head, making him feel like his brain was full of tangled and knotted strings. “Please don’t call an ambulance. I’ll walk.”

“You’ll walk,” the man echoed. “Hm. Let me see your eyes.”

Kiran tried to open them, and winced and squinted. The sun was brighter than he remembered it being a moment ago, but they adjusted slowly. 

“You broke my wall,” the man said, when Kiran was looking at him, and the man was studying Kiran’s eyes. He’d always thought it was funny, how you could study someone’s eyes and still not be looking at them, the way they might be looking at you. It made him feel now a bit like an insect, squirming under a magnifying glass and tweezers. The man’s voice had gotten a little harder, and then it went to positive ice. “You could have hit one of my children.” 

“I know,” Kiran tried to choke out. His throat was closing up. “I’m sorry. I’m really...I’m...I’m really bloody sorry.” 

He had to wrench his chin down, because his eyes were filling with tears that weren’t from the too-familiar pain in his head, and he thought he’d crossed enough lines today without adding crying in front of a stranger to the list. 

“Do you drink and drive often?” the man asked, and Kiran could feel him moving back, see his feet moving around the car as he studied it.

“No,” Kiran managed. “Just the once, so far. Started off with a sodding bang, innit?” 

There was a dry, humorless chuckle in response; a quiet aside to one of the boys. 

Kiran wanted to cry. He wanted to lie down in the grass and weep until his throat stopped hurting, until the sky was dark. The worst part was that out of all the things he struggled to understand how his father expected him to control, this one was solidly and clearly his fault. If only he hadn’t answered the phone today, if only he hadn’t decided to go for a drive, if only he hadn’t pried the top off a bottle of vodka and told himself ‘just one sip, then I’ll go home and finish it.’ 

His chest was a blackhole, sucking in his future and the what-ifs and the narrow misses until it was a weight so heavy he nearly couldn’t breathe. His breath hitched and he felt the oddest sensation on his cheek.

Then again. It was a little pat, over and over. A tiny, chubby hand. 

He drew in a slow breath and looked up. Serious baby eyes looked at him, wide with concern, as the toddling baby patted his cheek in an attempt at consoling. 

“Tim,” the man said, “don’t bother him. He’s not feeling very well.” 

The man sounded kind, and Kiran suddenly understood why. It was because the baby was there. He was just saving his real anger for when the kids were inside, and the police showed up, and Kiran didn’t think his roommate would appreciate a bail call so that was out. 

“Nuh,” the baby Tim said, shaking his head. He kept patting, little soft pats like Kiran was a frightened animal that needed soothing. Kiran was frozen. 

“Thanks, mate,” Kiran managed to say. 

The baby Tim sat in the grass and moved his hand to Kiran’s knee, watching his face carefully as he patted. “Better?” he asked, after another minute.

“Yeah,” Kiran said quietly. It was not entirely a lie.

The baby didn’t move from his spot, watching, and if Kiran had been any less miserable he might have found it creepy. Instead, it was just bizarrely reassuring. 

“If you think you can get up, we might as well go inside and sort this out,” the man said. “I’m Bruce Wayne.” 

Bruce Wayne.

Kiran had smashed up a car on Bruce Wayne’s lawn.

He was going to sodding pass out. 

Somehow, he managed to stand, while the inside of his skull screamed from terror and pain. 

“Kiran Devabhaktuni,” he heard himself say. “I really am sorry. I don’t have to come in.”

He made the mistake of moving his arm, and he was drenched in white hot pain that muted even the ache in his head. His head that was still positively swimming from vodka, and when had he eaten last? How long ago had he answered the phone? 

The man’s arm was around him and he was crying, sod it all, he was crying and he had the distant, detached thought that maybe it was possible to have two worst days in the same lifetime. Later, would he look back at the day where he flushed his entire future down the drain and remember with a flush of shame that he’d also cried on Bruce Wayne? Or would that just fade into the general miasma of misery, then? 

“I think my arm is broken,” he mumbled, while swaying. 

“I think so, too. You went as gray as a ghost,” Bruce Wayne said. “Jay-lad, go tell Alfred to get a splint. I think he’s coming out with Dick now.”

Half an hour later, Kiran was sitting at a kitchen table with his arm splinted and iced. He had water, and a cup of black coffee he was forcing himself to drink despite hating the taste. Bruce and a man dressed as household staff had a quiet conversation that sounded very little like the sort of discussion oen had with staff. The baby, Tim, was kneeling on a chair near Kiran’s and every so often would pat his uninjured arm. He kept staring at Kiran’s face with a searching, anxious little look, until Kiran finally said, “Look, mate, I’ll be alright,” just to see if it would make the baby feel any better. Tim seemed satisfied by this, and the pinched worry faded but the occasional pats didn’t stop.

Kiran waited, his own tension still high and nauseating. 

Did it take the police so long to make it out here from Gotham? 

“Well,” Bruce Wayne said, coming back to the table a moment later. One of the boys-- Dick?-- was climbing on him like he was a jungle gym, and he stoically ignored it, and let it happen. Kiran found it downright bewildering. “Alfred is going to take you to the hospital to have that arm set, and your head looked at. We’ll have someone tow the car. We think, considering the circumstances, that it would be too much of a mess to report this or file charges. If Alfred stays with you until they admit you or discharge you, will you think about going to AA? He can get you a number.” 

Kiran blinked at him. And blinked again. He didn’t…”I don’t understand,” he said bluntly.

“It’s a second chance, Mr. Devabhaktuni.” 

“I don’t…”

Get second chances, he wanted to say.

He swallowed.

“I’ll take the number,” he said quietly, instead. He wanted to duck his head but he made himself look Bruce Wayne in the face when he said, “Thank you,” in the loudest whisper he could manage. “It’s just...it’s Kiran. Just Kiran.” 

“What happened today?” Bruce Wayne asked, pulling out a chair. 

“I got a phone call,” Kiran said, feeling he owed him that much at least. “I don’t get along with my da.” 

“Hm,” Bruce Wayne said. “Maybe don’t answer the phone, next time.” 

The boy who had been climbing settled on Bruce Wayne’s lap, kissed his cheek, and jumped off. “I’m sorry your car didn’t explode,” he said earnestly. “But it’s probably good that it didn’t.” 

“Mine,” Tim said, patting Kiran’s arm again. 

“No,” Bruce Wayne said, reaching across the table and moving Tim’s hand. The baby gave him a look of profound irritation and gently, intentionally, moved his hand back. “You don’t claim people,” Bruce Wayne said, despite this small rebellion.

“After nap?” 

“No, not even after a nap. We’re not bargaining, Tim.” 

“Oh. Please?”

Kiran was quiet through this, watching with a desperately silent and aching hunger he didn’t quite understand, until suddenly he did. This wasn’t how families sounded, not to him. A wave of irrational hatred sparked hot, followed almost immediately by an sour self-loathing. The little hand patted his shoulder again.

“No,” Bruce Wayne said. “Not even for please.” 

“Mine friend,” Tim said, emphasizing. 

“That’s alright,” Bruce conceded. “If Kiran doesn’t mind.”

“Not at all, mate,” Kiran said, feeling choked and a little lightheaded at the whiplash of the day. “That’s bloody fine with me.”

[whumpbby]

whumpbby 😭 commiserate with meeee. Idk if you've seen this post that's kind of blowing up about how fandoms are racist in general because they always focus on white characters and ships over the POC ones and to be real, it's not that I disagree. I do agree, very much so, though I think the issue is way more nuanced. But I figure hey it's still a relevant post and I go to reblog and then I realise it's written by a goddamn anti 😭😭😭 now I have hIVES gdi the op is in the notes screeching at people for being kylo ren fans and telling them to die and I'm just So Over This, we can't have anything nice

The worst part is that this post got onto my dash from the blog writingwithcolour who gives really good and multi-cultural advice on writing POC and while I see why they'd reblog it, my automatic EWW UGH reaction to finding an anti's post unfiltered on my dash is now putting serious sus on that blog :((( I'm just here to whine at you dats all but yeah antis are ruining so many good things about Fandom I can't even feel good about a relevant post anymore

*commiserating*

I feel ya, the fandom that is supposed to be the place of fun and unwinding being overridden with self-congratulory bullshit is a pet peeve of mine too. 

It is hard to find a balance between ‘ yeah, these issues exist’ and a ‘no, I am not here for that’ and not end up on this or that pitchfork, because we seem to be living in the time and social sphere where daring not to be concerned about the current issue of the week for even one second of the day marks one as a degenerate/racist/sexist/take your pick. It’s the wart marking the witch. And you are expected to prove your creed constantly, to preform to someone’s satisfaction until they deem to absolve you. 

If she floats, she’s a witch. If she drowns, she’s not, but well, the point is moot.  

It’s tiring, god, it’s exhausting - when already so many things are exhausting in the real life we have outside of these fandom spaces. And it gets doubly exhausting once you realise that - it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. No graph showing how many poc characters are NOT being shipped, no list of authors who ship ‘problematic’ ships, not one anon message trying to shame someone into not doing something - NONE OF IT MATTERS. 

NONE. Not one grain of good has come out of it. 

People see a problem and get invested and sometimes the problem is real and needs solution - and very often we are so small and have no resources and we can’t help in any realistic way. So, brain comes up with ways of helping us feel less shitty about out own helplessness and we invest ourselves so deeply into them, because what else can we do? That post, that blog, that call to arms, that callout, that anon message - we are doping something! We are helping! 

We are doing something, right? Right??? 

It’s so hard to admit that not one child was saved by the witch hunt on Ao3, not one minor was saved form grooming by attacking fanfic writers on whatever platform, not one person was saved form abuse by attacking trans people, not one person was helped by the war on the “Q-word”, not one goddamn soul was helped by the anti-bullshit. All it results in is misery and pain and harassment, but hey, at least someone is reacting! - and, hey, these are ‘effects’, right? And we’re after ‘effects’ because at least we are doing something if it has effects, right??  

These movements, these tactics, these people - they are nothing else than kids stomping their feet in their respective kiddy pools and thinking the waves they create change the currents of the real ocean. They imagine they are stopping a tsunami hitting some foreign land when all they do is splash on the people who just want to wet their feet in the same pool. 

Listen. A story. 

In my town there's this guy who will randomly appear in the market square and shout about God and Salvation and how everyone sucks. This recent Christmas he positioned himself right opposite of the charity orchestra and was a nuisance to anyone who wanted to stop for a moment and listen to them playing Christmas carols - to have in this depressing and cold, and busy end of a crap year we have all survived, a moment of respite, of Christmas cheer, a crumb of relief. Usually the orchestra is surrounded by people and kids throwing coins into their box, by folk recording on their phones, etc. No, this this year no one could enjoy a moment of peace, because a nutcase behind tried to overshout the orchestra, so people kept walking, intimidated and annoyed. 

Out of frustration and, I admit, curiosity, I walked up to him and asked why won’t he move over to let the orchestra play - what I got was more shouting. Because listening to Christmas carols was hypocritical without the sprinkling of despair over the state of humanity and Our Sins. 

He wouldn’t engage, he wouldn't speak to me like a person - I was standing two feet form the guy and he was yelling at the top of his lungs so everyone heard him. I was raised Catholic in one of the most Catholic damn countries in Europe, I know what God is about. But, you see, it didn’t matter to the guy, what mattered was that he needed to be heard yelling. This was his attempt at converting people - by yelling in their faces. He was doing something and feeling better for it! 

This  guy was the anti-movement in a real, compact, one-dude pill. Any anti-movement you can think of that picks a flag and then starts to screech in its shadow, because it makes them feel better about themselves. 

As for Kylo...

The hilarious hate towards Kylo fucking Ren of all people? Towards people who ship him? All that misplaced anger at the crappy treatment of the poc actors by Disney and predominantly male ‘fans’ of Star Wars?? Let that sink in - white dudes with money made decisions, white dudes on the internet ganged up on an actress - but nah, dude, the women who write fanfic are the culprit!  We can’t gang up on Disney and we are too afraid of the dudes on Reddit and 4chan, but these girls writing Reylo porn are there and accessible and not scary and not male! We can take them on!  

How is it not hilarious? How?? This level of misdirection and confusion, being so intimidated by the insurmountable task of being angry at a corporation that makes their merch (that they are still buying, because hey, a fan is a fan, who doesn’t want a baby Yoda t-shirt?) that all they can do is to spin around and bite the ankles of the person standing behind them? How is this not hilariously morally bankrupt and so pitifully, tragically human? 

Let the block button become your shield, another good blog will come, don't regret blocking ones you are not sure about. You’re here to relax, you don’t deserve this kind of stress. They will keep screeching, but you keep walking, friend, the orchestra is still there playing your tune, enjoy it. 

#dicks horse #fantasticalmemories

[hawkeish]

Those prompts are so hard to choose from! But how about "We were dancing but all of a sudden it’s a slow song and we’re standing here awkwardly staring at each other" for whoever you feel like writing?

I am SO sorry it's taken me an entire month to finish this (writer’s block is the worst am I right ladies!). But I love this prompt - although I took a few liberties - and it screamed Carver/Merrill, so here you go...

Rated T, CWs for implied character death, death mention

1.9k (I have no restraint)

Read on AO3 // Read my other Carver/Merrill fic (it’s referenced a couple of times)

Carver’s perfectly happy where he is.

Leaning against the rough stone wall with a drink in hand, that is. Watching Ri make a tit out of herself, as usual.

The Hanged Man’s packed, warm as a funeral pyre and smelling almost as ripe. Word obviously got round that it was the night before the big expedition: half of Lowtown must be squeezed in here. They’re all eager to toast with Kirkwall’s most eminent storyteller and his new, stabby, impulse-control-free muse, before they set off on their quest for riches and honour and whatever other noble shite lies abandoned beneath the surface.

At least, that’s how Varric’s telling it. Carver’s not sure exactly what’s noble about plundering some dead dwarves’ abandoned thaig. But if it makes his mother happy and his sister finally proud—and if it means his longbar blade can taste the innards of as many darkspawn as he could dream of, for Beth—he’s not going to argue.

Strange to think this is his last night on the surface for a while. And that he’s spending it here, of all places. Something in him flutters with worry at the thought as he tries to tune out the musicians from over in the corner, who’ve kindly decided to abuse some lutes and fiddles. Could this be his last ale? The last full moon he’ll ever see? The last chance he’ll get to be with all these irritating people in one room, together?

But worry’s for bairns and people who can’t hit hard enough to knock teeth out. So Carver buries his nerves with another swig of his drink, then settles back against the wall and does what he likes to do best: observes.

Like some silver-tongued dragon lazed upon a wordhord, Varric’s planted himself on the tallest stool at the bar, surrounded by the usual mob of ruddy cheeked patrons eating up his every word. Half of which will be lies, but that’s good for business; the Hawkes wouldn’t be in on this trip if Varric had a predilection for honesty, after all. Beside him, Isabela’s flashing a grin sharper than her knives and adding flowery embellishment any time Varric pauses for effect. Across from her, Aveline’s desperately trying to counter whatever salacious gossip the pirate’s spreading. Judging by the look on the warrior’s face, it doesn’t seem to be working.

Meanwhile, Ri’s by the fire with Anders, unsurprisingly. She’s tipsy, attempting to flirt by playing demon’s advocate; he’s taking her bait and gesticulating wildly, like usual. They’ve been spending a strange amount of time together recently. Debating—mage this, mage that, freedom, whatever. Carver wouldn’t normally care, only these arguments leave them both blushing and breathless and grinning like fools, and the whole thing’s slightly sickening. Of course Marian would be interested in the possessed apostate. Reckless infatuation is a Hawke family trait.

Whatever they’re banging on about now, it’s drowned out by the music, thank the Maker. If Fenris could hear, the mood wouldn’t be half as merry. But, Carver realises, as his eyes dart around the bustling room in search of that familiar flash of white hair, Fenris is occupied.

In the middle of the tavern, they’ve haphazardly shoved the tables and benches to the side, to make a little space. And in the centre of that dusty, empty floor, as the music gets much faster and much worse, Fenris is dancing.

With Merrill. Who’s got hold of the other elf by the wrists and is whirling him around in a mad circle, looking delighted—maybe more delighted than Carver thinks he’s ever seen her. Eyes wide as moons, smile wild and even wider. And Maker, she looks lovely, too. Cast in a hazy golden glow by the torch-flame, she moves so easily that all Carver can think of is sunlight…

Andraste’s flaming ass. Carver pulls his gaze away, forces himself to gulp some beer, tries to ignore the weird feeling wriggling around his ribcage. Don’t do this, he thinks. Since the moment by the vhenadahl, he told himself he wouldn’t think about Merrill this way. Merrill, his sister’s friend. Merrill, the blood mage. She’s not sunlight. She’s—

“Merrill!” Fenris squawks. The sound knocks Carver from his fluster; he’s not sure he’s ever heard Fenris squawk before. But the warrior looks almost panicked, and very much as though he wishes that he could melt into the floor. “Can you please let me—”

“Not like that!” She’s saying excitedly, pulling at Fenris’ arm, nudging him with her knee and the pointed tips of her toes as he tries, desperately, to wriggle out of her grip. As if egged on, the musicians suddenly strike up a different—but in no way better— jig. “Left foot first, remember, then you hop back a bit, then clap! Oh, you’re like a toddler! Or a little halla foal…”

Fenris makes a strangled noise of protest. “I am not! And I do not wish to hop, Merrill—”

Merrill laughs: the sound’s like chimes, floating over the new reel, and it makes Carver’s skin prickle and flush in that weird, horrible, lovely way. “You have the rhythm, Fenris! Just follow what I do!”

Fenris does have the rhythm. The exact moves, no—although whatever the exact moves are, Carver can’t work out: there’s a lot of spinning and and whirling and jumping and, on Fenris’ part, flailing in many directions. But at least Fenris is doing all the wrong actions at all the right times. There’s something almost hypnotic about it, almost graceful. Between the two elves, Carver doesn’t know where to look.

Knowing where he wants to look is a different matter. Even with Fenris as distraction, Carver’s gaze can’t help but drift past him, to Merrill. She has her eyes half-closed and her head tilted to the sky, a perfect smile on her face—

“Carver!”

And then her head’s whipped around, her eyes are open and locked right on him, and her smile’s so bright and so caught-off-guard that it’s making Carver feel slightly lightheaded. Because Fenris has finally managed to slip out of her hold, has called Carver’s name loud enough to wake the dead—or the very drunk—and is charging towards him like a man possessed.

“Oh no,” Fenris declares drily, as he bridges the gap and pulls Carver’s near full-to-the-brim mug of ale from the warrior’s hands in one, smooth movement. “Just as I thought! It looks like Carver needs another drink.”

He does? Carver blinks down at his empty hands, then up at the elf. “I do?”

Looking him dead in the eye, Fenris smiles wickedly and proceeds to tip most of Carver’s beer onto the straw-covered floor.

“How clumsy of me!” Fenris declares drily. “It appears I owe you some of…” He wrinkles his nose at the damp straw. “Whatever that was.” Then, he claps Carver on the shoulder, the grin returning. “Well, what a shame I can’t return to Merrill. Enjoy your dance!”

Fenris’ friendly shove is hard enough to almost throw a man to the floor: Carver stumbles forward, almost toppling over, knocking into sweaty bodies. A mess of people has started to pack the dance-floor, merry and boisterous; they jostle Carver as he steadies himself, red-cheeked and mumbling apologies. Embarrassment fizzes in his stomach—pressed so close to strangers, he’s suddenly even more aware of his height and...well, brawn. Where Fenris was graceful and lithe, Carver’s a lump, taking up too much space. Although he can dance, kind of. He used to dance for Bethy, didn’t he? To make her laugh when she was upset. Carver’s special jig, she called it.

He hasn’t danced in a long time. Even when he’s been rat-arsed, or when Ri’s needed cheering up. Since Beth died, really. He’s not done a lot of things since she died. Perhaps, he thinks, a part of him went with her. Perhaps, he thinks, if he meets his own end in the Deep Roads, it wouldn’t be so bad—

“Carver!” comes a voice, cutting past the singing and the music and the thud of dozens of feet moving as one. “Carver, are you all right?”

And then Carver realises that he’s stood stock-still in the middle of a whirling mass, thinking of a dead girl, staring at nothing.

No. Not staring at nothing. Staring, he realises, as his vision focuses, directly at Merrill. Who’s stopped dancing, a frown clouding her features: she weaves past revellers, slipping through a gap in the crowd in front of him, until there’s barely a whisper of space between them.

A knot of nerves coils in Carver’s gut. The air’s warm as sin, but there’s gooseflesh prickling across his arms, and a weird chill running down his spine. The last time they were this close was beneath the sprawling branches of the vhenadahl. And look how that went.

“Me?” he answers, not sure where to look again. She’s all red-cheeked and breathless from dancing, and her eyes are sparkling, and Maker, he needs to stop. “Fine. I’m fine! I’m just…”

“Stood completely still,” Merrill notes. “In the middle of a… what was it?” Dodging a rogue elbow, she edges closer to him; somehow, even the smallest of her movements flow in time with the music swelling around them. “A ceilidh? We have a different name for dances like this. I’m not sure one of the moves we have is standing still, though. But you do it well. Very pensive. You’d make a fine statue.”

Is she taking the piss? Is she flirting? Carver’s muscles tighten as he becomes even more horribly aware of her presence. Slowly, palms clammy, he nods. “A ceilidh, yeah.”

“And you’re meant to have a partner for this kind of thing, no?” Merrill asks. “At least, that’s what I thought, although Fenris seemed a bit less…enthusiastic.”

Partners. Two people, dancing. Could he ask...

No. She wouldn’t want to. Not with him. The kid brother. The layabout. Why would she agree? Probably just to be polite, right? She’s always polite. And kind, and warm, and clever—

“Partner? I—yeah,” Carver mumbles again, trying to compose himself. Maker, why does she make him feel so muddled? So much for being less of a wet blanket. “I think.”

“Well.” She gestures to the other revellers, who’ve now started actively dancing around them, shooting them glares vicious enough to wilt flowers. “We look slightly silly, don’t we? Did you maybe…want to dance? With me, I mean. Although of course I meant that. Creators, listen to me.”

Dance. Does Carver want to dance, with Merrill?

No, he tells himself. Not at all. Not in front of everyone. Not front of his sister, who’ll never fucking shut up about it for the rest of her days.

Yes, everything else in him hollers. For they must look a bit ridiculous. And it is his last night up here. And, most of all, because Merrill’s looking at him in a way that makes him feel dizzy. The music’s suddenly slowing, softening, and for some reason, everything feels right.

A heartbeat passes.

Carver nods.

Merril doesn’t say anything, just smiles—a bright and blinding smile, one that makes everything around them fade to grey. Then, gently, she reaches out to take his hands, turns them over, and rests her palms on top of his.

“Follow what I do,” she murmurs, drawing her gaze up from their hands to him.

As the music slips away, and he can feel Merrill’s soft fingertips balanced light as air on his upturned wrists, Carver is perfectly happy where he is.

#ish writes #carver x merrill #dragon age 2 #carver hawke #merrill #dragon age fic #pinkfadespirit #answered #this was so much fun #also a huge thank you to hollyand-writes for cheering from the sidelines!!! #and credit to Paul Simon for writing lyrics that scream 'use me in fic' #referenced character death cw #death mention cw #long post

[squadrablog]

Now hear me out: (Non-binary reader x Hot Pants) Reader has a stand that can read people’s souls, sort of like an aura and gets curious about what they see on Hot Pants, extreme guilt (we all know what happened to her brother right?). They follow her around awhile through the race trying to see what up with her and slowly befriends her along the way. Reader also has no combat experience so H.P. has to save them a few times but she still lets them ride along with her because they’re nice.

Finally finished it! I keep it free of most major spoilers for Steel Ball Run. I also decided to make Hot Pants a trans woman as per my wife’s request, and both your and her conception of gender is like... affirmed but also contemporary with the time period and understood through the lens of what would be available in the 19th century.

Hot Pants x Nonbinary Reader

Ao3 Mirror Here.

Words: 8414

Warnings: Really light body horror (just Hot Pants’s Cream Starter), and mild violence + animal death. Light angst.

Under cut for length!

Something happened to you in the desert during that last stage.

You had barely escaped with your life from what you had rationalized was a sinkhole, or a sandstorm, or maybe one of those hallucinations of an oasis people have when they’re on the verge of dehydration, although you hadn’t been tricked into seeing water but rather large arching natural rock formations around a smooth bowl shaped crater. Before the ground swallowed the whole landmass up and buried you in a tomb of sand you managed to guide your horse away from the danger, but not unscathed.

While you and your horse had managed to avoid a terrible death with only minor physical injuries, after you had set up camp you started to realize that something was wrong with you. As you fed the fire you realized despite the growing warmth, your hands were shaking. You were in something of a daze, and you kept seeing things out of the corner of your eye, causing you to jump and yelp and call out to any possible intruders only to hear no answer. You could tell your horse was starting to get a bit jumpy too. Could she sense the strange presence as well?

No, she could not. She was reacting entirely to your stress. You were making her nervous... concerned for you, even? Yes… concerned. Was that too human an emotion for her to feel? Were you projecting onto her, anthropomorphizing her to cope with your current mental state? You were close to her, sure, and you could pick up on her body language better than anyone. But this feeling you had watching her now was so strange, as if you were looking past those usual outward displays you used to read her and were seeing something else. Almost as if she was whispering to you in a language only you could understand… or you were at least hearing an interpreter whisper for her.

You screamed again when you saw something in the corner of your eye. It was a hand, translucent and only vaguely human, hovering right above your own, but when you turned to look at it, it was gone. 

The near-death experience had been pretty traumatizing. You cursed yourself for following after that Gyro man in some attempt to get the edge on the competition; he might have been reckless and unconventional in how he had approached the race so far, but he had the skill to back it up. You weren't bad on a horse by any means, but the rough terrain and constant toughing it in the wilderness was way harder than you had ever imagined, and it was taking its toll on you. From here on out you would take the paths that the majority of the other racers were using and not get tempted by every promise of a shortcut from some eccentric rider playing loose and fast with life and death.

You apologized to your horse for scaring her again before crawling inside your bedroll and covering your head, shutting your eyes tight, willing yourself to sleep and leave these phantoms behind with the night. Come morning you’d be better.

And come morning, you were better.

For a while.

When you were riding with your horse alone in the wilderness, finally comfortable in the safety that the main course provided, you felt ecstatic. You loved horse riding of course, you wouldn’t be doing this otherwise, but something was different today. You and your horse were in perfect sync and you swore you felt as energetic and driven as if you were her yourself. If this was going to be the tone for the rest of the race then you’d have no problem leaving your waking desert nightmare long behind you.

When you saw the checkpoint in the distance you became even more excited, rushing ahead with all the energy your horse had been saving up for this point. You probably weren’t first but you were absolutely giddy at the thought of crossing another checkpoint. The closer you got, the more excited you were, until you realized something definitely felt off about everything.

Your excitement was starting to make you jittery. Frantic, even. The closer you got to the crowds of people cheering at the top of their lungs the shakier your breathing got. You didn’t have a problem with the crowds before the race, so why now?

Your horse of course picked up on your stress and you felt it magnified back towards you worse than before. You weren’t sure what was worse, the joyful excitement that threatened to drown you, or the anxiety feedback loop between you and your companion.

When you crossed the finish line you didn’t even listen for the announcer to try to figure out what place you were in. You dismounted your horse, tied her to a hitching post, and stumbled as best as you could towards the food and water table set up for competitors. All you needed was some cold water to ground you, that’s all. Maybe you were still shaken up from last night and it had just chosen a bad time to boil back up to the surface.

You practically fell over, stepping back suddenly, when another hand that wasn’t yours extended from your own to grab at a cup of water you were reaching for. It was the ghost hand from last night, only this time it didn’t disappear. To your horror it actually grew out of you until it was an entire creature, humanoid in shape but alien in appearance.

You looked around frantically at everyone in your vicinity, but all they did was raise their eyebrows at you in confusion, looking at you like you were out of your mind. Could no one else see it? You could only faint from the shock.

---

When you woke up you were in a medical tent, but you felt no relief when upon scanning the room for any staff members you once again met the gaze of the ghost that had put you here to begin with.

“What are you!? What do you want with me?” you demanded, only to receive no reply.

“So you do have one,” an intimidating voice called out behind you. Your head snapped back and you saw an androgynous stranger dressed in hot pink sitting in one of the chairs by the tent’s entrance, staring at you with an apathetic expression. The words seemed less directed at you and more just the stranger musing out loud.

Despite what must have been a conscious attempt from the stranger to disguise any secondary sex characterisitics, you knew right away she was a woman. You knew it before your eyes had even adjusted to get a good look at her. You suddenly knew a lot of things about her that you had idea how you knew. Her face was entirely unreadable and gave nothing away, but it didn’t need to.

This woman was a cosmos of warring emotions that threatened to rip her apart from the inside. How could she sit there and look so calm when she was currently drowning, burning, and crumbling before your very eyes? Shame, fear, despair, grief, an ocean during a storm.

You had many questions fighting in your mind for permission to be asked first. Who was she? Could she see the ghost? Did she know what it was? 

“Are you… are you okay?” you sputtered out instead. Her overwhelming aura had won out against all your curiosity.

She raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

You couldn’t articulate why you had asked her that unprompted, but there was no way you were just projecting emotions this time like you had with your horse. These were human emotions from a human woman that were attacking your human mind. You clutched your head and winced in pain.

“What’s happening to me?” you choked out, the beginning of sobs starting to form in your throat. “What are you doing to me?”

The ghost that had been watching you with curiosity this whole time floated up to you, placing its hand on your shoulder. Your instinct was to flinch, but now something else was overwhelming all your senses. You didn’t notice at first, but this ghost had a mirror where its face should be, and now that you were staring at it you could only see yourself. Then there was a gentle calm, a bright light snatching away your vision, and a sudden realization.

This thing was you.

Although you were spared the continued assault of the stranger’s emotions, your now exhausted body drifted off once again.

When you woke up again it seemed as if not too much time had passed, as the announcer’s voice could still be heard calling out race results in the distance and the lighting in the tent hadn’t changed much. You sat up again and glanced around. The ghost was gone, and so was the woman. It hadn’t been a dream, had it?

Well, if there were no nurses available to check up on you before heading out you supposed you’d make your leave. As you popped out of your own tent and glanced into the others you passed by you supposed you could understand. While you had fainted most of the other people needing medical attention had some pretty nasty injuries from the race. After finally leaving the medical tents behind you saw a familiar (and very much not a figment of your imagination) pink figure in the distance, preparing to mount her horse.

She wasn’t getting away that easily! You ran to intercept her, unsure of what to call to get her attention, settling on just, “Hey! You!”

She turned towards you as you approached, and without a change of expression she went back to readying her horse. “You’re awake,” she stated, matter of factly.

“You left before I could talk to you!” you wheezed out, catching your breath. “You didn’t explain anything!”

“I don’t have anything to explain,” she replied flatly, still not turning to look at you as she untied her horse from the hitching post. “But if you have something to ask I suggest you ask it now.”

“But you were waiting for me to wake up! And you know about the ghost that I saw, right? And… when I looked at you before everything got all… weird and dark…? But it’s not like that anymore! Did you fix me?”

“I saw you out in the desert,” she replied, ignoring your questions. “You found the same rock formations I did, didn’t you? No one else could see the thing you call a ‘ghost’ except for me. I thought you’d have answers, but you don’t know anything, so I saw no point to sticking around,” she explained before climbing up onto her horse.

“Wait, don’t go!” you called after her, but her horse was already trotting off. You looked around for the hitching post with your own horse and quickly got to work mounting her before trying to catch up with the mysterious woman. You pulled up beside her and gave her a big frown, but she didn’t even look over at you. “Please, I have no idea what’s happening!”

“I answered all your questions, didn’t I?” she asked, increasing her horse’s pace while you pulled ahead to match it. She didn’t, not even a little bit, but it seemed like she might be in the same boat as you. Didn’t she want to figure out what was going on? How could she be so disinterested?

“Are you being serious right now?”

“I’m always serious,” she said, finally sparing a scathing glance in your direction. Approaching the border of the town where streets finally made way to an open dirt path, her horse started up a reasonably well paced running speed, leaving you behind in a cloud of dust. She really wasted no time cooling down between stages before getting right back in there, did she?

Fine then, you’d keep pace. You’d follow her across this entire damn continent if you had to in order to get an explanation you were satisfied with.

At first you didn’t try to continue your conversation since most of your energy was placed on just trying to catch up and stay caught up. While the overwhelming anxiety you had felt in the presence of the crowded city streets had faded to background noise, distancing yourself even further was still a huge relief. Whatever your ‘ghost’ had done to you before you passed out the second time, it seemed to make the influx of emotions ebb to a steady trickle. You also felt like you had a bit more control of what you took in now, focusing your new ‘ability’ at your horse and shutting everything else out.

Whatever was going on with you at least it was making you a better competitor, more in tune with your horse than you ever had been. You were starting to realize you’d need any advantage you could get if this was only a starting pace for the woman. Once your horse got comfortable staying in line with her horse and you felt confident she wasn’t going to try to pull ahead again you called out to her.

“Who are you?” you asked. A reasonable question that could perhaps break the ice. When she didn’t answer you told her your name instead. Nothing. You glanced over and noticed the brand on her horse that read: “HP? Are those your initials?” Again, silence.

You had something you could use to get her attention, although you hadn’t wanted to start with it. Still, it was something about her that made you very curious. She was clearly trying to disguise the fact that she was a woman from other competitors, and while there were plenty of viable reasons a woman would want to do that, and she might not react well to being found out, you had to know if her reasons were similar to yours.

You wore clothing that disguised aspects of your figure and facial features, in addition to a wide brimmed hat, bulky scarf, and gloved hands. A lot of people assumed you were a man by default, but others sometimes projected different traits onto you. Truth is that you’d rather keep it a mystery, leave everyone guessing. You never felt like you fit into either the world of men or of women, but you had never met another person who felt the same way as you.

While you knew this stranger was definitely a woman, could the fact she disguised herself mean she understood too? Or was it for her safety?

“You’re a woman, right?” you asked, a bit awkwardly. You immediately regretted it when although it had the desired effect of getting her attention she now turned towards you with a glare.

“What makes you think that?” she asked, controlling her expression back to its neutral unreadable state, turning back to look ahead.

“The ghost told me so,” you said. “But you don’t want people to know.”

“It would be inconvenient, but I don’t really care what anyone thinks of me. I can’t be blackmailed,” she responded, a bit of gruff annoyance seeping into her voice. “What about you? Are you not also attempting to hide your identity with the way you’re dressed? I’ll warn you now, if you’re an outlaw I won’t hesitate to knock you off that horse and hang you.”

“Oh my God, what?” you yelled at her, taken aback. “No! I just… don’t want people looking at me, is all!”

“I’ve noticed,” she replied. “Which is why I wasn’t expecting you to follow after me.” Had she been keeping an eye on you? Noticing your withdrawn and secretive nature? You did rank decently in the first race, so it would make sense if she did some snooping on her competitors. “But here you are, after I’ve already told you I have nothing for you.”

“But... you have a ghost too, right?” you prompted. Even if she seemed to think comparing notes wasn’t worthwhile, you had to disagree. And now that you had her talking maybe you could get some answers.

“No,” she said. “But I have this.” She pulled out what looked like a… lighter, perhaps? The handle of a gun? She did take it from her holster. “It appeared after I encountered that place in the desert. It’s called Cream Starter.”

“What is it?”

“A weapon. It lets me melt flesh.”

That was a scary thought. You hadn’t done anything like that yet. “And it’s called Cream Starter? How do you know? Is that just what you named it?”

“No,” she responded, holstering it again. “I just know.”

Did your ghost have a name too? You thought about how you’d like to get another look at it since it had not reappeared yet, but simply thinking that made it materialize into existence next to you. You flinched a little, but this time you were able to keep your fear under control. You didn’t want to scare your horse again.

You gave it a quick glance, not wanting to distract yourself from the road ahead of you. It still had that same mirror face and you noticed what looked like a rotary phone embedded into its chest. Without understanding why you knew, you knew.

“Mine is called Kiss Me Through The Phone,” you said out loud, not necessarily at her. You weren’t expecting a reply to that. You sent the ghost away and spoke again to her. “I don’t exactly understand what it does, but it lets me… tell what people are like. Who they are and how they’re feeling.” You weren’t sure if she gave a grunt in reply or not, but she didn’t say anything else.

The both of you rode in silence for a while as she seemed to have no intention of trying to ditch you, but she didn’t seem happy about you following her either. You could always check to tell exactly how she felt about you riding with her, but you were afraid of feeling that same drowning sensation you felt before you were able to control what got in and what didn’t.

Before you knew it the sun was setting and you finally broke the hours of silence. “There’s an inn up ahead in a small town! Some of the competitors look like they’re stopping there for the night!” You pointed ahead even though she wasn’t looking at you and could probably already see the distant figures of three of the other top ranking competitors heading towards a town in the distance. You recognized them as Gyro, Johnny, and Diego. While Diego had been a favorite to win from the start, the other two were generating their own buzz after their performance.

But your companion did not change course to veer closer to the cliffs leading into town, but stayed on the lower path.

“Wait! The inn is at the top of this hill!” you called, as if it was possible for her to not already know that.

“Don’t let me stop you,” she called back at you, continuing ahead as your horse’s speed faltered a bit. You wanted to rest in a comfortable inn and you had already sworn to yourself that you wouldn’t follow any more shortcuts presented by other riders after what happened in the desert. But you didn’t die in the desert, did you? It was almost as if you were fated to end up there and receive this power. And now you had met someone else caught up in the same situation.

You already knew what type of person she was. She was cold, but not malicious. She was harboring a deep pain within her, something she was able to keep hidden from everyone else but not from you. She was lonely, and you were no stranger to loneliness yourself. You had kept your true self hidden from everyone since the race started, and for some time before it if you were being honest. You were drawn to her, despite the way that your stomach turned every time you imagined the terrible pain that peering into her soul had given you.

But she was the one who had to bear that pain the worst, always. She couldn’t shut it off like you could. If you couldn’t help her fight it, maybe you could at least help her carry it.

---

“Why couldn’t we just sleep at the inn and leave earlier than everyone else? Are we really saving that much time by camping a bit ahead of the others?” you whined. You had been complaining like this for a while as you helped Hot Pants set up camp.

You had finally learned her name was Hot Pants, but knowing HP was indeed an acronym had you playfully calling her that occasionally, her much to her indignation. You also saw her Cream Starter in action briefly as it managed to heal some scrapes on her horse’s legs as if they had never been there. The thick meaty substance was a little gross, but the fact that it had applications outside of use as a weapon made you a little less afraid of it.

“I’m not making you camp with me,” she said in her usual blunt tone. “You chose to follow me.” You knew she was right, but you still grumbled. It took some convincing for her to even let you camp in the same spot as her, but you had offered to share your resources and help her gather firewood.

“Sorry,” you sighed. “I’m just not used to roughing it.”

“I’m not here to take care of you,” Hot Pants said, looking at you firmly. “I won’t wait up for you in the morning, either.”

“Hear you loud and clear HP,” you said, giving her a smile. Despite the outward apathy in her expressions and words, you could be sure her hostility was mostly empty. You did try probing her with your ability just a bit more, focusing on the outer layers of her psyche without diving any deeper than you needed to. At the forefront of her mind, beyond the despair she held deep within, was a fierce determination and a sense of hope that had been overshadowed last time you looked at her soul. Knowing that she had found some distant light to strive for had you a bit relieved for her sake.

Still, as surface level as you tried to keep your readings now, you still felt a bit guilty about seeing her as you had before. It didn’t sit right with you to keep silent about it, and you felt like in the spirit of trying to gain her trust you should be open about it. After the fire was built up to a level where it didn’t need your constant attention you leaned back and decided to bite the bullet.

“HP… about when I first saw you,” you began. You were expecting her to ignore you until you got to your main point since she wasn’t very tolerant of any preamble in your conversations, but this time she did look at you with a raised eyebrow. “With my ability… I saw something really scary inside you, really painful to experience. I don’t know what it means, but I just thought you should know.”

“My soul has strayed too far from God’s light, then?” she said as a question, although with her flat delivery it sounded more like a statement. You were expecting denial of what you saw, or annoyance that you saw it, but you weren’t expecting her to say something like that.

“What? No? It wasn’t like… evil or anything. Just… sad,” you said. You hadn’t wanted to use the word ‘sad’ because it stood in such stark opposition to the unaffected aura she was trying to project, and you didn’t want her to feel insulted.

But she gave a small chuckle, quiet enough to where you almost didn’t hear it. “Just sad,” she repeated, to herself. She looked towards you with a weird kind of curious smile. “Earlier you had also said that my soul is that of a woman, correct?”

“Y-yeah… that’s how I could tell. And, I mean… if you already know it then some of your prettier features start to stick out, more,” you began, your cheeks quickly flushing a bit in embarrassment for admitting you found her attractive. You tried to backpedal. “But if you’re worried about other people finding out-!”

“No,” she said, interrupting you. “I told you already, I don’t care about that. I’m just surprised is all.”

“Surprised?” you asked in a tone of confusion.

She looked at you as if it was the first time she was really taking you in as another person, not just a competitor or obstacle she was sizing up. But before too much vulnerability could show through, she was closed off again. It was silent for a long while and it was clear the conversation was over for her, but you didn’t want to relinquish any of the progress you had made so far so you awkwardly tried to start up the conversation again.

“I’ve just never met someone else who’s tried hiding their gender is all,” you blurted out. You had thought that maybe being vulnerable about your own secret would show her you were trustworthy, but you regretted it soon after you said it. “I mean, whatever you’re doing it for is probably different, but! I was just… I don’t know… curious!”

“Your disguise is for hiding your gender?” she asked, seemingly interested in the conversation again. “It’s effective. I really can’t tell one way or the other.”

You gave an involuntary smile at that. “Th-thanks! Truth is… I don’t really like being seen as anything in particular… ever since I was a kid it always felt weird. I know that probably doesn’t make much sense to you… you probably want to know what I actually am...”

Once again, she was looking at you very closely, her face its usual neutral but far more relaxed and visibly contemplative. “No,” she said again. “It doesn’t concern me.”

While she had tried to say it the same apathetic way she had said it before, as if she really didn’t care to hear any more about your life story, once again reading her revealed a softness to her intentions. It was meant as an affirmation. You gave her a big sheepish grin in response to that, and she let out an annoyed huff before standing up and heading to her bed roll.

She said she wouldn’t wait up for you in the morning, but the next day you could tell that the noisy way she packed up her supplies was intentional.

---

“Those two took my cattle,” Hot Pants said with some uncharacteristic frustration, reaching over to one of the bags on the side of her horse to dig around for something. She pulled out two ropes and began tying them into what you slowly realized was two nooses. “They’ll hang for that.”

“Huh!? Really? I can understand being upset but don’t you think that’s kind of harsh?”

She looked towards you as if she could not possibly understand what your reasoning was. “They’ve broken one of the laws of this land, correct? Is the punishment outlined by your laws not hanging?”

You weren’t familiar with the exact word of the law, but something like that was probably true. Still, the idea that she could be so casual about hanging two men who you hadn’t even investigated yet had you pouting.

It was also interesting to note the way she said “your laws” and the laws of “this land.” She had registered in this race as an American, right? Did her origins have to do with her disguise? Or was she just from the other side of the continent? Maybe you’d ask her about it later. She had been a tad more open with you lately, although she had yet to tell you her “true objective,” which you slowly began to realize through small clues here and there that it was not winning the Steel Ball Run.

As you got closer you saw it was Gyro Zeppeli and Johnny Joestar. “Nice weather for racing, isn’t it?” Hot Pants asked casually as she threw both nooses over a tree branch. “But I’m not here to talk. Can I ask the two of you to dismount so I can hang you properly?”

Gyro furrowed his eyebrows and looked between Hot Pants and you. You just looked at him a bit wide-eyed and awkwardly shrugged your shoulders. You didn’t like the idea any more than he did. Hopefully the three of them could talk things out.

“You’re that Hot Pants guy, aren’t you?” Gyro asked before looking at you and saying the false name you had entered the race under as well.

“The two of you finished an hour before anyone else, what need do you have to kill off the competition like this?” Johnny asked, frustration as well as curiosity laced into his voice. You directed your ghost’s power towards the two men and found no hostile intentions between either of them on a surface level.

“You misunderstand my intentions,” Hot Pants said. “That cattle you slaughtered for its meat was mine. For theft of cattle the punishment is hanging.”

“Hey, HP? I think that we should hear them out…” you said, but it came out a bit more quietly than you were hoping before Gyro was speaking over you.

“Hey, hey, hey, let’s not be hasty. We only took a little bit, but only because the cow was already dead and picked apart by scavengers by the time-” he started, but he was interrupted by Hot Pants jumping off her horse with her spray bottle at the ready. You really wished Hot Pants wasn’t the kind of person to act before talking. She had already started spraying them with her Cream Starter, and while Gyro had reached for what appeared to be a weapon of sorts he was immediately overtaken by the fleshy substance.

“Ah! HP!” you yelled to try to get her attention, but she was paying you no mind, tackling Gyro off his horse and to the ground. Johnny Joestar held his finger out towards her in a gesture reminiscent of aiming a gun, although unlike Gyro he didn’t have a weapon on him, but HP was quickly spraying him as well. Soon the faces of the two men were covered with a thin layer of flesh that blocked all their orifices, causing them to thrash around sightless and unable to breathe.

You probed them a bit deeper to ascertain their guilt, since Hot Pants wasn’t going to listen to reason. As far as you could tell Gyro had been truthful in saying that they had come across the cow already dead, and deeper than that he didn’t seem like a bad person by any means. Certainly not the type of guy who deserved to be hung. Johnny Joestar was a little trickier to get a read on, and while you could tell he too was not necessarily a bad person he did harbor a deep anger and an almost dark level of determination that kind of frightened you a bit. If you could stay off his bad side, you definitely would. Hot Pants wouldn’t listen to them, but you hoped she’d listen to you.

“HP, please! They didn’t kill the cow! Gyro is telling the truth, they really did just find it like that!” you called out to her. She hesitated for a second before crawling off Gyro and calling off her Cream Starter’s attack. Just in time too, it looked like Gyro was about to hit her with that iron ball of his.

“If you say it’s true, then it is,” she said, casting a glance in your direction. “But I won’t apologize to someone who ate meat that legally belonged to me, regardless of how much they took.” She walked casually back over to her horse and remounted it.

“Bastard,” Gyro grumbled under his breath. “Good riddance.”

“Wait!” Johnny said before Hot Pants could move her horse. “Did you get your stand from the Devil’s Palm too?”

“Stand?” you asked.

“Yeah, that’s what they’re called. I got one during the Arizona leg of the race too, out in the desert,” he further explained.

Hot Pants looked thoughtful for a moment, although she remained quiet. You weren’t about to let the opportunity go to waste though, and you pulled out your Through The Phone.

“Is this ghost a stand too?” you asked.

The two men looked a little shocked at first before relaxing. “Probably,” Johnny said. “Looks like mine and some others I’ve seen.”

“There’s others? How many!?”

“I dunno… we’re bound to see more by the time this race is finished, though.”

Hot Pants was looking over her shoulder at you, clearly already content with the amount of information she had received and ready to get going. You were a bit surprised that she was actually waiting for you before going on ahead, but the thought made you happy.

“Well, maybe we’ll run into each other again!” you offered with a friendly wave good-bye. The two men looked at each other with raised eyebrows, confused with your demeanor considering your riding companion had just tried to kill them, but they offered a reluctant farewell as your horse trotted off after her.

After you had put some distance between yourselves and them she muttered out, “We still need to hang the one responsible.”

“I’ll give you some of my food tonight if it would make you feel better,” you offered to placate her.

“It’s not about the food. It’s against the law. If justice doesn’t exist out here, I’ll bring it myself,” she stated. While her convictions seemed almost a little ridiculous to you, you could tell from her aura that she did in fact abide by this black and white sense of righteousness. You hoped for the thief's sake that you two didn’t stumble upon them.

After a while of trotting along on your horses you started to feel like all the trees looked the same. It felt like you were making no progress at all, no matter how long you walked for. Eventually Hot Pants took out her compass and gave a confused huff at whatever she saw on its display. The two of you noticed some familiar figures that you thought you had just left behind drawing closer, and a small log house some ways behind them.

“Well, at least we can trust those two to help us out,” Hot Pants said plainly, pulling up ahead of you. Despite your fear from the current predicament you were in, you couldn’t help but smile a bit. Her choosing to trust those two was an extension of her choosing to trust you. That thought also made you happy.

---

You hadn’t been ready for a gunfight, let alone a stand fight. That man, Ringo Roadagain, didn’t even bother looking at you. You weren’t worth his time, and you could have honestly gotten out unscathed if you had stayed back like Hot Pants told you to. But when he aimed to shoot her you ran to push her out of the way, acting on pure instinct, and you were shot pretty badly in the process. You were out cold after that and by the time you finally came to your senses it was night time.

You sat up quickly, frantically feeling at your shoulder to assess the status of your wound, but you quickly realized that there was nothing there except a faint dull pain. You were on top of your bedroll in front of a campfire, your horse next to Hot Pants’s horse.

“You’re awake,” came a familiar voice, and you turned to see her sitting on a log, watching you, her head leaned on her steepled fingers.

“Did we… get out of there?” you asked, a bit groggy.

“Yes. I healed your wound.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, laying back down on your bed roll.

“You would risk your life to save that of a stranger?” she asked, straight to the point. No ‘you’re welcome’ or ‘how are you feeling’ or even ‘that was a close one’, as her eyes continued to bore into you. “You have no reason to believe I’d do the same for you.”

You gave her a tired smile and chuckled, which only made her eyebrows furrow in annoyance. “You could have left me back there. Even if you just wanted to heal my wounds to be polite… you could have left me behind.”

“You’re clearly trustworthy,” she said, a little too quick, as if to dismiss the idea that it was purely out of the goodness of her heart. “I need allies I can depend on, and your stand will be useful in discerning who stands in the way of my objectives.”

“Hmm… so it’s just because I’m useful? How utilitarian of you,” you said, your smile turning into a smirk. But still, did that mean she was officially inviting you along? Was she no longer going to pretend that you just happened to be in the same places she was in and that you were of ‘no concern’ to her? The mention of her ‘objectives’ also made you think she might let you in on whatever she was really in this race to do.

Hot Pants finally broke eye contact with you. “You’re a good person. And you can keep pace with me.” There she went again, dampening a compliment by following it with another less sentimental, more practical one. She stood up and made sure the now dwindling fire was fully out before she went to her own bedroll, slipping inside it and turning her body so it faced away from you. “Next time do not sacrifice yourself for my sake.”

You just smiled to yourself, getting settled in your own bedroll, which you realized that she must have spread out for you. Your heart fluttered a bit at the deep appreciation and respect noticeably radiating off her.

---

“They got ahold of another corpse part,” Hot Pants said, putting her binoculars down. “Good.” Gyro and Johnny were off far in the distance with a girl who Hot Pants had recognized as Lucy Steel. It seems as if you caught them in the aftermath of some battle, as they were looking pretty beat up, but they had managed to secure the spine. There had been some heavy rainfall earlier, but the sky was finally starting to clear up, which you were glad for.

“Why can’t we just work with them, instead of waiting to steal the parts later?” You already knew why, of course. You’d seen Johnny’s overwhelming desire to obtain the corpse, and you knew he wouldn’t give it up easily, especially not if Hot Pants was unwilling to reveal her true intentions to him. You’d told her as much before, so she didn’t bother answering your question. While you didn’t want to hurt Johnny even you had to admit something like the holiest corpse on the face of the Earth was too precious a thing to belong to any one man. The Vatican collecting it seemed the most reasonable option to you.

“Well… let’s keep moving then,” you said after the figures in the distance were out of sight even with Hot Pants’s binoculars. The two of you continued along, and as usual you were the one trying to lead a conversation. “So, you’re like a high ranking agent of the Vatican, right? Do you go on other missions as big as this one too?”

“The Vatican deploys me as they see fit,” she said, devoid of any of the juicier details you were hoping for. “Before this I performed the duties of a sister in my covenant.”

“You’re a nun?”

“No. The Church felt my skill set made me better suited for an uncloistered life. I did spend years training to become a proper sister with the idea I may one day become a nun, but once the period of my temporary vows elapsed I underwent a different type of training.”

“Secret battle nun training?” you asked with a playful smile. She just stared at you blankly.

“It’s probably for the best, in the end. I don’t think it was God’s will that I continue on as a sister,” she said, her voice lacking its usual conviction. “Although…”

“Hm?”

“It seems it is still God’s will I live my life as a woman,” she said, almost too quiet for you to hear. “As I believe it is also He who brought us together.”

You bit your lip to stifle a giant grin that was appearing on your face, although Hot Pants was not looking in your direction anyway, now lost in her own thoughts. What types of vows did a covert agent of the Vatican have to abide by? Was it wrong that you felt yourself falling for her, little by little? Could she even be with someone like you, someone who lived as neither a man nor a woman?

The more you learned about Hot Pants, though, the more you began to suspect she and you were more alike than you originally had thought, as clearly her relationship to her gender was more complicated than it appeared on the surface. You never asked outright about it; if she wanted you to know she would tell you herself.

There had been a night when in the middle of a round of questioning from you on various aspects of Catholicism the topic of Joan of Arc had come up. Apparently there were ongoing efforts to canonize her as a saint. Joan of Arc was acting under the directions of God when she wore men’s clothes, right? It wasn’t the same at all, but… was it too hard to believe that God’s plan had accounted for your circumstances?

“Well, if that’s true, this God fellow is alright in my book,” you said with a chuckle. She turned back to give you a glare as she usually did whenever you didn’t show God what she felt was the proper amount of reverence, but it was hard taking her seriously when you could read her actual feelings at any given moment.

And for the first time since you met her she seemed content.

---

“HP!” you called out, shaking her awake with one hand, holding a lantern you had quickly lit up with the other. “HP, there’s something in the woods! Our horses ran off!”

She blinked a few times to clear the sleep from her eyes before she heard the same snapping of branches that woke you up. She shot up onto her legs and grabbed Cream Starter from her side, turning towards the noise.

“Enemies?” she muttered.

“Whoever it is, they’re angry, and… hungry? Really simple thoughts. I think it’s an animal,” you murmured, positioning yourself behind her.

Your suspicions were confirmed when a bear lumbered into your lantern’s light, its eyes a bright yellow green as they reflected back eerily at you two in the dark. It stood still for a while, sizing you two up, and you noticed that Hot Pants had noticeably tensed, her hand with her weapon still held uselessly at her side.

Just like that you were transported back to that moment you first met her, before you understood your stand’s power, when you felt the weight of the entire world crushing you from all sides as you sank lower and lower into despair. All the layers between the image Hot Pants projected outwards onto the world and the deep sadness she felt at her core were gone, and you were hit with it all at once before you could guard yourself against it. 

“HP!” you yelled, clutching at your head. “HP, please!”

She was breathing heavily as she slowly turned to look at you, her eyes wide and horrified in a way that looked so wrong on her usually calm and collected face. She looked past you at something else, someone else, far away from here. Her mouth hung open with the promise of a silent shout, but the only sound she made was her panting.

“Look out!” you yelled, pushing her out of the way as the bear behind her swung its claw. She fell to the ground with you following after her, your bulky clothes ripped to shreds at your side where blood seeped out from a few of the deeper cuts. Despite the pain your adrenaline allowed you to shoot back up and drag Hot Pants away from the bear as it turned around to follow you with its gaze.

“Hot Pants, please,” you begged, your breathing just as ragged as hers. “My stand isn’t strong enough to hurt it.”

“I’m sorry,” she cried out, tears spilling from her eyes. She wasn’t talking to you, still looking past you. “Lord, I’m sorry… I’m sorry.” She repeated it over and over and when shaking her by the shoulders didn’t snap her out of it you turned around to face the bear again.

You summoned your stand and tried to think of what you knew of bear safety. Were you supposed to play dead? Was it too late if it was already attacking? Did you aim for the nose or did you try to run and not engage? Your stand was only about as strong as an average person’s strength, but you used its arms to hit the bear hard on the nose. That seemed to stun it momentarily, which gave you the opportunity to pick up Hot Pants and drape her over your shoulder as you started running away, the feelings of anger only intensifying behind you.

While Hot Pants dragged her feet initially, eventually she was able to take steps in time with your own, although she still needed your support. “I’m sorry,” she said again, although it sounded a little more grounded this time. “You’re injured.” She sobbed loudly upon finally comprehending the situation at hand. “I told you not to sacrifice yourself for me, I told you to never sacrifice yourself for me...”

“HP, it’s still after us,” you said firmly now that you had her attention. She stopped walking and removed herself from your grip.

“Keep going. I can handle it now,” she said, her voice a shaky imitation of her usual confidence.

“I’m not leaving you!” You knew she was hardly in a state to handle a bear all on her own, and you could still feel all the negativity she exuded like thick gooey tar. You didn’t want to leave her to any self-destructive impulses she may have.

“You have to live,” she said, turning back to you with a weak smile. “That bear is just here for me.”

“It’s a bear!” you shouted indignantly. “It came here for food! It doesn’t know who you are, Hot Pants! If it was a holy messenger of divine wrath I think I’d know!”

“But-” she stuttered. “My sins- I can’t-”

“I told you before,” you said, loud and firm but more gentle than your previous yelling. “Your soul doesn’t have a shred of evil in it.”

She paused for a second before turning back to face the oncoming bear, her Cream Starter raised and poised to attack. “No… not evil,” she quoted with a wavering laugh, “just sad.”

With that she was leaping forward, spraying the bear’s face with a thick layer of her meat spray and taking away any of the senses it had to track either of you. Unable to breathe or see or smell its surroundings, it thrashed wildly in all directions as she continued to spray without end, borrowing flesh from its legs which now wobbled weakly under its weight.

Eventually it collapsed and the heaving of its body as it struggled to find any air finally ceased.

Hot Pants was shaking again as she fell to her knees in front of its corpse, her Cream Starter falling out of her hand. As you tried to calm your own heart still pounding in your chest, you approached her and plopped down next to her on the dirt. She cried for a while, silent this time, as the two of you just looked at it.

“Well, at least this takes care of our food situation for a good few days,” you said at last to break the tension. When you heard her give a small laugh you were glad that you didn’t come across as insensitive. “Although I hear bear meat is pretty gamey.”

Instead of responding she abruptly wrapped her arms around you and squeezed you tight. “You saved me,” she whispered.

You were taken aback, but you slowly brought your arms to wrap around her as well. “I’m pretty sure you’re the one who took it down.”

But the true meaning of her words was not lost on you. Once again your heart was overflowing with the ambience of her inner self, and while she still held an ocean within her it felt as if the storm clouds had finally parted and the waters were steady.

You two finally disentangled and stared at each other in a contemplative and comfortable silence for a long time. She had a sweet smile on her face, and you didn’t need to use your stand to see the way her eyes were sparkling with adoration.

“I won’t leave your side, Hot Pants. I’ll stay with you until this whole thing is over,” you promised, holding up your hand to cup her face. “And I’ll follow you after too, if you’d let me.”

You leaned in slowly, giving her ample space and time to move away, but she only fluttered her eyes shut and leaned in as well. Eventually the two of your lips met in a soft kiss, almost chaste but definitely warm and just a touch desperate. Slowly the two of you backed up again, searching each other’s eyes for some help in deciphering the intimate moment, but it was clear neither of you had regretted it.

She gave you a smirk, a playful twinkle in her eyes. “Whatever you do,” she began, grabbing at the hand on her face to intertwine her fingers with it. “It doesn’t concern me.”

#hot pants #jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo imagines #hot pants x reader #jjba reader insert #jjba #my writing #mara-carbonaras

[popculturebuffet]

Ducktales 87 Reviews: Aqua Ducks (CACC P3) or Launchpad and Doofus: Kings Of Atlantis

My look at the Catch as Cash Can 4-Parter commissioned by @weirdkev27​ enters it’s worst chapter as Scrooge heads under the sea with Launchpad, Gyro and for some reason Doofus, and find the lost city of Atlantis has become a trash dump for a bunch of asshole frog people who enslave them to pick up their trash. But Launchpad rides a Dolphin so like episode it at least has.. something... if not much Horrors and the full review await you under the cut. 

Previously on Ducktales: 

Now that’s out of the way where we.. ah yes 

I remembered this episode for being bad the first time around, if not many details, but HOPE my dread was unjustified and this was a hidden gem.. I was wrong. While the last episode in this four parter, utterly classic moment aside, was a mess, it was a FUN mess that had Peter Cullen, Donald Duck, a robotic whale, robotic ice cream trucks, and an utterly stupid wannabe noble prize winner. It was So bad it was decent. This.. is just not very good and there’s no sense dragging it out let’s get into why.  We open with Launchpad in his helicopter and i’m HAPPY to finally get to see him in this four parter. He’s been gone for the first two parts, if justifably since he wasn’t needed for either of them, but just like Donald when he’s missing on the reboot, it’s still nice to have him back. And as you can tell unlike Beakly, I LIKE 87 Launchpad quite a bit. He’s friendly, means well, is a skilled if crash prone pilot and has a seriously deep problem with insecurity that, as someone whose frequently self doubting or self defeating himself, I can relate. He’s one of the more fleshed out characters of the reboot and there’s good reason he was the one to carry over to the spinoff and got bumped up to one of the main trio there. I do still like the reboot version, who while made even dumber but is still very likeable.  But yeah he’s taking Scrooge to see Gyro, whose built the salvage vehicle Scrooge was going to ask him about last time and is working on some balloon devices to send the money back up with Doofus.. whose.. there for some reason. No really none is given and he could’ve easily been the boys, but Russi Taylor must’ve wanted a justified day off or something because their just.. absent. And while Launchpad being absent made some sense, again he wasn’t needed story or character wise and I respect both Ducktales tendency to swap out, if not the reboot’s tendency to forget Donald in season 1 and Beakly for the series as a whole, though this season is doing slightly better with her. But the boys have been with this bet from day one, been invaluable in the first episode for helping scrooge and are reliable and useful.. and are just at home because shut up and replaced with a far more obnoxious character.  Yeah Doofus isn’t great. He’s sweet, I’ll give him that and he DOES come in handy this episode.. but he doesn’t really do anything the boys or webby couldn’t do. He’s just around to tell three jokes: Either he’s dumb, he’s annoying to the cast, or 

He adds nothing, takes up space and is only useful this episode because the plot was catered to make him that way. He’s just one long meanspirited fat shaming joke coupled with a few dum dum jokes. I can see why Frank and Matt couldn’t stand him and made the reboot version into an utter human nightmare. At least his horrible goblin of a reboot version is INTRESTING and a good antagonist for the boys, and his worst aspects are now tempered by the great dynamic of giving him Boyd as a brother. This one is just.. bad. 

As for Gyro, he’s alright, likeable enough and interesting. The reboot one’s good in his own right, even if it took a while for them to find the right balance of likeable and jackass, and both are decent enough. Not as much to say there so with all my opinions out of the way we can get this terrible episode into gear.  Our crew, which STILL includes Doofus for some reason seriously...

I mean that there’s no reason to take him along by Gyro or anybody and he does nothing but annoy scrooge with his sardines and peanut butter and communication with dolphins  while Scrooge makes mean spirited fat jokes. 

Picture jokes aside.. yeah Scrooge is just as likeable this episode as he’s a mean dickhead to pretty much everybody, and that’s the WORST kind of comics story in my opinion so I do not like it here. While Launchpad can be dum, doofus is genuinely annoying and Gyro does screw up majorly in a second, all three are well meaning and want to help Scrooge while he’s a dick. And while this is the episodes point as he underestimates and mocks them only for them to save the day, we’ll get to that, and then thanks them at the end, it doesn’t make it fun or pleasant to WATCH him constantly berate everyone. It’s like watching later seasons rick and morty, and just as tiring. 

Anyways back to the plot, uuuuuurrrruugugguhhhhh, they descend into the Marinara trench with Scrooge being elated at going deeper than anyone and i’ts pretty much the only time he feels well written the whole episode. But Gyro spoils the mood by revealing he didn’t do proper testing on the Gold Digger, the subs name for.. some reason.. even though it’s not an excavation vehicle but whatever At least it’s not robot in the family’s gold digger. But a small malfunction aside it works, though still man you were TOLD this needed to go under extreme pressure. you had ONE job and could’ve told scrooge it might not be ready and let him decide. Not having the time is understandable but not telling Scrooge when the pressure’s this high is not. 

This ends up going nowhere however as they soon run into literal Frogmen, a decent pun, and the joys of froggy men ruined both by lazy feeling designs and the fact their really annoying. Their voices are okay, as they drag our heroes to see their leader but we soon find out their schtick: Their mad because humans keep dumping shit in their ocean. 

This isn’t a bad motivator, it’s been used for superhero/supervillian depending on the time of day Namor at marvel for decades for good reason and it’s not bad to tell kids not to pollute.. but it hurts your message when the person telling you this decides to solve this issue by extreme and loathsome methods that make them come across as an ass. Namor attacks cities, has killed hundreds and currently is trying to ban people from the ocean despite many depending on it. These guys are enslaving people they have no idea if they’ve done anything or not, instead of at the very least ransoming them to get better treatment or interrogating them. Nope they just put them to work hauling rocks and tires for them to use in the ruins of atlantis. Oh and the ruins of Atlantis is their junkyard so that’s a thing and will be important in the next part. That concept.. is actually pretty neat and I think was in the barks story this was based off.. yeah while I don't’ remember the story well he too had a story where merpeople kidnapped scrooge and the boys, it was different than this but only slightly more tolerable and not one of his better stories. Moving on. 

Point is creative idea aside i’ts just a boring, unpleasant watch as our heroes are trapped in an air pocket after a days work, and their guard is just your standard sneering jackass villain. Outside of the Atlantis as a junkyard concept there’s nothing new here even for the time it was made. Secret society captures and enslaves our hero’s was a common trope as far back as the 40′s. This is just tedious and played out. It’s why this review has less jokes and more be banging my head against the wall in text form: it’s just not Funny mockable. Sure scrooge is a dick, but it’s not in a way that’s easy to make fun of. Sure Doofus befriends a dolphin via sardine bribes but hta’ts more sad it’s the only way he can make friends than anything. It’s just plodding, tedious and bad. 

But yeah our heroes are stranded without their helmets but Scrooge, not trusting the other three because again dick, had them distract the guards next shift.. though really he has no high ground when not much earlier his loudly mentoining they hadn’t taken their helmets got them taken away. But he makes a break for the Gold Digger, only for the assholes of the sea to throw out their trump card: A giant sea monster named Glubzilla because this episode can’t just let a good monster design sit and has to give it a dumb name. The Gold Digger is destroyed and our heroes stranded.. instead of you know.. studying the thing to make more of them or forcing gyro to make more out of their junk to attack the surface? Seriously these guys suck at being vengeful atlantians. You have a super genius and a giant sea monster! Attack! Gah this episode hurts my think pan. 

So Scrooge is seperate and left to slowly drown for the rest of the episode while the rest of the team comes up with a plan. Doofus brings up some soda Gyro made earlier I forgot to mention, and Gyro comes up with the idea to FLOAT Atlantis to the top and escape with not only scrooge’s fortune but any other treasure they’ve gotten. He just needs rubber, which Doofus’ dolphin friend provides and was shown to be good at earlier.. and was scared off by one of the guards despite you know.. making the job go faster. It doesn’t mean Doofus works less it just means one part of his job gets done quicker so you can have him do more. You can’t even get forced manual labor right you assholes. These guys make NAMOR tolerable by comparison and he spent most of his time with the x-men trying to bang Cyclops girlfriend with no regards to her being in a relationship because “Well their not married doesn’t count”.. which olds no water when he STILL has hit on Sue Richards for what will be 80 years next year with no regards for Reed. Point is Namor’s a dick and these guys are somehow worse. At least Namor is competent. Gah.. let’s move on.  Point is gyro can get things going, and has everything he needs now he just needs to smear it on the coral to finish it off and send Atlantis up and a reluctant and annoyed Launchpad is elected to ride Doofus’ dolphin. What follows is Launchpad riding a dolphin which is awesome.. but like most of this episode it’s made obnoxious by the padding of the sequence. Launchpad howeve ris able to lead Globzilla away when he shows up and eventually beats the thing as it holds Atlantis down by tickling it.. which was actually a good joke good job episode you told one!. Our heroes escape, Scrooge is saved from drowning, and in one more actually good gag the Frogs boo scrooge for taking away their trash.. before realizing he’s taking away pretty much all their trash and cheer him.  So the day’s saved, Scrooge apologizes as mentioned and we’re in the final stretch of this four parter. Thank god this is over. 

Final Thoughts: I hated it.. it was boring, the villians were dumb, have been done better before and were a chore to watch, it was filled with padding, Scrooge and Doofus were obnoxious, It wasn’t good and I dont’ want to ever watch it again and wouldn’t have if I wasn’t paid to. I remembered it being bad.. it was worse. If you think there’s a worse episode of the original ducktales, feel free to force me to watch it, because I genuinely don’t think this thing can be topped, just give me a pm or an ask asking to commission it and we can set one up, it’s only 5 dollars for one episode, 15 for a movie, and for a bunch of episodes at once i’ts 5 dollars off your total order. Next time we finish this daunting but rewarding, both in money and in knowledge, quest. Until then, wear a mask, check your house for Gary Busey and hopefully i’ll see you again.  

#ducktales #reviews #comission #scrooge mduck #launchpad mcquack #doofus drake #gyro gearloose #catch as cash can #ducktales 87

[buuttercup]

My laziness needs to end and this weekend needs to absolutely not happen. I do stupid things when I'm bored. I dangle my carrot in front of anyone I can as if that will make me feel okay. When I speak to anyone about B and I, I say I'm doing better than I am; I don't say we've fucked, obviously, because that's fucking laughable; I say I know I'll be able to find someone better for me, even though I don't think that's true; I say I'm never going back to him, even though I want to every day and every second. Everything I say is the antithesis of what is actually true. And that's fucking typical.

This new guy I've been talking to must find me so cringe, always posting vain photos and videos of myself now. I can't be bothered with what he thinks of me other than his opinions on my appearance but I want to see him again just to see. It's kind of funny how calculated and predictable it all is, my process of trying to heal after a breakup. I reduce myself every time. Feeding off attention from people that do not matter serves no one. Fucking randoms, promising things I can't keep, frivolous spending, painting myself to be more okay than I am. It’s all methodical.

I'm so fake on top of my shit and drowning in responsibilities I'm avoiding, but I don't really know what I'm waiting for? I wake up and run through a list of the things I need to take care of, but I'm still in the mindset I was when I was in 4th grade: convinced I will die at a young age, so why bother? I can't explain why I used to feel this way but I always felt I was meant to die at a young age, almost like I wanted that for myself. An escape to avoid the pain adulthood and wisdom bestows on you.

Myriad relationships with past friends and lovers have been reemerging as of late. I should be gracious of these people reaching out, as it comes from a place of love, but I actually hate it. These people from the past are all reminders of a version of myself that had less fortitude and self respect. That version of myself has admittedly become a victim of the harsh voice I speak to myself in. How stupid could you be? To be convinced that I found my one and only so early in life, right under my nose. I held onto him because I thought his lack of experiences would guarantee his loyalty and devotion. I thought, "I'll show him all that he hasn't seen or felt. I'll make him obsessed with me. I will secure my place in his heart." Naive and reluctant to the idea of him stepping outside of me. I am so tired of feeling not enough and making myself to be this diminutive version of myself that does not exist.

I have nothing to hide... except all the things I have to hide. Such as the shame and degradation I bring onto myself.

My life is sickeningly ironic at this point. Laughably, actually. My roommate has started up with a new boy. It's heart eyes, cuddling, and coffee made by 7am type of love right now. I'm not jealous. I don't want the guy. I'm not bitter about the fact that she keeps comparing her experiences with this guy with me and B. (I miss the ring 'me and B' had to it.) I'm really not. What I have been clinging onto however, are the parallels in her feelings and spoken words about this guy in comparison to my guy. Memories of excitement and lightheartedness can only be recalled as though it was another person living through them. I can't imagine myself boo'd up, laughing, secured... enamored with someone at all. Much less B. It's like, who was that that was living through all that sweetness? The irony lies in me knowing that that sweetness is what I'm holding onto. They are my favorite scenes from my favorite movie that I keep rewinding. Experiences unique to me n B. Although I'm broken, I can't dismiss the love and care B showed me. There’s a reason why I stuck by him for as long as I did, and there's a reason why I was more than happy to for the rest of my life. To make myself ashamed of the love I experienced with this person is wrong of me to do. I won't lie; it does hurt to see her so happy and nonetheless compare my happiness and optimism to what she feels. I promised to myself that I wouldn't project any of my own negativity and cynicism onto her.

This season isn't about he and I. It's about me.

Every moment I spend not working or working out feels like a waste. Even when I’m deep in my most depressing and lonely thoughts, I feel like I should be working out.

I think sick things. I think sick things to convince myself to be okay with what he did or.. the exact opposite.. to convince myself to banish this person from my heart forever. I asked him, when did you do this? Where? Did you show yourself? Either situation feeds into my insidious thoughts. If he showed himself, he shared his beauty and had that connection with someone else. They saw him and he saw them. I try to put myself in his shoes in that moment, I think, "well at east if he showed himself, I know human tendencies and that everyone looks at themselves during most of a video call, right?? At least he was probably looking at his own dick part of the time?? Yeah, at least he wasn't entirely focused on another body during that entire time.." The other option is that he wasn't on cam, and that is was only her. Still shit. To think of him being so primal and lusting for other parts, another body, anther person, kills me. I am too obsessed with the superficial connections he had with other people, but that is only because I feel THAT IS ALL I HAVE TO OFFER! I fooled myself into believing his lack of experience would minimize his hunger for other women, because I assumed he didn't know what else was out there. I assumed he would see me and have me and that that would be enough. We told each other about our past; I was his first serious girlfriend, I thought at the time, so I felt safe in the delusion that I wasn’t competing with memories of someone before me. I ransacked all parts of him in search of safety and fidelity. Nothing I thought about him was true.

And yet, I’m the I am still so hungry for him. He is more than his beautiful exterior; I crave his voice, his comfort, pragmatism, and his warmth. I have never given love an honest go like this. All my time spent with him was always sweet; I never felt blessed in my life, but I felt that way with him. I am convinced I won't ever be able to find what I found in him in anyone else. The narrative that there is only one person made for us is naive and impractical, but I really do feel that way with him. He checks my social media often; I know that. I am scared for the day it all ends because I know that when that day comes, I will not be in the same place. I will still be waiting. Perhaps it's my self cruelty speaking for my whole self, but I honestly believe I will always be waiting for him. I thought I'd be the same way with Leo. I was scary scary obsessed with him. Hastily convinced that this is the person for me; there are still times I think that... but all those fallacies are crowded out the second I think of B. Am I missing being loved or and I missing being loved by this person? How could I have aggrandized someone so small and immature? Who am I even talking about?? All of them.

Hearing of my mother's heartbreak is more painful than listening to my own. I don't think B has any idea of the ripples of pain he's caused around me. When I speak to my mom, I hear the hopeless romantic in her. She is waiting for this guy to prove himself in ways my father never could. She speaks about he and I as if she knows and wants for us to get back together again. She is waiting for a grand gesture, as was I. She is waiting to see if this guy will prove to be different, in ways my father could never be. I think she wants that just for my own sanity, so I don't go off to asume every man will only disappoint me. It's too late for that. Although I already believe that of men, part of me is still holding out for this person. Why was I robbed of my happiness and future experiences with this person??

I get so bitter when I start to think of everything I missed out on with B. Every relationship I see makes me think of what could’ve been. I'm like, that fucker didn't even get to see me dance, get to feel me grind on him while we were out, he didn't get to feel me eat his ass and suck him raw like I wanted, he didn't get to see me actually dolled up in that dress I saved for just him, he didn't get to feel me fully, we didn't get to vacation together, he didn't get to have the full me. Is that why this all happened? I get so angry at all that he didn't get to experience with me, as if it's my own fault that he's not trying as hard as I want him to be. A larger part of myself is convinced that he didn't get to experience these things with me because he didn't deserve to. I am so ready to put myself on display, to serve myself on a platter. The second I am made to be the fool, I carry the blame on my back as if it was my own faults that put us here. I feel this is the only way someone will see me and want me and only me. This will never be true; it's not like I want this to be my narrative, I really think it is though. If I'm not waiting for B to be at my door, I'm waiting for the day to be fully healed; neither seems reachable. Am I feeling this way because he is actually the one that is meant for me or because I've never been betrayed to this degree, and I'm yearning for an absolution? Way beyond the clouds is where I'll find my answer, by the time my head is light and empty enough to float high enough to find these answers, I think it will be too late. Every day, every second I have to fight myself to call him, to tell him to come over, to let him know about his secured spot in my heart. I can’t do that because I know it’s not true. It was not true with Leo, and although I know it’s unfair to compare B with L, both are in the same category; undeserving of me. A part of me wishes I could rush his growth so that it would alleviate some of the shame I might receive from getting back with him but I know that’s selfish. More of me wants the whole process to be rushed because I believe what we had was unique and beautiful and that it was the security that he and I deserved. The idea that he still wants me too makes it all worth it. I will be taken for granted again if that were to happen though. My feelings of heartbreak aren’t unique; I know I have felt this way before, and I might feel this way again.

I feel the ghost of his hand on my waist all the time.

#screwdriver diaries #paletas #i hope he stopped checking my blog tho

[seizethecarpe]

Just Around the Riverbend || Dave & Grace

Timing: Current Parties: @seizethecarpe @silveraccent Summary: Grace and Dave meet in the classic way: finding a dead body together

In an attempt to get to know the town better, Grace had been taking it upon herself to take walks both before work, and after work. For whatever reason, she wanted to see the town in all its hues, as she had always felt as though it brought out a different perspective in her surroundings. The tips of Grace’s shoes scattered the gravel ahead of her, the sound of rushing water bringing her to a dip in the trail. At the base of the trail was a pathway Grace assumed forked to the lake she had seen on the maps application on her phone. The further she walked, the more she felt isolated. Portland hadn’t offered the same kind of isolation as White Crest, and Grace had been appreciative of its efforts as a small town. Grace took a seat on the bench and pulled out her sketchbook from her bag. Before she could open it, however, she took notice of a strange object floating about fifteen feet from the water’s edge. It looked as though to be a burgundy sweatshirt, or some kind of fabric. Grace squinted as she slipped off of the bench. The sound of somebody behind her made her jump, but she didn’t want to take her eyes off of the figure. Grace hadn’t known who was behind her, but she asked anyways, “do you see that?” Finally, she turned her gaze back to her company-- a rugged man who she had never seen before. “Sorry, I just-- I think there’s something out there.” She said again, taking a step closer to the water’s edge, her converse now partially submerged in the water. 

Much like every other day of the week, Dave was getting a feel for the structure of the town. Most specifically, the water ways. Everything had a flow to it - the air, the clouds, the trees, the streams leading into rivers and lakes. He needed to get to know as much of it as possible, so he could always have an escape route if he was out in the open, so he could solve cases, so he could understand this town. Besides, he found it easiest to navigate other places relative to the water features. East of the river, south of the docks, north of the cliffs. It was how he’d been raised to think, how he’d spent his whole life. When he’d been in the midwest it had been hell because of how far he’d been from the ocean. He was wandering along when someone called to him, a young woman sitting on a bench by the river edge. He didn’t quite catch what she said at first, but when he followed her gaze he saw it. Something caught in the river. “Stay back,” he warned, thinking just long enough to throw his phone into the grass before he plunged in. He’d known before he’d even hit the water. He knew when his hands caught the material that he wasn’t saving someone, just pulling up a corpse. He lugged it back onto the grass. Wasn’t even really bloating yet. Can’t have been that long. “Shit.”

Grace hadn’t ever been the type to believe in the best of things. It hadn’t been that she was always faced with the worst, but she certainly hadn’t been dealt cards that were in her favor. She knew, just by looking at the way the current rocked the figure, that this person wouldn’t be coming to shore alive. A part of her had hoped that it was just fabric attached to a log, but when the man next to her told her to stay back, Grace knew that he saw it, too. She followed his orders, taking a few steps back. Her socks squished with every step, but she didn’t have time to focus on it, instead, she watched as the stranger ran into the water without a second guess. It took a minute, but once he had managed to bring the corpse to the shore, Grace approached. As she knelt down next to it, she examined their face. The blisters told Grace that bloating hadn’t set in yet. Grace glanced up to the man next to her, “it looks like they died only maybe a day ago.” Grace was careful not to touch the deceased, not wanting to cause any additional cross-contamination. Grace wracked her brain for textbook definitions, for what Regan had already taught her in her short time in the morgue. All of it, for whatever reason, was coming up blank. “Do you see that?” Grace asked as she shifted around the body. “It looks like something tried to tear their throat out, could’ve been the fish trying to get a meal.” Grace looked up at the man. “We should probably call the cops, right?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Dave agreed. “Guessing they ended up in the water further upstream.” Maybe it was someone drunk who had a bad fall, or got tired while taking a dip. He’d seen hundreds of drownings, and as much as one might think there was foul play involved, most of the time, it was just bad luck. People didn’t realise how fast they tired in the open water, in a current, in the cold. Even as she’d pointed out the injuries, which she was right about, Dave wasn’t about to commit either way to these things. He just looked at her and nodded sharply. He also didn’t want to do too much investigating with some random witness around, because looking like you knew what you were doing near a dead body was a great old way to look suspicious as hell. “I’ll call them. You know what the nearest street is called, by chance?” He asked, picking his phone up from the bank, and dialling the local sheriff’s department. 

Grace kept her eyes on the body, looking for any more injuries. The least she could do was brief Regan, or even Dr. Rickers before they got to the body. Grace stayed crouched, barely registering what the man was asking her. “Uh,” Grace hummed as she looked around. Grace got up from her position and wandered to the left where she thought she’d seen a sign, “Dark Score Lane?” Grace guessed. After she had confirmed their location, she returned to the body. Grace pulled out her own phone and shot a quick text to Dr Kavanagh, “I work at the morgue,” she said after a moment. This was a stranger, but a stranger who had helped her locate a dead body, no less. Half of her wondered why he wasn’t having a more adverse reaction to the decedent, and she wondered if he, too, were wondering why she weren’t. He seemed relatively calm, which surprised Grace. Most would be panicked by now. “Just so you don’t think I’m some weirdo who likes to be around dead bodies.” Grace crouched down once more, “it looks like they’re missing an eye, do you see how this socket is kind of sunken in?” She pointed to the part of their face she commented on. 

“Dark score lane,” Dave repeated, rubbing his face as he explained the situation to the officer. He was still dripping wet from the swim, and idly tried to wring out his ratty t-shirt to no avail as he explained over the line. Finally, he hung up and looked over to Grace. “The morgue, huh? No wonder you got your detective eyes open and examining things. Uh, wouldn’t touch it. Drowned bodies can get real grim.” Explained why she wasn’t half as freaked as he’d expected. Still, it was different seeing a dead person on the job, and just finding one while you were out reading a book. Or so he figured. “Yeah, I see that. Could be a fish. Eating the soft parts first and all that. But I ain’t exactly an expert. Can’t be easy, looking at dead bodies day in and day out on a job like that.” It was useless. Without much shame, Dave pulled off his t shirt, exposing the long mermaid-tooth scars that raked across his body to wring out his shirt properly. “‘Scuse me. Nothing worse than sitting in wet clothes.” Once he’d gotten most of the water out, he tugged it back on again. Not much better, but it sure was something. 

Grace got up from her crouched position and slipped her phone back into her pocket. She looked out towards the water and half-wondered, half-guessed what had happened. No matter how strong of a swimmer you thought you were, the current could always destroy that in a moment’s notice. Grace crossed her arms over her chest and nodded ruefully at Dave’s words, “We’ll be able to look into it a little more once we get them to the morgue, I’m sure Dr Kavanagh will be able to figure out what happened.” Grace was still learning, but she could tell the telltale signs of what happened, surface level. It didn’t seem like there had been any marks on the neck to indicate strangulation, but the bite mark interested Grace. She barely looked up when Dave took his shirt off, and as soon as she caught a glimpse of the scars, she quickly averted her gaze back to the body. “Nah, I get it,” Grace said as she felt the squish of her own shoes as she retreated to the bench she had been at, “did the police say when they’d get here?” She asked him as she draped her bag over her shoulder. She figured she’d need to go in now, and that the rest of her day was cancelled. Comes with the job, I guess, Grace thought to herself as she looked over the body a bit more, noticing the way that they were also missing a few fingers. “The fish must’ve been really fucking hungry,” Grace said as she looked down. 

“That the coroner?” Dave asked, not knowing that Dr. Kavanagh would hate that description more than anything else. This kid was smart thugh. He watched her searching eyes with admiration, because to him it looked right like she knew what she was looking for. “Uh, round ten, fifteen minutes. Apparently there’s some major animal attack thing taking up their resources, but they’re getting it under control.” Which, realistically, probably meant that whatever supernatural beings they’d encountered had been successfully chased back into the woods. Hopefully with no one being eaten, but realistically someone had gotten bit. “You packing up? Ah, guess you’re figuring you’ll have to go to work.” He looked back over to the dead body curiously. “Mmm, yeah, maybe.”

Grace nodded, “she’ll be able to figure out exactly what happened here.” Grace could put it together, some parts were obvious, but until they cut into the body, they wouldn’t truly know the cause of death. Whatever flesh was missing at their neck, that was purely postmortem. At the very least, who they had found hadn’t been alive-- if the police were taking that long, then Grace would think they’d have a problem. “Yeah, I should get going, call Dr Kavanagh.” Grace pulled her phone out of her pocket to check for a text message back from Regan, but found nothing. Maybe she was already there. “Well, it was great finding a dead body with you….?” Grace looked at him expectantly, “I’m Grace.” 

“Yeah, let’s do it again some time,” Dave replied with a dry smile, a little too blasély. Maybe he shouldn’t make it sound like finding bodies of one sort or another was a common part of his day to day life, but, well… he’d found hundreds of dead bodies in his lifetime. He’d made a few of them. “I’m Dave.” The sun shone a little more brightly, and Dave shrunk a little into his t shirt. People didn’t tend to be as observant as all that, but this one was. She might notice that his shadow, really didn’t match his body. 

 Grace wondered if this happened a lot, or if he had said it because she told him she worked at the morgue. Regardless, Grace gave him a double thumbs up, “Hopefully ones that don’t smell as bad as this one,” she joked. She knew she should be taking it more seriously-- this was somebody who had gone missing. Why was it she was fine with a dead body washing ashore, yet she was ready to light her apartment on fire at the sight of a mouse? “Dave, it’s nice to meet you, and I’d say under better conditions, but I get paid overtime for going in on my day off, so…” Her gaze swept out across the water again. She wondered if they’d send a recovery unit into the depths to see if there was anybody else. Her gaze tracked back to Dave for a moment, missing that his shadow didn’t quite match what it should’ve looked like. “Does this happen often?” She asked, looking back to the body, “finding something like this? You seem pretty calm.” 

Dave huffed. If she thought it smelled bad, she should have a turn in his nose. Just because haulouts stank by necessity didn’t mean he got used to a whole new level of stink in his nose. He’d grabbed the damn thing either way. “Hey, I get it. You get paid extra for finding a whole ass body on your day off.” He turned back as he spotted some flashing lights in the periphery of his vision. “Looks like our company’s finally arriving.” He turned back to Grace, and shrugged. “A handful o’ times. You don’t get to live this long without seeing some weird shit.”

She was grateful that he didn’t seem to question the way in which she was calm-- at first, it had spooked her, but once she was able to focus on the fact that it was her job, just in a different setting, she had been able to regain composure, and quite quickly, too. Maybe all of her work in regards to containing her emotions when other people were around was what made it easier to calm herself down in situations of duress, at least, when she wasn’t in danger. “This one is interesting, too, so it won’t be a boring car accident--” Grace bit her tongue, “that was insensitive, but…” Grace carded her fingers through her hair as she looked onward as investigators approached them. “Looks like it.” She looked back to Dave, “thanks for you know,” Grace motioned towards him as she sidled up to the police officer who approached the body, spitting off what had happened as he wrote it down. 

#para #chatzy #grace

[quagmireisadora]

[Jonghyun / Taemin] After the Fire

Prompt: A is a struggling writer going through a creative block, until B literally crashes into their life, claiming that they are a modern-day muse.  Rating: R-ish(?) Warnings: some explicit descriptions Length: ~10,000

Summary: Drawn to danger, I burned my own house down.

(Written as part of the Winter of SHINee fic fest. Please go support all the entries there)

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“... we thank you for your manuscript and applaud your efforts in completing another book. Unfortunately, it is not quite in the vein of what we are looking for. Please stay in touch for…” 

In Jonghyun’s eyes, there is only one way to construe the letter—your stuff isn't sexy enough.

He knows the standards the publication house upholds. When he’d first applied to write for them, presenting a short story full of elucidated gasps and pants and whatnot: he’d done his research. The other writers and their works are miles apart from what he could ever produce. Those books are too salacious, too irreverent for him to match.

So, he knows there is a yardstick, and that he is required to be faithful to it, if he must help retain their astronomically high readership. 

Honestly, though… the only reason Jonghyun writes erotic literature is because it is easy money. 

Coming straight out of college, he first tried his hand at working for obscure webzines. That was a very weird, isolating experience. His colleagues were constantly embroiled in intellectual and cultural debates, the likes of which a man of his upbringing could never participate in—the elegance of noir films, the chaos of punk history, the artful French New Wave. Not only did these subjects evolve outside the barriers he grew up between, the webzines’ subscribers were largely foreigners, rendering a monolinguistic man like him… well. Useless.

Following this, he’d done a stint at small, virtually unknown publications. He’d written largely ignored thought pieces for national papers. He’d even submitted the less embarrassing specimens of his attempted poetry to the Metropolitan office of which, none were imprinted on subway doors. Yet.

To the interested employer, his CV reads like a grocery list of jobs: I did everything I possibly could with my mediocre talent, just so I could earn a living. And he doesn't mind that—encourages that thought, in fact. It is Jonghyun's earnest belief that only by downplaying his past professional experiences will he ever get a step ahead, climb a rung higher. It is also Jonghyun's earnest belief that dream jobs do not exist and, in this economy at least, settling is a good idea when you have qualifications as meaningless as his. 

So no, he doesn't turn any work down. Nothing is beneath him. And that attitude has led him here—to writing cheap erotica for easy money.

Except, Jonghyun hasn't a single erotic bone in his body. 

He is a man, most certainly. Red-blooded as they come. But something about writing down the act, about describing it in the most colourful and drawn-out details... femininity must surely be a prerequisite, he thinks. To notice the way that things look or sound or feel or taste in those short moments. To recreate that passion, that ecstasy, that urgency with paragraph upon paragraph of meticulous and explicit narration: one must need a very observative mind. Or a hyperactive imagination. Because something that lasts just a few minutes from his perspective, can only be recreated with such intensity if it were a woman on the other side of the pen.

So no, Jonghyun doesn't do sexy. Despite having penned three short novels, all with the reluctant perusal of internet porn, he doesn’t do sexy. He doesn’t do softcore, he doesn’t do taboo or wild or… anything, really. He just isn't capable of indelicacy like that. He reasons he can probably try romantic, but that’s not what this specific job entails, does it? No, and the letter is good evidence of that, he realises, stowing his last manuscript away for recycling. 

 Where sexual depravity is concerned, Jonghyun is running on empty. And if things don't change soon, his bank account will too.

------

His mother doesn't know, of course. She thinks her poor son, her youngest baby, is so deeply mired in the nine-to-five that he doesn't even have time to visit these days. Writing is time-consuming. Writing entire novels, even more so. He doesn’t tell her what his job is, though. He keeps it vague. I’m working at an office. I’m working for a big company. I’m working in a building on Saemunan-ro.

As common a name as Kim Jonghyun is, a pseudonym is useful in many ways, he realises. He doesn’t get strange calls from distant relatives, demanding what the hell does he think he’s doing, while ignoring the fact that they went looking for erotica in the first place. He doesn’t have his young cousins approach him with was that really you, hyung? or can we get an early copy of your next one? His friends and ex-associates don’t have a clue. He would like to keep it that way: Minho already gives him a hard time about growing into an old shut-in, if he had the faintest idea of what was going on behind those closed doors and drawn curtains… Minho would no longer be a friend, Jonghyun wagers with shame.

Even so, the question of inspired writing—if he can call it that—still remains. Rather, the question of how he will pay next month’s rent, how he will settle the stack of overdue power and internet and water bills, still remains. Seoul is an expensive city to live in by oneself, and he cannot move back under the same roof as his mother and sister, not with a scandalous job like this. 

At this point he has no way of stimulating his mind without resorting to stealing from other writers. 

And so, the idea of a fan-meeting event is a sort of lifeline. He figures it could help if people show appreciation for his work: even if those people are wild-eyed and pimple-faced oily young men who should be ashamed of themselves, his morality yells wordlessly. But he is no one to judge. And if they prove to be a motivation, if they can help him get out of his block, then all the morality in the world can go to hell. 

The event isn’t as clandestine as he imagines it to be, either. Outside the venue is a board yelling out a “SHIN YUN BOK PUBLICATION AUTHORS’ CONVENTION”. The doors are wide open. The sound of chatter, the smell of food, the murmur of excitement, all floats out to the lobby just outside. 

When he enters, his face obscured by a surgical mask and a large pair of sunglasses, the place is packed. A man is on stage, calling out polite directions for crowd control. Jonghyun recognises him as his employer. Or at least, he is the guy who interviewed him over a grainy skype call late one night. He self-consciously checks his disguise and walks deeper into the fray.

A semi-circle of tables is arranged around the hall, each nominated to a writer. Upon studying the occupied seats, Jonghyun’s premise is solidified when he realises eight out of ten appear to be women. Somehow, this information impresses him.

When he ducks under the ropes and is stopped by a security guard, he points at the only empty table in wordless explanation. Some awkwardness ensues: a request for ID, a weary denial on the basis that pseudonyms aren’t on any ID, a quick consultation by text message, an unenthusiastic “OK, sir. This way, please.” Soon after, Jonghyun has taken his place and assumes the target of many pairs of staring eyes in the room. Some point and snicker, some watch him awestruck, some even take photos. Selcas! Like he is some sort of celebrity! He feels uneasy and oddly vulnerable, fidgeting with his sunglasses as they threaten to slip on the sweat beading his face.

But when the doors are finally shut and the event declared open, Jonghyun’s jealousy soars.

There are lengthy, winding lines of people waiting to speak to nearly all the other writers--but not him. No one approaches him. Not for the first ten minutes, not for the next half hour. In spite of all the staring from before, no one wants to speak with him. No one is interested in getting his signature. 

It is only now, at such a place and such a time, that a series of paranoid questions fills his head. Does anyone read his books? Does anybody like them? Is he not popular? Is his work insignificant, even in circles like these? 

If the number of people dying to speak with the others is anything to go by… then no. Jonghyun is not in the least bit popular. 

He overhears his neighbour chuckle to say things like, of course there is a sequel coming out or yes, I based that character on myself. There are squeals, there are gasps, there is enough veneration to drown Jonghyun in self-pity. Suddenly, he wishes for that love and admiration. He wishes someone would ask him interesting questions and expect fascinating answers; dote on him just the way they dote on the rest of the panel.

His jealousy is poisonous enough that it spreads through his blood. His eyes burn with it, his pulse throbs against it, he feels it bristle in and out of his nostrils with every breath. His sweat begins to sting. His solitude starts to prick. His confidence dwindles to nearly nothing. The weight of envy makes him slide lower and lower into his seat. He plays with his marker and acts nonchalant. Acts like he is unaffected. But in truth he feels like crying. He feels like going home. He feels like quitting-- 

When his latest book is suddenly slammed onto the table, he yells and jumps a foot off his seat. Eyes turn to him again, this time with thinly veiled distaste rather than disinterest. He looks up at his assailant to find a lanky young man donning fashionable sunglasses and equally fashionable clothes. 

“Sign, please,” the guy says in a tone that borders on demanding. 

------

What surprises Jonghyun isn’t the fact that he has a “fan” in someone like Lee Taemin, as he introduces himself later. It is more astonishing to him that other people immediately follow his example and accost Jonghyun with copies of his work—some that look well used and dog-eared to the point that he is afraid to touch them. More and more readers who claim to love his writing flock over, while this Taemin character stands by. Silent, watchful, critical. 

As he doles out autograph after rushed autograph, Jonghyun can’t for the life of him understand how the situation reversed itself in the blink of an eye. 

“Uh… thank you?” he expresses uncertain gratitude. “I was. Surprised.”

“Mm hmm, so what do you want to do next?” the guy counters, folding up the sleeves of his baggy tee-shirt. The crowds have long dissipated. Security has rounded up all the stragglers, even the rowdy ones trying to get too close to that overly popular writer who went by the penname of Eonsook. But no one seems bothered by Taemin. No one cares that he is still here, still engaging in lazy conversation, going at his own pace. Everything about this is so peculiar. Everything is the opposite of his expectations.

“Well, I was about to go home and eat dinner, so—”

“I meant,” an exasperated look berates him. “What do you want to do for your next project?”

There is no answer for that. Jonghyun doesn’t plan these things out. He sits in front of the screen and starts to pour things onto it until he realises none of it is usable. Then he gives up. Rinse, repeat.

But he is expected to answer now. He is expected to say something rooted in a fully formed thought. He is expected to answer this man, this person who appeared out of nowhere and somehow managed to single-handedly create the interest Jonghyun was looking forward to. So, is there also an expected answer? Is there a right and a wrong response? Should he take the question as a cue to say something else, something scripted for such interactions? He doesn’t know.

He settles for a vague, “Uhm, is there anything in particular that Taemin ssi likes to read?” If he has learnt something from his time writing about politics, it is this: the best answer to a difficult question is another question.

An indifferent shrug replies. “Don’t really care. As long as there’s sex in it.”

He’d make a great politician, Jonghyun thinks as he starts to gather his things. “Well. I’m sure you’ll find plenty to satisfy you, then,” he gestures around them at the nearly vacated hall. 

The man on the stage waves to him, he waves back. They will probably speak on the phone later on, and Jonghyun will bombard him with questions.

“But I like what you write,” Taemin continues, drawing is attention back. Physically holding his chin and turning his face so they are looking at each other again. “I want you to write more. Much more. A series!” there is a hint of excitement on those puffy lips.

Jonghyun knows not to aggravate people like him. People who are probably more dangerous than they appear to be. He takes a cautious step back. “I… I wish I could, sir. But you see—”

“I’ll pay you to do it.” A sure motion pulls an expensive-looking wallet out. A wad of cash is counted before nearly all of it is set onto the table. “An advance. I’ll give you three times that when you’ve finished the first draft. How about it?”

He stares at the fan of ten thousand won notes. Rent, he reminds himself. You must pay rent by the end of next week. But what the hell is he going to write?! “Sir, I’m… I’m really very sorry. I don’t have any plans to write the next book and. And I’m not even sure what to write so—”

“I’ll help with that,” Taemin insists. “You need ideas, I’ll give you all the ideas you need. I’ll… I’ll be your muse,” he decides.

Jonghyun stares for a long uneasy moment. Where is security and why aren’t they doing anything? he wonders. He takes another step to back away from the weird man. But the money is right there, perfect bright green rectangles that seem to have come fresh out of the mint. The overlapping portraits of Sejong the Great are all pleading with him to be pocketed. Just say yes! the king is shouting out, even in that placid gaze. You don’t have to follow through, just take the money and run! He can’t find you, anyway!

No. That would be disingenuous. That wouldn’t be right. No matter how desperate his situation, Jonghyun would never resort to thievery. He shakes his head and stays his hand, making no move to accept the money.

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you, Taemin ssi,” he bows and rushes off.

------

Their story begins and ends at Namdaemun.

She looks at its sombre face, artillery fire still marking some of its masonry and disrupting the course of the story. Their story. It is the gate that reaches out for a hug, she thinks when a cold wind picks up and threatens to swoop her shivering self away. It is the gate that offers an embrace, arms angling out from its stiff middle, like a father consoling his sad and broken child. How odd it looked in its place. How quaint, to be the only survivor of its own story. No more kings roam under its elegant archway. No more guards train their arrows from the pagoda. No more tigers rustle nearby under the cover of trees, desperate to find a meal.

This gate… this thing. It shouldn't be here. But someone has shown it their kindness and tended to it; fed it with mortar and concrete and newly painted timber. Someone has seen fit to breathe new life into it.

Their story begins and ends here.

She met him once, then many times, upon the tufts of grass framing Namdaemun. She met him and with every meeting the distance between them diminished from feet to inches to barely anything. She met him, met all of him, met every place on him with every place on herself. His hands would smell of spice. Of coal and heat and rain… perhaps he tended to a garden in their time apart. He had the gentlest hands. When he touched her, they felt like lamps against her skin. His warmth would intoxicate her.

Maybe he was made of fire, she would wonder in the hours they lay next to each other, breath stuttering and pulse racing. Maybe he was a jinn.

“You’re not small enough to fit in a lamp,” she would tease him when they'd stumble over each other.

In her loneliness, she’d dream of him, floating on clouds made of cotton. She'd imagine him traveling from land to unknown land and sea to unending sea. She would imagine him soaring, his skin burnished and his eyes like bronze.

But he is long gone, now. He has left her side and his hands warm someone else's days. She is the survivor of her own story. She is a stiff gate looking for someone to embrace, someone to comfort. She endures, just as Namdaemun endures. They stay and they wait, the gate and her, in the hope that someday there will be a finale to their respective stories.

And then they will breathe a unified sigh of relief.

------

Jonghyun supposes it would’ve been wise to expect a second meeting.

He is still shocked when the time comes: a buzz from downstairs, a murmured excuse about routine maintenance, a knock on the door that sounds far too eager to be just pest control. 

When he opens the door to find the familiar lanky frame, he panics. There are no more disguises obscuring the distance between them now. Each man is plainly visible to the other. Jonghyun feels caught. Trapped, like a wild animal hunted until metal teeth closed around his leg. He frantically searches for something to hide behind, forgetting that he could simply shut the door again.

The creepy man named Lee Taemin invites himself in. He saunters casually, ambling the length of the hallway, looking around the room and humming, appraising it, measuring it. Measuring Jonghyun, who is still shocked and unable to react in a way that protects him.

“Wh-what’re you—?!” he begins when some of the shock has worn off.

“You don’t make a lot of money, do you?” Taemin cuts him off. “Why don’t you accept my offer? I’ll pay you plenty. More than you’ve probably ever seen. Then you can move out of this dump.” Even as he says this, he runs an appreciative hand over a row of books. “I can help you realise all your dreams, you know?”

“How did you even find me?!” Jonghyun counters. 

“Does it matter?” the other drawls, shaking his head in exasperation. He swings his arms around himself as he walks, and when his palms meet, he lets them clap together. Like he’s out on a relaxing stroll in the park. Everything about the setting is preposterous. “I tracked you down, now I’m here, and I’m giving you a second chance. Isn’t that what’s important?”

He stares, trying to figure out this puzzle of a human being. What is this guy? How is he so at ease right now? What is this game he’s playing and why? Why with Jonghyun, of all people? Does everything out of his mouth sound like that? Like a simple fairy tale? I’ll do this, then you do this, then we’ll live happily ever after. Ridiculous!

He’s only ever seen people like that on dramas. Badly written and poorly acted dramas.

“Please leave,” Jonghyun requests, maintaining a formal tone despite all the peculiarity of the setup. “Or I'll call the police.”

Taemin clicks his tongue. “Not until you answer me.”

“Sir, I can’t be bought for no reason.”

“But I’m giving you a reason,” Taemin points out as if the concept is too difficult for Jonghyun to understand. Which it is. “I pay you, you write for me. I like what you write, I pay you to do more. It’s like…” he gestures, standing in the middle of the room, his stance oddly graceful and formidable at the same time. “Like when a king enjoyed an artist of his court and promised his patronage,” he illustrates. “That’s what we’ll be like.”

The smile on his face is a perfect representation of a magician’s. Maybe he is something of a trickster, Jonghyun thinks. Maybe he likes to put on a show and confuse people.

“The publication house already pays me,” he informs. 

“After you finish the book,” he is challenged. It isn’t a lie, but how does this guy even know?1 “And only proportional to the sales. I’ll pay you regardless. In fact,” Taemin points. “I want you to write these books especially for me. My eyes only.”

So that’s it? Jonghyun wonders. Just a rich kid feeding his own kinks? He scoffs and rakes through his hair, sitting down at his desk to think.

He decides to consider it, because yes, he needs the money. Yes, he wants to stop living in fear of sleeping hungry. Yes, he doesn’t want to be destitute at the age of thirty-one, before he’s even had a real relationship, let alone marry and have kids. 

But can he really uphold his end of a deal like that? Can he really write what this guy is expecting him to write?

“I’m not good at… at sexy things,” he finally declares, motioning with his hands as if to show they were empty. “I have to work very hard at it. I can’t do it the way the rest of the authors do, and—” he sighs, remembering the way crazed readers had flocked to everyone else’s tables. Remembering his sales numbers, and the words of the manager of the obscure bookstore as he complained about having to lug all the unsold copies back into storage.

Trash, he’d called them.

“Really, I’m not even sure why you came to me, when someone like… I don’t know. Eonsook? She’s the better choice, clearly.”

Taemin walks closer, his lips pursed like he is thinking of a convincing argument. Maybe he is, from the way his eyes are so focused and bright. There is an unbreakable determination in his every movement. He crouches in front of Jonghyun, sighing as he looks up. 

“Your first book,” he begins. “A story about a man with a delusion. That he is in love with a woman. They fight, then they grow close together. And then, the man is cured through therapy. But,” he clicks his fingers. “His delusion has been passed to the woman. Brilliant idea,” he compliments. “Excellent writing. And yeah, sure, the sex stuff left a lot to be desired but…” he shrugs. “I liked the story. I liked that there was more to look forward to than just two people going at it. And you wrote to tell us that story, not to satisfy my needs, I could see that,” he assures. “So why not do more of that?”

Jonghyun gives a soft laugh despite himself. “Because that book sold less than a hundred copies. And the feedback was dismal—”

“Fuck the feedback,” Taemin shakes his head, a frown creasing his features. He looks young; too young to be involved in disreputable matters like this. Or… maybe at the perfect age to waste his time on such prurient endeavours. “Fuck what any of them think. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“And you do?” Jonghyun doesn’t mean to be so standoffish but he cannot help it. Here is a stranger, coming out of nowhere, to validate him and say nice things about his pathetic attempts at writing. Here is someone trying to convince him that sales don’t matter, popularity doesn’t matter, even the adoration of the readers doesn’t matter. Then what does? Jonghyun confronts with a scowl. What does this guy know?

Taemin chuckles. “All I know is this. I like everything you write.”

------

“This world is built on supply and demand,” Taemin explains. 

He’s still here, hours later. By Jonghyun’s benevolence, of course. They are sitting on the floor, a laptop with a blank word document between them. The cursor is blinking… blinking incessantly. It taunts with each flicker.

Tell your story, Taemin said to him. Tell your story. Write it all down. Whatever you’re thinking of. It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as your put it down in words.

Easy to say. Because try as he might, he doesn’t know where to start. He doesn’t even have the shadow of a beginning, forget the middle and the end. There is no story in his mind, no words waiting at his fingertips. 

This is a waste of time.

Taemin continues regardless. “The readers of this kind of stuff... their lives are filled with disappointment. With reality. They want the impossible: sultry encounters, beautiful getaways, improbable scenarios. You see?” he signals like his words are shedding light on abstruse philosophical concepts. “They want what they can’t have. And writers like Eonsook understand that. They supply that demand. That's why she’s always making bestsellers.”

Jonghyun considers this for a moment, seeing some truth in those claims. He takes a look around his own apartment, eyes roving over the small desk and small sofa and small kitchen. It is a liveable space, he reckons. It is better than a half-basement, or a slum with toxic asbestos roofing and poor access. But he is aware that in the bigger picture, he is still poor. He is confined. He is restricted. He is at the bottom of a heavy and insurmountable hill. 

Disaffection comes easily to people like him. And short of being on the wrong side of the law, there is only one way to be at ease with his circumstances.

To pretend.

“But you? You fuck everything up,” Taemin carries on, amusement in his features. “You take that supply-demand model and turn it on its head. You say, I decide what I'll write. I decide what I produce. This is my art, not my bread. This is more than a paycheck for me. This is more than a popularity contest for me. That's what I see you think, and…” he shakes his head, chuckling as he reclines on his palms. “I gotta say, I find that really ballsy.”

A small balloon of pride inflates Jonghyun’s chest at the words, to his own surprise. He shifts and clears his throat. “Th-that’s all well and fine, but… but it doesn’t help that no one will read my stories.”

“Tell me something,” the other contests. “Why did you start writing in the first place? And—” he holds up a finger between them. “Don’t tell me it’s for the money. You could do anything and earn money. Why this specifically?”

“W-well, because… because what else am I going to do with a major in—?”

“No,” another shake of the head stops him. “No. Don’t answer from up here,” Taemin taps his temple. “This isn’t about rationality. This is about how you feel. About why you feel that way. Give me the answer in here,” he reaches forward and pokes a finger into the centre of Jonghyun’s chest.

He stares at the perfectly shaped fingernail, at the faint pink that dissipates into flesh below the joint. Why does he write? What compels him to scribble on stray pieces of paper? What makes him put his thoughts down on phone notes? What is it that surges in his chest when he’s in the shower, when he’s about to go to sleep, when he’s listening to a beautifully sad song for the first time? What makes him write? 

“I… I have a lot to say,” he concludes. It feels like an admission of guilt—freeing. Splitting the restraints he’d been struggling against for… perhaps, years. It is like a large weight has come off his shoulders and now he can stand up straight. Now he can float off the ground. Now he can fly. He sighs and closes his eyes. “I have a lot to say. About… everything. And I—” he shakes his head, looks up from the finger, glances at the blank screen, turns his attention to the face of someone who is listening. Someone who is here and who does not appear to be in any hurry to leave.

“I really want someone to listen.”

With a pleased smirk, Taemin tilts his head and nods. “So start talking.”

------

He wonders what sounds he would hear, if he were up on the moon. 

Would he hear the distant roll of waves? The rushing and ebbing of tides, their froth effervescent in the shell of his ears, their folding and retreating as sharp as the feeling of sand between his toes. Would he hear the occasional beep of a passing space shuttle? Would he see the face of another human in the window of the craft as it zooms past, their hands mirroring a wave and their faces reflecting each other's smiles? 

What would he hear in that vacuum? 

Would he hear the patter of his heartbeat, like water dribbling off a tin roof to roll along the eaves and fall against leaves, touch the ground, seep into the earth and become lost? Would he hear it speeding and softening like the tides, waxing and waning like the moon, repeating itself over and over, spinning like the earth does, like the stars do, like this universe does? Or would he feel an urgency in his lungs, the frenzy to drink in as much breath as he could, to gather as much oxygen in each inhale and retain it until his sight shook and his hearing went dissonant and he realised that he could hear nothing on the moon?

Nothing?

Maybe it would be hope. Maybe he would hear the sound of unfiltered sunlight hitting his skin. Maybe he would hear the whisper of a solar wind playing with his hair. Maybe he would hear his smile, his happiness, his joy even in solitude like that. Maybe he would hear something like that. Maybe it would be melodious to his ears, maybe he would dance to it, on the ashen rigoleth, the dead and cracked surface of the moon. Maybe he would float from crater to crater and find himself repeating circles, large ellipses that never ended. No beginning and no end. Maybe he would hear the most perfect sounds that ever existed. Maybe he would hear the sonorous representation of heaven.

Maybe the moon is full of music.

------

Jonghyun stretches his arms and arches his back, rolling his neck tiredly. The light outside his windows has dimmed by a large degree. The sun has gone down hours ago, without his noticing. He blinks and feels around himself to reach for a light switch. An afterimage of the laptop screen remains in his vision for a while as he stands on complaining legs and ankles. A grumble in his stomach alerts him of the time. Dinner time. 

“Taemin ssi…?” he calls out, rubbing his eyes. “Taemin—”

It takes him a moment to realise he is alone. “Eh?” he scratches his cheek, trying to recall the sound of the door opening and shutting. He can’t tell how long it has been since the other left. There are no traces of his visit, no discarded teacups, no dirty plates with crumbs, nothing. He checks the bedroom, the bathroom, just to be sure. But it’s true: he has been a bad host. 

Jonghyun really has been doing nothing but writing. 

Searching for his phone to type out an apology, he realises belatedly that he doesn’t have a contact saved under “Lee Taemin.” With a repentant pout, he hums to himself. Next time, he promises himself. I’ll make it up to him next time.

When he’s settled down in front of his laptop again, this time with a steaming bowl of kal-guksu, he makes a choked sound at how much he has typed. Scrolling through page upon page of a very coherent-looking storyline, a reverberating surprise runs its course through him. Did he really do all this? Was that guy really serious about all that stuff? Has his inspiration finally returned to him, after all this time, all these years?

A muse… he feels the hint of a smile playing under his cheeks. He has a muse. 

“That… isn’t that something imaginary?” Minho asks him when he excitedly gushes about the encounter. “Like, something that old men used to think up so they could make paintings and all that?” 

“You’re just looking for an excuse to call me old,” Jonghyun dismisses. They’re lying on Minho’s carpet, listening to music. The sun is streaming through tall slider doors, and the usual sound of traffic is absent on a Sunday morning like this. Even the shadows look blue, their hue fluid and sparkling like light bouncing off of water. He feels calm, he feels like he is cradled in a hammock. As they relax side-by-side and read off their phones, there is a plot swirling in the back of Jonghyun’s mind. It buzzes and stirs, waiting to break out and lay itself down in orderly lines and sentences. He nurses it, pets its back, scratches it between its ears. He gives it a name. 

But it can wait.

“Look at this,” he scrolls through a namuwiki article on the Muses, holding it out for the other to see. “It says this famous novelist from America calls his bowling trophy a muse. Wah…! He’s written so many famous books!” 

“He’s old, too,” Minho snorts before he’s swatted at by an annoyed Jonghyun. “OK, OK!” he defends. “OK. I get it. You have a muse. So, is she hot?” he grins and rolls onto his elbows, a happy glimmer in his large eyes. “Does she pose for you? Do you get to take her on dates? How does it work?”

“It’s a guy,” Jonghyun frowns. 

“Really?” Minho hums, the slightest disenchantment pulling at his lips. “But it says here that muses are supposed to be beautiful women. Look,” he wrests the phone away from his friend and goes to the image section of the article. 

His point is proven by several old and colourful depictions of elegantly posed women, loose garments draped over their voluptuous fronts. There is no hint of an awkward lanky male form in dark and brooding clothes that blend him into his bleak surroundings. The women’s expressions are calm and filled with wisdom, unlike Taemin’s youthful fervour. The only feature that is barely reminiscent of the young man are the dark, mystical eyes.

Something inside Jonghyun grows uneasy.

“I mean…” he shrugs, hoping to give an explanation. He doesn’t have one, not at that moment. He doesn’t know how to defend his experience. All he knows is a name, some very sound advice, and the promise of money… money he hasn’t yet received, mind. He realises he is dealing with a stranger, after all. That if he isn’t careful, his prefatory suspicions of Taemin being a dangerous guy might still come true.

“Look, why don’t I introduce the two of you when he visits again?” he offers as justification, trying to push the issue aside. “You’ll like him, he’s got an... entertaining sort of personality, you’ll see—”

“I have a better idea,” Minho rejects the response. “Why don’t you just let me read one of your books, eh? I searched for your name and nothing comes up, you know? Are you really getting published at all? Or are they just taking you for a ride and stealing your work—?”

“Let’s just,” Jonghyun holds his hands up between them. He feels alarmed at the turn their conversation has taken. “Look. Let’s talk about this later, OK?”

“Hyung…” Minho makes an exasperated face, but he’s a good friend. His words are rooted in concern. He slowly settles back onto the floor, giving up on his argument, intertwining their legs. The soothing sounds from his music system take over once again.

What remains is Jonghyun’s fear of losing a dear friend.

------

“Who are you, really?” he shoots his misgivings the first chance he gets.

It has been many weeks since their last meeting. He has been progressively furthering the new book, or whatever it turns out to be in the end. What first sat as an idea in his scribbled notes has grown tall and strong. He now has chapters, and multiple plotlines that diverge from and converge on each other. He has dialogues, he has beats, he has imagery, he has descriptions. He has woven all the ends to make one whole, one complete mass, one continuous flow. Things are coming together, and Jonghyun is amazed at his own progress.

But his gratitude doesn’t dilute his distrust.

As soon as he barges into the apartment, Taemin demands to read through whatever there is so far. For a long time, he sits reposed on the sofa: silent for once, interest wavering only when he is addressed.

“Huh?”

“Are you just some rich chaebol kid looking to spend his dad’s money? Is this… just fun for you?” Jonghyun expounds on the interrogation. There is some insecurity in his tone, some residual lack of confidence from previous encounters that have left him wounded. Even he can tell. But he continues, unabashed in his self-preservation. “All this… this muse stuff. What’s in it for you?”

“I told you,” Taemin offers an apathetic shrug. “I like your writing.”

“I thought you like books with lots of sex,” Jonghyun frowns and counters, pointing at the tablet in the other’s hold. “I don’t have any of that in there.”

“Are you planning on keeping it that way?”

“Well, I wasn’t really going to, but—wait, no, listen to me,” he is nearly distracted, and the momentary look of triumph on Taemin’s face leaves him flustered. “I need to know who you are. I need to know why you’re doing this, and I need to know now,” he places his ultimatum. “Or I’m not writing another word.”

Taemin sits up and releases a slow exhale. His gaze is amused. It roves over his host, appraising him like a teacher would a child on his first day of school.  

“What if I don’t tell you?” he posits. It’s not a challenge. His tone is chatty, conversational. As if he’s asking, what if cars could fly. He leans forward and smiles that magician smile again. “What will it change, if you know? Is it going to fix your life? Is it going to rid you of all your problems? Is the world going to make sense?” he motions with his hands. “Of course not. So why do you want to know?”

“Because—!” Jonghyun wants to say it will sate his curiosity, but he can’t admit that. Something about that feels like a confession. He can’t speak his mind like that.

“Look, I like that you’re curious,” Taemin reads his mind anyway, still smiling. “I like that you want to learn about things you don’t understand. I think that’s important for a writer. But I think what’s more important is figuring out what the real question is.”

He blinks with confusion. “The real question…?” he shakes his head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’re writing this thing,” the other waves the tablet. “And you’ve advanced really far into the storyline. Things are getting exciting, characters are finally starting to become full people I can be invested in. I can’t put this book down even if the house was burning,” he compliments. “But there’s something missing. And I can’t tell what it is, except that it exists. In there,” another poke into Jonghyun’s ribcage. “Maybe the question you should be asking then, is what is missing? What else do you need? What else is there for you to find?”

A clearing of the throat, a shift of the seat. Jonghyun won’t acknowledge it, but the words resonate with him.

Missing. Something is missing. Something needs to be found. Something is waiting to be discovered. Something that he requires to complete this story… or maybe complete himself. Something that once sat in an empty slot in his chest must be recovered. He doesn’t mean for the thought to be so profound. But it is that very same profoundness that makes him believe it’s probably true. Something is missing inside him. Something is missing from his life. Something is missing from his world. And he needs to find it.

“Will you help me look?” he entreats his muse.

A magnanimous stretch of the arms replies. “It’s what I’m here for,” Taemin grins and falls back onto the cushions, continuing to read.

------

They stand outside the apartment block and Jonghyun is still not sure about this.

“Look, I really don’t think—” he starts to beseech, but Taemin silences him with a wave of his hand. He clicks on one of the call buttons and a ring starts to go, only raising the panic in Jonghyun’s gut.

“Just meet with her,” the other persuades, rational as always.

When someone answers on the other side of the line, it’s as if his entire body freezes until he is nudged. “U-uhh… yes. M-my name is uh… I mean. That is—”

“Is this a prank call?” the woman asks with anger in her voice.

Another nudge shakes his senses up. “N-no…!” Jonghyun insists. “Uhm, we—you and I. We work for the same company. M-miss Eonsook.”

A long pause. Some rustling of cloth. Some whispered conversation in the background. Then the woman’s voice returns. “OK, come on up,” she finally acquiesces before a loud buzz swings the front door open.

“Go!” Taemin hisses at him, grinning wide under the dark sunglasses that have become his signature.

The building isn’t much different from Jonghyun’s own apartment block, but there is something lighter about everything. It feels… nicer. There are planters with pretty flowers along the corridor. The lifts are clean and fully functional. The walls are devoid of posters and advertisements. TV sets can be heard outside some of the doors, as can the whistle of pressure cookers and the nagging of mothers. The atmosphere is homely, welcoming. He doesn’t feel like he’s intruding on anything, so he continues to walk in confidently.

He reads the numbers on each unit as he passes by, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings and wishing Taemin were accompanying him.

When he’s at the door he was looking for, he rings the bell and waits.

The woman who answers him is somewhat recognizable. He remembers seeing the straight jet-black hair, the round jaw, the parrot-hooked nose, the no-nonsense stare. Even if he has never before glimpsed her puffy lips or heard her soft voice, he remembers her from the fan-meeting—and possibly from other occasions, when they bumped into each other at the publication office.

Nobody can tell she is one of the most popular writers in the country.

“Ah, hello,” he bows low and his sunglasses slip off his face to clatter to the ground. He scrambles to put them back on, but simply pockets the disguise when he notices the turn in her mouth. “M-my name is—”

“You must be the person who writes as Grapefruit,” she guesses correctly. Her diction holds a soft lisp. Barely there, unlike Minho’s often baby-like pronunciations. He blushes and nods at the floor in response to the question.

“Come in,” she invites him, the grille door swinging outwards.

Other than the ordinary-looking furnishings, her home is full of photos. As he pulls the surgical mask to his chin and wanders through the apartment, Jonghyun cannot help but study them all, turn by careful turn. All over the walls she has displayed pictures of herself, her family, her friends, and another woman. A sister, he guesses at first, before correcting himself when his eyes go to a shockingly intimate polaroid.

He doesn’t realize he is staring until he hears his host pointedly clear her throat.

“Some juice?” Eonsook offers the glass on a tray. He accepts and stands awkwardly for a few minutes, shifting from foot to foot.

“Y-you have a very nice place—” he begins.

“So,” Eonsook cuts him off, showing him a seat. “How can I help?”

“H-help?” he blinks, his thoughts clouded.

She raises her eyebrows, wets her lips, digs her teeth into the lower one. “It’s a polite way of asking why you’re here,” she clarifies. He can tell there is laughter waiting to bounce out of her throat. In everything she does, there is an underlying strain of confidence. She exudes it in waves that come off her and lap at his own chest, nearly pushing him back with their force.

“R-right! Yes, of course,” he jumbles with the glass in his hold, looking around for a moment before accepting the proffered seat. “I—I came to ask you for… for advice.”

She follows his example and sinks into an armchair, crossing her legs and watching him for a moment. A long and entertained moment. “Oh?”

“Y-yes…” he insists. “You see. I’m—I’m currently working on this book, and. And I’m at this part that I need to research before I write it. So…”

“What kind of part?” her interest is immediate.

He tries to think of a way to describe it, nervously scratching the back of his neck and fumbling with the collar of his tee shirt. He feels unreasonably nervous, cognizant of the sweat beginning to stream down his back. “W-well…” he tries.

“Is it a sexy part?” she asks.

“N-not really.”

“Hmm, I guessed as much,” she leans back into her chair. “I’ve read your work. You’re not much of an erotic writer, are you, Grapefruit ssi?” she sums him up with narrowed eyes. And yet, there isn’t any sign of malice in her observation. He glance is approving, in fact. Admiring. “Your stories are very different. Emotional. They’re for a very… cerebral audience. Is that always your intent?” she asks with some fascination in her gaze.

He blinks up at the ceiling, thinking of a genuine answer, not wanting to disappoint her for some nameless reason.

“No,” he concedes after a while. “I think it’s just… because of the kind of person I am. I think it requires me falling in love first before… before my characters fall in love.” He runs a finger over the rim of his condensate-covered glass, nodding contemplatively for a moment. “W-what about you?” he asks. “What is your intent? When you write, I mean.”

She hums, crossing her arms across her front. “Intent…” she hisses a breath in. “There doesn’t always have to be one, you know?” she says conversationally. “Like you said, we can feel very strongly about something, and then write about it. Tell a story around it. I think that’s possible,” she accepts. And when she smiles, he feels an odd sense of solidarity with her.

“What… what does Eonsook ssi feel strongly about?”

The woman smirks. “You were staring at her just now,” comes the simply reply. Accompanying it is the smooth motion of a hand coming up to support her chin, a ring glinting on its third finger.

Jonghyun bumbles an apology.

“There is nothing else I feel as strongly about,” she reveals. “There is no one I love as much, no one I care about as much, no one who matters to me as much. And so,” she holds out a hand between them. “I write about her. About us. I suppose…” she finishes with a grin, a clever gleam nestled in her eyes. “I suppose you can say she’s my muse.”

“A muse…!” Jonghyun’s heart runs on a treadmill at the words. “Do you think…” he begins, shifting forward in his seat. She mirrors the movement. “Do you think you could teach me? How you find the courage to tell your stories?” he requests.

“Courage?” Eonsook chuckles. “It doesn’t take courage to make people happy, Grapefruit ssi,” she shakes her head. “Because that is what we do. We ultimately make people happy with our work. They read it, they smile, they feel good. Maybe they forget about it after some time. Maybe some of it stays with them for years. Who knows?” she shrugs. “As long as we get them to smile.”

He feels awe at that. “As long as they smile…” he nods again, this time in understanding.

------

With every jump of his hips, he is filled with a murder of crows that flutter to the far edges of his body—to the villages settled in his fingertips and the townships developed in his toenails. With every jump of his hips the leaves inside him quiver from the force, as birds take to the skies between his stomach and lungs.

When they travel, when they journey through him, his sighs tell the tale of that journey. They sing like bards, reciting how the crows travel carrying messages tied to their feet. The sighs paint pictures of beaks pecking at his outer edges, his boundaries, his geographical territories. With every jump of his hips he is breaking those boundaries, violating the treaties that hold those borders sacred. With every jump, he is less self-contained, less of an uncontested dominion.

He secedes. He surrenders his independence. He lets himself be taken captive by the thrum of the man below him. Inside him.

With every jump of his hips, he abdicates the throne of his identity. He makes the other king. Gives his crown to another head. And the crows carry news of this shift in power to all the lands that were once under his reign. They carry the news, propelled by the sighs, released at every breath, every hitch, every gasp. Every jump.

In his own kingdom, he is now a pauper.

To have meaning, to be defined by a name and description—all this no longer applies to him. The other man has changed his definition. The other man has made him… not him. But if he is not himself, who is he? If he is not who he was born as, if he is no longer the man he introduced himself as, who is he? What is his name, now? What can he call himself? How will he present himself to strangers, if he is a stranger to his own self? If he looked himself up online, what would the results be? Would they just become strange unreadable symbols?

If he is not himself, then he does not exist: or, at least… this is what he has always thought to be true.

But now his hips jump, and his voice breaks, and he calls out a name that doesn’t belong to him. With every jump, he becomes a blurry existence.

------

They grow close, Eonsook and Jonghyun. They become friends.

She talks to him often, sometimes on the phone, other times over dinner. On a second visit to her apartment, he learns the other woman from the photos is Gwiboon, who talks a mile a minute and laughs like an erupting volcano. The two of them accept Jonghyun like he has always belonged in their life, always had a place in their home and their hearts. They are kind to him. They are kinder than most others have been.

Perhaps because there is nothing to hide from them. He doesn't have to lie about what he does for a living, doesn't have to make up stories about how he spends his free time. He doesn't have to shut his doors and draw his curtains with them. There is nothing to be ashamed of, in their company.

It's freeing.

Jonghyun continues to write, faster and longer than ever before. He writes like he breathes. He enjoys how uninhibited it makes him feel. He finds himself feeling more and more confident about this story, even going back to the rejected manuscript and making edits with a red marker. He meets Taemin at a café and spends most of the time scribbling in a notepad as they hide from other patrons in a corner booth.

With every page he writes, a mass of pride grows in his ribcage.

“So, what now?” Taemin asks him one afternoon, having finished the latest draft and giving it his seal of approval. “Where does the story go from here?”

“Hmm...” Jonghyun nurses a cup of coffee. It is early in the morning. He has been organising his books and wardrobe and even his thoughts while the other read. He has been carefully making his way through all that needs to be settled—in his writing and outside it.

“I could write some more about the way the characters feel. You know, build more plot buffer. Or,” he gives half a shrug. “I could. Resolve it in a certain way.”

“A certain way,” Taemin raises an eyebrow. “What way?”

“Well. They could. I don't know. Fall in love, and—” the other is vehemently shaking his head before Jonghyun even finishes his sentence. “What? Why not?!”

“Too forced,” Taemin disapproves. “It would just be pandering to your readers, when the story doesn’t naturally flow that way. Consider everything that’s happened. There is no justification for them falling in love. All they've done is meet a few times and exchange... banter.”

“Sometimes that's enough!” Jonghyun defends, then softens. “Is... is it not?”

“You tell me.”

“No, you tell me!” Jonghyun insists. “Is it not enough for them to know each other? To enjoy the company? To... to feel comfortable with each other? That should be enough sometimes, right? Wouldn't that be enough for you?”

“Is that the real question—?”

“Yes! Yes, it is!” Jonghyun shouts, and as he does, he is painfully aware of the fact that this is not how he had planned for this conversation to ensue. He is conscious of the fact that he has made it a confrontation rather than keeping it within the bounds of an emotional exchange. There is a feeling of being put under an unannounced spotlight, its glare harsh against his face. He breathes hard, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter before him, doubling over in preparation for the rest of his episode.

“Yes, it is,” he repeats in a quieter, gentler tone. When he straightens up, he stares at the other with pleading eyes.

“What am I to you?” he repeats with some desperation.

Taemin looks satisfied at the question, like he has been waiting a long time for it to emerge. He remains relaxed despite the friction, despite the anxiety in his host. He continues to smile like an illusionist, continues to watch like a judge. “Before I answer that,” he begins in a calm, collected voice. “And I will answer it. But before I do, I need to you to tell me first: what am I to you?”

The reaction enrages him. “No,” Jonghyun warns. “No. Enough games. Enough running around in circles. You’re never honest with me. You only talk about this… this shit!” he angrily motions at the tablet the other had been reading from. “You can’t avoid this anymore. You have to answer me now.” He holds a hand up between them and counts. “Who are you? Why are you helping me? What do I mean to you?”

“Hmm,” Taemin rocks back and forth. “You really want me to tell you?”

Jonghyun makes wide, aggravated motions. “Who else will—?!”

“You want me,” Taemin clarifies. “To tell you. Who I am,” he raises his eyebrows. “You really don’t know? Have you really not known? All this time?”

“That’s why I’m asking—!”

“No, you’re not,” the protest is cut off. “You’re asking because other people are asking: what does he do in there all day, who is he with, who is this muse he’s talking about all of a sudden. You’re asking because you need to give them an answer. An answer that isn’t really the answer,” the corner of Taemin’s lip turns up. “Isn’t it?”

“Wh-what…?” Jonghyun shakes his head, the hair on his arms standing on end.

Taemin skips off his stool, meanders around the counter, advances on him.

Jonghyun’s breath sounds like an elasticized gong. His inhales are like rubber bands, stretching on for hours and hours. He is buzzing, like he sits inside something alive. Inside a heart and the lights decorating Namdaemun at night are made of lamps that glow soft and warm as if someone is holding him in an embrace and showering him with solace while their eyes are speaking to him in a different tongue in a speech of a foreign land where jinn live and grant wishes and there is nothing to see for miles except murders of crows carrying messages on their feet telling the world that the empire has fallen the world is coming to an end and the—

------

Mapo bridge.

It talks to him. It asks how he is, if he’s eaten yet. It tells him to turn his head up and look at the blue sky once. It tells him it loves him. It tells him that the brightest moments in his life are yet to come.

Jonghyun cries hard enough that his body shakes from the force. Minho stands very close, looking worried and reaching out for a hug. But he is told to wait. Not yet. He is told to wait, Jonghyun will need him soon.

Words are everything he is. Words are his life and soul. His bone and sinew. His drifting days and sleepless nights. Words have created him, penned him down—not the other way around. They have built him up, bound his loose pages and given him a spine. They have made him Kim Jonghyun. They have made him a writer, a poet, an artist. They have made him what he is. And he would never have realised this, were it not for Taemin.

Were it not for himself.

“I write for myself,” he claims to the sad and bloated waters of the Han, knowing the other is listening. Somewhere. From within the crevasses of his mind, Taemin is listening. “I write for myself.” It is a heavy claim to make. It is heavy as lead. It is tied to Jonghyun's feet as he trains to run his ink across a coastline. The claim is heavy enough to need lugging around on his hipbone. It is heavy, it is full. Like an earthen pot spilling its contents.

His face is drenched when he speaks those hefty words, when he acknowledges them. He sobs and his fingers tighten on the rails of the bridge, the place he would often visit when he felt sad and alone. But he isn’t alone. Minho is here for him. Eonsook and Gwiboon wait in a car nearby. And Taemin.

Taemin exists in the beats of his pulse.

Behind him, traffic swishes past. In front of him, the river hushes his crying. “I write for myself,” he lets go of the full pot and watches it splash, watches its shards rock a little on the ground, after they've separated from the whole.

많이 힘들었구나

He touches the words of the bridge and nearly answers out loud. He nearly says yes. Yes. It was tiring. It was terrifyingly easy to give up on my dreams. He rocks a little in place and finally Minho gathers him into a tight hold, stroking circles on his back.

It was awful, Jonghyun wants to say. But I found him. I found myself. I found contentment. I found it. And now I can walk away from you saying yes. Yes, it was tiring. It was hard. But now my breath comes easily. My heart beats easily. My life runs easily. I am alive. I am free. I am happy.

I love myself.

#jongtae #long fic #shinee

[supermoonthing]

Blue

Full-moon nights are always tough, especially the winter ones. When the moon shines over the landscape, the snow reflects its light in millions of millions of little particles, and sends the beams to all directions, on buildings and trees and cars. But it always feels like they all at once find their way to my window. The twinkles flicker on my wall like stars in the night sky, the light holding my tired eyes open. I hold my teddy close to comfort me.

And that’s why I hate them. I hate the real stars, too, and the moon, because it’s their fault, that I can’t sleep. I turn over, again and again but no position could possibly help me escape the shaky shimmers behind my eyelids. I press them together, so hard that my face is all wrinkled. My face muscles tingle from the strain, even the last ones at the back of my head work to let nothing but darkness through. I roll my eyes up as far as I can so no light can get to them.

My ears fill with soft tinkle. The sound takes me by surprise. It is silent, quite distant, but seems to be coming from more than one place. It’s almost as if it was permeating everything around me. I open my eyes, sit up and look around. My bedroom is still, no sign of anything that could give out such sound. Is the moon making it? It’s sure trying to annoy me even more. My parents went to sleep long time ago, it couldn’t be them, and it looks like the source isn’t in my room either. The only disturbing thing here is the abundance of light. Although… Has it gotten even brighter? I frown in frustration. I slide off my bed and walk over to the window.

‘There you are,’ I hiss at the large glowing ball occupying the sky. ‘It’s all your fault!’ shout I.

And I wait and wait, but the moon doesn’t answer. It doesn’t even flinch under my stare. Not a bit of shame. ‘You’re a mean one,’ I say finally, ‘and you don’t deserve all the shine.’

I turn my body away to go back to bed, but then I catch another one – another moon. This one’s not as bright. I look curiously at the surface of our garden pond, then at the sky and its biggest inhabitant, and then again at his tremulous, weaker twin. ‘Hm.’ The tinkling is now almost gone. The moon has stopped making it – I scared him. ‘I didn’t know I was that threatening,’ I whisper to myself.

‘Will you help me get my star back, please?’ a high-pitched voice says behind me.

I jump with a squeak and turn quickly around. A pair of blue eyes are gawping at me, just few centimeters from mine. I slowly pull away without breaking the eye-contact. ‘Will you help me get my star back, please?’ the figure repeats. It’s a girl, I’m sure. She looks like a girl, although a peculiar one. She’s a few bits smaller than me, but no less than four feet. Her hair is long, very long. And blue, like the rest of her. She has the biggest eyes I have ever seen.

‘You have the biggest eyes I’ve ever seen,’ I blurt. She blinks and tilts her head in confusion. I freeze for a second, but then I straighten my back and look down on her. ‘Who are you? And what are you doing in my room?’

She looks around - ‘Is this your room? My star almost hit it.’ – then back at me: ‘You’re quite lucky, sir.’

I scowl on her. ‘Lucky? I can’t sleep because of all the light! And now you are here! How did you get to my room without me noticing?’

She throws up her arms. ‘I’m trying to get my star back!’

‘Your star?’

‘Yes! I dropped it, you see. I’m very clumsy with my star, although I’ve never dropped it before.’

Silence settles between us as we look at each other. Her skin is very pale, almost white. She has all human features, but I don’t think she is. She’s too blue for a human. ‘Who are you? You’re so blue. I didn’t even know there were so many blues in the world!’

She looks down on her sky-colored hands. ‘I… I am a light-bringer. I hold my star up in the sky, so it shines on you people.’

I feel my anger grow in me. ‘Well, we don’t appreciate it! It’s annoying and I want to sleep!’

‘But will you help me?’

I am impatient. ‘Get your star back?’

She nods vigorously. ‘Yes! And then I’ll leave you to sleep.’ I squint at her suspiciously. ‘I swear! I know exactly where my star is!’

My eyebrows shoot up. ‘You do? Where?’

She hops to the window and points outside. ‘There!’ she exclaims with excitement. ‘Do you see it?’ I shake my head.

‘It’s just over there, in the water!’

‘Wait… Your star is in our pond?’ I realize that the second moon I spotted on the water’s surface was no moon. I turn to her in disbelief. ‘But it’s winter! The water is freezing! How do you want to get your star out?’

She gazes at me. ‘Well… Could you help me out?’

I open my mouth. Help her out? How?! By drowning in the icy water?

Her eyes are fixed on mine. ‘Please?’

I growl. ‘Fine! But you’ll go away right after we’re done, and,’ I stick up my finger like my mom does sometimes, ‘you’ll tell the moon to stop shining so bright. He can shine a little, though. But not too much.’

She cackles and grabs my hand. ‘Let’s go then!’ She pulls me, and so we run. But she is rather bouncing, as if she weighed no more than a little bird, hopping from one branch on another.

On we dash, on the corridor in front of my room, down the stairs and across the living room to the door leading to our garden. She twists the key and almost throws the door off the hinges. We rush out, and suddenly we are standing by the pond, on the water’s edge. It is not coated by ice – the temperature is not as low as I expected but it’s still very cold. Too cold for just pajamas and slippers. In no time my entire body is shaking. Nothing but her breathing and my clapping teeth can be heard. Chilly breeze blows over the snowdrifts.

My bizarre companion kneels and investigates the water. At the very bottom, twelve feet underwater, sits a bright object. It doesn’t look too big from here. Little waves on the surface smear its glow into playful glimmers. ‘Well,’ she starts, but doesn’t finish.

‘Uhm,’ say I. I don’t know what to do. She doesn’t seem cold at all, but I am urging every bit of me to not run back inside. ‘I don’t feel like swimming right now,’ I whisper.

Her shoulders drop. ‘Are you cold?’ I look at her angrily. ‘I didn’t realize you could be cold.’ She looks guilty. I know she is sorry, so I try to smile to ease the tension. ‘It’s best if we get this over with as fast as possible,’ I decide. ‘Do you know how to do that without me freezing to death?’

Her face lights up. ‘Oh, but the water isn’t cold at all. It’s lukewarm at the least.’ She sticks her arm in the water all the way up to her elbow and grins at me. ‘Try it,’ and so I do. I let out a surprised giggle. She’s right.

I jump up and look at her. ‘Alright. I’ll get your star out for you. But before I go in the water, get me a blanket from the living room – it’s on the sofa.’ As she disappears inside, I begin to take of my clothes until I’m only left with my underwear on. She comes back to me, the blanket in her arms. ‘Good,’ I tell her. I do four or five springs to warm myself up, even though I know it won’t help, not in this weather. ‘When I get out, you grab the star and tuck me in the blanket, okay?’ She nods. ‘If I get too cold, I can fall very, very ill, understand?’ Another nod.

No use delaying this.

I turn my face to the water and breathe in. One, two, three. The snow makes a crispy sound as I take the leap.

It’s like a punch when my face and the water meet, but it doesn’t break my focus. I am a good swimmer. It takes no more than few paces for me to get to the star. I can’t tell its shape – it’s too blinding to look straight at. I plant my feet in the muddy ground and wrap my arms around it. Its rough surface is warm. I want to spring up, but it’s too heavy. I pull and pull, but the star won’t move. This is not as easy as it seemed at first. I look around. The little pond is illuminated by the star well enough, but there’s nothing apart from few plants, nothing that could help me. I need to get the star out myself. I rub it all over to find a better way to grip it, but it looks like it’s almost perfectly round with few bumps and dents.

A large bubble escapes my mouth. I grow frustrated. If I can’t lift the damned rock, she won’t leave me alone! Why doesn’t she get one of her star friends to help her anyway? Why doesn’t she ask the moon? I kick the star as hard as I can with the water slowing down my foot. The star moves a bit. I kick again, and the star moves slightly more, but something appears to be holding it in place. I feel it with my palms, every inch of it. Something sharp cuts my fingers. A thorn hooks my thumb as I brush against a sprout that clungs to the star. I forget where I am and open my mouth in thrill. Gotcha! I grope and find more sprouts. I rip them all, ignoring the pain in my hands. One after another, until –

The star shoots up, taking me with it. We jump out with a loud ‘pop’ and the force throws me off on the ground next to the pond. I breathe in and out fast and deep, like I’m trying to devour all of world’s air.

She is here, covering me with the blanket. My body is trembling, my teeth chattering. I look up at her. ‘You did it,’ she laughs. ‘You saved my star!’ I am exhausted and cold. I can hardly feel my feet. The shiny sphere is floating on the pond’s surface. I wonder how it hasn’t woken up my parents yet.

She follows my gaze. ‘I shall go back soon. My star has been missing for too long.’

I finally speak: ‘And I need to go to bed.’

She smiles. She’s pretty when she smiles. ‘That’s right.’

I stand up to say goodbye. She walks over to the pond and captures her star. Then she comes back to me, holding the star under her left arm, placing her right palm on my cheek.

I flinch in surprise, but don’t move her hand away.

‘Thank you,’ she whispers.

We’re both smiling. The cold has gone away.

‘Don’t forget to tell the moon – ‘

‘Don’t worry.’

‘Okay.’ I’m so tired.

‘I’ll be watching over you.’

I decide to say it. ‘Come visit me sometime.’ She stares off into the distance for few seconds but when she returns to me, there’s a cheeky spark in her eyes. ‘I might.’

I let out a long sigh. ‘Great.’

‘Great,’ she repeats after me.

And with a dazzling flash of light, she’s gone.

#short story #fantasy #fiction #short fiction #creative #stars #kids stories #imagination #creative writing #childrens stories #writing #writers on tumblr #my writing #fantasy story

[shineonmalcolmbright]

Shine On, Bright: Chapter Six

Table of Contents

Present

Gil and Malcolm stay close to each other as they cut through the station toward the coroner’s office. For a split second, Gil comes lost in explaining the situation to Malcolm. To reassure him that JT and Dani are canvassing the area to better understand what went down at the junkyard at the hands of this so-called Paul Lazar. A nervous energy pops all around Malcolm’s mind, crackling like pop rocks but this doesn’t stop Gil from talking out loud because it feels as if he can almost forget what the main issue is at hand.

In short, Malcolm went out alone (again), he found his father’s car in a junkyard, is shot at by apparently no one, a body is found then more bodies are found.

All around people can’t stop their thoughts as a single word winds its way through the entirety of the building: Bodies, bodies, bodies.

A door almost hits Malcolm in the face as he follows Gil into Edrisa’s domain. She’s fluttering around, her thoughts are too bright and fast to make any sense. Her stream of consciousness is some sort of laser light show firing off as she moves all throughout the room with everybody else. Actual stations are set up with the remains of victims showing off different states of decay. Gil almost trips over the surrounding thoughts, Bodies, bodies, bodies, as he spots another cot being rolled up. Cots here aren’t for the living but instead for the. . .

“Are all of these. . .” Gil blurts.

Malcolm is closing the door behind them as he enters the room. He can’t even focus on any one of the victims, but instead, his attention slices straight across the room to Edrisa to hear what needs to be said. Even as she slows to a stop, her thoughts are impossible to piece through or figure out. Still, lasers firing off but she stands there frowning at both of them, no longer fluttering around with sheer panic.

Before Gil can finish what he wants to say, Edrisa answers it for him. “The Junkyard. Each one from a compacted car. Most were killed five to ten years ago, which is why you are also seeing skeletons.”

Edrisa moves towards the stretcher somebody just rolled up with fresher remains laid on top. The odor of the victim is clear, it serves the room in half, but nobody is going to comment on the fact. It's as if ammonia and feces were warped together to invade their noses. No longer the sour tang of blood permeating. Already Malcolm moves across the room leaving his thoughts right by the door though. His brain is one place as his feet lead him somewhere else still staring at Edrisa. It’s clear he stands in two places at once, Gil can sense it but even out of the corner of his eye he watches a much younger Malcolm left at the door. The boy he met all those years ago outside the Overlook Hotel. That in itself is a problem Gil doesn’t want to admit.

“Some. . .” Edrisa continues whatever she’s about to say, she signals to the victim on the stretcher. “Some more recent like this one.

Both Malcolms speak up, one out loud, and one only Gill can hear. “Have you determined the cause of death?” asks while Young Malcolm asks, Have you determined the cause of death?

Edrisa looks up at Malcolm. No smiles. No charm. No awkward humor. “Crush injuries.” She pauses still looking at Malcolm the entire time like he’s the center of the universe in that moment. All death leading towards him. “You were right, she went into the car alive then the compactor killed her.”

Gil starts up a conversation but rather than listen to him Malcolm starts to move in one direction as young Malcolm moves in another. The two are in sync as they move and stop and move again staring at bone shards and lost limbs, skeletons left behind. All strangers without names yet but one thing is known so far. Crush injuries hurt more than the whispering about bodies.

“What’s the profile here, Malcolm?” Gil attempts to reel him back into the present. It’s where they all need Malcolm to stay.

Still, Malcolm moves. He’s practically floating through the room looking at the remains of the victims while his younger self moves with him. The two look up all of once making eye contact. Young Malcolm asks him, Do you really think. . .?

Gil keeps up trying to keep Malcolm present. “Pleasure seeker, maybe? Some type of thrill killer?” The kid loves a good murder, which is a questionable attribution at best.

Young Malcolm shakes his head as Malcolm smirks. The two look over at Gil speaking up for the first time in after a hot second though it doesn’t feel like it. A space so wide separates the Malcolms from Edrisa and Gil and anybody else who happens to be standing around. There’s nothing in this world to bring Malcolm any closer to any person around him, which is a shame.

“Actually, he may be avoiding the thrill,” Malcolm says while young Malcolm pipes up much closer to a whisper, Who would do such a thing? But at least Malcolm continues as if half of him isn’t hanging around. “The way he disposed of the bodies. Impersonal. Remote. He killed them with a machine. Didn’t have to bury them. Why?”

It’s not really a question meant for anybody to answer. Edrisa and Gil hang onto each of his words understanding such a fact as they wait for a more in-depth answer.

But Young Malcolm isn’t having it. He starts to walk across the room, his fingers coming so close to touching a body. The thought lets fear settle inside his heart, too deep inside his heart where it hurts. But you’re not listening! You’re not listening to me! Rather than try and pay him any mind, Malcolm turns a bit pretending his thoughts aren’t in disarray. What’s important is the present, never the past. Lies. The past and his past is important but he can get to that later because right now, right now, right now. . .

“Maybe it helped him disassociate,” Malcolm continues. He does his best to focus on just Gil, straight across the room with so much death in between them. “I bet he couldn’t actually watch. It’s a coping mechanism. . .”

He comes so close to finishing what he wants to say when Young Malcolm barges back in, speaking up and speaking a little louder and yet is so quiet. You heard what I said! Who would do such a thing? Not out of shock but because. . .

And so Malcolm talks a little louder to drown out his intruding thoughts. But did it really count as an intrusion if it was his own thoughts? An answer to search for later. “He had to see them as inanimate objects--in order to kill them.”

You know.

Still Malcolm stares straight at Gil rather than at any of the bodies, bodies, bodies that surround them.

“Fascinating!” Edrisa ends up fluttering all over again as she walks a bit looking at the victims. “So that makes him the opposite of someone like The Surgeon, right?”

You know. . . Young Malcolm stops again distracted by the most recent death, she’s left there but not forgotten. Instead, the center attention without anybody staring right at her.

“The Surgeon seemed to derive pleasure from direct contact with the human body,” Edrisa continues.

Malcolm fires off a look in her direction, startling her a bit. “True!” He didn’t mean to say it so loud, but even then loud for Malcolm is still fairly quiet no matter his age. “But just because this guy had a different M.O. from my father doesn’t mean that Dr. Whitly isn’t somehow involved.”

Young Malcolm looks up again, You know.

But Gil does what he can to bring this conversation back in, it’s about to be lost and all twisted up with monsters of the past. The past needs to be left there some of the time. Malcolm, we already talked about this.

Not going to happen. Malcolm and Young Malcolm look at Edrisa. Again, in unison, they both say even though Gil hears both and Edrisa hears a single voice admitting, “Or so I’ve been telling Gil all morning.”

Of course, Edrisa laughs. She even snorts a little as she looks at Gil. “You should listen to him.” Gil glares at her so she corrects herself. “Or not because-because that’s all up to you.” She chuckles attempting to hide her nervousness in the situation. “Sorry, sorry.”

We have to ask for more questions, continues Young Malcolm.

Gil shoots him a dirty look, too. “You stop it.”

We have to ask about the station wagon, something isn’t right, responds Young Malcolm.

Actual Malcolm speaks up, he moves across the room, getting closer to where Edrisa stands. Breaking up the distance between him and them as Young Malcolm moves with him. Two places at one time. But truth be told, he could be in three places. Somewhere off in the past another Young Malcolm fights branches that punch him in the face as somebody shouts behind him, My Boy! Come on and take your medicine!

“Did the lab find anything in the station wagon that might help connect the dots?” Malcolm asks.

Gil grumbles, Malcolm! Don’t do this.

But Malcolm retorts, It can’t be a coincidence.

Young Malcolm glares at Malcolm. You already know.

Somewhere in a distant past Young Malcolm continues to sprint, fighting back the bushes of a hedge maze right before a lion made of leaves stabs the ground with its feet, branches dig up soil knocking Young Malcolm off-kilter. A topiary creature moving through the night and throughout the hedge maze in front of him as he hears the screaming behind him. My Boy! Come on and take your medicine!

Edrisa perks up having no idea the layers of panic unspooling before her. Her hand shoots up as if to signal one. “Yes!” She snatches up a report bringing it to Malcolm. Gil wants to tell her to stop but they all need actual answers. Anyway, it’s too late, she stands close showing some results off to Malcolm. He listens more than reads because there’s too much jumping around in everybody’s minds. “They did a full workup. The blood in the trunk does not match any of the junkyard victims.” Edrisa pauses. Less for drama though. Her thoughts are starting to slow down as she glances up at Malcolm. “Or. . .any of The Surgeon’s victims either.”

Malcolm stands, no words. Out of all the places in the world, he found his father’s station wagon there in a junkyard that served more as a mass burial ground. Not a graveyard, those were meant for buried individuals, and whoever killed them did so in a way where he wouldn’t have to bury each body.

“My ‘yes’ was probably too enthusiastic?” Edrisa ends up saying as if she can read the room better than Malcolm or Gil. So. . .they didn’t find any connection?

Young Malcolm looks at the door. It pops open with another stretcher rolling in. Gil sighs. Death floats around them all over again. Adding to the already present mix. One of the medical examiners releases the stretcher right as Gil asks, “Another one?”

She frowns looking at him and nods. “Real fresh, too, it looks as if they were killed in the last week.”

Malcolm doesn’t look at the new victim but Young Malcolm watches, You know.

“So what? That makes eight now?” Gil huffs. He glances at the newfound victim before turning his attention back to Malcolm and Young Malcolm who stand so close to one another. “Bright, it’s time we say what we haven’t been saying.”

“We have a new serial killer on our hands,” Malcolm states as does Young Malcolm, We have a new serial killer on our hands.

This time around Gil scoffs, he’s shaking his head as he avoids looking at Malcolm and all the remains around them. “No, he’s not new. He’s been killing for years. . .” And on my watch. Gil heads towards the doors. “This ends now.”

Gil storms out, leaving Malcolm behind with Young Malcolm inside the same room. Edrisa stays close to Malcolm. Words aren’t passing between any of them, not with words like that echoing through the precinct now. It went from bodies, bodies, bodies to serial killer, serial killer, serial killer. It’s already escaped somehow. Flooding the thoughts of every other person around them.

Serial killer, serial killer, serial killer.

“What an exit?” Edrisa chuckles only to notice Malcolm isn’t having it. She attempts to shrug off her awkwardness and faces Malcolm, he goes to leave but she stops him by saying, “There’s one other thing found.”

“One other thing found?” Malcolm asks not understanding what this is supposed to mean. “What are you talking about?”

“With the station wagon,” continues Edrisa. Malcolm gawks at her. Young Malcolm shakes his head. “During a second pass they did find something that may be of interest since you are so interested in. . .the station wagon.”

“What about it?” Tremors inch through his fingertips and up his arms. Already his heart races. But it needs to stop, to slow back down to normal. “What did you. . .find?”

Edrisa walks off to the side picking up a pocket knife already stuck inside an evidence baggy. Malcolm and Young Malcolm stare at it with You know hanging heavy in the air between them and her. Not that Edrisa would ever know. And of course, she wouldn’t know about actual Young Malcolm running through a hedge maze, branches punching and scraping at him, in an attempt to stop him, lion’s feet crafted of branches puncturing the ground and he only had a pocket knife in hand. Again there’s the shouting, My Boy! Come on and take your medicine! Young Malcolm holds up the knife at the topiary lion, it's already slick with blood, but not from branches attacking him. Blood trickles from such thin wounds but it’s nothing major, nothing at all. Not compared to the blood smeared across his blade, none of which belongs to him which in turn means. . .

“Malcolm?” Edrisa pulls him back in the present. He looks up at her, raising an eyebrow as if to answer a question. She’s still holding up the knife.

From another room, Gil shouts, MALCOLM! Get in here!

“Are you ok? Malcolm?”

“No.” Malcolm returns, he looks right at Edrisa rather than a moment in the past. He shakes his head and as if it’s not obvious, he answers her question again. “No.” Young Malcolm stumbles backward looking at the knife before looking down at his palm. “I-I had trouble sleeping last night. Nothing major.”

Edrisa nods and chuckles, “I didn’t know you sleep.” She’s holding up the knife, glances at it because not once does Malcolm avert his eyes. “It seemed important, it was hidden in a crack in the center console.” Malcolm looks as if he’s about to teeter off balance into some other world. “Is it. . .important?”

“There’s only one person who can tell me.”

Without asking, Malcolm takes it from Edrisa before he slips out of the room, fleeing the scene, knife in hand. Young Malcolm continues to stand before Edrisa staring at his palm. There’s blood trailing up his hand towards his elbow. He moves his fingers across it, but it doesn't budge. Again, Edrisa returns to her fluttering making rounds around the room only for the door to snap open. Its clang startles her, she almost falls into one of the stretchers as she whips around to see Gil standing there.

“Where’s Malcolm?” Gil booms.

“Oh. . .! Um!” Edrisa looks around the room. “I don’t know. He just left.”

Gil looks to Young Malcolm for help, but he’s distracted as he fades from view. Young Malcolm no more. Wherever Malcolm is in the world, he’s just there. Maybe he’s split in two again as in the past and present. But Gil looks out the door unable to find a single trace of where Malcolm went in the world.

#shineonbrightfic #prodigal son #prodigal son fic #prodigal son fanfic #malcolm bright #junkyard killer #gill arroyo #dani powell #jt tarmel #edrisa tanaka #prodiges #The Shining #alternate universe #whump #whump fic

[tournesolia]

Chaos Lineage Yuma Chapter 12 Translation

Place : Cave

Yui : (It's quiet... It looks like Reiji-san and the others haven't come this far to look for us)

Yuma : Those guys... aren't coming

Yui : Indeed. We can rest for a while

Yuma : … Yeah. Are you okay with just taking a nap ?

Yui : I don't mind. You kept watch without sleeping, right ?

Yuma : I can afford this much. We won't laught if we both get captured when we sleep and slack off

Yui : So you think we won't get found if you do something like this ?

I'm awake right now so lie down for a bit

Yuma : I'm not that weak ! Anyway... Take this !

*Yuma gets closer

Yui : Kyaaa !?

Yuma : If you want me to feel better, be obedient and hug me

Yui : Like this ?

Yuma : Of course it's fine. Like this, I calm down and feel relieved

Yui : (If Yuma-kun is good, it's good, but... I really want him to lie down even a little)

Yuma : I have no idea how tired my body is. But it's pretty much a mess in my head

Yui : Eh ?

Yuma : … Ruki rejected me, Shu and the others treat me as a traitor

Yui : (Ah...)

(I see... His heart is suffering more than his body...)

Yuma : When I stick together with you, I feel at ease... I can forgets things that make me angry only now

It's not my thing to sit on the fence

Yui : No... Don't say that

You cherish your brothers and friends so you must suffer more than anyone else

Yuma : Hah... What's that... ?

Yui : But you're not alone. You know it because I've always looked after you

I've been by your side for a long time. Not as long as your brothers, but still

Yuma : … I see. That's right

I'm not alone. You're here...

Yui : (He's holding my hand...)

(It hurts a little but I’m happy...)

*Yuma moves back

Yuma : Ah-ah, geez. That's not like me

Yui : Eh ?

Yuma : I feel honestly empty when I'm estranged from Ruki and Shu. That Kino bastard pisses me off

But even if I'm troubled about that, there's nothing I can do. I'm not good at using my head

So I'll stop making a mess

Yui : Yuma-kun...

Yuma : I'll force everyone to recover their memories, even if it means hitting them. So, Yui...

… Stay always by my side from now on, no matter what happens

Yui : … Yes

Yuma : That's a promise. Don't break it

Yui : Of course

(Thank godness. Yuma-kun seems to be back to his usual self)

(He's right here... If we do our best, I'm sure everything will be fine)

Yuma : I showed you something uncool. Can you hit me once ?

Yui : Hehe... What is that ?

Yuma : I'm serious. I can't settle down since I did nothing but whine to the woman I love

Choice 1 : Are you serious ? (black roses)

Yui : Are you serious when you say that ?

Yuma : I told you it's fine, so try and hit. By the way, use all your strength

Yui : T-Then... Yaah !

*Yui tries to hit Yuma

Yuma : … Don't go easy on me. Do you think you're stopping an insect ?

Yui : T-That was a pretty much powerful punch...

Yuma : Haa ? Then you're fucked the moment you get caught by the enemy. I'm getting worried about that

Yui : S-Sorry

Choice 2 : I won't do such a thing (white roses)

Yui : I won't do such a thing. I don't think you were uncool at all

Yuma : You... Don't say something so forward that stirs me up

Yui : But that's the truth

– End of choices

Yui : Ah ! … Hey, can we settle the matter in another way ?

Yuma : Ah ? I don't mind, bring it on as much as you want

Yui : I-It's not that, um...

… I want you to... kiss me...

(When I ask it myself, this is really embarrassing...)

Yuma : … You... Are you stirring me up ?

Yui : T-That's not it... !

Yuma : I get it... Close your eyes

Yui : Eh... ?

Yuma : *kisses her

Yui : *kisses back

Yuma : … Haa... That's not enough. I'm thirsty...

It's because you're spreading that sweet smell...

Yui : (… ! He's going to suck my blood ?)

Yuma : … If you don't like it, push me away. Because I will devour you greedily

Yui : Nm... I won't hate it

Yuma : Heh... Won't you regret it later ? *sucks blood

Yui : … Ah... Hmm...

(The place he's touching aches...)

(It feels good... gentle... I can't think of anything...)

Yuma : Haa... What are you looking at... ?

If I can't stop, it will be your fault... *sucks blood

Yui : Ah... Hm... ! It's fine... even if you can't stop...

Yuma : Idiot, I told you to not stir me up, and yet...

When I drink your blood, I'm overwhelmed by the desire to drink more...

Yui : I feel the same thing... So--

Yuma : Yeah... I know there's a pile of things we must do. But--

Let me drown in your blood, only now... *sucks blood

Scene change : Scarlet mansion – Garden

Reiji : …

Shu : It's rare for you to come here

Reiji : … ! Since when were you here ?

Shu : Just now. You haven't noticed my presence, aren't you tired ?

Reiji : That's not the case. However, since we have one less person to transport the food, there's more work for the rest

Shu : You bothered coming here to harvest by yourself ? You're a curious guy... Even if we just have other food than vegetables, that should be enough for us

Reiji : Indeed...

… I honestly never thought Yuma would break away from us

Shu : No one expected that. Looks like that dude has a free spirit, so he's not the type that keeps up with the mass

You were attached to him as well, huh ?

Reiji : I'm not really sure about that. Since he rebelled against me, my mind changed

… For what kind of motive do you think he took Eve away ? I can't imagine it

Nethertheless, there's nothing more we can do than punish him since this happened

Shu : … Yeah

Reiji : However... Why do I have the feeling that I have a debt to pay to Yuma ?

It's as if I had made a mistake-- As if I'm being conscious of an irreparable sin...

Shu : You must be tired as I thought when you speak to me about that. You look pale

Reiji : It's just a little dizziness. But... I will rest for a bit

Well then, if you excuse me

*Reiji leaves

Shu : … A debt to pay, huh

Now that he says it, I feel the same. Why do I feel so agitated when I look at Yuma... ?

Ah… Ugh...

What was... that memory... ?

… I can't remember...

Scene change : Cave

Yui : (I fell asleep when he suck my blood... My mind is still a little cloudy...)

(But it looks like Yuma-kun slept a little as well so I'm glad)

Yuma : Just as I thought, I've been greedy... You alright ?

Yui : Yes, I'm okay. You look more energic than before, Yuma-kun

Yuma : Aah ? Really ? Well, I'm more energic if I drink blood

And I could feel you. It was as if I was floating in the sky

Yui : I see... That's good

(I want us to keep hugging each other for a long time, but we can't...)

Now that we rest a little, shall we move again ?

Yuma : Yeah. We got out of the mansion, so what to do now... ?

How are Ruki and the others doing ? Reiji must have done something to them because I ran away

Yui : I think they're all fine. Because the original Reiji-san is too cautious

With Yuma-kun gone, he must carefully think about his treatment of the prisoners

Yuma : That's fine then...

By the way, the vegetable garden is also left without care

Yui : Indeed. I hope someone else takes care of it, but...

(… That would be difficult for the other members)

Yuma : If those guys ruined it, I'd never forgive them

Yui : Yuma-kun's precious vegetables are growing there, right ?

Yuma : Yeah. Vegetables are precious... It would be a shame to get rid of the vegetable garden itself

This field was my only place 'cause I thought nobody else could take it away

Yui : Eh ? What do you mean ?

Yuma : … I dunno how to say it, but...

My precious things had always been unfairly destroyed until now

My slum buddies... Ruki, Kou and Azusa who were still humans, when we escaped the orphanage

There was always someone to rob me of my precious things

Yui : … !

Yuma : A place neither altered nor taken away by anyone would have been nice

That's why having a garden relaxes me. And I would protect that place

Yui : I see...

Yuma : So I'll take anything back. Not just the vegetable garden. Ruki, Kou and Azusa too

I dunno who the hell set us up, but I'll just destroy them in that situation

Yui : Yes... We have to get everyone back

Yuma : Yeah. So we can't afford to daydreaming here forever

Yui : That said, everyone is gathered in the Scarlet mansion right now. Only us are outside

So we have no other place to go...

Yuma : If we keep running away like that, that won't get us anywhere, right ?

Yui : So should we call for help here ? But who can help us... ?

Yuma : … I can't say

We got no choice but to beat the hell out of Reiji and the others

Yui : Indeed... But can we win at 2 versus 3 ?

Yuma : Hey, don't count yourself here. Me alone is enough to fight

Yui : Y-You're right after all...

(Then 1 versus 3... I have the feeling we're even more at a disadvantage. And they have Kino-san)

(I don't know who Kino-san is, but he enjoys putting us in a difficult position, for sure...)

Yuma : In the end, it would be tough for me alone. If at least the other guys could make a move...

Yui : Ah, I know ! There's that !

We don't need to have your brothers recover their memories at all

Yuma : Aaah ? What do you mean ?

Yui : We can open all the doors of the dungeon and have everyone escape !

If Ruki-kun, Kou-kun and Azusa-kun escape--

Yuma : We can overturn that situation we're stuck in !

I dunno how it would turn out, but there's a way to beat Reiji, Shu and Kino

So we've got no choice but to go to the dungeon without being found by them

Yui : Yes... Will we be able to slip into the mansion ?

Yuma : We must do it

Hey... What will you do ?

Yui : Eh ? What, you ask... ?

Yuma : Reiji and the others are quite cautious. It wouln't be weird if they kill me as soon as they find me

Yui : … Yes...

Yuma : You're Eve so you shouldn't get killed, but... I'm not sure they won't do anything to you

… But will you still follow me ?

Yui : Of course I will. Because I promised to never leave you behind

Yuma : Hah... I can depend on you, huh. I'm gonna fall in love again

Then it's settled. Let's get out of the forest and head to the mansion's dungeon

Leave the method to slip into the mansion to me. It shouldn't be hard to outwit aristocrats

Yui : Yes, I will depend on you

Yuma : Yeah. I'll make them pay for what they did

Yui : Yes !

(Yuma-kun made up his mind. So I will also do my best to become his strength)

(I don't know what the others will do, but I will do anything I can...)

(I will definitely get back to our precious daily lives with Yuma-kun !)

Scene change : Dungeon

Kou : Aah-aah, I'm hungry. That's because Yuma didn't come

He brought us food and suddenly stopped, how mean. He's the type that holds a grudge against women

Azusa : We won't die, but... meals are important to us... after all

Kou : That's right that's right. Aah-aah, I'm starving, I wanna eat homemade foooood

Azusa : … Homemade food ? By who ?

Kou : It's obvious, by--

… Who... Who was it ?

Shin : Geez, those Violets won't shut up. We can clearly hear their conversation since our ceiling is next to theirs

Ruki : Homemade, huh...

Shin : What's wrong, big brother ?

Ruki : Nothing. They're noisy indeed. Their talk is also so childish

However, I may only agree about the meals

Shin : Eeh ? Are you serious ?

Ruki : Yuma from the Scarlets brought us food only once

Shin : Eh... ? You talk about that soup ? He had hidden intentions anyway. You threw the soup and it serves him right

Ruki : Indeed, but... he used good vegetables

Shin : B-Big brother ? You sure you're okay ?

Ruki : … I'm sure. But I...

I have the feeling I stepped on something that I shouldn't lose...

… ! What is that dizziness... ?

Chapter 12 : End

#Diabolik Lovers #diabolik lovers translations #diabolik lovers chaos lineage #mukami yuma #Komori Yui #sakamaki reiji #sakamaki shu #mukami kou #mukami azusa #Mukami Ruki #tsukinami shin #chapter 12

[inrainprose]

I wish you would write a fic where... it sorta takes place in your Flip the Coin AU (Sasuke’s fam is alive, Naruto’s very broody, etc.) except on one mission Team 7 goes on they stumble upon one of Orochimaru’s many hideouts and discover a captured Suigetsu. They decide to bring him to Konoha and on the way back there he starts getting along with the gang :)

They carried him back like a sack of potato and the bonding happened then. Hope you’ll enjoy! Still taking those prompts too ^^

cross-posted on ao3

When he came back to himself, Suigetsu was careful not to move, or make a sound, or open his eyes. He had no idea where he was, with whom, and he could hear voices nearby – it was best to remain still for now.

“Is it going to be a thing from now on? Just so I know if I need to invest in a mansion or something,” a man said. Young, by the sound of it, and not nearly as angry as his words suggested.

“Don’t look at me. It was the kids’ idea,“ another one answered. Slightly older, slightly slurring his words, like he couldn’t be more done with this conversation. In fact, after a hasty farewell, he opted out of the entire situation in the characteristic puff of a shunshin.

“Sorry our wish to rescue people is an inconvenience to you,” came a third voice.

This one was closer to Suigetsu’s age. Sulking, displeased. The first man sighed.

“Don’t get dramatic on me, Naruto. I’m just saying, I need to know if I’m going to be housing any more strays. My house is not that big you know.”

“We can leave if you want,” the boy, Naruto, spat out. There was a lull – Suigestu imagined they communicated by glare and face alone.

“We can leave,” the boy said again, slower. “If you want.”

It didn’t hold any defiance and provocation this time. In fact, the boy sounded shy, unsure in the suggestion, like he didn’t want to voice it and yet fully expected it to be agreed upon. Another heavy sigh answered.

“Stop spurting nonsense and go get some food for our guest. He’s awake.”

Suigetsu spluttered, but tried to keep a dignified front when he rose from the futon he had been laid upon. Facing him were a man with dark hair and a friendly smile, and a blonde boy with whiskers and an impressive frown on his face.

“Who the fuck are you people,” Suigestu asked, tone hard enough, he hoped, to hide the hint of panic creeping into it as he realized how clueless he was about this new situation. The last thing he remembered was the cave trembling around his tank – he had thought an earthquake was bringing him the most pointless end imaginable. He had heard some people, seen some shapes… but then the cave had come crashing down indeed, knocking him out probably.

One thing was sure, he wasn’t in Orochimaru’s den anymore.

“I’m Uchiha Shisui, and this sulking brat here is Uzumaki Naruto. His team rescued you from some lair a couple of days ago, and brought you back here.”

“Here?”

Suigetsu could see trees, hear birds and the bustling of a village. The sky was blue, cloudless.

He didn’t like this one bit.

“You’re in Konoha.”

Great.

.

“Just sit still dammit!”

“Why! Why are you doing this? I didn’t ask you for anything!”

“And I asked you to stand still and shut the fuck up, so do it!”

The girl punctuated the order with a mean stab of her acupuncture needle right between Suigestu’s shoulder blades, paralyzing his whole upper body. He flopped down on the futon with an undignified yelp, and she didn’t even have the good taste to look apologetic as she proceeded to stab him some more, humming under her breath on top of everything.

It had been more than a week since he had woken up, and he should have been far, far away from that horrible place already, if not for the small but significant fact that his body was apparently very displeased at having to be moving and doing things again. Basically his muscles had been melted to goo by months of inactive floating in his tank, and now he had to suffer Sakura or whatever her name was and her mean needles.

Suigestu’s life sucked.

He was still living at First Uchiha’s place – there were many of those and he wasn’t about tor remember their name, so he had numbered them by order of meeting. Second Uchiha was the girl’s teammate, who also partook in needle stabbing when he wasn’t busy arguing with Naruto over one thing or another – so, not that often. A shame, because he was actually more delicate about it than Sakura and her lumberjack hands – who would have thought such a girly girl with hair so pink would be such a brute?

As if reading his thoughts, she stabbed a needle at the back of his knee with way more force than necessary.

“Why are you even doing this,” he mumbled again, growing groggy under her ministrations but stubbornly refusing to give in to sleep. It was bad enough that he shared a room with Naruto – although at least the disgust seemed metal, and they did their best to avoid sleeping in each other’s presence – he wasn’t going to take a nap while the girl was playing long and sharp needles at his exposed skin.

“You need to gain back strength,” she sighed for the umpteenth time.

“No, I mean… Why are you doing this.”

It was maybe the acupuncture relaxing all muscles in his body, and it was maybe the warm air and the quiet day, and maybe he was more tired than usual and she was less tightly coiled. In a corner of the room, Naruto and Second Uchiha were arguing over a sealing scroll, pretending quite badly not to be eavesdropping, but they too seemed calmer today, at ease.

Whatever it was, he actually voiced the question, and she actually answered.

“People shouldn’t be caged,” she said.

There were a million words lodged in the silence that followed, a thousand things Suigestu wasn’t aware of, couldn’t begin to understand. From what he had gathered, Naruto had lost it that day, stumbling upon the rows of cells in Orochimaru’s hideout, hence the place collapsing on top of Suigetsu’s head. He had no idea why Naruto was always so defensive and angry, why people looked down upon him in the streets – they glared harder at Naruto than Suigetsu, and wasn’t that saying something – and why it made his two friends glare in turn, almost protective. He didin’tknow no idea what had passed between the three genin, what was their story, but their bond was plain as day, deeper and more meaningful than Suigetsu believed team bonds to be.

Or maybe he just never had seen a real team before.

.

“Do you want me to remove it now?” Naruto asked, although he looked perfectly fine with not doing that at all. Suigetsu almost flipped him off, but he was getting antsy and restless, and he really wanted it off indeed. So he sucked it up and nodded curtly.

A hand seal and a good shove on his chest – unnecessarily forceful – and the sealing chakra tag Third Uchiha had slapped on him earlier during training came loose, unfreezing his chakra system at last. Third Uchiha was the older brother of Second Uchiha, and undoubtedly the worst of them so far. He had been tasked to supervise Suigetsu during training, a condition for him to be allowed to practice fighting again. And yeah, Suigetsu didn’t have to go that hard on Sakura and Second Uchiha, and he didn’t have to try to drown him and stab her with her own sword – they wouldn’t even give him one, he had to make do. But what was the big deal? They were training, weren’t they? They were supposed to get a little hurt.

Third Uchiha disagreed. He had sealed Suigetsu’s chakra, and sent him off, back to Shisui’s place, with a cold stare but impassive face.

What a bunch of losers. Unable to stand a real fight. Suigetsu didn’t hurt any of them on purpose. It was just how it was. He used to break skin and bones all the time when he trained in his village, used to beat his fellow shinobi into unconsciousness, the only way to prevent from being the one ending in the hospital or passed out in a ditch for three days. What was the big deal?

But it was, apparently, because in Konoha people had to be nice to each other or something, and now they were all mad and sulking. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe they were finally going to kick him off for good.

He could have left days ago really, but why the rush? It’s not like he had anywhere to be, and if they wanted to house and feed him free of charge for now, he wasn’t going to just pass it up. But maybe it was time to move on now. He needed to get on finding the seven swords, not to waste time in this terrible, dry place.

He looked around the room. Packing would be quick, at least.

Of course that’s when fucking Naruto decided now was a good time to hang out in their room.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said as soon as he entered. Suigetsu wasn’t even doing anything.

“What?”

“They’re not going to let you go.”

Suigetsu frowned, fists tightening.

“I thought this was no cage,” he spat. He was still itching for a fight, and Naruto was a decent opponent at least – he could walk off most injuries somehow.

“That’s not what I meant,” the other boy sighed. He seemed to debate whether or not to even continue this conversation, and settled on a yes, for he went on.

“They’re not going to give up on you. To let it go. No matter what you do.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Believe me,” he retorted, full of undisclosed emotions. “I do.”

It made no sense to Suigetsu, none at all. What was he even doing here still, why had they taken him in in the first place and why were they keeping him around now. It made no sense at all.

“I could leave, if I wanted to,” he said, stubborn, just because he could. He had to.

For a split second, Naruto looked almost bitter.

“You could.”

He could. He really could. He could just walk away right now. Any time.

Sakura kicked down the door, startling them both.

“We’re having dinner,” she announced. “Get your asses down.”

First, Second and Third Uchiha were already sitting at the small kitchen tables, and it was a tight fit with all the six of them, but they didn’t seem to mind. No one said a word to him, commented about the afternoon events in anyway, so Suigetsu just sat down in front of his bowl and let the conversation wash over him, Sakura berating Naruto to eat properly, Naruto kicking Sasuke under the table over one comment or another, Shisui and Itachi watching over them, looking amused.

He could leave anytime. And he would.

Just. Not right now.

#Anonymous #my fics #naruto #suigetsu #set in the flip the coin verse #kinda

[emjenwrites]

This was requested by @just-another-nerdy-girl. I’m not sure if this is what you were hoping for when you made this request; I know it’s not what I was originally planning to write. Hopefully it’s not a huge disappointment.

While the actual symptoms in this fic are as dubious as they are in every other sickfic that’s ever been written, I did do some research. I guess this is technically a secondary drowning fic, but “secondary drowning” is not an actual medical condition (as far as I can tell it's mostly a bunch of sensational stories circulated on parenting websites). From the research I did, it seems like difficulty breathing after drowning (in the interest of clarity: in canon Kaz does actually drown in the end of SoC and then Nina resuscitates him) is actually a form of noncardiogenic pulmonary edema. Who knows how accurate I’m being beyond that, though. 

About halfway through writing this, I realized Kaz would probably assume his symptoms were actually a panic attack, so warnings for Kaz’s messed up relationship with his own mental health, I guess.

I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve ever written Matthias and I haven’t the faintest clue how to write Nina while she’s high on parem. Hopefully, they both come across okay.

Also, weirdly, since we only read about Wylan telling Kaz about his father and Nina Tailoring Wylan to look like Kuwei after the fact and not in scene, this fic is technically canon compliant. I’m not going to say I think it actually happened, but read it as you wish.

To say that Kaz had hoped for a cleaner escape from Djerholm would have been an understatement. He hadn’t planned to drag himself, Nina, Matthias and the son of their target down a hole under a tree and into the Ice Court’s moat. He hadn’t expected Jarl Brum to be able to gather a force to meet them at the docks. He definitely hadn’t expected Nina to be stupid enough to take parem just to secure their escape.

But they were back on the ship now heading away. They were going to get their money. They’re going to be kings and queens.

However that was not strictly true. Nina would probably die begging for another dose of parem. She seemed pretty confident in the slim chance she wouldn’t become addicted from the first dose, but Kaz was not an optimist; she was probably dead.

There was also the problem Inej and the demands she’d made before leaving him standing on the deck. He was trying very hard not to think about it. There were things that couldn’t happen, and what Inej had asked for was one of them. It was impossible.

Eventually he’d floated back to his cabin and set about the task of reasserting some control over his life by stripping off the detritus of the Ice Court. He started by bringing up all the things he’d swallowed which was a relief because as useful as being able to sneak things into places in your stomach was, it was also nerve-wracking. He didn’t even want to think about what would happen if he accidentally digested a lockpick. He told himself that was why he was so inexplicably anxious. Nothing else was wrong.

He ignored how short of breath he was as he peeled off his cold, damp druskelle uniform. He would have killed for a hot bath, but that wasn’t possible on a moving ship. Instead he just got a cold sponge bath which left him shivering, but at least got the grime and mud from the last few days off.

He was wheezing by the time he dried off, which didn’t make any sense. They were long done with all running and all the adrenaline was gone. There was no reason that he should be having such a difficult time catching his breath, but his hands were shaking and he had trouble doing up the buttons of his shirt. His skin was damp with cold sweat.

It occurred to him that this might be the same type of thing that had happened in the prison wagon. His face twisted. He hated episodes like this; they always made him feel so helpless. He spent most of his time trying to convince everyone, himself included, that they didn’t happen. The fact that he was having two in less than twenty-four hours made him want to skin into the ground in shame. He was Dirtyhands, the Bastard of the Barrel, he was supposed to be better than this.

Still, something wasn’t right. He was anxious but not panicking like he normally was when this sort of thing happened. He felt more of a lingering sense of doom as opposed to outright panic. He stumbled to the desk and pulled on his gloves. He stretched his fingers to feel the leather pulling against his hands which normally calmed him, but today it didn’t help. He still couldn’t breathe. He felt dizzy, so he crossed to the room’s bunk and sank down onto it.

Lying down didn’t help. Somehow it was actually harder to breathe lying down, which didn’t make any sense. He felt like he was drowning, but that had been hours ago; Nina had taken care of it. It wasn’t a problem anymore.

He pushed himself back to his feet and stumbled, catching himself on the side of the bunk before he hit the floor. Breathing was a little easier while standing, but something was still wrong. He was fast realizing that this was nothing like what had happened in the prison wagon. Something else was wrong. Actual fear was beginning to creep up on him now. Something was wrong, he didn’t know what it was and he couldn’t even lie down to sleep it off.

He was pacing the length of the cabin, in shaky uneven steps, coughing periodically into the crook of his elbow when someone knocked on the door. He froze, hoping whoever it was would just assume he wasn’t there and leave, but then the door opened and Wylan poked his head in.

“Kaz?” he squeaked. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” He paused and cocked his head. “Are you okay?”

Kaz was all to aware of how pathetic he must look. He was still only partially dressed in just his trousers, shirt and gloves, his feet bare. He soaked in sweat and pacing this tiny cabin like an animal. He did not look at all like the unquestionable leader he’d tried to make himself before the rest of the crew.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he said, annoyed that he sounded almost as breathless as he actually was. “What do you want?”

“Well…” Wylan’s eyes flitted away as he entered the room. He might have still been worrying about Kaz, but it sort of looked like he had something else on his mind. “I have something to tell you. You’re not going to like it.”

“I don’t like anything,” Kaz said. He tried to ignore how hard it was to breathe and focus on Wylan, but that was nearly impossible. He felt like he was drowning. Like he was about to pass out.

“It’s about my father,” Wylan said. “He’s not going to--Kaz!”

Kaz collapsed. He tried to catch himself on the bunk, but only partially managed it. He ended up sitting on the floor, one arm hooked over the side of the bunk wheezing audibly and coughing tightly.

“Kaz!” He didn’t remember it happening, but suddenly Wylan was kneeling on the floor, reaching for him. Kaz jerked away.

“I’m fine,” he wheezed, trying to catch his breath enough to get up.

“I’m going to get Nina,” Wylan said clambering back to his feet. “She’ll be able to help. I’ll be right back.”

“No,” Kaz snapped with all the breath he could manage, which wasn’t much. “I’m fine.”

“I’m getting Nina,” Wylan’s voice was surprisingly firm. “I’ll be right back.” And he was gone.

Kaz leaned forward, braced a hand on the ground and tried to focus on getting his breathing under control enough to get up. He could still salvage this situation, could still convince Nina that nothing was wrong, that Wylan was overreacting. He just needed to appear fine when Nina got here.

The cabin door opened and Wylan was back. He was followed by Matthias who was leading Nina by the hand. “Kaz,” Wylan scurried back to Kaz’s side. “I got Nina. How are you-”

“What happened to you, demjin?” Matthias asked, his blonde eyebrows climbing up into his hair.

Kaz growled as threateningly as he could while he couldn’t actually breathe. “I’m f-”

“Please don’t even finish that sentence,” Nina said, pulling away from Matthias. “I’m not an idiot.” She spoke in an airy, slightly distracted voice. She was still high as a kite. Kaz couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not.

Nina stepped closer to him and he tried to pull away with only partial success. His head spun and he felt like he was going to either pass out or drown. Maybe both. “Don’t touch me,” he snapped.

“Fine,” Nina held up her hands. “It’s not like I need to.” She leaned forward and stared fixedly into his face. “Oh, I see,” she said after a minute. “Maybe I am an idiot. Here, let me fix this.”

She quite literally waved her hand. Something happened though Kaz couldn't put a finger on what. He doubled over coughing and gagging.

“Nina!” Matthias gasped. “I think you just made it worse.”

“No, I didn’t,” Nina said with supreme, intoxicated confidence. “Just give him a moment to catch his breath.”

Somewhat shockingly the longer Kaz panted, the better he felt. Whatever Nina had done, she’d been able to get rid of whatever was making him feel like he was drowning and now it was just a matter of his body getting over the adrenaline rush.

“That,” he said what he’d gotten his breath back enough to speak. “Was more than a little unexpected, Zenik.”

“Oh, please,” Nina tossed her hair. “I healed Matthias when he got shot in the chest an hour ago, you really think that getting the excess moat water out of your lungs was hard?”

“That’s what was wrong with him?” Matthias asked. Now that Kaz wasn’t trying to keep from drowning, he could tell how tense Matthias was. He kept looking at Nina like he was waiting for her to collapse and die or something. There was no disgust or religious fervor in his gaze, just concern. Kaz hid a smile. Matthias had been something of a wildcard when Kaz had recruited him for this crew, but the Fjerdan and his feelings for Nina might have become the most reliable thing in Kaz’s life. It was nice to know that, at the very least, Matthias’s motivations would always be straightforward from now on.

Kaz turned his attention to Wylan. The merchling was still kneeling near Kaz, chewing on his lip and looking even more worried than he had before. “What business, merchling?” Kaz asked. “You had something you wanted to tell me.”

“Oh!” Wylan turned red from his chin all the way to his ears. “Oh, that was nothing. Not important at all. I’ll leave you to rest.” He tried to get up and only succeeded in tripping over his own feet before falling to the ground again.

“He’s lying,” Nina said unnecessarily, leaning back against the desk. “Come on, Wylan, what’s up?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Wylan said.

“Lying again,” Nina said.

“I can tell, thank you, Zenik,” Kaz snapped. He tired and had a splitting headache. He really hoped the parem wore off soon, otherwise he might lose his mind. “Spit it out, Wylan. You came here twenty minutes ago ready to tell me. We just invaded the Ice Court, don’t lose your nerve over this.”

For a minute he thought Wylan was still going to chicken out, then the merchling visibly braced himself and said, “You know how you talked about using me as insurance to keep my father from double crossing us?” he asked, then barreled on, “It won’t work. My father doesn’t care what happens to me…”

#six of crows #soc fanfic #kaz brekker #nina zenik #wylan van eck #matthias helvar #nina x matthias #helnik #mine

[salavante]

Aesop 29 or the Helmsman

(I’ve drawn his floating head a lot, so here’s him with his hood up, which I draw less) Also formal apology because I think like maybe no more than four people who follow me play Destiny, so a couple things may sound a little esoteric. I’d suggest checking out the Ishtar Collective (links to offsite) if I refer to something unfamiliar. 

Full Name: Aesop-29

Gender and Sexuality: Male and Homosexual.

Pronouns: He/Him.

Ethnicity/Species: Exo, from the little crop of Destiny fancharacters that I have.

Birthplace and Birthdate: Unknown factor. But Aesop was found by his Ghost in the middle of nowhere, in a southwestern state that I have not chosen yet. Arizona, Texas, Colorado and Southern California are all candidates. Aesop has just a little bit of a Texan accent. 

Guilty Pleasures: Aesop is trying to learn how to play guitar and is really bad at it, making him very shy and nervous about his attempts. Similarly, Aesop enjoys singing, but usually does it when no one else is around - because no one else has really heard him sing before, it is a well kept secret between him and his Ghost that he’s actually pretty good. I personally like to keep the list of music that he likes to the 50’s-60’s bracket to match the kind of retrofuturistic style that the Golden Age tech in Destiny has. We the viewer read it as being ‘old’, even if it’s much, MUCH older than we realize because the setting is far future. That’s really all that matters, that we recognize it as being antiquated. His favorite of the very small pool of albums he has access to are Marty Robbins’ “Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs” and Nancy Sinatra’s “Boots” and “Sugar”. Sojourn teases him about it and has thusly introduced him to the feeling of shame. He also likes drinking alcohol even if it doesn’t actually make him drunk. Sometimes he does it out of spite. Someone you don’t like? Pound his drink right in front of him and walk away.

Phobias: Aesop’s kinda agoraphobic - he feels trapped and panicked in enclosed areas with lots of people, can be overstimulated by large groups of people talking/making a lot of noise. This makes him mostly useless in large-scale conflicts. He has managed to curb some of this by being accompanied by Sojourn or Calico to areas or situations that are high risk (whether that means a combat scenario or just going to The City), but this can get squirrely because Calico doesn’t have a ghost anymore and if killed would die permanently, and Sojourn has a tendency to get worked up in a fight and leave him behind on accident. If everything goes well though, Aesop is perfectly functional fighting in the small group that is his fireteam - himself, Sojourn (exo warlock) and King (human titan). His ghost, Chanticleer, can also sometimes talk him down if he’s starting to spin up into a panic attack. It’s something that he wants to fix, but, existing within the confines of your anxiety is a cold comfort that he indulges in. In general, he’s a very anxious person with a lot of existential dread, but he puts on a clownish, brazen act and hopes people don’t notice.

What They Would Be Famous For: Honestly, probably something very mundane, like breaking a dopey Guinness-style record or something like that. The entire point of Aesop is that he is very average in his skills in a world of blisteringly powerful space wizards and the like. I find his challenges are more about what goals he sets for himself and if those goals conflict with the status quo. Does his worth need be defined by how good he is at killing things vs. is the pursuit of personal wellness and happiness selfish in the context of a world fighting for its survival. Can these things coexist. etc.  

What They Would Get Arrested For: Probably something relatively benign done for the sake of pulling a dangerous stunt in the name of fun or looking cool. If he was a regular ass human in a normal modern setting, probably taking a nice vintage car for a joyride.

OC You Ship Them With: Aesop will have a love interest in the comic canon, but I’m gonna keep that under my hat for awhile yet. It’s not Cayde though, Cayde is dad. If Amanda Holliday was a man, he’d be utterly and entirely in love, but, alas. He’s still infatuated with her platonically though, and thinks she has pretty much the coolest job in the world. A promise of visiting her is a good way to entice him into going to The City.

OC Most Likely To Murder Them: When death is not a factor, this becomes less of an issue, hah. Aesop and his bff Sojourn have killed each other a number of times in training, to an almost nonchalant degree. Aesop has also been killed much more in training, by his fireteam’s resident titan, King. Aesop will also find a rival in a local Fallen pike gang, the leader of which has the placeholder name of Easy Rider. I also have a Cabal villain I am throwing around and trying to decide if they’ll stick, but I need to do a lot more work and research on that. They’re my least favorite enemy type mechanically, but I think they could make perfectly acceptable antagonists in a narrative. 

Favorite Movie/Book Genre: Aesop does not read. He can, he just doesn’t. I think maybe, MAYBE, someone could get him to read comic books, but those aren’t very sturdy and I feel like the amount of intact physical copies at this point would be almost nothing. The pool of movies and media that he has available to him are very sparse, but he absolutely drowns himself in spaghetti westerns, and would probably also like trashy action movies if they were available to him. I also think he would like Grease, HAHA. It has cars and guys in leather jackets singing in it. He’d also probably like any kind of rustic, western themed musical. And anything with cars in it would have his immediate interest no matter how bad it is, but he’d zone out in any parts he doesn’t like. 

Least Favorite Movie/Book Cliche: To be honest I think most of the time, movies are a little too long for him and lose his interest partway through. He has a really short attention span and anything too long, complicated or artsy will lose him and he’ll start being fidgety and chatty and start making his boredom everyone else’s problem. Even if there’s a movie he likes, if there’s a part that’s boring to him, he zones out. He probably watches the same 2-3 movies over and over again, which is fine because his available library of media is probably really small. I like to think that they probably have movies in some kind of archive that they put up publicly in The City every once in awhile, like they have a projector that puts it on the side of a building and people just bring chairs and shit. Aesop has an aforementioned fear of crowds but he probably does some hunter parkour bullshit and perches somewhere at a healthy distance to watch from afar, as long as it’s something he thinks he would like. If he doesn’t he gets up and leaves.

Talents and/or Powers: Aesop seems to have an interest in vehicles, but due to a bet with his mentor, Calico, he has not actually been taught how to drive a Sparrow and so pines for them from afar. As said, he’s learning how to play an instrument, and if we want to be technical, is a Gunslinger speced Hunter with the Golden Gun super. He is very bad at being stealthy, as he is very impatient and is also a little bigger than the average exo. He’s just kinda tall and wide and tends to clunk around. If his Ghost Chanticleer wasn’t as clever as she was, Aesop would probably be perma-dead by now.

Why Someone Might Love Them: He’s kind of a dumbass and a space cadet but has the potential to be very sweet, and the people he cares about, he latches on to really hard. Similarly, when set to a task he cares about, he does not quit. Unfortunately, many of his goals are unresolved, but it does not mean that he will stop trying. If he were to, say, become romantically interested in someone, he would go to great lengths to connect with him, even if it meant doing things Aesop himself may not like. In specific circumstances, Aesop may find that he has a great capacity for nurturing and bringing out the best in other people, a talent Aesop himself undervalues. Though he’s not all that intelligent, Aesop is very reflective and existentially inquisitive, and thinks about a lot of big picture stuff that other people might push aside in an era of crisis. Though he may not understand science or the way the world works in a mechanical sense, he is awed by it, and is a great appreciator of natural beauty. He’d cry at a particularly beautiful sunrise, if he could cry. I’d say he could be described as having a romantic soul.

Why Someone Might Hate Them: To be honest, Aesop has trouble establishing empathy with people he doesn’t know very well, and so is less invested in Earth’s plight than he probably should be (it would not be hard for Dead Orbit to sway him to their views). This makes some people think that he doesn’t take his charge seriously, and they also usually assume that he’s a slacker because he’s plateaued in his abilities so early. Really, Aesop is acutely socially anxious, can have panic attacks in large crowds, and generally prefers to stay away from The City unless he needs to go there, and so has a big emotional disconnect from it. Calico and Chanticleer have tried to get him more accustomed to groups, but has been thusfar mostly unsuccessful. His insecurity and anxiety also cause him to pull odd, dangerous stunts to prove his worth, making him unreliable and impulsive. He can bungle social interactions rather spectacularly, and is easily goaded into doing really stupid shit. Really, he is a person who may just be “too much” for some.

How They Change: Oooooghhh….I can’t talk about this. I forgot how frustrating it is to not be able to talk about things because you’re going to make a comic out of it. Suffice it to say he’s gonna change a lot.

Why You Love Them: I think Aesop encapsulates a lot of anxieties I have post-college. Aesop is a person in transition who is unsure of his future, knowing only that he can’t quit now, because quitting means failure and failure means death. Because he is in transition, he is anxious about forming relationships with people, worried that either he will be left behind by them, or that they won’t like him when he’s “finished” becoming a person. I think he has a complex relationship with his personhood and sense of self. I dunno, I think that’s an interesting anxiety for a protagonist to have. I am also interested to see what Aesop will end up contributing to his society/organization and his interpersonal relationships, and if he’ll be happy with it. I’ve put a lot of work into him, the ‘original Aesop’ I had in mind might as well be a completely different character now. Aesop was originally a little cameo that I did in our TTRPG game, Godslaughter, because my boyfriend had put a dunmer cameo character into our game and I wanted to return the favor. Then he made a sheet for him. Then I decided to keep him around, then I decided to play Destiny 2, then I decided I loved it, lol. There is still a version of Aesop in the TTRPG but he is so incredibly different, they may as well be different characters. We refer to him as “Bad Aesop” but should probably call him something more dignified (we won’t).

#solrika