#One of my shorter fics I know...

[ohitslen]

Guess who had a little too much fun with the pathetic reincarnation AU idea :))

To summarize! WW gets reincarnated in a very distant future where humanity is more settled down in the planet. He remembers everything and decides to keep living his life as normally as he is able to. That is until he meets his neighbor when he moved to a new apartment.

(More below the cut)⬇️

He was an absolute weirdo of a guy who looked just like Vash in so many ways yet was so different in many others at the same time.

He pretends that his system isn’t going haywire every time he is around the man, the one that resembles someone he cared for so deeply in a life that wasn’t his but remembers all too well. He decides to pretend he doesn’t know Vash because he really doesn’t, not this one at least.

Meanwhile, Vash is going through a very trippy existential crisis for seeing Wolfwood again after what felt like dozens of centuries. This could clearly not be him however because, well, he knows why. So he pretends not to know him because wouldn’t that be weird if he acted like he did?

They avoid each other like the plague, the beautiful and horrible emotions that swarmed on their insides too much to bear just by the presence of the other. They could slip at any moment so it was better to evade the neighbor.

The thing here is, that life has never gone how they want it since ever.

[concreteburialplot]

Cool About It

Meet: Amelia Alastor

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x OFC

A/N; I began writing this in December because it was meant to be a light, fluffy, hallmark-y one shot but the more I wrote the more it begged to be a sadder longer, more involved fic. I kept going back and forth between just scrapping it but ultimately I chose to continue. To not derail the original framework of the plot, I’ve decided to keep the holiday setting so… just roll with it & enjoy christmas in the spring ig 😅

Summary: When Noah comes home for the holidays with Nicholas, he runs into an old friend. While catching up, they fall back into the shoes of the children they used to be. Amelia quickly realizes that even after nearly 10 years apart, she still knows Noah like the back of her hand. Their reunion raises questions about Noah’s abrupt and secretive disappearance at 16.

Themes/warnings; childhood friends to lovers, ‘I know you better than anyone else’, hallmark-y? kinda?, [AU] family/childhood trauma/abuse, past family deaths, eventual smut, and as always, incredibly sad lol, 18+ MDNI

Disclaimer: this is an au that follows no actual timelines/events, and uses oc's for family members.

Comment if you’d like to be tagged❄️☕️

chapters with smut with have a *

CHAPTERS:

-> 01 - Breaking & Entering

-> 02 - Scott Street

[collectivecloseness]

11 with whatever stranger things character works best ig. 11 nearly *just* makes it but is always left out, ones that don’t quite make it onto some lists are always interesting, like 6 or 51, or the last 100 or something lol

Babes... the fact 11 is literally Nobody by Mitski... the lonely left out one 😭 Anyway this is poor Stevie fr 😭😭

(Cw: this fic is about Steve’s mental health after dealing with all the upside down trauma the past few years)

Steve Harrington x reader

Steve doesn’t sigh, he doesn’t groan, he just doesn’t make a sound when he finally wakes up. He’d fallen back asleep a couple of times after opening his eyes, just hoping to shorten the day and stay somewhere peaceful a moment longer, but his body couldn’t take anymore sleep. He was awake now.

There was no work today. No alarm to make sure he could be autonomous and run on autopilot to brush his teeth and rush to the car in yesterday’s work clothes, and no radio call from one of the kids in danger giving him the boost of adrenaline to get up either.

But tapping his fingers on his plain grey quilt, Steve couldn’t handle the realisation he’d be alone with his thoughts right now if he didn’t get up.

Pushing himself with a sigh, Steve winces as his feet hit the cold fooorboards, slumping over to put some black socks on first, before he finds a shirt to throw over his head. He looks down to his sweatpants, but suddenly the thought of changing out of them, and into something else made Steve’s head ache and feel faint at the same time. So he didn’t care about wearing what he’d worn to bed downstairs as he dragged himself to the living room.

Steve was used to being alone in this house. His parents basically treated the place he grew up in as a holiday home, rather than a home, being there around a weekend every six weeks, if they were ever that scheduled. He never knew when they were coming back.

Steve basically owned the house now, as the sole person who actually lived there. He’d turn his parents room into a spare room, maybe have Robin as a roommate, he knew she wanted to move out away from her parents, but even mentioning it to his mom, his dad overheard him over the phone and he had yells and disappointed chidings of how selfish and inconsiderate he was assaulted down the speaker. ‘They still lived there!’ They said, although they hardly ever turned up to prove their point.

At least people visited, even if Steve couldn’t truly make the house his home yet, no decorating of his own. But being alone here, it at least made his house the designated hang out zone. It gave him good memories here. You visited a lot, and Steve was so grateful to have you as a partner. He wondered what you were up to today...

There was nothing for Steve to do here. Definitely not alone. And he definitely couldn’t risk messing something up, and his parents deciding to drop in from the other side of the country. But standing at the base of the stairs, looking around at his open, and empty home, something vile and sickening clawed at his chest, trying to scrape up his throat, split open his head from the inside. Steve went straight to the television, his chest in pain enough it made Steve flinch, turning the tv onto some random channel, any, just turning it up. A sitcom being on air, and the noise of a family all chatting together made Steve feel less alone.

Steve nearly sprinted to all the windows in the house, opening them up so he could hear noise from the outside, the things happening in the real world. He opened up the curtainless window of his kitchen, and he stood there a moment, the one further away from the tv, as he let the world go by. The wind stroked comfortingly through Steve’s brown hair, from the open panel at the top of the glass, where he was. Steve closed his eyes, letting the touch encouragingly pass. But soon there was another reason he wanted his eyes closed, because it was beginning to get harder to look outside.

He listened to cars honking hello to each other, teenagers chatting to their friends on the way to school, parents repeating road safety with their eager kids. Pushchair wheels rolling and dogs yipping and leaf blowers working. Everyone talking. In their own conversations, taking part in lives separate to the others they pass by without even noticing them, but everyone out there at least has something in common. Something Steve envied and yearned, but just could not find it in himself to seek at this moment.

The wind was cooler now. Biting him. Not meant for him. Everyone had someone else around, shielding each other from nature’s course, holding onto each other to avoid puddles, stepping away from the leaves blowing near them, or in one case, jumping on them themselves.

Steve retreated to his television. He didn’t know this family in the show, he wasn’t even watching, his eyes on the tv, but unfocused and mind not taking any of the images in. He just wanted them to keep talking.

As soon as he’d sat down, Steve realised he probably should have grabbed something from the kitchen to eat. And now he was thinking about it, his stomach churned in hunger. He knew he was hungry, even if it was the type of hunger that made you feel nauseous. But Steve had already sat down. And standing up again, just to get himself some food, just could not be prioritised enough for Steve to motivate himself to get his legs to move.

All Steve wants is somebody. Somebody near him right now. Somebody to be with him. He was a changed man after his first encounter with the upside down those few years ago. Battling creatures with his baseball bat, his ex and her new guy, and learning all about the horrible world underneath this one. Becoming the protector of others and the perpetual and never ending punching bag at the same time.

He looped it all in with the upside down, all these events, the Russians torturing him, what happened with Nancy, the possible state of his future, his relationship with his parents, almost losing the people he loves even though he always puts himself on the line first he just!!- What else can he do?!! And why isn’t him throwing himself into every danger to protect the people who actually deserve to be protected ever enough?!

Why do people still get hurt, when Steve will always let himself get hurt for them!?

Steve puts his head into his hands, his elbows digging into his thighs but he just pushes them in harder, his bitten nails barely doing damage as he scrapes them into his head whilst he’s burying his eyes. “Shut up shut up shut up.” Steve growls softly to himself, knowing he wasn’t helping anything.

He was a coward.

He acted strong, in front of the others. Proud to always be ‘the’ badass around the kids, especially Dustin. And he always headed straight on for danger if that would mean it helped the others. But he was so changed when it was just him now. He wasn’t the same person before; and he was glad, he’d been an asshole - something Steve winces into his hand at, as he remembers - but he’s not like he used to be.

He used to be able to get through his nightmares about his childhood. He used to come home and just chill. Enjoy the house to himself, and throw parties. He never felt like this until he went through all that trauma, as you’d promised him it was. He never felt so troubled, so down, so exhausted, so scared, so lonely. So just everything all at once.

He knows it’s not up to anybody to save him, he knows that no one can. Or at least, he thinks that, sometimes. Even though Steve sometimes feels like screaming, begging you to save him, even at the moments he’s least in danger, just in his own home. Even with you right there holding him. Not actually risking his life like he’s done so many times, like he’s made you cry over, watching him be so selfless, and brave, and hurt, again and again. Needing you to help save him, after it all too. But part of him feels like a coward for wanting it. The other half remembers all your loving words, all of them, not one is ever forgotten by Steve, and he’s able to regain control over those thoughts again most times he slaves over this.

Before you, there would have been no one to save Steve first, no one he was most important to, during all these life threatening events. Steve almost allowed himself to be okay with the thought no one would save him, even as he was first to throw himself in head first if it meant protecting his friends. Everyone had someone else. Someone they’d check up on first. Steve was glad he had you. Even when you promised him he wasn’t just your first choice to save, that others would pick him too. Even that helped Steve. Not just you being there, but you, you being the one to be his partner, you who just always knows how to help him.

All he wanted was to feel alright. Not great, just alright. Something he always used to take for granted. Something he can start to feel again, whenever he’s with you, or surrounded by his loved ones. ...Steve’s lips twisted up, his head tilting slightly as it came out of his hands. Why was that something so hard, for him to be able to feel alright? Why was his life like that?

But you at least told him he wasn’t a coward. You got through it with him, you let him be changed even when he wasn’t alone, you-

Steve’s head shot up as he heard the key in the door. And his heart froze like a cool zap in his chest, as he prayed inside his head to let it be you. That you somehow knew he needed you today. That you were coming for him, like you always did.

And Steve felt relief pour through his body so hard, his frozen fingers and toes flooded with such warmth, allowing him to actually feel able to move his muscles, as he reached his arms out for you from where he was sat on the couch, as you made eye contact with him from where you’d hung your coat, your own eyes filled immediately with your knowledge.

“Oh... Oh baby.”

You spoke so softly. Steve loved your voice. He kept his arms open as you rushed over, sitting by him on the couch and immediately pulling Steve into your arms with a big breath. Steve melting his face into your collarbone, as he let himself listen to your breath, your heartbeat, the creak of your trousers against his couch, and he felt whole not being alone at all anymore.

Steve is happy to listen for moments longer, his brown messy hair nestling into the crook of your neck, as he smooths his cheek over your warm skin. He can smell the body wash he uses when he showers at yours. His hands crawl up to hold you by the side of your chest softly. Steve happy to start to listen to the beat of your heart, and see if his will follow rhythm, like it does when he pays attention to it.

But you start speaking again. At least, filling his home with your voice. “Stevie darling. I’m here. You’re okay Steve.” You kiss his soft hair, stroking his head, and Steve leans into your touch. “You’re okay. I’m staying with you today.” You promise, knowing he likes when you do so, and when you plan it for the rest of his day.

Steve nods, letting you know he heard you, and he’s thankful, but a big sigh leaves his lungs, tickling hot against your collar, as he thinks, at least now while in a safety bubble of your warm hold, having wrapped your arms and legs, all of you safely around him.

Whether he’s been big or small, tough or soft, he’s still never good enough, still nobody wanted him. He was a douchey smartass, then a loser dumbass, and he wasn’t liked as either of those - never wanted, Steve thinks. Until you.

His thoughts still wandering around those paths, as he starts to let you take over for him this morning. He’s got to remind himself those thoughts he has just aren’t true, during spirals like this. You do want him. You, his best friend, his other friends, the kids, Joyce, Hopper, hell even his parents.

He is wanted.

Steve’s just got to remember it even in his lonely times. It doesn’t matter whether he’s brave and macho, or a dorky himbo, he’s still him, and he’s still loved by somebody. By multiple somebodies. And turning his head, peering his soft brown eyes up into your own, Steve constantly knows you really love him.

Steve leans his hand up, not even thinking about how his body no longer feels tired or achy anymore, just brushing your hair away behind your ears so he can see more of your perfect face, and also touch your soft hair.

“Good morning.” He speaks up, smiling crookedly and smally at you, but Steve feels relieved and wondrous, hearing his own voice in his big house.

“Good morning Steve.” You smile down at him. And God are Steve’s eyes sparkly as they look mesmerised at you. You moving to stroke Steve’s puffy brown hair, as his longer fingers still caress over your own. You smile, and Steve smiles back. No ache in his heart, his thoughts just full of all he can do with you today now his house is not so empty, or you can even leave the house together, if he chooses that he wants to. And that small other aware part of his thoughts, so happy and thankful that in this moment, that you are here with him.

Even though Steve can tell you know he was sad. That he was going through it a bit again. He’s obviously much better now he’s practically laying across your lap, his toned body fitting perfectly in your arms, and his head tucked warmly at the bottom of your chest, looking up at how you peer down at him, holding him, cradling your boyfriend safely, and Steve brings his hands to rest on your forearms, smiling as he swallows in his throat, relaxing in a position Steve loves.

Steve’s not asking you to fix him, he knows it’s not as simple as that, and he knows you don’t need any pressure. You two are working on it all, together. Both your issues, both your needs, and importantly, your wants. Steve so happy to be able to share his wants with you just as much as his needs, and have you take care of each other’s, of each other. Steve’s not asking for you to fix him, instead he’s licking his dry lips, and with a small and endearing smile, asks “Can I have my kiss now?”

His adoring smile only growing as you gleefully and slowly move in, pressing your warm lips against his own. Giving Steve the one thing he needed to start feeling properly alright again. Allowing Steve to hold your face close, as you both chuckle softly into each other’s mouths, the small sound so audible to Steve with how close you both are. As you happily, and so open heartedly, honestly, lovingly, both share a sweet kiss, for the start of his better day.

[rainbow-flavoured-skittles]

Sensei Sharpens Student

this is just 4.5k words of Yang and Cole bonding. I don't know where I found the energy to do this. this was just my excuse to write Cole angst again and be self indulgent but it worked out well. cross posted to ao3 as well

tw for death mentions and mild violence

~

Yang stared down at the child’s body and sighed. So young… it was a shame his life had been cut short so quickly. Kind of. Yang couldn’t quite bring himself to feel grief over the child, especially not when it would all be remedied soon.

He picked up the body, careful to avoid damaging it further — those oni had really done a number on him — and brought it to the altar. The child would have looked serene if not for the ugly gashes marring his face. Falling from a skyscraper was a truly terrible way to go, all that shattered glass and broken bones and simply knowing that you would die and it could not be changed.

“Soon,” Yang whispered to the corpse. “It will all be better soon.” It might not be, if his plan failed, but it wouldn’t be much of a loss. The child couldn’t respond anyway.

He checked his hourglass — only ten minutes until the eclipse. Ten minutes until he’d see if this child could be resurrected. Ten minutes until the Rift could be summoned again for the first time in three centuries.

Yang picked up the Yin Blade and held it above the child‘s head. It was time. He slashed at the air, the blade ripping a hole in the very universe itself, and smiled.

The Rift glowed a radioactive, toxic green, not unlike the green of the Lazarus Pits. The colours in it swirled together in hypnotic patterns, seemingly alive. Yang picked up the child, less carefully than before, for any further damage wouldn’t matter soon, and threw him into the Rift. Perhaps that was a bit of a crude word, but it was accurate. The boy was not exactly heavy, and Yang had been a very strong man in life.

As soon as the body disappeared into the glowing green of the Rift, Yang dusted his hands off and waited. He did not know how long it would take for the child to come back out. He didn’t even know if the boy would be revived, or if he’d ever come out. If the boy was still dead, then it showed that humans could not be resurrected with the Rift. If he was alive, then Yang had his very own pet assassin. Yang would be unharmed either way.

A loud crack of thunder outside had Yang cursing and running to the door. It was the Rift, it must be. The portal on the inside of the temple had closed, but the green glow outside meant there was some degree of success.

He ran outside and found the body crumpled in a rose bush. It was jarringly similar to how Yang had first found the boy, all bones and too-cold skin, twisted in the way that only a dead body could be. Except this body was not dead. It was very much alive. Yang could see the boy’s shallow breathing. He pressed a finger to his wrist. There was a faint pulse, slow but still there. Yang would have let out a breath of relief if he could still breathe. The boy was alive. The Rift had worked. He now had proof that humans could be resurrected with it.

The boy’s eyes fluttered open. It was strange to see the small side effects of the Rift — Yang would have to jot them down. Where before his eyes had been a pale grey, like little pools of moonlight, the left one was now an unnatural green. The same colour as the Rift.

A jagged scar ran down the left side of his face as well, starting somewhere above his hairline and ending just above his chin. It was the same green as the Rift. Yang could find no logical reason for it. The boy’s eye changing colour made sense, the Pits did the same thing, but the scar was unexpected. Yang would have to study that further. He held out his hand and pulled the boy to his feet. He looked disoriented, not completely aware of his surroundings, but Yang smiled anyway. 

“Welcome back,” he croaked to the child.

~

 Everything was black until it wasn’t. Then it was green and pain and screaming and awakening to an unfamiliar place. The boy blinked his eyes at the old man in front of him. He was fairly sure he didn’t know this man. But the boy couldn’t remember much of anything at the moment, so he let the man drag him to his feet and lead him though a door.

“How are you feeling?” The old man asked the boy. They had settled down around a low table, sitting on silk cushions. A plate of cookies was set in front of them. 

The boy did not know how to respond. “I don’t know,” he said. His voice was raspy and unfamiliar to him. That was scary — how could he not know his own voice?

The old man frowned. “What is your name?”

The boy blinked. He thought hard about what his name might be. “Cole,” he said. That sounded right.

“Cole,” the old man repeated. “I am Master Yang. I am the one who brought you back to life.”

Back to life? Wouldn’t that mean Cole had died? He tried to think about what may have happened and was immediately hit by feelings of pain and hopelessness and terror. However he had died hadn’t been peaceful. Cole shoved those feelings down and looked up at Yang. 

“I died?”

“Yes,” Master Yang nodded. “I revived you with the Rift of Return.”

“Did you know me? Is that why you brought me back?”

Master Yang cringed at that. “I did not know you. I simply saw a child in need and helped.”

“Okay,” Cole said. He could tell that Yang wasn’t telling the truth, or at least not all of it, but he had saved Cole from death. That had to mean something.

“I want to train you,” Master Yang said. “In the ways of combat. So that you will not die again.”

“But everyone dies.”

“Yes, but I would still like to train you. So that you can be safe,” Yang fumbled his words, looking for an excuse.

Cole thought for a bit. No matter how hard he tried to remember, he could not think of anything from his past. Granted, he had only been revived for an hour or so, but it couldn’t be normal not to remember. And what if it was people from his past that had caused his death? Yang was offering him safety and training. It would be good to know how to fight, and maybe he could regain some memories.

“I’ll train with you,” Cole told Yang. It seemed like the best option.

“Excellent,” Master Yang smiled wickedly. “Your training will begin tomorrow. You may take one of the empty rooms upstairs.”

Cole nodded and went up the stairs. He opened the first door on the right and looked over the room. It was dusty, clearly having been uninhabited for quite some time. It was still shelter, though, and the bed looked comfortable.

He looked in the mirror. A reflection stared back at him, of a young boy with dark hair and skin. His eyes were strange — one grey, the other bright green. A large crack (scar?) ran down the side of his face. It glowed green as well. Cole shivered at it. The reflection didn’t seem like him, was wrong and unfamiliar. Of course, who even was Cole? How was he to know if this was what he’d always looked like? He couldn’t remember any family or friends, or what he might have done in his free time, or whether he had any goals for the future. It was terrifying to not know who he was.

Yang knocked on the door, shaking Cole out of his spiral. “Cole, I would suggest you go to bed. Your training begins early and I will not tolerate any whining of no sleep.”

“Yes, Master Yang,” Cole said. He shook the dust off of the bedsheets and pillow. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. His body shut down immediately, sending him into a cold dreamless sleep.

~

The knives came towards Cole at full speed, bright silver crescents that threatened to kill if he didn’t dodge. Cole did a backflip to the left and a handspring to the right, then a simple roll to the floor. Not a single one of the knives hit him.

“Good work,” Master Yang said approvingly. He pocketed one of the throwing knives. “But your backflip was sloppy. We’ll need to fix that.”

“But everything else was good?” Cole asked. He hoped he had done well — he’d trained for hours on the corkscrews.

“Yes.”

“Should I practice throwing them now?”

Yang hummed and stroked his beard. “Go to the armoury and get some throwing knives. Make sure they’re the ones with red leather grips. I don’t want you training with the good knives yet.”

“Yes, Master Yang,” Cole hurried off to go get the knives. He found the armoury, an ancient mahogany door leading to it, and stepped in. There were weapons everywhere, ranging from large battle axes to small daggers to deadly poisons in glass vials. He found the required throwing knives and was about to exit when he saw the scythe.

It was a beautiful piece of work, carefully engraved with runes and enchantments. The blade was polished to perfection, shining and gleaming and incredibly sharp. The handle was made of honey coloured wood, wrapped in black leather. All in all, a stunning ten-out-of-ten weapon.

Cole looked at it and went back down the hall to Yang. “Master Yang, I saw this scythe in the armoury, and I was wondering, maybe after the throwing knives, maybe I—“

“Just spit it out already, boy,” Yang spat.

“Could I train with the scythe, maybe?”

Yang frowned. “It is a difficult weapon,” he said. “Not many use it in combat. It’s much more for reaping crops than anything.”

“But could I learn it?”

“Hmmm,” Yang thought. He intended to have Cole master all the weapons he had, scythe included. It wouldn’t hurt to change his plans a bit and have him learn the scythe next. A perfect assassin should know how to use every weapon, after all.

“Very well then,” he said to Cole. “Once you’ve mastered the throwing knives, I will teach you how to use a scythe.”

Cole had stars in his eyes. “Really?”

“I just said you could, didn’t I?”

“Yes!” Cole pumped his fist in a rare display of childish enthusiasm. Yang smiled a bit at that, though he would deny it if asked.

~ 

Yang nodded in satisfaction at his pupil’s performance. Cole had finally mastered the throwing knives — and in an exceptionally short amount of time, too. He could be the world’s greatest assassin given a few more years.

“Did I pass?” Cole said.

“Yes,” Yang said. “You did well.”

Cole lit up at the praise. “So I can learn how to use the scythe now?”

Yang raised an eyebrow at the question. He had not expected Cole to still remember that promise — children had short attention spans, and he’d figured Cole had forgotten about it. 

But a promise was a promise, and Yang was a man of his word. “Very well, then. You may start training.”

Yang made his way to the armoury and found the old scythe. He had not used it in many, many years. The blade would need sharpening, he thought idly.

“Take it,” he handed the weapon to Cole. “I will teach you the basics, and then we will spar.”

Cole took it gingerly and held it with practiced ease. “Isn’t the blade a bit dull?”

“It will suffice for this lesson.”

“Okay.”

Yang held up his own scythe. “I will teach you how to hold it properly, first. Adjust your hands so that— yes, exactly like that,” he said, confused as to how Cole would already know how to hold the weapon.

“Now, scythes are more for slashing than stabbing. You won’t be able to stab someone through the heart or anything. Remember that.”

Cole shifted nervously. “Master Yang, I think I’ve got it,” he said. 

Hmm. That was strange. The boy held his weapon like he was already familiar with it.

“You seem to have the basics down,” Yang said. “We’ll move on to sparring now. Don’t hold back.”

A nod, and then getting into position. Yang looked the boy over and gave the signal. He was off immediately, going straight for Yang’s throat and slashing at it. If Yang weren’t already dead, he would have died.

Yang went at Cole with his own weapon as well, though he aimed to incapacitate, not kill. Cole clearly had no such qualms — mostly because Yang couldn’t be killed — slicing at his throat and stomach. He was nimble, moving in the same way a dancer might, doing unnecessary kicks and spins. 

It was surprising. Not many used the scythe as a weapon — it was too inconvenient. But Cole used it like it was part of his body. Yang found himself once again wondering what the boy’s past was. He had training, of course, but from whom? Who would have trained such a young child to fight like that? Other than Yang, of course.

Cole took Yang’s distraction as an opportunity to drop kick him and end the match. “Sorry, Master,” he said apologetically. “But you said not to hold back.”

Yang sniffed and readjusted his robes. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“I don’t know. I think it might be from my past? It’s all still so foggy, though…”

“I don’t believe you’ll need any more training with the scythe,” Yang shook his head. “You’re more than proficient.”

“But isn’t there always room for improvement?”

“A good fighter knows more than just two weapons. You will train with the bow and arrows next.”

Cole deflated a little. Yang found himself feeling guilty at that. Guilty! When had he started caring about the boy’s feelings? Hell, when had he started caring about the boy in general?

“You may train with the scythe in the afternoons,” Yang found himself saying. “As long as all your other exercises have been completed.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

~

Cole was crying. Yang knew this because of the faint sobs coming from his room. He knocked on the door. “Cole, why are you crying?” He asked.

The door swung open to Cole, eyes all red and puffy. The scar on his face glowed radioactive green. “Just stuff,” he mumbled. 

Yang sighed and marched into the room. He gestured for Cole to sit next to him. “Explain yourself,” he said. Not the most sensitive of statements, but Cole seemed to do better without being coddled.

Cole wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I remembered something,” he said softly. 

“Then why are you crying? Regaining memories is something to be celebrated.”

“I remembered someone important. I think he was my friend, or something. But I don’t know his name.”

Yang sighed. “But you remember what he looks like?”

“No,” Cole shook his head. “I just remember that he cared about me. I don’t know anything, just vague feelings…”

“Your memories will return with time,” Yang said. “And until then, you have me.”

“That’s so cheesy,” Cole laughed — a dry, broken, laugh, but still a laugh.

“It is true.”

“Thank you, Master Yang.”

“It is a guardian’s job to take care of their ward, no?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Then I’m just doing my job. There’s no need to thank me.”

~

Yang was repairing Cole’s robes when the boy walked up to him. He’d been thinking about how reckless children were, and if it was possible to get more durable clothing. He hadn’t been expecting Cole to be awake for several more hours.

“I want to be a vigilante,” Cole said. He looked at Yang in the face — not quite eye contact, the boy hated that, but close.

“A vigilante? Explain,” Yang frowned.

“They fight crime. I think I used to be one, and I want to do it again.”

Yang sighed and put down the sewing materials. He looked at Cole. “You remember your past?”

“Only some. It’s still really blurry, but I’m sure about this.”

“You fought crime. Illegally, I presume. And you want to do it again.”

“Yes.”

“You’re aware of how dangerous that would be?”

Cole shuffled a little, clearly finding the situation awkward. “Yes, but I’ve trained a lot. You said I was good enough to take out an army.”

That had been a bit of an exaggeration. Yang regretted speaking in such a way. “You are good, yes, but that was hyperbole. Nobody can fight hundreds of people at once and win.”

“But I’m still good at fighting. And staying hidden. And gathering information.”

Yang wondered again when he had gotten attached to the boy. He certainly hadn’t cared when he first found him. And now he was worried about the boy being in danger, of all things.

“Cole, when I first found you, you were dead.” Cole flinched at the reminder but nodded. “That was almost certainly because of your ‘vigilante gig,’ so to speak. And you want to go out again to put yourself in danger.”

“I’m trained now.”

“You were trained before,” Yang retorted.

“I’m trained more.”

“You are still a child.”

“But I want to help people!” Cole looked desperate now. “I can help. I have all this training and experience that others don’t and I can save people!”

“Why?”

Cole picked at his nails. “I made a promise to someone,” he said. “‘Always stand up to those who are cruel and unjust.’ I want to keep that promise.”

“There are people out there who would hurt you. They would want to study you like a specimen in a lab.”

“Then I’ll avoid them.”

“It’s not that simple, Cole.”

“Master Yang, please.” Cole wiped tears from his eyes. Yang pushed down the feeling of guilt.

“You are trained, but would have no backup. I would not be able to help you if you’re in trouble.”

“I want to keep that promise,” Cole repeated. He had a steely look in his eyes. This was not something he’d back down from.

Yang got up from the table. “You must defeat me in a spar. Neither of us will hold back. If you win, you can become a vigilante.”

Cole raised an eyebrow. “And if I don’t?” The boy knew how to read the fine print. That was good. It would be a useful skill in the outside world.

“Then you stay here with me.”

“I accept your terms.”

“Then come,” Yang said. “Whoever gets knocked down first will lose. Any weapons are allowed. Fight dirty if needed.”

Cole nodded and followed to the training room. He took his position opposite to Yang. “I’m ready,” he said. He held his signature scythe in one hand and a set of daggers in the other.

Yang attacked first, a series of blows and kicks meant to incapacitate an enemy. Cole dodged and returned his own attacks, a flurry of knives and sharp kicks. Months of training had honed his skills into something deadly, more fluid than the style he’d had when he first arrived.

A dodge, and then a parry from Cole’s scythe. Yang was careful not to aim for the throat or head, hitting the legs and stomach instead. His sword clashed with the scythe. Multiple knives were thrown at each other. A dagger embedded itself into the wall.

It took almost thirty minutes for Cole to knock Yang down. He used his earth powers to his advantage, creating stepping stones to jump off of and hit Yang in the chest. He fell against the wall without a sound.

“I did it!” Cole cheered. He rushed to help his mentor off the floor. “I won, right? You said we could fight dirty.”

Yang dusted off his robes, rather pointlessly considering that he was a ghost and could not get dirty. “Yes, you won. You may become a vigilante and help save people.”

“Yes!”

Yang smiled at the scene. And if he’d let Cole win on purpose, well, nobody needed to know.

~

“—and it should be black, so that I can blend in easily. But also a cape! And a full face mask, to protect my identity.”

“You should talk less and focus more on your designing,” Yang commented. He looked over Cole’s drafts for the vigilante uniform. They were hastily coloured and roughly sketched — nothing final, just good enough to get an idea of how it could look.

“It should have orange accents, too. And pockets,” Cole scribbled some more notes. His hands were stained with charcoal and ink.

“It is very dramatic.”

“That’s the point!”

“You are adding a… scar to the mask?” Yang gestured at the large zig-zag drawn on the design. 

“It’s supposed to look like the one I have. But orange, so that it matches the theme.” Cole pointed at the large scar on his face. After so many months, Yang doubted it’d ever heal. Cole would have to conceal it for the rest of his life.

“That is a liability to your identity.”

“I don’t plan to take off the mask. No one will know.”

“If you insist,” Yang sighed. He was already thinking of how to get supplies for this project. It would be a pain to find proper metal for the armour.

“I’m going to have a mask underneath, too, if it makes you feel better.”

“Alright, then.”

“I’m also going to add a voice modulator. So that I can sound scarier. And more adult-like.”

“You are barely five feet tall. Hardly an adult.”

“Platforms exist for a reason,” Cole rolled his eyes. Yang tried not to laugh at that.

~

It was finally complete. After hours and hours of work and multiple injuries, Cole had finally finished his new costume. He was quite proud of it — the orange accents weren’t too bright, so that he could blend in easily, but they still stood out. And it had all the appropriate ‘cryptid assassin’ vibes, just as he’d intended.

“What do you think, Master?”

Yang stood over Cole, examining the newly completed uniform. “It is good,” he said. “You have a talent for designing things.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’m sure you will strike fear into the hearts of many.”

“I’m not trying to scare people. I want to save them,” Cole said.

“Hmmm.”

“The scaring people is targeted at bad guys.”

Yang nodded thoughtfully. His pupil had grown so much from the scrawny little boy he’d first found. He was a true warrior, now — perhaps not the undefeatable assassin Yang had first sought out to make, but formidable all the same. He was proud of the boy.

“I’m almost ready, now. I think I’ll leave tomorrow.” Cole looked at Yang for permission, as if he had not made up his mind to leave weeks ago.

“Of course. Make sure to visit a lonely old man when you get the chance, yes?”

“I wouldn’t leave you, not forever. You’re my family,” Cole said.

Family? That was a word Yang hadn’t head in a long time. He certainly had never been called family before. It warmed him to know that Cole thought him a member of his family.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Yang said.

~

The next morning, Cole packed his bags and sat beside Yang on the porch. To passerby, they’d see only a young teenager sitting on his own, swinging his legs and looking nervous. To Yang, he saw a boy he’d grown to care for as a son. He didn’t want Cole to leave. It seemed like they’d barely spent a week together, though it had been nearly a year.

Was it selfish, to wish that Cole would stay with him? Yang had grown to care for the boy. He’d never had a family, not in life, but it felt like Cole was his family. Cole himself had said that Yang was his family, and Yang returned the sentiment. Would it be selfish to ask him to stay forever, as father and son, untouched by time or the outside world?

It would be, Yang thought. Cole was nearly sixteen, by his estimates — it was high time he leave to find his own way. Even if his way was to become an illegal crime fighter.

“I’m going to take a train to the main city,” Cole said, breaking the silence. “I’ll figure living arrangements out when I get there.”

“You have enough money? Clothes, food, all your weapons?” Yang asked. It never hurt to make sure, though he was sure Cole had prepared well.

“Yes, Master. I’ve got more than enough of everything,” Cole laughed. 

“That is good,” Yang breathed. He turned to look at Cole properly. “I have a gift for you,” he said. 

“A gift?”

“Yes,” Yang pulled out the dagger. It was an ornate thing, fragile but dangerously sharp. It had been carved from obsidian and inlayed with silver centuries ago. It had been passed down from mentor to mentor over many years. Yang himself had inherited it when he left his mentor. And now it was Cole’s to wield.

“It’s beautiful,” Cole said. He turned it, watching the blade reflect light and sparkle a million different colours.

“My mentor passed this down to me, years ago. And now it is yours.”

Cole held the dagger to his chest. “Thank you, Master Yang.”

“The blade is supposedly enchanted to protect its owner. I hope that it will bring you protection.”

“Thank you,” Cole repeated. He sheathed the dagger into one of his many hidden pockets.

“You should go, now. You will be late for your train.”

“Yeah, I should,” Cole said sadly. He picked up his duffle bag and threw it over his shoulder. The he hugged Yang.

Ghosts cannot be touched. That is a well known fact. But Cole hugged Yang anyway, simply because a boy touched by death like he was could.

“Goodbye, my pupil,” Yang pulled away from the hug. 

“Goodbye, Master,” Cole said in return. He made his way down the path to civilisation and the city.

~

Cole ran down a dark alley, uncaring of the cockroaches and rubbish everywhere. He stuck to the shadows, barely making a sound. The man he was following continued talking on the phone, unaware of the boy behind him. Cole slammed him on the back of the head and twisted his arms.

“You’re going to go to the police station,” he said slowly, “and you’re going to confess to murdering your wife. If you don’t, I’ll know.”

“Who the hell are you?” The man spat. His eyes were full of terror and confusion. 

“I’m the Talon, and you’re going to do as I say or face the consequences.”

“What is this, some sorta bad movie? I’m not doing—“ whatever the man meant to say was cut off as Cole knocked him out. A bit of blood trickled from his temple. 

“Amateurs,” Cole rolled his eyes and picked the man’s wallet up. He’d drop the guy off with evidence and keep the money. There was enough to book himself a ticket to Ninjago City Central, at least. Shame that he hadn’t wanted to confess on his own, though. The justice system would be much harsher on him now. 

He picked the body up and dragged it to the police station. Then he changed into civvies and went up to the bus stop. He looked at the ticket dispenser in the eyes, just as he’d practiced.

“One ticket, please,” Cole smiled. Yang had taught him to be charming, after all.

[pbpsbff]

my adoring fans do u guys prefer shorter fics (1-3k) that come out more frequently or longer fics (4k+) that take longer to put out

[the-penguinspy]

avatrice + ineptly kiss cheek

ty for the lovely prompt as always, em :)

--

Beatrice had just finished putting the grounds in the coffee maker when Ava stumbles out of their bedroom, yawn halfway in effect as she rubs a hand over her face. Her borrowed boxer shorts are slung low over her hips, and her sleep shirt exposes her midriff when she brings her arms overhead in a languid stretch. Beatrice almost (almost!) overfills the water container in the coffee maker, but she catches her blunder in time. 

The coffee maker whirs and growls as it heats up the water and starts to drip into the pot, and Beatrice reaches into the cupboards above her for two mugs before she finally feels a pair of arms wrap snug around her waist. Ava’s chin hooks over her shoulder, and the sleepy grumble that accompanies the motion is muffled in the crook of Beatrice’s neck.

Beatrice rests the mugs against the countertop before turning around to greet Ava with a kiss on her forehead, fingers linking around the back of her neck. “Good morning, darling.”

A sigh of contentment as Ava settles more firmly against her. “G’morn’, babe.” She nuzzles Beatrice’s collarbone, presses a soft kiss there. Another one higher up on her neck. She eventually stands on her tiptoes for one more kiss, but her trajectory is flawed – off-course, her aim lands along the curve of Beatrice’s jaw instead. 

Beatrice smiles, a corner of her mouth quirked upwards; Ava’s irresistible on the best of days, but in the mornings, she’s just too – 

“Cute.” The adoration comes out on an exhale, automatic like breathing. The fact is this: Beatrice takes pride in her discipline and self-control. The act of loving Ava, however, requires neither; hasn’t, not for a long time, and Beatrice chuckles softly before her lips find their place on the apple of Ava’s cheek. She lingers for one moment, two – and in the beat between the second and third, she feels a satisfied hum rumble its way from Ava’s throat. 

The aroma of coffee wafts through the living room and saturates the spaces between them, filling in the missing puzzle piece – it’s not really a morning without the promise of fresh caffeine, paired with the lovely, skewed kisses from one delightfully sleepy Ava. 

[b0amagination]

Tastes of Whumptober: Day 16

Featuring the same characters as Day 12! Not required viewing to understand this one, as it's more their origins. I've placed the story in the UK so apologies for any inaccuracies as I'm an American!

Content warnings for: alcohol consumption, smoking, implied addiction to both aforementioned, drunk driving, motorcycle accident, thoughts of death, and brief suicidal ideation. Stay safe!

Wound Cleaning

He knew he was too far out of it. Too dizzy, too tired, too weak, too drunk to drive back home.

But he’d stumbled to his bike, clutching his side and his cheek, running like a coward. When it roared to life beneath him, he found some forlorn spark of confidence.

Then somewhere on the side streets it had started raining. And in the forest between towns it came down harder. Then-

Fuck, his head hurt. 

Freezing mud clung to him as he rolled over despite the persistent warmth in his chest. When had it gotten so cold? The hazy shadow of his bike lay several meters away, its headlights shining off into the woods, engine still purring into a puddle. His phone was still in the tailpack, he’d call someone to pick him up… or 999… they couldn’t tell him he had it coming. 

A mirthless laugh covered a worse sound as he pushed himself up, dragging aching limbs toward the motorcycle. His left leg was fucking killing him.

A memory of skidding across asphalt, crumbling concrete tearing at skin.

He just needed to grab his phone.The leather bag hanging off the seat wasn’t yet submerged and he let out a sigh of relief, reaching in. 

Empty. Oh god.

“Nonononono…”

A bloody hand plunged underwater, searching until- the phone. It was dripping water from every opening, his fingers slipped against the buttons, pressing frantically as a black screen stared back. 

“Shit! God, no!”

He screamed and flung the useless machine against the ground, collapsing with it into incoherent sobs. If he got back onto the bike in this condition he’d crash somewhere worse. But laying here was a death sentence unless someone else felt bad enough to stop for him.

Ha. Funny. 

Well, if he was lucky… there. His trusty lighter and cigs were still zipped up safely in his pocket, one left in the whole package. Fate was one sexy, sexy man. He’d have to do him a favor in the afterlife if he made it that far.

“Cheers.” To nobody in particular, of course. It took shaking fingers a few flicks to activate muscle memory and spring up a little flame. A long, deep drag soothed his nerves.

Not a bad way to go out. Not bad at all. Tequila would’ve paired nicely with the smoke.

Headlights turned onto the road and he sighed, holding out a forlorn hand. At best, he’d be splashed as they whizzed by. At worst, they’d put him out of his misery. 

Or maybe those two should be switched. Either way, they wouldn’t… stop… but… they were slowing down. And he heard the doors unlock when the vehicle shifted into park. And those lights were making his head pound.

“Bloody hell! Is that you, Payge?”

“Depends who’s askin’,” he mumbled through a mouthful of smoke. “You gonna bring me in to the station?”

“Christ…” They muttered to themself and opened the trunk of their car and pulled something out before walking over. The headlights stayed on, acting as a spotlight. “C’mere, Payge. Can you move?” 

“Nicolai…?”

“The one and only. Come on.”

Nicolai was… how would he describe them? A friend of a friend of sorts. But maybe they were more of a friend, as of late. Did they even live over this way? Where the hell had he ended up?

Payge groaned and pushed himself up, missing a few times and slipping down. Nicolai’s hands reached out to help pull him over. 

“You smell like smoke. And booze.”

“Here. Just a bit, ‘ts my last one.” He offered the cigarette and they pinched it between thumb and index, took a drag, and blew it straight into his face. 

“The hell’s that meant to be?!” Payge coughed.

“You shouldn’t smoke so much.” They handed it back and opened a well stocked first aid kit, picking up a cloth and pouring some water out from their water bottle. “Where are you hurt?”

“You askin’ about the bar fight or the crash?” His words were slurring into each other again. 

“Payge…” they shook their head, concern coloring their features. “I told you to stop fighting.”

“And I wasn’t letting him go home w’thout a shiner.” They stopped arguing and simply stared until he softened. “Got punched in the cheek, thrown around a bit… I think my leg’s bleedin’.”

They brought the cloth to his face first, wiping away grit, and he hissed when they found broken skin over his cheekbone. 

“Don’t worry, I’ve got a bottle of antiseptic, I’ve just gotta clean you up first. You shouldn’t be riding in this weather in the first place.”

Nicolai moved to his abdomen, touching over the hem of his shirt and a frantic, uncoordinated hand pushed it back down. 

“Stop, you don’t needa… just call an ambulance. You shouldn’ hafta do all this.”

“Nonsense. I can’t leave your side not knowing what happens. Let me help.”

Payge hesitated before relenting, letting them pull up his shirt and inspect the bruise surely forming over his ribs. Once satisfied they moved to look at his legs, but noticed blood dripping down his arm.

“Your hands-?” 

“Just scraped ‘em.”

But they wouldn’t stand for that, taking him roughly by the wrist and cleaning the mud off to reveal harsh scratches from the pavement.

“Other one, Payge.”

“Lemme finish,” he gestured with his half-smoked cigarette.

“Give me that!” Nicolai snatched it right out of his loose grip and snuffed it out, grinding the butt into the pavement before tossing it into the puddle.

“Hey! Wha’s your problem, mate?!” Genuine anger snuck into his voice and Payge finally sat up, grabbing at their shirt and shaking them. “You gotta nother pack’a Marlboros hanging around or what, Nic?” 

A hand shot out and held him by the neck, and his grip dropped away in shock. 

“You’re gonna pass of infection if you don’t let me do my job. Calm the hell down.” The lack of response sounded like resignation, so they cleaned the hand that had now left a stain on their shirt. “Don’t let those touch the mud again, you understand?”

A meek nod. He allowed Nicolai to roll up his pant leg but seethed when torn fibers tugged at the wound.

“I’ll go quickly. Hold your breath.” And they ripped it off as promised, causing a long, drawn out keen. Wow. 

“Th-thank you…”

Something stirred but they swallowed it down.

“Don’t thank me yet.”

A bit more water was poured onto the cloth before working it into the wound, despite jerks and half-aware cries. As the mud was washed away, the severity of the gash became apparent. Though it didn’t cut deep, it was… extensive. They pulled the first aid kit over and grabbed the roll of elastic bandages.

“Bite down on this. I promise you’ll need it.” They held it to Payge’s mouth and he accepted it, fear flashing across his face. “Just focus on that and you’ll be alright.”

A new cloth and a pause to trap his leg with their own, then Nicolai poured the antiseptic directly on the wound. 

“Fuuuuck!” 

They worked quickly, wiping it over and working it into each crevice. They couldn’t be too safe. And the whimpers… A clean cloth bandage wrapped around his calf and they pinned it in place. 

“A hand, please. Whichever I should start with.” They held their palm up, offering the choice, but Payge was still curled into himself. They sighed and grabbed the closest one.

“No, no it hurts too bad!” He cried, trying to speak around the roll of bandages. “Leave it, how it is jus’ leave it…”

The antiseptic didn’t need to be poured in such a volume, but maybe it was their reward for dealing with him.

“Aren’t you drunk? You shouldn’t be able to feel a thing,” they shrugged as he screamed. The only thing that mattered was the way he struggled thoroughly cleaning the wounds. The same routine repeated with his other hand, and they were both bandaged in the same way. 

“Right. Your face.” He flinched away at the soft dabs and the butterfly bandage placed over his cheek. “There. All done.”

“I still… still can’t drive m’self home…”

Nicolai shushed him, scooping his torso off the asphalt to sit him up. They removed his soiled biker jacket, throwing it in the trunk and exchanging it for a few towels. One went over the backseat and the other went around his shoulders when they picked him up bridal style, laying him down gently across the seats. 

“Th’ fuck…?”

“I’m driving you home.”

“But… my bike…”

“I’ll take care of it. After I take care of you.”

[typewriting-robin]

I want to post more WIPs about my OCs (see about page) but I'm perpetually nervous and would rather post them here to a03 and I'm curious about reader interest.

Here's what I've got:

Ellis/older Robin: rated E (warnings include age gaps, PTSD, past abusive relationships)

Alfons/yandere Robin: dove is dying oh no (warnings include dubcon, blood, knife play, physical assault)

Jude/sweet Robin: rated T (warnings include Jude basically being his asshole self)

[serenescribe]

Spoilers ahead for the latest parts of Chapter 7! Speed-wrote this with only Twitter live-tweeting threads for context. Might not be accurate to canon but who cares about that when the tragedy is impeccable?

What happens if you die within a dream?

Silver thinks he should know the answer to that — or more precisely, the answer in normal circumstances. If things were not as dire as they are now, if he and everyone else were not locked away in the throes of a dream they cannot wake up from, he knows what would happen. He would wake up easily, jolting upright as panic grips his heart, panting as his mind struggles to calm itself from the weight of a nightmare he cannot remember.

But things are not normal, and Silver is scared.

He is scared and in pain, sprawled out against the forest floor. His weapon has been tossed carelessly to the side, disarmed by the person pressing his weapon against his throat, and for some reason, perhaps because he is incapacitated and hurting, energy sapped from a battle he had not wanted to fight, he is unable to jump dreams again.

(And, to be honest, he doesn’t want to leave, to find another person’s dream and take refuge there, if only for a little while. This is Lilia’s dream, his father’s dream, and Silver refuses to leave without him by his side.)

And, as Silver presses himself as closely against the bloodstained grass as he can, pushing away from the sharp weapon the best he can, all he can think is, Ah. I finally understand.

He has heard stories all throughout his life — about his father’s might as the revered General Vanrouge of Briar Valley. His name is admired for a reason, respected far and wide across the valley. And though Lilia did not take down Silver immediately in their battle, the reflexes honed from years of training from the very man now fighting him, eventually, he succeeded. 

Silver is young, only seventeen. What chance did he face, going up against his father in a fight like this, when the Lilia he sees is in the height of his prime? When he is holding absolutely nothing back?

He feels the sharp tip of his father’s weapon press closer against the thin skin of his neck, but the only thing that crosses his pain-muddled mind is that the blade in his father’s hands is the very same one he would give to Silver whenever he sent his son off to chop some firewood. Silver thinks that he’s speaking too, can see his mouth move, having pushed his mask aside at some point, but the only thing that he hears is a muddled warble of nothing that sounds real.

His head is spinning. Every limb in his body is aching.

Silver can feel the sticky slickness of his own blood matting the grass beneath him.

What will happen to him, now that he has failed? He will not die permanently; he knows that much. But the alternatives that swim through his muddled brain do not bring him comfort in any form. Perhaps Silver will simply wake up back within the confines of his own dream — but that, in itself, would be a problem, because Silver knows that Malleus is after them, ready to lull him into an impenetrable slumber with the flick of a wrist.

And if Silver loses himself to the throes of this neverending dream… then what? What will become of Sebek and Grim and Yuu? He can see them out of the corner of their eyes; no matter how hard Sebek yells, he is not getting through the other soldiers, least of all his grandfather, as much in his prime as Silver’s father. They have been apprehended, outnumbered and outpowered, and Silver gets the sinking feeling that very soon, they will meet the same fate that he is steadily barreling towards.

He is the hero of this twisted story they have found themselves in, no matter how odd it feels to think of himself this way. His unique magic, as useless as he has believed it to be, has its own purposes now. It is the only thing that may stand between Malleus, overblotted as he is, unable to cope with the weight of abandonment, and his desires of a thousand years of blissful dreams.

So if Silver dies, to the blade of his own father, who stares down at him like a stranger, with not a single trace of recognition in those red eyes—

Then what?

[sapphicflower-ao3]

Not me wanting to read both battle of the bands and magic in a mirror for months now but never finding the time. Definitely gonna do that now though after hearing you talk about them!

I hope you have a great day!

DEAR ANON,

let me do you the honour of linking them both here for your easy reference:

1. battle of the bands - roadtripwithlucifer

2. the magic in a mirror - totallyrottentomatoes

i’ve talked abt these fics so often on my socials and it’s funny how everytime i can’t help but point out that my 2 fav bkdk fics are AUs… 😵‍💫

PLEASE HAVE A GREAT DAY IN RETURN <3

[amethystina]

In chapter 5 of Who Holds the Devil, Ga On doesn't send Elijah a picture of Komi and he wakes up to several messages from her being worried. At this time, what do you think was going on in Switzerland? Because if she was stressing out about it, do you think she spoke to Yo Han or not, and if so, what would be his reaction to this?

Hope you can recover well!

She eventually spoke to Yo Han about it, yes, but it took a while before she got worried enough to do so. She's used to Ga On working late sometimes and so at first she figured her reminders would be enough. Which means she sent the majority of the messages you can read in the chapter before she even considered going to Yo Han.

And, by the time she did, it was mostly because she realised that it was so late in South Korea that Ga On might already have gone to bed, and he still hadn't contacted her. Which she felt was very unlike Ga On.

As for Yo Han's reaction, there is, unsurprisingly, quite a big difference between what he chooses to show Elijah and what he's feeling internally.

He'd be pretty flippant with Elijah, downplaying the severity of the situation, telling her that it's probably nothing to worry about. Maybe Ga On was busy with something and his phone ran out of batteries, so he didn't get her reminders? Or maybe he just forgot? Yo Han can come up with several very rational and logical explanations as to why Ga On didn't send Elijah any pictures.

Basically, Yo Han would try to calm her down by pretending it's no big deal. And tell her to at least wait until tomorrow before she starts freaking out

Internally, however?

He'd be worried, too.

Because no matter what he tells Elijah, Yo Han knows that Ga On wouldn't just forget a promise like that. Ga On cares too much about Elijah to disappoint her. So something must definitely have happened, Yo Han just doesn't know what. And while Yo Han is well aware that the explanation might be perfectly innocent, his mind would also start spinning towards worst-case scenarios — because that's how he works. He needs to be aware of the possibilities and, if need be, prepare for the worst.

And, somewhere around there, Yo Han would be frustrated that he can't track Ga On yet. He already decided that he wants to long before this, but this is one of those things that helps him decide that, yeah, he needs to give Ga On something he can track sooner rather than later so this won't happen again. Yo Han has no idea where Ga On is and it's making him antsy as hell.

The closest he can get is to text Lawyer Ko and ask if Ga On was at work that day. But even if Lawyer Ko says yes, that still leaves far too many possibilities. A lot could have happened to Ga On in the hours after he left work.

But Yo Han would tell Elijah none of this, of course — especially since the crisis is averted the very next day. Nor would Yo Han ever mention it to Ga On. It's just one of those things that stays inside Yo Han's head and influences his choices later, but is more or less invisible to everyone else. Perhaps not so surprisingly, there are a lot of those. As Ga On has pointed out: there's always a reason for the choices Yo Han makes. And, sometimes, the information he's basing that choice on was gathered weeks, months, or even years ago.

That man's brain never stops processing x'D

I hope that answers your question! :D

And thank you so much for the concern 💜 Unfortunately, I'm not feeling the best right now (neither mentally nor physically) but I know it's temporary so I'm just trying to wait it out :)

[aceofstars16]

…welp…

[monstrsball]

i have serious reasoning for iwasuga but the fun reasoning is. they both have Complexes about their height and express affection towards their friends via violence. soulmates.

[andromeda-nova-writing]

If you have been paying any attention, I’m a big lifelong Beyoncé fan. September 4th is her birthday so I’m using writing as another excuse to listen to her music on repeat. Give me a character and a song from this list. I want to see what I can come up with. (I recommend every song on this list btw. But that might be obvious lol)

CUFF IT

Crazy In Love

BODYGUARD

Love On Top

Baby Boy

MY ROSE

DAUGHTER

ALLIIGATOR TEARS

Pray You Catch Me

Sandcastles

Jealous

I Miss You

Start Over

Sweet Dreams

Flaws and All

Freakum Dress

Resentment

Listen

Poison

TYRANT

[swiftsaltsweet]

A short 3 page chapter for shits and giggles is turning into a more funny (with plot relevance and character revelations) 13 pages and more chapter and I'm struggling to figure out how I got here.

Narrator: Her love for Hei-Ran, Kelsang, and Jianzhu gossiping and bitching at each other was how she got there.

Anyway, that chapter isn't coming out for a good while TT0TT I'm bad for writing it but.....THE URGE WAS TOO STRONG!

Why won't it come out anytime soon? Because it's like.....6ish+ away.... in Arc 2.... of Two Knives.

"You haven't even finished the interlude LET ALONE start with Arc 2's early chapters and you're doing this????" Yes I have a problem. u_u

[sepal-sea]

"He would not fucking say that" but its "he would not fucking give him that nickname". Not every pairing has to have nicknames for each other. Sometimes (often) it is much more in character to have them just call each other by their names.