#and i don't even remember enough about the ghost au to offer that

[gerrydelano]

if i were to write anything after PBR, what would we be more interested in...

[cloudss-space]

Metal Band Guitarist Ronin x Drummer MC?? 👀👀👀

What is taken, is given

( killer chat ) ronin x reader ... band au ... given inspired

trigger warning:

character death / mention of suicide

slight gore

Drumming was your means of survival, not just music. From the moment you were old enough to hold sticks in your small, trembling hands, you felt it deep in your marrow. At five, you didn't know what rhythm was in any formal sense, but you knew how it felt. It was the wild, chaotic thudding of your own heart, the pounding of your feet as you ran barefoot across cracked pavement, the desperate, incessant hum of staying alive in a world that always felt too sharp – and you did it.

At six, you built your first drum kit. You used whatever you could find: old pots and pans, coffee cans, anything that could take the beating of your hands. The skin on your palms split sometimes, little rivers of red tracing the lines of your tiny fingerprints. You didn't care. The pain was nothing. It was just a necessary offering to summon the sound.

The drumsticks came later, as a gift from someone whose name you don't even remember. You held them in your fists like weapons, determined to beat the silence into submission. Every strike of wood against metal or plastic sent vibrations through your arms, shaking loose the tension that lived in your small body like a parasite. You hit harder and harder, chasing a release you knew was coming.

By seven, your passion had become an all-consuming obsession. You carved patterns into the walls with the tips of your sticks, tracing rhythms you had to unleash. Your parents yelled, but you were too busy listening to the pounding in your head to hear them. You were too busy listening to the ghost of a snare drum that hadn't been born yet, the phantom echo of a kick drum that lived only in your dreams.

The neighbours complained about the noise, but I told them noise was better than silence. Silence was suffocating. It was a gaping maw that swallowed you whole and left you stranded in your own thoughts. The drums were loud, messy and alive. Each hit was a defiant scream of existence, a reminder that you were still here, still fighting.

At eight, you got your first real drum kit – a battered, secondhand set someone had abandoned in a garage sale. It was a Frankenstein monster of mismatched pieces: a snare with a dented head, a kick drum missing its front skin, cymbals with cracks spidering through their edges. But to you, it was beautiful.

You bled for that kit, and you meant every drop. Your hands bled, forming blisters that popped and reformed, leaving streaks of red on the drumheads. The sight of it made you feel alive in a way you could not and would not explain. Pain was part of the process. It was the cost of creating something that felt bigger than yourself.

By nine, you knew drumming had changed you. It was more than just a hobby. It was a transformation. When you played, you were no longer the quiet, awkward kid who flinched at loud voices and harsh words. You transformed into something else, something raw and primal, someone who demanded to be acknowledged.

The drums demanded everything from you. You practised for hours until your arms ached and your muscles trembled under the strain. You kept going despite the fatigue, the sweat dripping into your eyes, the sting of salt mixing with the rawness of your skin. You played until the world narrowed to nothing but the rhythm, the sound, and the motion.

At ten, you grasped the darker side of your passion. The drums were more than just an escape; they were an outlet for everything you couldn't say and everything you couldn't feel safely. Anger, fear, despair – they all came pouring out in relentless cascades of sound. Sometimes you hit so hard that the sticks splinter in your hands, the shards cutting into your skin. You'd pick them out later, and they'd be there, tiny splinters embedded like memories you couldn't quite shake.

The kit was the target of your wrath. The skins were stretched taut like a body under stress, taking every blow without complaint. But it wasn't enough. The noise wasn't loud enough. The strikes weren't hard enough. You wanted to fly, to break free from the crushing weight of expectation that hung over you like a guillotine.

Your parents simply didn't understand. They called it a phase, but I know better. I'll grow out of it. They scolded you for making too much noise and spending too much time on something that didn't matter. The drums mattered more to you than anything. They were your voice when words failed, your lifeline when the world became too much.

The beat was relentless and unyielding. It followed you everywhere, even in your dreams. You'd wake up with your fingers twitching, mimicking the patterns you had played earlier. The rhythms lived in your body, a second pulse that kept you grounded even when everything else threatened to fall apart.

But the passion came at a cost. Your hands were a patchwork of scars, the skin rough and calloused. Your back ached from hours of leaning over the kit, and your ears rang from the constant crash of cymbals. You questioned whether you were destroying yourself, piece by piece, for the sake of the sound.

And yet, you simply couldn't stop. The drums were my addiction, my need as essential as breathing. You played through the pain, through the exhaustion, through the doubts that crept in when the world grew quiet. You did not let anything stop you. When you played, you felt invincible, untouchable, alive.

By the end of each session, the drumheads were streaked with sweat and sometimes blood, the sticks worn down to nubs. The room reeked of exertion, determination, and endurance. You sat there, breathless, staring at the kit as if it were a living thing, a beast you had tamed for a fleeting moment.

The drums defined you. They were your identity, the thing that set you apart from those who drifted through life without purpose. They were your rebellion against the silence, your refusal to fade into the background – and you made that clear. And even as they demanded more and more from you, you gave willingly, knowing that the cost was worth it.

The drums were your lifeline, not just music. In a world that often didn't make sense, they were the only thing that did. As long as you had them, you knew you could keep going, keep fighting, keep living. It hurt, but you kept going. Even if it bled.

The drumsticks felt weightless in your hands at first, like extensions of your own body. You joined the band at fourteen and it was everything for a while. The beat became your heartbeat, the rhythm your breath. It was freedom, pounding through your veins as the snare and cymbals roared beneath your touch. When you played, the world faded. The noise inside your head was drowned out by something louder, something yours.

You met him there, the boy who would change everything. He was sharp and edgy, with soft eyes that fascinated you from the start. He played the bass with an effortless ease that made you jealous. His name was Ezra, and when he smiled, the world tilted.

At first, it was just stolen glances and shared laughs between sets. But it didn't take long for something deeper to grow. He saw you in a way no one else ever had. He peeled back the layers you'd carefully constructed and touched something raw inside you. He made you feel like you were living, not just surviving.

You loved the nights. After practice, you sat on the hood of his car, legs dangling over the edge, talking about everything and nothing. He lit a cigarette, the cherry glowing like a tiny ember in the darkness, and you watched the smoke curl into the air, wishing you could be as free as it looked.

You fell in love quietly, like slipping into a warm bath. It wasn't sudden or dramatic, but it consumed you all the same. You didn't tell him right away, but you didn't have to. You were confident that he would understand. He knew. You could see it in the way he looked at you. He looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in a room full of people.

He kissed you for the first time behind the venue after your first gig. Your hands were shaking, not from nerves but from the adrenaline of the performance, and he grabbed them to steady you. His lips were soft and tentative, and you felt something inside you crack open, like the world was finally letting a little light in.

But light doesn't last.

You didn't see the darkness creeping into him at first. He concealed it skilfully, masking it behind his genial demeanor and keen intellect. But there were moments, brief but intense, when the mask came undone. You'd catch him staring into the distance, his eyes hollow, as if he was somewhere else entirely. When you asked, he simply shrugged it off with a smile that was too quick and too practiced.

The fights started small, with inconsequential issues that were easily overlooked. He'd snap at you over a missed note or disappear for days without explanation. You told yourself it was normal, that everyone had bad days, but you knew better.

Then came the silence. This wasn't the kind of quiet you found comforting, like the pause between drumbeats. It was stifling, laden with all the words he chose to leave unsaid. He stopped coming to practice and stopped answering your calls. The band felt empty without him. It was like a song missing its melody.

You found him one night, slumped against the wall of his room, the floor littered with empty bottles and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale, and he looked at you as if he didn't even recognise you. He told you he was fine, but you knew he wasn't.

You didn't know how to save him, but you were going to find out.

You were the one who found him when it happened. That memory is seared into your mind, a wound that never stops bleeding. You can still see the crimson pooling around his wrists, the stillness of his body in the dim light of his room. The bass guitar he loved so much was leaning against the wall, untouched, as if mocking you.

Your scream was inhuman. It felt like something was ripping you apart from the inside, shredding every part of you that had ever felt whole. You fell to your knees, your hands shaking as you tried to stop the bleeding, even though you knew it was too late.

The funeral was a blur. A cacophony of muffled sobs and whispered condolences that meant nothing. You refused to look at his parents, unable to bear the weight of their grief, which mirrored your own. You sat in the back, your hands clenched into fists, nails digging into your palms until they drew blood.

Drumming was no longer an option. The sticks felt foreign in your hands, the beats hollow and meaningless. Every time you touched the drum set, you saw his face, heard his laugh, and felt the weight of his absence like a phantom limb. The music that had once saved you now felt like a curse.

You tried to move on, but the guilt was relentless. You replayed every moment in your head, searching for the signs you'd missed and the things you could have done differently. You told yourself it was your fault. If you'd been better and stronger, he'd still be here.

The band simply couldn't go on without him. The others tried to keep it going, but it was obvious it wasn't the same. The rhythm was all wrong and the energy was gone. You drifted apart, each of you bearing your own burden of grief and scars.

Nights were the worst. The silence that once comforted you now felt like a void, engulfing you. You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, your mind a whirlwind of memories and regrets. You reached for the drumsticks, then stopped. The weight of them was too much to bear.

You dreamed of him sometimes. In your dreams, he was alive, smiling, his hands warm against your skin. But even in the dreams, you saw the shadow behind his eyes, a stark reminder that he was gone. You wake up gasping, tears streaming down your face.

You cut music out of your life for a while because the sound was too painful. Even the sound of a snare drum in a passing car made your chest tighten. The memories flooded back in vivid, agonising detail.

People told you it would get better, that time would heal the wound. They were wrong. But it didn't. The wound wasn't healing. It was festering and infecting every part of you until you didn't recognise yourself anymore.

And yet, deep inside, you knew that you couldn't let go completely. You kept his bass guitar, even though you didn't want to play it. You kept the setlists from your gigs, the ones he'd scribbled on, his handwriting messy but unmistakable.

You carried him with you, in every note you couldn't play and every beat you couldn't hit. He's gone, but he's still there. He's a ghost haunting the spaces between the rhythms of your life.

You were unsure if you'd ever find your way back to the drums, but you knew one thing for certain: the silence was unbearable. And you know what? One day, you'll find a way to fill it again.

Graduation was coming, and you knew it was a milestone you should have been celebrating. Instead, it felt like a noose tightening around your neck. The cap and gown hung in your closet, their fabric ghosting against your fingers every time you reached for something else. People called this time of life bittersweet, but you knew it was only bitter – a cruel joke wrapped in the pretence of moving forward.

The halls of your high school were the same as they'd always been, but you could feel them emptying around you. Your past lover's absence clung to you like smoke, lingering in places where he used to stand, in the faint echoes of laughter that would never return. The band was gone, and so was he, and without them, every passing day felt more hollow than the last.

Your classmates spoke about college, careers and futures, their voices ringing out like a chorus around you. You nodded when they asked about your plans and offered vague smiles when they asked how you were doing. But inside, you knew you were spinning your wheels in the mud. What future could there possibly be without him? What future could there be without music? The guilt tightened its grip on you with every congratulatory word, their smiles blind to the storm raging behind yours.

On good days, you felt numb. On bad days, you felt like the wound your past lover left behind was bleeding all over again, staining every part of you that tried to move on. Nights were the worst – long, suffocating stretches of time where the silence grew louder than anything else. The nightmares were relentless, dragging you back to the moment you found him, to the stillness of his body, to the crimson that refused to leave your hands no matter how many times you tried to scrub it away.

There were moments when you felt his absence acutely, even in the ordinary things. An empty chair in the classroom, the acrid smell of cigarette smoke as you passed someone on the street, the strum of a bass in a song you hadn't heard in years. Each reminder cut deeper than the last. The universe itself seemed to be conspiring to keep him fresh in your mind.

You stopped telling people about the dreams. They simply didn't understand how vivid and real they felt. In them, he was alive and kicking. He was vibrant, laughing, teasing you about your drumming or sharing secrets under the stars. You'd wake up gasping, reaching for something that wasn't there, and the crushing weight of reality would settle back over you like a shroud.

The graduation rehearsals felt like another cruel reminder. The stage where you'd receive your diploma stretched out in front of you, a symbol of achievement you didn't care about. Your past lover had always joked about the future, about how he'd watch you play drums on bigger stages one day. You were stepping onto this stage without him, and you were going to own it.

The school counsellors advised you to speak to someone, but you were not prepared to do so. What could they possibly say that would make a difference? The guilt was too deeply rooted and the pain too sharp. You were walking through life with open wounds, and talking would not sew them shut.

Your parents tried to help, but they didn't understand. Graduation was a celebration and a reason to push forward for them. They failed to grasp the immense weight it carried for you. Every step towards that stage felt like a step away from the life you'd known, the life you'd lost.

You avoided the drums altogether, unable to touch them without feeling like you were desecrating something sacred. They sat in the corner of your room, gathering dust, a monument to what used to be. The silence they left behind was deafening and it seeped into every part of your life.

Your friends invited you to parties, to hangouts, to plans for after graduation, but you turned them down. The effort it took to be around people was too much, and the idea of pretending to be okay was exhausting.

The weight of it all grew heavier with each passing day, a constant pressure in your chest that made it hard to breathe. You knew you didn't deserve to be here, to graduate, to move forward. Your past lover was supposed to be here too, and without him, it all felt meaningless.

Some nights, you sat on the edge of your bed, staring at the crumpled graduation invitation on your desk. You thought about the future you once dreamed of, the one where your past lover was by your side, where the band was still together, where the music still made sense. That future was a cruel joke, a distant echo of something you could never have.

But deep down, you knew you could keep going. For him. For the dreams you shared. You knew you would play that music again, even if you couldn't bring yourself to do so.

You didn't know what graduation would bring, but you were determined to find out. You were equally determined to find out if you'd ever feel whole again. But you knew one thing for certain: your past lover would not have wanted you to stop. He wouldn't have wanted the music to die with him.

As the day drew closer, you tried. It wasn't easy, and it wasn't pretty, but you did it anyway. You found the rhythm again, picked up the pieces of yourself that had shattered when he left. And you found a way to carry him with you, not as a weight but as a reminder of the love you'd shared, the music you'd created, and the life you'd both fought so hard to live.

The desperation gnawed at you, testing the limits of your resolve until you felt raw and hollowed out by the need for something—anything—that could keep you afloat. The debts piled high, each letter in the mail like a strike to the chest, each reminder that you were sinking faster than you could swim. There was no doubt about it. The job interviews blurred together, and each rejection weighed heavily on your shoulders. By the time you met him, exhaustion had become a part of you, as natural as your heartbeat.

It was in some dimly lit corner of the city, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and smoke, a cacophony of sounds ringing in your ears. You strode purposefully to the door, your steps faltering only briefly as you pushed it open. The music inside was loud and raucous, the kind of noise that made your bones ache. That was when you saw him – Ronin.

He stood like he owned the world, the stage his throne and the guitar in his hands a weapon. Every note he played was violent, shredding through the air with a ferocity that felt almost tangible. His grin was sharp, cocky and infuriating. It was the kind of smile that made you want to punch him as much as it made you want to stare.

You stayed because you didn't know why. He played with such passion, it was as if he was bleeding onto the strings, every note a cut across his soul. He commanded the room. His presence was magnetic, pulling you in despite yourself. Or perhaps it was simply that you had nowhere else to go.

The show ended and the crowd dispersed, leaving behind the faint buzz of conversation and the clinking of glasses. You stayed, lingering near the bar, and you were going to ask him anything – work, connections, a sliver of opportunity. He approached you instead, his smirk even more infuriating up close.

"You look like you've got nowhere better to be," he said, his voice a low drawl that carried over the din of the room.

You were offended but you stayed. "And you look like you enjoy hearing yourself talk."

He laughed, a sharp, biting sound, and you hated how it made something inside you twist. He introduced himself with the kind of arrogance that made you want to roll your eyes. He was Ronin, guitarist, metalhead, and self-proclaimed genius. But there was something there, something raw and jagged that mirrored the chaos inside you.

He offered you a job soon after. It wasn't a glamorous job and it wasn't something you could put on a resume, but it paid well. You'd be a roadie, a band assistant, hauling equipment and dealing with their mess. You weren't going to take it. You didn't want to be around him. His sharp tongue and sharp eyes made you feel uneasy. He seemed to see right through you. But you needed the money.

The first few weeks were hell. The band was loud, chaotic and constantly on the move. Ronin was worse. He was demanding and impossible to please. His expectations were as high as the volume of his guitar. But he was also brilliant, his talent undeniable. You couldn't help but admire him.

He pushed you, and it felt both infuriating and exhilarating. He challenged you, called you out on your bullshit, and made you feel things you hadn't felt in years. And at some point, the lines between anger and attraction got blurred.

The nights were the hardest. No doubt about it. The silence after the shows felt suffocating, the memories you tried to bury clawing their way to the surface. Your partner's ghost lingered in the quiet, his laugh echoing in the back of your mind, his absence a constant, gnawing ache in your chest. You hated how much you missed him and how much you hated yourself for moving on even a little.

Ronin noticed. He did, of course. He could see right through you and force the truth out of you, whether you wanted to share it or not. He didn't pry or push, but he was there, a constant, grounding presence that was also, infuriatingly, comforting.

He had the same effect on you as your past lover did. It wasn't about looks or actions. It was about how he made you feel. You realise you're not as broken as you thought. You knew there was still something left of you worth saving.

Ronin wasn't your past lover. You refused to let yourself forget that. He was unpolished and unyielding, a force of nature where your ex-lover had been gentle and composed. He was everything you weren't supposed to want and everything you weren't supposed to need.

And yet, you were drawn to him, like a moth to a flame. It was dangerous, and you knew it, but you couldn't stop yourself. He had a way of pulling you out of your head and making you forget how much it hurt to breathe.

The guilt gnawed at you, a constant reminder that you didn't deserve this. You knew you didn't deserve to feel anything but the pain you'd been carrying since the night you lost that lover. Ronin didn't let you wallow. He didn't let you drown.

He was your opposite: fire to your ice, chaos to your control, life to your grief. And for the first time in a long time, you knew you could survive this.

The work was hard, the days long, but you found solace in the rhythm of it. The music, the noise, the chaos – it was a different kind of drumming, one that made your blood sing in ways you hadn't felt in years. And Ronin was there, always there, proving you were never alone.

But the shadows still lingered, the ghosts still haunted you, and the scars you carried weren't so easily healed. You didn't know where this path would lead, but you were determined to find out if you could truly move on. But for the first time, you knew you didn't have to do it alone.

The stage lights blazed into your vision, intense and overwhelming, cutting through the smoky haze like a knife. Every time you sat behind the drum kit, it was like stepping into a war zone. The crowd roared like a tidal wave, their voices colliding and swirling into an unholy storm of sound that rattled your chest and shook your bones. The bass reverberated through your ribs with each beat, hammering against your skin as if it were trying to split you open. And at the centre of it all was Ronin, silhouetted in shadows, his guitar screaming like it was alive.

Playing in the band was pure chaos, an unstoppable force that burned through every part of you. The crash of the cymbals, the pound of the toms, the relentless heartbeat of the kick drum – it was all-consuming, a cacophony that drowned out the world. You hit harder than you needed to, driving the sticks into the drums with a force that seemed to try to punch through them. It was about survival, plain and simple. It was a primal release that kept the darkness at bay.

Ronin thrived in the chaos. His energy was infectious, wild, and unpredictable, and his riffs cut through the air like jagged glass. He locked eyes with you mid-song, his grin sharp enough to slice through the noise, and you hated how it made your heart race. He played with the intensity of a world-changing blaze, and you were just trying to keep up, to match his heat.

The band was a paradox: a sanctuary and a battlefield in one. The music was your armor, your shield against the grief and guilt that still lingered. It also tore you apart. Every song was an exorcism, dragging out the pain and anger you'd tried so hard to bury. You gave everything you had to the drums, every beat a scream, every rhythm a plea for something you couldn't name.

Ronin pushed you harder than anyone ever had. His demands were relentless and his standards were impossibly high. He didn't coddle you. He didn't let you falter, and he didn't let you fail. He was harsh on the critiques, rare on the praise, but when he did nod in approval, it felt like you'd conquered something insurmountable. You hated him for it, but you respected him even more for it.

The music couldn't always mask the pain. No matter how hard you tried to drown it out, the grief clawed its way to the surface on those nights. On those nights, you found yourself watching Ronin from across the room. You saw how he tuned his guitar with precise, almost obsessive care. You saw how his fingers moved over the strings like they were extensions of himself. His intensity and focus made you feel less alone, even if he never said a word.

The band's dynamic was volatile, with a constant push and pull between chaos and control. Fights erupted over nothing and everything. There were creative differences, missed cues and a lot of tension simmering beneath the surface. Ronin was often at the centre of it, and you found yourself clashing with him more often than not, because his temper was as fiery as his playing. But the fights never lasted. The music always brought you back together. It was a shared language that transcended words.

On stage, the world fell away. There was only the music, the lights, the crowd, and the feeling of being part of something larger than yourself. Ronin's guitar roared and howled, his solos cutting through the air like a blade, and you were his backbone, the steady rhythm that grounded the chaos. Together, you created something raw and alive, something that felt like it could shatter the world.

Things were messier offstage, without a doubt. The long nights, the endless miles on the road, the pressure to keep up the momentum – it all took its toll. The camaraderie you felt on stage didn't always translate to real life. There were times when the silence between you and Ronin felt heavier than the music ever could.

But there were moments of clarity, too. The walls came down, if only for a second. Ronin had a way of surprising you. His sharp edges softened when you least expected it. A shared laugh over a stupid inside joke, a quiet conversation in the back of the van, the way he handed you a water bottle after a particularly gruelling set without saying a word – those moments were proof that staying was the right choice.

The music was catharsis, but it was also a constant reminder of what you'd lost. Every time you picked up the sticks, you thought of your past lover, of the way he used to watch you play with a smile that made your heart ache. The guilt was always there, a shadow that lingered at the edge of every note, but the band gave you a way to channel it, to turn it into something tangible, something real.

Ronin never asked about your past, and he didn't need to. He saw it in the way you played, in the way your hands trembled when you thought no one was looking, in the way your eyes glazed over when the memories became too much. He didn't pry or push, but his presence was unwavering and anchored you. It was more than enough.

You began to notice the little things about him: the way his jaw clenched when he was concentrating, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about a new riff, the way his laugh rumbled low and deep like distant thunder. You hated how much you noticed and cared, but you couldn't ignore it.

Ronin had a magnetic pull that drew you in, no matter what you wanted. He was everything you weren't supposed to want, everything you weren't supposed to need, but you couldn't stop yourself. He made you feel alive in a way you hadn't in years, and it terrified you, but you couldn't stop yourself.

The band was a lifeline, a chance to start over, but it was also a stark reminder that you couldn't outrun your demons. The ghosts of your past still haunted you, the scars still ached, but you faced them head-on with the help of music.

Ronin was a part of that, and you couldn't get away from it. He was fire and chaos, raw and untamed. He forced you to confront parts of yourself you'd rather leave buried. He challenged you, pushed you, and made you better. You hated him for it as much as you were grateful.

Every night on stage was a battle. A fight to prove to yourself that you could still create something beautiful despite the pain. The drums became an extension of yourself. Each beat was a heartbeat, each rhythm a reminder that you were still alive. And Ronin was there, always there, his guitar screaming alongside you, a partner in your chaos.

The band took you places you hadn't been before. They kept up a relentless pace, but you were up for the challenge. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you were part of something bigger than yourself. The music was messy, chaotic and imperfect, but it was yours.

And so was Ronin. He was a part of this now, a part of you. Like it or not. He was a constant, a steady presence in the storm, and there was no way you could imagine doing this without him.

The road ahead was uncertain and the future was a blur, but you had the music, the band and Ronin, and that was all you needed. And that was enough.

The air backstage still hummed with the echoes of the performance. The thrum of the bass lingered in your bones, an electric pulse that refused to fade. The world was still reeling from the impact of the show, and your heartbeat thundered like a drumbeat, steady but intense. You wiped sweat from your brow, your fingers still slightly shaking from the adrenaline, but you were unphased. The crowd's roar was fading, but the rush was still there, and it wasn't going anywhere.

Ronin was there too, his presence unmistakable in the haze of the after-party noise. His fingers still curled around the neck of his guitar, as if the music hadn't left him. He was standing near the corner, his posture loose but guarded, looking more tired than he was willing to admit. His hair was tousled, wild from the heat of the stage, strands sticking to his face. His eyes, though, were bright and intense, burning through everything, searching, restless. You caught his gaze, and for a brief moment, the noise of the room dissolved, like a world where only the two of you existed.

He didn't smile yet, but his gaze softened just a little. You moved towards him, drawn by an invisible thread that had been there since the first chord you'd struck on the drums together. The silence between you was a low hum, an unspoken promise that the world around you had stopped for a moment.

The space between you shrank, and then your hand was at his side, boldly taking the lead, testing the waters with a tentative touch. He didn't pull away. His chest rose and fell with every breath, steady and strong, but you could feel the tension radiating off him. Your fingers grazed his arm, and you felt the heat pass through you, electric and alive. For a heartbeat, you both stood there, suspended in the moment, before he closed the distance between you.

Ronin was never one for gentleness, but there was something in the way he leaned in now, his mouth brushing against yours with a kind of quiet force, as if he had been waiting for this, too. His lips were warm and soft, urgent and insistent. The kiss was a slow unravelling, like a thread being pulled through fabric, one inch at a time, making you shiver from the intensity of it.

It was more than just passion, more than just heat. There was something deeper in the way he kissed you. It was unspoken, raw, as though both of you had been waiting to be seen in this way for so long, and now, at last, you were. The world around you blurred, dissolved completely, and it was just the two of you in the quiet of the backstage, the weight of the unspoken between your breaths.

His hands found your shoulders, fingers pressing down and pulling you closer. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he needed to be closer, needed to feel the heat of you against him. You kissed him back, slow and deliberate, savouring the moment. He responded with equal intensity, deepening the kiss and pulling you into him even more.

The sounds of the backstage, the chatter, the music still playing faintly in the distance – all of it faded, leaving only the pulse of the kiss. Your heart pounded against your chest, matching the rhythm of the music you had just played, as if it were still alive within you. Ronin's grip tightened on you, his touch possessive and powerful, igniting a deep, primal response. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, an answer to everything you had been too afraid to say out loud.

For a moment, you felt as if you were on fire. His mouth moved against yours with such intensity, such fervour, that you were consumed by the heat of it, flooded every inch of your body with sensation. You could feel the urgency in him, the way he needed you close, like he couldn't breathe unless you were there. His hand moved to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer until there was no space between you.

Your hand slid around his waist, feeling the tension in his muscles and the smooth curve of his back as he pressed against you. The kiss was slow and deliberate, yet there was an undeniable intensity and a slow-burning desire that surged through both of them. His lips tasted like the night – sweat, smoke and something wild, something untamed.

The kiss went on longer than you thought it would. It went on longer than you expected it could. By the time you pulled away, you were both breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other, the air thick with the weight of what had just happened. You could feel the faint thrum of his heartbeat under your hand where it rested on his chest. In that moment, you knew you were close to him and needed him.

He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath, but his eyes never left yours. There was no awkwardness between you. You understood each other, you accepted each other. You didn't need to say anything. The silence between you said it all.

At last, you knew you were where you were meant to be. The world outside of this moment didn't matter. The band, the crowds, the wreckage of your past – none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was here, now, with Ronin. And even though the music would continue to play, even though the world would continue to turn, for just a few minutes, the only thing that was real was the quiet between the two of you, the feeling of his breath on your skin, and the shared silence that told you everything you needed to know.

The kiss was the beginning. It ignited something between you. 

Ronin's lips still tasted of you, lingering in the cool air between you both as you stood there, bodies close but not quite touching. Your heart beat strongly in your chest, a steady rhythm that pulsed beneath the heavy silence. The weight of your lost boyfriend still sat on your shoulders, heavy like a stone you had carried for far too long. But now, there was something else. Something warm, new and undeniable was there, like the dawn breaking through the darkness.

You didn't know how it had happened, but you knew when you had crossed that line from mourning to moving on. And you could feel it now. Ronin is not a replacement, he is not a shadow of what you have lost. He was his own person, a force to be reckoned with, raw and real. The love you had for your late boyfriend still lingered, like the scent of old roses. But it wasn't the same kind of love anymore.

The quietness was a stark contrast to the pain of loss, but it was not overwhelming. It wasn't suffocating you, not like it once was. You could still see your late boyfriend in the corners of your mind and hear his voice in the back of your thoughts, but now it was distant and faded. A memory you can revisit, but not live in forever. You had been carrying that grief, that love, as if it was a burden. Now, with Ronin, you could set it down gently, just for a moment, and let it breathe. Breathe.

Ronin's eyes were fixed on you, searching, as if he too had felt the shift between you. His fingers twitched, a subtle movement as if he was waiting for you to speak. But there was nothing to say, not yet. You had to get the words out, but they were still tangled in your throat, wrapped around the pain of the past and the warmth of what you felt now. No words were needed, not now. The moment between you two stretched on, infinite in its quiet understanding.

You loved him. You felt it deep in your bones: this strange new love blossoming in the wake of the past. Ronin was not just a replacement. He was not something to fill the space that had once been occupied by your late boyfriend. He was more than just a replacement. He was something entirely new, a person you could breathe with, a person you could grow into. You still loved your late boyfriend, but you were ready to move on. It was a gentler, more transient feeling, like a memory you can touch but not hold onto forever.

Ronin was someone you could love. He was chaotic and calm, contradictory and passionate. In that quiet moment, you realised you had already begun. You had already allowed him in. Slowly but surely. The space in your heart that had once been filled with grief had, over time, made room for something else. Something living. Something was here with you in this moment, not a ghost but a presence.

The kiss was the first step. It was the breaking of something, the opening of a door that had been locked for far too long. But now, it was more than just a kiss. This was the start of something new. It wasn't about erasing the past; it was about building on it. Like roots stretching into the earth, reaching for something that will nourish you and heal you.

As you stood there with Ronin, you felt the world opening up to you, full of possibilities you'd not believed in for a long time. The pain was still there, but it didn't control you. It does not define you. It was just a part of you, and you could sit with it next to the love you were beginning to feel for him, for Ronin, without it drowning you.

You didn't need to replace or force love. It wasn't something to be filled; it was a space to grow, stretch and bend. And now, with Ronin, you can let it stretch. You can let it fill you up again, but in a way that doesn't erase the past. It will make room for the future. Ronin was not a ghost. He was not a shadow. He was real. He was here.

[lorablackmane]

It's time for ghosts y'all!! I wanted to make this post once I finished a chapter or 2 of my AU's fic, but I've talked about these lil fuckers so much w/ Teal in the past month I figured it might be best to make a post b4 that so ppl aren't confused in the future.

The premise of this AU is after the night after the King is defeated, everyone is celebrating! ...Until odd things start to appear in the House. A giant bloodsplatter in the Death Corridor and a trail of blood leading from it to the King's room. A shattered shelf and knocked over pot missing it's contents in the kitchen. A frozen body near the storage room.

One by one, ghosts created from the breaking points of Siffrin's wish start to appear, and they're here to stay! For better... or for worse.

Below is how each ghost was made, their wishcraft's scent (I put too much thought into this info so I'm adding it), and a bit about them!

(Cw for the ghost's stories below: death, suicide, allergy attack)

The Stoned - Created in Act 1 - Smells like Copper and Sugar

(This one will get a proper ref later bc this doesn't fully capture him)

Despite their looks, The Stoned is the calmest out of all of them, even though their death was one of the most painful. It happened so quickly and also messed up enough that the Wishcraft couldn't fix most of their body after the boulder disappears... so he can't feel pain anymore. He can't really feel much honestly there's... there isn't many nerves to feel with anymore. The additional lack of bones is a detriment to their ability to move, making them have to crawl around and continuously shift so they won't lose their balance until they get items like crutches and a wheelchair to help.

The Stoned doesn't know the horrors of the House and so are innocent in a way even Bonnie isn't. They never even it made it to the second half of the first floor! So a lot of the things the others talk about fly over their head. The others don't leave them out of talks about the House though! ...Not that the Stoned... really speaks - but it's the thought that counts!! They have their buddy to speak for them, anyway.

Just like how Loop's Wishcraft made their body unique, each ghost has their own lil quirk due to the Wishcraft that powers their bodies. The Stoned has the oddest one: due to their lack of most their bones their body is almost completely powered by Wishcraft that is activated by the air he breathes in. Because of this, he can actually almost flatten himself by releasing all the air inside themself, and will stay that way until he breathes back in. He can't move like that, but it does sometimes come in handy - by releasing some instead of all the air they can make themself slightly more compact to get into tight places!

The Silent - Created in Act 2 - Smells like Saltwater Taffy

The Silent is a fearful one, they remember the pain the House offers but cannot feel it. They only truly remember up to Bonnie accidentally pushing them, however they know so much more. Each time Siffrin touched a tear he gave them the memories of that run, but to the Silent it was less like a memory and more like watching a play. Detached from themself... yet the fear is there. They aren't like Stone who only remembers his death, they know the blessing was a curse wrapped in a pretty bow and the thought that what they see is only a fragment of the loops Siffrin went through... it makes them retreat into themself, especially bc they see their existence as unneeded bc well... Siffrin already exists. They don't need another to bother them.

It's much easier to stay put, to let them become one with the House as the tears intended. They don't need to breathe, to eat, or anything really so it's quite easy for them to do so! For them to just... exist. Hiding in plain sight, like the books hidden on shelves of the House written in their mother tongue. So this is where they stay, until one day maybe people can hear them speak once more. They do occasionally move, mostly when they hear that the Housemaiden's need the area they're in, but only when they're certain no one is looking.

When it comes to fight, flight, or freeze they choose freeze every time... which isn't helped by the quirk of their body's Wishcraft. The Silent can freeze anything up to the size of a medium bowl if they hold it for long enough. The Unseen will sometimes use this to pull pranks on people who upset them, stealing their umbrellas and placing them in The Silent's hold. They find this very petty... but they don't like moving bc a Housemaiden might see them and it is funny so they don't stop the two from doing so.

The Unseen(Left) - Created in Act 3 - Smells like Candied Pineapples

The left one is similar in personality to the Stoned as when they were created Siffrin knews that something was wrong, but still had hope that things were okay. They are an odd one: they see their accidental death as nothing in the grand scheme of things considering how many deaths already happened before them. If anything, he sees his death as a vital piece of showing their love to their family oddly enough! His memory is spotty, but the answer to Bonnie's question is forever engraved upon their skin so none of them will ever forget (even if most cannot see them anymore except outta the corner of their eye). There is a great sorrow in them though, after meeting their counterpart and discovering that there was so much pain afterwards - that like them this fact is engraved into their counterpart... but they'll stay with them, and maybe... they can bring some joy back to the right.

They help keep their counterpart's pranks in check, as unlike the right left remembers how fragile people are and doesn't see them as actors or dolls. Most of the pranks they plan are leaving lil letters with terrible puns around the House. Like you go into the bathroom, there's a letter tied to the handle of the sink. You open it and it says something like, "water you doin, handsome?" Stupid stuff like that, that makes them feel like the funnyjokespunperson they were before everything. A way to reclaim what the loops took from them both.

The Lonely - Created in Act 3 - Smells of Sugar and Moldy Cloth

This ghost is the culmination of so, so many fragments Siffrin left in between those walls. For a long time they did not remember anything besides the motions to get to the King, yet they could never defeat him. They couldn't survive his major attack, no matter what they did. It feels like at one point he could though... wasn't there a way? It isn't until the ghost event that they remember what they lost and while it felt absolute euphoria in that moment, after that the loneliness became soul crushing. The hunger for someone, anyone to be with them hurt so much! ...It made them remember why they forgot their family the first time.

The Lonely's quirk unlike most of the others isn't seared on their skin. No, the Lonely's ability is actually only really useful for dealing with The Unseen - anytime one of the others is in danger or about to do something dangerous they sense it. The Vengeful is constantly ringing this mental alarm, but it can't do anything to help due to it constantly moving so they don't even try with them. The Unseen though, it is often seen dragging them by the ears before they do something like unleash a barrel full of marbles in a hallway.

The Vengeful - Created in Act 4 - Smells of Steel, Salt, and Sugar

It is the culmination of the King's cruelty and Siffrin's agony, a beast made of anger, pain, and sorrow in equal measures. It hates the King both bc Siffrin did and bc it sees him at fault for it's creation as it doesn't know of Wishcraft as it was created right on the line between 3 and 4. That is why it tore his right hand off and stole the gauntlet upon it - a punishment for the action that created it and a trophy for it to wear as proof that, even after such a horrid deed, he didn't win. It runs away from the House and it's former family because of this memory - it cannot confront the people it feels it failed even with the knowledge they survived, that it's sin wasn't permanent. In it's eyes it will always exist. It's eye will sometimes gleam with the same shade as the one that appeared when the world was breaking!

The Vengeful is the only ghost no one is completely sure the location of due to it throwing itself out of the first available window after completing it's mission. It mostly stays in forests or caverns where it can easily hide, only going near towns if someone reminds it of the King. Once it has dealt with said person however it views it needs to, mostly by scaring them, it returns to it's current hiding spot. The Vengeful is a lonely one, but it's not ready to be near people for long periods of time. It's afraid that due to how it was created it'll bring bad luck to those it spends too much time with - how couldn't it? It was created from a person trapped in the middle of an hourglass until they drowned in the golden sands and by a man who saw his will as absolute, who caused so much agony. One day, though, it'll realize that isn't true... but it'll be quite a while.

The Unseen(Right) - Created in Act 4 - Smells like Steel and Sugar

This one is the closest in personality to Loop. It mocks even though it has no voice, they play with the people around it to remind themself they're real. Without the left the right Unseen would be much more dangerous as it is so desensitized to death they have forgotten what is actually dangerous and so some of their mischief has to be tempered by the left one to avoid killing those around them. For a very long time they view others, besides left, as merely actors in a similar vein as Loop, only referring to others via titles if it needs to interact with anyone and left doesn't control the writing pen. As time passes this trait slowly disappears, as the days show more changes like rain upon the rooftops or snow in the gardens, things it long forgot.

Together with their counterpart The Unseen are the ones who were left behind through actions seen as small, but were greater than thought. The ones who cannot be seen without drastically changing the views of ones most loved by the person they once were. And so they stay hidden from sight by their own Wishcraft... but that is a lonely way to live they discovered. The two of them alone cannot satiate their need 4 company. And so they do little things that are easily noticed so they can be seen without breaking their rule: walking around with open, stolen umbrellas or pulling little pranks.

Most Housemaiden's don't talk to them, because they never get an answer they assume they don't like talking. This isn't the case though they cannot tell them that... neither can speak. The left's throat is closed up and the right's is... well u can probably guess why theirs wouldn't work even if they had a mouth to speak with. The Lonely though does speak to them often - it has a chalkboard in the room it lives in inside the House for them to write lil questions or answers on.

[downbaddetective]

Soooo... uh, this happened. The Cat King seems to have possessed me momentarily so as to wax poetics about his favorite ghost? This is also without much editing, so I'm sorry if it's kinda bad. All mistakes are my own, and so are all of my commas that you can try and pry from my cold, dead hands. (Please be nice, I haven't written anything but essays for the world to see in a looooooong time. The Howl's Moving Castle AU will probably benefit from me practicing a little before diving headfirst into it, so...) This can be read in any way you'd like, but I see this as pre-relationship Catwin.

Edwin had been at it for hours, staring into the void of... something. Something there in the middle distance that Thomas desperately wishes was him in moments only known to himself. Longing to be at the center focus of that gaze. Stupidly gorgeous, intelligent eyes that would without hesitation cut him down if the urge struck.

Thomas regrets the gift now. The stupid coin ('drachma', a familiar voice sounded in his mind. Even when in the same room, he still plagues his thoughts, unbelievable!). The coin has been worn smooth with handling, and age wasn't doing the damned thing any favors. But, oh, it was mesmerizing to watch quick fingers passing it amongst themselves. Edwin's hands were always busy, not unlike his own, so it only seemed natural to offer tribute to the force of nature that was and is Edwin Payne.

The coin itself wasn't anything of any significance; in fact, Edwin would probably be able to say more about it now with its smoothed over faces than Thomas would have had the day he obtained it. But significance has been bestowed upon the soft metal simply by making contact with just about the only deity that Thomas would pray to in this day and age, time only having made him jaded and guarded since the last time he dared.

"Thomas?" And no, he takes it back, green eyes sear through him once more, and he remembers why he shies away every time. And the name, gods that name, his name, in the possession of the first in his long, long life that he hoped would choose to keep him. The facade slips back into place quickly, but before he could respond, the ghost is already continuing, "Heads or tails?"

"Oh, talk dirty to me, kitten."

Edwin raises one unimpressed brow but merely asks once more, "Head or tails?"

The coin is still being woven between his fingers, but now the Cat King of Port Townsend has had his prayers answered, Edwin Payne's unwavering focus entirely trained on him. And he had meant it all those moons ago when he had told the detective that want and pleasure and punishment were not mutually exclusive. This right here had to be punishment, to want something, someone, so badly and yet have to look away or risk being blinded.

"Don't know what I'm playing for, sweetheart. You know I don't work like that."

Edwin's face shifted ever so slightly, just enough that Thomas could see the hellfire burning deep down within him, that thing that saved him, that got him out of hell the first time, alone. And, for a brief moment, Thomas took the time to pray again, this time to anyone listening that, for once, Thomas would be allowed to keep Edwin right back.

"Heads..." and in a movement too quick for even the cat in him to catch, the coin is flicked up in the air at an impressive height and is caught by Edwin's palm flat to the desk in front of him. "Or tails, Thomas? Or do you distrust me that much?"

It truly is pathetic how that gets his heart racing.

"You should know me by now, kitten."

"Tails then, is it?"

One slight nod of the head was sufficient enough for him, apparently, because Edwin's hand began to lift off... of nothing. He could feel his face contort in confusion before he could school his features. And looking back up to the ghost's face, he saw what he could only describe as childlike glee in place of the fire that had been there earlier.

"You think you're clever, don't you?"

" I happen to know I'm clever. I don't see how that has any relevance right now."

"Okay, so now what, hmm? Are you going to pull it out from behind my ear now?"

"Don't be ridiculous. You would know if it was behind your ear."

Would he, though? Edwin took up all of his senses when he was around so Edwin could drop a house on him, and he probably wouldn't notice (probably). But he looked at Thomas expectantly. Even through the playfulness, a challenge has been issued, a puzzle to be solved. 'Find it.' his eyes told him.

And so he closed his eyes. He had used magic that much was obvious, but Edwin was still novice on pockets and travel that didn't involve mirrors, so it couldn't have gone very far. And... no. No, that was too easy, probably a diversion to make him look foolish. But still, he could taste the faint ozone on his tongue.

Thomas stood and leaned over the desk, bracing himself with the arm that wasn't reaching for, arguably, the bigger trickster of the two. For his part, Edwin was keeping eye contact, his face not betraying him one bit. And Thomas is so very grateful to have witnessed this kitten learn that he has claws.

And the only thing Thomas, The Cat King of Port Townsend could do in this moment was once again pray to any and every deity listening that Edwin would want to keep him and that he would be able to keep him right back.

Edwin's eyes flutter closed momentarily when the heat of Thomas' hand passed close by the side of his face. He was right, though. There's a little bit of buzzing energy right behind his ear. He grabs the coin out of the pocket that Edwin had created, out from behind his ear.

He offered up the coin once more as tribute to this beautiful creature in front of him. Edwin took it carefully from his hand with a faint grin on his face.

[wonjnz]

drunk on (the thought of loving) you

₊˚⊹ summary: five years of loving hanbin can be told within taking five shots.

₊˚⊹ genre: angst (idk if this is even sad at all.. VV SLICE OF LIFE), best friend!hanbin, collegel!au | wc: 2.2k

₊˚⊹ warning(s): swearing, mentions of drinking | inspo: that’s what you get - paramore

₊˚⊹ a/n: idk this was kinda scrapped last month .. i’ll just post this bc i wanna keep this acc alive!!!

i. the first shot

you vividly remember watching hanbin crying in the driver’s seat.

you were the first person he called right after he got dumped by his now ex-girlfriend; and all you could do was watch and offer him a few tissues from the passenger’s side, occasionally offering a “she wasn’t all that, anyway.” whenever hanbin would rant about how much he wasted his love on her just to get ghosted.

“i don’t know anymore, y/n. am i that dumb to not notice she isn’t into me?” he asks despite his throat dry from crying, looking at you.

and that’s when you had that damn cheesy realization the moment you looked at hanbin again — the realization where you’ve stupidly fallen for your long-time best friend and that stupid, high school love you’ve been trying to avoid for all these years slowly dawns on you now despite both of you in college.

you shrug your feelings off for the meantime, “of course not. plus, you deserve someone way better.” you assure him.

the moment you arrive home, you’ve had the whole night to confirm that you were, in fact, helplessly in love with sung hanbin.

you don’t even know how it started — maybe it was during the one time he tiredly slept on your shoulder while on the way home from a field trip, or the way he’d always invite and mention you everywhere and anytime he could to the point even his friends thought you were together, and you don’t even dare try to remember how he said “i’ll love you whenever nobody is there to do it.” that one night during your nightly calls.

and as if that wasn’t already a big wave enough, zhang hao’s reaction to it felt like a tsunami.

“say you’re kidding right now.” zhang hao says in disbelief at your confession the next day, putting his drink down to focus solely on you. “you, liking your — our best friend since middle school, right after his ass got dumped?”

you frown and shrug as a reply, “i don’t know, everything just clicked that time. i think that’s like three years worth of having to interpret his mixed signals towards me.”

zhang hao sighs at your confused state, taking a sip from his coffee before speaking up, “so you’ve liked him for at least three years now?”

slowly nodding, you put your head in your hands. “god, i’m such a fucking dumbass, hao.” you say exasperatedly as you dread the day you’d grow tired and finally confess to hanbin,

“you think you’ll try talking to him about it soon?”

“i don’t think i’ll ever have the guts to tell him, hao.” you say defeatedly, looking down at your phone to see that hanbin sent another really long rant about his ex. “not when he’s still fresh out of a relationship, that’s for sure.”

“i’m just scared that once i confess, i’ll ruin everything. i’ll ruin us.”

you felt helpless, hopeless even, just the mere thought of seeing hanbin’s pitiful reaction at your confession is enough to make you pass out in the bustling cafe you were in. what more when he’ll start distancing himself days after? you were terrified.

zhang hao waves your fear off nonchalantly, “you’ll never know. what if you’re in some kind of drama and this could be your chance?” he tries to lighten the mood, smiling victoriously when you raise your eyebrows at him.

“don’t feed into my delusions hao,” you roll your eyes at him. “i'll just tell him once i'm over from this whole dumb ‘liking your best friend’ thing.”

“by the looks of it, i don't think that's happening anytime soon.”

you scoff and playfully hit zhang hao’s shoulder, receiving a small scowl from him, “but you gotta admit, we make a good pair,”

“he just doesn't love me that way.”

ii. the second shot

sometimes you wish you weren’t too adamant on hanbin drinking his heartbreak out, especially now that you’re left with a drunk-out-of-his-mind hanbin in your apartment. (you mentally curse zhang hao for leaving earlier than expected.)

the night started off with the three of you making a toast to hanbin moving on, which then evolved into a mini ranting session about going into college life, then a sudden karaoke break, zhang hao leaving after, and now this.

you’re both slouched on the dining table, arms serving as your only pillow because for some reason you can’t walk over to your sofa, and with no knowledge of time as you ramble on about the most random topics you could think of.

hanbin hums amusingly, “y’know, even if you say nobody is there to love you, i’m always here as your best friend.” his words slurred and groggy. and even with the amount of alcohol in your system numbing your senses, you still felt that little sting in your heart, you only laugh as a reply.

“so you'll only ever see me as a friend?”

you hear him hum lowly, “of course, what else would i think of you as?”

right, of course.

“not even more than a friend?” you, or the alcohol in your system, ask again. hanbin slowly hums again, the sound softening until you're met with nothing but the sound of the bustling city outside your apartment.

a few minutes passed by and you finally gain the strength to at least sit up, the sight of hanbin sleeping coming in full view — his slight pout, light breathing with a few snores here and there, and ruffled hair was honestly a sight you wished you could look at forever. but you swear the longer you stared at him, that god-awful feeling of regret starts to feel even stronger than before.

but that night, you fell in love with sung hanbin for a second time.

iii. the third shot

“you know, we started talking again.” hanbin shares through the phone, going silent as he expects some reaction. no way.

you shift in your seat, “seriously? didn’t you say you officially moved on like what, two years ago?” hanbin smiles sheepishly to himself before saying, “she messaged me last night, so i replied. we talked the whole time i barely slept.”

“we’ll hang out a bit after this actually! you wanna join us?” he offers innocently, your heart receiving a jab this time when you noticed how excited his voice seemed just at the mere thought of seeing her, you knew hanbin well enough to know he was madly in love yet again.

you stay silent for a few minutes before speaking up, “you guys have fun, i don’t wanna be the third-wheel between you two.” hanbin mumbles a small ‘awe,’ before eventually ending the call to get ready.

next thing you know, you’re on facetime with zhang hao bawling your eyes out about what just happened. “see i told you, he’s still hung up on her.” he says while walking around his apartment.

genuinely speaking you don’t know what’s worse, the harsh truth zhang hao was telling or the way you could barely hear his voice due to the amount of muffling and moving he’s doing.

“did you see the way he’s talking about her? he’s literally the most obvious man alive.”

“you’re really not helping me here hao.”

“right, sorry.” zhang hao immediately shuts up, humming a bit before speaking up again. “i know it’s not easy, but at least try to move on from him, y’know?” he says, his voice filled with sympathy at your state.

before you could speak up zhang hao continues on, “it’s not possible, i know, or — i don’t know, just tell him so you can get that burden off, i’m sure he’ll understand anyway.”

you groan at the thought of confessing, “are those really my only choices?”

“unless you wanna live with getting hurt over and over again, yeah.” zhang hao shrugs.

you sigh at his advice, he was right after all, but every time you remember your friendship is at stake; you back out at the last minute. “i’ve been handling this for two years, hao, don’t you think i can handle two more?” zhang hao chuckles almost pitifully.

“of course not, you’ve been handling this whole hanbin thing for, correction, five years too long. you've genuinely gone batshit crazy.”

“honestly hao fuck you because was the last part really that necessary?”

iv. the fourth shot

god, you’re tired of hanbin’s constant compliments about her; how she’s the best person in the world, how she’s the prettiest girl he’s seen, how she’s so special and dear to him. almost every conversation you’ve had would always go back to something related about her, even if it meant the most absurd topics only you three would know. the topic could be about how zhang hao got lost in the middle of a forest and hanbin would still tie it back to her.

hell, he even mentions her even while drinking.

but you’ve handled it for five years now, so what’s the difference?

the three of you were celebrating your graduation in zhang hao’s apartment, the bouquet from your parents laying on the sofa while your togas were thrown across the room while zhang hao’s coffee table was filled with a bunch of soju and shot glasses you bought from a nearby convenience store.

“thank god we’re finally graduates, i can finally escape from all those girls taking candid pictures of me.” zhanghao sighs in relief the moment he starts downing his first drink of the night, pouring more.

“you sure? i already saw new fansites of you online, they’ll never leave you alone at this rate.” hanbin retorts, you chuckle at zhang hao's horror as he's frantically checking his twitter to see pictures of him at his graduation.

the night, cliché enough, felt like a dream. the three of you basking in the temporary freedom of adulthood before you start looking for work.

as it went on, you missed the days where you could look at hanbin without noticing the stars in his eyes, the days where you could still speak full coherent sentences whenever his attention is fully on you, and zhang hao noticed.

“it's just hard to say no to someone you really loved,” you hear hanbin say, zhang hao had brought up his ex (to your absolute horror and zhang hao's drunkenness) and you've been quiet the whole conversation.

“especially with her, it felt like i had no more to give but the moment we talked — there was still something left.”

you chuckle, not at him, but the way his words hit how you feel with hanbin right in the center. and yet you just can't refuse to give hanbin the little love you have left even when he's freely giving his own to someone else.

you take another shot to drown your feelings out more, “so you just can't say no, right?” you ask, seeing if he feels the same way.

hanbin smiles at you before nodding, placing his shot glass down to lean back on his chair. “yeah. you really can't.” he answers, confirming that you were both experiencing the same form of love. but painfully enough, just not towards each other.

god, was the truth so anticlimactic for you.

the way hanbin talks about her with the same lovestruck eyes whenever you talk about him to zhang hao, how you notice the little things in hanbin the way he also notices the little things in her — you knew it from the start.

but to see it slapped to your face despite knowing how it'll end, just felt like reality slowly kicking in the more drinks you take.

and now, under zhang hao's dim apartment lights, you realized that the truth that sung hanbin will never see you as more than his most cherished best friend since middle school, really does hurt.

you swear you were just drinking your first shot, but when you woke up to find yourself on zhang hao's bed; a loud snore coming from the living room and—

v. the fifth shot

“you awake?”

shit.

quickly turning to hanbin's figure by the bedroom door despite the pounding headache, you slowly nod. “just woke up actually.”

as you slowly look at hanbin by the bedroom door, you immediately remember the day you realized your feelings for him — his face puffy from crying yet still so pretty under that orange sunset glow, his hands that’d usually tap on the steering wheel when he was starting to calm down again, and the way his shirt was so wrinkled in one specific area from all the bunching.

it felt almost too poetic to have that sort of realization under the sunset in his car, almost as if you’re bidding goodbye to the days you used to look at him as just your best friend.

so you, or the remaining alcohol in your system figured, rather, that you make use of the sunrise to finally welcome the harsh truth of confessing to him.

and you did.

“i love you.”

you’re met with nothing but silence, looking down to save yourself from bawling your eyes out in front of him.

“i’ve loved you for five years, hanbin. five fucking grueling years.” you manage to croak out, not noticing the way hanbin slowly makes his way towards you, nor the way his eyes significantly soften when he sees zhang hao’s sheets slowly staining from your tears.

a few minutes pass without much happening, the room only filled with the sounds of your sniffling.

“i’m sorry, y/n.” hanbin whispers, eventually embracing you to at least bring some comfort. but to his dismay, his actions just made you cry even harder; not because you just got rejected, but because of how soft his voice and embrace was it felt like he was pitying you.

in his defense, who wouldn’t? you loved him for so long, despite knowing he’s still hung up on his ex-girlfriend and regardless will still see you as his most precious best friend. all he could do at the moment was continuously say ‘i’m sorry’ whenever you cling onto his shirt tighter as support.

as you continue to cry in his embrace, you realized that under the sunset, you were there to comfort hanbin. but as you’re both waiting for the sunrise, you figured he’ll never be the one there for you like he promised.

[ekat-fandom-blog]

Dragons and Ghosts prompt

Dragons and ghosts are kind of similar in that some of them can (1) look passably human, (2) be super strong, (3) use magic, (4) take hits better than humans can, (5) heal fast, (6) have obsessions, (7) change forms, (8) have deafening screams/roars, (9) fly, (10) be territorial, (11) use fighting as a form of playing, and (12) probably make attacks come out of their mouths(fire, wind, water, sound...) please note that I used the word can as there are many different types of dragons and ghosts. thank you.

What I'm saying is: Mix Dragon!Batman au with DPxDC.

Danny thinks Batman is a ghost because of multiple of the reasons listed above and tries to reach out with gifts or something as a peace offering. Ghosts don't usually become heroes, so it would be great to meet a few(or one). He doesn't know ghost culture very well, so he probably gets some help. For ghosts it's simple to gain allies, but also extremely difficult. Don't enter another ghost's haunt without permission(unless you plan on fighting them). Gifts in general can be seen as peace offerings unless it's death or obsession related(then it's a courting gift). You can't just show up and wait outside of their haunt to have a chat because it can be seen as you issuing a challenge. If you don't (a)receive an in person gift in return, or (b)an in person meeting with the other ghost in a week, you can try again.

Bruce is unsettled because the scent on the gifts smell weird. He's not the most well versed in magic (just because he's a magical creature, doesn't mean he has to be good at it) but he does know dragon culture. Don't enter someone else's territory without express permission. Gifts have meanings. (If it's shiny, they want something. If it's food, they probably want to be friends/family or to form an alliance. If it's something to add to your hoard and aren't already part of your family, then they are trying to court you. Side note: if you hoard food or shiny things, courting items mostly come in even numbers.) Always, someone is supposed to wait with the gift to explain/negotiate more minor details. Everything is always done on the same day; no waiting, no return gift or searching out the other person/dragon. He assumes a baby dragon found out about him being a dragon and is trying to remember how to contact an unfamiliar dragon. (or if you want bruce/danny: he assumes his potential suitor is unfamiliar with dragon culture and trying to learn)

The cultures overlap, so neither realize that the other isn't the same species, but they're also different enough that they do not understand what's going on.

(feel free to add or disregard anything in this prompt if you want to write something based on this)

[gingerbreadmonsters]

something strange

or: who you gonna call?

gn!reader, warnings for mild innuendo and discussion of death, halloween hijinks except it’s literally spring, oopsie. hello, operator? there’s something weird, and it - well, it’s not looking great… it’s time for yet another weirdo DAMN crew AU! cheers as always to agent of the google docs surveillance state @zozo-01 who keeps figuring out when i’m working on this at 4am, and to all the gang on discord who have tolerated the frankly disturbingly-morbid questions that it’s prompted. please keep all arms and legs inside the vehicle - don't worry, we'll reattach those for you at the end of the ride. dear having a dose of a freaky ghost (or five) in just over 13,600 words.

Every day's a school day, or so you're told.

For most people, that's more of a figurative thing. For you, you've been going to school basically non-stop since you were three years old or something, so it's pretty literal.

It's not necessarily a bad thing, you suppose. Teaching at DAMN is pretty good, the faculty and students are nice enough, and it pays… well, it pays. More than your last job, though that's not really saying much, and enough to afford the mortgage on this new house you've moved into.

It’s weird. You’d heard nothing but terrible things about the housing market in California lately, and Dahlia was no exception - it still isn’t, if you’re honest. Rent is extortionate, but even that barely matters when there’s hardly anything available in the first place.

You'd been so surprised when you'd seen it online. A proper, two-bedroom detached house, with a garden and a garage and everything, going for a lot less than the - admittedly-few - other houses nearby. How had nobody snapped it up already? Pleasantly surprised, you'd called the estate agent to see about putting in an offer, and you'd barely been able to get the words out before she'd set you up with an appointment the next day.

She'd been… cagey, is probably the best way to put it. Reluctant to tell you why it was so cheap. She couldn't stall forever, though - you remember the resigned, slightly apologetic look on her face as she took a deep breath, before plastering on a grin and telling you what was going on.

Now then, she'd said. I know it's unpleasant, but I'm required by law to disclose to you that, within the last three years, a number of previous tenants sadly passed away on the property.

You’d certainly been surprised, but she’d clearly just wanted to get this conversation over with, and just breezed on. As far as we understand, none of the tenants were affiliated with each other, and only two of the deaths were directly caused by an issue with the property - some minor faulty wiring, and one of the older sections of the roof was damaged during a storm and collapsed unexpectedly. It’s since been repaired, though, so no need to worry!

Somehow, the worst part about that sentence wasn’t the news that someone had been crushed to death in the house you were trying to buy, but was instead the cheery smile with which she delivered the news, like she thought you’d be delighted. Are all real estate agents in California like this?

How many, exactly? Were there any before that? you’d asked, and she hadn’t quite been able to hide her grimace. And how did they die? Should I be concerned about the local area?

Unfortunately for her, you’d been reading up on the sorts of laws that estate agents like her have to follow in California. No matter what, they have to tell you if anyone died in the house in the last three years - but if you ask for more information about it, or about any other deaths from before then, they’re legally required to tell you the truth about that as well.

Well, I don’t mean to alarm you… Nervously, she’d clicked away on her computer for a few minutes, before turning back to you. The four tenants before you all passed away on the property - not under suspicious circumstances, of course. Just… you know. These things happen.

Yes, you’d said flatly. Obviously.

Three out of the four were accidental - one was the result of a fall, one was the aforementioned issue with the roof, and I believe the other was due to an electrical fault. The fourth was the most recent - an altercation with an intruder during a break-in - but we’ve been assured by the local police department that this sort of thing is highly unusual for the area, and is very unlikely to happen again.

As she spoke, you’d felt a horrible feeling of resignation settle in your stomach. Of course the one place you can actually afford to buy is the one where tenants keep dying inexplicably.

How old were they, would you say?

Some more clicking, and if her expression had been anything to go by, a spreadsheet that was loading a lot slower than it should. It looks like… yeah, it looks like most were in their mid-twenties, or thereabouts.

Perfect. Of course they were. Were they living alone?

She’d clearly been dreading the question, gritted teeth forced into a smile. I believe so, yes. The implied like you will be hangs heavy in the air between you, and her eyes dart momentarily back to her screen before flicking back to yours.

Great. Everything about it had been great. A new city, a new job, living alone in a literal, actual death trap of a house. What could possibly go wrong?

Well then, you’d said, crossing your fingers behind your back. I have a good feeling about this.

For the first few weeks, things had been more or less normal - you’d been a little on edge, but nothing especially deadly had happened to you. No wardrobes falling on you, no rugs pulled out from underneath you, no invisible gas leaking into your lungs. In fact, it had been a perfectly ordinary house. If you were more suspicious, you might even say it was too ordinary. But that would be a silly thing to say, and you’re not, so you don’t.

Just a normal person, moving into a normal house. What could be simpler?

The start of term is a blur, and all too soon you’re so caught up in the semester that you barely have the energy to drag yourself upstairs to bed when you get home, let alone worry about anything else. Introducing yourself to your new coworkers, meeting your new classes, sorting through lesson plans and worksheets and your stupid fucking institutional login, being reset for the fifth time in as many days because apparently the IT department here is just as overworked and underpaid as anywhere else and if you have to go and beg them to reset your password again you’re going to-

Wait, it’s nearly the end of the semester already? What?

Finals season at DAMN is a particularly vicious mistress, it seems, and you've been going out of your mind trying to stay on top of all your work. One of the other Water Elemental professors went on maternity leave a month into the semester, so you've been forced to take over her class for the rest of the year - and you can safely say that you're never doing this again.

Twice as many lectures, twice as many emails, twice as much chasing students for late assignments. Right now, basically your whole day is taken up with running practicals, and your evenings are nothing but marking, marking, marking.

Yeah. That’s all that happens in the evenings. You don’t have time to think about anything else at all, nothing whatsoever, because there’s nothing else to think about.

You don’t think about the odd sounds from downstairs while you’re trying to sleep, muffled whispers of what could almost be conversation, echoing quietly in the hallway. You don’t think about the fact that you definitely turned the TV off before you left the house, and how it definitely wasn’t turned to the news when you did. You especially don’t think about how the plants in the garden never seem to need watering, or how the shelves never seem to get dusty, or how the curtains in the living room always seem to be open in the morning, even though you’re sure you closed them before you went to bed.

The doors that open and close on their own - well, it’s just a bit draughty, isn’t it? The strange chill in the air that seems to linger in certain places in the house, no matter how much you turn up the heating - well, all these old houses have their quirks, don’t they? That faint, blurry figure that you could have sworn you saw ducking past you in the mirror, disappearing so quickly that it can’t have really been there at all - and when you turn, there’s nothing behind you but air…

Condensation on the mirror before you’ve even had your shower, the sweet scent of a perfume you don’t wear. You’re going out of your mind.

You’ve started spending more time at work, waking up even earlier than before and going home even later. Organising lesson plans, sorting through papers, picking up extra invigilation, desperate to spend as long as you can at the university - anything, to get you out of that house. Practically the only thing you do at home now is sleep, and even that’s not for very long before you’re dashing out the door again in the morning. You’ll get breakfast on the way. Maybe if you’re not there as often, whatever it is will just… go away?

Only that doesn’t happen - if anything, it’s the complete opposite. The whole place feels strangely uneasy now, like the house itself is on edge, watching you. Something in the corner of your eye, the feeling of something breathing that surely shouldn’t be able to. Something tense and creeping in the air, stretching and stretching, ready to snap.

Fitful dreams, sleepless nights, keys jangling in your hand. Is it still paranoia if your house is really haunted?

It all comes to a head on - well, to be honest, you’re not so sure what day it is. Wednesday, maybe? Thursday? Whatever the case, you’ve been running on practically empty for longer than you should have been, and you’re really starting to feel it now.

Head pounding, you shut your eyes as you lean over the coffee maker. One for now, and one in your flask for later - oh, and you’ve run out of energy drinks in your office, so you’ll have to get a few out of the fridge to take with you.

Stressed at work, stressed at home, and barely sleeping in between. You’ve been forced to live on barely anything but coffee and energy drinks for almost a week now, just to keep yourself upright, and you think… um, you think it might be…

Fuck, your head is spinning. Just a minute, and you’ll be fine. It’s fine. Your laptop’s upstairs by your bed, so you’ve just got to grab that, and then you can be off to work. Just - just wait for the walls to stop moving, alright? You’ll only be a second…

The coffee’s slightly too hot as you gulp it down, and you hiss as it burns your tongue, scorching the inside of your mouth - something cold, you want something cold, make it stop it hurts it hurts - cracking, fizzing, oh, that’s nice, it’s cold, it’s cold - wait, what is it?

Oh, that’s bad. You look down at the half-empty can in your hand, lovely and cold from the fridge, condensation dripping slowly down the metal. Oops. That can’t be good for you.

Now that you’ve opened it, you might as well finish it. You won’t be able to carry an open can with you and it’ll go all weird if you just leave it out. What a waste!

Sip by sip, you gradually empty the can. Why does your stomach feel so weird? That’s not fun. Wasn’t there something you were supposed to remember…?

Laptop, you need to get your laptop. Upstairs. Right.

Well, if your heart explodes, your heart explodes. Giggling to yourself as you stumble past the front door and up the stairs, you imagine the look on that stupid estate agent’s face when she realises what’s happened - shit, they’ll have to put the price down even further, won’t they? That’ll be a hell of a hard sell. Yeah, they all died in mysterious accidents, all very strange and creepy, no idea how it happened - oh, except the last one. That one died of coffee disease when their blood turned into caffeine and their brain caught fire. Tragic.

It’s all fine. If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. Smiling, you grab your laptop case from the bedside table, ignoring the way your heart hammers against your ribs like it’s trying to fight its way out of you. Don't even think about it.

Don't think about the way you’re tripping over your own feet as you narrowly miss bumping into the bed, clinging to the doorframe to keep yourself upright. Don't think about the rushing, racing headache that's building in your skull as you drag yourself back down the corridor, that restless pressure in your chest that won't stop growing as you fumble for the bannister. Don't think about the dizzy, blurry world that shudders around you, the strange lightness in your mind as something gives way, the floor that suddenly isn't there beneath you-

STOP!

the horrible sound of your body as it falters and falls, the terrifying space under your feet where the stairs should be

I don't know, they just - I just - oh, God…

the aftertaste of adrenaline flooding through your blood, bitter and strange

Don't just fucking stand there!

as your heart chokes on its own frantic rhythm

Get out of - here, I can do it-

and there's somebody there

What are you even going to do?

and the world goes black

Don't ask.

and everything

disappears.

You don’t wake up for a while.

Shit, your head hurts.

Slowly, you start to feel something on your face, something cold and hard that’s pressing uncomfortably against your cheek. What is that?

You reach up, and - oh. It’s the floor.

Still too lightheaded to sit up, you gradually come back to consciousness in fits and starts, lazy thoughts swimming through your heavy head. You’re lying in the corridor on your side, staring at the skirting board - which is looking a bit grubby, now that you really look at it - and your laptop case is on the floor by the bedroom door a few feet away. The zip is open, and you can see about half of the actual laptop peeking out.

Thankfully, it looks okay. You’re not sure you could deal with having to buy a new one right now, especially with all the work you’ve got to-

Panicked, you jolt upright, one hand coming up to clutch at your skull as it feels like it’s on fire. You’ve got work!

Wait, what’s the time - how late are you? God, you really couldn’t have picked a worse time to fall down the fucking stairs, could you? You’ll have to call the office and tell them what’s happened, that you’re so, so, sorry, that if they can just get someone to cover your second period lecture you should be in by then…

Hold on.

Confused, you look down. Yeah, that’s what you thought - you’re sitting on the floor, sprawled out in the hallway and facing the wall. There’s nothing around you except your laptop case, and your bedroom door is open.

This isn’t right. How are you looking at your upstairs bedroom door, when you’re sure you fell down the stairs?

And that’s only the first thing - now that you really look, of course you’re not downstairs. The stairs go right down by the front door, but there are no shoes on the ground or coats hanging on the wall. Your laptop case must have been open when you dropped it, but the laptop itself is still inside - surely it would have fallen out when it slid down the stairs, or at least be in much worse shape than it is now?

You’re so confused by the whole thing that it doesn’t even occur to you that, besides the throbbing ache in your head, you’re not actually in any pain. Your heart has slowed back down to normal so you don’t feel quite so sick, and you can’t even feel any bruises or soreness from where you must have hit the ground. It’s as if you’d just… decided to lie down.

It doesn’t really matter, though, because you don’t notice it. You slowly pick yourself back up and stagger into your bedroom, reaching for the glass of water that sits on your bedside table, and the telltale fizzle of healing magic that was left on your tongue disappears without a trace.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. The ladies at the front office are very kind when you call to let them know you might be a bit late, but you hadn’t been unconscious for as long as you thought. You only end up missing half of the first period, after all, and even your headache gradually disappears over the course of the day.

The idea of going to the hospital does occur to you - you did lose consciousness, after all - but you decide against it. You feel fine, and it was probably just your body telling you to cut back on the caffeine for a little while. The winning combination of coffee and a can of whatever-it-was probably wasn’t the best idea on an empty stomach.

Ironically, if you had a student who this happened to, you’d probably have dragged them halfway to A&E yourself by now. Funny how that works, isn’t it?

Unfortunately, you can’t pretend that everything’s normal once you’ve finally arrived - your department head comes in at lunchtime to find you ankle deep in a pile of second-year practical write-ups, and all but kicks you out of your office so you can go home early and recover. For my sake, if anything, she says with a grin, although you know she’s only half-joking. Think of my reputation - I can’t let my newest lecturer spend more time here than I do, can I?

It’s certainly very kind of her, probably more so than you deserve, and before you know it you’ve been unceremoniously booted out of the building and onto the quad. Looks like it’s hometime, then.

The bus is warm, but not too crowded, so you’re lucky enough to get a seat by the window. There are worse things to do than watch the world go by on your way back home, and the nice view makes the trip go faster - in no time at all, you’re getting off again.

It’s so bizarre, going home in the middle of the day. Normally it’s long been dark by the time you get back, and everything looks so different in the light that you almost walk straight past your street entirely. Has the house on the opposite side of the road always had those flowers in the front garden? Or has it just always been too dark for you to notice them?

Fishing your keys out of your pocket, you have a horrible feeling that you don’t really know anything about this place. What really happens here in Dahlia? How much of it have you actually seen, that isn’t the inside of a university building?

Unsettled, you unlock the door and step inside, shutting the door behind you with a sigh. Home at last. You’ll have to-

I swear, if you-

Wait, was that the door?

Hold on. What was that sound…?

You listen for a second, but you can’t hear anything unusual. Huh. Must have been nothing.

In any case, now that you’re home, you’re really starting to feel that tiredness creeping in. With a sigh of relief, you toe your shoes off and leave them by the door, before sliding your bag off your shoulder and dropping your keys into th-

There’s no way. It’s, like, lunchtime or something, right?

Okay, this is really starting to get weird now. You could have sworn you heard someone, muffled and ever-so-quiet underneath the noise of your keys falling into the bowl that you normally keep them in.

Is there someone else here? There can’t be, surely. You peer around the hallway, looking for any sign that someone might have broken in, but you don’t see anything weird - although it’s not like you really know what you’d be looking for. The door was locked when you came in, and you know that when you left for work, all the windows were shut and the back door was locked too.

Besides, everyone said this part of the city was pretty safe, didn’t they?

(Okay, so the last tenant did die horribly when someone broke in a few months ago, but something, something, never strikes twice or whatever.)

Your aura flickers as you try to reach out and see if you can feel something there, but there’s nothing at all. No sign of anyone, empowered or otherwise, and nothing out of the ordinary happening with the ambient magic in the house.

To tell the truth, you’d been surprised at how strong it was when you moved in. At least one of the previous tenants must have been magical, and really powerful - this house is full of magic left behind, traces of a forgotten aura, echoing softly in the walls and floors. It happens to most places where empowered people live or work, so it’s not like you’re not used to it, but even so… wow. It’s very strong.

Gingerly, you creep across the hallway and nudge the door to the living room just slightly open, before holding your breath and peeking inside.

And… there’s nothing there.

Just your boring, ordinary living room.

You check all the other rooms just to make sure, but they’re exactly the same. Nothing out of place, everything just as you’d left it. Nothing missing, nothing moved, nothing weird at all. There’s no trace of an intruder, and you’re starting to feel a bit silly, really. Surely you’re just imagining things, right?

Well, that or you’re hearing voices. God, all that caffeine really has fucked you up.

Perhaps a nap might be in order, now that you think about it. Yeah, a nap would be good. You’re getting tired just thinking about it - falling asleep, not having to worry about anything, relaxing after all the bizarre things that have been happening to you today. It sounds wonderful.

Quickly, you change into your pyjamas and get into bed, getting a glass of water from the kitchen before you go upstairs - you briefly consider having a shower beforehand, but you’re too sleepy to bother. Your bed is warm and soft and quiet, and that’s what matters right now.

Oh, it’s so nice. No more headache, no more confusion. The duvet is thick and comfy as you pull it around you, and just like that, you’re asleep almost immediately.

While you’re sleeping, do you dream?

I don’t get it. Why come back so soon?

Maybe it’s a timetabling thing? For finals? Like, an exam got cancelled so they didn’t have to stay? But it really could be anything - it’s always a miserable time for everyone, even the staff, so who even knows what it was…

Yeah, that’s true.

Do you think it’ll be back to normal tomorrow?

We’ll just have to wait and see. Hopefully we don’t get another scare like earlier.

Oh my God, that was fucking terrifying… I thought I was going to have a heart attack! Again!

Is that what happened? I thought it - oh, yeah, I guess it sort of counts. But it’s not like anyone can see us, anyway, so it shouldn’t really matter.

Well… But, like, it’s still kind of stressful though, don’t you think?

A bit, I guess. But you could probably say we’ve had worse.

Yeah. Yeah, that’s fair enough.

…No, you probably don’t.

When you wake up, it’s nighttime, weak moonlight sneaking through the gap in the curtains and falling across the floor. Mm, it’s so nice and warm under the covers. What’s the time? Everything feels weird.

Blearily, you reach for your phone - it’s about eight o’clock. Shit. Has it really been that long? You’d only meant to be asleep for a few hours, not the whole rest of the day…

Ah, whatever. You must have needed it. And anyway, you can’t really be bothered to try and think about work now - whatever you were going to do, you’ll just deal with it tomorrow. Maybe you’ll go downstairs and have a little something for dinner, and then relax a bit more before going to bed properly.

You rub your eyes with one hand as you push yourself up to sitting, swinging your legs over the side of the bed with a groan. Getting up is the worst. The glass of water on your bedside table is nice, though, and you gulp down about half of it while you get used to being upright again.

…Is it just you, or can you hear something coming from the next room?

Nope, nope, you’re not doing this again - it was nothing last time, and it’s probably nothing again. You’re just a little bit on edge. Perfectly understandable. You’re going to get up and go out of your room, and walk over to the stairs. Then you’re going to go down the stairs, and go to the kitchen to make some dinner, and absolutely nothing strange is going to happen while you do it.

With that in mind, you stand up and walk towards the door with a lot more confidence than you feel, although it’s slightly undermined when you have to backtrack a few steps in because you forgot to pick up your phone. But with that in hand, you pull the bedroom door open and step out into the corridor, safe in the knowledge that everything is exactly as it should be-

“Ah!”

It’s not. Oh, fuck, it’s really, really not.

There’s a shadow in the corridor - your breath freezes as you see it, a paralysing chill slicing down your spine. Floorboards creaking quietly, the faintest sound of breathing. Something moving, just inside the doorway to the guest bedroom down the hall.

There’s someone else in the house.

The door is slightly open, letting you see just a tiny bit inside the room, and you stare in shock as you catch a glimpse of a definitely-there, definitely-real hand suddenly reaching out to grasp at the doorframe. Whoever it belongs to, the angle makes it look like they’re leaning against the wall - the hand trembles slightly as it clutches at the wood, clumsy and frantic, nails scratching at the paint.

Terrified, you’re frozen to the floor as the hand slips down a fraction, and the arm it’s attached to knocks the side of the door. The hinges creak faintly as the door slowly swings open, only to reveal-

“Mmm…”

Wait, what?

Okay, you realise that you screwed up with the whole caffeine thing earlier. And you’ve been running yourself ragged for weeks. And you just woke up from a nap. So all in all, you’re probably not operating at full capacity right now. But even so, even with all that going on, you have to admit that you really weren’t expecting to see a couple very enthusiastically making out against the wall of your guest bedroom.

The two of them are utterly lost in each other and totally ignoring you - in fact, it doesn’t even look like they’ve noticed you standing here at all. If your brain could stop bluescreening, you’d almost be offended.

The - um, demon? Is that really a demon? You’ve only ever seen a few from afar, mostly on campus, but the distinctive flavour of magic that soaks into your aura even from here is a dead giveaway - the demon presses himself against the human-looking one as he kisses them, horns knocking softly against the wall above their head as he leans over them. The human clings to his shoulders in return, and you watch as a hand that you now recognise slides down the demon’s chest to tug impatiently at the hem of his shirt.

They’re also both very, very hot. Woah.

(Look, it’s been a while, okay? And anyway, it’s just an observation. An idle, ordinary observation. It’s not your fault that they look… fuck, they look really good. Like, really good.)

The human sighs softly as the demon nudges their head to the side with the tip of his tail, kissing avidly across their jaw and down their throat. Are those fangs? Does he have fangs? Because it certainly looks like it from here - the human’s eyelids flutter as he nips sweetly at their skin, only for their gaze to fall on-

“Mm - mmm!” The human splutters as they finally notice you, eyes going wide and hands clutching frantically at the demon’s back as they try to nudge him away. Is it fear or surprise? “It - baby, baby, there - there’s s-”

“Yeah - mhm, I-”

The demon shushes them breathlessly, chasing their lips with a quiet whine, one arm locking tight around their middle to keep them close as his other hand cups the back of their head, presumably to protect them from hitting their head against the wall. “They can’t see, deviant, ‘s okay-”

“You - mm, fuck! - Gav, they’re right - they’re right there!”

Somewhat belatedly, you realise that you’ve just been kind of standing there and staring at these two - with a start, you stumble backwards a step and drop your gaze to the floorboards in embarrassment. Should you be embarrassed? You’re a little bit embarrassed.

(It’s kind of rude to stare at people who are making out. Although, it’s also kind of rude to break into someone else’s house and start making out against the wall while the owner of the house is trying to sleep in the next room, so maybe you’re even.)

You scramble hastily for words, half-formed syllables spilling out of your mouth, but you have no idea what to say - what can you say in a situation like this? How do you - what do you - where do you even begin?

Luckily, the demon speaks up before you can make too much of a fool of yourself - you notice that he’s stepped slightly in front of the human, tail coiling around their calf in a way that you can only describe as deeply, deliberately possessive. Does he think you’re going to… to do what? Hurt them?

“I suppose we ought to explain…?”

He sounds a bit surprised, which is unexpected, considering that this is the weirdest break-in on Earth, and also that this isn’t his house. Aren’t you the one who should be surprised?

“I think they’re in the living room,” says the human in a total non-sequitur, gently extricating themselves from the demon’s tail and backing away towards the end of the corridor. “I’ll go and get them.”

“No - no, we’ll come down,” the demon calls back to them as they disappear downstairs. “I think our new friend might want to sit down for this.”

You don’t really have a chance to protest, utterly lost in shock - numbly, you follow the demon as he beckons you over, with a smile that looks easy, but you’re sure it’s taking a lot more effort than he’d like.

“My name’s Gavin,” he says conversationally, gesturing towards the stairs. “Nice to meet you.”

He motions again towards the stairs, but you’re too dazed to really get what he means - with a good-natured sigh, he takes a step in front of you and starts walking backwards down the stairs, one hand drifting just slightly above the bannister as the other keeps urging you forwards. “And you might be…?”

Oh - oh, that’s what he wants! You wouldn’t say that the jumble of syllables that falls out of your mouth is exactly your name, but it’s close enough, and he nods in acquiescence.

“Well, then. Pleasure to finally meet you.”

There’s a funny sort of smile in his voice when he says that, but you can’t quite put your finger on what it might be. And anyway, what does he mean by finally?

The demon - Gavin, what a strange name for a demon, you’ll have to remember that - he turns when he gets to the bottom of the stairs, and you see that the door to the living room is open now. You can hear a sort of whispered argument going on in there, between what sounds like two or three people, but you can’t see wh-

“Um, yeah - yeah, I’ll just go and get something from the - fuck! - sorry, sorry, I’m just - oh my God!”

Totally stunned, all you can do is watch as a man comes hurrying out of the living room towards you, talking at lightning speed over his shoulder and almost tripping over Gavin’s tail before the demon whips it out of the way just in time. He stumbles forwards as he tries to get his balance back, grabbing the end of the bannister to keep himself upright - you catch a glimpse of something silver around his neck, tucked into his shirt, before you’re suddenly face-to-face with a very large pair of glasses, and the very flustered-looking man who’s right behind them.

(Oh, for the love of - did anyone break into your house who isn’t ridiculously pretty? What sort of home invader beauty pageant did these people all come from?)

“Shit.”

Both of you stare at each other for a confused second, unblinking, before the strange man jerks backwards away from you, hands fluttering awkwardly in the air as he starts to ramble.

“I mean, um, sorry! Not to, like, call you - not you, obviously - that would be rude, and - and I’m not trying to be rude, it’s just, you know…”

“Smooth,” murmurs Gavin behind him, leaning against the wall and not even trying to hide his grin. “Now do one of those pick-up lines we practised.”

The man shuts his eyes like he’s trying to stave off a headache, taking what’s clearly a blood-pressure-lowering deep breath. “Please, please fuck off.”

Gavin shrugs, blowing him an unapologetic kiss and waving at you with the tip of his tail, before disappearing through the door to the living room with a cackle.

“Whatever you say, Lasky!”

“Oh, not again-!”

He turns to you, almost pleadingly, and he looks so comically weary that you’re not sure whether to laugh or cry. “It’s Lasko, not Lasky, he does this every time and I…”

“It’s - um, it’s alright,” you reply, and give him your nicest smile. “Nice to meet you, Lasko.”

He blinks owlishly at you for a second, like he’s not sure what to say, before smiling back at you. “Nice to… uh, nice to meet you too!”

Idly, you notice that his hand has come up to fiddle with the chain of his necklace, although the actual pendant is hidden under his shirt. It must be pretty sizeable, though, because you can just about see the shape of it through the material - a kind of sphere, or a round-ish chunk of some gemstone, maybe?

“I was just going to get some water for - well, for you, actually, just ‘cause Hux said he thought it might be nice? Like, obviously it’s a lot to get used to, and if you’re holding a drink then you don’t have to, um - you know, when you don’t know what to do with your hands? Or if you don’t know what to say, then you’ve got something to do, and anyway, it’s just kind of nice to… to, uh…”

Lasky - nope, Lasko, it’s Lasko - trails off, apparently only just noticing that he’s blocking the bottom of the stairs, and hurriedly sidesteps out of the way to let you past. “You can go in, by the way! I’ll just be a minute.”

Before you have a chance to say anything, he disappears off towards the kitchen, white ankle socks sliding slightly on the wooden floor, and all you can think is that you’ve never heard of a burglar who took off his shoes when he broke into the house.

Well, you might as well do what he says…?

Timidly, you creep up to the living room door and peer around the doorframe, dreading what you’ll find. These people all seem very nice, but what the hell are they doing here, anyway? Are they going to do something to you? How long have they been planning this? You couldn’t run, even if you tried - if they’ve got a demon on their side, you’d barely be able to get out the front door before they’d catch you again.

Being brave, you’ve got to be brave. Whatever they want, just give it to them, and maybe they’ll go away.

“Hey, uh… you okay?”

You jolt as another man pops into view, leaning into your field of vision from where he’s sitting on the sofa. He waves, and his smile is awfully sweet as he motions for you to come into the room.

“You can stay there if you want, but, like… it’s your house, right?” he laughs, not unkindly. “You can go wherever you like, dude, we won’t stop you.”

He sits back upright from where he was leaning over as you walk nervously into the room, and you notice that there’s another man sitting next to him on the sofa. It’s hard to tell, seeing as they’re sitting down, but this one looks slightly shorter than the first, flicking his dark hair out of his face and fiddling with the hem of his sleeve.

(Fucking hell, they’re literally all so beautiful. Do the cast of Vogue normally spend their free time breaking and entering, or are you just really lucky?)

“Damien,” the shorter man says, standing up and walking around the coffee table with one hand outstretched. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Well, he’s certainly cutting to the chase, isn’t he? Fair enough. You introduce yourself in turn as you shake his hand, but you can’t help but think there’s something… something odd about the feeling of his skin. He’s not cold, per se, but it’s something like that - a strange feeling that runs down your spine like ice water, like your mind can’t place it but your body instinctively knows that something isn’t quite right.

In any case, he sits back down and the man next to him lifts a hand in greeting, looking slightly embarrassed that Damien beat him to the punch.

“Ah, I’m Huxley,” he says, “but Hux is fine, if that’s better for you.”

Damien rolls his eyes with unmistakable fondness, which is a bizarre choice for a home invader. “You can just say which one you prefer, you know. It’s your name.”

“Well, yeah, but…”

Huxley shrugs, and you can tell they’ve had this conversation a thousand times. “I don’t really mind, you know? Like, whichever one you say, I still know what you mean, ‘cause it’s all still me. And anyway, if I changed my mind, I’d just say later.”

He grins, sharp and painfully handsome, and turns his head to look past Damien over to the loveseat, where you belatedly realise Gavin and his human, um, friend from before are sprawled out across the cushions.

“Besides, I feel like there’s worse culprits, y’know?”

Damien drops his head in his hands. “Don’t even get me started on Freelancer.”

Apparently-Freelancer lifts a lazy middle finger in his direction. “It gets the point across, doesn’t it?”

“There’s got to be more to a name than just gets the point across,” he moans. “Just because you happen to be a Freelancer doesn't mean that's all you are.”

They huff, turning their face away haughtily. “It’s a name if I say it's a name.”

“It's literally a nickname! You have a different name! That we know and also call you!”

Freelancer’s eyes narrow wickedly. “Want me to choose a different nickname?”

Gavin lifts his head interestedly from where he’s draped across their lap. “I might have some suggestions-”

“No!” shrieks Damien, and the temperature in the room unexpectedly spikes as he flops backwards against the sofa cushions, decidedly not looking over at the loveseat. “God, no, we already hear enough of those when you’re-”

“Jesus,” Lasko mutters as he comes in through the door behind you, silently passing you a glass of water and motioning for you to sit down in the one empty armchair that's opposite the sofa. “Sorry about them. It happens a lot.”

You nod noncommittally as you sit down, watching it all with a sort of vague detachment as he goes to perch on the arm of the sofa next to Huxley. The three of them are facing you across the coffee table, with Gavin and Freelancer occupying the loveseat on the right, and something about the way they’re all looking at you is strangely… interrogative? Like you’re here for the world’s weirdest job interview or something - like they’re trying to get the measure of you.

It’s quite awkward, to be honest. You take a sip of your water, feeling oddly grateful for Lasko’s foresight about not having to wonder what to do with your hands.

“Okay, look.”

Damien breaks the ice, leaning forward slightly as he looks seriously at you. “This is going to sound kind of - kind of unusual. And we get that. But it’s true, and you deserve to know, so we’ll just… we’ll just say it, I guess.”

He takes a deep breath. Huxley quietly holds out his hand, palm up, and Damien takes it.

“When you bought this place, they told you about the previous owners, right?”

You nod, remembering that uncomfortable meeting with the estate agent. “Yeah.”

“Well, you’re, um…” Damien’s gaze slides to the side, uncomfortable, before returning to you. “You’re looking at them, I’m afraid.”

Sorry, you’re what?

He gives you a second to process that, not that a second is nearly enough, and carries on. “All of us owned this house before you. Whenever they said anything about previous occupants, or ex-tenants, or whatever bullshit word they used - they were talking about us.”

“You’re joking,” you manage to force out, incredulous. “But you - she said you - she said-”

“That we died?” says Gavin, with a grim smile. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“No. No, no - that’s impossible!”

Your mind reels in confusion at this utterly bizarre story, trying to make sense of it all. So what - so they’re all dead, then? Like, ghosts or something? That can’t be right - the closest thing you’ve ever heard of to that were Shades, and they definitely aren’t Shades.

There’s no magic in the world that can reanimate the dead. For as long as humans have had magic, they’ve tried and tried, but it just doesn’t work. So what the hell are these people playing at?

(And anyway, didn’t the woman at the estate agency say there were four ex-tenants? How can there suddenly be five of them?)

You shake your head in disbelief. “You’re joking. This has to be a joke.”

“I said the same thing,” Lasko says mournfully, looking down at the floor. “If it is a joke, it looks like it’s on us.”

“You’re magical, right?”

Freelancer’s voice is quiet, but something about it is strangely urgent. “You can feel other people’s auras, can’t you?”

“Yes…?” you reply, unsure of what they’re getting at. “What about it?”

“We are, too,” they say, and a flame dances to life in their palm. “So shouldn’t you be able to feel us?”

Reflexively, your aura ripples around you as you search for what you know must be right in front of you - they’re doing magic right now, so surely you’ll be able to feel something…?

Nothing. Not them, not anyone else. It’s as if nobody’s there at all - only that insistent thrum of magic that flows through the bones of this house, that you remember thinking was unusually strong. Those noises you couldn’t explain, things in strange places that shouldn’t have been able to move. You’ve never had to water the plants once.

Was this what that feeling was all along? Were they what you were feeling?

You don’t know what to say. This shouldn’t be possible.

“I don’t get it,” you mumble, feeling awfully small and scared. “I don’t - I don’t understand.”

“Then we’ll explain it a different way,” says Huxley, with so much patience that you could almost cry. “Is that cool with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He starts to stand up like he’s going to come over to you, but there’s not really any room on the chair next to you, so he just sort of awkwardly sits back down again. “Okay, we’ll start from the beginning. Lasko?”

Lasko waves, an awkward little half-gesture. “Hi.”

You take another sip of your water - it’s slightly lukewarm now, but it’s still comforting.

“I was - well, I was first,” he says, trembling fingers tugging at his necklace chain again. “I used to work at DAMN, like you, and I ended up renting this place - I remember thinking it was unusually cheap, but I needed somewhere to live, right?”

He laughs, slightly shakily. “I guess it must have been a problem with the electrics, or something, ‘cause I’m sure it wasn’t me. But I was in the, um - I was in the bath, and I remember the lights flickering like there was a storm, or something? It felt odd, like something in the air, and there must have been a power surge…”

A horrible feeling blossoms in the pit of your stomach when you realise what he’s saying - he must see it on your face, shrugging sheepishly. “I don’t really know how it actually happened…? I mean, I think it was a heart attack, or it stopped my heart or something like that, but I - I guess I normally just say I got electrocuted. It’s - uh, I mean, I don’t have to explain it a lot, but it’s easier than saying the whole thing, I think.”

Dimly, you recall the estate agent’s voice in your head. An electrical fault.

“Afterwards, the rental company didn’t want the place anymore,” Lasko says, surprisingly cheerily. “You can’t really blame them, though.”

“I think you can,” grumbles Freelancer. “They did kill you.”

Lasko shrugs. “How were they supposed to know?”

“They sold you a house that zapped you to death!”

“They rented me a house that zapped me to death,” Lasko fires back, waving a hand in Freelancer’s direction as they stick their tongue out at him. “It’s probably different.”

Damien rolls his eyes - you’re getting the distinct impression he does that a lot - and elbows Huxley lightly in the side. “For the love of God, please distract them.”

“Alright, alright,” he laughs, and turns to you. “I used to be a student at DAMN, and I needed somewhere to live after the semester ended, right? Like, my lease was up, and I didn't really know what I was gonna do - you know what it's like.”

“You were at DAMN?” you ask, surprised. “What were you studying?”

“Oh, uh, Earth Elemental Studies,” Huxley replies, with a melancholy smile. “I had a teaching gig lined up for after graduation, but… you know.”

He gestures down at himself and shrugs. Lasko looks away.

“I ended up renting this place after Lasko had his, uh, accident - they said everything had been fixed, but I guess they didn't get it all…? The weather in Dahlia isn't normally so bad, so I must've just been unlucky with the storm. You know how the ceiling in the kitchen is a different colour to the walls? Like it's been repaired recently?”

Oh, you have a bad feeling about this. “Yeah.”

He grimaces. “It, uh… well, it wasn't like that before I moved in.”

Fucking hell. When she said there has been an issue with the roof she’d been putting it mildly.

Huxley must see your horrified expression, quickly cutting back in. “Don’t worry about it, dude - it didn't hurt that bad, not for long. It was pretty quick, when you think about it.”

“I mean, most people don't like thinking about it at all,” Damien murmurs under his breath. “We’re not exactly in the majority here.”

Huxley tips his head to the side in acquiescence. “It was a while ago. Gotta get over this kind of shit eventually.”

Gavin’s jaw drops. “You're over it?”

“Well, no…” he replies. “But it'll probably happen at some point, yeah?”

Freelancer, half-buried underneath their human-blanket (demon-blanket?) over on the loveseat, blinks in apparent wonder. “Hux, you're my hero.”

Huxley grins. “Don't let Gav hear you saying that.”

“Oh, he's not listening,” they scoff, tipping Gavin’s face up to kiss the tip of his nose. “Are you, darling?”

Gavin shakes his head, eyes closed and wearing a wide, lazy smile. “Didn't hear a thing.”

Damien sighs fondly at their antics, gaze all soft and sticky, before turning back to you. “In any case, I was the next one. Moved in a few weeks after the storm, when they said everything was fixed. When they were telling you about us, did anyone mention a fall?”

You’d been kind of preoccupied by the more unusual deaths, so you don't really remember if the lady did or not, but it sounds about right. “I think so…?”

“Then there's not much more to say.”

He shifts slightly in his seat. “I was rushing, and I slipped - it's my own fault, really. I’d overslept and I thought I was going to be late for a lecture, so I wasn't really looking where I was going. You know how slippery the stairs can get.”

You wince. “They’re pretty bad, yeah.”

“You'd have thought they'd at least put some carpet down or something after I died, but apparently not,” Damien grumbles. “First they had to dig Hux out from under whatever cheap roofing shit they had before, then five minutes later we were all watching some poor contractor scrubbing my goddamned blood out of the floorboards, because it would have been too fucking expensive to replace it all - do they just like having to scrape their tenants off the floor, or something? Because that's what would have happened to you earlier if we hadn't done anything, for fuck’s sake…”

He looks up sharply when he says that, like he's just remembered something. “Oh, um - yeah, that was us. Sorry about that. But also, like, the espresso-Monster thing you drank probably wasn’t the best breakfast.”

This morning. All those things that didn't add up. Falling down the stairs, and landing at the top of them. That was them?

“How did it…” You're not quite sure how to put it. “How did you do it?”

“Oh, you can thank Lasko for that,” he replies. “He managed to slow you down enough that Gavin was able to heal you without anything being too serious.”

You look over at Lasko, nervously waving his hands in front of his face like it’ll ward off any sort of thanks. “It was just luck, that's all! I just, you know - I was in the right place at the right time, and I - well, the whole air thing is kind of easy for me, so it wasn't even that complicated or anything - I mean, not that it wasn't important, obviously, but-”

“Lasko.”

“Yes?”

You smile. “Thank you.”

Nervously, he smiles back, with an charmingly-awkward little thumbs up. “Not, uh, no problem.”

“If you’re trying to join us, you’ll have to try harder than that,” Damien quips, blackly. “Dying like that isn't fun, believe me.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” you say. “Next time, I’ll just let the caffeine poison me all by itself.”

He nods approvingly, the hint of a held-back smile brightening his handsome face. “See, now you’re getting it.”

Idly, you lift the glass to your mouth, only to realise that - wait, it’s empty? No, it can’t be. When did you drink all of that? How bizarre. Hearing about people dying must be thirsty work. Quietly, you put it down on the coffee table in front of you.

“Freelancer.”

“Mm?” Freelancer looks up, distracted from whatever sweet nothings Gavin seems to be mumbling into their neck. “What?”

Damien tips his head slightly in your direction. “You’re up to bat, I’m afraid.”

“Already? That was quick.” With a little bit of fidgeting, they push themselves up to sit facing you, one hand holding Gavin’s, and the other around his back as he sits sideways with his legs across their lap.

“So, it’s… it’s not the nicest thing,” they say, eyes darting away before sliding back to meet yours. “And it probably isn’t going to make a huge amount of sense, just ‘cause when the - actually, that reminds me - did they say something about a break-in? And - and a trespasser?”

The most recent. Altercation with an intruder. Highly unusual. Shouldn’t happen again.

You look down. “They did, yeah.”

“Well, it’s mostly true,” Freelancer says, “although it’s not the full thing. The unempowered police had to come and investigate, and that was the best they could come up with, so that’s what the estate agent will have told you.”

“Was it magical, then?” you ask, slightly hesitantly.

“Yeah. Yeah, it was,” they reply hesitantly. “I’d only just moved here to come to DAMN. I was humanborn, so I didn’t really know a whole lot about magic, but I had a - well, there was an… uh…”

Nervously, they look at Gavin - he shakes his head almost imperceptibly, and they swallow.

“I heard about DAMN from a friend, so I thought it would be good to come and try and learn some, like, actual magic, right? And Gavin and I met here, just after I moved - it’s kind of a long story, but he ended up basically moving in here as well after a while. So that’s why we - well, that’s how we’re, uh, here. Together.”

Their leg bounces as they tap their heel against the floor, over and over. You’re not getting the feeling that this story is going to end well.

“There was a… a problem,” they mumble, after a little pause. “A friend of ours was being chased by a demon - a different demon, a really strong one, who we didn’t know. He was hurt, so he came here for help - but the demon chasing him followed him here.”

Attacked? By a demon? God, what sort of city is this? If this is the sort of thing that’s happening here, maybe it’s not such a bad thing that you don’t go out much.

Freelancer continues, gaze now fixed firmly on their feet. “He attacked us - and our friend. There was no time to do anything, so we - we did what we could, but…”

Gavin’s tail wraps and unwraps around Freelancer’s wrist, winding around their arm first one way, then the other.

“This demon, he was… powerful,” he says, carefully. “He was old - much older than me, and it wasn’t exactly like we could have seen him coming. We were lucky to do as much as we did.”

Silently, Lasko picks up your glass from the coffee table, and walks out of the living room.

“Our friend got away, at least,” Freelancer says, through what you think is meant to be a smile. “And we did sort-of win - Gavin managed to knock him out, and took him to the Department. He’s probably in a prison somewhere, now.”

So… they won? But then how are they…?

Freelancer must see the question written across your face. “By the time Gavin got him, I’d already, um… you know. The old coffee table in here was pretty heavy, and when it hit me, it was kind of, uh - yeah. It wasn’t great.”

The thought of it turns your blood to ice. They died in here? This room? The same room you’re in right now, where they’re sitting on the loveseat like it’s nothing - this room? How can they even stand to be in here like this, after everything that’s happened?

“I’m - I’m sorry,” you manage to say, painfully aware of how hollow it must sound. “That must have been awful.”

Strangely enough, they shake their head. “Gavin got the worst of it. The rift, when he came back…”

They trail off into silence, and Gavin doesn’t say anything either. Frozen in place, unmoving - like this, they could almost be stone. Alive and undead. Sobbing but never crying, rainwater dripping down the marble.

“When we died, we became… this.”

You look over at Huxley, speaking softly. “We can’t be seen by living people, and we can’t leave this place. Touching objects - like, physical stuff like doors and books and water - it takes more effort, but it’s still okay. We can still do most magic, too, but it’s not as easy as it used to be.”

You nod, slightly confused. Why is he telling you this now…?

“It happens pretty quickly,” he adds, “the whole transformation, resurrection, whatever. But it… well. Yeah.”

“It doesn’t take much to kill a human.”

Gavin’s voice is raw and venomous, glaring at the floor, fangs bared in a bitter snarl.

“Demons last a little bit longer.”

In your mind’s eye, the horrifying scene unfolds. A human body, shattered and bloody, lifted gently from the wreckage and cradled in the fading arms of a dying demon. Gavin, tears streaming down his crumbling face, clutching the corpse of his human lover - no magic left, an immortal being surrendering to an impossible death. Freelancer, imprisoned in the silent space between sleeping and waking, screaming in terror yet doomed to go unheard. Forced to watch as Gavin’s form falters and dissolves, scattered back into the nothingness of stardust.

Of course. Five deaths, four tenants. No body left to bury.

There’s nothing you can say to that. Nothing at all.

Behind you, Lasko comes back in from the kitchen, passing you a refilled glass of water before walking back over to the sofa. It’s freezing cold in your hand, and you can’t help but shiver involuntarily.

“Ow!”

Startled, all of your heads snap towards Lasko - he’s tripped over the stack of papers that you were marking last night, catching himself on the side of the loveseat and accidentally smacking face-first into Gavin’s shoulder. Freelancer jerks backwards out of the way as he hisses in surprise, jolting forwards with the unexpected weight against his back, and Damien bursts into laughter as Lasko stutters his way through a flustered apology, wrenching himself back upright and scurrying off to the sofa to hide behind Huxley.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m sorry! I didn’t see it - I just tripped, and oh, I didn’t mean to hit you - are you okay? Like, I didn’t hurt you, did I? God, I don’t know how I forgot it was there - and your back, are you-”

“If you want to get your hands on me, you can just ask,” Gavin purrs over the top of him, rubbing his shoulder blade where Lasko’s face presumably impacted with the flat spade of his tail. “And yes, I’m fine, thank you. Unless you wanted to kiss it better?”

Lasko’s breath visibly stops, the poor thing, as Gavin fixes him with a smirk so ridiculously charming that you almost can’t tear your eyes away. Fuck, he’s so beautiful, wicked gaze dragging slowly down the length of Lasko’s body, painted claws catching the light as they just barely start to flirt with the hem of Freelancer’s shirt…

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Huxley trying not to laugh as Lasko peeks out from over his shoulder. “Keep it together there, Gav. We’ve got an audience, y’know.”

Lasko buries his face in his hands. “Please, God, don’t-”

“Oh, Hux,” Gavin sighs plaintively, although the impish smile across his face gives him away. “Why do you think I offered?”

A quiet rustle of fabric, and underneath him, Freelancer lets out a long, slow breath that you hadn’t noticed they were holding. You, um… you can’t see the end of Gavin’s tail any more, and you’re not entirely sure if you want to know where it is.

“I’m so sorry,” Damien groans, flinging a stray sofa cushion at Gavin’s head as he gives you an apologetic look, ignoring the confused squawking from the loveseat when it accidentally hits Freelancer in the shoulder and ricochets into Gavin’s face. “You’re all dead to me.”

Huxley pats him on the shoulder. “We’re dead to everyone, babe.”

“Not helping.”

“Love you too.”

“That was so rude!” comes a gasp from your right. Amused, you look over to find an outraged Gavin, holding up the projectile cushion in one clawed hand, eyes narrowed sulkily at Damien for ruining the fun. “Don’t you think, deviant?”

Freelancer nods sagely. “Very rude.”

“He didn’t even let us finish! We could have been doing something entirely innocent.”

“We’re so nice to him, and he’s always so mean to us.”

“Spoiling our fun.”

“Getting in our way.”

“Getting in our bed-”

“Will you two stop it!” Damien hisses, pointing an accusing finger at Gavin when the demon actually hisses back at him. “I wouldn’t have to be rude if you two would stop being so - so… lascivious!”

Freelancer grins, eyes scrunched up into happy little half-moons and arms wrapped possessively around Gavin’s waist. “He thinks we’re lascivious.”

“What about tea?” interrupts Lasko, standing up suddenly and motioning behind his back for you to follow him. “We’ll have tea, that’ll be nice, does anyone want some? Good, okay, we’ll just go and make the - the, um - we’ll just go, won’t be long, back in a minute-”

You’re not sure if ghosts can get high blood pressure, but you say a silent prayer for whatever nightmare must be going on in Damien’s undead arteries. Huxley jokingly salutes the pair of you as you scramble after Lasko - shaky hands all but push you out of the door, and he pulls it swiftly shut behind him with a decisive psychokinetic flourish, muffling the enthusiastic bickering inside.

It's finally quiet again.

Just you and Lasko.

“Is it always like this?”

He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the door, laughing weakly. “Basically, yeah.”

Well. Considering everything that could have gone wrong with finding out that your house is haunted and practically infested with the undead, at least the ghosts that you've got are fun ghosts.

“Kind of you to volunteer my tea for everyone,” you say breezily, motioning for Lasko to follow you into the kitchen and stifling your smile when his face turns to almost comical panic. “It’s fine, it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“Are - are you sure?” He wrings his hands as he trails after you, teeth digging into his bottom lip in a way that really shouldn’t be as endearing as it is. “Sorry, I just - we’d be there all day otherwise, and I just wanted to distract them for a bit, but I didn’t really think about it, you know, and…”

He takes a slow, deep breath, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it. “I mean, uh, thank you.”

The kettle’s empty, so you go to fill it up at the sink while Lasko silently gets some mugs out of the cupboard, along with a handful of teaspoons and some teabags.

Too silently, in fact.

“Tea’s in the right hand drawer, by the way.”

Lasko freezes guiltily as you say it, wrist deep in the box of Earl Grey. “You know. Because I didn’t tell you, so there’s no way you could have known.”

He winces. “Sorry…”

“I mean, it’s not the worst thing you could be looking at.” You’re not actually that angry, all things considered, but it needs to be said. “Do I need a ghost-proof shower curtain, too?”

“What? No - God, no!” he stammers, seemingly horrified by the implication. “I swear none of us would do anything like that - we would never! We have never! No, that’d be - no!”

He shakes his head emphatically, nearly knocking his glasses off in the process. “We don’t go into the bathroom when you’re there, and your bedroom is always off-limits. Promise. You can ask the others.”

“I should hope so.” Next to you, the kettle starts to steam, although it’s not quite hot enough yet. “Am I - wait, you were the first one, right?”

He nods, quietly shuffling through the tea drawer again. “Yeah.”

“Could the others see you… before? Like me?” you ask, walking over to the fridge. “Milk?”

“If that’s okay.”

Without looking, you reach in and grab the carton, before putting it down on the counter next to him. “I just don’t understand. How come I can see you now, but I couldn’t before?”

“That’s what we were talking about before you came in,” he replies. “Hux thinks it’s something to do with this morning - like, that you had some sort of near-death experience? And then that means you can see us, because we’re dead and you were nearly-dead…? I don’t know, it’s a work in progress.”

Wait, so does that mean you actually did poison yourself this morning? Or is he talking about falling down the stairs? Of course you’d accidentally manage to find a way to nearly kick the bucket twice in a single day. What a liability they all must think you are…

“The others couldn’t see like you do,” Lasko continues, oblivious to your spiralling. “Not until they were already gone. You’re the first one who’s been able to see us while you were still - actually, um, that reminds me…”

The kettle clicks, having boiled. He reaches over to get it, but you wave him away, picking it up and moving to fill up the collection of mugs - and, oddly, an entire teapot that you’re sure you’ve never seen before - he’s arranged on the countertop.

“If you wanted to leave now that you’ve heard all of - uh, all of this… well, we wouldn’t be upset. We’re not gonna, like, make you stay here or anything.”

Confused, you frown down at the mug in front of you. “What do you mean?”

“You know, ah…” Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him fiddling with his necklace again. “We’re not the luckiest people in the world. None of us lasted very long in this house - and the whole ‘being undead’ thing isn’t really something we understand. Like, why us? What did we ever do? Is it the house? Is it us? Is it, like, destiny or fate or something - because it kind of brings up a whole new set of problems about the existence of life after death - and, you know, are we the only ghosts in the world, and if so then why, or are there others? Does this happen to everyone, and living people just can’t see them? We wouldn’t blame you for wanting to get out before, you know…”

You put the kettle back on the stand. It doesn’t look like he’s going to stop for breath any time soon.

“Not that we’re going to like, do something to you! No, no, that’s - I didn’t mean we were going to kill you or anything - oh, fuck, now it just sounds like we were going to do something and now I’ve put the fucking idea in your head, and now you’re going to be all stressed about it, and, like, ‘is it cursed?’ - and it’s not cursed, I think, but we don’t know for sure because even though curses aren’t a thing like unempowered people say, none of us have been able to figure out if there’s any, uh - any magic that might be like a curse, right?

“Lasko.”

“Just, you know, magic is so unpredictable and there’s so much we don’t know, so maybe it is cursed but we just can’t recognise it because we don’t know what we’re even looking for, and Gavin’s been trying to come up with ideas, but it’s been really difficult ‘cause we didn’t want to use your computer or anything, that’s a huge breach of privacy, right? And - and we can’t leave the house to go and talk to anyone - well, really it’s the property, so we can still go out in the garden and stuff - which reminds me, I was meant to tell you about-”

“Lasko!”

You can practically see the words falling out of his mouth before he cuts himself off, the poor thing. “Mm-hmm?”

“The tea,” you say calmly, stepping back from the counter to give him room. “I don’t know how they like it.”

“Oh, right! Yeah, I’ll, um - I can do that.”

He starts sorting out the different mugs, taking teabags out of some sooner than others, adding milk and sugar and what-have-you, leaving one to the side for you and nervously chattering away.

“I’ll never understand how Gavin and Hux have it so sweet - although, I think Gavin’s like that with everything, you know? He says it’s just because he likes the taste, but Damien told me - um, you shouldn’t say I said this, but he thinks when Gavin gave himself a human form - ‘cause demons don’t have physical bodies normally, right? Well, Damien thinks he accidentally got his body addicted to sugar or something like that, because - oh, I don't know, something, something, pleasure centres or pleasure receptors, whatever - it probably lit up a similar part of his brain to the bit that he associated with eating, and being full - wait, did he say he was an incubus? Because he is, he definitely is - oh, we probably should have mentioned that…”

Slowly, Lasko’s voice settles into the back of your mind as you make your tea, head too full of everything else he’s said to really be listening. It’s not on purpose. You’ve just got a lot to think about.

Yes, he makes a good point about the house, and the strange coincidences that have happened here. Yes, he makes a good point about what might happen to you if you choose to stay. Yes, he makes a good point about how you’ll have to actually accept the undeniable proof of the existence of life after death, and everything that means for your worldview.

Looking up, your eyes are drawn to the faint line where the ceiling and the wall meet, and the two shades of paint that don’t quite match.

Wow. In about an hour, this is going to be a magnificent existential crisis.

But those aren’t problems for now, are they? If you try and deal with all of this at once, you’re fairly sure your head is going to explode just thinking about it. All of this, all of the fucked-up undead weirdness that’s just fallen into your lap out of thin air - all of it can wait.

First, tea.

Lasko seems to have sorted out all the different cups of tea, stirring a final spoonful of sugar into the one second from the right with one hand. Luckily, he’s picked cups that are all different colours, so hopefully it shouldn’t be too hard to stop them getting mixed up.

“That one’s for Hux, then Damien’s is the jasmine, then the middle one is for Freelancer. Gavin’s is the penguin one, and then this one is for me.”

He points at them from left to right, explaining whose they are as you get a tray out of the cupboard and put it down on the counter. You’re just about to start transferring everything onto it when - oh, that’s what’s missing!

Lasko takes over, looking confused as you suddenly turn on your heel and start rifling through the cupboard by the microwave. “Are you… okay?”

“Just a second…” Where are they? You could have sworn they were just… ah, there they are. You’ll have to get some more at the supermarket when you go next. “Do you think they’ll want plates?”

Lasko’s face brightens when he sees what you’re holding, and it belatedly occurs to you that he probably hasn’t eaten much since - well, since everything. If the owner of the house can’t see you, then they’re not going to give you anything, and if you can’t leave the house, you can’t buy anything yourself. If he’s a demon, then maybe Gavin could magic something up, but didn’t Huxley say that doing magic was harder for all of them then it used to be? What’s the limit?

Besides, even if ghosts probably don’t need to eat, that doesn’t mean that they can’t, right? It might not be necessary, but it might still be nice.

“Mm, probably not,” Lasko muses, but he gets a few out of the cupboard anyway as you open the packet of biscuits and put it down on the tray next to Freelancer’s tea. “I don’t think they’ll, uh, last that long.”

He moves the penguin mug slightly to make room for the teapot and an empty cup - oh, that must be the jasmine tea he was talking about. But where did he…?

“Damien used to have one like this.”

Lasko’s voice is quiet, presumably having noticed you staring in confusion at the tray. “It got taken away with all his things when Freelancer moved in, but Gavin made him a new one. The cup, too. It’s not exactly the same, but it’s close enough.”

He looks away, eyes closed. There’s not really anything you can say to that.

“If there’s…”

As you speak, you can hear the faintest sound of laughter from the other room. Presumably they’ve kissed and made up, in what you get the feeling isn’t always an entirely metaphorical sense. “If there’s anything I can get you, then you just need to ask. Anything.”

Lasko smiles down at the tray, and you don’t look at how his eyes are a little bit shinier than they were a minute ago. “Thanks.”

“Come on, then,” you say with a smile, nudging him out of the way and picking up the tray. “It’ll be stone cold in a minute, if we’re not careful.”

Lasko protests, fluttering around beside you as you head back towards the living room, insisting that he doesn’t want to be rude, please please please let him carry it, it was his idea and now you’re doing all the work, oh he’s so sorry - but you don’t let him. It’s a bit heavy, but it’s not that bad, and didn’t one of them say that it’s harder to interact with physical objects now than it was when they were alive? You don’t know exactly how much harder, but you’d feel kind of bad if you made Lasko hold all the stuff when it’s not as easy for him.

Darting ahead of you down the corridor, he opens the living room door for you, and you - well, you were going to put it down on the coffee table in the middle, but it’s not actually there anymore. Instead, it’s been pushed out of the way towards the window, to make space for the sofa to be tilted a little bit more towards the TV.

Lasko, the bastard, takes advantage of your momentary surprise. You’re going to have to ask if he’s an Air Elemental or something, because you feel a suspiciously-timed air current rushing past your arm and almost pushing the tray towards him, letting him lift it deftly out of your hands and carry it over.

Freelancer and Gavin, chastised but utterly unrepentant, appear to have commandeered most of the sofa, along with its previous occupants. Huxley idly strokes his fingers over Gavin’s horns as Freelancer flips through channels on the TV, while Damien, sitting cross-legged on the rug against the front of the sofa, pats the ground next to him when Lasko bends down to put his teapot and cup in front of him.

“Join me. I’ve been exiled.”

“We’ll call the Pope,” Lasko replies thoughtfully, “he might be able to get you excommunicated as well. Two for one.”

Damien raises an eyebrow, just barely failing to resist the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “See, now you’re talking.”

Lasko laughs, standing back up and offering the tray to the others on the sofa. “Clever of you to move the table out of the way,” he notes dryly, as Freelancer goes to take their tea from the tray and recoils at the heat of the ceramic. “Do you want me to leave it over there until it cools down?”

Huxley nods gratefully, taking a biscuit from the packet and batting away Gavin’s tail without even looking when the incubus tries to surreptitiously steal it out of his hand. “Aw, would you? Thanks, dude.”

Now that he says it, that might actually be a good idea - you reach over to get a biscuit for yourself as well, before going round to perch on the arm of the sofa next to Freelancer while Lasko puts the tray down on the coffee table. They seem to have found a programme they like, some cooking competition show you’ve never seen, and pass the remote down to Damien with a satisfied hum so he can put it on the floor next to him.

“Is this a new series?” he asks quietly, head resting against the side of their leg. “I thought you already watched all of them.”

Freelancer shrugs, absentmindedly twirling Gavin’s tail between their fingers as he readjusts his legs across their lap. “We did, yeah. But this one is a good one.”

The rest of the evening passes in something of a blur - warm tea and good company and some truly ridiculous commentary on the TV that has you laughing harder than you think you have in weeks, maybe even months. After the first programme finishes and the next one is starting, Damien seems to remember that you’d never actually had that dinner you were going to make, and drags you into the kitchen to get you something a bit more substantial than a biscuit.

Gavin trails after you, too, sitting himself on the countertop next to the fridge and watching you two cook. It doesn’t seem malicious or mean - rather, his eyes follow you curiously around the room in a way that distinctly reminds you of an intrigued housecat. He seems to have magicked up a lollipop or something to amuse himself with as well, idly moving the stick back and forth in his mouth as the hard sugar clicks against his teeth.

The feline comparison apparently occurs to Damien as well, who, for some reason, quickly moves everything within about a metre of the fridge on the counter out of easy reach. At first you’re surprised, but then you see Gavin’s tail droop in mock-disappointment, hanging limply down in front of the cabinets, and you realise what’s going on.

“Don’t mind him,” he stage-whispers to you as you wait for the stove to heat up. “He’s not so bad. Freelancer just spoils him something rotten.”

Gavin sniffs haughtily, clawed fingers pulling the - apparently heart-shaped - lolly out of his mouth and sticking his red-stained tongue out at Damien. “I am very cute and sexy and worthy of spoiling.”

“What you are is in the way, genius,” Damien replies, deadpan, pointing at the cutlery drawer that Gavin’s legs are currently blocking. “Fork, please.”

You can practically see Gavin vibrating as he tries to hold back the obvious joke, in favour of reaching down and taking a metal fork from the drawer, holding it out in one hand.

“Ah, ah-”

He snatches it back when Damien reaches for it, holding out the lollipop in his other hand instead. “I got you a present.”

Damien eyes it with interest, shiny and red, and you’re not sure if you should still be watching. “What flavour?”

“Cherry.”

Damien thinks about it for a second, before opening his mouth and letting Gavin put the lolly on his tongue. “Mmm. Thanks.”

Gavin smirks lazily, and hands him the fork. “Mwah.”

Neither of them seem embarrassed afterwards, like it was something you weren’t supposed to see, or like they’d forgotten you were there. It’s… kind of pleasant, in an unexpected way. Being around people who are funny, who are friendly, who don’t seem to be uncomfortable around you. You don’t really know anyone like that in Dahlia yet, and you hadn’t realised quite how much you’d missed it until now.

It’s just the same when you go back into the living room to eat, sitting properly on the sofa this time, next to Huxley. All of them just seem so nice - a far cry from the terrifying criminals you’d thought they might have been. Just ordinary, good people. Sweet and kind and silly. The sort of people that you’ve always wanted to be friends with, but that you’ve never been good at finding.

Damien makes a joke about one of the cooking judges on the screen, and Lasko splutters as he laughs and his tea goes down the wrong way. Huxley wraps his arm around Gavin’s waist to pull him closer against his side, and Freelancer follows suit, draping themselves over Gavin’s back and gleefully making themself comfortable on his shoulder.

There’s a lot to think about, that much is clear. The reality of the situation, the fear of what might be waiting for you if you choose to stay - in a very real sense, they might very well be the death of you. But looking around at them, these people, trusting you with their secret and hoping that you’ll keep it for them, you’re struck with a new and frightening question.

Maybe it really is dangerous. Maybe this would be the biggest mistake of your life - the end of your life. But could you do it? Could you walk away now, knowing what you know, and not regret it?

Lasko leans his head against the front of the sofa, turning his head slightly to look up at you, and gives you a tiny, bashful wave with one hand.

You wave back. He smiles, warm light reflecting softly off his glasses, and perhaps the question isn’t quite as frightening as it used to be.

masterlist

this is an original fanwork by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

[snootlestheangel]

Oooh! Snoots! An Animal Shelter AU!

It honestly could go hard

Not that they keep track, but Gaz is out here doing the most adoptions. He's just so good at matching dogs and cats to people. He's so good at sweet talking the stubborn old ladies and the cranky "know it alls". He is so good with people but also still really good with the animals. Organized, efficient, takes excellent photos of the available dogs. Fosters cats, old, kitten, sick, all of them.

Soap is an Animal Services officer (animal control basically, i don't remember the differences). He's like everyone's favorite ASO. He's so good with the animals, he's good with the people, good with everything. Loves to foster some of the hospice dogs. Has a background in animal behavior. Definitely took home at least 3 snakes that got confiscated from a big bust. One of them is an albino Burmese python and the other two are the cutest ball pythons

Ghost is basically the behavior team at this point. He's so good with the animals, it's insane. He's the go to for everyone to ask to handle the behavior dogs (ones that are just very reactive, very scared, etc) especially the big dogs. Walks all the bite quarantine dogs. Helps the clinic with handling dogs for procedures and exams. Not well known that he's married to Soap. Is the guy people ask about when rats, ferrets, or any other odd creature like that comes in cause it's so rare. (This excludes rabbits and any like livestock/farm animal. I'm talking most rodents and reptiles). Tatted and pierced up on gah

Price is the one manager that is holding the place together. If anything happens to him, it's gonna be fucking chaos. He's the one everyone asks questions to, he's the one ordering supplies and shit. He's making sure everyone's doing their job, making sure the animals are healthy and taken care of. Offers to help with volunteer groups cause he knows those can be overwhelming for the one or two staff members in the volunteer department. Actually makes sure things get fixed, even if he ends up paying a bit out of pocket. Always uses the excuse "nothings too good for the animals". Hates doing the news segments though. Can't pay him enough for those.

[yukidragon]

hi im super new to swwsdj and its lore and i gotta ask, how exactly did jack die? was he murdered was it an onset accident and if so how did that accident go? if we dont truly know then whats ur hc for what happened to him? u seem to be the leading authority on the game since anytime i google it, ur blog shows up pretty prominently.

Wait, me, a leading authority of the game? Prominently featured in google searches? WHAT?

Pardon me, I was just a little overwhelmed for a second there. I'm flattered and flustered all at once. I'm just a silly fan who likes to ramble all the thoughts I have for this lovely game. I had no idea that I rambled enough to be a prominent search result on google. Wow.

The real authority of the game are the kind folks over at SnaccPop Studios. You can check them out over at their patreon, twitter, and tumblr. Also, there's an official tumblr and twitter for Sunny Day Jack that you might consider checking out.

While I'm getting disclaimers out of the way, I also want to make sure to credit them and the awesome Sauce for their lovely art and for being cool with me putting their art in posts like these to help discuss their fabulous game. It really helps illustrate what I'm talking about when I can show the actual illustrations.

Also, remember not to share anything privately posted on the patreon!

Anyway... back to the topic. While we can't say with complete certainty what happened to Jack in 1984 on the day he died, since the game's story is still in development, evidence strongly hints that he was murdered. I theorized in the past that he was shot due to some teaser art and some sprites Sauce was kind enough to share that show him with what look suspiciously like gunshot wounds.

How the incident went down exactly is unknown, but this teaser certainly shows the brutal aftermath. Not to mention the demo shows us hints in the form of childish doodles before the start of the game. It seems there were children in the audience who witnessed the final moments of Sunny Day Jack...

This bit of lost media from Sauce's old twitter is still so chilling to think about. Any development art can't be technically counted as canon if it's not on any official SDJ page, but this heavily suggests how the incident went down.

As for my headcanons about what happened... They've developed somewhat over time, as you can see in a few of my previous posts here, here, and here. I also touched on it in a potential storyline idea for my fanfic, Sunshine in Hell, with my version of his sunshine, Alice, being the reincarnation of someone who unfortunately witnessed the incident. I also played with an AU idea where MC/Alice time travels back to 1984 to stop the murder from happening.

While we do have hints that Jack was the victim of murder, and even what might have been the cause of death, we don't have any clues as to why it happened. We also don't know why his soul was trapped in the tape and turned him into the ghost(?) we know and love. We have a lot of speculation, from his past as Joseph Cullman catching up to him in a violent way, a jealous co-star wanting to take him out, or even a conspiracy set up by LambsWork Productions itself. It could go in any direction at this point.

Sorry I can't offer a definitive answer as to how Jack died or why, but I hope this at least gives you a few things to think about. I'm definitely looking forward to finding out the answers when the full game is released.

@channydraws @earthgirlaesthetic @sai-of-the-7-stars @cheriihoney @illary-kore @okamiliqueur

[thebroccolination]

ELYAN!!!

I NEED ELYAN FIC RECS.

I NEED THEM LIKE I NEED LIFE.

I just watched "A Herald of the New Age" for the first time and my god????????? This moment between Elyan and the Shrine Boy was hands-down the sweetest I've seen in the entire series.

THAT IS THE BEST KNIGHT. THAT ONE.

After Elyan disturbs the shrine in the forest by drinking from the well because Gwaine drank all his water (I already shipped the hell out of it before this and now I ship it even harder), this ghost boy shows up before him twice and terrifies him.

And yet???

His first impulse is to hug and protect this child.

I made the most wounded animal noise when he did this??? Like, especially in an episode where he's punched unconscious by Gwaine and then Percival, Elyan's gentle and protective nature is so, so beautiful. He immediately offers to help the child, too, and I don't think the insinuation is that the child was using magic to influence him. I think it was just Elyan's empathy.

Man, what a great episode.

To recap, I watched season 1 of Merlin as it was airing, lost all interest when season 2 began, then just exclusively read fic from then on until my friend was like, "PLEASE WATCH THE OTHER SEASONS WITH ME," and I said, "Yeah, okay," so we've been gradually doing that for the past two years.

Therefore, I only knew Elyan through fic until now and, like??? I knew plenty about Gwaine and Percival and Leon and Lancelot from the fic I read (canon and AUs alike). But I only remember Elyan being mentioned in fic occasionally? And it was either just in passing or as The Older Brother of Gwen. At the time, I always figured, "Well, maybe it's because Elyan didn't get a whole lot to do in the show." And, sure, he doesn't seem to have as much screentime as Gwaine or Leon so far (I haven't seen S5 yet), but this whole episode was about Elyan! And we find out so much about who he is!

I've now seen more of Elyan's personality than I have of Sir Ripped His Chainmail Sleeves Off, and I've seen lots more of Percival in fic. Even when Elyan's possessed in this episode, we find out plenty about him through the other characters reacting to it. The general consensus is, "Whoa, Elyan went after Arthur?" even though his sister was just banished and a few characters think that would be enough to turn his loyalties (I still can't believe the writers expect me to believe that nonsense was consistent for Arthur's character like the writing in BBC's Merlin was very weird sometimes).

This one episode has made Elyan my favorite knight.

HOW IS THERE NOT MORE FIC ABOUT ELYAN.

OR AT LEAST BIGGER ROLES FOR HIM IN ENSEMBLE FICS?

On the bright side, I just went looking for Elyan/Gwaine fic and there was literally one posted two days ago set after this episode and I'm going to read it ASAP and then scour the rest of the tag for more. \:D/

Like, man, I've never written Merlin fic before despite the hours of my life devoted to reading Merthur fic but I think I have to write some Elyan/Gwaine when my friend and I finish watching the series. :')

(If anyone with Elyan fic recs of any kind reads this please please please feed me.)

[shitpostingkats]

Hi yes I need you to know that your analysis on Jaden and Yusei (June 16, 2022, idk if you’ve done multiple on them but that’s the one I’m talking about) is the realest thing I have EVER read and you’re so right and you should say it MUCH louder that is the greatest take op it’s amazing and I’m screaming /pos

Jaden is my favorite character like,,,, ever, and you have nailed him I’m going bonkers

Another thing, I love your Groupchat AU but you have made me become aware that there is???? Another???? YGO show????? I was like who on God’s Green Earth is Yudias and then Google attacked me with information. I still remember. When Vrains was new. To me Vrains is still new. It came out 6 years ago. I feel old. I am not okay. I have yet to acknowledge the existence of Sevens and will continue to do so with Go Rush. Oh I got off-topic, whoops-

Anyways, love your Groupchat AU but I saw the one part with the Eldritch language that Jaden and Yuya are both fluent in and I humbly request more of their dynamic???

I had an epiphany last night, they’re so similar I’m actually losing my mind. All I can think about is that one audio of Batman and that girl on the swings and it’s like “They got their weapon, I got cheated out of my childhood” “I know what that’s like.” “You do don’t you?” Tell me that’s not them I am dying /pos

Much love <3

Oh my gosh, thank you! <3

Jaden and Yusei, my beloved blorbit. The painfully monstrous and the painfully human. The narrative foils of all time. Jaden Yuki, the creatchur autism boi of all time. <3 I need to write about them more.

I know what you mean about the new shows. I'm still a ways off from watching them, but I still want to remember they exist but keep forgetting. What do you means vrains is six years old??? (<- was not even a yugioh fan when vrains was airing) You're telling me there's probably going to be new one after that??? That the days start coming and they don't stop coming?????

Shoutouts to the sevens and go rush fans. They are the mightiest of soldiers. I know nothing about their shows but I'm hesitantly penciling them into the groupchat au anyways because I have seen maybe three clips but I know this funny little alien guy is near and dear to my heart.

Obviously there's a bit of a shift between Vrains and the Sevens era, being made for new audiences, a little tone shifting (which we LOVE, because any franchise that stays the same forever is no bueno.) and that makes it easy to group the first six shows into one group. But I also think there's a fascinating dialogue between shows 1-3 and shows 4-6. I didn't realize it until I was a good way into Arc-V, but each of the second trilogy protagonists sorta reflects the first three.

With Yuma and Yugi, it's very purposeful, a stated "return to form" with the chipper kid and his ghost companion who lives in his special necklace. And when I was gushing over Yusei in 5Ds, I got a lot of people saying "Man, you're going to love Yusaku." They're both the rbf hacker protags who fight the government. Lots to love.

But Jaden and Yuya????? Did not imagine I would come out of Arc-V going "omg they're foils. They're the same story through a different lens. They need to TALK to eachother and bond over their shared experiences."

Even leaving out my pet theory of "Zarc Was An Incarnation Of Jaden In The Original Timeline", they're just so. *clenches fist* The childhood trauma of being a weird kids and masking with an overly bubbly personality only to learn the great anger they've been trying to hide is powerful enough to rip apart reality and they're secretly harbingers of destruction.

By the end of GX, I think Jaden has wonderfully come to term with that. By the end of Arc-V, I think Yuya hasn't.

Their dynamic in the gc AU is very much to me Yuya is still struggling with Z-arc stuff, but not saying anything about it because that'd be weird, so he just kinda frets about it until he hits a breaking point and Jaden gets to offer his advice on dealing with all this.

I am so interested in exploring this that it actually got me started writing fic again,,, which I haven't done in like a year, so wish me luck. I'll keep y'all updated :)

Angst aside, they're also just. One braincell between them. Theatre kid and guy who has never once acted natural in his entire life. Kid making a scene at a Waffle House while his friend slowly eats the entire menu and offers suggestions. Jaden is a pokemon fan and Yuya is a kingdom hearts girlie, I've decided this, and they takes turns infodumping to each other. Jaden summons duel spirits so Yuya can ride around on Hiphippo even when he's not dueling. They trade funny things they've heard their dragons say. They're eldritch and inhuman and best friends, your honor.

[drawnecromancy]

Get To Know Your Moots Writeblr Interview

Tagged by @ceph-the-ghost-writer, questions are from @davycoquette (and like Ceph, i'll link the template riiight here :))

If you see this post and consider yourself part of writeblr, please consider yourself tagged. I don't actually feel like I know enough people who would nod and go "yes, my blog is a writeblr", to tag anyone except @isabellebissonrouthier and @literarynecromancy LOL (also Ceph already tagged Jez so I can't tag him)

On the Tumblr Writing Community

How long have you had your writing Tumblr/Writeblr ?

Well, that's the thing isn't it.

This blog isn't a writeblr. I've defined it in the past as an art blog, because i made it in 2017 primarily to show my drawings to other people. The thing is that said drawings tend to be part of a bit of writing anyway, so of course I'm including that. And it's also a personal blog.

This is just my house man.

What led you to create it ?

Accidentally answered this earlier - I wanted to show my art to other people.

What’s your favorite thing about the Writeblr community ?

My friends ! I, genuinely, do not interact with the writeblr community much beyond my friends/mutuals. I have no idea how I stumbled into having genuine writeblr mutuals in the first place.

What’s one thing you’d like your mutuals to know about you ?

I tend to reblog on @irianeth without further comment because my brain is empty 99% of the time

Is there anything you’d like to see more of on your dash ?

...i don't know ?

What tips/advice do you have for someone who made a Writeblr today ?

Probably go in the writeblr tag and see how people do it ? I have no idea. Have fun I guess.

WIP it Good

Which Works-in-Progress (WIPs) or writing projects are you noodling about, lately ?

I've been a bit frustrated at my inability (largely due to time and energy constraints) to keep poking at my novel, Le prix du sang. [Hélianthe et Atropa tag] Genuinely I would like to be able to write a bit on it soon because i want this story out of my brain and into people's hands.

Other projects I've been Thinking about... Mostly roleplay stuff with @lee-thee-bee [Neseah tag]. There's so many AUs rolling around in my brain you have no idea. I can grab almost literally any character and go "here's an AU where shit goes differently". Sometimes it's better sometimes it's worse. Been rotating a funny one lately including fake kidnapping this time around.

How long have you been working on them ?

Le Prix du Sang ? Oh boy. I think it started before university, so probably in the 2017-2018 ballpark... Man, that's like 6 or 7 years.

Lee and I've been making Neseah since December 2023, I believe. Not even a year old but there's So much.

Do you remember what inspired them/what got you started ?

LPDS : I had a weird fucking dream. I was a woman, armed with a crossbow, running away from an entire village trying to kill me for being a witch. I eventually ended up in the living room of a sexy vampire who was basically offering me a job (helping him massacre the village) in exchange for letting me live. We massacred the village. I woke up like "hold on, if you change some things, it could be a short story". ...and then, the short story got out of hand. The village massacre is essentially just the first chapter.

Neseah : "Hey, do you want to do roleplay sometime ?" "Yeah sure !"

How much time, in your best estimation, do you spend thinking about them ?

24/7 for the Nesean guys as of right now.

Hélianthe and Atropa I mostly think of when I'm writing them, since I've got a Lot of things down for them I don't feel the urge to rotate them every second anymore. That, and it's no longer a hyperfixation.

When someone asks the dreaded, “What do you write about,” question, what do you usually say ?

Is it a dreaded question ? I reply "Fantasy". That's the truth.

Let’s Rotate Blorbos

Name any characters you created.

You mean, this long ass list that should be updated with everyone from Neseah ?

Highlights include : Alan, Hélianthe, Atropa, Anne de Monthaut (I LOVE YOU ANNE), Valiandra (The Emperor - he has his own tags bc I think about him SO much), Benadryl (we love Ben).

Not included yet on the long list, but will be included shortly : Maran of Neseah, Nelvaren of Neseah. Insane wizard son and unhinged ghost father. Also Nadir, who's basically "what if Nelvaren was a 25 year old trans catboy". (if you're wondering, yes, Nelvaren's also trans.)

Who’s the most unhinged ?

I think probably Valiandra. Due to the Horrors.

That and also the fact that sometimes he is his own parent in increasingly fucked up ways.

Who comes the most naturally for you to write ?

Maran and Nelvaren - due to being roleplay characters, mostly ! Spontaneity and being able to Just Get Into It feels important to me to sling stuff back and forth.

Hélianthe goes also fairly smoothly because he's fucking ridiculous.

Do you ever cringe at them ?

(Side-eyeing Hélianthe) You could say I do, yes.

How much control do you feel you have over your characters ?

All and none at all.

Sometimes shit Just Happens and Just Makes Sense (Alan dramatically revealing stuff about his past, him being Margot in Le Prix du Sang). Other times, a character presents me with an idea, and I rotate it, and go, no. Most times I'm between putting them in situations to see what happens, and/or building from things I want to write about.

You gotta be able to reverse stuff you don't actually want in your writing.

Do you enjoy people asking questions about your characters ?

Yes ! It's a lot of fun ! I don't get a lot of them and I'm 100% sure it's because I also don't send enough questions to others ! I want to get bettter at this tbh.

On Writeblr Engagement

What makes you want to follow another Writeblr account ?

If they seem nice !

What makes you decide against following ?

If I feel like I wouldn't vibe with them or their writing !

Do you interact with non-mutuals often ?

No. But that's because I don't go to the writeblr tags. Due to not being a writeblr.

Do your mutuals’ characters occupy space in your noodle ?

@bitchfitch's Arlo lives in my mind rent-free. I need to throttle him so bad but also I want to have a nice day with him and braid his hair or something. I am very normal about this goat. Also Adonis. Every so often I'm just like man, I wonder what Adonis and Ione are up to right now.

@isabellebissonrouthier's Chrysanthemum Clawe - Chrys is so fucking funny. I didn't expect she'd be my favorite but she's a disaster and I love her so much.

@logarithmicpanda's [SPOILERS FOR HEART OF STONE THAT WOULD TAKE A WHOLE PARAGRAPH PROBABLY]. Besides it, there's Ordyr my best friend Ordyr, I want to go hang out with her. And Orion. Funniest little shit I've ever met I need to redraw that slurping the source image.

@jezifster SHADOW. And Veronica to some extent but she scares me, while Shadow just makes me laugh so hard I want to study him like a bug

[innytoes]

From the subconscious that brought you the Quiet AU, it's time for Inny's Brain Comes Up With Another 100k fic she's never going to write while she's dreaming.

Okay so it's the Post Apocalypse. The apocalypse happened a few years ago, there was a horrible plague that makes you bleed from your eyes and maybe some other things, a lot of humanity was wiped out, chaos, destruction, blabla.

We start with Our Heroes travelling on foot. Luke is telling them this area seems familiar, and Alex and Reggie realise they're near where Bobby's family had a cabin. They decide to veer off because Alex remembers where Bobby hid the emergency key. Not that they haven't done their fare share of breaking and entering, but it would be nice to, you know, not have to.

Also maybe they want to see if Bobby is there. Because even though they split with a lot of bad blood between them over some stolen songs, the apocalypse makes you miss old friends.

Julie and Willie are like: um excuse me that is not a cabin that is a Log Mansion. It's three fucking stories. (It also had the exact layout as my grandmother's old house, because this is my brain, which is funny because my grandmother's house was very much not a log cabin).

And then SHOCK AND GASP Bobby comes out. He has the Trevor Wilson Beard and Man Bun and is just... staring like he's seen three ghosts... and two random people he doesn't know, I guess.

There is a big sappy reunion and a big talk and apology and blabla of course they can stay. There's more cabins around the place and they've made themselves a little farming community. They trade with the other little the towns in the area, but they haven't heard much from the bigger city in the while.

"Um yeah, maybe... maybe don't go to the city," Luke says. Reggie is very pale. Willie mutters about how there was plenty of stuff that could still be looted (as long as you don't mind all the dead bodies is left unsaid).

They settle in at Bobby's house and become part of the community, finding jobs. Willie does indeed go with some of the more brave individuals to the city to search for supplies. The whole community has like one working truck because gas is hard to find these days.

Some traveling trader comes by and he's basically on a giant sled on wheels pulled by huskies and predictably Reggie loses his mind and gets to play with the doggies.

There comes a night when Reggie can't sleep, so he's the only one awake to hear the car. Two cars. A group of four with two cars is bound to mean trouble, so he wakes everyone up because there's a high chance there's raiders.

The people are breaking in and Reggie goes downstairs to greet/distract them, playing the clueless guy, welcoming them and being like 'oh hey are you lost do you need help? We're looking for a bartender if you need a job' and basically being in the way and these four people are just so confused because they broke into his house and he's so cheerful about it.

One of them was injured and Reggie more seriously offers the first aid kit and just when they were about to be like 'fuck it let's just murder him and raid the place', where comes Julie and Luke with the shot guns. Meanwhile Alex, Willie, and Bobby were checking out their cars and alerting the neighbours about trouble and OH SHIT ONE OF THEM IS BLEEDING FROM THE EYES HE'S INFECTED.

Cue fuzzy chaotic time jump because I woke up with a dry mouth lol.

For some reason Bobby disappeared from the dream after this so maybe poor Bobbers got shot in the show down with the raiders. Or got hit by the car of the other three fleeing, leaving behind their infected friend.

The gang stays in Bobby's house, though, and slowly, Juke and Willex drift together. When they were travelling, they usually all slept together, but now...

Reggie, who is still grieving Bobby, and maybe blaming himself because he wasn't good enough at distracting the raiders, sees the other two couples drift together and decides to stay out of their way. He can't sleep anyway, since he was the only one awake to catch the raiders in the first place.

So he starts sleeping less, and less, spending less time with his friends because he wanted them to have time together... Pining because he's secretly a little in love with all of them, but they clearly don't want him.

Until he was suuuper stoked because he found a puppy. It was so cute, and he wants to show his friends, and they're so freaked out because Reggie, there is no puppy...

Turns out Reggie was hallucinating from lack of sleep, and he's so confused because he's CLEARLY HOLDING A PUPPY WHAT DO YOU MEAN and then the whole thing kind of comes out and not only is Reggie heartbroken when the hallucination shatters and vanishes, but he also confesses how he's in love them with but they clearly chose their partners and not him.

And both Juke and Willex are like: we've missed you, doofus, we love you, we didn't want to make you chose between us, we were scared you were mad at us for both flirting with you.

And they all live as happily ever after as you can in the post-apocalypse.

[remipaguetis]

I wrote something for my soapghost cowboy au, it’s not much but hope you enjoy it.

The codename is Soap ‘cause every man that enters the brothel will leave clean with no money with him.

She was putting her makeup on, when she appeared in the town riding her horse. When she finished her makeup, she went to the balcony to greet the sheriff Price like every morning in his way to his workplace. After she finished dressing, the corset enhances her chest enough to catch anyone’s attention, with this done, Joan goes down to the bar to see if a lucky man wants to share the morning with a precious girl like her.

It passed two to three hours before they interacted with each other.

Simona entered the bar with the head down trying to avoid everyone’s eyes, doing that made Soap doesn’t even notice her. She went straight to the bar.

“What do I give you, sir?”Alejandro, the barman, asked to the mysterious woman there.

“Bourbon” she said cold without care about being confused as a man. 

“Sorry Ma’am I will give your bourbon immediately” he said a bit shamed for his mistake.

She stayed quiet after that, a woman of not much words. Joan approached the bar with no success with any man that was in the cabaret maybe because of the hour or because almost everyone there know her and know how she tricks you into give her all your money. Hopefully later new men will be here with the train.

“Ale can you give me a glass of water, please?” Soap said looking kinda frustrated because no one was giving her attention.

“Bad morning?” He said serving her glass.

“Kinda, the room is full with usuals and I don’t think they wanna spend more money than they want” she said taking her glass and start drinking when she noticed Simona in the bar with all her dark clothes and the bandana covering half of her face and the hat covering the other half, at first sight you may confuse her as male. While soap was amazed by the mysterious woman, he appeared, a man that only come to the brothel once per month to aterrorize some of the females and then leave, none of the ladies can say something because he is friend of the owner and he let him do what he wants with the ladies. Soap immidiatly changed places to try not being notice by him but she catch the attention of the woman in the bar making both of them having some eye contact.

“ALEJANDRO GIVE ME ONE OF THE BEST ROOMS AND A BEER” he said screaming all the way to the bar.

“You better treat nice the ladies or-”

“or what remember who I am your threats has no meaning to me” he said with a smirk in his face 

“Right, here take the key I will serve you the beer in a moment” Alejandro was clearly mad at him while preparing his beer.

when he ended his beer he went upstairs to one of the rooms and like nothing happened everything continued the same way it was.

“Sir, may you be interested in pass a fun time with a pretty girl?” Soap asked to Simona dumbly trying to avoid being picked later for that man that just came in, last time he threatened her with a knife in her neck.

Simona watched her up and down before giving her an answer. “Sure, it would be fun” she said taking a small sip to her glass.

“I- Sorry I dinnae meant to confuse you with a man I sorry” she felt kinda awkward with the mistake she just made.

“I don't mind honey, can we take this conversation upstairs?” She said to then finish her glass and leave it with some money. 

“Uh I uhhh” soap gets nervous she doesn’t know what to answer.

“You offered me your company don’t you?” She said shortening the distance between them.

“Yes I did, but I-”

“Then can we keep our talk in other place?” She said putting her hand on her tiny waist.

“Of course, follow me” well being with a woman would be less risky that being with said man.

They went to Soap’s room upstairs, when she opened the door Ghost entered and while sitting in the bed she took her hat and made a sign to make soap sit next to her. She sits next to her looking at her brown eyes making herself loosing in them.

“I didn’t know you were a lady like me I thought you were a man like look how covered you are”

“Darling I’m not a lady, I’m a woman” she chuckled a bit “now tell me about this place”

[bluegekk0]

Hello, I heard about the ask that you received from the anon and I am very sorry that you have to deal about that and I know that you are very insecure about your au being “not making any sense” but I don’t want you to think that way because you are just an artist who just loves pale king and makes cool ideas

Your au is not cringe or bad, your au is unique and creative, and you should be proud of it its just that sometimes that others can be jerks and assholes to people

You are not really alone because I share the same anxiety and worry as same as you every time I think about posting stuff about my own au as well.

I got an idea about what if winged nosk and nosk didn’t die but the survived from ghost and hornet

I headcanon that winged nosk was killed by hornet/herrah and ascended from godhome and I would like to make an au about what if winged nosk didn’t die but survived and was seeking revenge together with nosk (ghost nosk) which is why I made the devious duo au

Last couple months ago, I received a very heart amount of criticism from an anon in my inbox, about how much that they think that having winged nosk and nosk together would be a  crackship and a abomination of a kind and it would end badly as well and a couple of more stuff that I don’t like to put in detail…..

I wasn’t even trying to ship them both together, and I just thought that I think that winged nosk and nosk would be good teammates and all but the person whoever sent the ask is probably dirty minded and I made me so uncomfortable that I literally deleted all my old devious au stuff and including the comic cover I made. I really lost all my courage and I was very hesitant to post nosk art but I still post more nosk art because I still loved the character despite I received the most uncomfortable and painful ask I received in my inbox

Same as you, I created the devious duo au because it is just my comfort au and I love to make stuff about the nosks because I think that they are cool and I believed that they needed more attention because they don’t get enough love and they don’t get that much popularity from others which is why I kept drawing them

Everytime I see posts about your feral pale king au and your rambles, you gave me a bit of courage and confidence  to post the introduction of my au which I am very insecure about because it doesn’t fit in hk lore

I deleted my old art and introduction and all my nosk duo art files because I was so insecure about it and I was thinking if I should abandon it forever like I did to my old pale king au and my other au ideas (I used to be a fan of pale king but I threw away all my pale king fanart because I was scared of hate)

There are even times I tried to delete my tumblr account because I fear of getting bullied of the stuff I make

But its just an AU! And everyone is just having Fun!

I AM SO SORRY FOR THIS LONG ASK AKJHAKJSH

oh don't worry about it at all! i love reading through long asks like this!

that sounds horrible, i am so sorry you had to deal with those anons, no one deserves that kind of treatment, especially over something so harmless. people are way too judgmental and entitled when it comes to stuff like this, and it pisses me off every time i see it. i'm really sorry you had to go through that

your au idea sounds very interesting! i think i mentioned it to you at some point, it might have been on discord, i don't remember. but i always find it so charming and so inspiring when i see people attached to really minor (and often unpopular) characters, like nosk/winged nosk in your case

seriously, what that anon said to you is so cruel and for what? a harmless au idea? it's horrible. again, i'm really sorry that happened to you. and i'm sorry to hear how much it affected your confidence

if i can offer some advice, as someone who also has confidence issues, just do what you love. some people will have a problem with it, it's inevitable, but as long as you're not hurting anyone and are just enjoying yourself, to hell with them. they don't deserve your time, and you shouldn't waste time thinking about what they're gonna say. i know it's difficult sometimes, there are times when stuff like that really gets to you, i know that, i've been there. but think about all the other people who enjoy your work and want to see it, people who leave nice comments and reblog your art to show it to more people. and most importantly of all, think of yourself and how happy working on your au makes you. that is what really matters. we're all here to enjoy ourselves, after all

and if it doesn't "fit the lore"? if it "goes against the canon"? screw that. i have great respect for people who are careful and stay true to the canon, that's dedication on its own. but the idea that it's the only way to enjoy something is bullshit. make goofy aus. go crazy with them. if it makes you happy, then there's nothing wrong with that. the way i see it personally, canon is a good starting point for creativity, not a set of rules. more of a suggestion. you don't have to strictly follow it, that would be boring, if you ask me

i really hope you can find more confidence. if my art can help you with that, then that makes me happier than you can imagine. and please, if you ever need any words of encouragement, or just want to chat and share your ideas, you're always free to message me. we need to support each other, and we need to hype each other up. that's what being an artist is about, creating stuff and inspiring others

you got this friend, i believe in you. draw what makes you happy, share it with people who care. because people do care, there's always someone who does. stay strong ❤️

[stellarhistoria]

my dnd game is wack y'all / / @wclking-fire. vash & ariel; scattered across the sands au

"I've already said this once, and you'll only hear it one more time." there would be no doubt embellishments this time around because she hates telling the same EXACT story twice ( same truths, different accessories ).

even so, she rolls her eyes and looks over to her son happily ignoring the two of them, as if they were the least threatening people that could possibly exist, while also shrinking away from seemingly a docile looking woman trying to offer a drink. only to get a glare from momma and the woman backs away from her son, from justin.

"I'm sure you've already heard of my family and I in rumors, in whispers, across this desert environment, with barely an oasis to be seen from." she chortles at the memory of some of the rumors that have cropped up as a result of her happy go lucky family finding themselves in rather terrible situations. "If you haven't, then you've been quite on the run, but for your sake, I'll go over this ONLY this last time."

she takes a breath and settles into her seat as justin clambers onto her lap. "There is no doubt in my mind that you have heard of the Demon of the East. A vicious being with claws and pointed ears and eyes that glow in the dark, a constant looming storm overhead in multiple cities that the "Demon" shows up in. That would be the second youngest, my sibling. They're easily frightened when they don't have their weapons, or if they don't have their girlfriend around. Even worse if they don't recognize anybody at all."

justin leans against her chest while playing with one of his toys that twists and 'breaks' before putting itself back together, like its made of magic of some kind. "And certainly, you've heard of the doctor who is rumored to be able to heal with burns, to heal with things that make you see the night during the day. Surely, you've heard tales of how he has endless water but no one can prove it. Surely, surely, you must have heard of how he has never failed to cure someone of illness that isn't permanent." she scoffs; "That's the middle brother, heart of gold and the best resting bitch face I've ever seen."

but she pauses for a moment, gauging his reaction. pausing to let him have that sink in before continuing on. "The ones I'm sure you haven't heard much of, are my two eldest brothers. One apparently is a ghost that wanders a deserted city, trying to breathe life into a place beleaguered by something far older and more powerful than himself. I don't remember the name of the city, but it has some weird stigma to it."

"The other you probably have barely heard anything of, is a man who would fight for justice and harmony in the name of revenge. He's got a bad habit of finding out everything about places he goes and people he talks to dead last, and it tends to kick him in the ass when it happens. I'm sure there was one thing you might have heard, as I've heard it all the way out here: he was the one who has been rising the conglomerate ranks and trying to measure off water supply to those in need. Yeah. That's my idiot brother."

"Then there's me: the Living Shadow. Rumors have it that I disappear into people's shadows, haunting and hunting them should they ever step out of line or become too much of a problem to the people around them. I've been used as quite a cheesy boogeyman of sorts. I can't help but feel jaded to it all, it's actually quite cute... and my brother in the big city tells me that he's doing well enough, if being occasionally targeted ─ which is nothing new for us."

she clears her throat slightly and looks down at her son, who is reaching for the canteen she always keeps full of water. she easily hands it to him over herself, though she's worn from talking so much, and quirks a brow at the blond man before them both. "So, you got all that down somewhere, blondie? I'm not repeating it again, even if my kid doesn't think you're all that much of a threat to either of us right now."