#Prepared for the backlash on this one | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dilfosaur · 6 months ago

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well i haven't spilled my guts on tumblr since i was in college but it's the platform that's felt The Most Mine thru the years, so

let's talk!

i've had a huge chip on my shoulder that i wanted off before the year ends. very bad professional experience to follow

so firstly to get ahead of the speculating, i'm not naming names or anything. some of you will puzzle out who i'm talking about, but please don't bother anyone especially not on my behalf. i've worked hard to distance myself from them the past few months. shit happens, especially when you're a dumb bitch (that's me!)

but also this person was someone i considered a close friend and it makes me uneasy to possibly direct backlash at them. "then why post about it" bc i did intermittent work for them for over a year. this is just about that. so hear me out

basically it started off fine. i initially did some commission work for good pay, then was invited to become more involved with their team. unfortunately as i became more involved with their operation it became more disorganized over time. projects started then forgotten, constantly shifting schedules, lapsing communication between roles, confusing financials, and often inconsistent if not late payments. during mid 2023 i was doing colorist work, sometimes on a one day turnaround (all while also preparing drawfee's summer merch launch). the payroll wasn't set up correctly so i wasn't paid for that work for over a year (more on that later), tho to be fair that was largely my own fault at first as i just didnt realize the payments didn't go thru lol

i always consider myself decently capable of separating friendship and coworker-ship; i run a company with 4 wonderful friends, going strong for almost 5 years. that didn't really work out in this case. by early this year our friendship was on the rocks; work issues fed into personal issues and vice versa. so as the rest of this shit plays out, we had just had our first "big fight" which i felt very bad about and added to all the upcoming tension

a huge point of friction was the fact that i really wanted to work with them to make a music video for one of their songs. i've always wanted a chance to make a music video, was confident in a concept i came up with, and even did some concept art for the idea. everyone insisted they loved the concept and that we should do it, but we kept pushing it back for various reasons. it ended up becoming a huge sticking point for my frustrations, which i tried to express productively. TLDR, we eventually got around to discussing it seriously around april.

i planned to ask for $4000 with negotiable add-on for the whole project, which was my Friend Discount price. i was offered a contract for $1000 flat rate, as they insisted that was the only budget they had for it.

don't ask me why i signed it lol. i didn't even counter offer

there was some girlmath to it: i wanted an extra 1k for a student scholarship i provide every spring and well, there it was. but if i had to guess, i saw it as something i just couldn't back down from any more. i caused these folks- my friends- a lot of problems bc i dug my heels in so deep to chase this project, so fuck it we ball

i had about 4 months to solo a 3 minute music video. they wanted it done in august so they could release it before summer ended, bc "it was a summer song". to be fair i was asked if i needed them to pay for anything extra like assistants (which i would have to find and manage) but i was so immediately overwhelmed that i didn't wanna slow down to wait on that process lol. there was very minimal communication other than brief progress check-ins every few weeks. i did everything for that project myself: the original concept, character designs, storyboards, layouts, backgrounds. i even did the editing/compositing for the final cut of the MV. the only favor i did myself was limiting the amount of it that was actually animated to simple loops and motions. hardly my best work but it was work still done

i did it all in between my full time job. i ended up having to take nearly a month away from most of my drawfee duties (with the support of the others) to make the august deadline. i only ever asked for a 3 day extension (notice given about a week in advance, around the same time i was given the final song file lol). i finished the music video at 6am on the final deadline and recorded drawfee the next day on 2 hours of sleep

but it was done, coolies. the team was very happy with the final product. honestly, without getting into it, those were a very emotionally taxing 4 months. on the professional side, i regretted agreeing to the project and especially for the dogshit rate they offered. i felt like a hypocrite- as someone who always wanted to advocate for younger artists demanding their worth in a world that's getting increasingly hostile toward creatives, i failed myself

so when i met with the manager to discuss the release plan, i told them to do whatever worked best for them as i only had one request: i wanted my credit removed from the project

tbh... like... lmao this dramatic bitch right!! but really, i decided that bad practices only breed worse business. friends or not, it was unprofessional of me to accept such a low paying job so i just didn't want my name used in association. everything felt so muddled to me and i was just really tired at this point

the manager was very understanding and then offered that i could be paid more. they said that their team "was surprised" i accepted their low rate and they would be happy to up the amount. this confused me as the initial budget seemed pretty set and at no point between april and august was i offered a better rate. i knew these guys weren't made of money. so, i declined. i didn't want to put anyone out of their means over work that was already done and agreed upon. but more importantly, i was over the whole thing and didn't want to prolong the project with a contract renegotiation. i just insisted my name be removed

they decided to use a pseudonym (which i was fine with) so they could create a story about a character who made the MV (this sounds really convoluted but i don't know how better to put it without getting specific, sorry). that way if people asked about the credit, they could speak comfortably about it without signaling that something went wrong behind the scenes. ok, kind of a silly narrative imo but whatevs. and maybe this is where i finally went truly wrong but. yolo i guess

i gave the name "D. Smithee", D as in dilfosaur and Smithee as in Alan Smithee. look it up for fun film trivia ig! was it passive aggressive of me to reference that in this context? yeah, honestly. but i thought it was kinda funny and really not that deep. if it was a problem, i have other real, non-cheeky pseudonyms i regularly use. the manager accepted it and all i had to do was wait for them to post the video and i could leave the whole experience behind me

a week later i received a message from the manager that my pseudonym had been denied by the rest of the team bc one of them got the reference. fair enough lol. however, they decided that rather than ask for a different name, the were going to make one up for me that they liked and would "fit the [story]", without asking me

and that! is when i finally snapped!

i was so tired of giving them concessions at this point and having a credit made up for me without any input from me felt genuinely violating and unethical. i started to Panic bc of how stressed i was, and asked for my overdue payments (aka the $500 still owed on the MV, and the colorist rate from a year prior that was never paid even tho i reported it in january) to be scheduled ASAP as i was leaving the work discord immediately

i finally told them off for exploiting me throughout the months while i kept trying to just be nice and finish my contact cleanly. in return i was told that it was unfair to say that as i agreed to everything- i accepted their cheap rate and denied further payment so that was all settled, and it was ok to change my credit without my consent bc i "said they could do whatever with the release". i called bullshit, ended the convo as kindly as i could, and cried lol. they agreed to ditch the pseudonym and just give no credit. that night was the last i heard from anyone on that team

and the real kicker?

august came and went. then september, october... and they never released the music video

and i don't know why, because i was never contacted about it. i've been removed from the picture entirely i guess. 4 months and boatloads of stress. just. up in smoke. i don't know what i expected honestly

it's hard to not take everything that happened personally and as done in bad faith. i really do, honestly. i've had plenty of shitty deals in my almost 10 year art career, but it hits different from people you saw as friends. but to the point of "why not keep it private", i have never felt so disrespected as a professional as i did this past year. i can toy with money and credits and other formalities all i want, but my work- my ideas, my labor, my effort- is still so important to me. i felt like the biggest idiot for doing so much work, pouring so much of myself into a piece for someone's use, for what has amounted to nothing

but more importantly i hated myself for undervaluing my work, even if initially i thought this person was a trusted friend. money is not really an issue for me- drawfee is my main job and i am fine and comfortable. it's so important to pay artists appropriately but i often undersell my own work bc i value the collaboration and passion between creatives more than the reward. i think a lot of artists tend to feel the same, and it often makes us easy to take advantage of. it's so difficult to find the balance between passion and making a fair living, and i think there's some shame within ourselves when artists choose to prioritize that passion

i wanted to finally get all this off my chest bc i was ashamed of every choice i made. things like this happen all the time i'm sure and hiding these mistakes only make it easier for it to happen to other people

tldr always value your work and protect your passion from people who just see it as a product. and don't give cheeky pseudonyms i guess lol

(and again pls don't bother anyone involved about this. a lot of chaos has left my life as i moved past all this, and this is me closing a door without opening new ones hopefully lol)

this shit was truly

so ass.

but i'm moving past it now

but on a nicer note. outside of all of this nonsense, i made lots of good memories this year. i'm truly so grateful to the many wonderful people in my life who keep me going even when i fuck up big time!

and thank you to all of you strangers who, despite everything, give me the time of day. especially if you read this whole thing. you're a real one :')

happy new year!

#getting personelle #reflecting about some shit #thank u for reading or not reading just thanks for sticking around ig

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strawberry-bubblef · 3 months ago

Note

Twst those you got overblot what should the reaction be if they hurt y/n pretty badly

Like example ( malleus but then to sleep for a very long time not wanted them to leave or like that Leon accidentally made so they lost an arm in his overblot?)

Ob student unintentionally hurting their s/o

Part 2 :OB students having nightmares of themselves after hurting their s/o

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle had always believed in control. He lived by rules, by discipline, by order. But during his overblot, there had been nothing but rage,wild, unrestrained, and merciless.

And you had been caught in it.

The moment he woke up, his breath was uneven, his chest tight. The weight of his own magic’s backlash was suffocating, but none of it compared to the way his heart stopped when he turned his head.

And saw you.

Your body lay still, surrounded by students tending to you, but his eyes could only focus on one thing.

Your arm.

Or rather, the empty space where your arm should have been.

His stomach twisted violently, nausea clawing up his throat.

No.

No, no, no.

This couldn’t be real. This had to be some kind of nightmare, a cruel illusion brought on by his exhaustion.

But the blood staining the ground was real. The pain in your eyes was real. And the devastating loss was very, very real.

Something inside Riddle shattered.

Tears welled up instantly, spilling down his face before he could even think to stop them. His breaths came in short, broken gasps as he scrambled forward on shaky limbs, his hands reaching out before stopping abruptly.

He had no right to touch you.

His magic,his own hands,had done this to you.

"Y/N—" His voice cracked, his throat tightening as the words became stuck. "I—I didn’t—"

Your eyes fluttered open at his voice, and even in agony, you managed to give him a tired smile. "Riddle…"

But that only made it worse.

You should be furious. You should hate him. You should scream at him, tell him to stay away, curse him for what he had taken from you.

Instead, you still looked at him like he was the same Riddle you had always known.

The same Riddle who had just ruined your future in a fit of unhinged wrath.

A raw, gut-wrenching sob tore from his throat as he collapsed beside you, his body trembling violently. His tears fell freely now, staining his uniform as he gripped his head, gasping between hiccupped cries.

"I’m sorry,I’m so sorry," he choked out. "I—how could I—? You—your arm—I—!"

The words wouldn't form. Nothing could possibly express the horror, the unbearable weight of what he had done.

"I didn’t mean to—I never wanted—!" He sobbed like a child, gasping for air, voice breaking over and over. "Please—please forgive me—!"

He was spiraling. He knew he was spiraling, but there was no stopping it. His magic had never failed him before, but now, it had cost you something irreplaceable.

And all he could do was weep.

Even after you were taken away for treatment, Riddle remained on the ground, curled in on himself as the tears continued to fall, his body wracked with uncontrollable grief.

For days, he could barely function. He would bring you everything you needed, yet he never had the courage to truly face you. He couldn’t look at the place where your arm had once been without feeling like the air was being sucked out of his lungs.

Even as you reassured him, even as you smiled and told him that you would find a way to move forward, Riddle couldn’t forgive himself.

And he never would.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona had never been one to sugarcoat things. Life was unfair, people were weak, and the strong took what they wanted. That was how the world worked.

But nothing had prepared him for this.

He could still remember the sheer force of his magic, the way the sandstorm had swallowed everything, the deafening roar of destruction.

And you

You had been caught in it.

He hadn’t seen it happen. He didn’t remember the exact moment when his magic had reached you. But the scent of blood in the air was unmistakable.

And the moment he opened his eyes, his world stopped.

You were on the ground, injured, battered and missing an arm.

Your dominant arm, the one you always used to pull him along when he was too lazy to move, the one that had rested so casually on his shoulder as you teased him, the one that had traced gentle patterns into his skin during quiet moments together.

Gone.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out everything else.

His fingers dug into his palms, his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. His body trembled not from exhaustion, not from magic drain, but from the sheer force of the emotions crashing down on him like a tidal wave.

This couldn’t be real.

There was no way.

But the scent of blood told him otherwise.

And then, you opened your eyes.

“…Leona?”

Your voice was weak, but still there, still reaching for him like you always did.

His breath hitched. His hands clenched tighter, his nails drawing blood from his own skin.

You should be yelling at him. You should be cursing him, demanding to know why he let this happen, why he wasn’t strong enough to protect you from himself.

But instead, you were looking at him with tired eyes, like you were more worried about him than yourself.

That broke something inside him.

His knees hit the ground beside you, his tail low, ears flattened. His hands hovered over you, but he didn’t dare touch. He didn’t deserve to.

“…Dammit,” he muttered, voice hoarse. He exhaled sharply through his nose, trying,failing to keep his emotions in check.

He had never cared about rules or expectations. But this? This was something that should never have happened.

He had hurt you.

He had taken something from you.

And there was no way to fix it.

“Stupid…” His voice wavered. His throat felt tight, dry. He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling shakily. “Why’d you get in the way, huh? What were you thinkin’?”

You let out a tired chuckle. “Didn’t really… have time to think.”

His ears twitched at your response, but there was no amusement in his expression. His hands curled into fists. His chest ached in a way he couldn’t describe.

He had always been a realist. The world was cruel, life was unfair.

But for the first time, he wanted to deny reality.

To pretend that none of this had happened.

To believe that when he woke up tomorrow, you’d still have both arms, that this was all just some horrible nightmare.

But it wasn’t.

And he knew that no matter what he did from this point forward, he would never,never,be able to undo this mistake.

Even after you were taken for treatment, he didn’t leave your side. He didn’t sleep, barely ate. He just sat there, staring at your unconscious form, ears low, tail still, expression unreadable.He did even participated to to the spelldrive tournament.

But deep down, he knew.

No matter how much time passed, no matter how much you forgave him.

Leona Kingscholar would never forgive himself.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul had spent years perfecting his image,charming, intelligent, always in control. No one could touch him, no one could hurt him, and most importantly, no one could ever see him as weak again.

But now?

Now, he was staring at you, his beloved, as you lay unconscious in the infirmary.

And he had never felt weaker in his entire life.

His hands trembled, gripping his arms so tightly his nails nearly broke skin. His breath came in uneven gasps, his chest rising and falling far too quickly, like he was on the verge of drowning all over again.

Because you were hurt.

Because of him.

He had lost control during his overblot. The memories of it were a blur of suffocating ink, the crushing weight of his own insecurities manifesting in monstrous form. He had wanted power,more power, enough to make sure no one could ever trample him underfoot again.

And in that desperate grasp for control, he had lost the most precious thing in his life.

Your leg was gone.

You had saved him. He didn’t know how,didn’t know when you had gotten close enough to reach him, to try and pull him back from the brink.

But his ink had swallowed you whole.

And when the storm cleared, when his world came crashing back into sharp, unbearable clarity, he had seen you unconscious and bleeding.

Less than whole.

A choked, bitter laugh bubbled up in his throat, but it never made it past his lips.

This was what he had always feared, wasn’t it? Losing control, being seen as the monster he truly was.

And now you knew.

Now, there was no illusion left to protect him.

He reached for you hesitantly, his fingers barely brushing against your arm before he pulled back. He had no right to touch you.

“…You should hate me.” His voice cracked, barely a whisper.

He expected you to wake up and recoil from him. To push him away, to yell, to curse him for what he had taken from you.

And you would be right to do so.

But when your eyelids fluttered open, the first thing you did

Was smile at him.

“…Hey, Azul.” Your voice was hoarse, weak. “You look terrible.”

His breath hitched.

You should be screaming at him, demanding to know why, demanding answers he couldn’t give.

Instead, you were worried about him.

His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palm as his head bowed.

“…You’re a fool.” His voice wavered. “An absolute fool. Why did you—”

You lifted a trembling hand and placed it over his.

Azul flinched, his entire body tensing. He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve your warmth, your touch, your kindness.

But you still gave it to him anyway.

“Because you needed someone,” you murmured, your fingers weak against his. “And I… I needed you too.”

He bit his lip hard, swallowing down the overwhelming emotions threatening to spill over.

He wanted to say he was sorry, but words would never be enough.

He wanted to promise he’d fix this, but no matter how powerful he was, no contract in the world could return what was lost.

So instead, all he could do was hold your hand, press his forehead against it, and try not to let the tears slip past his lashes.

And when you squeezed his fingers ever so gently, offering him comfort when it should be the other way around.

He broke.

Jamil Viper

Jamil had spent his entire life perfecting the art of control.

Control over his emotions. Control over his actions. Control over every single aspect of himself so that no one,not Kalim, not his family, not the world could ever dictate his fate.

But now?

Now, he was staring at the consequence of his failure.

And it was unbearable.

You lay on the infirmary bed, unconscious, your breathing shallow. Bandages wrapped tightly around your leg, but no amount of magic could change the fact that below the knee—

There was nothing left.

His grip tightened around the chair he sat on, fingers trembling.

How had it come to this?

He knew exactly how.

The moment he had lost himself to his overblot, the moment years of frustration and anger had finally erupted into something monstrous,he had wanted power. No, he had craved it, needed it more than anything.

And in his desperate grasp for freedom, he had taken yours away.

He could still remember it. The image was burned into his mind like a cursed brand.

He hadn’t even realized what had happened until the rage left his body, until the darkness cleared, and he saw you lying there.

He thought he had known pain.

But nothing, nothing in his life had ever hurt like this.

Jamil clenched his jaw, forcing his hands to remain still as he sat beside you, watching your every breath, as if afraid you would disappear entirely if he looked away.

What could he even say to you when you woke up?

“Sorry” wasn’t enough.

Nothing would ever be enough.

A deep, suffocating silence filled the air, broken only by the faint rustling of the sheets as you stirred.

His breath caught.

Your eyelashes fluttered, your face scrunching slightly before your eyes slowly opened.

The moment your gaze met his, something in him nearly shattered.

“…Jamil?” Your voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

He swallowed hard.

He should leave.

He should stand up and walk out of this room before you had the chance to say anything,before he saw the realization dawn in your eyes, before you understood exactly what he had done to you.

But he couldn’t move.

“…You should hate me.” The words felt heavy, choked, forced through gritted teeth.

You blinked at him, still groggy from exhaustion.

Then, your gaze shifted downward, toward your foot.Well towards your bandaged ankle, since you technically no longer had a left foot.

Jamil felt himself go rigid, every muscle in his body locking up as he watched the understanding dawn in your expression.

Your lips parted, your breathing uneven.

And then, you laughed.

It was small, weak, almost bitter, but it wasn’t the reaction he had expected.

“…You always did run me ragged,” you murmured, voice tinged with dry amusement.

Jamil stiffened. “Don’t joke about this.”

You turned your head to look at him fully, your expression soft despite the exhaustion weighing down your body. “Are you going to keep blaming yourself forever?”

His fists clenched in his lap.

“Yes.”

You sighed. “Then I guess I’ll just have to wait until you forgive yourself.”

His breath hitched.

How could you say that? How could you be so calm, so accepting, after what he had done?

He dropped his head into his hands, his body shaking.

“I don’t deserve that,” he muttered.

He felt a weak, warm touch brush against his wrist.

“…Then earn it,” you whispered.

Jamil inhaled sharply, eyes stinging, throat burning.

Earn it.

Even after everything, you still believed in him.

His fingers curled around your hand, gripping it tightly.

He didn’t deserve you.

But he would spend every day proving that he did.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil had always prided himself on his control. His grace. His ability to shape perfection with his own hands.

And yet

This was something he could never fix.

He sat frozen beside your hospital bed, the soft glow of the infirmary lights casting eerie shadows across your bandaged face.

The damage had been irreversible.

The overblot had been blinding,literally. In his descent into madness, in his obsession with beauty, in his desperate need to correct every single flaw,his magic had surged. The explosion had shattered mirrors, the shards cutting through everything in their path.

Including you.

When he had finally awakened from the nightmare, the first thing he saw was you, lying motionless on the debris of the stage of the SDC surrounded by some NRC students.Bblood streaking down your face.

And when you opened your eyes, they were..

Gone.

A horrible, cruel irony.

He, who had always been so fixated on appearances, had taken something irreplaceable from the person he loved most.

His hands trembled where they rested on his lap, clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms.

Vil Schoenheit did not cry.

He did not break.

But now, with you lying there,his hands tainted with something that could never be undone.

He felt as if he had shattered completely.

The sound of shifting sheets made him tense.

Slowly, hesitantly, your good eye fluttered open.

Vil held his breath.

“…Vil?”

It was soft, weak, but unmistakably you.

He exhaled shakily, willing himself to keep his composure.

“You’re awake.”

Your brows furrowed slightly, and for a brief moment, he could see the confusion in your face as you adjusted to the dim light.

Then, your expression changed.

Your fingers ghosted over the bandages on your face.

A pause.

“…I can’t see,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Vil’s chest tightened, the weight of his guilt pressing down so heavily he could barely breathe.

“I know.”

Silence.

You didn’t say anything, didn’t cry, didn’t scream like he had expected. Instead, you simply let out a breath,a tired, resigned thing and turned your head slightly toward him.

“Are you okay?”

His lips parted, eyes widening in stunned disbelief.

“…Am I—” His voice caught in his throat, emotions threatening to spill over. “You’re the one lying in a hospital bed, unable to see, and you’re asking me if I’m okay?”

You gave a small, weary smile. “Yeah.”

Something in him cracked.

For the first time in years, Vil let himself break.

His hands reached for yours, gripping them tightly, as if trying to ground himself,to prove to himself that you were still here. That despite everything, you hadn’t disappeared from his life completely.

“…I am not okay.” His voice was hoarse, raw, filled with something too deep to name. “I will never be okay.”

Not after this.

Not after knowing that he was the one who did this to you.

You squeezed his hand, and his breath hitched.

“…Then we’ll work on it together,” you said softly.

Vil lowered his head, pressing his forehead against your fingers.

There were no words that could ever make this right.

But if you were willing to stay,if you were willing to give him even the smallest chance.

He would spend the rest of his life making sure you never regretted it.

Idia Shroud

Idia always thought of himself as a coward.

He avoided conflict. He hid behind screens and firewalls, behind the cold comfort of technology where nothing could touch him.

But in the end, he had still managed to hurt you.

No,he had ruined you.

The reality of it didn’t set in until he saw your hand.

Your dominant hand.

Four fingers,gone.

He stood in the medical ward of Styx, his stomach churning violently as he stared at the bandages wrapped tightly around what remained of your hand.

It was his fault.

His overblot had been a nightmare of control, desperation, and raw, unchecked power.And in the chaos,when you had reached out for him, trying to pull him back one of the .

One of his spells had unfortunately touched you

A single, merciless strike.

It had been fast. Too fast.

The worst part?

He hadn’t even realized it happened until after he woke up.

Until he saw the blood.

Idia wanted to run.

He wanted to log out of reality and bury himself in the deepest depths of cyberspace, where he wouldn’t have to face the fact that he,he had caused this.

But he didn’t.

Because this wasn’t a game.

He had no save points. No reset button. No way to undo what he had done.

So instead, he stood there, his hands shaking, his throat dry, and his heart threatening to beat out of his chest.

“…You don’t have to stay,” your voice was quiet, strained. It was the first thing you had said to him since you woke up. “If it’s too much.”

Idia flinched as if burned.

Too much?

Was this your way of letting him off the hook? Giving him an easy way out?

He felt sick.

How could you even think that he would leave you after this?

His feet moved before his mind could catch up, closing the distance between you in seconds. He dropped to his knees beside your bed, his blue hair shadowing his face as he reached out,hesitated then finally, gently, took your injured hand in his.

His fingers barely ghosted over the bandages, as if afraid he would hurt you even more.

“…I don’t want to go.” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “I can’t go.”

You stared at him, your expression unreadable.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Then, slowly, you turned your palm upward, allowing his trembling hands to hold yours completely.

“You’re shaking,” you murmured.

He let out a weak, breathy laugh, his throat tightening.

“Yeah,” he choked out. “I’m freaking terrified.”

Terrified that you’d hate him.

Terrified that you’d never forgive him.

Terrified that he had taken something from you that could never, ever be replaced.

“…It’s going to be okay, Idia.”

How could you say that?

How could you still be so calm? So steady?

Tears welled up in his yellow eyes, slipping down his pale cheeks as he gripped your hand tighter.

“I don’t deserve that,” he whispered brokenly.

You smiled faintly. “Too bad.”

Idia let out a soft, shaky laugh, his head lowering as he pressed his forehead to your hand.

No.

He didn’t deserve you.

But he would spend the rest of his life making sure you never regretted keeping him by your side.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus had never meant to hurt you.

His overblot had consumed him,his fear of being left alone, his desperation to keep you by his side. And in his moment of madness, his magic had surged beyond his control.

A sleeping curse.

A slumber so deep that no force in the world could break it, except time itself.

At first, he had raged against it, pouring through ancient texts, consulting the wisest fae and scholars. But the truth was cruel,this was his own magic, raw and instinctual, fueled by his deepest desires. There was no counterspell.

Only patience.

And so, Malleus waited.

Centuries passed.

But he never left you.

In a quiet, secluded castle untouched by time, he watched over you, speaking to you as if you would wake any moment. He never let dust settle upon your resting place, never let the warmth of his love fade.

And then, one day

Your fingers twitched.

It was so small, so fragile, but Malleus had been watching for so long that he noticed it immediately.

His breath hitched.

Then,your eyelashes fluttered.

And finally,

Your eyes opened.

The world was blurry, but the first thing you saw was him, hovering over you, golden eyes wide with something indescribable.

“…Malleus?” Your voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

His hands trembled as he reached out, almost afraid to touch you, as if you would disappear like a dream.

“Beloved…” His voice broke. “You are awake.”

You blinked, disoriented, trying to understand why his expression was so pained, why he looked as if he had been crying for years.

And then it came back to you

The storm. The darkness. The raw magic that had swept you away.

Realization dawned, and Malleus flinched at the way your lips parted in shock.

“…How long?” You asked, already knowing the answer wouldn’t be kind.

Malleus closed his eyes, exhaling a breath as if it carried centuries of grief.

“Too long,” he whispered. “But I am here. I have always been here.”

Your heart ached not just for yourself, but for him. For the time he had lost, for the weight he had carried.

Slowly, you reached out, placing your hand over his. He stiffened at the warmth,real and present, not a memory or a wish.

“…Then let’s not waste another moment,” you murmured.

Malleus let out a shaky laugh, something between relief and disbelief, before pulling you into his embrace.

For the first time in centuries, his world felt whole again.

And this time, he would never let you go.

English is not my first language !

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lockandkeyblade · 4 months ago

Text

First Rule of Ghost Fight Club

Hey look ma, there's a multichapter now!

Several months ago the GiW, flush off the success of having the Anti-Ecto Acts passed– even if they had to hide it beneath several hundred adjustments to agricultural and infrastructure legislation– made a mistake.

Their little campaign of hatred was going well, maybe too well– so why not make it public? Why not grasp for a little more power, incite some torch and pitchforks? There were a dozen roads the stupid bastards could've taken, but they wanted the shortcut. The highway.

They decided that their next campaign against the ghosts would be to release several videos highlighting the utter destruction left in the wake of their fights. Show America there was something worth fighting on their hometurf. Make them angry. Make them vicious.

Jason figures they’d expected some backlash for it. There would've been a PR guy, or ten, or twenty, paid the big bucks just to sit around and consider it all. He'd interrupted enough board room meetings in his youth past life that he's got a pretty damn good idea of what to visualize; a bunch of white guys, forty plus, sitting around and deciding how people they did not know, understand, or give two fucks about were likely to receive this kind of news.

Ghosts were real, and terrible. The slogans were equally as bad, of course. And that wasn't on the PR team- that was on whatever dead-eyed millennial got paid way too little to give a fuck. Grandma can't cook you pies like she used to- she's too busy eating your soul. Little Timmy who fell down the well has taken one too many pointers from Samara Morgan. That kinda shit.

Someone was still gonna care about 'em. Someone was gonna call this inhumane. Someone would look into that Act and realize ghosts; talking, once-living people (some of 'em), had less rights than the average lab rat. Someone would start a protest.

The GiW would've thought about that and prepared for it. They must've felt invincible enough to chance it anyway, because they started uploading their 'documentaries' on the barbarity of ghosts online. Probably stroking their cliché ass moustaches and puffing cheap cigars all the while.

The fuckers would've expected all that. What they didn't expect, when blasting the world with their little softcore snuff vids, was how into it the world became.

Ghost fights? Were fucking badass.

And now the whole world knows it.

Gotham, especially, knows it. Gotham loves it. This was the kind of thing that was made to take over the nightlife of an already unhinged city; sports bars replacing football with the newest renditions of that one robot dude smacking down a couple of buildings, taking bets on what was gonna get him first– Danger Twink, Little Red Flying Hood, Morally Ambiguous Scientists, or The Man.

Proper names for each entity- and every other painfully stereotypical character involved- were hard to come by, initially. Most of those founding videos had the sound swapped out for the screams of children, flat voiceovers of scientists reminding the people that ghosts don't feel, so don't feel for them.

The bars played 'em on mute and blasted their own tunes over the top. Others had their own live MCs to commentate on the action. Robot dude got the name Gadget Goatee, the sweetass punk rock girl was On Fleek. The ghost seemingly addicted to boxes was Box Ghost. Names like that. When camera crews of reputable (and not so reputable) sports channels started sneaking into Amity Park, some names got adjusted. Some didn't.

The day pre-fight interviews began to happen was the day Jason seriously started considering why the Justice League hadn't gotten involved yet, enough to ease that question into conversation with Dickiebird. To sate his curiosity, no other reason. Turns out, Danger Twink had asked them not to. And the Justice League, full of some of the most anal and controlling people Jason has ever had the misfortune to meet, had listened to him. The petition signed by almost the entirety of Amity Park's population had probably helped.

Apparently, the city didn't want or need help. On the fighting front, at least. Nightwing is as in the dark for what, precisely, had been shared about why that was, but it was enough for Batman to raise the requirements for permission to be obtained by any hero wanting to go into Amity Park’s space– and for the rest of the founding members to approve them.

JL's continued efforts to flatten the GiW and their miserable Anti-Ecto Acts had been cheerfully encouraged. Everything else, though? That was Danger Twink's problem. Or Phantom's joy, if you asked Jason's opinion on the matter. Not that anyone did.

The reality these days was that the government agency, high off their own fumes- as they often were- managed to fuck themselves right out of existence. And the ghosts? The ghost fights?

They were there to stay. Impressively contained within Amity Park with a startling level of confidence and control, all thanks to one girl on a hoverboard and a dead guy.

Place was even considered a chill place to visit, contrary to the continually televised property damage. The fights continued to maintain a level of popularity that was almost feverish, stealing their way into primetime television, spawning a couple dozen streaming services that would inevitably cannibalise themselves.

Oh, Jason could see the appeal of those fights. Hell, if he thought he could get away with it, he’d join ‘em. Sure, most of Gotham was into it for the more obvious reasons. Vicious mauling and extensive infrastructure repair that wasn't their problem, for once. Something new to bet on, some cool people (dead, alive, or never alive in the first place) to throw merchandise around for. The phenomenal amount of simping, the utterly batshit rule 34 that could be found online. A few ghost themed cocktails. All that good shit.

Jason just liked the sound.

He hadn't gotten into the videos until he could hear 'em, the ghosts themselves. It was something he kept to himself, seeing as- hey, no one else was mentioning it. His family was likely to think him insane again, so that was another deterrent. Nah, let folks think Red Hood enjoyed having that shit on in the background for...inspiration. Of the this might happen to the next person who crosses me variety.

But nah. He just, liked the sound.

It was like a secret concert, just for him. Some of those fights might as well be fucking operas. Full on musicals with a bit more green blood to 'em. Every ghost sang in a way Jason couldn't describe. There was a vibrato to it all, otherworldly and entrancing. A resonance that seemed to sink past his skin, right down to his soul.

They sing about obsession. They talk about what matters most to them, the parts of their unlife that are their beating hearts, their drive, their love. Every fight is an illicit fantasy, an almost embarrassing revelation of the people beneath the caricatures– Gotham sees neat fights, and Jason hears souls.

It was simultaneously off-putting and addictive.

And fuck him sideways, but sometimes? The songs were kind of cute.

Especially the ones for Danger Twink. Most of the songs were for Danger Twink. Phantom, as he kept trying to tell the media, over and over again. The kid barely looked legal, though it was hard to tell when he was, y'know, six feet under. Brat could be

Bruce's great grandpa several times over, for all he knew.

But he wasn't, if the songs were anything to go by. As far as the ghosts were concerned, this implied to be twenty year-old was, in ghost terms, baby. He was baby.

All the other ghosts knew it. All the other ghosts adored it. A solid fifty percent of the songs Jason could hear, day in, day out, were basically gooshy renditions of look at our small king. Our light. He has grown so much.

That Phantom’s response is usually the equivalent of mom please, you’re embarrassing me, as he makes a crater out of the earth with his opponent? Classic.

In a way, this whole shebang the world was addicted to was just a community trying to rear their child. Their potentially important child, or just important to them. Jason really didn’t know which way it was leaning, and it’s not like he could ask.

Really, he was just content to witness, maybe fantasize, a little, about what kind of songs they’d sing under his fists. What kind of song Phantom might sing, if Jason pinned him into the dirt.

One video changes that.

It’s a new one. Gotham is terribly excited by it; wherever Jason goes, he sees advertisements and hears people talking because– new ghost. New ghost. A new challenger approaches. The bars and the television companies keep any hints of who or what this late entry to the game might be, and it’s smart. Everybody’s talking about it. Fuck, even Tim is talking about it, and that little idiot hates the whole thing. Thinks it’s sickening that any being’s pain could be turned into sport.

Not that he’s wrong, just, y’know. No one’s really being hurt.

Jason thinks he might also be… a little anticipatory. He’s gotten awfully familiar with the usual roster, their songs something that rattles off in his head throughout the day. He knows– heh. He knows what Phantom sings back to them. Intimately. Has that part memorized, and he’s not ashamed to admit it.

He wants to hear Phantom sing about something new. That’s what’s exciting.

It’s exciting right up until he’s slouched down at a bar, eyes fixed to the screen and the cheers of the crowd around him drowned out by a tune that turns his blood to ice, stirs up something that’s been quiet in him for years, until his eyes flash green.

Because the new ghost doesn’t want to play with Phantom. He wants to own him. Like a dog. With discordant notes that sound like laughter, high pitched and crazed, like a metal pipe slamming into his face, over and over again–

And Phantom is defiant, glorious, powerful.

Afraid.

Jason doesn’t remember getting onto his bike, but as he heads east, he knows exactly where he’s going. Fuck permission, fuck the Justice League, and fuck Phantom for trying to handle that sort of shit on his own.

He doesn’t know how he’s gonna do it, but this Plasmius guy? Is about to learn what it’s like to die. For the second time.

#dpxdc #dead on main #thiiiis ran away on me lol #in any case Jason aka an absolute dumbass #casually hearing ghost speak through the tv and deciding he's just fine with that #less fine when someone uses said ghost speak to threaten the ghost he's maybe #just a tiny bit addicted to #pits stirring for the first time since he's essentially had his own ghost lofi chillbeats to listen to nonstop #let's go murder says Jason it'll be fun #and it will be fun #multichapter to be #to everyone's credit I was not hard to enable

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amyzworldds · 3 months ago

Text

Title: Echoes of Exhaustion

Part 2 | Part 3

SEVENTEEN’s relentless world tour preparations have left Jeonghan exhausted and irritable. When his concerned girlfriend, surprises the group with food during practice, hoping to ensure they’re cared for, she’s met with an unexpected backlash. Pairing: Idol Jeonghan x reader Genre: Angst

The practice room was a blur of movement and sound—sharp choreography, the echo of sneakers squeaking against the polished floor, and the faint hum of music looping for what felt like the hundredth time that day. The group had been at it for hours, preparing for their upcoming world tour, and exhaustion hung heavy in the air. Jeonghan, in particular, was running on fumes. His usually playful demeanor had been replaced by a tense, quiet focus, his body aching and his mind begging for rest. All he wanted was to push through the last set and collapse into bed.

The door creaked open, barely audible over the music, but the sudden shift in the room’s energy made it impossible to ignore. You stepped in, arms laden with bags of takeout—warm, comforting scents of rice, fried chicken, and kimbap wafting through the space. A small, hopeful smile tugged at your lips as you scanned the room, spotting Jeonghan among the members. You’d been worried about him—about all of them—knowing how relentless their schedule had been. They weren’t eating properly, weren’t resting enough, and as Jeonghan’s girlfriend, you couldn’t shake the nagging concern that had settled in your chest.

“Surprise!” you said softly, setting the bags down on a nearby table. “I thought you guys could use some food. You’ve been working so hard.”

The members perked up almost instantly. Seungkwan let out a dramatic groan of relief, clutching his stomach, while Dino was already halfway to the table, muttering a grateful “Noona! you’re a lifesaver.” Even Joshua flashed you a warm, tired smile as he paused to catch his breath. But Jeonghan? He didn’t move. His eyes flicked toward you, then away, his jaw tightening as he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

You stepped closer to him, voice gentle. “Hannie, I brought your favorite—spicy tteokbokki. You should take a break and eat something.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, not meeting your gaze. His tone was clipped, edged with irritation. “We’re almost done. I just want to finish this.”

You hesitated, the smile faltering on your face. “I know, but you’ve been at it all day. Just a quick break—”

“Yn, I said I’m fine,” he snapped, louder this time, his voice cutting through the room. The music stopped abruptly as someone—probably Woozi—hit pause, and a heavy silence descended. All eyes turned toward you and Jeonghan. “God, why are you being so clingy right now? I don’t need you hovering over me. We’re busy.”

The word *clingy* landed like a slap, sharp and humiliating. Your cheeks burned, and you instinctively took a step back, clutching the edge of your sleeve. The other members shifted uncomfortably—Seungcheol cleared his throat, Mingyu looked down at his shoes, and Hoshi busied himself with adjusting his cap. No one knew what to say, and the awkwardness only made it worse.

“I—” Your voice cracked, and you swallowed hard, forcing the lump in your throat down. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’m sorry, guys.” You turned to the group, avoiding Jeonghan’s gaze entirely. “I’ll just… go. Enjoy the food.”

“Yn, wait—” Vernon started, but you were already grabbing your bag and heading for the door, your steps quick and unsteady. Jeonghan didn’t move, didn’t call after you. He just stood there, chest heaving from practice and frustration, his hands clenched at his sides.

You left the building with tears stinging your eyes, the cool night air doing little to calm the storm of embarrassment and hurt swirling in your chest. What Jeonghan didn’t know—what you hadn’t had the chance to tell him—was that this wasn’t just a random visit. You’d come because your own schedule was about to get insane. Work was piling up, deadlines looming, and you wouldn’t have time to see him for weeks. You’d wanted to steal a moment with him before everything pulled you apart, to make sure he was okay. Instead, you’d been sent away, branded as *clingy* in front of everyone.

Back in the practice room, the mood was somber. The members picked at the food in silence, the earlier excitement replaced by an unspoken tension. Jeonghan slumped against the wall, running a hand through his damp hair, replaying the scene in his mind. He hadn’t meant to snap like that—not really. He was just tired, stretched too thin, and you’d caught him at the worst possible moment. Guilt consumed him, but he pushed it down, telling himself he’d fix it later. You’d understand. You always did.

Except ‘later’ didn’t go as planned. That night, he texted you—a simple "Babe, sorry about earlier. I was out of it. Can we talk?”—but your reply was short: “It’s fine. I’m tired, going to bed.” He frowned at the screen, unease settling in, but he let it go, figuring you just needed space.

The next day, he messaged again: “Good Morning babe. You okay? ” Your response came hours later, a short “Yeah, just busy.” No emojis, no teasing, none of the warmth he was used to. He tried calling that evening, but it went to voicemail after a few rings. Another text—“Babe, you sure everything’s good?”—and this time, you didn’t reply until late: “Yep. Work’s crazy. Talk later.”

Days turned into a week, then two. His messages grew more frequent, more desperate—“Haven’t heard from you much, you alright?” “Miss you. Call me when you’re free?”—but your responses, when they came at all, were brief and distant: “Busy right now. I’ll let you know.” He scrolled through the thread, the one-sidedness of it glaring back at him. You weren’t just busy. You were pulling away.

Jeonghan sat on his bed, phone in hand, staring at the last message he’d sent—“I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it. Can we please talk?”—and the “Read” status beneath it that had been there for a day with no reply. His chest tightened. He’d messed up, he knew that, but he hadn’t realized how deep the wound had gone. Now, he was left wondering if you were mad, hurt, or worse done with him entirely. The thought made his stomach twist, and for the first time in weeks, the exhaustion from practice felt insignificant compared to the ache of missing you.

#svt angst #seventeen x reader #jeonghan x y/n #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenario #seventeen angst #jeonghan x reader #jeonghan x you #seventeen x y/n #seventeen x oc #seventeen x carat #seventeen jeonghan

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stevieschrodinger · 2 months ago

Text

Part One Twelve

“There’s been a lot of attention around this album, a lot of Corroded Coffin fans aren’t happy. How would you respond to the fans that are calling you a sell out?”

Jesus fucking Christ, Eddie thinks to himself. And these are the questions after Chrissy vetted them. Well, at least that means Chrissy thinks he can handle it. He wishes to fucking god he’d had chance to look them over before this shit show of an interview though. Eddie used to be good at this. He used to be confident.

He straightens in his chair, “well, considering all profits from the record sales are going to a very good cause,” Eddie starts slowly, growing more sure of where he’s going, “...I think those fans aren’t the kind of fans I want, anyway.”

“A lot of the backlash is centered around some of the artists you’ve chosen to work with, what would you say to the fans claiming you’ve gone ‘mainstream’?”

Eddie clears his throat, sipping from his water bottle, “I think Corroded Coffin have fifteen platinum selling records, and almost all of them are platinum eight or more times over. We are mainstream.”

Behind the lights, Eddie can see Chrissy. He watches her cover her mouth, hiding a laugh.

“Would you say the inspiration for this record comes solely from your own struggles with addiction?”

Eddie’s half an inch from pitching a fit. But, still, if Chrissy thinks this is okay then...he takes a breath. It’s for the album, he tells himself. Publicity means sales.

Sales will help people.

“Some of the things I experienced, sure. The addiction. The rehab. The people who were there for me,” Eddie shrugs, trying to be nonchalant about this.

“When it comes to people who helped you, you’re talking specifically about Boy Scout, right? Probably the most intimate track on the album?”

Eddie grits his teeth a little, “right.”

“Would you tell us who it’s about? There’s been plenty of speculation.” Behind the reporter, Chrissy looks fucking pissed. Some dude with a clip board and an ear piece is actually having to get in her way. It makes Eddie feel a little better.

“No.”

“So your relationship with this person-” Yup. Chrissy did not okay this and she is angry.

“Ask me about the album or we’re done.”

There’s a beat, the reporter interviewer woman looks like she’s just swallowed something sour, but she does move on.

“It’s fine- it’s...it’s fine.” Eddie feels like his insides have been scooped out. He really just doesn’t have the energy. He really fucking wants a drink. It takes a beat, but, no, no he doesn’t want a drink at all, not really. Not once he lets himself take a step back from it.

To calm down.

To think.

To shuffle all the other Eddie’s back off the stage and into the audience where they belong.

He thinks about what he really wants, and he’s pretty sure Eddie of two years ago would be disgusted with him; he wants to eat a bowl of chocolate ice cream in a hot bath and then go to bed.

“Still, sorry, she was absolutely not supposed to go off the list like that.”

“What was on the list was pretty tough,” Eddie cracks an eye, looking across at Chrissy, his head rocking against the leather of the seat with the motion of the car.

She smiles cheekily, “knew you could handle it though.”

“Uh hu,” Eddie lets his eyes close.

“I spoke to him. To Steve.”

Eddie nearly snaps a string with how badly he fumbles his guitar. He’s not prepared really, for the emotions that well up. Still going strong, apparently. Still pining away, even after...it’s been a long time. “What, err, what did he say?” Eddie doesn’t even bother to try and hide what he’s feeling. There was a time when he would have played it cool, or tried too, at least. Not now. “He’s not mad is he? About the song?”

“No, Eds, he’s not mad. He said he really likes it. It’s got a good beat for jogging, or something.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, can’t help it. Obviously Steve uses his music to exercise. Fucking disgusting, is what that is, “gross.” But then Eddie feels a little giddy; Steve likes the song Eddie wrote for him.

“He saw the interview Eddie, that’s why he was calling. Kind of.”

“Right..?”

“He said I can give you his number, if you want it?”

“He didn't...you didn’t just give him mine?”

“I offered, he said it had to be this way around. He said it needs to be up to you.”

“Right,” Eddie starts fiddling with his guitar again, just quiet, soft, “so that sounds like he’s not going to say no right? I mean he wouldn’t do that, just to say no-”

“Eddie.”

“No. Right. You’re right. Yeah.”

Eddie had spent an hour pacing around thinking about it. Not that he wasn’t sure or anything, just that he couldn’t quite...bring himself to press the call button. Like, what if Steve was on board and Eddie just, immediately somehow fucked it up? Or what if Steve didn’t answer? Eddie was definitely not prepared to leave an embarrassing voicemail. It was just...it felt big. It felt like one of the most important things he’d ever done.

So Eddie sent a text that said, ‘coffee?’ and then shoved his phone under a cushion and sulked about it for twenty minutes.

And then he went and got his phone because, you know, Steve might have answered.

He had answered.

It said, ‘yes if this is Eddie?’

Because Eddie hadn’t, actually, included any identifying information with his text message. Which. Smart. But Steve said ‘Yes if this is Eddie,’ so unless there’s a completely different Eddie in the picture, it felt kind of hopeful.

And Eddie must have done okay. Because now he’s here. Steve. Standing in Eddie’s kitchen, making himself right at home, using Eddie’s coffee machine, telling Eddie how good he looks.

And Eddie guesses, he has kind of upped his game when it comes to basic personal hygiene, and he has gained ten pounds, and he got the worst tattoo covered up. His clothes are actually neat and clean and he’s even had his hair cut a couple of times so, yeah.

Yeah. He probably does look better, in comparison to before.

“You look exactly the same.”

Steve smiles, handing Eddie his coffee, “this place looks good. Different.”

“Yeah, I,” Eddie looks around. Redecorating has been done for a while now, so Eddie’s used to how the place looks now, “I didn’t like it, how it was before. Wanted to make it kind of...cozier."

And the kitchen had been all harsh modern lines, before, and it is a little more homely now. Still stylish, Eddie’s not a monster. But yeah, not so harsh. The lounge no longer looks like it should be hosting Hugh Hefner’s entourage and the coffee table is no longer glass.

“Changed the bedroom a lot,” and he has. He’s even given into his Alpha a little, and his new, still huge, bed, is wedged into the corner of the room, perfect for nesting. Which is a thing Eddie does now, sometimes.

“Good, don’t think I could have dicked you down in that b movie horror set anyway.”

Eddie nearly chokes on his coffee because. Yeah. Lot to unpack there. Steve’s got that smile on his face, the one where he knows he’s scored a hit but definitely isn’t being smug about it. Eddie’s not going to rise to it, he isn’t. He’s going to completely ignore the implication that Steve would be...fucking Eddie. Because he isn’t. Eddie’s the Alpha here. He’s better than that now, so he ignores that part, “it wasn’t that bad. If you like red and black.”

“Uh hu.”

Steve slips his sneakers and socks off to stand on Eddie’s lawn. Which. Feels backward to Eddie but, he watches anyway. Tinkling along on his guitar, a little Dolly, for old times sake. Watches as Steve turns his face to the sun and takes a real big breath. He lets it out slowly, before coming back and sitting next to Eddie.

“So...how have you been?” It feels suddenly stilted to Eddie, like the time is a yawning chasm that might continue to keep them apart.

“Yeah. Quit working for the center. Probably over a year ago now.”

“Oh,” Eddie doesn’t really know what to do with that, but he’s concerned suddenly that it’s because of him, somehow, “thought you liked it there? Thought you, you know, helping people?”

“Yeah...yeah I did but...it kind of felt like it was time for a change. And...it didn’t feel right to me, any more, after you, heart wasn’t in it.”

“I- sorry,” Eddie says it anyway, even though he’s pretty sure he had no control over that whole thing.

“Worked out, I’ve been teaching yoga classes and doing some hours as a personal trainer, I’ve been doing some distance learning, it’s...it’s been really good for me, I think. I’ve got another course I want to do, then I just need to…figure some stuff out. I want to open my own yoga studio.”

And Eddie can absolutely see that for him, “that’s great Steve.”

“Yeah, just wish insurance companies and landlords would get the hint you know? Yikes-”

“I could pay-”

“No. No thank you. Don’t do that, Eddie.”

Steve’s looking right at him, and Eddie gets it, “right. No. Of course.”

There’s a moment of silence that could be in danger of becoming awkward, “so what have you been up to? Tell me about the tour?”

And then it isn’t.

They lie on the grass together for a while, the sun bright and almost too warm, really. Eddie knows he won’t last long out here, but because Steve is so clearly enjoying it, he holds on.

He’s like a big cat, stretched out in the sun, his shirt has ridden up enough so show off his flat tummy and Eddie’s pretty sure Steve’s eyes are shut so he stares at Steve’s treasure trail for a little bit.

Steve’s hot, so sue him.

Eddie can feel himself starting to sweat a little; his hair is probably going to do that gross thing where it goes sticky around the edges and frizzy in the middle.

He thinks about Steve washing his hair; Eddie tries not to hope it’ll happen again soon, and fails dismally.

It’s hard not to think about Steve back then; when Eddie was still being a fucking nightmare at every turn. The memories are precious, worn smooth because Eddie takes them out and looks at them every single day.

Not so much the last one though, well, maybe the kissing part.

“Why didn’t you say something? Before?”

Steve hums to show he’s listening.

“When I fucked up...you knew I was going to fuck up, but if you’d...said something. Explained why you said no...I might- I mean it’s not your fault that I did what I did...but…”

Steve sits up, resting back on his arms, hands flat on the grass. He sighs, opens his mouth to speak and then shuts it again. Thinking. “Okay...if I’d have told you what I thought would happen, that you’d relapse, what would you have said?”

What would Eddie have said? He probably would have just told Steve he was wrong, denied it all. But would that have changed anything? Maybe it would have? Eddie has no idea, not really. Maybe he would have stayed sober, just to prove Steve wrong, but even Eddie can admit just how highly fucking unlikely that is.

The silence is long enough that Steve speaks again, “I’ll take a guess, you would have said something like, ‘pfffft. I’m not going to get fucked up because you said no to me. Jesus Christ you’re not all that. You’re such a cunt, fuck off out of my house’.”

“Yeah,” Eddie sighs, rubbing his head. He can’t even really bring himself to look at Steve right now, “yeah, that...sounds like me. Sorry.”

Steve laughs, and Eddie doesn’t move, but he finds comfort when Steve's hand slides overtop of his on the grass, “and then...if you did go and get fucked up,” Steve says carefully, “it would have been my fault.”

“I mean...it wouldn’t have actually been your fault, like, at all.”

“But would you have blamed me?”

“Probably,” Eddie rolls his eyes, shakes his head, “it’s fucking annoying how good you are at this.”

They move to the couch as the sun starts to set and the air turns chilly. Eddie pours them both a drink; fruity bubbly stuff that Eddie uses as his go to every time he would have been reaching for a beer.

Steve sips it and calls it good.

They end up sitting scrunched up together at one end of the couch, thighs pressed together, Eddie leaning enough into Steve’s space that Steve ends up putting an arm around him.

Presses a kiss to the top of Eddie’s head.

Eddie feels it when Steve lingers, takes a deep breath, scenting Eddie’s hair. He pulls Eddie in tighter. Eddie lets his eyes slide shut and just...soaks it in. Steve’s strength. Steve’s...here. He’s actually here, right now, and they’re snuggling on Eddie’s couch and. It hits Eddie all at once that he never thought he’d have this. Never thought, not really, that Steve would ever come back.

He dreamed about it, sure. All the time, especially in his weaker moments.

Eddie nuzzles against Steve’s chest, there’s the scent of laundry detergent, and then the subtle scent of Steve, lingering underneath. Fresh and clean, outdoor warmth.

“I don’t want to fuck this up.”

He feels Steve shrug, “then do your best not to.”

Eddie snorts, twisting further on the couch, pulling his legs up onto the cushions so he can really press into Steve. Steve turns easily, pulling up a leg, holding Eddie with both arms now, committing to the snuggle.

“So there is something that I could fuck up, is what we’re agreeing on?”

Steve’s playing with Eddie’s hair, just the ends, light and careful, “if you want there to be. I’d like that.”

Eddie nods, “so what is it?”

“Partners?” Steve suggests, vaguely.

“Urgh. No. Sounds like we’re solving a crime.”

Steve’s chest moves sharply under Eddie, a surprised laugh that makes no noise.

“Boyfriends?”

Eddie hides his grin, makes his voice sound put upon, “we’re not twelve.”

“Companions?”

“We’re also not ninety.”

“Uhm. Paramour?”

“Doesn’t that one mean that, like, one of us is married and is cheating, or something? I am not the other woman, Steve. Don’t demean me like that.”

There’s a minute, Eddie can almost hear Steve thinking, “other half?”

It’s corny. Kind of kitschy. But...it makes Eddie blush and hide his face a little. If you take that one literally, they’re two halves of a whole...thing. Steve and Eddie...yeah. He likes that. Likes the idea that they’re so joined that no matter which way you slice it, you get a little bit of Steve and a little bit of Eddie.

“Yeah. You can be my other half, I guess.”

“The better half, obviously.”

Eddie doesn’t even fight him on it.

“You could...you can stay. With me.”

Steve smiles over, slipping his coat on, “you propositioning me?”

“A little?”

Steve laughs, the stupid, caught off guard one that makes Eddie smile too, “not tonight, okay? There’s no rush, right?”

Eddie kind of wants to protest, a little, but Steve’s right. There’s no rush, not really. Just the simple fact that Eddie hasn’t had sex with another person in literal years at this point, and since it’s Steve, he’d really, really fucking like to put an end to that dry spell.

Repeatedly.

On every flat surface of the house.

“What, you want to get to know each other better first or something? Because my name is Edward Munson, I like virgin pina coladas, getting caught in the rain, and my favorite color is the shitty brown green color you’re trying to pass off as hazel-

“I know, I’ve heard the song.”

“God you’re such a prick.”

But Steve’s right, and Steve’s backing Eddie up against the hall wall and, there’s not that much difference in their height but Eddie still feels like he’s looking up at Steve. He’s distracted for a second by the feel of Steve tangling their fingers together, and then Steve’s kissing him.

Part Fourteen

#steddie #pre steddie #rock star eddie munson #drug abuse #alcohlism #eddie munson #stranger things #steve harrington #ficlet #chrissy cunningham #eddie and chrissy #alpha eddie munson #beta steve harrington

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etheries1015 · 1 year ago

Text

Vil introduces you to his father, and you fumble

"And this is?"

"Father, i'd like to introduce you to...my lover." Vil pulled you from behind him, his father's gaze flickering between you and his son. Silence rang for a moment before Vils father placed a hand upon his child's shoulders.

"Are you certain you're ready for such a responsibility?" Vil looked shocked for a moment before mildly upset, furrowing his eyebrows and putting a protective arm in front of you.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Vil," his father with a worried gaze held onto his shoulders, "Being a public figure as you are, having a lover is incredibly difficult for us. You might need to keep them hidden, or even be prepared for backlash in case something goes awry. Do you believe you are ready for such responsibility?" Vil looked down from his gaze before his face softening upon looking at your nervous composure. Raising his head, all he did was nod firmly at his father and pull you near his chest.

It was silent for a moment, and you were rather confused. They stared at each other as if having some sort of...conversation that was a secret between the two. A smile crawled onto Eric's face, chuckling and placing an arm over his son's shoulders.

"I'm proud of you, then! You two have my blessings." His eyes, strikingly beautiful and stern just like his offspring, looked at you.

"And your name is?"

..... Your legs turned into jelly and you lost your words, instead, you started stuttering and trembling attempting to introduce yourself.

"Oh- yes!- um- my name is (y/n) It's very nice to meet y-" You went to put out your hand to give him a handshake, going to step forward missing a beat as you tripped over Vils foot. You yelped in surprise and instinctively grabbed hold of the first thing you could, which was Eric. You were ready for the impact of the floor and bringing down your future father-in-law, however it never came.

"Aren't you the energetic one, huh?" He laughed, pulling you back up to your stance. Your face went red as you covered your embarrassment with your hands.

"I'm so sorry, sir." You groaned, Vil biting back a chuckle in seeing you so undone.

"Please, call me Eric." Your jaw slacked open, shaking your head aggressively and waving your hands around your face.

"I can't possibly do that!" You said a little too loud before Vil couldn't hold it back any longer and began laughing, holding his stomach. You shot him an annoyed look before playfully punching his arm.

"Don't laugh at me!" You said with a pout and cheeks rosy, "I'm tryin' here!" Eric watched as you chastised his son with raised eyebrows, seeing his son freely showing his emotions and noticing just how open he seemed to be around this person...

He knew it would work out just fine, and his son was in good hands.

#vil schoenheit #twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #Vil x reader #Vil schoenheit x reader #Twst headcannons #twisted wonderland headcannons #Vil headcannons #Vil schoenheit headcannons

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fellominaarcher · 19 days ago

Text

UNTIL YOU LOVE ME ── KARINA

02. YOU'RE IN MY WORLD NOW

SYNOPSIS

» » While Jimin is ready to return to the public eye after an embarrassing incident, Y/N methodically plans her next move against the sasaengs who have been harassing her idol and she's already planning more, in case, more attack towards Jimin comes.

» » movie star!Karina x protector!stalker!femreader

» » warning: physical assault, stalking, blood, mind games & manipulation (if I remember about it)

prev | next | UYLM m.list | æspa m.list

Two weeks had passed since Y/N's confrontation with Kang Minseo. True to her word, the former stylist had returned to face the consequences of her negligence. She'd appeared in court with a barely visible bruise at the corner of her lips—a small reminder of their encounter—and faced the full weight of legal action for breach of contract, negligence, and defamation. The monetary damages alone would cripple her financially for years.

Y/N had been right. Actions had consequences.

SM Entertainment had also begun pursuing legal action against those spreading hateful comments and defamatory content about their star. The message was clear: there would be accountability for those who chose to attack Yoo Jimin.

Now, finally ready to return to the public eye after weathering the storm of backlash and hatred, Jimin was prepared to resume her normal activities. Drama offers were pouring in, movie roles awaited consideration, and she had several promising auditions lined up, including one for a particularly intriguing drama series.

“No way, you still haven't been to that new café in Gangnam? It's practically famous now!” Yizhuo exclaimed as they walked down the hotel hallway together. “They make killer lemonade, I'm telling you,”

Jimin shrugged with a small pout. “Fine, fine, I'll check it out when I'm in Gangnam next. But it better be as amazing as you say!” The taller woman's tone was playful as they approached her hotel room.

Ning Yizhuo, the renowned soloist and one of Jimin's closest friends in the industry, happened to be staying at the same hotel. Jimin had an advertisement shoot nearby the next morning, which necessitated the overnight stay in preparation for what would undoubtedly be a hectic day.

“Hey, I promise you won't regret—” Yizhuo's words trailed off as their steps slowed. Both women's eyes fixed on a figure in a dark hoodie and baseball cap, hunched over near Jimin's hotel room door, clearly attempting to manipulate the lock without making noise.

It was definitely Jimin's room.

Jimin sighed deeply, closing her eyes for a moment as exhaustion washed over her. A sasaeng, she recognized the behavior immediately. The furtive movements, the disguised appearance, the calculated invasion of privacy. Yizhuo tapped her shoulder gently, and they communicated in the shared silence of people who'd dealt with this nightmare before. This was one of the closest encounters they'd experienced.

“HEY!” Jimin's voice cut through the hallway as she took several steps forward, though she was careful not to get too close to the intruder.

The sasaeng in dark clothing jumped at the sound of Jimin's voice, immediately ducking their head and hurrying away from the door. They moved with the panicked speed of a caught animal, rushing past both Yizhuo and Jimin without making eye contact.

This was one of Jimin's regular stalkers, someone who'd attempted to break into her previous hotel rooms and had somehow discovered which gym she frequented. The kind of persistent harassment that had become an unfortunate constant in her life.

Yizhuo watched the sasaeng's retreating figure with disgust. “This is exactly when you need to call your manager and hotel management. Get a new room, Jimin,” It wasn't new advice, in fact, it was standard protocol whenever a sasaeng was discovered lurking around a celebrity's accommodations.

A terrifying experience. An exhausting one. Fame came with a price that few people truly understood.

──────────────────────

Meanwhile, somewhere...

Y/N sat in her car in the hotel parking garage, having witnessed the entire encounter through the building's security camera feeds she'd accessed earlier. Her jaw clenched as she watched the hooded figure flee from Jimin's hallway.

She recognized that sasaeng—had been tracking their movements for weeks. They went by "KarinaMyLife" online and had been posting increasingly invasive content about Jimin's private schedule, hotel locations, and personal habits. The kind of information that could only come from extensive stalking.

They'd snuck into filming locations, followed Jimin home, and even attempted to break into her previous residences. They represented everything Y/N despised about obsessive fans—the invasive, selfish kind who prioritized their own desires over their idol's safety and comfort.

What a sweet irony.

Y/N had been planning to address this particular problem for some time. Tonight seemed like the perfect opportunity.

She pulled up the extensive file she'd compiled on "KarinaMyLife"—real name Park Seunghwan, a 23-year-old college dropout who lived alone in a cramped studio apartment in Hongdae. No steady job, no close family, no one who would immediately notice if he disappeared for a few days.

Perfect.

Y/N started her car and pulled out of the parking garage, following the route she knew Seunghwan would take back to his apartment. Some people made it almost too easy.

As she drove, her phone buzzed with a news alert: "Actress Karina Spotted at Luxury Hotel - Fans Gather Outside Hoping for Glimpse."

Her grip tightened on the steering wheel. The very existence of that headline proved how her beloved Karina couldn't have a moment of peace, couldn't stay anywhere without it becoming public knowledge and attracting these parasites.

──────────────────────

Later that night...

Park Seunghwan had made it back to his apartment, adrenaline still coursing through his veins from his close call at the hotel. He immediately began posting about the encounter on his private forum, bragging to other sasaengs about how close he'd gotten to "Jiminie's" room.

He was so focused on his computer screen that he didn't notice the figure watching from the fire escape outside his window.

Y/N had been patient long enough. It was time for Park Seunghwan to learn what real fear felt like.

And unlike with Minseo, she wasn't planning to let this one go with just a warning.

Korean hip-hop music pounded from the Bluetooth speaker positioned next to Seunghwan's computer, the volume loud enough to fill every corner of his cramped studio apartment.

Park Seunghwan kept himself busy typing on his keyboard, grinning like an idiot as he bragged to other sasaengs about his "achievement." The thrill of seeing Yoo Jimin up close and Yizhuo too had him practically bouncing in his chair as he typed out every detail for his sick community of stalkers.

“I should learn how to break in next time...” he muttered to himself, fingers flying across the keys as he shared his twisted fantasies with fellow predators.

Suddenly, the power cut out. His computer screen went black, and the apartment plunged into darkness. No backup power source meant everything was dead. Seunghwan groaned in frustration. “What the hell...” he complained, looking out his window to check if other buildings had lost power too.

They weren't. The power outage was isolated to his apartment alone. While the blackout was a nuisance for Seunghwan, it was a blessing for Y/N—the older building's surveillance cameras would be offline, giving her the perfect cover she needed.

"What the fuck?" Seunghwan cursed, leaning back in his chair and squeezing his eyes shut in annoyance.

That's when it happened.

A thick towel wrapped around his mouth with brutal force, yanking his head back against the chair. Panic exploded through Seunghwan's body as strong hands dragged him upward. He clawed desperately at his attacker's arms, his nails raking against what felt like thick fabric in the darkness.

Despite being a woman, Y/N overpowered his frantic struggles, landing a sharp punch to the side of his head while dragging him toward the center of the room where she'd have more space to work.

“Help!” His plea came out muffled and desperate, arms flailing as he tried to grab onto anything within reach. Fight-or-flight had kicked in, but there was nowhere to run.

Y/N secured the towel-gag with practiced efficiency, then drove her fist into his ribs to weaken his resistance. With a controlled exhale, she threw him to the floor. He hit the hardwood with a sickening thud.

For a moment, Seunghwan thought this was a random robbery, a typical assault that happened to unlucky citizens. It never occurred to him that his sickening "hobby" of stalking Yoo Jimin had finally caught up with him.

Y/N adjusted her mask and pulled her cap lower, ensuring no part of her face would be visible. Her cold gaze swept the room before landing on a display shelf filled with various things and trophies. She selected a heavy acrylic trophy, testing its weight.

The first blow landed with a wet crack. Blood splattered across her dark clothes, her cap, droplets hitting close to her eyes. Seunghwan's muffled screams filled the apartment, but he remained conscious despite the trauma.

“Park Seunghwan,” Y/N's voice was eerily calm as she knelt beside his writhing form, trophy still gripped in her left hand. Her eyes were completely empty of emotion. “You can never report me to the police. If you do, I'll hand over all the evidence of your stalking activities to the authorities and your victims.”

Seunghwan tried to crawl away, blood streaming down his face. “Who... who are you?!” The words came out garbled through the towel.

A small, cold smile played at Y/N's lips. She was in her element now, completely focused. “Even if you do get caught stalking, you'll get maybe three to five years maximum. That's the beauty of South Korea's legal system—very selective about who they actually protect,” Her voice carried bitter disappointment at the systemic failures she'd witnessed.

“Keep your mouth shut and stop what you've been doing. I'll be taking every file you have on these celebrities you've been harassing,” Her tone was completely devoid of emotion—pure, clinical apathy.

“I have no interest in killing you,” she added matter-of-factly.

Y/N raised her fist, preparing to deliver another strike to ensure Seunghwan understood the severity of his situation. The hip-hop music had long faded, leaving only the sound of heavy breathing and muffled whimpers in the darkness.

Within the hour, everything would be finished.

When Seunghwan finally regained full consciousness the next morning, Y/N would be long gone. But every hard drive, every printed photo, every piece of stalking evidence he'd accumulated would have vanished with her.

──────────────────────

In that week, Y/N operated swiftly and meticulously, leaving no trace behind. Her work was surprisingly flawless, and she triple-checked the crime scene before departing. Y/N had been closely monitoring a specific sasaeng for days, someone who frequently stalked Jimin—Karina. As planned, she intended to teach this stalker a lesson, just as she had with Seunghwan.

Y/N pulled out her phone and opened the fake social media account she'd created weeks ago—another persona, another perfectly crafted identity. This time, she was "Lee Minji," a fellow fan who had been watching Soyeon's activities with growing concern.

The message was simple: “Hey, I've seen you around Karina's events. Want to meet up? I have some exclusive photos from her hotel stay that I think you'd be interested in.”

Using Park Seunghwan’s sources, Y/N posed as a fellow sasaeng, which simplified her task significantly.

Soyeon and "Lee Minji" met in a secluded, shadowy spot beneath a bridge at the far end of the main street. Y/N exited the car first to gain Soyeon’s trust, signaling her eagerness to discuss their mutual admiration for the actress Karina.

Y/N arrived first, dressed in an oversized hoodie and dark jeans, casual but unidentifiable. She stepped out of her car and leaned against the hood, arms crossed, phone in hand.

Soyeon approached a few minutes later, glancing around like she expected to be followed. Her expression flickered between suspicion and curiosity.

“You’re Minji?” she asked.

Y/N smiled, keeping her voice low and casual. “Yeah. Sorry for the weird place. I just don’t like being seen.”

Soyeon nodded, stepping closer.

Y/N smiled, keeping her voice low and casual. “Yeah. Sorry for the weird place. I just don’t like being seen.”

Soyeon nodded, stepping closer.

They made small talk for a few minutes—nothing but bait. Karina’s schedule. Past sightings. Gossip among sasaengs. Y/N played along with just the right mix of intensity and shared obsession. She let Soyeon think they were the same.

Mid-conversation, Y/N took the initiative, striking the sasaeng with a punch to the face before intimidating her, as she had done with Seunghwan. She also pressed Soyeon for all the information she possessed.

Just how far will Y/N go?

──────────────────────

Later That Day

The mood inside the conference room at SM Entertainment was oddly upbeat, despite the weeks of chaos.

Jimin sat at the end of the long table, flipping through a binder of scripts while her manager clicked through a PowerPoint on the mounted screen.

“So,” the manager said, “we’re narrowing it down to these three roles of one rom-com, one thriller, and one coming-of-age drama. All big productions.”

Jimin raised a brow. “That many offers, still?”

“You bounced back faster than they expected,” the manager replied casually, sprawled in a seat with her legs crossed. “You’re still the Karina Yoo.”

Before Jimin could respond, the TV behind them—muted even now— barely caught everyone’s attention.

A breaking news ticker crawled across the screen.

BREAKING: Young man found critically injured in suspected robbery case.

The image cut to CCTV footage of paramedics wheeling someone out of a rundown apartment building, covered in blood.

A male anchor read aloud, voice steady:

“Park, a man in his early 20s, was discovered in his studio apartment unconscious and with severe head trauma. Officials suspect a violent robbery. No arrests have been made at this time. Sources say he remains in critical condition.”

“Anyway,” the manager said, clearing his throat, “these are the final offers. Two dramas and one film are pushing hard for you.”

Jimin picked up a script labeled The Winter Room, flipped it open, and muttered softly to herself, “I hope this one’s quiet.”

The conversation moved on. Scripts were discussed. Emails were sent. Deals were weighed.

And just like that, the news faded into the background.

──────────────────────

prev | next | UYLM m.list | æspa m.list

──────────────────────

TAGLIST (open) ── @saysirhc

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theseh00perscanh00p · 13 days ago

Text

Coaching Violation: Part 12

paige x azzi

a/n: Contains some sexual content, minors DNI. If this is the end I'm sorry this is the end... I think this is the end. Please don't be mad at me if you don't want this to be the end...But I really do think this is the end... oh gosh I feel like you guys are gonna be mad at me for this being the end... let me know if you think this is okay to be the end...(can you tell I'm nervous to end this???)

word count: 4.2k

Azzi’s Apartment – A few weeks post Paige Resigning

The sun was just beginning to set when Paige collapsed back against the couch, phone facedown on the coffee table, a half-drunk iced tea sweating beside it.

Azzi came out of the bedroom barefoot, her curls still damp from a shower, wearing Paige’s old USA jersey like it was hers now — which, technically, it was.

Paige looked up and let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” Azzi asked, settling next to her.

Paige didn’t answer right away. Just reached for her hand, their fingers tangling in a practiced rhythm.

“I walked away from everything else,” she finally said. “This part? The being yours part? It’s the only thing I’ve never been scared of.”

Azzi leaned in, kissed her cheek. “So let’s tell them.”

They didn’t do a full photoshoot. No matching fits. No soft-focus beach pic or dramatic caption.

Just a single photo on Azzi’s Instagram — the two of them in sweats on the back steps of her apartment building, laughing at something Paige had just said. Azzi’s hand on Paige’s thigh. Paige’s gaze fixed on Azzi like she hung the damn moon.

The caption was simple:

A love like this couldn’t stay hidden forever.

An Hour Later – Social Media Chaos

The post hit like wildfire.

Within fifteen minutes:

#Pazzi was trending again.

Someone resurfaced the blurry bar photo from Vegas with a new caption: “We knew it. We KNEW it.”

WNBA Twitter declared it a national holiday.

JJ Redick commented, “You fumbled the league but secured the MVP. Respect.”

KK posted a screenshot of their group chat with, “Took y’all long enough. 🥂”

Paige hadn’t touched her phone since they posted.

She just watched Azzi laugh — full body, nose-scrunching laughter — as she read the comments aloud.

“Oh my God,” Azzi choked out. “Someone said you give ‘white girl with a clipboard’ but also ‘I’d ruin my life for her.’ Accurate?”

Paige smirked, stretching her arm along the back of the couch. “I did ruin my life for you, technically.”

Azzi leaned into her side, still grinning. “And I’d do it again.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

Azzi looked up, quiet now. “You okay?”

Paige nodded once. “I think I am. For the first time in a long time… yeah.”

They sat in the glow of their decision — phones buzzing, world watching — and for once, it didn’t feel like a burden.

It felt like freedom.

Two Days Later – Downtown LA

They’d made it out of the honeymoon era and into the firestorm.

ESPN picked up the story by breakfast the next morning. Outlets were using every photo they could dig up — press conference screengrabs, post-game hugs, blurry fan photos from Vegas that now felt less like speculation and more like clues to a long-buried love story.

Paige had turned off her Twitter notifications after someone tweeted a side-by-side of her scowling in a suit next to Azzi in her jersey, captioned:

“Why does this look like a power couple in an HBO prestige drama?”

She didn’t disagree.

What she didn’t expect was the media pivot. Once the initial “scandal” fizzled out — no league investigation, no policy statements — it transformed. Not into approval, necessarily. But curiosity. Support.

Paige had spent so long preparing for backlash that she didn’t quite know how to process neutrality. Or worse — praise.

Azzi’s Apartment – Late Afternoon

Paige dropped a grocery bag on the counter and leaned back, watching Azzi unpack produce like it was a normal Wednesday. No flashing cameras. No one whispering behind their backs at practice. No reporters calling for comment.

Just… peace.

Azzi glanced over. “You’re staring.”

“Just making sure this is real.”

“It is.” Azzi tossed her an apple. “We did the hard part.”

Paige caught it. “Did we?”

Azzi closed the fridge with her foot, then walked over, looping her arms loosely around Paige’s waist. “You resigned. I almost had a breakdown. We admitted we’re in love in the middle of the bedroom floor. Then we came out to the world. Babe, if this isn’t the hard part, I don’t want to know what is.”

That made Paige laugh — really laugh — for the first time since the announcement.

Azzi tilted her head. “Still want to go off the grid?”

“Not yet.”

They curled up on the couch later, legs tangled, laptop open, watching an old season of Top Chef. Every so often, Paige would sneak glances at Azzi, just to make sure this wasn’t some temporary illusion.

She wasn’t dreaming.

Azzi caught her staring again. “You’re really bad at being subtle.”

“I never claimed to be subtle.”

“Well,” Azzi said, voice low. “You don’t have to be anymore.”

Paige pulled her closer. “I love you.”

Azzi’s heart clenched in that exact way it always did when Paige said that. Like it was stitched straight into the rhythm of her chest now.

“I love you too.”

And this time, it didn’t sound like a goodbye. It sounded like a beginning.

Sparks Game - Crypto Arena

Paige’s POV

She wasn’t coaching anymore.

Wasn’t lacing up sneakers or taping ankles or running film breakdowns until her eyes went blurry.

But somehow, for the first time in what felt like years, Paige Bueckers finally felt like herself again.

And ironically?

It looked a lot like being on the sidelines — this time with zero pressure.

It had been a month since the chaos died down.

Azzi’s season was still in full swing. Paige’s life?

A carefully curated cocktail of early morning Pilates, daytime freelance work she never advertised (okay, maybe she helped out on a youth development camp KK had dragged her into co-running), and late nights spent curled into Azzi’s side like it was her favorite position on the court.

It wasn’t the WNBA grind.

But it was theirs.

Tonight, Paige sat courtside, cross-legged in her vintage Sparks sweatshirt that definitely wasn’t for sale, sipping an iced diet coke she’d already had refilled twice. Her hair was in a bun. Her phone was tucked away. And her attention?

Laser-focused on the court — and the 5’11” half-scorching, half-smirking woman in jersey #35.

Azzi Fudd was torching the Sky like they’d personally offended her.

Azzi had barely hit the shot before Paige was on her feet.

Hands in the air. Voice louder than she meant to be. The kind of celebration that made security do a double take — not because she was out of control, but because she was unmistakably in it. Fully, publicly, irrevocably in it.

“Let’s gooo, baby!” she yelled, then cupped her hands like it might somehow echo directly to the court.

Azzi didn’t even turn. Just jogged back on defense like she hadn’t just made the crowd stand to their feet. But Paige caught it — the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. That’s all she needed.

Back on the bench, Rickea nudged Rae with her elbow.

“She’s so whipped,” Rickea said under her breath.

Rae laughed. “It’s actually getting out of hand. Did you see her jump up like she hit the shot?”

“She probably felt like she did,” Rickea said. “I think her brain still thinks she’s on the roster.”

Azzi plopped down beside them as the timeout buzzer sounded, towel slung around her shoulders, cheeks flushed.

“You good?” Rae teased, tossing her a Gatorade.

Azzi gave a shrug. “I mean, yeah. Just out here tryna impress my girl.”

“Mission accomplished,” Rickea said, nodding toward courtside.

Paige was standing now, talking animatedly with a group of fans who had asked for a picture between quarters.

“Tell me why she looks more famous than you right now,” Rae muttered.

Azzi didn’t answer — not out loud, anyway. But the soft smile on her face said everything.

“She was yelling like it was Game 7 of the Finals,” Rickea added. “I swear, I heard her say ‘baby’ so loud the ref looked over.”

“I told her to play it cool,” Azzi said.

“And she told you she doesn’t know what that means,” Rae deadpanned.

Azzi laughed. “Exactly.”

Out on the court, the huddle broke and Paige caught Azzi’s eyes immediately. She held up three fingers and gave a mock-bow, mouthing something exaggerated that looked a lot like that’s my shooter.

Azzi flushed. Bit her lip. Threw a towel at her.

From the bench, Rickea just shook her head. “Two more games. Tops. Before someone from the league sends y’all a friendly little PDA fine.”

Azzi raised her brows. “For what? We haven’t even kissed courtside.”

“Yet,” Rae corrected.

Azzi tried to look offended. Failed. “Y’all are ridiculous.”

Rickea leaned in, quieter now. “You know we’re happy for you, right?”

Azzi nodded, soft. “Yeah. I know.”

Back on the sideline, Paige sat again — bouncing her knee, fingers twitching like she wanted to be out there, but her gaze never left Azzi. Not for a second.

She was dialed in. No clipboard, no coaching title, no rules to hide behind.

Just her. Unpaid. Unbothered. And completely in love.

And for the first time in a long time, that was more than enough.

Post-Game – Locker Room Lounge

It had become routine.

Paige didn’t go into the locker room anymore, not unless specifically invited — boundaries were easier to maintain now that they were together in the open. But she did loiter just outside. Always with a drink in hand. Always in her sneakers.

Azzi appeared fifteen minutes post-buzzer, curls pulled back, media smile wiped off.

“Hi,” she said like it was a secret.

“Hey,” Paige grinned. “You, uh… broke at least four laws of physics tonight.”

Azzi shrugged, stepping into her space like gravity had a favorite.

“You see the wink?”

“Oh, I saw it,” Paige said. “Nearly dropped my drink.”

“Good,” Azzi teased. “Would’ve been worth it.”

Paige slipped her fingers around Azzi’s wrist and leaned in, whispering low. “You wanna get out of here? I think you’ve signed enough jerseys and kissed enough babies for one night.”

Azzi snorted. “You saying you want to kiss me instead?”

Paige didn’t blink. “Every chance I get.”

Later – Azzi’s Apartment

Paige’s POV

They ended up back at Azzi’s place — though, lately, it felt less like hers and more like theirs. No one had said it out loud yet, but the truth was in the details. Her favorite hoodie hung from the kitchen chair. Her sneakers were by the door. There were protein bars in the pantry only she liked, and Azzi had stopped questioning the new toothpaste brand in the bathroom drawer.

It was quiet now — not heavy, not tense. Just the soft kind of quiet that came after a day that asked a lot and gave back even more.

Paige was sprawled across the couch, her bare feet tucked into Azzi’s lap. One of Azzi’s hands rested loosely on her ankle, fingers drawing absent circles over her skin, while the other scrolled her phone. Reruns of some sitcom played muted on the TV, the kind where you already knew the punchlines but didn’t care. It was a background hum to the real comfort in the room.

“Hey,” Paige said, not loud — just enough to pull Azzi’s attention back.

Azzi glanced over. “Yeah?”

“You know what I was thinking about earlier?”

“If this is about another couples Halloween costume—”

Paige smirked. “Not this time.”

She sat up a little, sliding closer until she could press her thigh against Azzi’s.

“I was just thinking about last year. Where we were. How scared I was to go after what I really wanted.”

Azzi’s expression softened. Her fingers drifted higher, brushing against Paige’s calf.

“And now…” Paige gestured vaguely around the apartment. “This. All of this. Us.”

A breath passed between them, quiet but full.

Azzi leaned in. “I know. It still doesn’t feel real.”

“It is though,” Paige whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Azzi smiled, her eyes sparkling. “Even if ESPN calls tomorrow?”

Paige grinned. “Even if ESPN calls tomorrow.”

The kiss that followed wasn’t hungry. Not yet. It was gentle. Certain. The kind of kiss that said we’re here now. That they’d survived the push and pull and ended up exactly where they were supposed to.

But then Azzi’s hand slid under the hem of her hoodie, and Paige’s heart kicked hard against her ribs.

It didn’t have to turn into anything more — but Paige wanted it to. She craved the kind of closeness that meant nothing in the world was uncertain anymore. Not her feelings. Not Azzi’s. Not this life they were building out loud.

She let Azzi pull the hoodie over her head. Let her touch. Let herself lean into the way Azzi’s fingers ran along the bare skin of her back like she was rediscovering her in a whole new context — post-soft launch, post-secret, post-everything.

“I still get nervous around you sometimes,” Paige murmured.

Azzi blinked. “Why?”

Paige cupped her cheek. “Because you still make me feel like I have something to prove.”

Azzi leaned in. “Then prove it.”

The kiss that followed lit a fuse inside her.

Azzi’s lips were warm, slow at first — until Paige climbed into her lap, knees on either side of her thighs, bodies aligned. Azzi groaned into her mouth, gripping her hips like she couldn’t stand the space between them anymore. Paige deepened the kiss, grinding gently into her, her hands sliding up under Azzi’s tank top to feel the dip of her waist, the arch of her ribs.

The couch creaked beneath them. Neither cared.

She tugged the tank off Azzi’s body, exposing golden skin and soft muscle. She looked so unfairly beautiful like this — flushed cheeks, lips pink and kiss-swollen, eyes blown wide with want.

Paige kissed down her neck, biting softly beneath her ear, then licking over the mark in apology. Azzi’s breath stuttered.

“Bedroom,” Azzi whispered.

They half-stumbled, half-laughed their way down the hall, hands and mouths never parting for more than a second. Once inside, Paige backed her toward the bed, gently lowering her down like she was something precious — something she knew she was allowed to touch now, fully, freely, without fear.

Azzi reached for her again, but Paige grabbed her wrist, pinning it softly above her head.

“Let me,” she said.

Azzi stilled.

Paige kissed down her chest, lingering between her breasts, then lower — teeth dragging lightly along Azzi’s ribs, leaving warmth and goosebumps in her wake. She took her time peeling the shorts off her hips, pressing soft kisses to each new inch of exposed skin like a prayer.

Azzi was already wet.

Paige didn’t say anything — she just dipped her head and gave her what she wanted.

What they wanted.

She licked slowly at first, savoring the taste, the way Azzi moaned and tangled her fingers in Paige’s hair. The way she whispered her name like it was the only word she still remembered.

Paige flattened her tongue and circled it, teasing the sensitive spot until Azzi’s thighs trembled around her. Then she slid two fingers inside her, curling them deliberately as her mouth kept pace, her entire body in sync with Azzi’s unraveling.

“Fuck—Paige—” Azzi gasped, her voice shaking. “I—”

She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.

Paige felt her come apart, watched it unfold in real time — hips lifting, eyes fluttering shut, breath catching like she’d been trying to hold it in for hours and couldn’t anymore.

But she didn’t stop there.

Azzi pulled her up into a kiss, desperate and messy, still catching her breath. Paige licked into her mouth, tasting her own name there, smiling into the kiss because god, this was hers.

She pressed their foreheads together. “Want to make you feel what you make me feel.”

Azzi’s hands slid into her waistband. “Then let’s do it together.”

And when she said that — when she looked at her like that — Paige lost the last of her control.

They shifted until they were on their sides, facing each other in the middle of the bed. Paige slid her hand back between Azzi’s legs. Azzi did the same. Their hands moved at the same time, fingers slipping in, stroking with matched rhythm and need. Their breaths synced. Moans spilled into each other’s mouths.

It was tender and intimate in a way Paige didn’t know existed until now — watching Azzi’s face twist with pleasure at the same exact moment hers did. Feeling her come at the same time her own orgasm tore through her, body locking tight and then breaking open in the safety of Azzi’s arms.

Afterward, they lay there tangled up, skin damp, limbs heavy, the quiet stretching like velvet between them.

Azzi brushed a strand of hair off her forehead. “You okay?”

Paige turned her head on the pillow and looked at her. Really looked.

“Yeah,” she said. “I think I finally am.”

She leaned forward and kissed her again — slow, grateful, full of everything words couldn’t reach.

And somewhere between the weight of their shared breath and the softness of the sheets, Paige realized something with absolute certainty.

There was no hiding anymore.

They were known. Loved. Together.

And she would spend every day proving that choosing Azzi — fully, publicly, permanently — was the best decision she’d ever made.

Apartment Kitchen

Paige’s POV

Three months after the WNBA season came to an end.

The email came at 10:03 a.m. on a Wednesday — buried between a coupon from Target and an overdue notice from some newsletter she never meant to subscribe to. Paige almost didn’t see it. She’d been halfway through unloading the dishwasher, humming whatever song Azzi had played on repeat that morning, still wearing an old Sparks hoodie and basketball shorts she definitely didn’t steal (Azzi would argue otherwise).

Subject line: Let’s Talk Basketball — ESPN Inquiry

She froze. The dish in her hand was still wet, slipping slightly as her grip went loose.

She read it once.

Then again.

Then a third time, aloud this time, like saying it would make it more real.

Her heart pounded in her chest, sudden and heavy. She blinked. Set the bowl down carefully before she dropped it.

A laugh bubbled up — not because it was funny, but because it was happening. Finally. The thing she didn’t know she’d wanted so badly until it knocked on her inbox, asking if she was ready to come home in a different way.

Two days later – Café Verve, Downtown LA

The café was tucked between a plant shop and a boutique yoga studio, the kind of place that smelled like oat milk and ambition. Paige had been there before — once with Azzi after a workout.

This time, though, it was just her.

She arrived ten minutes early.

Not because she was nervous, she told herself — but because she didn’t want to walk in sweaty from a last-minute sprint or have to fight a line of influencers ordering lavender matcha.

She wore the jeans Azzi liked — the ones that didn’t sag but weren’t try-hard skinny. A plain white tee under the cropped bomber jacket Azzi once called “dangerously competent,” and a clean pair of black and white Dunks. Her hair was tied back, makeup minimal. Chill, but intentional. Like, yeah, I might know how to break down a 1-3-1 zone better than your assistant coach, what about it?

The recruiter was already there when she walked in — older woman, mid-forties, sharp bob and even sharper presence, seated by the window with a half-drunk cappuccino and a manila folder on the table.

“Paige Bueckers,” she said, standing. “I feel like I should be asking for an autograph.”

Paige laughed, shaking her hand. “Only if you’re prepared to be disappointed. My signature looks like a chicken stepped in ink.”

“Even better,” the woman smiled. “I’m Rochelle. Thanks for making the time.”

They sat. Paige ordered an iced vanilla latte, no whip. When it came, she drank it too fast, the cold shocking the back of her throat. Nerves. She was good at pretending they weren’t there, but she felt them — like static in her hands, like a tight line stretched across her ribs.

“So,” Rochelle began, sliding the folder closer. “We’ve been following you for a while. Obviously your playing career speaks for itself — and the coaching stint, brief but strong. We’ve had your name on our short list for a bit now.”

Paige blinked. “Even before I got injured?”

Rochelle nodded. “Honestly? Yeah. Some of us saw it coming. Not the injury — but the shift. You’re someone who sees the game. Not just plays it.”

That landed. Paige’s shoulders softened just a touch.

“We’re always looking for voices who can bring clarity without condescension,” Rochelle continued. “Especially on the women’s side. You know the game, and more importantly, you know how to talk about it in a way people want to hear.”

“I’ve never done broadcast before,” Paige said, fingers wrapped tight around her cup.

“You’ve never played it safe either.”

That made her laugh. “Fair.”

Rochelle leaned back. “Tell me what you’re seeing this year. Women’s college ball. Who’s impressing you?”

Paige didn’t even hesitate.

She launched into it — talking through this year’s SEC depth, the Big Ten sleeper teams, the freshman guard out of Oregon who reminded her of a younger Jewell Loyd. She broke down the current top-five defensive schemes being run in Power Five programs and explained — almost without realizing it — why a certain top-seeded team’s offense looked elite but was bound to fall short without better spacing.

Rochelle listened, nodding along, the corners of her mouth lifting as Paige’s words picked up pace.

“You talk like a coach,” she said.

“I think I just… haven’t stopped thinking about the game. Even when I wasn’t playing. Or coaching. I’ll be at dinner with Azzi and notice a ball screen I would’ve run differently on the TV in the background.”

“You still want to be in it.”

Paige hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

Rochelle tapped a nail against her cup. “Not a lot of people can pivot without feeling like they’re failing. Like stepping off the court is some kind of death sentence.”

“It felt like that for a while,” Paige admitted, voice quieter now. “I thought if I wasn’t in a jersey, I wasn’t anyone. But… lately, I’m realizing I don’t have to stop being me just because the role changed. I still see the game. Still love it.”

Rochelle smiled. “That’s what we’re betting on.”

Paige’s brows lifted. “You’re offering?”

“Not officially,” she said. “Not yet. I’ve got to pitch you upstairs. But this?” She tapped the folder. “This meeting? It was to see if you’re serious. If you’re ready.”

“And?”

“And I think you are. I think you’re ready to do something that sounds a lot like staying in the game — just from a new angle.”

Paige exhaled, and for the first time in a while, it didn’t feel tight in her chest.

She wasn’t being replaced. She was being repurposed.

Later that night, back in the apartment with takeout between them and Azzi’s head in her lap, Paige told her everything.

“She said I talk like a coach.”

Azzi grinned without opening her eyes. “You are a coach. You just happen to be hot and jobless right now.”

“I think I’m about to be only one of those things.”

Azzi peeked up. “The jobless part?”

“Hopefully.”

Azzi smiled wider. “That’s my girl.”

Paige smoothed a hand through her curls, her fingers still tingling from holding the coffee cup too tight all morning.

“I didn’t know if I was ready.”

“And now?”

“I think I’ve been ready. I just didn’t know there was still room for me at the table.”

Azzi rolled over, facing her fully now. “You don’t need to wait for a seat anymore, Paige. You are the table.”

Paige laughed — not the polite kind, but the real one. The kind that cracked her wide open.

Maybe she wasn’t a point guard anymore. Maybe she’d never coach a championship team. But she could still speak the language.

And now someone was finally listening.

She didn’t have to let it go.

She just had to shift.

And god, was she ready.

Her first taping wasn’t live. They eased her in with pre-recorded segments — breakdowns of top draft prospects, commentary on defensive schemes, analysis of conference play. But the minute the camera turned on, Paige felt alive.

No nerves. No hesitation.

Just her. The game. And a microphone.

She’d found her court again — this time made of lights and lenses instead of hardwood.

And when she got home later that night, worn out but buzzing, Azzi was there waiting. Dinner on the stove. A bottle of sparkling cider on the counter. And a hand-written card with block letters that read: Told you they’d call.

Paige pulled her into a hug from behind, rested her chin on Azzi’s shoulder.

“I don’t know how I got so lucky,” she whispered.

Azzi grinned. “You didn’t. We chose each other.”

And that was the truth of it.

Love wasn’t luck. It was choosing — over and over. And Paige was finally ready to choose herself, too.

ESPN wasn’t the end of her story.

It was the next beginning.

And for the first time since it all fell apart…

She finally knew how to stay in the game.

And even better?

She had someone to go home to after the final buzzer.

#pazzi fics #paige x azzi #pazzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd

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flwrkid14 · 2 months ago

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hey, so for your “Love, in All its Impossible Forms” can you put Tim and Danny in a scenario where Danny has to either choose the world or Tim, and everyone and I mean everyone is telling Danny that he has to choose the world while Tim is staying quiet because he believes no he knows what Danny would choose. Danny, ever the hero would choose the world he so desperately fights to keep safe. Tim is okay with being the other option, he has only ever been the other option.

But what Tim doesn’t know is that Danny has never fought to keep the world safe. No, he fights to keep his loved ones safe, he fights so his family is safe, so Tim is safe.

Now that Tim is being threatened? Well Danny has never felt sentimental about this world, he’s sure Tim could adjust to a new world. After all, what’s the point in Danny being the ghost king if he can’t even do as he pleases?

And Tim? Tim would follow Danny no matter what he chooses, because that is love. Love isn’t conditional, not like how the batfam’s feel, not like how his parent’s felt.

(Take your time!)

anon, you saw into the softest and cruelest part of this story. the part where the world calls Danny a hero, demands he live up to the myth they made of him—and the part where Tim quietly prepares to be left behind.

because that’s what love is supposed to do, right? love chooses the world. love lets go.

but Danny’s never played by those rules. and this time… he doesn’t want to.

When the world begins to end, it’s quieter than anyone expects. No fire, no screaming sky—just cold calculations. A choice. A question with only one right answer.

Danny is called to the center of it. Not as a boy. Not even as a ghost. But as a king. As the King. The one being with enough power to fix it. To rewrite entropy itself if he just agrees to the terms.

All he has to do is choose the world. The millions of people who’ve never known his name, who would never thank him. The strangers who will live because of his sacrifice.

Or—

“Or,” they never say. Because there isn’t supposed to be an “or.”

But Danny feels it.

He feels it in the silence where Tim should be begging. He feels it in the way Tim stands just behind the gathered voices, distant, steady, waiting. Not asking for anything. Not even hoping.

Because Tim’s not the kind of person who gets chosen.

He’s always been the fallback, the extra, the strategic loss. Even in his own family. Even in love. And Danny—Danny is the kind of person who saves the world.

So Tim prepares himself to be left behind. Quietly. Without resentment. Because he understands. And he’s not surprised.

But Danny is.

Because Tim doesn’t know. Doesn’t know that the only reason Danny’s ever fought at all was to protect the people he loves. He’s never been sentimental about the world. He’s never even liked it all that much.

He fought to keep his family safe. His home. His people.

And now—

Danny looks at Tim. At the boy who never asks. Who loves so deeply and quietly he assumes that love means sacrifice. Who isn’t trying to make Danny choose. Because he already thinks he’s the thing that gets left behind.

And Danny can’t. He just can’t do it.

Because what’s the point of saving the world if it means losing the reason you were saving it in the first place?

What kind of king protects an empire and lets his heart die on the battlefield?

So Danny says no.

He turns to the council of ancients, to the army of heroes, to the crying civilians and the trembling ambassadors. And he chooses Tim.

And it’s not fair.

It’s not heroic.

It’s cruel in the way all real love is cruel—because it draws a line between “everyone” and “someone,” and then crosses it without apology.

The backlash is immediate. Gasps. Rage. Horror. They call him selfish. A monster. A failure.

And maybe he is.

But he looks at Tim, and for the first time in his life, he isn’t afraid of being selfish.

Tim stares back, disbelieving. He hadn’t prepared for this part. He hadn’t prepared to be wanted more than the world.

“I don’t understand,” he breathes.

And Danny says, “You don’t have to.”

Because Tim would follow Danny anywhere. To a world that will hate them both. To a universe where no one knows their names. To an entirely new timeline where there’s no pressure, no expectation, no family holding him back. And that's exactly what Danny asks him, to follow him to a future they make themselves. One the world may never forgive them for.

Tim nods.

And that’s love, too.

Not the conditional kind. Not the kind that’s earned or tested or weighed. But the impossible kind. The cruel, human kind.

The kind that lets the world burn because one person mattered more.

#thanks for the ask <3 #tim drake #danny phantom #dc x dp #brain dead #dead tired #they told him to choose the world but he chose his world #he’d burn the world down just to hand him the ashes

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alienzil · 2 years ago

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DP x DC Prompt/notion # 4

So Danny has the classic reveal gone bad scenario and the Fentons try to capture him to "tear him apart molecule by molecule".

Danny escapes into the ghost zone with the help of Sam, Tucker and Jazz but he's in bad shape.

What Danny had never been told is that newly formed ghosts like himself are considered babies until they're at least a century old. Baby ghosts generally either have parents if they're born in the realms or get adoptive parents shortly after forming and are highly dependent on their guardians until their core is fully matured. Every ghost can sense a baby and has the instinctual urge to protect them (especially if they haven't been adopted yet). Every baby ghost has the instinctual urge to find a compatible parent or parents. A baby won't imprint on just anyone and will hide or run from most ghosts until they find one that they can imprint on. The majority of the ghosts that have met Danny never knew he was a baby, both because he already had his living parents and his emotional connection with them was close enough to satisfy his ghostly need for a parental bond and because, with his abnormally high power level, it never would have occurred to them to think he might be an infant. A newborn ancient is exceptionally rare and your average denizen of the realms will have never seen one. Basically, to your average ghost, Danny feels like he's eons old and any hint of "baby" they get from him mostly just ticks them off because they think he's mocking them and pretending to be less powerful than they know he is. The other ancients knew of course, but they also knew that Danny's human guardians were satisfying his needs for now and most assumed he would be adopted once they passed. Half a century or so isn't very long to wait after all and the new baby is half human so it's probably best to let these things happen naturally.

Knowing none of this, when Jack and Maddie rejected Danny it severed their connection and the backlash of losing that bond caused his Phantom self to naturally revert to a smaller form that more closely matched his actual age as a ghost. Still in shock and operating almost entirely on instinct and emotion, Danny started to search the Realms for what he had lost. He needed to find his parents.

*****

Meanwhile, John Constantine had a problem with an upstart cult that had summoned an interdimensional...something. He really didn't care. Whatever it was, was behind a barrier they'd thrown up that he couldn't breach. He'd be perfectly willing to leave them to their own mess except their whole damn town was behind the barrier so now it was his problem to fix.

Interdimensional problems call for interdimensional solutions so he'd called Bob. Bob wasn't really his name (nor was he really a he) but he hadn't objected to the moniker or the pronouns John had given him so Bob it was. Bob was an eldritch nightmare of a creature who kept the bulk of his true form politely out of this dimension and only just barely inched in for a quick visit every 20 years or so. Constantine had worked with him before, he was a pretty nice bloke for an unknowable monstrosity.

Bob fed on energy and his usual diet consisted largely of the background energy of the cosmos but he liked a special treat now and then (who doesn't?). So John made a deal with him. Bob took care of his little cult problem and John spent a very... ahem... "energetic" evening with Bob in exchange. Not really a hardship on John's part, Bob wanted more energy, not less, and knew a thing or two about how to get it.

*****

The creature known as Bob was preparing to withdraw the small portion of his presence that was currently on Earth with the human called John Constantine when another part of him noticed something. Bob smiled to himself (as much as Bob could smile that is). What a wonderful coincidence that the Constantine human's energy would be so perfectly matched to this other beings and that Bob was here at the exact right moment to assist with their meeting!

"I thank you again for sharing your energy John Constantine. It was delicious as always."

"Don't mention it mate. Look me up next you're in town and feeling a bit peckish. Always happy to oblige." John replied with a smirk.

"I will heed your words John Constantine and seek your presence upon my return. As a token of my affection for you, a small gift that you might enjoy until we meet again." Bob briefly opened a portal between the Infinite Realms and the House of Mystery as he left. He hoped his human friend would enjoy the gift. Bob had never spawned himself but he'd heard parenthood was one of life's great joys.

"Gift?" John had just enough time to say as he was hit in the face by a chirping, wriggling, excited creature.

"Oi!" John stumbled back a step as he reached up to try and pry the thing off his face. He managed to grab ahold of the damn beast and held it out at an arms length to get a look at it. Deprived of his face, it wrapped its body tightly around his arm and nuzzled its head into the palm of his hand.

John stared at the creature. It was the roughly the length of his arm, mostly black with white markings and white floating hair on a human shaped head and face, complete with glowing green eyes. It was vaguely snake shaped...or... one might say...tentacle shaped...

John gulped and pictured Bob. Bob's appearance, or what little bit of his appearance John was able to perceive, was a writhing mass of black tentacles that glowed a bright, luminous green.

So, the "gift" Bob had left him mostly had Bob's coloring and was kinda Bob shaped. Except it had small human arms and hands and a tiny mostly human head and face and... was that his nose?!

"Oh bollocks, I'm a dad!"

#dpxdc #dcxdp #dp x dc #dc x dp #John Constantine is Danny's dad #Except he actually isn't #Except he really is now since Danny imprinted on him #Little baby man #Bob the eldritch entity #Prompt/notion

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