#at the corner of chaos and ninth

[chairofchaos]

With This Ring

Brought to you by Corner Productions: @ninthcircleofprythian and I are back at it again! For @erisweekofficial Day 7: Free Day.

In special recognition and honor of Ninth's 10th wedding anniversary. Pure domestic Azris fluff. Pinky promise.

Eris Vanserra had always been known for his immaculate fashion sense with his perfectly tailored suits and bold choices of color. But it is of the belief of these authors that it was his choice of jewelry that really stood out the most. What follows are the headcanons of Chaos and Ninth in regards to Eris’ hands (yum (extra yum! Love, Chaos)) and their ever changing adornments, especially after the appearance of a certain Shadowsinger in his life. 

Eris cares about his jewelry, especially his rings

He’s meticulous with which pieces he chooses to buy

Mostly he sticks to dainty stackable pieces so that he can have many rings on at once

There is the occasional statement piece– usually for special occasions

He is very intentional, even ritualistic, with setting the vibe of the day every morning with what he chooses

Azriel expects this to carry over into his treatment of the rings when they aren’t being worn, and finds himself amazed at the lack of care Eris seems to have at the end of the day

However, Az can always tell how Eris’ day has gone based on where he finds the discarded rings in the house

By the front door? Terrible, awful, no-good day. Eris is likely in the bath cooling off his temper and his body

In the kitchen? Decent day. Eris probably decided to make a cup of tea and wanted to hold his cup without his rings in the way

In the library? Eris still has work on the brain, and is probably working somewhere in the house

If Azriel comes home and he can’t find rings anywhere, one of two things is likely:

Either Eris isn’t home (boooo) or Eris is home, and he’s still wearing them, and they’ll end up piled on Eris’ bedside table at the end of the night

No matter where he leaves them, Eris always seems to know where they are

This drives Azriel bonkers because there is no pattern or reason behind it besides Eris’ whims

Azriel has bought him numerous ring holders and dishes in the attempt to condense them into little areas so they won’t be lost

Eris uses them for a few days, but even if the ring holders are in the places with the most frequent use, Eris still doesn’t use them consistently

When brainstorming for an anniversary early on in their relationship Azriel decides they need a more permanent solution and scours Prythian for some option that will work. He doesn’t like any of the options and decides to come up with his own

He describes the design to a carpenter, who creates the holder. It is a series of dowels laid horizontally in a wall-mounted holder, carved with notches to hold each dowel. It’s easy to add spaces for new dowels, and Eris can see his whole collection instead of storing them in jewelry boxes all over his dresser top or scattered around the whole house like little dragon hoards 

Eris loves the rack. It’s easier to see them all, and he can display his rings like trophies (ooo shiny) (crow behavior)

Azriel loves buying Eris jewelry as well

Azriel is especially attentive to how the rings sound

Azriel has noticed Eris tapping his fingers on tables, chairs and cups - so he purposely chooses rings that have good pitch

When he gifted rings, he used to give them directly to Eris, but when Eris starts using the display, Azriel starts sneaking the jewelry he brings home onto the display instead

Eris is so attentive to it that he always notices within a day

They still have to add dowels frequently. After all, over 500 years of life gives you the chance to collect a lot of jewelry

Now, Eris and Azriel find themselves the owners of an incredible collection of jewelry, a beautiful display rack for them, and many, many empty boxes and dishes. Eris is disappointed at their lack of use but can’t bring himself to just get rid of them, especially since some of them are family antiques and many of the dishes were gifts from Azriel

Azriel takes it upon himself to give the boxes and dishes new uses

He begins bringing home trinkets and souvenirs to fill them, usually with some sensory gain: the items are shiny, or they make nice sounds when you fidget with them

Eris teasingly calls Azriel a “more of a crow than a bat”, and a new name for the collection is born

The ‘crow boxes’ slowly accumulate enjoyable objects to the point where there are tiny collections everywhere around the house

A few years later, Azriel proposed

He slipped the jeweled engagement ring onto a dowel - thinking Eris would acknowledge it once he saw it

Eris just placed it on his hand and carried on with his day, not saying a word

Azriel spotted it at breakfast - “Do you understand what that means?”

Eris - “I wouldn’t be wearing it if I didn’t.” 

Eris doesn’t wear any other rings on that finger with his engagement ring

It is the only finger that he doesn’t add stacks to because his love for Az forsakes all others

In acknowledgement of their mating ceremony, Azriel gives Eris a new addition to the ring display: a new bracket with a shorter dowel, engraved with the date of their mating ceremony

They both keep their mating rings there, and that is the only jewelry Azriel keeps on the display

It is also the only bar on the display that is ever completely empty. It becomes a new ritual at the end of their days for Eris to put away all his rings, and last, for them to both slide their mating rings on the dowel and return it to its place

As they have children, Azriel gives Eris a ring for each child, and those rings join their mating rings on the dowel

Eris wears those rings amidst all the others, in stacks which remind him of each of the children

When their oldest children are still young, Eris decides to start a tradition of giving away the filled boxes of treasures to them at Solstice

It becomes the most anticipated part of the holiday - the kids sifting through the objects and exclaiming their excitement over their ���crow presents"

They begin to trade things, each child keeping their designated box filled with its objects but trading with the others for things that better suit their interests

In the end, Azriel jokes that he might be a crow, but with the fire powers and as protective as the children are of their crow boxes and Eris is of his rings, they might just be dragons after all

Taglists: xx @mybestfriendmademe @lilah-asteria @pit-and-the-pen @prythianpages @chunkypossum xx @dusk-muse @unanswered-stars @c-starstuff-man0

P.S. If you're seeing this you need to go read the title and header of Ninth's blog bc if nobody notices before I go on hiatus I'm gonna be sad. That is all. Thank you. Love, Chaos

[chairofchaos]

Ninth, I dug this out for a reminder lmao. We're menaces. And I'm proud of us. @ninthcircleofprythian

Right when I was about to click post my mouse/touchpad stopped working. Like God was placing his hand gently on mine to say "My child, I can't let you post this." Unfortunately I have a phone too.

[ninthcircleofprythian]

GOLD STAR FOR YOU

Acotar Crack Headcanons

In which Reader introduces gold star stickers in the bedroom. Reader x everybody. Poly type deal. And it is most definitely a competition. There are sticker charts. Gold prize - for the male with the most stickers? A week alone with reader. No interruptions. No sharing.

(This crack list is brought you especially by the shared brain rot with @chairofchaos . Please enjoy our devolution into smut headcanons that tonight has brought us.)

Azriel:

Confused at first

When he realizes he’d be SO into the competition element

So competitive

“How many does this get me” as he’s just pounding

“And this?”

It devolves because you stop being able to give him stickers

“What about this, baby? What if you can’t walk tomorrow? How many stickers do I get then?”

You can’t do a damn thing about it as the sticker sheets fall from your hand

But when you’re done

The two of you curled up together

You take the whole sheet and start giving him stickers, one by one

He’s smirking as you line them up in rows along his chest and arms

Then you finally put one on his nose, grinning as you recall the feeling of his head between your legs

“It was that good, huh? Maybe we’d better try to one up ourselves. See how many stickers I earn from you then.”

Helion:

Catches on quickly

He goes out that day to buy his own sticker sheets

Likes to give them to you too

Gives himself gold stars for how often he can make you moan

“Yep… that’s another one FOR ME”

Gives zero fucks about the overall competition

He just likes being in competition with himself

Puts the stickers on his nipples like pasties with a shit eating grin

Eris:

You reach back to place a sticker on his thigh

He stills immediately

When you explain it, he’s so hurt about being interrupted

“What the fuck? What is this childish game?”

“Do not place your shiny sticker on me, woman.”

“I am doing sexy things here – leave me be”

He peels it off his thigh, sticks it on the small of your back and keeps going

He still kisses the star when he’s done

“So the stickers are a no?”

He’d sigh and kiss your forehead

“Just tell me first next time. I don’t like surprises.”

Cassian:

Has monkey brain - is super into it

“STICKERS? SAY LESS”

Adds his own prizes to the mix

Is competitive but really just cares about making you feel GOOD

The stickers and prizes are just a bonus.

Walks around shirtless just to show off his stickers

“These are my rewards! Don't you like them?”

He has a sticker chart on the back of the bathroom door where he collects his stickers at the end of each day.

Eventually he just starts sticking them to random things around the house - mirrors, his daggers, the kitchen cabinets.

Lucien:

You give him a sticker on the forehead during oral

his little mechanical eye like gleams at you as he SMIRKS

he’s like 'hmm what's this?"

He takes one off the sheet and does his little smirk and the star just GLOWS

he sticks it on you down there

because he LOVES TO EAT

gives a little predatory grin as he crawls over you to move to the next thing

Tamlin:

Gets distracted by you placing the sticker on his shoulder

Pauses mid thrust

“No no dont stop”

“What… what is that?”

“It’s a sticker. You’re doing a good job. Keep going”

“... what?”

He’s so confused

He doesn’t keep moving

You take the sticker back - “You stopped moving. You stop. You lose the sticker.”

He does NOT like the stickers

“Please put them away.”

He’s very butthurt over losing his only sticker

Immediately flaccid

Rhys:

Isn’t a part of the competition

That male is interested in Feyre and Feyre ONLY

Hears about the competition from Azriel

Immediately goes to Feyre

“We need to buy gold star stickers.”

“Why?”

“Trust me, Darling. Gold. Stickers.”

Your next visit to the river house becomes an adventure of finding all the places where the two of them left stickers while Rhys grins and Feyre rolls her eyes with a laugh

Your favorite find is under the tablecloth, where it’s next to a golden paint smear

“We recreated our mating night for the anniversary,” Rhys whispers to Cassian conspiratorially

He’s intentionally loud enough for all of you to hear

He doesn’t really understand the rules 

He just likes the idea of putting the stickers everywhere him and Feyre fucked so he can show off.

[kangaracha]

QUEENMAKER | CHAPTER 19

---

pairing chan x reader

genre ninth member au, angst, fluff, coming of age, social media, cancel culture, anxiety, depression, forbidden love,

summary To JYPE, the solution is simple; take the sole trainee that will not debut with your brand new girl group, and use her to replace the missing vocalist in your male group that insisted on starting as nine.

Unfortunately, to the fans and the members themselves, it isn't that simple.

status ongoing

taglist OPEN

a/n isn't life a mess right now? absolute chaos out there, i swear to god. stay safe everyone.

previous | masterlist | next

---

You're choosing to ignore the noise that you know clouds the air online as you file into the underside of the stage on the tail of the boys, early enough in the morning that they are still yawning and blinking bleary eyes open, coffee clutched in their hands.

Stay offline, they'll all tell you, and make sure you sleep too, but you're no good at either; sleep is hard to find in the face of what hovers over you in three days time, and it's almost worse to not know what's going on where you can't see it than to keep a finger pressed very casually to the pulse. Just to know what they think. Just to know what to expect when you inevitably come face-to-face with them.

Not that you'll see them too closely. Four songs on one day, that's all you were here for. No fan meetings, no signings. Not that you had a problem with that, when those four songs alone came with a mountain of nerves to climb and conquer and sure, you'd been taught how to feign confidence until your voice didn't waver and your feet kept dancing, but that stage...

You come out onto it from underneath, following eight sets of feet up a narrow set of hidden stairs, and stare upwards at the seats that line the hall. It's lucky you're at the end of the line, your feet rooted to the ground on the final step by the sudden, unnerving terror of being faced with that ring of empty space; the stage that stretches out before you seems so small compared to the towering walls of the hall, so far into the ground when you look up at the final row of seats and see them hovering far above you as if to look down from the heavens.

Chan glances back from the middle of the pack as they spread out across the stage, checking that everyone is present, and beckons for you to join them, the smile on his face a message you can't decipher. Maybe he takes pleasure in seeing you speechless, or maybe he's just excited to share this with you - or relieved that you finally made it here after he staked everything on believing it would happen. Even with his invitation, you still can't find it in yourself to move though; not until a manager's gentle hand pushes you up that final step and onto the stage, the surface thumping quietly under the fall of your feet.

There are so many things you don't know, wandering across those boards while the others spread from corner to corner, jumping around or stretching or arranging bottles of water at its edge. They look so comfortable here, following a routine their bodies intrinsically understand, while you are...lost, your hands wringing nervously as you gravitate towards Chan in the centre of the stage.

He's still smiling though, his hand reaching out to stop yours from pulling themselves apart. "Still okay?" he asks, repeating the first question he'd put to you upon seeing the looming height of the convention centre this morning. 

"Mmm," you reply with a mouth that has forgotten how to shape words. "Not really."

"Do you want to go back downstairs for a moment?"

You focus on him instead of the seats for a moment, the warm feeling of his hand where it brushes your arm, the slow fade of his smile into something more focused on the problem, and how he can fix it. "No," you say, before he can get any further ahead of himself than he already has, and force a breath down into your lungs. "I'll get used to it. I just need something to do."

"We'll warm up in a minute," he assures you, and twists to look at the four boys that are gathering on the edge of the stage behind him, squawking at something they've seen down below. "Unless Han falls off the stage. Then I might just give up and go home."

Your eyes stray over his shoulder to the boys teetering on the edge of the platform, the toes of their shoes hanging over a fall that is far from fatal but still not ideal. As if he'd heard your conversation, Han crouches in the centre of them all, wobbling back and forth - it's the hand that Changbin wraps around his arm at the last minute that saves him, tugging him back on his heels just before he can tip too far forward to save himself. 

"Are you going to stop them?" you ask Chan, and very deliberately put your hands in the pocket of your hoodie as if you are completely relaxed, willing him not to turn around. 

"I'm trying really hard not to look, actually," he answers, and then he turns thoughtful. "Maybe I should make it your job to try and stop them, if you need something to do."

"I don't think I have that kind of authority here," you say, huffing a laugh. "You've killed any respect they had for their elders."

"I know. Lee Know is working on it," Chan sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"He has no respect either."

Chan's eyes flick to you, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth; and he doesn't count the joke out loud, but you know that in his head he is adding it to his tally. You're not sure how he remembers what number he is up to, or why he even bothers when you throw them out so sporadically, numerous one day when you're feeling bold and then nothing on other days when the urge to cower at the sight of the group chat or all of them loudly laughing together is too strong. And recently you've started to throw them out in person too, rather than just in the safety of your messages with him. 

Maybe he just makes the numbers up as he goes along. You haven't been keeping track of the total he says each time any more than you suspect he counts the jokes. 

"I'm glad this is an English concert, actually," he says suddenly, snapping your attention back to the present moment.

You frown in confusion. "What?" you ask, wondering if you'd spaced out for a moment and missed something he'd said.

"I was just thinking," he answers. "I'm glad we'll be speaking English this week."

You still don't follow. "Why?"

"Because if we're speaking English, you'll talk to me like this on stage."

You can only stare at him for a moment. Processing what he'd said, and the way he'd said it; genuine, with that smile still hiding in the corner of his mouth. "I don't know if I'll be able to say anything on stage," you say when the words have sunk in, scrambling for a response. "I'm going to be busy trying not to mess it up."

"Oh, come on," he scoffs. "You don't need to do that. Nothing is going to go wrong."

Somehow, his brazen confidence eases some of the tension in your chest. Maybe because he plays at being so entirely convinced that it's kind of funny; maybe because he'd already thrown you off beat a moment before and you're still reeling. "You cannot tell me that you believe that," you say; a joke, but a weak one, testing the waters rather than diving right in with any of the other responses that spring to mind.

"I am a hundred percent sure everything will go perfectly," he throws back without hesitation.

"Are you?" you tease, egged on by the grin that bites at his face. "I feel like you've basically cursed us now that you've said that."

His smile very deliberately falters, his mouth flattening into a put-upon line. "Go and warm up," he sighs dramatically, waving a hand. "No more talking about curses. Go on."

Your own smile doesn't budge as you turn away, sticking to your face until you gather with the others in the centre of the stage, stretching and loosening stiff and cold muscles, a warning to your body that it is nearly time to dance. It goes by in a flash with the distraction of Changbin's loud voice in the background and the complaints of the younger boys around him every time he yells, the laughter that the group shares. Chan was right, too; the distraction is just what you need, the laughter easing the anxiety that squeezes at your chest so that by the time you sort yourselves into the opening formation of God's Menu, you can almost imagine that it's just another day in the practice rooms at home.

"Ready?" Changbin asks as he rounds out the back of the formation, a hand held out flat between you.

You slap it with your own, loud enough that the sound echoes across the stage and he rescinds, shaking his palm out like it stings. "Ready," you confirm, adding strength to your voice so that he will believe you, and then you turn you backs on each other, crouching down back-to-back.

You spare Hyunjin a small smile, now in front of you where he crouches as well, and then drop your head as the music starts, counting the beats to the moment where you will jump to your feet.

It comes quick, barely four bars past the moment that that loud, discordant beat kicks in; quick enough that every time, it feels like it takes your breath away as Hyunjin turns to the side and you rise to your feet, only a moment before Felix and I.N shift outward too and reveal you to the empty crowd. It occurs to you again, in the fleeting of moments that passes between beats, just how terrifying that could be on the day that it matters - how it could be so easy to freeze in the spotlight and forget what you're supposed to do and where to go after-

"Ne sonnim!" you shout to an invisible audience, your throat remembering by itself the power that Changbin has beaten into you in the days since you'd taken the part and your hand rising into the air. Someone whoops into the microphone as you take your swift step to the left, out of Changbin's way - you almost laugh, but your concentration turns too quickly to the choreography and your place in the crowd, careful to stay out of Chan's way as he moves forward and you move back.

It gets easier from there, until the second verse comes around - hide at the back and keep up with the rest, part of a unit rather than leading the way into the light. Your parts follow on naturally, short and sharp movements paired with similar vocals in the verse, and then the relatively easy task of standing still and filling your chest with your voice while they continue the dance around you in the pre-chorus. 

And then, the bow at the end, the struggle not to stop and gasp for a breath of air in the five seconds of silence that follow.

Hyunjin is the first to fall on the third runthrough, sitting with a dramatic flourish and signalling the start of a break for everyone. Minho rolls a bottle of water across the stage to him, and then holds one out to you - you take it gratefully, your throat already dry just after one song. Nerves, you think as you sate your thirst and then pass the bottle off to I.N. 

"Happy?" you ask Hyunjin, still on the floor close enough to your feet that you're mindful of not stepping on him as you shuffle around, keeping your feet moving. 

He groans, his head rolling backwards to look at the ceiling. "We still have to run through Hellevator," he says, which is not an answer to the question, but not a complaint either. No news is good news, you assume, and nudge his bottle back towards him again as it wanders away down an imagined slant in the stage surface. 

"You have a whole day off tomorrow," I.N points out.

"No I don't," Hyunjin replies, unscrewing the cap of his water bottle. "I have schedules to go to."

"So do I," Seungmin puts in from behind you, a shadow at your back as he circles around to join the group.

"No, you don't," I.N says, his eyes tracking him as he walks. "The only thing we're doing is going out for lunch."

He flips the empty bottle in his hand up and down idly between two fingers as he speaks, his attention elsewhere. You can see the glint of playfulness in Seungmin's eyes as they mull over what he's said, and then look down, tracking the movement of the bottle - you don't see his hand before he whacks it out of I.N's hand and watches it bounce away down the stage, laughing at the look of disgust on the younger boy's face.

"Do you want to come out for lunch tomorrow, noona?" Seungmin asks while I.N is distracted by the bottle.

"I want to come out for lunch," Hyunjin says from the floor, carefully placing his own water out of Seungmin's reach.

"You're not invited," Seungmin throws back before he can be convinced. "Unless you're paying."

Hyunjin screws up his nose and turns away, climbing to his feet instead of answering. Minho calls your names from the other side of the stage only a moment later, the backing track of the new song they'd added just for you queuing and then stuttering to a stop over the sound system. "I'll come out for lunch," you answer Seungmin as you walk, I.N falling into your shadows. You specifically don't say anything about paying.

"Good," Seungmin says, "because we're making a vocalracha vlog."

If he notices the way your stomach drops at the mention of the vlog, he doesn't say anything, and you don't either - stupid, really, to feel nervous about the prospect of a camera pointed at you when you've spent all these years chasing that exact dream. Not to mention the amount of cameras that have caught you in their vision in the past - from instructors, and evaluations, and TV networks, and online content.

But to do it with them, for their fans who, so far as you've read, don't seem very interested in seeing you with them...the thought kind of turns your stomach upside down. Makes the sweat running down the back of your neck turn ice cold all of a sudden, your skin shivering at its sudden touch. 

"What are you worrying about?" I.N asks you suddenly, appearing at your shoulder.

"What?" Seungmin says on your other side.

Before you can answer, I.N cranes his neck to see the other boy and says, "She's worrying about something again. Look at her face."

"What?" you echo, and if your face wasn't screwed up in consternation before, it is now. "My face isn't doing anything. How would you know? You were behind me the whole time."

"You can pull expressions with the back of your head?" Seungmin asks. "That's weird. You're weird."

You arrive in the circle of the rest of the group like that, I.N looking at Seungmin like he has something equally witty that he wants to say. Chan leans behind Seungmin with a funny twist to his mouth that says from one look, he knows exactly what you're going through, and wordlessly offers you a microphone. You pull down your headset as you take it and tune out whatever Seungmin says next, calling up the lyrics to the next song as the music starts. 

You note, as you sing the first line, that the tension in your chest has eased away as quickly as it had tightened. You have a feeling that was I.N's perogative the entire time. Either way, you're grateful. 

—

"Annyeong," Seungmin says to the camera that sits heavy in his hand, hoisted up to keep its lense from catching the sun as you walk down the street. "This is our vocalracha exclusive outing. No one else is allowed."

"Stay is allowed," I.N says beside him, poking his head into frame just to give Seungmin a look that the camera will catch, and they start off on an argument that plays out so naturally you can almost forget that the camera is there at all.

Except that you can't, because every time you stare into the face of it from where you're hiding on one side, your stomach drops and your limbs stiffen like they don't know what to do with themselves, anticipating the moment that it turns onto you.

Not that you haven't seen a camera before, or even had to produce this kind of content. The survival show you'd once done had loved this type of content just as much as any other, and there was always someone recording something in practice rooms, whether it ended up online or not...but this felt different somehow. More revealing, or more public, maybe, because of the audience that would surely be waiting to watch it. Because of the way that audience felt about you, lain out so clearly in a hundred comment sections online for you to see.

"You know who is invited," Seungmin says, cutting over whatever I.N has just told him with little regard for the other boy's opinions. "Our noona is here to buy us lunch."

You blink, and the eye of that camera turns to look at you in the moment that you aren't paying attention, cornering you within its gaze. Ignore it, you tell yourself firmly around the lump that begins to form in your throat, and turn your head to look at Seungmin instead, trying to remind yourself of the conversation topic. "Is that the only reason you invited me?" you ask, and resist the urge to wince when it comes out flatter rather than playful, the joke choking on itself before it can even reach your tongue.

Seungmin doesn't miss a beat, his lips pursed like he's thinking about it. "Youngest always pays," he says. 

Behind him, you can see I.N's gaze turn sharp, already preparing to be the next one under fire. "I'm older than you," you point out mildly, not wanting to swing the conversation one particular direction or another.

"Grandma always pays," he fires back.

"You can't just change the rules to whatever you like," I.N says.

"Says who?"

"Everyone," you tell him.

"Do you even know where you're going?" I.N asks.

Seungmin scoffs. "No. That wasn't my job."

"Why are you leading then?"

"I'm following Stay." 

Their attention snaps so naturally back to the camera that it feels like whiplash, like you're lagging one step behind and you can't quite catch up. You tail off again as Seungmin starts explaining your day and what you're doing after this to an invisible audience, sliding back out of view and into your comfort zone to the side of the camera, forcing a breath right down into the bottom of your lungs. 

You're going to have to get used to this, and the idea that everyone is going to see everything you do. It's silly to try to dance around it when there is no way out, but still, you let yourself slip away when you can no longer muster the strength to hold yourself within view of that camera, promising that another day you will try harder. Another day, it will come easier, and you will stand there and chatter on to that lense without thinking twice, just like the boys do.

Today isn't that day though. Neither will tomorrow be, and the day after-

The day after, you are on stage, for all the world to scrutinise in full view rather than in a box on a computer screen.

---

"You can go out when you're ready," the stylist tells you with a final adjustment of the hem of your shirt, gently tugging the creases into just the right position. "Have a good dress rehearsal. Let me know if there's anything we can fix."

She moves out of the way of the mirror so that you can see the entire piece. It's a simple concept, really, dark and grungy to fit the group's ongoing concept and yet pulled off in pieces of soft cotton and the glimmering gold of the plain rings on your fingers. You could almost imagine yourself sitting at home doing nothing, except for the makeup that sharpens the lines of your face and deepens its shadows, the embellishments that dangle from the loose cargo pants that cover your legs and the way that the hoodie's sleeves billow artfully at your sides. A safe outfit for a first performance, except for the strip of skin that shows at your midriff whenever you move, the shirt's hem cut at just the right length to expose it.

There'd been a lot of back-and-forth over outfits in the past few weeks. You'd only been privy to the part of it where they'd asked how much are you comfortable with and you'd answered I don't mind what I wear, and then the fittings afterwards in which there was a new outfit every time, but you knew there'd been...discussions. Arguments. Mistakes, nearly, and since then it seemed like the entire group's styling had been toned down to accomodate the lack of agreement over yours, which was-

Music starts playing upstairs somewhere, blaring from the speakers and then cutting off again. "Thankyou," you say to the stylist, who is already busy with something else, and cut across the room to where the boys are gathering around a manager who is handing out equipment. 

"Ah, noona!" Changbin says as you approach, his voice deliberately pushed high and light to match the broad smile that crosses his face. "I haven't introduced our noona yet!" A camera follows him, latching onto you before you have time to duck away - you swallow the nerves that suddenly pile onto your chest and focus on the smile you're giving Changbin in greeting and the table behind him that you're trying to reach. 

"Hello Stay," you say to no one, waving at the camera for the two seconds you're comfortable enough to look at it. You busy yourself with the search for your equipment on the table as an excuse to turn away and collect yourself, preparing for the onslaught of questions that you know Changbin has been told to ask.

"That's right, Stay," he says to the camera in your peripheral vision, filling the empty space that would otherwise be left. "Just for you, we brought our new member to LA to show you just how cool she is. Right, Y/N?"

There, over in the corner. "Yes," you say over your shoulder and then grab the bundle of cords and monitors, careful not to tangle anything. "I've come after a long time to join everyone here."

"You hear that, Stay? We trained her for a long time just for you."

The way that Changbin fills the air all on his own is like a weight lifted off your chest, giving you a chance to breathe while he natters on about the schedule and how he expects the performance to go and whatever else happens to come to his mind. Hyunjin's arrival provides further relief; you busy yourself with the equipment in your hands while you hang in the background of their show, appropriately on camera and yet out of the way of the spotlight while you pretend to be too busy to talk.

The in-ears pack unravels itself in your hands, a long string of cord and a monitor that nearly slips from your hand as you separate it, conveniently providing a real distraction rather than the one you were pretending to focus on. You clip it at your hip before it can hit the floor, your other hand reaching up to feed the cord down your back.

"Ah, wait, wait, wait," a voice says behind you as you try to tug the cord down through your shirt, and then warm fingers brush the back of your neck, brushing your hair away from a knot you hadn't realised had formed at your collar. Your head turns so that you can see Chan out of the corner of your eye, picking at the cord until it falls freely down your spine. You catch the other end of it with your hand, turning to face him as you plug it into the monitor.

"I don't know how I did that," you admit with half a smile, quiet enough that the camera behind you won't pick it up. 

"Five minutes in and you're breaking things already," he returns, his fingers gently shifting a lock of hair out of the way of the cord. It slips from his fingers as you turn to face him, adjusting the way that the earpieces fall over your shoulders and dangle around your neck.

"I like the outfit they gave you," he says as you take in what they've dressed him in - artfully designed cargo pants, just like yours, and a sleeveless shirt that's half-tucked at the waist, detailed in silver. "The SKZ style suits you."

"You think so?" you ask, looking down at yourself again. Too self conscious, you know, but you're mindful of what it might look like from the outside, what the fans might think of you when the boys move aside and they see you for the first time on that stage- "It's not too..."

"No, it's perfect," Chan insists. "You look good."

You struggle to keep your face from turning red as you say, "Thanks." By the way his lips pinch together, trying to swallow a smile, you're pretty sure you fail.

"Are you going up now?" he asks, a hand pointing to the stairs that lead to the stage.

"In a minute," you answer. "I just need-" You spy the object you're looking for as you speak; your headset, neatly wrapped on the other side of the table. It only takes a moment to unwind, looping it over your head and reaching back to feed the cord through again.

"Have you tried using a microphone?" Chan asks, circling around you again to free the cord from your collar before you can displace everything. 

"I thought it would be better if my hands were free," you answer. "Maybe next time I will."

"Use whatever you want," he says, watching as you hook up the headset and shuffle its components into a space where they are comfortable. 

When you're done, he offers you a hand, his body twisted towards the stairs. "Ready?" he asks.

You glance behind you before you take the hand that's offered, looking for Changbin's camera. You find it in the corner of your eye, pointed safely at Felix as he endeavours to take uninterrupted selfies up against the back wall. When you turn back, Chan is still waiting, his hand steady and his patience unending, as if he'd stand there an eon if it meant you would walk up those stairs with him.

"Ready," you say, the word dragging all your breath out with it, and you take his hand, the warmth of his palm sinking into your cold fingers and the strength of his grip dragging you up into the world above.

---

A squeal of delight that echoes in the large, empty space is all the warning you get before a body barrels into you, uncaring of the phone held in your hands or even if you're looking up when she meets you.

Minseo, her hands cold and her body familiar as she hugs you tight enough to squeeze all the breath out of your lungs and then pulls away to look at your face with a smile that you feel like you haven't seen in decades. Her cheeks are pink from the cold air outside, her gaze alight as a giggle rises to the surface of her breath at the luck or the absurdity of you meeting in this place, at this time, after so long apart. 

"I can't believe you're here," she says, as if you haven't known for weeks that you would be in the same hotel at the same time, scheduled to perform the same day. "I can't believe I'm here. God, we have so much to catch up on."

"I can't believe I'm here either," you answer. "After everything that's happened this year-"

"Don't you dare tell me you might not have been here," Minseo threatens, one finger prodding at the air between you. 

"Maybe I was going to say we might not have been here," you lie.

She sees through you immediately, arms crossing over her chest. "No, you weren't."

No, I wasn't. "Are we hanging out in your room or mine?" you ask instead to distract her.

Her eyes stray to the desk behind her, where her managers and the rest of her group wait patiently. "Well I don't even have my room yet, so..." her voice trails off suggestively, her back turning on her team with the conviction that tells you she would abandon them here without a second thought if you let her.

"Get your key first," you say, reaching out and pushing her back towards the desk. "I'll come up with you."

"But I can't wait that long to hear what you've been doing here for three days," she whines.

"Nothing special," you insist.

TAGLIST

@kokinu09 @rainfallingfromthesky @lixie-phoria @mysweethannie @chlodavids

@hanniemylovelyquokka @tfshouldidohere @lauraliisa @puppysmileseungmin @kalopsian-thoughts

@puppy-minnie @readerofallthingss @dvbkie099 @kthstrawberryshortcake-main @acker-night

@d-chagi @lynlyndoll @borahae-reads @ihrtlix @yienmarkk

@minhwa @i2innie @jinnie-ret @conwunder @amesification

@starssongs98 @weirdhumanbeinglol @morinuu @the-weird-mold-in-the-sink @bokkiesplace

@amyyscorner @jiisungllvr @skzstaykatsy @blackhairandbangs @jungkookies1002

@hyuuukais @imsiriuslyreal @thatonedemigodfromseoul @gini143 @mercurywritesstuff

@splat00z @filmbypsh @palindrome969 @crabrangoongirl25 @enzos-shit

@jabmastersupriseee @kayleefriedchicken @hynjinswrld @duhgurl @cheshireshiya

@keepswingin

[spicyclover]

Scar

Summary: Being teammates isn’t always the easiest thing in the world. 

Request

Hope you’ll enjoy this part. Let me know in the comments section! And to support me by tipping me!

I'm open to requests.

Little information, I will, for now, only post on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.

Thank you, and Enjoy! :)

Lots of love, xxx Spicy Clover

Rivalry and challenge have always been the words to describe your relationship with Daniel. Never giving up. No matter the cause. No matter the consequence. He’s one of the tops of the top drivers, and you can’t afford to lose another race. It’s almost the middle of the season, and you’re way behind him. 

You can’t sleep or eat as you should. All those worries and pressure put you in a state you can’t imagine. It’s eating you alive, even though you try to keep healthier habits. Seeing him perform more than you is painful. Eating less. Putting more hours in the sim or at the gym. You can’t even remember the last time you went out with friends. 

You hate being the second driver. It’s a fact. We are at the Canadian Grand Prix, and you’re about to go in your car for the race. Your weekend has been worst than ever. You couldn’t or barely do the practice season since your vehicle had a mechanical problem. You have qualified in P12, way behind your teammates who are in P6. 

Sat in the car, you’ve been focusing on your race. You haven’t eaten in a day and are throwing up everything you put in your mouth out of stress. You’re dehydrated, but the doctor cleared you for the race. You can feel the lack of sleep and food getting to you, but you suppress those feelings to focus. You need to focus. All you need to do is set your mind and mind to win and be better than him. 

You do the formation lap, and the race begins. The first corner is the worst. Everyone turns around. And already two cars are hitting each other, causing a lot of debris to spread out on the track. You get through the dust cloud and are a little further away. A yellow flag is automatically displayed, and your engineer informs you as best he can of the situation. Three cars are off the grid, so you’re three places ahead on the grid. You’re no longer twelfth but ninth, three places to your number-one rival.

The red flag is on, and you all get behind the safety car and back to the pit. Once in the pits, everyone is allowed to get out of their vehicle, as the red flag may take several minutes. 

Okay, here is the thing about Daniel. Is the best teammate in the world outside the track. Always been friendly and compassionate. He likes you. It’s a fact. Being the first woman in a long time in a formula one car and being his teammate is the dream for Daniel. So when you’re out of your monoplace, he’s already by your side, debriefing the incident. 

“What a crazy start,” he says with his sexy Australian accent. “It was just pure chaos. I saw it in my mirrors. It’s a good thing you haven’t been it.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, eager to get away from him.

You like Daniel, he’s a great person, don’t let anyone fool you. But you can’t let the fact of being his teammate and being the less competitive one is so hard on you. You just can’t let things go, and every time, sometimes happens, you can’t let it go. You've always been like this. Making no difference between the race track and off-track. So even though you like him, you just can let things go. At some point, you just stop talking about anything and let him do all the talking. 

Well, in fact, one night in Monaco, you allowed yourself a little party and ended up being drunk in a boat, almost falling out off the ship and into the Mediterranean. Thanks to Daniel, who passed by and caught you in time. You were in his arms when you started mumbling all you had in your heart. Letting your bag go and saying what’s been bothering you. 

“You know. I hate being the second driver. You have all the glory and everything because the car is designed for you. What am I left with? Scrubs. It’s suck. I’ve been sick for three weeks now because I just can’t deal with my shit.” You cried on his shirt. “I don’t want to be second.”

He brought you back to your hotel room and stayed with you. Listening carefully to everything you’ve said to him. He knew this feeling of being second too well, and he couldn’t do anything to improve it for you. Before returning to his apartment, he brushes your hair and puts your pyjamas on. 

You didn’t talk about this after. And a year has passed, and you’ve been in the same situation again. Making yourself sick to be at your best performance. The red flag is over, and you all drive off to race. 

Your laps are getting good, and you feel good about the car. You managed to get behind, Daniel. Finally, you’re getting in the groove. Your laps are getting better than Daniel, and the team order Daniel to let you through. You’re in the long straight to the last corner. After insisting quite a bit, Daniel let you through at the last moment, making a dangerous move. 

Your wheels lock up, and you’re enabled to finish your turn. You are going straight to the champion wall, full speed and no brake. The back of Daniel's car damaged your front wings, which blocked your brake and locked up the wheels. You don’t even have time to think you hit the first wall. Part of the barrier flies around, and you feel something touching your chest. 

The second wall came quickly as the first one. You can feel pressure on your chest, and you have difficulty breathing. You can hear on the radio your engineers calling your name. You want to say something, but the words are stuck in your throat. 

After that, you don’t remember much. Everything is blurred. You are in great pain and somehow hear Daniel's voice calling your name. Then you black out. 

The first thing you hear when you wake up. It’s the rhythm of the monitor. Then you smell sanitizer. When you can open your eyes. You are met with the worried looks of your family. And then everything became a blur. The doctor's announcement. The end of your career. The beginning of this new rehabilitation. The world kept turning, but you felt stuck in your bed. Well, you are stuck in bed. Time flies, and the vacation finally arrives. You’ve been discharged, and you went back home to the UK.

It’s the first in three months that you and Daniel will see each other again. At first, you’ve been angry at him, wondering why he made that move. When he enters your apartment, a weird silence takes place. Neither of you knows what to say to the other. Deep down, you must keep your mind open and calm to any outcome. So when you see how uncomfortable he has been, you can’t help yourself to hug him. A weight is lifted from your shoulder and Daniels. Something forgiveness is the way to find peace. 

You converse for quite a while, talking about everything other than racing. It’s been long since you opened up to him that way. Making yourself vulnerable again, just like at the beginning of this journey. Really being friends with him.

“Show me your scar.” He says tenderly after seeing you scratching through the fabric of your shirt. 

You take your top off, showing yourself in your sports bra. He sees it for the first time. This scar on your chest’s forever grave in your skin because of his mistake is like a fantom reminder of his action toward you. His gaps silently.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, tears in his eyes. 

“I’ll heal.” You simply say, putting your shirt back on. 

“Scars don’t disappear.”

“No. But they heal, and I think I need to heal now.” You say, stocking his cheek and removing a few tears from his eyes. “I’ll be better, and it’s time I care for myself.”

[chairofchaos]

The main battles are usually about tummy hurt but you’d have to ask the actual source of this quote… and I’ll let her voice her thoughts if she wants lol

req'd by @chairofchaos

are the main battles about tummy hurt?

text: Hozier tm gives his strongest battles to his most feral soldiers

[memoryprompts]

THE NINTH HOUR SENTENCE STARTERS / PART 1

( * a series of prompts taken from shayfer james and kate douglas' rock-noir reimagining of the epic poem beowulf. feel free to adjust as needed. / PART 2

Prologue.

"Listen."

"Listen to the sea."

"Feel the water at your feet."

"This is how the tide behaves."

"We're swept along an open sea."

"We are drifting endlessly."

"The tide will rise, the tide will fall."

"And in the end it takes us all."

"We try again to tell the story."

"Cities built will fall to flood."

"And we will scrape them from the mud."

"The victors write our history by conjuring the enemy."

"We're at the mercy of the swell."

"It beckons us, and bids farewell."

"We build a cradle from our grave."

"Ebb and flow."

"The villains go."

"The heroes go."

Pile of Bones.

"I watch them through their windows."

"I stalk them in the street."

"They don't see me."

"They keep me company."

"I would rather be a monster than a fool."

"I'm hungry, and I've come for you."

"There's a pile of bones in the corner."

"They built these brittle walls in vain."

"They know my name."

"There's a pile of bones in the corner that I call friends."

"They satisfy my hunger."

"I wait 'till they're asleep."

"I call this chaos order."

"I call this carnage peace."

"I'm gonna grab them by their fragile throats."

"They cower at my feet."

"I will never have enough."

"I will drink of this destruction."

"I am summoning the flood."

"They scream my name."

I Believe in Peace.

"They call my name."

"Do they know what it means?"

"They ask for blood like they're dying of thirst."

"I'm a one - woman church."

"They want a savior."

"I'll be their savior."

"Give me your poor, your weak, your lost, your hopelessness."

"Don't worry, I'm here."

"I believe in peace."

"But I'll go to war for you."

"I believe in truth."

"But I would lie for you."

"I know how to cure devastation."

"See, I am salvation."

"I know how to calm a commotion."

"See, I am the chosen."

"I am a marvel."

"Carve me in marble."

"Enemies cower when I come around."

"I'm elemental, build me a temple."

"'Gonna light the way."

Family.

"You never disappoint."

"You keep us fed."

"You keep them wounded."

"But I can smell it on the wind."

"Another heathen they've recruited."

"This one is different from the rest."

"She comes in war, she comes like thunder."

"We'll lose whatever we have left."

"You must do this for your mother."

"They're hateful, they're heartless."

"They say we're the enemy."

"I'm all that you've got."

"We are blood, we are family."

"If you don't strike first, she'll take you away from me."

"I will keep you safe."

"I will be your eyes."

"I'll be your protector."

"They have no business in this place."

"And no, I will not be afraid."

"You always do as you say."

"I'll ruin all they've created."

"I will take it all away."

"No one is going to take you away from me."

"I feel it swelling like a storm."

"It's eye for eye, and limb for limb."

"It's time to end this."

Song of Praise.

"Our hero has arrived."

"I humbly submit myself at this soldier's feet."

"To sing of soldier's feats."

"Can I ask you, please."

"Do I have the blessing of addressing the one and only?"

"I'm truly at a loss."

"We must sing praises."

"We must keep her legacy alive."

"Our hero will never die."

"My clever words could never paint the picture that your name creates."

"The gory glory, the body count."

"The color of blood upon your blade."

"You put other men to shame."

"I couldn't possibly explain."

"Should I sing of monsters slain?"

"Of those you saved from certain death?"

"Let this be the day you came to fight for us and win again."

"I may run out of breath."

What They Want.

"Pivot, smile, stop."

"Make them laugh and give them what they want."

"Raise a glass."

"Praise the names of those who came before."

"Tell them fate is waiting at the door."

"This is what they want."

"This is what you're here for."

"This is who you are are."

"This is what you came for."

"Make a promise."

"Keep it modest."

"Tell them there is nothing left to fear."

"Say a changing of the tide is near."

The Flood.

"They sing their songs by firelight."

"I watch them dull their minds."

"These foolish drunks and diplomats."

"Lies and empty promises give hopeless men relief."

"Is ignorance their innocence?"

"Do they walk the world asleep?"

"I am cunning."

"They're complicit."

"I am coming."

"They dismiss it."

"Let their comforts blind them."

"I have come here to remind them."

"I am wakeful."

"I am watchful."

"I am unafraid to fight."

"I will stir you from your slumber."

"I will never say goodnight."

"I will tear you from your treasure."

"We're all guilty of something."

"For every gift, there is a sin."

"It depends on where you're standing."

"Cutting corners, casting stones."

"We are, none of us, immortal."

"We are, all of us, alone."

"For every give there is a take."

"We pretend to love the victims of the choices that we make."

"Who will save you from your shadow?"

"Who will come to your defense?"

"For every wrong, there is a right."

"We'll make any lie a lullaby."

"Every day is quiet war."

"I am here to wake you up."

"I am opening that door."

[tctteredwings]

Welcome to New York OLIVER 'OLI' METCALFE !! They are a 31 year old CIS MAN who uses HE/HIM pronouns. They’re an ARTIST/STAFF AT THE MOMA who have been in town for ALL OF THEIR LIFE and live in BROOKLYN. When looking at OLIVER you automatically think of SCUFFED UP CONVERSE, WEARING YOUR HEART ON YOUR SLEEVE, HIDING AWAY IN A QUIET CORNER WITH A SKETCH PAD but that probably makes sense since they also remind you of JOE KEERY. You can always hear WAKING UP ALONE by THE CHAINSMOKERS coming from their place. Who knows what kind of trouble they’re going to get themselves into. 

IN A NUTSHELL; wearing his heart on his sleeve, hiding away in a quiet corner with a sketch pad, the sleeves of his hoodie covering his paint-stained hands, scuffed & untied converse, fiercely protective, a confidence that's hidden deep within.

tw: parental death, severe depression, anxiety

Name: Oliver Metcalfe Nicknames: Oli Age: Thirty-one Date of birth: 3rd December 1992 Birth place: Manhattan, New York Occupation: Artist & staff at the MoMA Romantic/sexual orientation: Homoromantic/homosexual

IMMEDIATE FAMILY.

Parents: ___ & ___ Siblings: Violet Metcalfe & ___ ___. Children: None Pets: One border terrier named Claude Monet ( 9 months old )

ABOUT.

Oliver’s family had always been well known, his father owning a successful chain of luxury hotels, but it was apparent from an early age that the youngest of the Metcalfe’s had no interest in the family business.

He was the quiet one, the one who was happy to sit back while his older sisters caused chaos around the city. To some he came across as boring; for him, all he wanted was solitude.

When his father passed away suddenly, Oliver only seven at the time, he quickly realised he couldn’t hide away forever. He was thrust into the spotlight, now the man of the house, and conversations quickly turned to him inheriting the hotel business when he turned eighteen. It was too much for a young boy and before long he withdrew further into himself.

Family gatherings were something he avoided like the plague, and school too, to a certain extent. He did all he could to keep away from the place, cutting classes and hiding out at home, only attending when he really felt like it.

By the age of fourteen, he was diagnosed with depression, forced into an intervention by his family, and then marched off to see a doctor. Given a concoction of meds and locked away in his room, it worked for a time, his family content that he was working on getting better. But Oliver didn’t care, didn’t want to spend the rest of his life reliant on a bunch of pills, so he began hoarding them. His mother was convinced he was still taking them, too consumed with what was going on with his older sisters, and so he was able to slip out and toss them in the trash on collection days unnoticed.

A year later, things changed. No one really expected it, least of all him. He was fifteen and he fell in love with his best friend. But the problem was that his friend definitely didn’t feel the same way. In fact, his friend seemed disgusted when Oliver finally found the courage to say something to him, pushing him away in every sense of the word. He didn’t take it well; fell back into the abyss, shutting himself away from everyone and everything. They never spoke again, mostly Oliver's fault as he refused to listen to reason.

He did his best to keep up pretenses around his family, though, knowing how much they’d worry about him and take away from their own lives. That was the last thing he ever wanted, for them to start putting him above what they wanted and needed. If there was one thing he’d never wanted to be to anyone, it was a burden, and as time went on, he couldn’t help the way those feelings developed and deepened. He was getting in the way.

On the ninth anniversary of his father’s death things reached an all time low for him. He was writing letters for all of his family members and hoarding painkillers by the hundred. In the end it was a mere idea and nothing more, instead he was found sobbing on the floor of his bedroom by one of his sisters and he told her everything that day.

For the first time he let people in and let them help him. He was able to finish school without any problem and made a move across to Paris for a couple of years for art school, needing to take a break and take time for himself.  No one was particularly happy about him moving away after everything that had happened, but he assured them all that he could take care of himself and they relented.

And Paris treated him well, he made friends, fell in love, actually began to live his life and become who he wanted to be. Art had been something he’d enjoyed from an early age, sketching and painting, and with the guidance of the right people, he flourished. He surrounded himself with other artistic people, would spend weekends away with his boyfriend just indulging completely in art. It was just what he'd been needing.

Five years later and he returned to the city he grew up in, hesitant about how he left things with some people, but safe in the knowledge that he did the right thing.

Now he’s been back for eight years, he’s made a real life for himself. He works in the MoMA and in his spare time, works on his own pieces. He lives in a small apartment with a good friend ( and his newly acquired puppy ) and feels settled, like nothing can go wrong. It's a far cry from the person he was in his teens.

TLDR; Oliver grew up in New York's Upper East Side and his family own a luxury chain of hotels that span the States ( and parts of Europe ), something he was set to inherit, but had little interest in. He's quiet and likes to keep to himself, only letting those he knows well get to know the real him. Following the death of his father and a struggle with his mental health, he moved to France for five years to attend art school and 'find himself' again. One of his older sisters inherited the family business and he focused on his art instead, which he still does today, working as a freelance artist and also as staff at the MoMA. He enjoys being surrounded by the art and showing others a passion for it.

[ninthcircleofprythian]

I KNOW HER! Ahhhhhh!

My bestie! My writing buddy! My keeper of secrets (Eris coded)!

You deserve all the things (especially the approval of Hozier ™️)

Tonight we're highlighting @chairofchaos!

🔥 Choas is a masterful Azris writer that has our hearts in her hands. If you're looking for something delightfully angsty or heartfelt (or both), look no further than her writing.

Although all of her work is amazing, we're currently crying over Letters of Love, which details Eris and Azriel falling in love and their relationship over time. Definitely get some tissues for this one. 😭😭And if you can't take our word for it take one of her fans:

The Letters of Love series has me spellbound in a way I can not describe. The love, the angst, the writing! I will forever cherish it. Chaos is truly a wonderful writer even if she is chaotic and I will devour this series until the end of time.

Be sure to check out their masterlist, including this Azris drabble!

Read on to learn some of Chaos's favorite Eris headcanons and which national/regional park Eris would get lost and die (or not die) in.

yes. we asked this.

Give us a name for one of Eris’ Brothers

James (so that he can use the “Um. James…” TikTok sound. A modern Eris would secretly have a TikTok. Super secret, but he would have one). Also, a relatively modern name simply because I’m tired of trying to get my word processor to recognize the validity of “Eris” and “Feyre” and even “Elain.” (No, do not add an “e”. I said, DO NOT ADD AN “E”!)

Give us a name for one of Eris’ hounds

Butter. Eris named him as a child because the hound liked to steal things off the kitchen counter, and the first thing he ever stole was a stick of butter. Eris got in a little trouble for it, so the official story is that his fur was lighter than is typical for a smokehound, and smooth like butter. The truth is that he fell in love with the little thief, and wanted to commemorate that first occurrence of thievery. It was a subtle act of rebellion on Eris’ part, and the chef was not pleased when he heard.

Give us some of your favorite Eris headcanons!

Eris is the family secret keeper. His mother tells him things. Lucien tells him things. His other brothers don’t mean to tell him things, but they drop hints and he’s smart enough to put things together. He goes unnoticed by adults as a young person, and is able to gather more information than anyone thought was possible. In doing so, he accidentally positions himself as knowledgeable on many family and court matters he probably shouldn’t even have known about in the first place. People also have a habit of just sharing things with him at random times, so he knows a considerable amount about each of the family guards, the Autumn Council, and their families. He’s a favorite with the court gossips because he will listen. He will rarely contribute, but he will always listen. As a result, everyone in court believes he is on their side. How this will play out when he is High Lord, Eris has no idea. For now, he’s happy hearing their tales of woe. Lord Cherry’s son eloped with the royal groundskeeper who taught Eris how to garden? Eris is absolutely shocked! Of course, he was the one who gave them a carriage to go to Spring, but Lord Cherry doesn’t need to know that.

Who scares Eris the most?

Eris is most scared of himself. I saw a post just the other day where a person told their therapist they were worried they would destroy everything, and their therapist told them they didn’t have that kind of power. They found it helpful because knowing you don’t have the power to change huge things in rage helped them. The difference here is that Eris has that kind of power by his proximity to societal power and his literal powers. He can destroy everything that matters to him if he is careless enough, and that terrifies him. He fears he would be powerful enough to change the world, and wishes he did not have that amount of power, because he has seen first hand how power corrupts. Outside of himself, he is most scared of Lucien. Lucien has more power than he could even imagine, and Eris isn’t sure his brother knows. At the same time, he fears the day Lucien discovers Eris knew, and that Lucien will never forgive him for keeping the knowledge to himself.

What kind of father does Eris imagine he would be, and does that differ from his actual father?

Eris imagines himself to be a brutal, unyielding, possibly even abusive father, as Beron was. He has never known a loving father, and while he believes it is theoretically possible, he looks in the mirror and sees Beron staring back at him. In every way possible, Beron has shaped Eris to be unforgiving, unyielding, brutal, and cruel. Eris worries that he will become Beron if he has children. It takes someone telling him that his worries and fear of becoming his father are what can keep him from becoming Beron. He needs a lot of support to feel confident enough that it is possible in order to become a father at all. Once he has that support, I think he does everything he can to be a better father than the one he had.

What national/regional park would Eris get lost and die (or not die) in?

Eris is dying in Petrified Forest National Park as we speak. He’s dying of heat related injuries and sun exposure. That male was not made for the desert. Fire powers cannot save you from the Arizona sun.

[soranihimawari]

Divinity & Kitsune

Word Count: 1K +

Pairing: okkotsu yuuta x reader

Rating: T/M (teen/mature) for scenes later one

how reader wakes after spending time with okkotsu yuuta. *tears are optional*

Okkotsu Yuuta is eighteen when he catches your attention. Well, more like Rika wants to follow the priestess in training back home.

Distorted voice and all, Rika says, “you like her too much.”

“Not at all.”

“We go on this train everyday…”

“Rika, I’m warning you. Don’t hurt her.” 

“Rika only wants to play with your pet friend.”

Before he could even begin to explain why he’s on hallowed ground talking to himself, you come around the corner with a Kitsune warped curse that surpasses his expertise and to a certain degree Rika’s. 

“Be gone sorcerer. This is your only warning.”

And you push them back through a collapsing veil, the world spirals around you as you begin your decent into the trickster gods’ realm. 

Okkotsu Yuuta reads the Divine Comedy by Dante everyday until you return to trace the same L train to Okinawa where you restart your ninth lifecycle trying to find the boy from your previous life who needed a friend the most. You ask him for a book recommendation after teasingly calling him a coward, yet the moment you open your mouth and speak, Okkotsu Yuuta, for the second time in his young life, falls in love a little more everyday with someone who Rika approved of.

[[three months later]]

“Yuuta-kun? Who’s this?” 

Okkotsu invited you out for tea at the shop next to campus. Your friendship isn’t that strong yet, but you attract what you put out in the universe, you suppose. Sad people attract the warmth of others; you dear one, are a living halo for Okkotsu. Especially since you know him a bit better now. 

“Six eyes are better than two,” you say, eying the strange lanky man who inserts himself into this cafe date. Well, not date, only to bring some chaos to your peaceful afternoon.

“Oi, is my distant cousin treating you well?” 

Okkotsu chokes on his tea. “Gojo-sensei!” 

“Yuuta-kun treats me just fine; like any friend would… why are you asking this?”

“Because Rika has been oddly quiet around you,” Gojo replies. 

Okkotsu excused himself to use the restroom and Gojo asks me a blunt question.

“You care,” he observes. “Does he know how many life cycles you went through to find him?”

You shake your head. “Can’t seem to tell him.”

Okkotsu pretends he doesn’t hear you, but he does ask you about that exchange later. So, like any good friend does, you tell him the truth mixed with legend.

It is New Year’s Day when you stand in front of his door. You raise your hand to use the formal knocker, but the door unlocks and he answers the door, hair disheveled—shirtless with navy satin pants pulled unfairly higher than you thought was necessary for modesty’s sake. He looks at you with a stunned stare and with his breathing stutters while you finally notice his bandaged torso.

“I-umm…I can come back?” you offer. 

“Nonsense,” he says with a soft smile. “It’s been a while since we’ve had company.”

You step inside the small flat, putting your shoes by the entrance way, passing his famed katana.

“Hello, Rika,” you greet the sword with the charm bowing as a sign of respecting the first love of the young contemporary sorcerer. 

Your former partner for missions where two special grades (or at the point when you met he was special grade and you were an active candidate to go from grade 1 to special class) were needed pours you a glass of whiskey on the rocks. He claims it helps with the pain and besides, now you’re of drinking age.

“Kanpai,” you softly say toasting him while he walks to sit on the couch. 

You take a sip of your drink as does he, yet neither of you choose to say much else. Rather you speak by exchanging glances. You’ve both learned to gather the gist of what the other says when you’re in proximity to the other. 

“Will this upset Rika?” you inquire when you rest your head on his lap. The pair of empty rocks glasses stay on their coaster on the coffee table near where you both rest. 

“Hard to tell,” Okkotsu’s rich voice lulls you to a sense of comfort. A hand of his runs through your ponytail. “She’s been approving of your company as of late.”

Your ears perk up at that, so you turn your head to face him. His breathing shallows when he feels your breath tickle his abs a bit before you rise, your back toward his shoulder and his side. You say nothing when he calls your name; you do not refuse the warmth his hand provides when he guides you by the neck to match his lips with yours. 

“Thought so,” he mumbles with a shy smile as he lingers before he presses his lips on your again prior to kissing other parts of your face. You move yourself closer to him, feeling the world crumble as you draw him to call you the names he’d typically reserve for someone so dear. Okkotsu is patiently persistent once he has you in his arms; he moves with you to get you comfortable here in this space. His lips trace over not-so-prominent features, like your throat, your tips of of your hair like in those historical dramas you tell him to watch for a sense of normalcy; he holds your waist, his hands warm agains the shirt you wear as it rises to underneath your bust, exposing your torso to him.

"Scarred and gorgeous," he whispers when he lays you down, his fingertips trace over your marks lithely, causing your breathing to turn into irregular breaths. he asks you if you wish to stop here, you shake your head.

"can i keep you?" he asks before resting a weary head on your chest.

His hand provides warmth to your lower back when you ask him to honor that statement of his with a coy, "I will allow you to if only you do the same."

Okkotsu Yuuta for the second time in his youthful life, felt like flying. Or at least his soul does when it listens to yours as you whisper to him, "listen to my heart, can you hear it sing for you?"

"Yes," it's soft and powerful coming from him before he pecks your lips. "Can you hear mine?"

Your hand presses against where a bandage of his is tied like a sash there and you feel the steady beating beneath his healing skin there. Second, though he may be shirtless, he modestly brings your ruching shirt back down only to keep the hem up to his hand. He tells you to steady your breathing.

As you do, he calls you something only meant for your ears: "Tell me you're mine."

Holding his other hand, you move it to rest under your chin and he tilts it up when you tell him auspiciously, "yes." You curl up on the couch to kiss him, his hand on your lower back pushes you closer and higher to him. Your lips chase his and new years days are one of your favorite holidays to celebrate with him.

For once, you let him hear how your heart heals in the ballads of the protective fox spirits chasing each other around the open field. Dangerous fields are where your love is planted; moments of weakness in a war against the curses draw you both closer; come the light of a new day, the world somehow shifts with the light you both remember to carry for each other when the world around you dims.

[chairofchaos]

ERIS “Anthony Bridgerton” VANSERRA

[spokenitalics]

top 10 books i read in 2022 (in the order i read them)

the master and margarita by mikhail bulgakov: in the 1930s, the devil comes to moscow; chaos follows. almost 2000 years earlier, pontius pilate sentences the mild preacher jeshua to death. also: kind witches, fireproof manuscripts, the greatest love story ever told;

here by richard mcguire: the corner of a living room from 3,000,500,000 BCE to 22,175 CE, the illusion of time, the joys and sorrows of life, the magic of comic books;

lilith's brood (dawn, adulthood rites, imago) by octavia e. butler: humanity is saved from a nuclear apocalypse by a species of hideous aliens who offer an impossible deal to ensure the continued existence of life on earth. in perfect bulter fashion, tons of discussions about hierarchical structures, gender, language barriers, consent, and the vital need to embrace transhumanism;

the faggots & their friends between revolutions by larry mitchell & ned asta: somewhere in between a fairy tale and a utopian political manifesto, a sacred text from days long gone -- the story of a declining empire ruled by the fascist patriarchy, where gay men, lesbians, feminists, and drag queens live communally, produce art, have sex, and await the next revolution;

earthlings by sayaka murata: three young people become aliens to survive the horrors of modern life. provocative, utterly chaotic, equal parts hilarious and sad;

to the lighthouse by virginia woolf: the epic portrait of a family and of an artist;

nona the ninth by tamsyn muir: god is a man, the divine is most definitely feminine, eating someone is the ultimate way to say 'i love you' -- of bad puns, mismatched families, and the horror of your exes becoming besties;

dolore minimo by giovanna cristina vivinetto: the poetic dialogue between a self-born daughter and her mother-self;

the city and the pillar by gore vidal: a gay man in 1930s-40s america grapples with society's (and his own) prejudices and chases an idealized version of his high school best friend and one-time lover down a path of self-hatred and destruction;

loaded by christos tsiolkas: 24 hours in the life of an angst-ridden gay greek-australian boy as he travels through melbourne in search of drugs, an escape from responsibilities, and something resembling love.

[oftatteredwings]

⸻  JOSH HUTCHERSON. HE/HIM / have you ever heard of WAKE UP ALONE by the chainsmokers, well, it describes ALEXANDER ‘ALEX’ METCALFE to a tee! the twenty-nine year old, and STAFF AT HEART AND SOUL GALLERY/ARTIST was spotted browsing through the stalls at portobello road market last sunday, do you know them? would you say HE is more withdrawn or more SELF-AWARE instead? anyway, they remind me of hiding away in a quiet corner with a sketch pad, the sleeves of hoodies covering his hands, scuffed up converse and wearing his heart on his sleeve, maybe you’ll bump into them soon! 

time in notting hill ; all his life.

tw: parental death, depression, suicidal thoughts

Name: Alexander Metcalfe Nicknames: Alex Age: Twenty-nine Date of birth: 3rd December 1993 Birth place: Notting Hill, London Occupation: Staff at Heart and Soul Gallery/Artist Romantic/sexual orientation: Gay

ABOUT.

Alex’s family had always been well known, his father owning a successful chain of luxury hotels, but it was apart from an early age that the youngest of the Metcalf's had no interest in that.

He was the quiet one, who was happy to sit back while his older sisters caused chaos around the city. To some he came across as boring, for him, all he wanted was solitude.

When his father passed away suddenly, Alex only seven at the time, he quickly realised he couldn’t hide away forever. He was suddenly the man of the house, conversations would turn to him inheriting the family business when he turned eighteen. It was too much for a young boy and before long he withdrew further into himself.

Family gatherings were something he avoided like the plague, school too to a certain extent. He did all he could to keep away from the place, cutting classes and hiding out, only attending when he really felt like it.

By the age of fourteen he was diagnosed with depression, forced into an intervention by his family, and then marched off to see a doctor. Given a concoction of meds and locked away in his room, it worked for a time, his family content that he was working on getting better. But Alex didn’t care, didn’t want to spend the rest of his life reliant on a bunch of pills, so he began hoarding them. His mother was convinced he was still taking them, too consumed with what was going on with his older sisters, and so he was able to slip out and toss them in the bin on collection days unnoticed.

A year later, things changed. No one really expected it, least of all him. He was fifteen and he fell in love with his best friend. But the problem was that his friend definitely didn’t feel the same way. In fact, his friend was disgusted when Alex finally found the courage to say something to him, pushing him away in every sense of the word. He didn’t take it well; fell back into the abyss, shutting himself away from everyone and everything.

He did his best to keep up pretences around his family, though, knowing how much they’d worry about him and take away from their own lives. That was the last thing he ever wanted, for them to start putting him above what they wanted and needed. If there was one thing he’d never wanted to be to anyone, it was a burden, and as time went on, he couldn’t help the way those feelings developed and deepened. He was getting in the way.

On the ninth anniversary of his father’s death things reached an all time low for him. He was writing letters for all of his family members and hoarding painkillers by the hundred. In the end he couldn’t go through with it, though, was found on the floor of his bedroom sobbing by one of his sisters.

For the first time he let people in and let them help him. He was able to finish school without any problem and made a move across to Paris for a couple of years for art school, needing to take a break and take time for himself.  No one was particularly happy about him moving away after everything that had happened, but he assured them all that he could take care of himself and they relented.

And Paris treated him well, he made friends, actually began to live his life and become who he wanted to be. Art had been something he’d enjoyed from an early age, sketching and painting, and with the guidance of the right people, he flourished.

Five years later and he returned to the city he grew up in, hesitant about how he left things with some people, but safe in the knowledge that he did the right thing.

Now he’s been back for six years he’s made a real life for himself, he works in the local art gallery and in his spare time, works on his own pieces. He lives in a small apartment with a good friend and feels settled, like nothing can go wrong.

CONNECTIONS.

- older sisters. ( 0/2. ) - high school ex-best friend. - roommate/close friend. - connections from europe. - good friends. - guys he’s dabbled in relationships with.

[chairofchaos]

If you thought MINE was bad…

I know I teased so much smutty goodness - and believe me IT'S STILL COMING. Just not yet.

When my next fic drops I want you to know - its all @chairofchaos fault.

[billconrad]

Being a Perfectionist

    Some kids grew up messy, and others were fastidious. My childhood was 90% slob and 10% doing my best to keep things clean. The clean aspect was only applied to activities I enjoyed but included taking things apart (making a mess) to see how they worked.

   As I grew, my personality changed, and I began emphasizing order over chaos, which spiked in the ninth grade when my focus shifted towards improving my grades and keeping my room clean. I now see that this was the genesis of my perfectionist attitude.

    What is a perfectionist? It is consciously taking the attitude that if something is worth doing, it is worth doing correctly. This means no cutting corners or acting sloppy. This attitude now encompasses my job, driving, house, and lifestyle. Of course, I do not apply my compulsion toward all aspects of my life. My wife always comments that I do not vacuum as often as she would like and the bathrooms should be cleaner—all valid points.

    Being a perfectionist has its downsides. I know that my attitude annoys those around me, especially in my engineering job. I have to keep tinkering, which delays completion. I simply cannot leave something alone. As an example, I am presently working on a technical drawing that has been submitted five times. Each submission contained minor improvements, but I am uncomfortable considering it was done. Did my perfection result in a better drawing? Yes. Did the cost justify the result? I believe it did, but my attitude upset two coworkers. I should have declared “good enough” much earlier.

    I am aware of my perfectionist attitude and working hard to manage overcompensations. If I were to survey my friends, they would likely score me at 30% on the perfection scale. This is due to my casual approach to life and lack of confrontation.

    I try to focus my articles on writing, and it is an excellent exercise to explore how my attitude affects my words. Since I care about writing, it should be no surprise that my perfectionist attitude is deeply present. As an example, the draft of this article took 30 minutes to write. I self-edited it for two weeks, taking two hours. Right before publishing, I will do a review, then a spell/grammar/style check with Grammarly and ProWritingAid. I have put my books through 20+ self-edits, Grammarly/ProWritingAid (four times), a beta reader, editor, copy editor, and spot checker.

    I make many changes during book editing, ranging from a single word to adding or removing entire chapters. I will rarely go back and replace something I have edited with a prior version. I think this is the true mark of a perfectionist.

    Of course, I see improved results, which leads to a better reader experience. The story improves ~1% during these self-edits and remains 99% of the original. The change comes from filling in gaps and removing distractions. However, one could argue that I should have achieved a “good enough” state months before the release.

    Does my perfectionist attitude make me a better author? The grammar and flow will be better, but multiple edits remove the subtle details that give a story its charm. I suppose this makes my work bland.

    On a side note, I recently read Reamde by Neal Stephenson and noticed areas requiring obvious editing. What was I thinking? I felt myself wanting to edit his book. I found my obsession with perfection amusing and strangely compulsive.

    Another problem with my attitude is that finishing the editing process takes a long time. This perfection attitude infuriates my editors and cover designers. I cannot let go and trust them to do their jobs.

    In confronting my perfectionist attitude, I have devised a better plan for my next two books. I will do a more disciplined editing job before handing them to the professionals. In a way, this will be harnessing my perfectionist attitude. Of course, I have developed a checklist to help with this endeavor. The circle of perfection is complete.

    Will I be able to reduce my perfectionist attitude as I grow older? Alas, no. In many ways, I am honing my attitude to encourage perfection. I suppose a perfectionist can never sit still. Dang. The truth hurts—something for my perfectionist mind to consider.

    You’re the best -Bill

    August 24, 2024

    Hey book lovers, I published four. Please check them out:

    Interviewing Immortality. A dramatic first-person psychological thriller that weaves a tale of intrigue, suspense, and self-confrontation.

    Pushed to the Edge of Survival. A drama, romance, and science fiction story about two unlikely people surviving a shipwreck and living with the consequences.

    Cable Ties. A slow-burn political thriller that reflects the realities of modern intelligence, law enforcement, department cooperation, and international politics.

    Saving Immortality. Continuing in the first-person psychological thriller genre, James Kimble searches for his former captor to answer his life’s questions.

    These books are available in soft-cover on Amazon and eBook format everywhere.

[kangaracha]

QUEENMAKER | CHAPTER 11

---

pairing chan x reader

genre ninth member au, enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, coming of age, social media, cancel culture, anxiety, depression, forbidden love,

summary To JYPE, the solution is simple; take the sole trainee that will not debut with your brand new girl group, and use her to replace the missing vocalist in your male group that insisted on starting as nine.

Unfortunately, to the fans and the members themselves, it isn't that simple.

status ongoing

taglist OPEN

a/n getting kicked out my house this week, got a new job, blah de blah. here's a chapter. oh, and a shameless self promotion, go read my skzflix fic leave? pretty please? it aint my finest work but i promise it's good?

previous | masterlist | next

---

The door is already open when you arrive, inviting you inside. Like someone had known exactly when you'd gotten in the elevator, or sensed the moment you stepped foot in their hallway. Or this was just how they lived, the door open to invite each other in and out, though that didn't seem likely. You shut it behind you when you enter anyway, the creak and slam of the heavy door loud enough to alert the occupants of the apartment to your presence.

The sound of Changbin shouting over someone follows, drowning out the noise of the door. Everything is normal, then. 

The short hall by the front door is empty except for a pile of scattered shoes - you add yours to the line as you pass through, glimpsing a group of the boys sitting on a couch at the other end. It feels weird to stand there and see them at the other end, the way they've been for years before you came; your empty hands feel awkward, and your feet are too soft against their floorboards, and the closer you get, the more rowdy they become, their eyes so fixed to some game they're playing on the TV that they don't even notice you slipping into the room. You pause for a moment, listening to them howl as their game characters slip off the screen, and then continue on your way to the kitchen, your fingers twisting together restlessly before you.

Chan and Minho are there, sequestered away from the chaos erupting in the other room while they move between the benchtop and the stove, avoiding each other in a way that seems practised. The air is filled with the smell of food cooking, the steam rising from the bubbling pot on the stove warming the air in the small kitchen. Chan turns as he sees you out of the corner of his eye, smiles, and then points back towards the other boys.

"Out," he says, in a voice that brooks no argument; and you'd almost think that you'd broken some rule, except for the grin that eats at his face, amused at himself without even trying.

You stop in the doorway, hovering between the two groups. "I was just going to see if you needed any help," you say.

"Nope," he answers. "You're not allowed in here. Go and sit down."

You pull a face, one that must be funny if Minho glances away, a smile struggling to break through the blank face he's trying to pull. "I already physically kicked Felix out of here," Chan adds, a wooden spoon brandished in the air in warning. "I'll do it to you too."

Your hands come up, your feet backing out of the doorway, and yet, you can't help but laugh. You're feeling...relaxed, here, in a way you haven't since leaving Midnight those two months ago. Maybe it's because you'd spent those months grinding away at what seemed like an insurmountable hill of work, maybe because in the last week, the days that had passed since you'd walked home with Han and Chan, things had suddenly become easier within this group. The reason doesn't matter, you suppose, only that you know now that he's joking, and that it's something you can laugh at. That he's included you in the same joke he's used on Felix.

"Hey, hey, hey," a voice says behind you. "Watch where you're going. You have enough trouble walking forwards."

You turn on your heel, already rolling your eyes at the shit-eating grin on Seungmin's face. Funny, how easy it  to fall into cameraderie with him once you've broken the ice between you; only a day ago, it'd still felt like you weren't much more than acquaintances, until you'd made the decision to fall over on the way to their shared vocal lesson, the only thing Seungmin had ever reached out to offer to you.

Well, made the decision is a stretch. Falling over is too. You'd only stumbled over the sidewalk, and you certainly hadn't planned to make a fool of yourself. Maybe the story that Seungmin was selling was so convincing it was starting to affect your memory. He wasn't mean about it at least, for all that he was known to pretend to be mean when the opportunity arose; if anything, the last few hours of him spreading increasingly wild tales and the others relaying them back to you had been fun. Something different than the usual grind of your days, a joke that might stick around longer than the few minutes in which it's being laughed at.

In this moment, you stand up a little bit straighter and hope that your cheeks don't turn red. "I'm great at walking," you posture, and then struggle not to laugh at how preposturous you sound, your lips fighting against you as they curve into a smile. Something to work on, maybe, if you wanted to compete with his and Minho's deadpan humour. 

"Except for the part where you hit the concrete," Seungmin says, unaffected by the way your eyes crease and your mouth splits in two. "Then you're really bad at walking."

"I tripped," you insist, and you move forward as if to slide past him to get to the couch that the others sit on. He falls in beside you without hesitation rather than letting you pass by, a ghost at your side. "I wasn't even close to falling."

"Everyone says that you fell though," Seungmin insists. "You think everyone would lie?"

"I think you would lie when you told everyone else the story."

Grinning, Seungmin strides out in front of you, leading the way around the couch so that he can stand right in front of the TV. "Move up," he tells Felix, who sits at the end of the couch, neck craned to watch the game the others are playing around Seungmin. 

His eyes slide from Seungmin to you, trying your best to stay out of the way despite having been dragged into mischief. "Y/N," he says, shifting over and patting the seat next to him. "You wanna sit here?"

A smile spreads out across your face. "I do," you reply, and slide past Seungmin to fit yourself in the small space he manages to make beside him. "Thanks."

"You said you would save my seat," Seungmin says, pointing a finger at Felix, who waves him out of the way. He sits on the arm of the chair instead, balancing precariously as he pulls out his phone.

"They kicked you out of the kitchen as well?" Felix asks sympathetically, one eye on the TV and the other on you.

You nod. "I was just going to see if they needed help."

"Yeah," Felix sighs. "I'm not even bad at cooking."

"I'm banned from the knives," Seungmin puts in without looking up.

You glance at him, staring intently at his phone. "Why isn't that surprising?" you question.

"Because he's Seungmin," Felix puts in. "Same way I know he's lying about seeing you fall over."

Seungmin sighs. "I didn't fall," you say, before he can decide which lie to seed this time. "I tripped. I didn't fall."

"It's no fun if none of you believe me," Seungmin grouses.

The game on the TV finishes with a fanfare that fills the whole room, drowned out only by the racous cries of cheating from the boys playing it. The sound makes you wince, leaning away from them; Felix's hands come up to cover his ears, his cry for help also disappearing under the noise they make. You wouldn't be surprised if the neighbours were doing the same thing, or marching towards their door with pitchforks in hand. How do they even have neighbours, when they're capable of noise like that?

"They're going to get complaints again," Seungmin says, like he'd been reading your mind. 

"Hey, hey! Hey!" a voice calls over the noise, and you turn in unison to see Chan's head poking out of the door, the wooden spoon waving in his hand once again. "No yelling!"

"I'd say he looks like he's our dad, but he just kind of looks unhinged," Felix comments, only his eyes and the blonde hair that tufts up on top of his head peeking up over the back of the couch. The rest of him has slid down out of Chan's sight, like if he hides, he won't get caught up in whatever trouble the others are causing.

"He looks like my grandfather," Seungmin adds as the older boy disappears, making no effort to hide at all. "He was crazy too."

Felix grins, wild and wolfish. "He just keeps getting older."

"It's so sad he's going to die so soon," Seungmin agrees.

The noise dies down, the game switched back to a more neutral home screen as boys wander off this way and that. Felix shifts over, enough that you can give Seungmin a space on the couch - you think, for a moment, about making him go around to the other side, but Changbin is still sitting there, looking peacefully unbothered by whatever chaos Seungmin is surely capable of unleashing and it's much easier to just shift over and let him slump down in the corner than to set him off. It disturbs Changbin anyway, somehow; as Seungmin sits down, he sits up straight, leaning around Felix to look at you.

"Hey, Y/N," he says, drawing your attention over to him. "Where were you this morning? I didn't see you in the practise rooms."

"She left the room?" Felix questions, turning to stare at you like such a thing is unheard of.

"I was there for three hours," Changbin confirms, "and I didn't see her at all."

"I was tired," you say, trying to ignore the feeling of your cheeks turning red, "so I slept in. And I left the room twice today, actually. I went to a vocal lesson with him."

Seungmin nods as your thumb jabs towards him. "She won't be dancing tomorrow either. She fell over on the concrete."

You don't even think twice about reaching over to push him off the couch. It catches him so off-guard that he actually does fall, sliding right onto the carpet and staring up at you in disbelief. The other boys howl with laughter, loud enough that you glance back at the kitchen door to check if Chan is coming back.

"I'm glad you took the morning off," Felix says warmly, ignoring whatever Seungmin mutters under his breath as he drags himself up off the floor. "We've all been worried about you."

"So I've been told," you say. "I promise, I know what I'm doing."

"I trust you," Felix says, and there's a glint in his eye that says he's telling the truth. It warms you to your core, just as sitting here surrounded by these boys does, and the sound of Minho's voice calling for Seungmin from the kitchen. It's nice, to come into the middle of their group away from the stage or the dance floor and feel like you're just in the midst of friends, somewhere where you belong. It's nice to see how they live. You hadn't let yourself see this before, too tied down to practise and the dream they've achieved that you're still chasing.

"Seungmin-ah! Come and help!" Minho calls again, and then he can be seen at the door, waiting with an unnerving kind of patience. You're not sure if the smile on his face is supposed to be encouraging or threatening, and you don't really want to find out; mostly, you're just kind of glad that he's not calling for you.

Seungmin isn't bothered by it, dragging himself off the couch with a sigh that reverberates through the room. "Coming, old man," he calls across the room, and ignores the double take that Felix does beside you, his eyes growing wide. 

"Ai-e," Changbin says, the sound whistling through his teeth. "Is he crazy?"

"You want to go in the oven?" Minho questions as Seungmin crosses the room.

"You'd have to get me in it first," Seungmin says, and then yelps as Minho's arm wraps around his neck, dragging him into the kitchen in a headlock. 

"He's going to die," Felix says gleefully. 

"Winning the bet was not worth it," you agree, your eyes still on the empty doorway to the kitchen. No one emerges except Chan, holding a pot of whatever they've cooked for dinner and looking disturbingly peaceful despite the chaos he has just left behind.

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