#from when The Ghost in the Machine had more plot

[devilish-cherry]

ᨳ♡₊➳ jujutsu kaisen x reader

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack with plot

"You hate your job. The pay is bad, your manager is worse, and customers are somehow both entitled and clueless. Just as you finish contemplating whether unpaid breaks are a human rights violation, weird new people keep showing up to the café. They all seem to know each other. Sometimes they talk in cryptic phrases. What the hell is this domain and why do they want to expand it? One time, a man with stitches on his forehead walked in, made prolonged eye contact with you, and then left without ordering anything. You’re pretty sure he was a serial killer. Another time, the one with white hair and sunglasses indoors mentioned a "higher mission", and you’re 90% sure this is how cult documentaries start. One of your regulars only speaks in weird food-related phrases. You assume he has some kind of medical condition, but no one explains anything to you. But you are not about to ask questions, because ignorance is bliss and also job security. And unfortunately, they are all weird and they seem very interested in coming back."

꒰ masterlist ꒱ ₊⊹. ꒰ chapter 8 ꒱ ₊⊹. ꒰ chapter 10 ꒱

ᨳ♡₊➳ or read on archive of our own!

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: hi besties… yes. it's been months. i am so sorry this chapter took so long. i've been dealing with a lot of personal stuff behind the scenes and on top of that, i kept spiraling over whether or not this chapter would be good enough. i didn't want to disappoint anyone, which of course led to the classic perfectionism paralysis loop™. but we're here now. mwms lives. and i missed this chaos so much! thank you so much for your patience, love, and support. i say that every time but i really mean it – you guys make writing so worth it! 🖤

It's been a few weeks since the news segment aired, and the café has finally quieted down.

By "quieted," of course, you mean the line no longer wraps around the block like a demonic conga line of true crime podcast listeners eager to witness a live haunting. The daily mob of "I saw the scary coffee shop on TikTok and I want to see it in person!" has finally thinned. The influencer with the ring light surgically attached to her hand has moved on to reviewing haunted Airbnbs. The man who claimed he could "feel the ghosts in the foam" has vanished, possibly into another dimension.

The novelty has worn off. The chaos is subsiding. Customers now trickle in at a pace that almost feels normal – if you ignore the fact that someone recently asked if they could rent Muffin Guy for an art installation. The café's haunted buzz has faded to more of a dull, persistent hum, like tinnitus or Greg's attempts at leadership.

For one shining moment, you genuinely considered quitting. You'd updated your resume, spell checked it three times, and hovered your mouse over apply on a listing for an administrative assistant job that offered dental and said "strong Excel skills preferred," which you interpreted to mean "lie through your teeth and hope for the best," but something stopped you.

Not a sense of duty. Not loyalty.

No, it was Choso.

You were exactly two clicks away from salvation when you made the fatal mistake of mentioning it out loud. That was when Choso, who had been quietly sipping a latte and watching you with his usual intensity, like you were a wounded sparrow he had adopted emotionally if not legally, set his drink down with a startling determination.

"If you abandon this post," he said solemnly, eyes narrowed as if delivering the grim news of an impending apocalypse, "the chaos will consume them all."

You'd laughed. He had not. And for some reason, you believed him.

So here you are. Still underpaid. Still over-caffeinated. Still working in a café that feels more like a cosmic test of patience than a functioning business.

The espresso machine, perhaps sensing your wavering loyalty, was again emitting noises that straddled the line between dying whale and demonic summoning ritual. You, already dead inside, jabbed at the steam wand with a spoon. Predictably, this did nothing except make the machine groan louder, the kind of sound one makes when they realize their card declines at a packed grocery store.

Greg the Manager, appeared from the back, looked at the machine, and nodded sagely. "Just give it some time."

You turned slowly, narrowing your eyes.

"We've been giving it time for months," you pointed out flatly. "I think it's evolving."

Greg clapped you on the shoulder in what was probably meant to be reassuring but mostly just felt like being touched by failure. "No worries. I already fixed the real problem."

"... With the espresso machine?"

Greg waved a hand. "No, not that. I mean, the real problem. We're not getting enough customers anymore."

You stared at him, choosing your words carefully. "Greg. The reason people stopped coming is because they finally realized just how weird this place is. If anything, fewer customers might mean fewer problems."

Greg shook his head vehemently. "We don't want fewer customers. We need to go viral again. We need to be… immersive."

Oh god.

"I hired a mascot," he announced, grinning.

There was a long silence.

"What."

"Check it out," Greg gestured grandly toward the entrance, his smile smug with misplaced pride.

And that was when you saw it.

The first mistake was thinking Greg the Manager was incapable of taking initiative. The second mistake was assuming he would take the right kind of initiative.

Standing near the door was something that absolutely should not exist. A mascot costume, if you could even call it that, shaped like a massive coffee bean with two stubby little arms and two stumpy little legs. But its face… oh god, its face.

Its eyes were glossy, unblinking voids, deep and lifeless, as if it had seen things no coffee bean ever should. Its stitched on smile stretched far too wide, grinning perpetually as if it had just whispered your deepest, darkest fears into your ear and found them hilarious.

"Why," you said, voice hollow, "does it look like it knows my sins?"

The mascot did not respond. It did not move. It simply stood there, radiating an aura of unspeakable horror.

"Behold," Greg announced, sweeping his arms toward the thing like a magician revealing his final trick, "our new marketing strategy."

You stared.

The coffee bean stared back.

Greg patted its velvet head fondly, oblivious to the terror he had unleashed. "The kids love mascots. This is how we go viral once more, baby!"

You glanced at the customers. A child was actively sobbing into his mother's coat. An old man whispered something in Spanish and made the sign of the cross. Even Muffin Guy paused, as if sensing a greater evil had entered the café.

"This is a disaster," you whispered to yourself.

Greg ignored you. "C'mon, I know what you're thinking, but listen. After Nanami showed up and fixed things for, like, an hour, I had an epiphany."  

"That you should finally quit and find a better job?"  

Greg ignored that too. "That I should take this café seriously. I should be a leader." He adjusted his posture to exude confidence. It did not work. "Nanami's whole thing is about efficiency, right? So what's more efficient than hiring an employee who just stands there advertising for us? We're calling him Beanie. He's going to increase foot traffic, boost engagement, and create an immersive brand experience."

"You learned those words from a TikTok, didn't you?"

"... Perhaps."

The mascot – Beanie, apparently – remained motionless. The oppressive weight of its gaze settled onto you like a physical force.

"Does he ever… talk?" you asked, wary.

Greg hesitated. "Not really."

"Not really, or not at all?"

"Not at all."

"Great." You turned back to the looming nightmare in a coffee bean suit. "Welcome to hell."

Beanie said nothing.

Later that day, the bell above the café door chimed with its usual pathetic ding – a sound so lacking in energy it might as well have been a cry for help. You glanced up and braced yourself for the next wave of nonsense.

The man who had just walked in did not look like the kind of person who should be here.

Tall. Immaculate black suit. Sunflower lapel pin. Briefcase. Haunted eyes. His shoes alone probably cost more than your entire paycheck. Everything about him screamed "burned out public defender in the midst of a very existential crisis." The man looked like he had walked straight out of a legal drama.

He paused just inside the door, taking in the room with the clinical detachment of someone mentally cataloging every fire hazard, potential lawsuit, and ethical violation in a five meter radius.

His gaze landed on Greg the Manager.

Greg the Manager was attempting to refill the napkin dispenser by jamming loose tissues into it one by one. It wasn't working.

Then his eyes slid to Muffin Guy, who was, as always, staring at a single muffin like it held the answer to mortality.

And then… they landed on Beanie.

The mascot stood motionless in the corner like a nightmarish, foam suited guardian of unspoken horrors. Its glossy eyes were fixed forward. Its stitched on smile stretched too wide, as if it knew secrets about the universe. Terrible, coffee stained secrets.

"...Welcome in," you said, voice flat. "Don't mind the mascot. It's mostly harmless. I think."

The man's eyes did not leave Beanie.

"That," he said slowly, "looks like it's committed several felonies."

You leaned your elbow on the counter, deadpan. "It probably has."

Beanie tilted its head slightly. No sound. No movement. Just quiet judgment, like it was deciding whether or not your soul was worth harvesting.

Depressed Phoenix Wright finally moved forward, slow and measured, as though worried sudden motion would trigger the thing into lunging. He approached the counter. Looked at the menu with the bored detachment of a man who had once cross-examined someone for three hours straight without blinking. His expression – stoic, bordering on existentially done with everything – didn't change.

You, internally, were already assessing risk.

Still, you kept your face neutral. "Can I help you?"

"Espresso. Medium." he said, tone calm but clipped.

You punched in the order. "That'll be–"

He'd already slid exact change across the counter.

You blinked.

Then looked up again.

Depressed Phoenix Wright was staring directly at you. Not in a weird way. Not like Choso's unblinking hyperfixation or Gojo's unsettling game show host smirk. No, this was different. Calculated. Measured. It felt like being appraised as a witness on the stand.

“Name for the cup?” you asked, already grabbing the marker.

The man blinked, just once. As if the question had caught him genuinely off guard, like you’d asked him for a blood type instead of the bare minimum for drink identification.

Then he answered, voice even, “Higuruma.”

You wrote it down carefully, trying not to butcher it. He definitely looked like the kind of guy who had been correcting teachers since age six. Neat cursive, perfect spacing.

As you moved to prepare the drink, Higuruma stood perfectly still, arms folded behind his back like he was listening for a trapdoor to open. His eyes drifted back to Beanie.

"Has that... always been there?" he asked, voice low, like the mascot might be listening.

"Nope," you said. "The manager hired it two days ago. Called it a 'marketing pivot.'"

"I see."

Greg chose that exact moment to pop up from behind the pastry case with an empty croissant box on his head and announce, "I'm doing inventory!"

Neither you nor Higuruma responded.

Beanie, however, tilted its head again. Just slightly.

You handed over the coffee.

Higuruma accepted the cup with the solemnity of a man receiving final evidence in a trial that would determine the fate of humanity. He took a slow sip, then blinked.

"This isn't bad," he admitted.

"Thanks," you replied. "It tastes better when the machine's not actively trying to kill me."

"I understand," he said, dead serious. "The judicial system does the same."

You blinked. "... You okay?"

"No," he replied, taking another sip. "But I'm trying new things. Like walking into cafés that seem statistically likely to be portals to hell."

Then, just as you thought the moment couldn't get any weirder, Beanie turned its entire body to face Higuruma. It didn't move its legs. It just… swiveled.

Higuruma stared. Slowly, carefully, he took one step back.

"I see," he said, completely composed. "It's trying to establish dominance."

"It does that sometimes," you muttered.

"I will now leave before it attempts to communicate."

And with that, Higuruma turned and walked out of the café with the air of a man who had just solved a murder and also maybe committed one. Beanie watched him go. Silently. Eternally.

Greg popped up behind you again.

"That guy seemed fun," he said.

You didn't respond. You were too busy wondering if you had just served coffee to someone who had definitely prosecuted, defended, and executed a war crime all before lunch.

From that day, things with Beanie only escalated.

At one point, Beanie was standing at the counter, watching you make a drink.

Nothing unusual.

Except when you looked back up, its head had turned 180 degrees.

You dropped the milk steamer.

"Greg," you hissed desperately, pulling him aside, fingers digging into his shoulder. "Fire. It."

"No."

"You've summoned a demon," you informed him flatly. "This is an eldritch horror in a coffee bean costume."

Greg scoffed. "Nah. It's just a guy in a suit."

"Is it?" you asked, because now that you thought about it – you had never actually seen them outside of the costume.

Every morning, the mascot was already there before you. Every night, it was the last to leave. It never took breaks. It never removed the costume.

And, worst of all, it never said a single word.

"Wait," you said suddenly. "Do we even know who's in there?"

Greg hesitated. "... Well, we already paid for the costume."

"This isn't a costume, Greg, this is an omen."

Greg waved a dismissive hand. "You're overreacting."

The espresso machine made a garbled, death-rattle noise. The mascot's head snapped toward it, and the machine immediately shut up.

You pointed. "Did you see that?"

Greg was already scrolling on his phone. "See what?"

This was your life now.

One night, after finally mentally compartmentalizing the eldritch horror situation as "Not My Problem," you returned to the counter and noticed something out of place.

A letter.

A single, folded letter sat neatly by the register. No envelope, no name. Just paper.

Suspicious.

You reached for the letter cautiously, like it might explode. You hesitated. Then, against every survival instinct screaming at you to leave it alone, you unfolded it.

The handwriting, if it could even be called that, was… something. Jagged, sharp, slightly slanted, the ink looked like it had been scrawled by a creature unfamiliar with the concept of pens. Or perhaps by something ancient. Forbidden. Possibly demonic. The kind of handwriting that looked like it belonged in an exorcism manual.

You squinted and began reading it, already filled with regret.

'You are the moonlight that guides my path. I long for your warmth, yet I am unworthy. You consume my thoughts like an unrelenting curse.'

You blinked.  

Looked around.

Beanie was still in the corner. Watching. Smiling that same too wide stitched on smile.

You turned back to the letter, read it again, and felt your soul leave your body. It was terrifying. Obsessive. Deeply, deeply ominous.

You turned to Gojo, who was leaning against the bar, sipping his sugar loaded nightmare drink. "Hey."

He looked up brightly. "Sup?"

You held up the letter, face expressionless. "I think I just got a message from a stalker. Possibly the creepy mascot."

Gojo did not react with the concern you had hoped for.

Instead, he inhaled his drink wrong and choked violently, then bent over laughing so hard it was unclear whether he was okay or just emotionally unhinged. Still coughing, he fished out his phone.

"What are you doing?" you asked, a dull ache forming behind your eyes.

"Submitting this to my favorite true crime podcast," Gojo answered cheerfully.

"Why?"

He was already snapping a photo. "They have a 'Creepy Corner' segment."

Meanwhile, across the café, Choso sat at a corner table. His hands were folded, posture painfully straight. He had been watching you with silent, monk-like devotion.

His chest was tight. His throat dry. His latte sat untouched.

He had spent hours crafting that letter. Choosing the right words. Conveying his feelings. He'd even rewritten it three times after Yuji said his original draft sounded like a death threat. He'd slipped it onto the counter when you weren't looking, then retreated to the shadows to wait.

Would you say something?

Would you acknowledge the words he had so carefully written?

Would you understand?

Surely, you would read his letter and understand his feelings. Surely, you would see the depth of his words, the weight of his affections.

He had imagined you reading it with curiosity. Perhaps confusion. Maybe even a rare smile. He had not accounted for Gojo. He had not anticipated Gojo photographing it. Or Gojo loudly announcing, "Damn, this is definitely serial killer behavior."

Choso's soul left his body.

He stared at his hands. He had no idea why his anonymous love letter was now being used as potential evidence for a future Dateline special.

He had failed.

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: also! if you've been craving more choso content from me during the wait, i actually started a new fic starring him and a very socially anxious reader who's fresh off a breakup. it's more serious than mwms (still has my usual crack moments tho), and it's all about hurt/comfort, healing, and two awkward people slowly figuring each other out. if you like my take on choso, you might really enjoy it 🥹

₊⊹. tag list: @luluminati @inthedarkshadows000 @isomehowexist @not-aya @emochosoluvr @lov3vivian @literallyushiwaka @kodditty @arrozyfrijoles23 @queenmimis @elizarikaallen @iloveyoucaesar @roseberry-jam @matcha-kitty13 @arrozyfrijoles23

[artdcnaldson]

changeover || art donaldson x reader ; patrick zweig x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: SMUT (p in v sex x2, fingering, f!recieving oral), drinking, pining after people you can’t have, a dash of reader x tashi, sprinkles of patrick x art, porn WITH plot

Summary: your ‘casual’ fling with art isn’t working for you anymore, which sucks because you probably love the guy. enter a freshly heartbroken patrick to take your mind off of things.

FALL 2006

You knew exactly why Art Donaldson refused to acknowledge that you were an item. You could see it clearly across the room— the way you were cast to the shadows while he followed Tashi around like a lost puppy.  

It made sense, even if it made your chest ache. Tashi was gorgeous, and was acing her classes, and was going to go pro soon and become a beautiful, all-American sports icon. And you were just some girl he’d met because he needed help understanding the reading for class. 

You’d known each other for months by then— hooking up, going on dates that ‘weren’t dates,’ spending most of your time together. And you stayed firmly in the no-labels zone. But you weren’t bitter. It was totally fine, being treated like a girlfriend in all but name. 

Art laughed and leaned into Tashi. It was totally fine.

You were nursing a beer in a red solo cup and trying your best to look friendly and approachable. The only reason you were even at the party was because Art had brought you, so you should’ve felt grateful. You should’ve been having fun.

But just as soon as you’d arrived, he’d slipped away with a promise to be right back. It had been over an hour, so it seemed like you had very different definitions of right back.

“Looks like your boyfriend stole my girlfriend.” You turned to see Patrick, tanned from his time on tour. He was only going to be at Stanford for the weekend before taking off for a challenger a state over, which meant he needed to capitalize on any chance to spend time with Art and Tashi. 

Unfortunately, you’d both been ditched.

“Art isn’t my boyfriend,” you said pointedly, maybe a little too quickly. 

Patrick knew better. The last time he came to visit, he’d interrupted a pseudo date night between the two of you (which was a nice way of saying he walked in on the two of you in Art’s dorm while his best friend was was knuckles deep in you). The rest of that night wound up being spent passing around mixed drinks made with cheap vodka and whatever you could get from the nearest vending machine. You overheard the it’s casual, nothing serious conversation they’d had through the ajar door while you bought more Powerade and Red Bull in the hall. 

But you were being so understanding and cool about that. 

Patrick narrowed his eyes slightly. “Really?” The corner of his mouth tugged upwards for a moment before he wrapped his lips around a beer can. He tried to hide it, but you saw. 

You chewed on your lip, stomach twisting with nerves and curiosity. He was probably just messing with you, trying to get your thoughts all muddled up about Art because it was fun. Still, you couldn’t help but ask the burning question echoing through your mind. “Did Art say something to you? About us, I mean.”

The question felt pathetic. A stupid, desperate girl begging to know if the guy she liked felt the same way. 

Patrick shrugged, leaning against the wall bearing the portraits of the ghosts of frat brothers’ past. “Not directly. But you’re here together, right? And he’s still seeing you.”

“I guess,” you replied with a huff, embarrassment burning hot in your chest. 

“If you’re worried about Tashi, don’t be,” Patrick said, sparing a glance in her direction. When you looked towards Art, and the way he was smiling and laughing and looked so natural beside her, a frown turned your lips. Patrick nudged your arm and offered a smile. “Hey, I’m serious. Nothing’s gonna happen there. Trust me.”

It should’ve felt nice. A total reassurance from the person who knew Art best. But it did nothing to quell the turmoil twisting in the pit of your stomach. Because if he really did feel that way, why was he over there with her?

Tashi Duncan. So beautiful, radiant, and perfect that she had total control over two men. Your paths didn’t cross much, outside of Art, and that was rare since he liked to keep you two apart. 

But there was a part of you that knew that Tashi would’ve been able to make you melt with one look, one smile, one word. You wanted to experience what Art did. You wanted to know what Patrick knew, and what Art was jealous of. Or maybe you wanted something of your own too, something to keep Art out of. 

“I need another drink,” you said suddenly, meeting Patrick’s gaze. “Do you wanna come with me?” Patrick’s eyes flitted quickly towards Tashi, where she bantered with Art and the rest of the tennis team. 

There was something in his expression you found incredibly familiar. That pang of jealousy. The ache of not belonging just right. The look was gone quickly, replaced by a toothy smile. “Sure. I could use something stronger.”

——

An hour later, Tashi left with Patrick, and Art quickly decided to take you back to his own dorm. 

His lips were insistent against yours, kissing you hungrily, completely dissonant to the delicate way he tugged down the zipper of your dress. His fingers were warm where they brushed along the line of your spine. His tongue brushed against yours, tasting of beer and mint gum.

“What were you doing with him?” He murmured against your lips just as he peeled off the cheap, bodycon dress you’d gotten from Forever 21. It was tossed across the room, to be lost in the mess of practice duffles and empty water bottles and dirty laundry. The only time he parted his lips from you was to lift you onto his bed and slot himself between your thighs. 

His tongue licked into your mouth possessively, claiming you as his from the inside out. You gasped as one of his hands kneaded your breast, panting open-mouthed against his lips. “Who?” You managed weakly, your mind completely blank except for Art, Art, Art. And maybe a tiny voice in the back of your head that was still thinking about the Tashi of it all.

“Patrick.” His voice was soft against the tender skin of your jaw. “I saw you two talk, then you disappeared for, like, an hour.” His teeth nipped gently at your pulse point as he nuzzled against your throat, awaiting your answer. 

So he had been watching? He was with her, but he was still thinking about you. It made your heart flutter. You moaned softly as his hand slid between your thighs, teasing you through your panties. “Getting drinks,” you managed feebly. “Fuck, Art, I can’t concentrate while y—“

You gasped at the feeling of his fingers slipping beneath the band of your panties, teasing you with delicate touches. “Just drinks? For an hour?”

A strangled gasp escaped you as fingers slick with your arousal met your clit. When your eyes opened in surprise, you found Art staring right back. His touch was relentless, flooding your senses with pleasure as he demanded an answer. “We were in the living room,” you managed between soft pants and moans. “He was telling me about the— god— about the tour.”

Art’s expression flickered slightly— a tiny furrow forming between his brows. Was it doubt, or possessiveness, or anger? Before you could figure it out, his lips were against your throat, your panties were pushed to the side, and he was easing two fingers inside of your cunt.

“Fuck,” you cried out, grasping onto his shoulders. French manicured nails scratched at the pastel-colored polo he wore— why was he still wearing his clothes? Soft, keening moans slipped past your lips as he fucked you with his fingers. Every thought of him preferring Tashi or him leading you on slipped from the front of your mind as his thumb rubbed at your clit.

With a free hand, you palmed him over his pants, relishing in the way he panted against your warm skin. You made quick work of the button of his jeans— you knew your way around him like the back of your hand. He was warm, pulsing in your delicate grip when your hand slipped beneath the band of his briefs. Slick at his tip with need. 

He moaned against your pulse point, nuzzling against you as you began to jerk him off in time with each pump of his fingers. 

“You smell like him,” he groaned, nose pressed to the spot just beneath your ear as his hips bucked into your fist with a new sort of desperation. You didn’t have to ask who he meant. His tongue slipped out, lapping at you briefly before sucking a bruise into the delicate skin there. 

His fingers flexed so they brushed against the sweet spot within you. Your eyes rolled back and a sob of pleasure clawed its way from your throat. “Need you,” you pleaded, equal parts a thoughtless cry and a demand.

And who was he to deny either of you that? A pitiful whine escaped your lips when he slipped his fingers from within you and moved your hand from him. He stood to clumsily pull off the rest of his clothes at the same time that you quickly shimmied off your panties and tossed them to the side.

”You’re so fucking sexy,” he groaned as he joined you back on the bed, slotting himself between your legs. You were so pliant and sweet beneath him, looking up at him with adoring doe-eyes and a pretty smile on your spit-slick lips. He should’ve been perfectly content.

As he parted your thighs, stroking his dick as he lined himself up with your entrance, he wondered if Tashi and Patrick were doing the same exact thing at that same exact moment. He could imagine it clearly— Tashi, splayed out on her bed, and Patrick right at home between her thighs; sinking in, faces contorting with pleasure. Before he could stop himself, a soft moan slipped past his lips at the mental image. 

Your nails dug into his shoulder blades as he sheathed himself within you, and he buried his face into your neck. Fuck. You really did smell like Patrick. The shitty Axe body spray that was supposed to smell like chocolate, and the lingering scent of cigarettes. 

You moaned prettily, pussy squeezing him like a vise. Manicured nails scratched against his back, delicate enough that the marks would probably disappear by that time the next day. He was so used to Patrick lounging shirtless around their hotel rooms after tournaments— severe-looking scratch marks looking like angel wings against his pale skin. He always wore them like a badge of honor the night after he snuck off with some pretty girl he’d set his sights on. That’s how you know you’re doing it right. 

Why was he thinking about Patrick?

He tried to lose himself in you— in how pretty you were beneath him, the sweet words falling from your lips with each thrust. Feels so good, Art. ‘M so close already. Gonna make me cum. 

When he looked down at you, your mouth hung open, lips shiny with spit, begging to be kissed. His mouth met yours messily and you both moaned into the kiss. He moved a hand between your thighs, rubbing at your clit as he bullied his cock into your inviting cunt. 

You came with a string of moans and expletives that made the person next door bang on the wall out of annoyance. Art had to pull out as soon as he felt you start to squeeze around him. All it took was a few clumsy strokes and he was spilling onto your stomach with an almost embarrassing whine. 

You both lay there catching your breath and cursing the shitty air conditioning in the dorm. He wiped the mess of cum off of your stomach with an old tee shirt that was hanging off the side of his desk and tossed it to the side to be dealt with later.

“You’re so gross,” you mumbled with a tiny laugh, reaching down to grab your underwear from your floor. After you pulled them back on, you watched him dig through a pile of clothes in a papasan chair for a passable pair of pajama pants. An amused smile played on your lips at the sight. “Do I need to buy you a hamper?”

He held up a pair of pajama pants to examine them, shrugged, and pulled them on. “I have one, it’s just full.” A boyish grin spread across his lips as he crossed the room towards his dresser. He tossed a random tee shirt from the drawer in your direction and climbed on the bed, grinning down at you. “See? I have clean clothes.”

You laughed as you pulled the shirt over your head, then turned on your side to face him. His eyes flickered from your face, down to the shirt, then back. You wrinkled your face in confusion and peered down at the shirt. 

“What? What does it say?” You asked with a laugh.  You held it out, squinting to make sense of the graphic— faded and upside down. Finally, your eyes lit up in recognition. “Oh! I thought you were more of a Maroon 5 and Justin Timberlake guy. I’ve never even seen a Blink-182 CD in your stuff before.”

Art cleared his throat and shrugged, thumbing the bottom of the tee shirt absentmindedly. “I went with Patrick a few years back.”

A smile turned your lips. “It’s sweet that you two are such good friends.” You reached over, brushing his curls from his forehead. He turned, pressing a kiss to the delicate skin of your wrist. “Did you and Tashi have fun tonight?” The insecurity in your words was palpable.

Art shrugged. “A party’s a party, y’know?” He leaned into your touch, letting you play with his hair. “Just lost track of time. I won’t run off on you next time.”

You chewed your lip shyly. “I think it’d be nice for the three of us to hang out sometime,” you said, watching his expression to gauge his reaction. 

“C’mere,” he said with a tired smile, effectively avoiding your suggestion. When he pulled you against his side, he nuzzled his face into the junction of your neck and shoulder. His breath tickled with each exhale, which made you squirm, but every so often he’d place a chaste kiss on the skin there and you’d forget why you wanted to ask him to move.

In the morning, when you woke up to his alarm clock blaring a local radio station, you realized it was the first time he’d let you stay the night. 

SPRING 2007

After your second drink, you decided that Art Donaldson had hung you out to dry for the last time. Well, probably the last time. 

Most likely not the last time. 

Knowing yourself, you’d be clinging to his side like a lost puppy in a few weeks’ time, if you even had the dignity to give it that long. The second his attention turned to you again, you knew you’d be absolutely relishing in the special affection he always gave you when he was experiencing Tashi-related withdrawal.

You were so stupidly in love (or in lust, or in whatever) with him that you’d accept just about anything he could throw at you. 

No labels, just casual? Fine. Ignoring you all night then conveniently remembering you exist when he’s horny and ready to go back to his dorm? Whatever. You’re game. 

You’d gone to every match, watched a few practices. Helped him study for exams, let him borrow the notecards you’d painstakingly written over the course of the semester. Jesus, you even wrote a few essays for him when his schedule got crowded and he just couldn’t manage.

All you asked in return was a date to a stupid formal, and he ditched you last minute for Tashi. Again. And you couldn’t even get pissed about it without feeling guilty, because she’d fucking gotten injured and it wasn’t her fault that the guy you were into was carrying a torch for her instead.

“You’ve been staring down the Reese’s Pieces for the last five minutes.” The familiar voice startled you from your sulking. The world filtered back in suddenly— the blaring music, the smell of cigarettes and pot, the chatter of people wandering in and out of neighboring dorms. When you turned, Patrick Zweig was leaning against the vending machine beside you, carrying a large Tennis bag and backpack on both of his shoulders. “Do you need five bucks?”

“Shouldn’t you be with Tashi?” You asked, brows furrowed with confusion. “I heard about her match. I just figured that you’d…“ You trailed off as you noticed the thinly veiled kicked-puppy expression he wore. “Oh.”

He swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, that’s… it’s over. Did you want the Reese’s, or not?” 

“No,” you shook your head and laughed. “I just needed…” you trailed off. What was it you needed, again?

You needed Art. A date to the formal. You needed to feel desirable and cared for. You needed him to get his head out of his ass and just fucking commit. You needed to tell Art to fuck off and find another groupie. You needed…

“Another drink?” Patrick suggested.

You nodded eagerly like that’s what you’d been thinking all along. “Yes. Another drink.” You paused, glancing at his bags. “Do you want to drop your things in my room first? My roommate is in Iowa, or something. She won’t mind.”

Your dorm was decorated in shades of pink and green, with a ruffled bedspread and faux fur pillows and blankets. You bent down to retrieve two bottles of Smirnoff Ice from a mini fridge. Patrick did his best to look away like a gentleman would. 

Well, he did his best. It wasn’t exactly his fault that his options were to look at your tight jeans or the bulletin board above your desk that was essentially an Art Donaldson shrine. 

Pretty pink push pins held up a photo of the two of you after one of his matches, both beaming at the camera. Then there were little notes he’d written you in his boyish scrawl. Tickets to movies you’d gone to see and tickets to his matches. 

“Here,” you said, drawing his attention back to you, thankfully in an upright position. You’d already popped the bottle caps off the radioactive blue drink you handed him. You were chewing your lip shyly, sweetly. “It’s kind of pathetic, isn’t it?”

“What?” He took a drink and nearly grimaced at the sweetness. After he finished it, he’d need to go find something stronger.

You sighed and took a long drink yourself. “I dunno, the whole… thing. Art.” You absentmindedly toyed with the hem of your shirt. “I mean, what girl with any self-respect lets a guy just screw her for months with no commitment?”

“Maybe self-respect is overrated.” He laughed and stepped closer. “Full disclosure? I only came here hoping that I could fuck someone and spend the night in their dorm. Free booze was a plus.”

“We’re in the same boat then,” You said, gazing up at him through your lashes. “We’re both jilted lovers who need a distraction.”

You tilted the bottom of the bottle up, chugging down the contents. When you were done, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and rolled your neck out. “Bottoms up,” you said with a coy smile. “Let’s find something stronger.”

——

An hour later, something by the Pussycat Dolls was blaring through a set of speakers in a darkened common area. You were the fun kind of tipsy, where you started to care less about everyone else and just found yourself buzzed in that light, easy kind of way. You danced to the beat without a care in the world while Patrick sat on the arm of a couch and nursed his beer. 

His eyes were glued to your body as you moved, almost hypnotic beneath the red Christmas lights that had been stapled around the ceiling. Your shirt had ridden up, revealing a sliver of stomach that you either didn’t notice or didn’t care to cover up. 

The only thought running through his head? Art was a fucking idiot. 

You glanced over at him and nodded for him to join you. He didn’t move, so, not one to give up, you joined him over on the couch. When he went for a drink, you tipped up the bottom of the beer can and forced him to finish it, even as it spilled past his lips and down his chin. 

“Thanks,” he deadpanned, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. 

With a pleased smile, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the middle of the room to dance.

He shook his head as you tried to make him dance— your hands on his hips, pushing and pulling and trying and failing to make him move. “No, no. I don’t dance,” he explained, as firmly as he could stand to be.

“Because you can’t? Or because you think you’re too cool?” You asked, raising a brow. He rolled his eyes, a smile playing at his lips. “C’mon, if you dance, I’ll tell you a secret.”

That did make him laugh. “What are you, five?”

With a shrug, you took his hands into yours and moved them to your hips. There was a hesitance in his touch, at first. But then his fingers splayed against exposed skin, and you were so warm. Your hips began moving to the beat beneath his hands. “See? We’re dancing,” you said, peering up at him through long lashes.

You looked genuinely victorious when he finally started dancing… kind of. It was less of an action and more of an acceptance. It had been abundantly obvious since the moment he walked into your dorm room that you wanted to end the night with him. Maybe it was because you thought it would hurt Art, or maybe it was because he was there and he was feeling the exact same things you were.

He’d done his best to resist out of some lingering sense that he could repair things with Tashi, and the hope that maybe Art’s spite would fade and they’d be friends again.

Despite skipping the whole college thing, Patrick wasn’t an idiot. He knew better. The second Tashi fell on that court, both of those doors slammed in his face.

And you were so close to him that he could smell the liquor on your breath. And Victoria’s Secret body spray. Mostly the liquor, though. He was barely moving, but you— you were something else. Hips moving against the thigh he’d slotted between your legs, arms trailing up his chest so you could sling them around his neck, pulling yourself impossibly closer. Even though you were grinding against each other like two horny middle-schoolers at their first dance, he’d had enough to drink that he didn’t really give a fuck. When he moved his hands from your hips to grab your ass, you gasped and laughed like it was the best thing in the world.

Your body moved so effortlessly that anything he could have possibly done would’ve looked clunky and clumsy. He groaned when you brushed against him just right, and he could tell by your smug expression that you knew exactly how you were affecting him. 

You leaned in, chest to chest. “Can I tell you the secret now?” You whispered, lips brushing against the line of his jaw. He swallowed hard and nodded. “I think it’d be a bad idea for us to fuck. We’re both in a bad place.”

“Mhmm. Bad idea,” he echoed. He wanted to reach out and grab your jaw, to tilt your face up and kiss you. One of your hands had slipped beneath the hem of his (Tashi’s) shirt, just barely teasing the skin there. It made him shiver and lean into the heat of your touch.

“But I still want to.” You sounded so earnest, so needy. Like you’d take anything he’d give you and thank him for it. “We can use each other to feel better, right? Just a nice, warm body and a rush of dopamine.”

It was exactly what Patrick had come to the fucking dorm rager for. To feel wanted and desired. For someone to look at him like he wasn’t actively failing at the one thing he was supposed to be the best at. 

But he was good at other things.

You guided him through the crowded hallway, way more packed than they had been before you’d started dancing. It was getting later, more people were falling for the siren song of R&B and beer. You were a siren of a different making— with much more dangerous consequences than a hangover.

It almost felt wrong to be back in your innocent, frilly little dorm with the intention of fucking your brains out. But the looks you were giving him were enough proof that he wasn’t the only pervert. Before you could get too far, he pinned you up against the door, displacing a dry-erase calendar in the process. 

You glanced down, eyes flitting towards the hearts around tomorrow’s date, anticipating the formal that Art had flaked on. Without looking back, you kicked the dry-erase board out of the way, a problem for later. 

His lips met yours in a messy clash— teeth knocking slightly until you found a rhythm with each other. Patrick Zweig kissed like he’d been at war for fucking years and had just returned home. He kissed like he had crawled out of the desert and the only promise of water could be found on your tongue. 

You’d never been kissed with that level of need and desperation— that desire— and you fucking loved it. The taste of his tongue licking into your mouth, the rumble of a moan against your own lips.

His hands were moving beneath your shirt, pushing it up as he went. A pretty whine slipped past your spit-slick lips as he squeezed your tits over your bra. Your hands stayed busy undoing his jeans. He moaned into your mouth when your fingers barely brushed against the bulge through the denim. 

“That feel good?” You teased, practically breathing the words into his lungs as you slipped your hand into his boxers. He groaned in response as your hand wrapped around him and pumped slowly.  There was something addicting about his need— you relished in the pulse of him, warm and bucking into your grip. And you wanted more. You wanted to be the one to make him come undone. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

His head fell back slightly as you brushed your thumb along his tip, the movement accompanied by another soft groan. The way you peered up at him with an earnest need to please made hot desire thrum within him.

“You could start by taking these clothes off,” he said, fingers roaming to tug at the strap of your bra. You started to move, slipping your hand from his boxers. Then you stopped.

“You’re not gonna help?” You asked coyly, goosebumps forming where his fingers trailed along your side, teasing at the band of the bra. 

That made a tiny smirk turn at his lips. “Does Art help?” It shouldn’t have turned him on— that little flash of longing for Art in your eyes. But it did. You nodded, shifting slightly to encourage more of Patrick’s touch. “Lift your arms.”

As easy as anything, you obeyed. No banter, no push and pull for control. It was so different than what he had with Tashi (who he shouldn’t have been thinking about), and he couldn’t help but wonder if that’s how it always was for you and Art (who he shouldn’t have been thinking about either). 

He tossed your shirt to the side and moved a single hand to the clasp of your bra, undoing it with a quick movement that he’d perfected at sixteen. Painstakingly slow, he pushed each strap down your arms, until it fell at your feet and exposed your tits to the overzealous AC of the Stanford dorms. 

Your nipples pebbled in the cool air, and his mouth watered in a near-Pavlovian response to the sight. His hands moved back to your chest, so he could thumb over the sensitive buds and relish in the way you shivered.

The wood of the door was cold against your shoulders as you arched into his touch. Manicured nails fumbled with the button to your jeans— you twisted and shimmied them off before kicking them to the side.

Before you could react, he picked you up and carried you over to the bed. A grin played at your lips as he practically dropped you onto it, making a decorative pillow fall to the floor. 

“It was only, like, five steps,” you said with a laugh. Patrick shrugged and made quick work of his clothes. You sat up on your elbows to watch him shuck off his pants, then awkwardly hop on one foot at a time to remove his shoes and socks.

When he finally joined you on the bed, he was clad only in his boxers, which were sporting an almost comically large tent. He positioned himself over you, that shit-eating grin ever present on his face. “Can I go down on you?”

You laughed lightly in disbelief. “Are you serious right now?”

He nodded. “As a heart attack.” He nuzzled against your jaw teasingly. “C’mon, lemme make you feel good, okay? I live for this shit.”

You giggled, pushing his face away. “Yeah. Fuck. You can.”

He trailed his lips down your jaw, then your sternum. He stopped only briefly to suck each nipple into his mouth, making you squirm and arch into him. Your hand moved into his hair, and he moaned against your tit as you tugged slightly. 

You watched him kiss down your stomach and peel your panties down your legs with his teeth through half-lidded eyes. Your cunt clenched around nothing as he slowly kissed up one leg.

The sight made your stomach flip— the sheer desire of it all. Your mind flickered to Tashi, as it seemed to do more and more. Tashi got this same sight, felt the same lips on her skin, and heard the same groans and pants. You could’ve laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all. At that moment, with Patrick on top of you, you were closer to Tashi than Art could even dream of.

A tap on the inside of your thigh was his wordless way of telling you to open up for him, to get out of your head and come back to earth. Your tummy fluttered as you spread your legs more and he slotted himself there with an arm slung across your stomach. 

“Fuck,” he said lowly, peering up at you. “You get this wet from just kissing?”

Heat burned in your cheeks at his obvious amusement, but you could tell he loved how responsive you were. His tongue traced you from your hole to your clit, making you cry out and twist your fingers into his curls. Quick, teasing flicks against your clit made your thighs tremble and squeeze around his shoulders. You were so fucking sensitive that it made him want to tear you apart.

It was messy— a sloppy mix of his spit and your arousal as he made out with your pussy. His nose brushed against your clit as he nuzzled deeper into you, moaning as his fervor was rewarded with more of your juices spilling onto his tongue. 

There was no method or precision to it, even though you were quite sure he could’ve had you coming undone beneath his fingers in no time at all. Patrick relished in every tiny reaction— in feeling your thighs around his head and your fingers in his hair. Relished in the taste of you on his tongue and the feeling of your slick smeared across his face. 

Your back was arching off the bed, nails digging just shy of painfully into his scalp. 

He opened you up with one finger, then a second. Your cunt accepted the intrusion with ease, like you were made for it. For him. He crooked his fingers just so and you cried out pathetically. He pressed there, constant and firmly and your fingers tugged harder on his hair, moans increasing in pitch as your breaths came in pants. 

“I’m— I— fuck—“ words failed you as his lips formed a seal around your clit and he sucked, making spots dance across your vision. In the absence of words, all you could manage were fucked out sobs and pitiful little whines.

Slick walls fluttered around his fingers, and your clit pulsed against his tongue. You were so easy to get worked up— a toy for him to wind up and set into motion. You came with a moan that would’ve made a weaker man cum inside of his boxers, your cunt spasming around the intrusion of his fingers. 

When he sat back and cleaned his fingers in his mouth, you were watching through half-lidded, hazy eyes. Tiny pieces of hair were plastered to your face and forehead, and you gave a breathless giggle as you looked up at him. 

“Holy shit,” you said with a grin as he shucked off his boxers and kicked them off somewhere across the room. 

“Feel good?” He asked, and pressed a kiss to your hip bone. You nodded wordlessly, feeling dizzy with need. “Gonna give me another one?”

“Yeah,” you said breathlessly, peering up at him with wide eyes. The tip of his nose was shiny with your arousal, which made warmth spread across your cheeks. With a sheepish laugh, you reached up and wiped it away with your thumb. There wasn’t much you could do about the mess on his mouth and chin. “You’re all messy.”

He kissed you slow— leaving his tongue against yours, making you taste yourself mixed with his spit. It was less of a kiss than a series of slow laves of his tongue against yours. It felt dirty, and a little gross, but you couldn’t help but relish in it. You’d never kissed Art like that, would’ve never even dreamed of it. Patrick was an entirely different animal. 

You stayed like that for a while— just completely lost in the feel of him warm on top of you, grinding his cock against your cunt as he planted messy kisses to your lips. 

“Condom?” He mumbled the words against your lips when he finally grew impatient.

“Mhmm. Bedside table.”

He fumbled inside the drawer, grabbing glasses cleaning wipes two seperate times before he finally found a foil packet in the bottom of the drawer.  

He held it between two fingers, an amused smile playing on his lips. “You sure this’ll fit me? I’m bigger than Art.”

You rolled your eyes. “Not by that much.”

“Where it counts, though.” His smirk was smarmy as he tore open the foil with his teeth and rolled the condom down his length. He spat in his hand and stroked himself as he peered down at you, like he hadn’t quite decided how he wanted you yet. 

“Turn over,” he finally said with a pat to the meat of your thigh. You did as he said, almost hesitant as you turned over and settled onto your forearms, arching your back slightly. “Does Art ever fuck you like this?”

He held the head of his cock at your entrance, teasing you with the tiniest amount of pressure. You took in a shaky breath and shifted, eager for more that he wasn’t going to give you yet. “Do you have to bring him up right now?”

No. He knew he really didn’t, but he couldn’t help himself at the same time. The thought of his Art in this same bed with you made it all so much hotter for him. He wanted to know how Art had fucked you, he wanted every detail burned in his brain. He wanted to be better, or maybe just be there with the two of you. 

It had gotten close. Once. Art was definitely fingering you under a blanket while the three of you watched a movie on his laptop across the room. Patrick’s thigh was touching yours— he could feel the way your muscles tensed and shook as Art played with you. He was close enough to hear the hitch of your breath. 

And if that hadn’t been enough to give it away, Art’s stupid fucking smirk and the obvious way his arm was moving would have.

He didn’t do anything then, but maybe he should’ve. 

“I’ll take that as a no.” He was slow as he sank into you, inch by inch. It could’ve been the position, or maybe his cocky bravado was completely founded, but he did feel bigger than you were used to. A soft moan was punched from your lips when he was finally buried to the hilt— your breath came in soft pants as you adjusted to the feeling of him. 

With your face pressed into your pillows, each breath you took flooded your senses with the smell of Art’s cologne. You moaned softly, eyes fluttering shut as your thoughts were overwhelmed with him.

“Shit, you’re fuckin’ tight,” he groaned. His fingers dimpled your skin where he held onto you. He moved one hand to rub the base of your spine in a way that could probably have been tender, on another day. You moaned pathetically into the pillows. “What? You need something?” 

One shallow, teasing thrust made your toes curl. “More,” was all you could manage.

“Can you take it?” Patrick cooed, smugness was practically dripping from his tongue. “Because I can go slow if you need—“

“You’re such an asshole. Just fuck m—”

A rough snap of Patrick’s hips cut you off suddenly. You cried out, grasping onto the bedspread feebly as he began to fuck you in earnest. 

Each thrust made the cheap, university-provided bed frame slam against the wall. The decorations you had hung up rattled, threatening to tumble right onto the floor and shatter, but neither of you even noticed. The moans slipping past your lips were pornographic.

But the sounds escaping you were nothing compared to the noises Patrick was making. Art had made an off-handed comment, once, about how much of a slut Patrick could be. You hadn’t really seen why until you got to hear the desperate, debauched noises he could make.

You slipped a hand between your thighs to rub at your clit and the feeling stole the air from your lungs. Your eyes rolled back, ass jiggling in time with each thrust.

Through it all, the memory of Art in this bed clung to you. Art, burying himself in the soft, wet heat between your thighs, flushed down to his chest and panting softly. His hungry kisses, melting sweet on your tongue like cotton candy. The whines that slipped past his lips, better than the prettiest music you could imagine. 

With each brutal thrust of Patrick’s cock into you, he punched out soft ah, ah, ahs from your lips. In your head, you just heard Art, Art, Art. Maybe that’s what you meant to say. 

You were probably in love with him. You were fucking his best friend. And it wasn’t even that simple. Patrick and Art and Tashi and somewhere between it all, you lingered. It was a giant clusterfuck of feelings and lust that you’d somehow tangled yourself inside of. Wanting someone so much, you want whoever has them just as badly. 

Maybe everything would’ve been a lot cleaner if you’d just locked the four of you into a room and stayed until every bit of tension had been fucked out. The idea of it all made you moan softly into the pillows. 

Patrick pulled you up suddenly, back flush against his chest as he continued to fuck into you. One hand grabbed at your jaw, turning you so he could press his lips to yours again, and the other squeezed at your tits. His mouth did a perfect job of muffling your moans— Patrick relished in feeling your pretty whines vibrate against his lips. 

“You feel so fucking perfect.” His words made heat flutter through you. “Need t’ feel you cum again. You have it in you, yeah? I can feel it.”

You nodded, eager to please. Pleasure was lapping at every nerve, lightning-hot. Your fingers rubbed faster at your clit as he pounded up into you. The whines escaping you were pathetic as your body crawled closer and closer to the edge. 

“Close,” you gasped out. Patrick licked into your open mouth, kissing you sloppily as you set a punishing pace on your poor, oversensitive clit. “So close— f-fuck—“

Your orgasm hit you suddenly. You clawed at his arm with your free hand, desperately seeking purchase as euphoria pulsed through your veins. 

“That’s it,” he groaned, his breath hot against your jaw. “Fuck��� squeezin’ me so tight I can barely move— god—“

Your eyes were half-lidded as he worked you through it, rhythm only just beginning to falter as his finish approached. He pushed you back onto your stomach, manhandling your hips so your back was arched just like he wanted. 

You were reduced to whimpers and whines by the time he finally came— buried as deep as he could get, grip bruising on your hips. A few shallow thrusts were all he could manage before he pulled out, collapsing on beside you. 

You were catching your breath while he disposed of the condom in the cute trash can beside your bed, filled with gummy snack wrappers and broken pencils and old class notes. It felt like sacrilege. He laid back down, and you pulled a throw blanket over the two of you. 

With his head against the pillows, you wondered if he could also sense the phantom of Art’s presence there in the bed. Somewhere between you, forcing distance.

“So, when do you leave for your next tournament?” You asked. Unconsciously, you reached out to play with his hair, the same way you did to Art in times like these. “Soon, I bet. You usually don’t stay long.”

“Trying to get rid of me?” He asked, a tiny smile playing at his lips. His chest was still heaving with exertion. 

You shook your head. “I don’t want to get rid of you, Patrick.” He melted into your touch, eyes fluttering shut. 

In the morning, you’d wake up squished against Patrick’s side with the taste of sugary alcohol on your tongue. When you picked up your phone to see three missed calls from Art, it was easier to pretend that you hadn’t seen them at all.

thanks for reading :) if you enjoyed, please lmk by sending an ask, or whatever you wanna do <3

[nutmegtales]

Fucking Clowns - part 6 coming to

Danny felt himself slowly waking, the smell of fresh coffee and something chocolatey baking near by hung in the air. He rolled the flavours round his mind for a while letting opinions about each one float to the surface of his mind. He liked coffee. He liked chocolate. These were good smells. Comforting smells. Not the smells of an unsafe lab or a sterile cell. As he thought, he recalled more smells he'd sensed most recently. Of warm linens fresh from a dryer, of old books, and garlic and onion and butter cooking on the stove, of baking, and fresh flowers, of grease and machine oil and leather.

It was nice. Danny took a deep lungful of air, savouring the comforting smells.

The next sense to come back to him was hearing and he listened to the rumbling rhythmic noise that was happening close by as it slowly coalesced into words. Someone was reading aloud, taking their time, their words slow and soothing. He couldn't figure out yet what the words meant, but they sounded comforting.

Danny realised he felt safe, and it was such an unfamiliar feeling he wasn't sure what to do with it. No ghosts screaming at him to kill kill kill, no shouts and jeers from others interned going through their own personal strangeness, no whirring of power tools in a lab filled with weapons designed especially to kill him, no parents plotting gleefully of how to hunt him down.

He felt safe, and he let himself enjoy that feeling for a long time before braving anything more.

Eventually Danny opened his eyes to see soft rays of sunlight streaming through a big glass window. Through it was hues of green and blue, too blurry for him to make out. A blink and the skies were painted in orange, great clouds lit up with the colour of the setting sun. There were different smells and sounds now, but he didn't want to think about them, he just wanted to think of the sky.

Another blink and Danny could see the stars brilliant and bright the way they were back home before he'd had to hide in the city. He loved those stars, he loved those skies. They made him want to reach out and touch the clouds, to leap up and soar through the window and feel the breeze in his hair. They made him want to live.

The smell of coffee was strong again and Danny breathed it in deep, tasting the scent of it on the air. He let his focus shift from the beautiful stars to search his surroundings for the familiar smell. On a table next to the bed he lay in was a still steaming mug, and beyond that in a chair across from him sat someone sipping at a mug of their own. Another glance showed another figure lounging on a couch near by and the sounds drifting through from another room made Danny think there might be someone else too.

He felt... How did he feel? Two, maybe three strangers were with him. Did he feel scared? He tried to muster up the energy to feel fear but couldn't manage it. No, he didn't feel afraid, he felt nothing. Mostly nothing. Maybe something.... Maybe curious "midnight... Coffee?" His voice was feeble and scratchy to his own ears and he wasn't sure if he'd been clear enough to be heard. His eyes drooped closed from the effort of grinding out those few simple words and he felt a wash of exhaustion come over him. He couldn't make out the response as sleep reclaimed him, but he thought it sounded playful like hearing your friends banter in a nearby room. He felt safe, and curious, and exhausted.

The welcome smell of coffee and the sight of the stars became a familiar routine. He'd stay awake just long enough to take in the beauty of the sky, to savour the smell of a fresh coffee (how was it always fresh?), and to see the three people that kept him company.

There was one that sat in the arm chair, always with a mug of his own coffee, and a laptop or file on his lap. Maybe he was why there was always a fresh mug when Danny came too.

There was one that would lounge on the couch and just talk, or who would drape themselves over the other two.

And there was one who sometimes just leant against the wall, sometimes he'd sit on the couch and read aloud, sometimes he'd be sat on the floor at the foot of Danny's bed saying things that sounded sweet and comforting. Danny remembers the times where that deep steady voice tells him he's safe now most of all.

Today he feels awake enough to hear the words of the others, and to try and talk again himself. "Hey" he hesitates, unsure of what else there is to say, the words refusing to rise to his mind.

"Hey Danny" comes the reply. It's the deep voice of the one that reads, the one that tells him he's safe. "It's good to hear from you".

Oh? It is? That's good. Danny is glad they want to hear from him, glad that he's not just a burden or a bother. "Good to be heard" he tries to put some good humour into the words, he's not sure he manages it.

"yeah, I'll bet" he hears the other say "we're listening Danny, we're listening now".

Oh, Danny thinks as he drifts back off to sleep again, that sounds nice.

--

Prev | Start | End

Subscribe to updates

[bluesunss]

Coup de foudre Choi Seunghyun x F!Reader

Big bang april challenge - April 19th

summary: struggling to get tickets happens to the best of us. risking your life and getting saved by your former best friend? That's less likely. But the odds are never zero.

warnings: none. created a kpop group for plot's sake

a/n: im tired?! sorry if this is bad. thank you again to @ldydeath and @wcnderlnds for this challenge.

The 'Coup de Foudre' exists.

It means lightning strike. Love at first sight. It is not a mere coincidence. Chemical reactions, hormones, the heart accelerates, the world narrows to just one person.

And we believe it.

VIVARA's debut album was called Coup de Foudre. They took the word from French and altered its meaning. Although they debuted in the early 2000's, they truly gained popularity with their breakout hits such as Starlight Rush and Eclipsed Heart.

What is amusing is that YG Entertainment manages their account too.

Just like BigBang. Your former best friend's group.

You pressed your bag against your back and ran through the pitch-black night.

You don’t believe in love at first sight, and that’s why you adore their band. Their first album had hit all the right spots. When nobody knew them, you were there, singing Break or streak until there was no more air in your lungs and your parents threatened to kick you out (they didn't).

Or in highschool, when you got rejected, and they released Reverie. Only real fans got the secret message. It was about dreaming but spoke of nightmares.

Or Eleven pretty clouds. When you adopted your first dog, Cinnamon - a tiny bark machine with too much energy. It felt like sunshine and cotton candy.

Or, even later. When your childhood best friend suddenly ghosted you. And they released Limbs. That song was controversial. It was exactly what you needed to get him out of your system.

So when they announced a concert in Seoul, you were thrilled. As a teenager, your parents were intransigent. Their kid was not going to a concert. (They also didn't want to pay). As an adult, however, you had the means and the absolute will to.

The problem is that despite being a loyal fan when they had no one, no one asks for your opinion when their band skyrockets, and you’re left scrambling for a concert ticket that seems impossible to get.

Loyalty doesn’t pay off.

Yet, on Tuesday, even though you had to work the next day, you opened your laptop at midnight. The sales would begin at three o’clock, but the website was quickly overloaded, like before a big sale - you had to camp out to secure tickets.

On coffee and tea, you endured until three, battling sleep. You tried studying, reading on your phone - nothing worked.

At 2:59 a.m., your bank card details were entered. At 3:01:37 a.m., the tickets were gone.

All because you mistook a 0 for an O in the card details.

Shame and stubbornness coexisted within you. They pushed you to search further, no matter what you had to go through. You were getting a ticket. Wherever. Resale sites. Groups. Ads. The newspaper.

NOTHING. NOWHERE.

Was this what your loyalty to the band was worth? You were fed up. So, you posted an ad on a site with no hope, and a message appeared.

“October 17th, under Hangang Bridge. $500. 11 p.m.”

The fact that it was in dollars was suspicious, but you printed the tickets at a shady exchange agent who charged way more than their worth in wons.

It felt like you were walking to your death, but you secretly hid your dog in your backpack. Just in case. She was a small harmless thing, but she barked so loudly it could shatter eardrums.

And so you ran through the pitch-black night. Under the bridge. Where broken bottles lie. Out of breath, you paused by a streetlamp, feeling your dog stir, and resumed running.

You checked your watch. 10:54 p.m. The bridge was in front of you. You were on time. You descended into the sand and took shelter in the shadow, waiting with clenched hands.

A masked man arrived after a few minutes.

“Money first.”

You frowned. “At the same time.”

“MONEY FIRST!”

You took your bag off your back and muttered, “OK, OK.” Then you opened it.

“Please, no noise, Cinnamon.”

She stuck out her tongue, panting with joy. You reached into the bag, pulling out the bundles. But before extending your hand, you hesitated.

“I still prefer to exchange at the same time…”

The man suddenly slammed you against the wall, and your bag fell, rolling near the edge.

“LET GO OF ME!”

“WHERE’S THE MONEY?”

“IN MY BAG! FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE, LET GO-”

Cinnamon suddenly leaped out, barking loudly.

“Where’s this damn dog from-!”

He tried to kick her, but one strike sent him crashing onto the asphalt. Another one to the ground. A third came from the foot straight into his stomach. The man groaned.

It was the moment Cinnamon bit his wrist while barking. The man, nearly crying, struggled to get up, stumbling away headfirst.

Your savior was breathing heavily.

“Damn it, if it wasn’t for Cinnamon’s barking, you’d be dead!”

Holding your chest, you collapsed. Seunghyun dropped down behind you. “Are you okay?”

He leaned close to your face, Cinnamon curled in your arms. You nodded, sniffling. “I was so scared.”

Then all the emotions resurfaced.

“T.O.P? What are you doing here?”

He made a sort of pout. “It sounds weird coming from you.”

You couldn't hear him. The emotions were still so strong. Your heart was racing. You cupped your face in your hands. “How did you find me?”

His mask was up. He pulled it down and got closer to you.

“I was passing by and recognized Cinnamon’s barking. I thought it was an illusion. I haven't heard her in forever.”

He stood up and dusted off his pants, then extended his hand to you.

“What was that man doing?”

“He wanted my money for a VIVARA ticket,” you said softly.

"That band you used to force me to listen to?"

You chuckled, laughing at the memory. "Acting like you disliked it. I saw you swaying your head, once."

You didn't need to look to know he was smiling. "Their lyrics made no sense. They put random words together."

Tapping his shoulder, you checked Cinnamon was still strutting next to you. "You're acting like saying Fantastic baby on repeat makes sense," you rolled your eyes.

"Pffft. You saw this?"

That's where you stopped walking, heat burning your cheeks. "It's... it was a hit. Everyone saw it. That's it."

"Your ears are red, cheonsa. Don't lie to me."

Ugh! This man. "Well, you were gone, and I needed to check you were alive. That is all."

He faltered. "About that-"

You interrupted him. "No I'm good. I don't care. It's fine. I'm fine." But your voice was shaking. "Only thing saddening me right now is that I will never get to see VIVARA live."

"You can."

He stopped walking. You halted too, surprised. "Why did you stop? And can what?"

"A ticket. I can get one for you. Or as many tickets as you want."

The cold air from the river made you realize that rain was about to fall. "What?"

You rubbed your cold arm to calm the goosebumps. Seunghyun started walking again and took off his long black jacket, draping it over your shoulders.

“Jiyong know the main girl. They wanted to collaborate. It’s super easy for me to get you a ticket.”

You shook your head, still shocked. But you couldn't. That was unfair. And you were acting as if Seunghyun hadn't disappeared from your life for years, gotten in a popular boys band, released at least three hit songs.

“No, I can’t ask you for that. At least I’ll pay you back-”

He stopped you again, his hands on your shoulders.

“Hey, cheonsa, what are we? For life, for death, you remember?”

You chuckled weakly, avoiding his gaze.

“That was when we were kids. Should I remind you who broke the promise?”

His fingers tightened around your shoulder, but he didn’t answer. He took two steps back, and you continued walking through the dark night.

The first raindrops fell.

“Should I pass you the ticket tomorrow?”

"I said no."

"And I don't care. Just tell me if I should come by Donggyo tomorrow or meet you somewhere."

Your eyes darkened.

“I moved out.”

The rain intensified. You started to feel cold and pulled his jacket tighter around your shoulders. “You’re going to catch a cold," you told him.

He shook his head.

“No.”

But you saw him shiver.

“Seunghyun, you’re still a terrible liar.”

He laughed softly, stopping once again in the middle of the path, near the river.

“Will you come to one of our concerts? They miss you, too. You were friend with Jiyong. It's not fair to him.”

You looked at him, eyes shadowed by what seemed like tears but was actually rain. A flash of lightning split the sky.

You smiled. You both acted like this was normal, but you knew you could not be friends again. It was fun to pretend.

“If the line is as long as for VIVARA…”

Shaking his head, he fumbled for his phone in his pocket.

“One call, that’s enough. I’ll give you the ticket you want.”

Cinnamon was happily shaking her tail next to you.

"Just call me, cheonsa. I'll always answer."

You both looked at each other. You both knew it was a lie.

The air suddenly grew colder.

“That’s not fair.”

He laughed. “It’s the perks of being the best friend of a famous rapper. Life’s unfair.”

A bolt of lightning tore across the sky. Cinnamon flinched and jumped in your arms. Seunghyun observed her tenderly.

You both stopped walking.

You looked at him properly for the first time in so many years.

He was still as familiar as before.

But something unfamiliar settled in your chest as you stared at him, wet hair, droplets rolling down his chin, rosy lips half-smiling and tender eyes.

The distance was so vast.

We believe that Coup de Foudre happens between strangers.

Then why is your heart racing for the first time ever looking at your old best friend?

"I guess I'll send it by mail," he murmured, breaking the silence. "Still got the same address?"

You nodded, unable to look away, glued to his dark eyes. He came closer. Lifted his hand. Wiped a raindrop from your cheek. Infinitely gently wrapped his arms around your body. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

Then, he pulled away.

♪

You sat alone in a sold-out stadium.

The lights dimmed. The crowd roared. VIVARA took the stage.

They sang Reverie.

In the back of your mind, you could hear his voice whispering: for life and for death.

But he wasn’t in the seat beside you.

He never was.

You learned from a friend the group tore apart. You imagined going to his apartment with a bass and snacks. Forcing him to watch you sing. Making him laugh. Forget.

You still have his jacket.

You still can’t listen to Limbs without crying.

Cinnamon still sleeps next to you every night.

The Coup de Foudre exists.

It’s not always beautiful.

Sometimes, it strikes only one person.

And it burns.

Forever.

sorry if it's rushed! I overestimated my planning skills.

tag list: @ldydeath @infinetlyforgotten @loveesiren @sevendaysummer @gdinthehouseee @eru-vande @bluesunss @emmiesoverthemoon @petersasteria @currentloser @makeitworse @berfgrimm @sherxoo @aizshallnotbefound @keiraryan

normal tag list: @michelllleee @breakmeoff

[pencilofawesomeness]

How Fairy Tail could have had a really cool thematic parallel if they Committed to the Bit:

I often joke about my constant urge to spew essays on characters and topics I have thought too much about, but I refrain because translating all the thoughts in my head to words takes time and effort, and sometimes I am speaking to the void. However. I am spinning in my chair, gnawing at the bars of my enclosure, and frankly thinking way too much right now so I must scream.

It would have been so impactful if Fairy Tail emphasized Jellal being brainwashed.

Jellal is my boy, of course, but I’m not even just talking about the impact to his character: I mean the impact of the entire plot. This, of course, if we went the whole mile with the theming. The machination of being controlled, emotionally or magically influenced, or even unable to fulfill a desire due to an insurmountable obstacle, comes up numerous times throughout the plot, to both primary characters, supporting characters, and antagonists. While Fairy Tail is absolutely a series about friendship, it is also about choosing your path, with a large recurring theme of, regardless of connotation, about being selfish, and what that means on both ends of the spectrum. It’s a matter of free will, and the antithesis to this is all manner of external control. So really, it makes sense that this should be a thoroughly explored theme.

I could talk all day about all the different examples and aspects of this but I came here to talk about Jellal. First, the slavery aspect really hits the nail on the head, so we’re off to a great start—this, of course, applicable to multiple characters, which I really enjoy. Things go wild, however, when Jellal effectively chooses to trade himself for Erza in the punishment game and gets the ever-living shit beat out of him at the ripe age of eleven or twelve years old. He is, understandably, not in a good place, and he comes to the stunning conclusion that… he hates the slavers. Yeah. Checks out. Then, he hears the voice of ‘Zeref’ spewing rhetoric about hate, and it overwhelms; this, we know in hindsight especially, to be Ultear casting a mind-fuck spell in order to manipulate him, under the guise of pretending to be a figure young Jellal believed to be a god. 

When I first saw this flashback, watching the anime, I was unbelievably hyped. For all of Fairy Tail’s odd relationship with foreshadowing, I got the gist of it as soon as the magic went into his right eye and overwhelmed him. In Japanese media especially (largely due to the prevailing symbolism of the daruma doll), the right eye is a huge indicator of free will and the future—namely one’s goals. Creepy magic ghost entering the right eye with magic-bind looking things and immediately warping Jellal’s goal? A+ delivery. Of course, at the time Zeref—an unrevealed ‘evil’ entity—seemed a likely culprit, but Ultear being the puppeteer changes little of the result. In fact, it actually creates a super interesting parallel, but more on that later.

First, there are the consequences of Jellal being an antagonist who is not in control of his actions. I see people lament that it “cheapens” the severity of the arc and provides a cop-out redemption for Jellal, and while the execution of the latter certainly could have been different, I don’t think the premise of mind alteration cheapens the overall plot and theme of Fairy Tail at all; on the contrary, it could have been used to further emphasize intra- and inter- character conflict as well as provide a super engaging parallel for the end of the series. The theme of nakama, family, and friendship is huge, so what better way to emphasize that than to show a twisted example of it?

Jellal goes from ride-or-die loyal and ‘good’ to circumstantially loyal to an ideal (and the people attached to it) and ‘evil’ with the flip of a magic switch. Erza gets the immediate short of the stick when she is the first victim (aside from Jellal himself) to this meddling, and the caring friend she had seen days or weeks before is now cruel, insane, and full of threats—threats she takes heed to as she is cast from the island. Now, Erza is also a child, and one full of trauma, so I am not trying to invalidate her fear or blame her for any outcome. This also does not dive into the intricacies of saving friends at cost to oneself, and all of the conflict thereof; if anything, the complication of the matter bolsters the drama and impact. And then, we have the rest of the squad. Sho, Wally, and Milliana buy into the idea without any trouble, and they continue to buy into it as they get older. Beyond morality, it’s a power fantasy, and those are easy for formerly powerless people to latch onto. However, Simon is the only one who realizes that something is fundamentally wrong and twisted with Jellal… and his ultimate goal, developed over the course of roughly seven to eight years, is to wait it out until he finds the opportunity to kill him, or get somebody else to do it. Ultear, even after integrating herself into the group out of nowhere, gets away with her plan, because ultimately nobody questions that Jellal’s sudden change was anything but a result of trauma and his own will—even in a world with magic, where the very first arc revolves around the use and mistreatment of charm magic.

(Now, as an aside, I unfortunately have some experience in friends suddenly changing. In real life, it is rarely so sudden and obvious, of course, and the culprit is usually those horrible little signals and hormones within the mind, and nothing so fanciful or external as magic. I had a friend take a nosedive into some truly batshit ideas—cult-starting worthy—and exhibit wild mood swings and displays of unprecedented behavior. It admittedly took me a moment to ascertain it among the known issues, but once the pieces clicked, it clicked. I wished I had noticed sooner, and even though she was more culpable of her choices than a person supernaturally influenced by an outside force, I still can’t hate her for all the harm done. This is all just to say that I have, especially in recent years, a personal perspective on this trope and an appreciation for the painful nuance.) 

Refusing to reveal this mindfuckery in the arc diminishes the severity of it a great deal, I fear. We, along with the characters, spend time believing he died an insane villain… and then when he comes back amnesiac, it softens his character but does nothing to contradict how awful he had been. It’s not until years later, arcs later, that we get this random instance of the long overdue reveal to tell us that the manipulation has been discovered off screen. Not only is this utterly underwhelming, but Jellal is now actively working with Ultear and is fine with it! He’s still (understandably, after all this damn time thinking otherwise) blaming himself and lighting his own pyre to atone for things started by a factor completely outside of his control, and every character lets him. The discussion of autonomy is wasted. So, too, is all the juicy emotional fallout. We don’t see Jellal grapple with the horrifying reality that he has not been himself, that years of his life were wasted as a mental slave instead of a physical one; we don’t see Erza beat herself up (likely unnecessarily) because she could have potentially protected him but she hadn’t out of fear, and then she condemned him unknowingly; we don’t see the others truly come to terms with the fact that Jellal had been stolen from under their noses and they never noticed; we don’t even get more than a glimpse in Ultear’s head, who committed the deed because she thought her means wouldn’t matter and then they did. 

It’s horrifying. It’s tragic. It was, perhaps, preventable—in that the problem was a punchable one, to a degree—except the people involved were just children, just human, and it wasn’t enough. Friendship and flashy magic power could not trump trauma and entrapment, not this time. No matter how I think the series could have and should have handled it (and I have several ideas, of course), Jellal’s story provides a haunting case of failure regarding the themes of friendship/community and freedom that our protagonists embody. 

Which brings me to the perfect opportunity to follow up this occurrence of stripped autonomy and loss of freedom with a culmination of the affected themes, plot points, and more: the books of Zeref. 

Namely, the idea that the etherious—sapient, cognizant, and fully capable of autonomy via every depiction given of them, from Tartaros to even Lullaby to especially Natsu—can be and have been resolutely manipulated and controlled via the books by Zeref. Now Zeref, infamously hands-off up until the finale, barely utilized this. The most we ever see is instilling a directive and supernatural need to kill Zeref in the texts, which serves as an externally imposed goal. (Sound familiar, yet?) Provided Larcade clearly doesn’t have these instincts, it is not a guaranteed addition either, which further adds to the sense of deliberation. Natsu experiences this only in the last arc, in what I assume is supposed to be a very tense and jarring plot of a friend and protagonist suddenly losing himself, but it does not get expounded on for long enough to hammer the point home. The plot point of reclaiming the book becomes about saving his life only, and not his autonomy. Not only could this have been emphasized to be properly horrifying and devastating, but the effect—and the suspense—would be doubled with the prior establishment of Jellal’s arc and the tragedy therein. 

To back up for a moment, this parallel is further accentuated by the fact that Ultear and Zeref are clear mirrors of each other. Ultear was afflicted by a magic condition outside of her control and she was enslaved as a lab rat for it. When she broke free, she perceived her mother to have abandoned her, so Ultear, in her unresolved anger and grief, aims her entire goal to rectifying it, which culminated in planning to undo the entire timeline in order to make the one she wanted all along. Any casualties, any cruelties—including the mental enslavement of a slave child—are means to an end, and will ultimately be forgotten. Zeref lost his entire family to tragedy, and in his grief, he refused to forfeit the idea of regaining what was lost, namely his brother. He became afflicted with a curse—a magic condition outside of his control—and experienced cognitive dissonance for it. Ultimately, this miserable existence culminated in the idea of erasing the timeline entirely and forging his own. Any casualties, any cruelties—including subjecting his creations to the same lack of complete cognitive control—are means to an end, and will not matter. 

I mentioned that selfishness is also a recurring theme and this is a prime example of the dark side of it. For Lucy, claiming her independence and following her own path against the wishes of her estate, it is a wondrous thing. Freedom cannot be achieved without some selfishness, and this is a wonderfully handled theme in Fairy Tail, where our protagonists unabashedly put their friends above concrete morals and follow a creed to live their life to the fullest—the eternal adventure. For characters like Ultear and Zeref, their personal desires—born of horrible tragedy and frankly understandable things to want—come at the cost of the autonomy of everyone else, especially the pawns they use to further their goal. This, in true fictional hyperbole, begs the question of where the line in the sand is to be drawn, of what is acceptable on a moral standard and what is not. It is, of course, colored by the protagonist’s point of view as clear antagonism, but as a viewer of the media it provides to us to question when protecting one’s ideal becomes irrevocably an attack on the sanctity of others. 

Which brings us back to the matter of the books. The intended horror of Natsu losing control of himself, I think, could have been really emphasized in order to highlight these aforementioned themes. Imagine if, instead of a complete menagerie of new characters as the final invading force, Zeref’s key piece of his invasion was Natsu. With the intended goal of undoing time, having Natsu kill him is no longer necessary, so it would be more pragmatic to use Natsu instead as a weapon of mass destruction for his goal. Not only is he inside of Fairy Tail, but Zeref is, theoretically, doing this for Natsu too, and he won’t remember this upon success—nevermind that the Natsu we know, that presently exists, that we have watched develop over the entirety of the series, would be forever erased regardless. 

Armed with the knowledge of what happened to Jellal, and how he ultimately had no one to intervene for him, this increases the urgency within the characters and will likely expedite their discovery of why Natsu turned against them out of nowhere. This time, a resistance is launched, and characters have the chance to intervene on the behalf of a friend. Gray couldn’t save Ur, Lucy spent years ensnared by the will of a family member, Erza didn’t recognize Jellal’s plight until it was too late, but they can save Natsu, and save him quickly. Fairy Tail, Team Natsu especially, can rewrite the book of E.N.D. solely for the great cause of freeing their friend and handing him back his free will, and in the process, Fairy Tail saves their own future as well. This doesn’t preclude the ability to free Zeref from his curse, but with or without that we have a beautiful culmination of fighting for the sake of a friend, for the individual and for the whole group. This time, friendship wins. 

I just think it could have been really cool.

[joiigurl]

LEG DAY LOOKS GOOD ON YOU ❥﹒⟡﹒✷﹒✕

Genre: smut 18+ MDNI, (this is my first smut hope it’s alright lol )

Pairing: Gym rat Hoon x Gym rat pilates fem reader

🌶️mentions: short plot, oral and anal sex , reader has a plumped ass and slight toned body , muscular hoon, he shows dom energy, calls reader baby , princess , public sex , groping , strong language, cum eating , rough sex

🌶️synopsis: he couldn’t stop staring at your ass. you asked for a little training—he gave you way more. bodies tangled, locker room heated… and leg day got real personal. 😮‍💨🔥

wc: 4.4k

—

The gym was packed, but your little corner by the pilates mat felt like your own sanctuary—until today.

You’d finally caved. After weeks of watching the weightlifters from across the room while sticking to your pilates and resistance band routines, you decided it was time to switch it up.

Leg day.

Your leggings hugged you a little tighter than usual, and with your hair pulled up in a high ponytail, you approached the squat rack with a mix of fear and excitement. You’d seen the guy before—Sunghoon, the quiet but chill one always wearing a fitted white tank, backwards cap, headphones in, arms flexing like he was born to intimidate.

And apparently… he noticed you too.

You bent down to adjust your stance, eyes locked on the mirror in front of you, hyper-focused on your form. But in the mirror’s reflection, you spotted it. His stare. Not subtle. Not shy. His gaze was laser-focused on your backside like he forgot what a barbell was.

You stood up slowly, tilted your head, and met his eyes through the mirror.

Caught.

He blinked, his lips twitching slightly like he’d just been caught stealing cookies from the jar. But instead of looking away, he shrugged—boldly—and smirked.

You turned around, wiping sweat from your temple. “Enjoy the view?”

Sunghoon didn’t flinch. He pulled out one earbud, casually leaning on the machine beside you. “Wasn’t my fault. You stepped into my line of sight.”

“Oh yeah?” you raised an eyebrow. “Funny, ‘cause I was pretty sure your neck turned ninety degrees.”

He laughed—a low, throaty chuckle—and pushed off the rack. “First time squatting?”

You nodded, pretending to be unaffected by the way his veins popped when he grabbed a nearby plate. “Trying to tone.”

He stepped closer, not invading your space but close enough to smell his cologne. Fresh, faintly woody. “You want a spot? I promise I’ll keep my eyes up.”

You smirked, cocking a brow. “That’d be a first.”

He chuckled again, this time rubbing the back of his neck. “Touché.”

As he moved behind you to position himself as your spotter, his voice lowered. “For the record… leg day looks really good on you.”

Your cheeks flushed, but you gave him a playful eye roll, gripping the bar. “If I drop this weight, it’s your fault.”

“Then I’ll just have to catch you,” he murmured.

You swore your heart skipped—but maybe that was just the pre-workout kicking in.

You had barely caught your breath from that last squat set when Sunghoon stepped around the bar and offered a hand.

“You wanna fix your stance a bit?” he asked, voice low, that just-for-you tone. “Might help with balance.”

You nodded, swallowing back the nerves bubbling in your chest. “Sure.”

Sure? That’s all you could say? Meanwhile, this man looked like a walking Greek statue, and you were doing your best not to collapse from the combination of adrenaline and the way your leggings clung to all the wrong places.

Sunghoon moved behind you again, but this time… slower.

His hand lightly touched your shoulder first—just a brush of his fingertips. “Relax this a little.” Then his hand slid lower, ghosting along your upper arm before adjusting the angle of your elbow. “Good. Chin up.”

You nodded, trying to focus. Trying not to melt.

Then, he crouched down—hands moving to your waist. His thumbs rested just above your hips, the warmth of his skin seeping through your top. “Okay, feet shoulder-width apart. Keep your weight in your heels. And—” he paused, glancing at your backside before clearing his throat—“don’t arch your back too much. Neutral spine.”

You bent your knees, beginning your next squat like he said. You could feel him behind you, close but not touching, his eyes boring into your form.

“Lower,” he murmured, voice like sin.

You went lower.

Then—a hand on your lower back.

Just a light press, guiding you. “Right there. Perfect.”

You looked up at him in the mirror and caught it—that flicker of distraction. His promise to “keep his eyes up” was already long gone.

His gaze was glued to your ass again.

You straightened and turned, hands on your hips, pretending to scold. “Seriously?”

He didn’t even try to defend himself this time.

Just shrugged, shameless. “I’m only human.”

You narrowed your eyes, but your smirk gave you away. “You’re supposed to be training me, not checking me out like I’m your post-workout protein.”

He stepped closer, his chest almost brushing yours. “Then stop looking like the best thing in this entire gym.”

Your heart skipped. He held your gaze, cocky and unbothered—but his fingers were still on your waist, like he forgot to move them.

You swallowed. “Are we done here?”

He leaned in, voice dropping. “Not even close.”

The gym had mostly cleared out. Late night meant fewer people, dimmed lights, and just the buzz of machines winding down in the background. After a very intense workout, He followed you straight into the back hallway of the locker rooms.

You stepped into the locker room, heart still thumping—not from squats anymore, but from the way Sunghoon had been all over you while pretending to “adjust your form.” Hands on your waist, voice in your ear, eyes glued to your ass like he was hypnotized.

You didn’t even get to sit on the bench before the door swung open behind you.

He was there. Hoon.

His white tank clung to his body, collar soaked in sweat, his chest rising and falling with barely restrained tension.

He locked the door.

Your breath caught. “Sunghoon…”

“Baby,” he said, voice low, dark, and hungry, “you have no idea what you did to me out there.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Because the second you turned around—he was on you.

His lips crashed into yours, hot and wet, all tongue and spit and desperation. You moaned into his mouth, fingers clutching at his tank, dragging it up so you could finally touch his skin—hard muscle under warm flesh.

His hands found your ass instantly, gripping both cheeks like he’d been dying to. “Fuck,” he groaned into your mouth, breathing hard between kisses, “this ass is unreal, baby.”

You gasped, but he didn’t give you time to talk. His mouth claimed yours again—sloppier this time, tongues tangling, teeth grazing, lips swollen. You bit his lip and he growled.

He turned you around fast, pressing you against the locker—chest to metal, ass to his hard bulge.

And you felt it.

His bulge was heavy, thick, straining through his shorts, grinding up against your ass while he dragged his hands along your waist. “You like teasing me, huh?” he whispered against your ear, voice gravelly. “Walking around in those tight little leggings, bent over right in front of me…”

You moaned, biting your lip. “Maybe.”

His teeth nipped your ear, and you shivered.

“Fuck,” he groaned, hand sliding around to your front, palm pressing right below your waistband. “You feel so good, baby. I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

You reached back, grabbing his forearm with one hand, his thigh with the other. “Hoon…”

He kissed down your neck, slow at first, then messy. Wet, open-mouthed kisses, tongue dragging against your skin, leaving a trail from your jaw to your collarbone. “You’re mine right now,” he breathed. “Say it.”

You tilted your head for him, lip caught between your teeth, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m yours.”

“Good fucking girl,” he rasped, biting at your shoulder as his hand kneaded your ass again, this time with a rough squeeze that made you gasp.

You turned around, grabbing his face and yanking him back into another kiss—hot, deep, nasty. There was too much spit, your lips slipping, teeth clashing, moans spilling out between breaths like neither of you could get enough.

You felt his fingers drag down your stomach, just above your waistband, making your stomach clench.

“Hoon,” you whispered, voice breathless and high. “W-What are you doing?”

He grinned against your jaw, lips wet, voice thick with heat. “Just helping my baby cool down…”

But he wasn’t cooling anything.

His fingers slipped between your thighs, pressing gently through your leggings, right over your core. You jolted.

“Hoon—!”

He didn’t push hard—just rubbed slow, small circles with his thumb, teasing your clothed clit with barely enough pressure to make you gasp. His mouth moved back to your ear, voice dark and smug. “You’re soaked through this fabric, baby. All this just from a few squats and kisses?”

You whined softly, grinding down against his fingers without meaning to.

He chuckled low. “God, you’re needy, huh?”

“ Hoon, please,” you whispered, legs shaking.

His free hand grabbed your hip, holding you still while his fingers rubbed tiny, perfect circles over your clothed clit—never going too hard, never pulling your leggings down, just keeping you right on the edge.

He bit your earlobe again, hot breath trailing down your neck. “You gonna cum just from this? From me rubbing your pretty little pussy through your leggings like a tease?”

You moaned, and he kissed you again—deep, open-mouthed, tongue sliding over yours in a wet, messy tangle.

You pulled back, panting, eyes half-lidded and heavy.

He looked you up and down, chest heaving. “Fuck, baby. You’re gonna ruin those leggings if I keep going.”

You swallowed hard, lips parted. “Then keep going.”

Your breath hitched the second Sunghoon picked up the pace.

His fingers pressed harder through the soaked fabric of your leggings, rubbing your clit in fast, hungry circles. The pressure, the friction—it was too much, but somehow not enough.

Your head dropped back against the locker with a soft clang, and a broken moan spilled out of you. “Hoon—fuck…”

“That’s it, baby,” he growled against your neck. “So fucking wet for me. Just from my fingers on top of your clothes? You’re such a mess already.”

You whimpered, legs shaking. Your hips rolled on instinct, chasing every bit of pressure he gave you. His other hand came around to grab your throat—not tight, just resting, possessive, like he wanted to feel how fast he was making your heart race.

Your eyes fluttered, then rolled back as a louder moan slipped out. “Shit—Sunghoon, I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” he whispered, hard now against your ass, grinding into you through both your leggings and his sweats. You could feel him—thick, heavy, hard as hell—and the friction had his breath coming out in rough bursts.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to the side of your face. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, baby. Look at you—moaning all pretty, can’t even think straight.”

Your mouth was open, panting, drooling a little from how overwhelmed you were. He watched you fall apart with dark, lust-blown eyes.

“I’ve never been this hard in my fucking life,” he muttered, voice hoarse, almost desperate. “One more sound out of you and I’m gonna lose it.”

You bit your lip, barely able to focus, just gasping for him.

“Go ahead,” he said lowly. “Let everyone in this gym know who’s making you fall apart like this.”

You moaned his name, high and shameless.

“Hoon…”

“Say it again.”

“Hoon, baby—please—”

And that broke him.

He kissed you again, fast, messy, all tongue and teeth.

Just when you were about to fall apart—right there in the locker room, grinding down on Sunghoon’s hand like your life depended on it—he stopped.

You whimpered, needy and dazed. “Hoon—what the hell…”

He looked up at you with blown pupils, lips wet from all the kissing, chest heaving. “Can’t do this halfway, baby.”

You barely had time to react before he was dropping to his knees in front of you.

“What are you—” you breathed, but your voice died the second his hands hooked into the waistband of your leggings, tugging them down just enough to expose your soaked underwear.

“Fuck me,” he whispered under his breath, eyes locked on the mess you’d become. “You’re dripping, baby. All that from my fingers?”

He leaned in, kissing your inner thigh first—slow, hot, open-mouthed kisses that had you shaking already.

Your hands went to his hair on instinct, tugging, needing anything to hold onto. His breath ghosted over your core, making you whimper. “Hoon, please… don’t tease me…”

He looked up at you from between your legs, mouth just inches from where you needed him. “I’ve been dreaming about this since the first time you walked past me in that tight ass gym set.”

And then—he licked his lips.

“Be a good girl,” he murmured, voice low, eyes never leaving yours. “Let me taste you hm?”

Then he lowered his head again—his lips brushing against the wet fabric of your panties, breathing you in like he was already addicted.

He mouthed over the soaked spot, teasing, slow pressure and heat that made you whimper. “This pussy’s been teasing me since the first day you stepped in the gym.”

Your hips bucked, but he held you down. “Uh-uh. Stay still, baby.”

You nearly cried when his tongue flattened against the fabric—slow, deliberate, dragging a moan from deep in your throat. Your hand tightened in his hair, and he groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core.

Every lick, every kiss, was hot, hungry, and slow, his hands roaming up and down your thighs while he kept working your body through your clothes—cruelly, perfectly, never giving it all at once.

When he finally slipped one hand up and tugged your underwear to the side, his voice dropped to a low growl:

“Let me take my time with you.”

And he did.

You bit your lip, head falling back against the locker, eyes fluttering shut—your body unraveling under the heat of his mouth, his tongue, his rhythm. And he never let up—not once—as you moaned his name like it was the only word you remembered.

“ So fucking sweet baby,” he let out a breathy chuckle looking up at you.

Your thighs were already trembling, eyes dark as sin, mouth hovering over your center like he was worshipping it.

His fingers toyed with the waistband of your underwear, slow and deliberate.

“Take it off, Hoon,” you whispered, breathless.

His lips curled into a devilish grin.

“You want it that bad, baby?” he teased, voice low, raspy. “You’re this wet and I’ve barely even touched you.”

You let out a soft moan, hips rocking forward without permission.

“Say it,” he ordered, grip tightening on your thighs. “Tell me to take them off.”

“Take them off,” you begged, voice shaky, body pulsing for him. “Please.”

That did it.

His eyes locked onto yours as his fingers slid under the waistband. Then—slowly, so slowly—he began tugging your underwear down, past your hips, your thighs, until they dropped to your ankles.

He didn’t break eye contact once.

“Fucking perfect,” he murmured, tossing the fabric to the side without care, then leaning in, pressing a kiss to your bare hip like a promise. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

You were completely exposed now—panting, flushed, back pressed to cold metal while his warm breath dragged across your skin.

Without hesitation, his head dipped low against stated to aggressively eating —slurping you out. You rolled your eyes back into your skull then grabbed a fist full of hair and bucked your hips into his mouth.

“Shit—hoon, f-feels so good,” You moaned, mouth parted open feeling off the edge.

He raised his head up to look at you. “ Fuck….” he pants. “ I can’t enough of this sweet pussy.”

Breathless, you watched as he rose to his feet—slow and powerful, towering over you with that heat in his gaze that made your stomach twist.

Sunghoon reached behind his neck and peeled off his shirt, muscles flexing, veins prominent, his abs sharp under the overhead light. You were almost too stunned to breathe.

“You okay, baby?” he asked, voice low and gravelly as he tossed the shirt to the bench.

You could only nod.

Then, without a word, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his gym shorts—and his underwear—and dragged them both down in one smooth motion. His cock sprung up ,excited and hard…

You gasped softly, eyes flicking down for half a second before darting back up to his face.

He smirked, clearly catching it. “Like what you see baby?”

Your cheeks burned. You couldn’t answer.

He stepped closer—so close your bare thighs brushed his now-naked ones. His hands went to your waist, firm and hot, as he leaned in and whispered into your ear:

“I’ve been holding back since the first time I saw that ass bouncing on the StairMaster. But now?”

He pressed against you—completely.

“I’m done holding back.”

“ Suck me baby.” he demanded softly.

You obeyed and when you dropped to your knees in front of him, he cursed under his breath—loud and broken, his hand immediately gripping the locker behind him for support.

“Baby…” he warned, voice rough now. “Don’t tease unless you’re ready to finish what you start.”

You looked up at him through your lashes, smirking.

“I’m always ready.”

Your hands slid up his thighs, slow and purposeful, watching every twitch of muscle under your palms. He was completely still—except for the way his hips subtly rocked forward, aching for more. Desperate.

“Fuck,” he whispered, biting his lip hard. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You leaned in, close enough that your breath ghosted over his skin, your mouth hovering right over his cock. he slight jolted as you began moving her head up and down his length.

“ Fuck,” he whispered looking down. “ Mouth feels s’good princess.”

He grabbed your ponytail and slowly bucked his hips into your mouth. Sunghoon’s head hit the locker behind him with a dull thud, a loud, guttural moan escaping his throat. “Shit—baby—fuck—”

He was breathless, eyes glazed, hands trembling as they tangled in your hair. “You keep going like this,” he panted, “and I’m not gonna last.”

You pulled away to lookup at him, lips swollen, eyes dark.

“That’s the plan.”

He let out a breathless chuckle and forced him back in your mouth—hard this time. His hands guiding your head bobbing up and down. It was messy, filthy, sloppy but you were enjoying every last minute of it and obviously he was too. You felt tears form in the corners of your eyes.

“Shit—baby—wait—” Sunghoon’s voice cracked, hips jerking forward, his fingers tangled tight in your hair like it was the only thing grounding him to earth.

But you didn’t stop. You just looked up at him—dark-eyed, in control, knowing exactly what you were doing. And it ruined him.

His legs buckled a little, knees hitting the edge of the bench behind him. “I-I can’t—” he stammered, breathless, his chest rising and falling so fast it was almost a shudder.

Then he let out a choked moan—low, wrecked, like you had knocked the air from his lungs.

“Uhhhhh F*ck, baby,” he gasped. “I’m—I’m gonna—”

His whole body seized for a second.

“ Fuckkk……” you felt him shoot loads of cum into your mouth.

You swallowed every last drop of him and he chuckled. Completely undone.

Sunghoon was still catching his breath when you turned to grab your leggings.

But the second your back faced him—bare, curved, still flushed from earlier—he growled under his breath and stood up like he hadn’t just come undone seconds ago.

You didn’t even get to pull your underwear back on before you felt his hand on your waist, firm and possessive.

“Hoon—” you breathed, glancing over your shoulder.

“I’m not done with you,” he said, voice low, like a warning. “Not even close.”

His chest pressed against your back, hand sliding around to your stomach to hold you steady as his other hand guided your hips just right.

“Bend over,” he whispered against your ear, lips grazing the shell of it. “Hands on the locker. Now.”

You obeyed—heart hammering, body already melting for him all over again.

“I tried to be good, baby,” he groaned, dragging his fingers along your skin. “But this ass—this body—you think I’m gonna stop after just a taste?”

Then you felt him press against you—hard, ready again, his body radiating heat.

The moment he pushed forward, your gasp echoed off the lockers, your hands bracing as your head fell forward.

“Hoon—” you moaned, knees trembling.

He thrust slow, deep, controlled at first—but that didn’t last.

“You feel that?” he gritted, his voice a snarl now. “That’s mine.”

The locker banged behind your palms with every movement, your name falling from his lips like a prayer and a curse all at once. His grip on your waist was bruising, possessive—like he wasn’t letting go until you both had nothing left to give.

“Sunghoon,” you gasped, knuckles white against the locker, legs quaking.

He didn’t slow down. Didn’t let you breathe.

He reached down and whispered in your ear. “ This tight little pussy—all mine.”

“ A-all yours.” you whimpered.

“That’s right, baby,” he growled, voice ragged against your neck as his hips slammed into you again.

Your mouth opened but nothing came out—just a breathy moan, your eyes rolling back as your body threatened to give out under the weight of him. He was relentless. Possessive. Like every movement was a punishment and a promise.

“You like when I take you like this?” he hissed, grabbing a fistful of your hair and tugging your head back so he could kiss down your neck, open-mouthed and messy. “Bent over, whining for it like a good girl?”

You whimpered, nodding desperately. “Y-yes, Hoon. I—oh my god—”

His fingers dug into your waist. “You feel so good, baby. So. Fucking. Good.”

The sounds—skin, breath, the soft creak of the locker—blended with your moans and his curses. It was loud. Shameless. Raw.

Sunghoon leaned forward, pressing his sweat-slick chest against your back, lips ghosting over your ear.

“You gonna come for me like this, sweetheart?” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Right here in this dirty locker room, with my name in your mouth?”

Your whole body locked up, trembling.

“I can feel it,” he groaned. “God, you’re shaking—fuck.”

Sunghoon’s grip tightened—your thighs around his waist, his fingers digging into your hips like he was holding onto sanity by a thread. His body was shaking. So was yours. Every motion of his hips sent another jolt of heat through your stomach, another sharp cry out of your mouth.

“Baby—fuck,” he gasped, forehead pressed to yours. “I’m not gonna last—”

You were barely holding on either, the pressure winding tighter and tighter, your moans getting louder, messier. His name kept slipping out of your mouth in broken syllables, like it was the only word you knew.

“H-hoon—“ m’gonna—”

“I know, baby, I know,” he choked, hips stuttering. “Come with me. Right now. Come with me.”

Then he slammed forward one more time—and you shattered.

Your entire body locked up, mouth open in a silent scream before the sound finally ripped from your throat. “Hoon—!”

Your vision blurred. Legs trembled. Your back arched hard against the locker as you came undone, hands clutching his shoulders like you might fall through the floor.

He wasn’t far behind.

“Fuck—!” he roared, head thrown back, voice echoing off the walls as his body finally gave in.

He buried himself in you, arms tightening around your waist as he gasped your name like a prayer, like a curse, like you were the only thing anchoring him to earth.

You held onto each other—trembling, sweaty, ruined—as the waves crashed over you both, loud and shameless.

For a moment, there was nothing. Just the two of you panting, shaking, still clinging like you’d never catch your breath again.

Then—

“Holy shit,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. “You just—ruined me.”

You smiled weakly, lips brushing his ear. “Good.” on your hips, and the way he buried his face in your shoulder as the two of you completely fell apart.

You were still pressed against the locker, Sunghoon cradling you like you’d break if he let go—his chest heaving, skin warm and flushed.

Then—he chuckled. Like, actually laughed.

You blinked at him, dazed and still catching your breath. “What?”

He pulled back slightly, his hair sticking to his forehead, his cheeks red, eyes shining with a mix of disbelief and affection. “We just committed a crime against gym etiquette.”

You snorted. “A loud one.”

Sunghoon groaned and leaned in again, brushing a kiss to your jaw. Then another to your cheek. Then a messy, lingering one to your lips that made you smile into it.

“God, baby,” he whispered between kisses. “You’re so hot when you’re ruining me.”

You giggled, arms draped around his neck. “You’re obsessed.”

“Damn right I am.” He kissed the tip of your nose. “You look way too pretty to let you walk out of here like this. Everyone’s gonna know what we did.”

You glanced down—your sports bra askew, hoodie half off, legs jelly. “…You’re not wrong.”

He pulled back, eyes roaming over you like he was still not over it. “Yeah, no. You’re coming home with me. I’ve got a big shower. Warm towels. My hoodie with no pants required.”

You raised a brow, grinning. “So this is your way of luring me to your place, huh?”

“I literally just had you up against a locker. I think we’re past luring.”

You burst out laughing, swatting at his chest, but he caught your hand mid-air and kissed it.

“Come on,” he said, helping you down gently. “I’ll even make you ramen after. And maybe…” he gave you a look, “round two when your legs work again?”

You flushed, heart thudding in your chest. “Hoon!”

“What?” he smirked, already pulling your hoodie over your head and fixing your hair gently. “You said you wanted to tone your body. I’m just helping, baby.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop smiling as he grabbed your bag with one hand, laced your fingers together with the other, and pulled you toward the exit like you were the best part of his workout.

[dimonds456-art]

PLEASE GIVE US THE OLD MAN RAMIREZ LORE!!!

GLADLY

I have two other asks like this and I wanna answer them each independently so get ready fghdsjka

Soos worked alongside Dipper in the 80s, at first acting just as a friend and adventuring partner. While Dipper moved to Gravity Falls, Soos is a native and working as a janitor in the elementary school at the time.

They met at the arcade, where Dipper was trying to find a ghost haunting one of the machines, and he found very quickly that Soos was not only a good partner, but also a good friend. They bonded pretty fast after that.

Dipper was mostly chasing ghosts, but he would take interest in other anomalies as well, leading him to writing down and sketching this weird grafiti he found in a cave once, then translating it once he got home. While he heeded the warning not to read it aloud, Soos... didn't. Dipper yelled at him over it, fearing the worst, but then nothing happened, so whatever. Weird cave drawing.

That night, Soos meets Bill Cipher.

Bill was not as patient as he was with Ford in canon. Here, he told Soos about a dimension with all the answers only a couple months into their friendship, IF that long. Soos had the technical know-how to build it, and Bill gave him the blueprints one at a time in his sleep. Then, to avoid suspicion since they both knew Dipper would assume Bill was a malicious entity, Bill had him put those blueprints outside Dipper's door for him to wake up to, making him think a cryptid was helping him, thus giving him confirmation bias about that other dimension of weirdness.

Portal test happens, Soos gets pulled through, and he puts two and two together. He tells Dipper immediately about what he saw, which lead to him confessing everything. Dipper rightfully got mad at him for lying, which caused Soos to run. But at this point, he'd made a possession deal with Bill, and Bill uses Soos' body to torment Dipper.

Soos, wracked with guilt, immerses himself in the arcade. He plays games in a form of avoidance, eventually getting addicted to them as McGucket did the memory gun.

There is one game in particular, however, that was more addicting than the others. I'm picturing it as a bit of a sim, which IS strange for an arcade. This game talks directly to Soos, telling him that life would be better in a video game, to which he agrees. Things tend to just work out that way.

Over the next few months/years, the game takes pieces from Soos and transfers them into the game itself. Soos doesn't notice at first, only feeling more and more lost and depressed, especially after he goes to check on Dipper only to find him missing...? And yeah, of course he wants to search for his friend, but he not only doesn't trust himself anymore, but he also feels that pull back to the cabinet and just makes his situation worse.

After a while, the game asks him again if he would like to become a video game, to which he says yes. The game then offers to transfer the rest of him inside, and Soos freaks out. He didn't mean it literally, even if it still doesn't sound too bad...? But the change freaks him out too bad, and he refuses.

The game tries to do it anyway, resulting in a torn sense of self. Old Man Ramírez is that result, his entire life being viewed as a video game. He's unable to take anything more seriously than one would a plot point IN a game, and he often dissociates and daydreams when he's not actively running around looking for loot.

See, it turns out the ghost Dipper was looking for way back when? The ghost they caught was unrelated. There was still a different ghost inside the arcade machine, a ghost named Giffany. And Giffany refuses to let Soos go.

This brings us to modern day, when the Stan twins find out that Ramírez worked with the Author. They are able to figure out that Soos is in the machine, and dive in to look for him. Once they do find him, he rejects the machine and declares he's never gonna play a game again, before backtracking and admitting he might every now and then, but never to the point that he stops living again. They all escape, and though Soos is still extremely disoriented and needs to re-learn how to be a person, he starts being able to heal.

And yeah, in that "episode," part of the B plot is that everyone else's bodies are running around, reduced to their basic personalities intertwined with video game tropes. So like, Stan loves adventuring and causing trouble, so he just starts doing that and "scoring points" while doing it. Ford, who loves mysteries, starts basically dong escape rooms. Idk who else is there but Grauntie Mabel is trying to keep all the bodies together to make the transfer back easier.

Basically, instead of the memory gun, it's video games, and specifically Giffany. Soos becomes avoidant, thinking Dipper doesn't wanna see him, and feeling incredibly guilty over the Bill thing. His soul basically split from his body and it's kind of a metaphor for getting lost in the sauce, for lack of a better phrase fdshjk

[prythiansprincess]

CHAPTER FIVE | TSOFAS.

pairing: azriel x reader.

word count: 3,768.

author's note: long time no update. I got a bit distracted with the valentine's special, but i'm back and better than ever. this chapter introduces eris and the lady of autumn, who will both play crucial roles in this story. hope you enjoy. <3

♫ enemy - imagine dragons. nav. series. moodboard.

Eris Vanserra was not a sentimental male. 

Still, there was something to be said about the way he fretted about in the open foyer. For the past week, he had spent countless hours inspecting every inch of the manor, making sure the green ivy was trimmed into neat rows as they curled over the brick walls, instructing the servants to polish the rosewood floors, and even throwing open the heavy gilded windows himself to welcome the crisp, autumn air. 

“Stop pacing about, my dear.” The Lady of Autumn reprimanded, her tone stern but not unkind. “You’ll give yourself a headache.”

Despite his best efforts, Eris was not able to talk his mother out of accompanying him to the manor. The Lady of the Autumn Court sauntered past the balcony doors, her elegant face yielding nothing as she overlooked the gardens below them. She appeared as prim and proper as always, amber eyes scanning the edge of the Godswood as her auburn hair flowed freely behind her shoulders. Her back was ramrod straight as though engaged in a silent struggle with her ancestral home. 

Before she became a Vanserra, his mother had spent her formative years within these very walls. As the youngest of three siblings, she had lived a relatively carefree life despite her aristocratic upbringing. It had been the duty of her eldest sister to secure prominence and political advantage for their family through marriage, while she and her second eldest sister were shielded from the pressures of being the heir. His mother had dreamt of exploring other courts and experiencing different cultures in her youth, but her hopes had been dashed when the High Lord set his eyes on her. At twenty, she left her dreams and her home behind and never allowed herself to look back.

As far as Eris knew, his mother hadn’t set foot in the manor since the King of Hybern's attack. She would never admit it, but he could tell that visiting the manor wasn’t easy for her. There were too many memories attached to this place, too many ghosts that haunted the hallways that once contained the joy of her youth. Now, it was as much of a graveyard as the Godswood below. 

“Our guests will be arriving soon,” Eris said carefully. “We wouldn’t want them to find our court lacking.”

His mother gave him a pointed look. “The point may be moot with regards to your cousin.”

They shared a brief moment of tense silence. The servants milled about in the gardens and though they were all thoroughly vetted and under his employ, Eris still wielded extreme caution when it came to discussing private matters in their presence. One should never underestimate Beron’s paranoia. It was entirely merited, given the fact that he was currently doing everything in his power to undermine his father. 

But the High Lord of the Autumn Court didn’t need to know that. 

Beron especially didn’t need to know that his wife was privy to her eldest son’s schemes and was in fact a major contributor to the plot at hand. Alas, such was the machinations of the complicated relationships within the Vanserra family. The blood of the fox was cursed with trickery and betrayal. 

“Perhaps the mixture of familiarity and hospitality will quell my dear cousin’s apprehension.”

“Or perhaps it will incense her all the more,” his mother said as she stared and stared at something he couldn’t quite see. The corner of her mouth quirked up into a faint smile. “In any case, I would hide the knives.” 

Eris scoffed at that. “She’s just as likely to commit fratricide with her bare hands than a butter knife,” he said rather drolly. “But I’ll be sure to inform the servants, mother.”

The Lady of the Autumn Court failed to find the humor in that. Instead, she frowned deeply. “It will not be easy for her to return to this place.” 

“Better here than the Forest House,” Eris countered. “Besides, this was her home once.”

That sharp golden gaze locked onto him. “This manor is as much of a home for my niece as it is for me.” 

Point taken, Eris thought. The gravity of her words hung heavy in the air, littering the crisp autumn air with unspoken pain and burden. A crack in the mask of the Lady of the Autumn Court. To anyone else, her aristocratic elegance appeared perfectly intact as she gripped the railing, but Eris alone spotted the slight shaking of her hands. 

Wordlessly, he offered her a supportive squeeze to which she returned with an appreciative nod. “I will do everything in my power to assure that things are in order.” 

I will not fail her again, he silently added. 

Though unspoken, his mother seemed to understand all the same. She squeezed his hand, her fingers curling around his palm as though they were exchanging a solemn vow. 

“Will you be joining the welcoming party?” 

His mother tensed as something unreadable flashed through her expression. She simply shook her head, her eyes still trailing the jewel toned tree line beyond. Leaves of gold, maroon, and burnt orange swayed in the wind and swept across the grounds like a rain of flames. Eris couldn’t help the ominous feeling that crept into his veins. 

“Be careful, Eris.” Her gaze slid over to him and for a moment he felt a shiver snake down his spine. “The games are about to begin.

For miles and miles, the glittering tundra of the Winter Court stretched out over the horizon. Azriel landed silently on the fresh powdered snow and trotted through the border of the icy landscape. Beside him, the assassin gazed upon the flurries and walked on as though she was completely unperturbed by the glacial temperature. 

The shadowsinger was no stranger to the cold given his years of training in the Illyrian mountains, but this frost was something else entirely. The chill of the frigid air settled into his bones, swallowing every bit of warmth left in him until he felt like a statue of impenetrable ice. Even his shadows shied from the sting of the cold. 

Azriel sidled up to his reluctant companion’s side, eyeing her carefully. It had only been five minutes since they winnowed from Velaris, but the shadowsinger already missed the balmy morning back home. 

He unfurled his wings, shaking off the snow gathered around his shoulders. “Are you not cold?” 

The assassin made no indication that she heard him, choosing instead to survey the winter wasteland. Her fingers curved protectively around her bloodstone necklace as though touching the gem gave her comfort. Jagged pieces of ice speared through the frozen ground in a strange pattern. A broken path winded through the middle of the square like a bridge leading to a city of glass. 

“There was a village here once,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. 

Azriel gathered as much from the desolate remnants. Though the ice huts were crumbling, the shadowsinger could tell that they were once occupied. “What happened to it?”

For the first time since arriving, the assassin shivered in place. “The Attor.”

There was a haunted expression on her face as though the mention of that wretched creature brought up unpleasant memories. It had never occurred to him that she might have crossed paths with the Attor. Azriel heard about the terrors that the monster unleashed upon the Winter Court. It had bragged about it in the dungeons of the Court of Nightmares. The Attor was as sadistic as they came, relishing in its wicked deeds even under the threat of unspeakable pain, spinning tales of the cities and villages it had razed to the ground and the citizens it had tortured and killed. 

The shadowsinger wondered if the assassin had known any of them. “It suffered for its crimes.” 

The assassin met his gaze and for a moment Azriel felt as though he were staring directly into the sun for all the rage and wrath simmering there. Not enough, those eyes seemed to say. Not nearly enough. 

Turning away from the abandoned settlement, the assassin faced Azriel with a stoic gaze. “We should get going.”

The shadowsinger didn’t have it in him to argue. Azriel was more than happy to escape the eeriness of this place. He took great pains in avoiding the assassin’s gaze as he scooped her up into his arms. With a beat of his wings, he ascended through the dreary skies and left the desolate village and her haunted expression behind. 

The flight across the icy terrain was utterly silent with only the sound of the rushing wind breezing past them. Glaciers and snow capped mountains soon gave way to lush forests and winding lakes. Leaves dotted the ground below and sparkled like jewels in varying shades of red, gold, and orange. The crisp frozen air dissipated and made room for an earthy scent, somewhere between a mixture of cinammon and fresh picked apples. Something about it was vaguely familiar. 

It reminded him of the warm embrace of autumn, of crackling fires and hot cocoa, of crisp leaves and the shedding of the old to welcome the new. He made the mistake of glancing down and realized why he recognized the scent with a start. It smelled like the female he was holding. 

A little piece of autumn in his arms. He didn’t quite know what to make of it. 

Azriel shook the thought away as he descended. The flurries embedded through the female’s crimson hair had long melted, dripping like diamonds against a field of fire. At the entrance of the grand forest, the shadowsinger watched quietly as the assassin set foot in the Autumn Court for the first time in four centuries. 

There was something solemn about the sight. The ruby leaves, the emerald trees, the sapphire sky. All leaning towards her presence as though they were waiting for this exact moment. The sunlight speared through the woods and crowned the assassin with its light, receiving the daughter of fire into holy ground. 

Welcome home, the forest seemed to say. 

The shadowsinger was wise enough not to voice the thought aloud. 

The sprawling forest was the perfect picture of autumn. The earth was soft beneath your feet and the oak trees swayed in the breeze as you marched up to the golden wrought iron gates. An enchantment shimmered through the metal just as Azriel slid in beside you. 

The irony of being on the other side of the Autumn Court borders wasn’t lost on you. The shadowsinger watched in silence as you lifted a palm against the golden barrier. It sparked in warning inches away from your fingertips, pulsing throughout the gilded wall. Stranger, the magic hissed. A threat. 

A ghost haunting the land you once called home. 

“Stay alert,” Azriel warned softly. “Our welcoming party is approaching.”

Beyond the vast tree line, two carriages approached. The horses came to a stop and eight sentries bearing the Autumn Court’s insignia lined up before you. Beron was clearly trying to send a message. One of the guards pulled open the door to the first carriage, revealing a familiar redheaded male. 

Eris Vanserra glided across the forest with all the grace of a lordling primped and primed to inherit his father’s lands. Dressed in rich fabrics, the male’s crimson red hair burned brightly against the auburn finery of his clothes, its embroidered stitching weaved with gold thread. He looked just as you remembered him. Pompous and arrogant, but dangerous too. All the silk in the realm would not make you forget how deadly your cousin could be. After all, he was the commander of Beron’s armies for a reason. 

Amber eyes not unlike your own appraised the both of you with an underlying hint of mischief. It was hard to imagine that ages ago, you used to be friends. Closer to siblings than cousins, you once considered Eris and Lucien the brothers you never had. The three of you vowed to care for one another, but in the end the trickery and betrayal that cursed your blood broke those familial ties. Once Eris stepped into the role of heir apparent, he left you reeling in his wake. In the end, your cousin turned out to be every bit his father’s son. 

With an arrogant smirk, the heir of the Autumn Court bowed and took your hand. “Welcome home, Lady Thorne.” 

It required every ounce of self-restraint within you to resist slapping him across the face. He of all people knew how much you loathed that title. 

“I’m not a lady,” you said with a frown. “And this is not my home.” 

“Is that any way to greet your gracious host?” 

You scoffed. “As much as you love to parade around playing lord, I have not forgotten the truth of who you are, Eris. You are nothing but a well-dressed viper.” 

A smile snaked its way across the male’s pale face. “You flatter me, cousin.” His gaze flickered to the male beside you. “A pleasure to see you again, shadowsinger.” 

Azriel responded with a frown and tucked his wings tightly behind his back. The sentries standing nearby gaped at the seven blue siphons glowing throughout his armor, but the shadowsinger ignored them and stared straight ahead with a cold expression on his face. 

“I take it that your journey went well?” A wicked glimmer flashed through your cousin’s eyes as he met your gaze. “Though I’m surprised you two made it here without incident considering the interesting nature of your relationship. I half-expected to find the woods burned to cinders, if the rumors of the passion between the two of you are to be believed.” 

You briefly glanced at Azriel and noticed that his frown had set in deeper in response to the taunt. How Eris knew of the nature of your relationship, you had no idea, but something told you that it couldn’t lead to anything good. 

“Enough pleasantries. Are you taking us to Beron or not?” 

“I didn’t think you’d be so eager to meet with the High Lord.”

There was nothing less appealing to you than being presented before your horrid uncle, but it was best to get all the unpleasantness over with. If you were to devise a plan to swindle Beron in plain sight, you needed to gauge the current state of his court. The fox’s den was always changing, power slipping in and out of the hands of the cruel High Fae nobles as each member fought for the High Lord’s favor.

It was a dizzying game of lies, scandal, and betrayal and one you hadn’t played in a very long time. The Autumn Court made your assassin duties look like child’s play in comparison. The task at hand wouldn’t be easy nor would you be able to accomplish it while exchanging meaningless words with your cousin. 

“I thought we might take a stroll through the forest. For old time’s sake,” Eris said with a brief glance to the sentries. Beron’s creatures. 

You were inclined to nod, silently telling your cousin to lead the way. Eris barked out a sharp command to his father’s men while you and Azriel ambled through the lush forest. Leaves crunched underneath your boots and a wave of nostalgia washed over you. These were the same woods that you learned to ride in, the same trees that bore the brunt of your blades, the same streams that you cooled off in when the blazing sun beat down upon your golden skin. 

The forest held the whispers of lovers long forgotten and dreams laid to waste when you crossed its border. Eris seemed to remember this as well. 

“Reminiscing, cousin?” He asked with a raised brow. 

Before your exile, Eris had helped you sneak out of the temple and rode by your side into the dark night, both of you escaping the responsibilities of priestess and heir. You used to talk about plans of bringing change into this court. Paying the farmers a fair wage. Dismantling the hierarchy that swayed in favor of the nobility. Reforming policies that encouraged the unfair treatment of the less fortunate faeries. 

You genuinely thought you’d be able to make a difference. With you as High Priestess and Eris as High Lord, you vowed to make this place better, but just like the male before you, the festering corruption embedded into the very foundations of this land had consumed you in the end. 

“Out with it, Eris. Speak freely while your dogs heed your command.” 

Your cousin pursed his lips into a grim line. “I assume Rhysand went over the plan with the both of you?” 

“Infiltrate the court. Decipher the map. Find the scepter,” you recounted. “Once again, it seems that I’m the one putting everything at risk for something that you could’ve easily done if you had the balls to, but as always, your lack of initiative is not the least bit surprising to me.” 

An amused laugh emanated from Eris. “I see you haven’t changed one bit, Y/N.” He sighed. “You are wrong, though. I obtained the map at great risk to myself, but there is only so much I could do without raising my father’s suspicion.”

“I’m sure that’s what you tell yourself, Eris.” You narrowed his eyes on him. “Now Alyanna’s daughters are paying the price for your own inaction.” 

A blaze of fire smoldered in your cousin’s eyes. Despite the arrogant demeanor he bore, you knew the raging temper that lay underneath. The blood of the fox always ran hot. 

“Do you not think that I have done everything to keep them out of this whole ordeal?” He gritted through clenched teeth. “Father wanted to house them in the dungeons, but instead they were welcomed as guests of the court. At my suggestion.”

“A gilded cage is still a cage,” you shot back. 

Eris startled at your words. You both knew that you weren’t just speaking of Alyanna’s daughters. Being confined in the Forest House was a punishment you were all too familiar with. The comment seemed to hit a nerve and just because you were you, you pushed even further. 

“I don’t even know why Rhysand bothers. All you do is talk of change while never achieving anything substantial. In the end, someone else pays the price for your choices.”

A low growl was his only response. Smoothly, Azriel leveled his gaze at Eris and those hazel eyes bore into your cousin with the promise of an unspoken threat. The heir of the Autumn Court bristled and shook the rage off of his shoulders. 

Coolly, he cast a steady glare at you as his jaw flexed. “Whatever lies you may tell yourself, the Night Court needs my alliance or else your precious High Lord wouldn’t have sent you here.” 

With a biting remark already on the tip of your tongue, you were surprised to find that the voice that silenced Eris wasn't your own. Azriel’s cool, steady words sliced through the tension.

“Perhaps you’re right. We are here under the High Lord and Lady’s request, but I’d choose my words carefully if I were you. Your cousin would not hesitate to present Rhys and Feyre your head as a mating ceremony gift, so I’d think it wise to avoid provoking her.” 

Shadows swirled around Azriel’s shoulders, recoiling like snakes waiting to strike. Eris had the good sense to take a step backwards. 

Raising his chin, Eris let a slow, easy smile settle over his features. “I prefer my head on my shoulders, but I am glad to see such camaraderie between you two.” Amber eyes slithered over you and the shadowsinger. “You’ll need it if you’re to convince my father you’re betrothed.” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” you hissed.

Beside you, Azriel tensed. The curt reaction was the only giveaway that this little revelation was a surprise to him too. 

Eris smiled, taking the reins back. “How do you think I convinced him to allow the shadowsinger into our borders? Beron hasn’t forgotten what happened at the last High Lord’s meeting.” 

“It seems you certainly have,” Azriel said with a voice like cold death. “Shall I give you a reminder?”

“As tempting as that sounds, I’d redirect that passion towards your blushing bride. Beron needs to be convinced that you two are a happy couple or else you’ll be on a flight home faster than you can blink.”

Anger pulsed through your veins. “Did Rhys know about this?” 

“Your safety is the High Lord’s main concern. I was to secure the shadowsinger’s presence here under any means necessary. Clearly, I held up my end of the bargain.”

A clever way of saying that Rhys did in fact know of this charade. You were going to kill him. Right after you wiped the smirk off of your cousin’s mouth.

“How exactly does this help us? I can’t imagine that Beron is overly fond of either one of us enough to throw a betrothal celebration.” 

“My father is many things, but he’s not stupid. The possibility of your return is enticing enough to allow an Illyrian warrior to step foot into his court. Plus, he would never deny a male their bride rite.” 

You crossed your arms and scowled. The bride rite was another primitive and sexist practice within the Autumn Court. According to tradition, a groom was entitled to visit a bride’s home and family in order to deem her worthy of marrying. The whole ordeal took a month, but it did afford your certain protections. During the stay, the High Lord was bound to a vow of safety and hospitality. You weren’t the least bit surprised that Beron took delight in honoring such an archaic custom. 

The bride’s father usually presented both his home and daughter to the groom, but since that option wasn’t in the cards for you, Beron was the closest male relative who could perform the duties. The bloody bastard was probably bursting at the seams at the chance to humiliate you in front of the whole court. Leave it to him to set aside his own hatred of you and the danger Azriel posed to his court in favor of patriarchal drivel. 

“What the hell is the bride rite?” Azriel asked. 

The smirk that spread across your cousin’s face was enough to make you want to pummel him right then and there, Rhysand’s warnings be damned. “I’m sure my dear cousin will fill you in.” Eris shot you an insolent wink. 

“Now hurry along lovebirds, the High Lord awaits.” 

₊˚⊹♡ thank you for reading. as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated. feel free to drop an ask too — i’d love to yap & chat with you all.

taglist: @fuckingsimp4azriel @onebadassunicorn-blog @acourtofbatboydreams @marina468 @ly--canthrope

[ninibeingdelulu]

"You should pay more attention, liebe"

plot- luckily for michael, his girlfriend is a tattoo artist CLICK ME

The studio's atmosphere thrummed with an electric undercurrent as your skilled hands meticulously guided the tattoo machine over Michael's pale skin.

Deft lines and whirling bursts of brilliant cerulean pigment steadily coalesced into the beginnings of an intricate blue rose blossoming to vivid life- the pristine petals unfurling in an elegant trail from the nape of his neck down the lean cords of his arm.

Despite the intense level of focus the demanding artistry required, you were acutely aware of Michael's every subtle shift and hitch of breath from where he laid prone before you.

The solid warmth of his powerful frame so tantalizingly proximal, close enough to detect the rich, earthy notes of his cologne mingling with the faint astringent tang of the tattoo ink.

Unconsciously, your teeth worried at your lower lip in concentration as you leaned in closer to refine the delicate detailing.

So immersed in your handiwork, the first exploratory caress of Michael's calloused fingertips skimming the bare expanse of your back caused you to visibly startle with a sharp inhalation.

Instantly, your gaze snapped up to meet his- all at once awash in the molten amber depths sparkling with unambiguous affection and want.

Those full lips you knew so intimately curved into a lopsided smirk as Michael took hopeless delight in your visible surprise.

"You need to learn how to pay better attention, liebe." He rumbled in that decadent timbre that never failed to catalyze an array of delicious tremors ricocheting straight through your very bones.

"I won't be ignored so easily..."

"Michael..." You huffed an exasperated sigh even as the corners of your own mouth tugged upwards in begrudging amusement. "I'm trying to make you look good here. Stop with the endless teasing, would you?"

The striker only responded with a deep, self-satisfied chuckle that reverberated through his chest and your conjoined forms as those wandering fingers trailed higher in tandem.

Insistent sweeps of his thumb now traced mesmerizing spirals along the sensitive knobs of your vertebrae - their languid ministrations fast proving an incredibly effective distraction as you strove to remain centered on the task at hand.

"Are you quite finished?"

You arched one pointed brow in his direction whilst just barely suppressing a betraying shiver of pure indulgence.

When Michael's response was little more than a wicked glint in those smoldering amber pools, you huffed once more and stubbornly returned to your inking.

Yet no matter how fixated you kept your attentions, ignoring the steady smolder of his unhurried explorations rapidly becoming an impossibility.

Every successive sweep of his fingertips up your spine, each featherlight caress ghosting over the exposed flush of your shoulders was an unignorable siren demanding to be seared into your restless subconscious.

By the time you'd finally committed the last sweeping brushstroke of the magnificent bluerose blossoming in stark vibrancy across Michael's arm, your entire body thrummed like a livewire of exquisite tension awaiting release.

So it proved little surprise when the instant your needle stilled, the striker surged upright with sinuous grace- instantly caging you in the inescapable orbit of his hulking form.

Calloused fingers cradled your jaw while his lips hovered a mere hairsbreadth from your own in unabashed temptation.

Michael's eyes glittered with scorching intensity as he drank in every nuance of your expression up close- unconsciously licking his lips as if savoring the prospect of imminently tasting you.

"Now that I've suffered through that torturous punishment..." His baritone fairly dripped with faux indignation.

"Are you finally going to reward me properly, liebling?"

The prospect alone had your pulse jackhammering with delicious anticipation. Every nerve ending fairly throbbed with the echoing memory of his deliberate caresses now honed to a razors edge of rapturous need.

Still, you refused to relinquish your stance so easily.

"Nuh-uh..." You breathed the gentle rebuff, pressing a single fingertip to Michael's lips in playful defiance.

"That's what you get for distracting me while I was doing my job."

The striker's eyes went comically wide, sensual moment abruptly evaporating as his expression contorted into a moue of exaggerated distress.

"Oh come on, schatz. I'm sorry." He whined piteously, lower lip protruding in an excessively put-upon pout you couldn't help but find overwrought yet endearing.

"Now quit playing hard to get and come kiss me already."

Bubbling laughter spilled forth unrestrained as you drank in his childishly mulish antics, struck once more by just how fortunate you were to love this man so unconditionally.

Cupping his cheeks fondly, you surged up on your tiptoes to seal your lips over his in a fervent, lingering kiss that Michael instantly melted into with a groan of visceral satisfaction and relief.

As you gradually parted with a contented sigh of your own, you couldn't resist the urge to gently tease, "I really am the luckiest girl in the world..."

[nabi-unveiled]

Will It Be Okay? Convincing Yourself is the Hard Part

Business as Usual occupied a good chunk of my mental real estate in the past several weeks. I've been vibing with it (and distracted by Min Jun's arms), but I've also found it frustrating.

However, unlike most people who were frustrated with Min Jun, I was frustrated with myself. Because I couldn't put a finger on Min Jun's character, and I overthought everything about this show. From the pinboard to the editing of the bar scene to several other plot points later in the show, I kept looking for things to go deeper. And it never really did. In the end, it was the fact that I kept trying to go deeper that tripped me up in understanding Min Jun.

Before we go further, let's get one thing out of the way -> this show is no "Our Dating Sim". If you go into it expecting that, you will be disappointed. If you haven't watched Our Dating Sim, go watch that instead. Furthermore, Min Jun and Wan are VERY different characters as I'll explain later. In short, ghosting is cruel and to see someone largely overlook the cruelty of their actions can be hard to swallow.

And while there are some details that I love, like the fact that the characters sing the songs and the lyrics align to their feelings, there are plenty of places where the details just weren't there. Like the plushie vending machine which, other than plot, had no good reason to exist with the exact same keychains eight years later.

Or the dating guide (game?) which might as well have not existed.

You also have to believe that at least Min Jun went no contact and didn't look Jin Hwan up on socials for 8 years. That's easy enough for me. A jerk from my past? I am not seeking that information out. Plus, outside of Tumblr, I engage in almost no social media. But I can see how that could be hard for some people to believe.

In terms of analysis, one of the biggest problems I ran into is that we know VERY little about our characters at all. Especially outside of this relationship as @dramalove247 pointed out in their own analysis.

We have some information about Jin Hwan:

He went to study abroad after Min Jun ghosted him.

He's very good at his job. He had a lot of job offers from "big publishers" before joining the company. The director sings his praises.

His mother died when he was young, and his father is putting pressure on him to join the family business.

He was "popular" in college with a pretty tight friend group that enjoys going to clubs and pick-up bars. They counted on Jin Hwan to help them pick up girls and got upset if he didn't come.

In college, he was the type to fall asleep during the FIRST lesson of a course. And it appears that's due to his social activities/personality and not things like part-time jobs.

And as @miss0atae points out, he has one of the most amazing best friends and wingman that I've ever seen in a drama series. For real, Woo Hyeok has been looking out for him since the early stages of this relationship. You see this when he redirected their friends so Jin Hwan could make a getaway with Min Jun.

But Min Jun? Most of what we know was just in service of the relationship.

He had a dream to take a class with someone he likes. Jin Hwan becomes that person.

He got tricked in a bar into buying a bottle of liquor. He's been burned by people before making him distrustful.

He's "not good with words" and frequently spends time alone (by choice). Hence the difficulty speaking up to and communicating with Jin Hwan.

He's diligent in his work. He doesn't yell at the intern when he makes mistakes and takes on more work than he should. Again emphasizing that he can be pushed around. Although I would argue it's a good thing that he doesn't yell at the intern.

He gets one phone call from an old classmate getting married at the beginning of the series. But that's solely a plot device to justify him thinking about Jin Hwan.

That's it. Outside of his relationship with Jin Hwan, we know so little. No other friends. No family. No ways he prefers to spend his time. Nada.

Despite these things, I found myself appreciating the series for what it was. A simple story of two people coping with their fears to find each other again. Key word there -> coping, not overcoming. Growth comes in baby steps in this show. I'm okay with that. That's often true for real people too.

As we came to the end, I found myself satisfied with the finale (ep 6). There were a lot of similarities with Something's Not Right, but I didn't have the same reaction to the two finales.

It all came down to the fact that it felt like a believable ending for these characters to me. And one that gave me hope for their future as a couple. But why? Especially because I believe they are both STILL afraid in some ways, and I think they'll fight A LOT. That requires explaining my personal interpretation of these characters.

How did I fill in the outline that the show left us? {Another Note - For most of these points, I could pull screenshots from multiple episodes. The dialogue is pretty repetitive or serves similar purposes throughout.}

Jin Hwan is the one with regrets.

During their college relationship, Jin Hwan was always the one taking the first step. He noticed Min Jun at the bar. He asked for the pen. He asked for his phone number.

As the relationship develops Jin Hwan keeps being the one taking the first step. He asks Min Jun out to eat. He asks him over to his place. He's the one that initiates their hand-holding, kisses and sex. He's a smooth operator in a lot of ways.

And in many ways this pattern repeats itself as an adult. He comes to work at Min Jun's company.

He once again asks for Min Jun's phone number. He asks him out to eat. He initiates their physical intimacy. He's still heavy handed in his flirting.

At first glance, it could seem like he hadn't changed at all....until his smile drops and he admits that he was mad and hurt.

We don't really know anything about Min Jun in the time between ghosting and reunion, but we do Jin Hwan.

We see his devastation after Min Jun ghosted him with Woo Hyeok knocking on his door. He tells us that he "lost his way" when he went to study abroad.

We see that he has practiced how to make the little cat out of the bottle cap until he can do it while drunk.

We see that he has kept the plushie keychain all of these years.

He's carried those memories with him and constantly wondered...if I had said anything, would it have been different? If I had told him I loved him or asked him out, would he have stayed?

Because back then, he only spoke the most important words to a sleeping Min Jun.

So he takes steps to rectify what he saw as his mistakes. Now, he speaks those words openly.

In college, he often didn't really "listen" to what Min Jun said. He didn't recognize the effort it took for Min Jun to speak up and the fears underneath.

But now he does. As an adult, all of their conversations involve both of them hearing each other out. They don't agree, but they are both involved and heard. Min Jun speaks more now. Jin Hwan listens more now. That's growth. Incremental as it may be.

And in many ways, while Jin Hwan's mad that Min Jun didn't yell at him or fight for their relationship back then, he's the one that expresses true regret throughout the series. "I was afraid of loving sincerely back then."

Those regrets have propelled him to cling tighter. To try to take steps so that Min Jun DOESN'T misunderstand and so that he can't just walk away without saying his words.

Jin Hwan has convinced himself that they CAN make things work now that they know their issues. He fully believes that if he expresses himself sincerely and they both try, that it will be okay.

He just needs Min Jun to not give up and fight for them too.

Min Jun is emotionally reactive.

Which brings us to Min Jun. Who continually repeats the same line of dialogue in slight variations.

This is where frustration with Min Jun will set in for many viewers. Not true for me, but many probably wanted to throw something at Min Jun by this point. Because his words don't change. If anything, they are harsher by the finale episode. It's his actions that show his growth, not his words. And they are BABY steps. But as was pointed out early on in the show, even baby steps are hard for him. For him, a baby step is a giant leap. It took a lot of work.

Honestly, his words aren't wrong. They are two people who operate VERY differently from each other, and do not understand each other on a basic level. It will take a lot of work for them to maintain this relationship. It won't be easy.

What might be the biggest issue for most people watching this show is that Min Jun doesn't ever really regret his actions. He's not Wan from Our Dating Sim. He's not accepting responsibility for Jin Hwan's pain, and he never apologizes for ghosting. He's shocked and upset that he had the wrong idea all of these years. He's sad that they both got hurt. But in many ways, he still feels that his choice was justified. Even by the end of the show, he's only beginning to entertain the thought that things might have been different.

And in fairness to him, Jin Hwan isn't sure it would have been.

Initially, I had a lot of trouble understanding Min Jun's character. I had to revise my character profile for him several times throughout the show. And I should give a shoutout to @my-rose-tinted-glasses for trying to help me when I was at peak overthinking and Min Jun confusion. I doubt I made a lot of sense that day while all of my cogs were still turning.

I first thought Min Jun was like Masumi in End of the World With You...so devastated by Jin Hwan's "betrayal" that his world stopped. But that proved false. Jin Hwan may have considered Min Jun as "the one who got away" to some degree, but Min Jun held Jin Hwan primarily as a bad memory. However, he went on with life. He even dated others. He's no Masumi.

I then considered what else could be behind his behavior. Several people were suggesting he was depressed. And...maybe? We really don't have enough evidence to say. Preferring to stay at home rather than go to the club or having a night of heavy drinking following an ex coming back into your life doesn't really prove long-term depression. It's really just a reminder of how little we know about him.

Was it low self esteem? After all, Hira essentially ghosted Kiyoi in My Beautiful Man (from Kiyoi's perspective) and that was 100% due to self-esteem. Min Jun does say that he "was ordinary" and several other statements depicting low self-confidence. But how deep do those issues go? We don't know. Several of his traits and actions could just be due to having a more reticent and reserved personality. After all, he doesn't even know the office gossip. I recognize another overthinking, internal processor that gets stuck in their own head when I see it. But regardless of how deep his self esteem issues go, it IS true that his perception of differences between Jin Hwan and himself helped fuel his fear.

Because that's what we know for certain. He was afraid. He was afraid that Jin Hwan wouldn't like him for who he was. He was afraid that Jin Hwan wasn't serious. Which he had EVERY reason to believe. Jin Hwan was making jokes about leaving him alone all day while he played and expecting him to be waiting at home at night right before they had sex for the first time.

Again, WE know Jin Hwan was trying to figure out his first time really liking someone. WE know he was sincere. But from Min Jun's perspective? There was a LOT of evidence to the contrary.

Even the misunderstanding with the girl shows that other people were ALSO getting the wrong idea about Jin Hwan. It can be assumed that they were BOTH sending some mixed signals. Jin Hwan wasn't really sure Min Jun was invested either. Both Jin Hwan and Min Jun held back due to their personal fears.

But it's very telling what they looked up on their phones during flashbacks. Jin Hwan looked up a name compatibility test that showed they "aren't compatible". Even back then, he was looking for evidence that the relationship could work. He looks for ways to get what he wants despite his fears.

But Min Jun was already feeding his doubts and giving in to his fears. After all, he's been tricked before, and it's implied that the bar wasn't a singular event. And many of his actions were dictated by that.

That hasn't changed in the present. In fact, he's now MORE afraid. This "mean/stern face" side of Min Jun didn't exist in college. It's part of how he's changed. Jin Hwan may be afraid of letting Min Jun go again. But Min Jun's afraid that their differences in communication and their differences in personality will end up hurting each other. His fears from the past were validated. Even if miscommunication was at work, their relationship resulted in pain.

He wants to believe. He really wants to believe that this relationship could work.

But he doesn't. He hasn't convinced himself. He doesn't think it will be okay.

From here on out, I'm going to differ with a lot of people's interpretations that I've seen. I've thought a lot about it, and I'm okay with that.

As I realized shortly before the finale (ep 6), the show always told us exactly who Min Jun was as a character. He's a cat. He will want a lot of alone time, but he'll require (even demand) a lot of attention. He offers affection, but only on his own terms. And he reacts quickly and almost instinctually to emotional turmoil. When he's emotional, he doesn't think. He reacts. When he feels hurt or gets afraid, his claws will come out. In college, he was a kitten.

But he's now an adult cat. When his fears cause him to react, his claws are sharp.

It's also important to recognize that Jin Hwan KNOWS this about Min Jun. He's learned. Because when he lost his phone? He IMMEDIATELY knew it could be a problem. That Min Jun would be getting worked up in his head even if it had only been a short period of time. Essentially, Min Jun is going to be clingy as all get out. Jin Hwan is okay with that.

But while the fear has deepened in some ways and his claws have gotten sharper, Min Jun HAS grown. We see his growth in his actions. As a kitten, he ran away when afraid.

But as an adult? He tries to fight his fear. He tries to convince himself it's okay. If you watch the NC scene in episode 5 carefully, he wants it. But he's afraid. Afraid of what comes after. But he still allowed himself to enjoy the moment. There are a lot of smiles in that NC scene and the morning after too even as he's mulling over his fears.

He tells himself not to be scared. That Jin Hwan giving attention to someone else doesn't mean he's less important.

He tells himself that it's ok to stay home while Jin Hwan goes out with his friends. That Jin Hwan will like him anyways.

He tells himself that it's ok to really like and need Jin Hwan. That Jin Hwan needs him too. When he couldn't get in contact and thought Jin Hwan may be hurting (from his father's words), he went to find him.

Evidence shows that he was WORRIED about Jin Hwan. At this point, it's not noble idiocy (in my mind). Before he starts searching, the memory is focusing on Jin Hwan's almost tearful expression.

But then he finds Jin Hwan. He realizes he has overthought things and panicked for no reason. Jin Hwan is fine, and he didn't really need him. Jin Hwan is smiling, while he's been trying to convince himself not to spiral and panic for most of the evening. Min Jun doesn't like this feeling. He can't tell himself it will be ok in this moment.

So he pushes Jin Hwan away and tells him to leave him alone. He wasn't thinking about the company in this moment. He was reliving their miscommunications of the past. He was envisioning that this would keep happening again and again. He was giving into his fear. He'd been reminded of all the reasons he thinks this can't work out, and he reacted. His claws emerged.

When Min Jun mentions the company later to Woo Hyeok, I again don't see it as noble idiocy. I see that as him giving a socially acceptable excuse for breaking things off. Maybe it's just me, but I've definitely offered up what I considered to be a "palatable" excuse when having to justify my less-than-noble actions.

And he knows his reasons aren't noble. This is where self-esteem comes back into play. He doesn't like that he's a cat. He doesn't like that he needs attention. He doesn't like the idea that they'll fight and hurt each other. As he said during the argument, he knows it's not fair. But he also knows himself.

I do believe that Woo Hyeok's prodding would be enough to trigger the airport run. Min Jun has had time to calm down. He's no longer in the middle of an emotional spiral, and he has already recognized that he missed Jin Hwan. So when Woo Hyeok drops the news that Jin Hwan is leaving abroad, he's in a place to hear it. Jin Hwan had always been the pursuer. This was the FIRST time that Jin Hwan was the one leaving. Min Jun now had to face a new fear -> losing Jin Hwan forever. And he may not be able to fully convince himself that everything will be okay in their future. But he easily convinces himself that Jin Hwan leaving is NOT okay. That thought scares him. And just like other times when Min Jun gets scared, he reacts. Only this time it's a reaction that causes him to fight FOR the relationship instead of against it. Baby steps.

Jin Hwan easily forgives his previous hurtful words, because he does know Min Jun and this is really what Jin Hwan has wanted all along. For Min Jun to convince himself that they are worth fighting for. Jin Hwan couldn't fight for their relationship alone.

They will argue. They will have problems. But the steps they have taken towards two way communication, attempts to understand each other, and the fact that they are both now convinced that the relationship is worth the work? Well, that convinces me that it'll be okay too.

Footnote: Regardless of Min Jun's reasons, I'll reiterate that the ghosting is still incredibly cruel. As I've said in my other posts, I give Jin Hwan a lot of respect for even trying to reconcile. I can easily see why people would be mad at or not like Min Jun. It's just not in me to dislike him though. Blame it on the arms if you must.

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Moon

summary: in the fallout shelter, horrifying discoveries had been made. some had been worse than others, and one reaction had put Aurora in the wrong place at the wrong time.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: smutty smut smut. mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER MOON pt.13

The fallout shelter somehow felt more ominous than it had when you'd been with Maddie and Simon. Granted, you'd been distracted by Dave and then a fingernail at a creepy tunnel entrance, so who could blame you?

You felt it now. An imperceptible shift in the air. Spooky and...other. Like stepping into liminal space.

"I'm beginning to really hate this school," You murmured as you stepped deeper into the crammed space. "We should just burn it down."

"Someone tried that, remember?" Charley quipped, one eyebrow raised.

"Maybe the symbols aren't just to trap ghosts in here," Ajay suggested, distracted by the various items lining the walls and filling the center of the space. He looked up with a mock-spooked look, "Maybe they also protect the school from harm."

Wally snorted, "I can't believe the Something-Something chose to protect a high school," and he turned to shut the door securely. "Just in case," He winked at you when you gave the door a wary look, unhappy about the idea that you were closed in.

You understood why it needed to be shut, though. On the way through the basement, Ajay had explained how he'd learned that the fallout shelter was where their teacher, Mr. Martin, found his privacy. His little corner of the school, like the other ghosts had theirs.

Strange how he'd never mentioned it before, Wally had muttered, dark and suspicious. You got the feeling his trust in Mr. Martin was eroding.

Turning around to take in the space, "This place looks like it hasn't been touched in years..." Wally uttered, placing a steady hand on your lower back to guide you forward.

Moving around a stack of unmarked barrels, Charley muttered, "I can relate," which tickled a chuckle from your chest.

If you were going to be stuck in a bunker under the school, at least you were in good company, you thought, fingers dancing across the dashboard of one of the clunky pieces of equipment. The buttons blinked; the narrow screen was blank, but illuminated.

"Do these work?" You asked aloud, squinting at the warning label as you tried to figure out what it was for.

"Probably," Ajay said, "That one's for the ventilation." He turned and pointed toward a fuse box, "Generator," and then another machine, "Most likely the mechanism for the door to keep it sealed."

"They're massive." You said as you knocked the surface of the one in front of you, "They really needed something this huge to make one thing work?"

Wally chuckled, gazing at you like you were the most adorable little thing.

"Babe, one computer used to take up a whole room back in the day." He said, brushing a strand of hair off your cheek. "This actually seems pretty sleek in comparison."

You stuck your tongue out at him, "You're such a closet nerd," and proceeded to continue inspecting the machine. He pressed a kiss to your temple, pinched your ass cheek, and then shifted by you to inspect something that'd caught his eye.

Everyone spread out.

Ajay drifted to the tunnel entrance. Wally to the shelves to the right of the door. Charley around a pile of boxes. You stayed by the machines, wanted to understand their purpose.

"The article said that this was built where the old Science Wing was after the fire," Charley said as he scanned the first stack of boxes on his way around them. Moving toward the shelf that lined the back wall, you sensed him stop midstep, "Wait..."

You looked up, held your breath as you waited for Charley to announce if he'd found something pertinent. Wally and Ajay both turned to face Charley as well, Wally trotting closer to see what had brought Charley to a halt.

Tense, "Looks like someone's touched this," Charley said, his face twisted in confusion as he dragged his forefinger through a thick layer of dust.

You approached cautiously, strode into the space between him and Wally, and noticed a strip of clean metal that the box Charley indicated had obviously occupied before it'd been pushed deeper into the shelf.

Wisconsin Safety Rations, the label read.

"What?" Before you could touch it, Wally nudged you gently out of the way and assumed your spot beside Charley, his hand a comfortable weight between your shoulder blades.

"Well, this looks like..." Charley began, pointed, explained his reasoning, "This looks like it's been moved."

It couldn't have been a ghost, you thought, since they couldn't disturb the living world, and, after grazing your fingers over the clean strip of shelf, you knew you weren't looking through the veil. The box had been shifted in the living world.

"Mr. South?" You wondered aloud, believing that to be the only explanation that made sense. "Simon and I were way too busy freaking out about the fingernail to look around last time."

"Probably," Ajay agreed, though he sounded uncertain. "It has to be him...right?"

"Or someone else who knows about the not-so-secret fallout shelter," Wally offered with a slight shrug of one shoulder.

No one wanted to say it, but Ajay did, "Amelia?"

You shivered, a cold rivulet of fear dribbling down your spine, "She'd have to know it exists, at least."

Wally didn't hesitate, removed the box from the shelf, and placed it on the low bench below to inspect the box's contents. You peered over his arm as he pulled a thin leather briefcase from inside, flipped the flap to reveal loose sheets of paper you didn't have a chance to scan because Charley drew your attention back to the shelf almost instantly.

"What are these?"

Ajay crept around you and Wally to Charley's other side, leaned forward to get a look at what had been hidden behind the box. You and Wally turned as well, and, holy crap, there was a selection of notebooks stuffed against the wall.

"This is like...some Raiders of the Lost Ark action," Wally said, smiling at you though you could tell he was unnerved, just trying his best to keep your mind at ease.

"You a big Indy fan?"

Wally shrugged, kissed your forehead, "Sort of. I wanted to be an archaeologist for a while after I saw the movie. He made it look so cool."

"You mean you wanted to go on adventures and save the world with a whip and a fedora." Ajay chuckled, following Charley's lead and reaching in to pluck one of the notebooks from the cache.

"Maybe. Who cares, it would've been awesome," Wally grinned.

He shifted and returned to finger through the contents of the briefcase while you examined the notebooks along with Charley and Ajay. There was quite the collection. One, two, three—

Twenty-two notebooks.

The number nagged at you.

You reached in and picked one at random, opened it to a random page near the front, and began to read: "Subject: Stephanie Russo. February 2006, Subject shows remarkable shift in presence since last session. No longer has spells of awareness after dark and can now successfully participate in band practice without anxiety."

Stephanie Russo...you knew that name. It'd been in your family's files. The ones you'd studied before your first day of high school. She'd been the Blue Devils' trumpet player.

The atmosphere turned sour instantly, pressed in from all sides, cold and dense and suffocating.

"Wh-what are these?" Charley stammered. His hands shook as he continued to scan the page of the notebook he'd been reading.

Behind you, Wally scanned a sheet of paper he'd pulled from the briefcase, his tone shaky when he answered, "These are our obituaries."

Wait. Their what?

"Like, from the newspaper?" You asked as you placed Stephanie Russo's notebook on the shelf to grab the paper out of Wally's hand.

It was not, in fact, a newspaper clipping. You didn't need to know it to understand that that was Wally's handwriting. You grabbed the next sheet of paper Wally pulled from the briefcase, and looked it over as well. Katelynn Miller. And the next, Bernadette King.

You felt sick.

"Why are you guys writing obituaries?" You asked, breath caught in your throat, "That's sick."

Wally cocked his head, his expression one of genuine confusion, "It is?"

"According to Mr. Martin, it's supposed to help us move past our deaths and accept being in the metaphysical world," Ajay muttered. Your reaction to the situation made him pause, his eyes boring into yours as if trying to gauge why you were so upset. "I assume that's a little misguided."

"A little? You're fucking with me, right?" You were rapidly becoming more incensed at the knowledge that the ghosts—that Wally—had been tasked with such a heinous assignment.

Sure, the ghosts lingered in what was basically Limbo. But their lingering was, under normal circumstances—sans evil symbols—a choice. If they wanted to move on, they could. In rare cases, if a ghost didn't find the clarity they lacked in life upon entering the metaphysical world, okay, they could spend their earthly time doing some heavy self-reflection.

Writing their own obituaries? Didn't sound like self-reflection. It sounded like someone making a sick joke out of death. As you were about to lay into a tangent, Charley's voice penetrated the fog of your mounting rage.

"Subject displays paranoia and alleged memory loss..." Charley read aloud. "Unclear if Subject is aware of cause of death. Requires further study..." His head shot up, eyes desperate, "It's about Maddie."

Heart hammering a war tattoo in your chest, you spun and began pulling the remaining notebooks off the shelf at random. Flipped each one open to the first page where the subject of each analysis was written.

Subject: Tyler Montgomery. Subject: Mina Volkov. Subject: Erin French. Subject: Rhonda Rosen. Subject. Subject. Subject. Subject—

In a frenzy driven by angry curiosity, you grabbed the next box, yanked it from the shelf, and placed it unceremoniously on the bench. Next notebook; you flipped it open to the first page and—

Everything stopped. A high-pitched ringing rose in your ears, your hand trembling as you stared down at the name in the notebook you'd just opened.

"Isn't this Mr. Martin's handwriting?" Wally asked Charley and Ajay, but you could hardly hear him, because it didn't matter whose handwriting it was.

"Guys," You choked, all breath. You felt Wally's hand on your lower back and looked up at him, terrified, "This one's about Xavier..." Again, you dropped that notebook and pulled another off the shelf, flipped it open, and read the Subject's name, "And Mr. Anderson..."

"What the hell?" Wally grabbed another, flipped it open, "This is your sister, isn't it? Aurora?"

Ajay took another, "Andrew. Same last name."

"And..." Charley's mouth shut with an audible clack.

You didn't want to hear him say it, even though you already knew.

Wally took the notebook from Charley, pressed his lips together before lifting his head. Closed his eyes to center himself, to tamp down whatever fear or rage or combination thereof threatened to spill out.

"This one's about you..." He murmured, eyes sharp and bright as he stared at you, and you could see the slight tremor in his shoulders. "What the fuck is this?"

You felt like a lab rat. Some kind of specimen. Violated and gross and tainted somehow. The world felt sick, and you released a weak, horrified sob. Just one, just enough to purge a fraction of the chaos inside you to make room for more.

"It's Amelia. It has to be." You wheezed, grateful when Wally banded his arm around your waist and drew you firmly into his side.

He turned to the last entry, held the page open for you to read yourself, and you just about collapsed when you saw the date: September 27th, 2023.

Two days before Maddie was forced into the metaphysical world.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Madison Nears.

She truly was a fascinating subject.

Everett had been watching her for some time. Observing. Studying her even before she'd been cast into the metaphysical world by mistake. And though Maddie's presence had made his life difficult thereafter, especially when it came to keeping his students close, he couldn't ignore his interest in her.

Nothing untoward. Simply, she was unique.

Important, too, he'd learned, pointed in Maddie's direction at Amelia's behest.

Like Xavier. Like Mr. Anderson. Like you.

Maddie was the most special, however. Everett wasn't entirely sure why, couldn't examine her close enough to uncover what it was about her nature, her chemistry, that made her what she was.

After Janet's...after Janet, he amended in his head, Amelia had given Everett the responsibility of keeping Maddie on a short leash. Keep her away from the truth. A command Everett had taken as seriously as the grave.

Even still, he couldn't have helped how Maddie's very being seemed to repel the idea of falling in line. She'd persistently rebuked him, all his efforts sliding away as she blazed her own trail through the metaphysical world.

He knew about Simon. Hadn't at first. Suspected more than had been certain, but the way Maddie watched her friend from the spectator seats above the gym, Everett knew.

Fascinating.

He wasn't sure if his students knew about Simon. Or you, for that matter. He'd been kept busy putting out the fires that Janet's decision had started to properly examine them. And despite accepting his help, opening herself to Amelia's influence, Rhonda continued to display her normal resistance and hadn't told him whether or not he had to worry about his students discovering how the veil could be thinned.

Admittedly, Everett was proud of Rhonda.

He was beholden to Amelia for all that she'd given him, and he would continue to do as she asked in order to maintain his position in the metaphysical world, surrounded by his flock.

But he couldn't help himself. He wanted to keep Maddie.

Truly, sincerely, Everett wanted to help her. Profoundly. He wanted Maddie to succeed in the metaphysical world. Her body was gone, Janet along with it, and there was no sense in dwelling on a life she'd never live. He wanted her to thrive as his other students had been thriving before she'd shaken things up.

Maddie was unique. The most unique individual Everett had ever encountered.

Janet had been the result of circumstance. Had died at the right time to be needed and had done her part.

Maddie, however...she would be a victory Everett would cherish for the rest of his eternity.

Perhaps it was time to take a different avenue in obtaining her.

After several minutes of quiet observation, Everett approached Maddie in the spectator stands. Her mother had just taken her seat beside Simon, who tried to comfort her in her grief.

Everett joined Maddie against the railing, folded his arms on the bars, and gazed down at the crowd.

"You know," He began, tone gentle, "It might not seem like it, but you're lucky, Maddie."

He felt her turn her head toward him, giving him her attention.

"Lucky that you got this," He clarified and offered her a timid smile, hoping against hope that, if he approached things from a new angle, she would accept his leadership. "This goodbye."

She appeared to process what he said before she spoke.

"Yeah, I don't know if any of it will ever make any sense." And she shifted to face him fully. A good sign. A sign that she trusted him. "But maybe if my mom's ready to say goodbye...maybe so can I."

Everett hid his relief well. Years of practice in calculating his demeanor. He studied Maddie for a moment and then nodded, patted her shoulder.

"Have you given any more consideration to writing your obituary?" He asked. Maddie didn't respond, merely regarded him. There was an edge of wariness he needed to dispel. "It helps, you know," He began kindly, placing his hand on her arm, "Sometimes it can unblock what we need it to." Placid and warm, "After all, you might be here a lot longer than you want to be, Maddie. It would do you a lot of good to find a way to accept that, even if it means remembering."

"I thought you said that looking back and remembering was a waste of time," Maddie said, peering at him skeptically, though he noted with delight that she didn't pull away.

He took a breath, gave her a small smile, "You know... I forgot one of the most important things about being a teacher."

"What's that?"

Everett stared out at the crowd again, wistful, "That I learn more from my students than they learn from me." He squeezed her arm and released her. "I think I may have been...too hasty in shutting you down."

There was a lull filled with uncertainty that only alleviated when Maddie declared, an expression of appreciation on her face, "Then I think I'm ready to write my obituary."

His soul gleeful, Everett told her, "That's wonderful news, Maddie. I'm proud of you."

She would be his greatest achievement yet.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

You and Wally, Ajay and Charley; everyone was frantically tearing through files, aghast.

"Final moments are a source of great despair in the Subject. Hypothesis, reliving final trauma to greatest extent possible may increase thinning and provide access point. I don't..." Wally paused as he flipped over a loose sheet that'd been tucked between the pages of the journal.

He went completely still, a weak sound punched from his throat as his face slackened in horror.

"Wally?" You murmured, reaching out to comfort him.

"This was the play that killed me..." He stated, face pinched in anguish.

Your heart shattered.

Wally handed the paper to Charley. "Mr. Martin's been documenting us. And he's been documenting our deaths."

"What?" But Charley was distracted. He pulled yellowed pages from the briefcase, held them up for you and Wally to inspect. "Look, this is another article about the fire. Grieving parents of Split River sophomore Janet Hamilton demand administration be held accountable for daughter's death after surviving students say fire was started at the hands of her late educator, Mr. Everett Martin..." He trailed off, glancing warily between you, Wally, and Ajay, "This says Mr. Martin caused the fire, but he told us it was a student's fault."

You couldn't remember what your family's file had said about the fire, whether or not it was intentional. It should've said, though, right? If there were official, printed documents to suggest it.

"Charley, none of these even mention Janet. We have to confront him; he owes us an explanation." Wally insisted, pacing a short path as his anger and confusion mounted.

He seemed unstable, ready to burst, and it was all you could do to grab him by the arms and hold him still for a moment.

"And we will," You vowed. "He isn't keeping this shit for nothing. He has to be up to something."

"Death cult something?" Ajay mumbled, taking the paper with '83 Homecoming game plays scribbled on it.

And then the door to the fallout shelter opened with a metallic clank. Your heart jumped into your throat. Ajay and Wally shifted so their bodies were in front of yours, protective and tense. Ready to fight.

"What are you guys doing in here?" Rhonda demanded in a harsh whisper, closing the door behind her immediately. She looked skittish, sneer still in place, but her body was tightly coiled. She marched up to Charley as she barked, "I told you to let this go."

Stunned, you began to stutter, "H-hey, wait a sec—"

Charley interrupted, his own disbelief palpable, "You...you knew about this?" He glared Rhonda down, clearly unable to reconcile that she'd been keeping secrets of this magnitude. "You knew that he was treating us like test subjects and never really helping us? You-you knew."

Rhonda looked guilty for a moment, and then resigned, "Look, when Maddie got here and there was all that stuff with her friend on the outside... I just had this feeling," She explained, for the first time appearing truly unsettled. "And then I went to him to ask for his help."

Wally opened his mouth to speak, and you shushed him with a gentle hand on his chest. Shook your head, "Let her speak, big guy."

Rhonda seemed grateful for your interference and nodded, "Something's going on with my head. I can't explain it. Ever since the theater, it's like I have moments of...complete disconnect."

"Like drinking the cult tea?" You wondered, a little smarmy, yet honestly concerned.

"If I knew what that was like, I'd tell you," Rhonda said before she continued, "I started following him, Mr. Martin. Something didn't feel right about the things he told me, stuff he asked me to do..."

"What did he ask you to do?" Wally wanted to know, his frown deepening.

"Nothing serious. Just to keep an eye on Maddie." She turned to one of the barrels behind her, tried to move it with a struggle as she spoke, "But it was how he would ask me. I don't know how to explain it."

Wally stepped in to help her, picked the barrel up easily, and placed it on the ground.

"I figured if there are people out there who can do rituals and steal bodies..."

"Maybe there are people who can make you obedient?" You ventured, and you hated that you understood the logic. "Except, ghosts don't have connectedness."

"But psycho bitches who carve magic symbols into trees to trap ghosts do." Rhonda said, folding her arms after she popped the lid off the barrel and stepped aside. "I've been going through this place to see if I could find anything...and then I found this."

You, Charley, Wally, and Ajay leaned over to peer inside the barrel. It was a collection of seemingly random objects that didn't make sense to you until—

"Is that...?" Wally reached in and pressed his fingers into the football that sat atop the items.

"Your game ball?" Rhonda said, jeeringly light, "Yep."

Aghast, Charley found, "My letter to Emilio?"

"Sure is. Right next to my acceptance letter from Berkeley." Rhonda picked it from the pile. "He's been hoarding all the objects we had with us when we died." She pinned you with a stare so dark and unmoving that you flinched. "I think Mr. Martin's working with your cult leader."

"She's not my cult leader." You retorted, a little ruffled by the accusation, because, seriously, what the hell?

"Rhonda," Wally warned, but his face was pale and his tone was hushed. Wrist over his mouth, "I'm gonna throw up," he gulped.

You took his hand to soothe him, not that it did much good. You were also still reeling over the discovery of the notebook with your name in it. Xavier's. Aurora's. Andrew's...

"Are we sure it's him?"

"Who else knows everything about us?" A rhetorical question Rhonda posed for the group. "Who have we sat with for decades, baring our souls to? Who else has some deep, secret connection to this stupid fallout shelter?" She stopped, flustered, regrouped, and then said, "You know, I've been fooled by someone like this before, and I'm not gonna let it happen to all of us again."

At that precise moment, the door clanked again, the sound of the lock mechanism shifting into place loud in the small space.

"What just happened?" You breathed, marching toward the door. "Why did it do that?"

You tried to wrench it open. It wouldn't budge.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Simon was... He was a lot of things right then. His blood surging, his heart soaring, his nerves frayed. He'd bid Sandra goodbye, a gentleman who'd walked her to her car, had listened to her as she'd spilled her heart about Maddie while clutching Maddie's award to her chest.

Then, just as Sandra pulled out of the parking lot, he'd received Nicole's text.

He couldn't believe it when he saw it.

Maddie's body behind the wheel of Xavier's truck. In motion. Active and alive and alert.

Someone had stolen Maddie's body in the way you and Xavier and Simon hadn't wanted to entertain. Whether or not it was Amelia remained to be determined, but, frankly, right then, Simon didn't give a shit. All he needed was directions and he would hunt the fucker down, expel them from Maddie's body himself, and get her back.

He'd tried texting you, but it hadn't gone through. Xavier, obviously, wasn't able to run after his own truck after having been hit by it. Which meant Simon was going on a one-man crusade. And he was ready do it. For Maddie.

Finally. Jesus Christ, finally, the end of all this bullshit and terror and stress was in sight.

He found Maddie in the theater, hunched over a notebook. She looked solemn yet...at peace somehow. He regretted having to disturb her, but, hello, there was no time to waste.

Simon hurried inside toward Maddie, phone in hand, video already pulled up and stilled on the frame that proved Maddie still had a place in the living world.

Maddie's head popped up, "What are you doing here?"

He slowed, unsure where to start. Might as well start with, "I have to talk to you," he said, both nervous and excited, practically vibrating out of his skin.

Unaware of the magnitude of the moment, Maddie stood and said, "I have to say something first..."

She walked toward him, met him halfway.

Simon almost grabbed her and shook her, didn't want to wait another second. But something in her demeanor made him slow down. Her eyes were fixed on his, her hand lifting to curl her fingers through his, a serene little smile on her face that he hadn't seen since she'd risen in the metaphysical world.

"When I first got here, I was asked to write my obituary. To help me move on." She explained.

Not where Simon saw this going. At. All. His stomach twisted, because wasn't that kind of sick? More so since Maddie wasn't dead.

"And I was finally able to write it tonight."

"I don't get it, Mads. We know you're alive." Something he had irrefutable proof of in his hand and eagerly needed to show her.

Once again, however, her voice slowed his brain all the way down. "I know, but... It's supposed to help me unblock things. And it has."

That was actually, "Great...do you remember who took your body?"

"No." She chuckled, "But it did help me realize something." Shyly, she looked down, squeezed Simon's hand, and drew him closer. "I realized I haven't exactly been...fair."

"Maddie—"

"No, please, Simon, I need you to hear me out. I feel like if I say this, it really will help unblock things."

And, as much as he wanted to protest, he needed to know who the fuck had kidnapped her body. So, if speaking her truth would unlock those memories, fine, he could wait another minute.

"I wanna read it for you," She said in a whisper. Intimate. Vulnerable.

Simon took a deep breath to settle himself, but otherwise didn't say anything.

Maddie glanced down at the notebook in her hand, and then began.

"I was born. It was all really hard." Her chin quivered, tears springing to her eyes, and Simon's stomach lurched. "But I had Simon."

Tone hushed, "Maddie—" Simon choked, the sentiment behind her words rattling his bones. It was so dense, so intense and real and everything he'd ever wanted to hear, he didn't know how to hold it within himself. Too big, too deep, too much all at once.

She interrupted, "I know why we have this connection. Why you were the only person who could see me and hear me when I got here."

Soul-tie echoed in his head.

"Because you're the only person who's never asked me for anything. You've never taken more than you've given. You're the only person I can count on. And you're the only person I can trust. And you've only ever loved me unconditionally. And, I need you to know that I love you, too, Simon."

It was the first time she'd said it. Simon's world narrowed down to this moment. Him. Her. Nothing else needed to exist.

"In a way that's bigger than high school," She continued, "It's bigger than family, bigger than life or death. You know, nobody makes it out of life alive."

Simon couldn't help the wet snort he released. His eyes stung, but his heart was light. "You're not dead, Mads." He reminded her.

"I know," Maddie nodded as she wiped her eyes with her sleeve, "But I'm really grateful that I didn't have to figure out being dead, even temporarily, alone, because I have you."

Simon didn't know what to say, what words to use, how to express how immense his feelings were, growing rapidly inside him that he was afraid he was going to burst.

"Say something," She pleaded when he forgot he was supposed to respond.

Still, he couldn't. Simon didn't do words when he had to talk about emotions. He used blunt sarcasm to avoid being vulnerable.

No, Simon wasn't a talker. He was a doer. He acted. That was what he was good at: finding solutions to problems. And right now, he had the solution to Maddie's problem and would fix it for her to show how fucking much he loved her.

He held up his phone to show her the still from the video.

"What is that?" Maddie asked, her face twisted in confusion, which quickly morphed into surprise.

"That's the person who's been breaking into houses across town," Simon said. "It's who attacked Xavier tonight." He looked at her, held her gaze, a watery smile on his face because he knew he was about to go to war for her, and he didn't know who he was up against.

This might be goodbye and, somehow, that didn't bother him at all.

"I don't know what's going to happen," He confessed, hoarse, "But I love you." He pulled her into a tight hug, soaked in the feeling of her weight in his arms, and allowed it to further his resolve. "I'm going to get you back, Maddie."

He kissed her. Hard. Short. Not enough to impart everything he felt for her, but exactly right for her to decipher his intentions.

Before she could try to dissuade him as he knew she would, he turned on his heel and left.

"Simon, wait!"

He hurried, kept pace, didn't look back because he had to look forward. All the way to his bike by the bus stop and then off school property.

"Simon!" Maddie yelled, urgent, but when he turned for one last look, she wasn't there.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

"Jesus," Wally hurried behind you to the door to try where you failed. It wouldn't open. "It's locked."

"Just...give it a second," Charley scurried over, "It'll...it'll reset." Unfortunately, "Why didn't it reset?"

You felt the walls closing in. The air shallowed, the room dimmed. And yet, that wasn't where your attention stayed. Instead, it was drawn to the back corner where the student's desk sat. Specifically, to Ajay, who'd taken a seat at some point to read one of the notebooks.

"I'm checking the hatch," Rhonda announced while Charley and Wally continued to struggle with the door.

You shimmied out from between them to step closer to Ajay. Slow, guarded, worried when you noticed his body trembling. A barely visible vibration in his shoulders and arms.

"Ajay?" You asked in a whisper, as if he were a bomb about to detonate and the smallest noise would set him off.

He stood abruptly and slid out from behind the desk on wobbly legs, wild eyes still on the page. One step, two, and you rushed forward just as he collapsed to his knees. As you tried to reach out, he reared back.

When it happened, it was gut-wrenching. Animal. Torn from deep within the very depths of his soul and rent outward in an eruption of pure, unfettered emotion.

Ajay's fingers gripped the page of the journal so tight that the paper tore from its binding. Face twisted, eyes closed, head back.

He s h r i e k e d.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Aurora had followed Austin's cruiser to the school. Just as he was about to turn into the parking lot, however, something changed. The lights began to flash, siren blaring, and he unexpectedly corrected his course, cruiser charging down the road and around the corner.

Aurora couldn't feasibly pursue the cruiser now.

"Fuck."

She sat for a moment before deciding to turn into the parking lot and gather her thoughts. There were a few cars around, some adults—parents, she realized, when she saw them accompanying students from the school—milling about.

She just needed a second to think. Staring ahead, she recalled where Austin had gone. Where she'd followed him into Split River's quiet corners.

The old factory. The public library. Now the school.

Needing air, Aurora got out of the car to rest against the door, arms folded, head spinning. It'd been strange in the worst way. The feelings she'd experienced in the old factory had been matched at the library. Haunted as hell, though she'd never known it before.

Haunted like the school, she realized, wondering if that was the connection she'd been having trouble making. As she turned to look at the building, it hit her. A powerful surge of emotion that almost knocked her backwards.

God have mercy.

She didn't know how she knew, but she did.

"Ajay," She whispered, limbs shaking when another wave of nightmarish emotion crashed into her. Then, as if coming to, "Ajay!"

Aurora sprinted into the school, ignoring the looks that followed her from the parents and students in the parking lot. She had to get to him. She had to help.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Everett chased the noise. No. No. This couldn't be happening. Not now. Not tonight. He took the stairs two at a time, rammed through the door from the stairwell to the first-floor hallway, and ran to the basement entrance. He appeared in the doorway just as Maddie positioned herself in front of the fallout shelter door.

"Please, somebody help!" Charley's voice yelled from behind reinforced steel.

It settled over him in stages as he watched Maddie try to find the latch. A sense of resignation and calm. His foot clicked on the metal step when he descended one and then another, grabbing her attention.

He could see it in her eyes.

Behind the confusion and loss.

Memory.

She turned, moved to stand at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes wide as she slowly began to put the pieces together.

"I tried to protect you," He said, subdued. "I couldn't stop it."

And then the pounding renewed, the voices of his students—his flock—begging her not to believe Everett. Warning her. Telling her she couldn't trust him when she could. She had to.

"Maddie," Rhonda yelled, "Please, be careful! You can't trust him!"

Another scream, ripped from someone's core—from Ajay, Everett recognized, and he couldn't do anything to soothe that pain. Mina's second death flashed behind his eyes, and he almost buckled under the weight of it.

They'd found his journals.

"What do you mean?" Maddie's voice cut through the image of Mina's final moments, through Everett's despair, through the knowledge that he wouldn't be able to repair this, and Amelia would seek retribution.

"You weren't supposed to be here. Not like this." He said, his expression truly sorrowful.

He felt the basement door open at his back, cool air from the school wafting in as someone entered.

Serendipity, he thought, offering Maddie one last regretful smile.

"I'm truly sorry, Maddie." He said and then turned, pushed up the stairs at speed toward his salvation. "I'm sorry!" He called out again, body angled forward, prepared to ambush as he'd seen Janet do to Maddie all those weeks ago.

Propelled off his back foot, Everett leapt into the air and launched toward the woman standing in the doorway just as Ajay released another harrowing scream from within the fallout shelter.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

In the hospital, Derek Anderson's eyes flew open.

💀___________________________

PART TWELVE - PART FOURTEEN

note: so, this is the last chapter that follows canon. i have been trying to get here for a year. longer 💀 holy crap, guys, we made it to the last leg of this series! i can't believe it! thank you. if it wasn't for you all, i know in my bones i wouldn't have been able to see this through 😭

.

.

.

ABOUT THE TAGLIST: we're not about that life around here (•¯ ∀ ¯•) things got too outta hand and i'm still cleaning up the mess left behind by the demons i accidentally summoned trying to get the damn thing to work 🕳️👹......there's a dustpan over there if you feel like helping 🧹💨 or, if you just wanna stay up to date, please FOLLOW ME and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS

[venomous-qwille]

Ghost in the Machine

This is the master post for Ghost in the Machine links, character refs and FAQs.

I will try my best to keep this post as up to date as possible.

What is Ghost in The Machine?

GITM is a DCA AU and a fic set in the retrofuture (2055ish) long after Fazco has shut down. An eccentric collector has been acquiring versions of the Daycare Attendant animatronic from closed locations around the world. The story involves a reader character who has been brought into repair the original post-Ruin DCA from the games, and hijinks ensue. There are also ghosts.

Where can I read the fic?

GITM is currently being posted on Ao3, and is updated every three weeks on Saturdays. The fic is being beta'd by the tremendously talented @bubbiethesaur. You can read GITM here!

There is also a podfic, which you can find here:

Updates to the podfic will be sporadic, so please be patient &lt;3

Where can I see the art?

On this blog I use the #gitm au and #ghost in the machine au tags for GITM related content. If you are looking for art of a specific character, they also have their own tags: #misuta moon #nova #soleil #clip.exe #sunspot mk1 #fool eclipse #ruin eclipse #sombra #sunflower #mr sandman

FAQ~

Why haven't you answered my GITM ask?

One of three reasons: 1) your ask was too spoilery* 2) I'm waiting to answer it with art 3) ADHD

*spoilery includes but is not limited to: any questions about dual-AI or XYZ character's sun/moon variant; questions about character backstories and lore; questions about characters that have not featured in the fic yet (e.g Nova, Sanii, Harvest, Sunflower, Sandman etc); asks speculating about potential future scenarios (don't get me wrong, I love these asks, but I can't answer them!)

Where are all the Moons?

Read and find out. Seriously. There are at least 5 Moons who are core to the plot but I'm not going to talk about them, no matter how nicely you ask!

Does XYZ character have a Sun/Moon counterpart?

Some of them do, some of them don't. The dual-AI stuff is majorly plot related. If I'm not talking about someone's Sun/Moon counterpart, rest assured you will find out eventually. I won't be spoiling any of it on tumblr though :)

Can I create fanart of GITM?

Yes yes yes please do and please tag me when you post it so I can see it/reblog! If you are unsure if something is ok, please ask.

Can I create fanfic of GITM?

Super flattered about this. I have a longform answer to this question which you can read here. But tl;dr yes you can, please tag/credit me, do not spoil/try to write the lore, and please do not write GITM au (e.g mafia, mer, medieval). I have my own plans for this stuff and I would prefer to release the designs/stories in my own time. If you are unsure if something is ok, please ask.

Can I create NSFW GITM content?

Until recently I had blanket perms that allowed NSFW GITM content. I'm updating this to let you guys know I'm no longer comfortable with people making this content. Back when the community was small, I felt differently, but as time has passed a lot has changed and I've found myself becoming increasingly anxious about it. If this boundary changes again in the future, I will update this FAQ.

Do you have character refs I can use?

There is a collection of art 'refs' for each character on the Misutamojis discord. Latest link here.

There are no proper call-out sheets/refs currently, but I have a huge body of art for the characters on this blog which should give you more than enough info for most of them. I will get around to creating proper refs eventually, in which case I will link them here.

Where can I find the playlist?

I have a huge number of playlists for the fic and the individual characters! Up to date links are kept on the discord, but you can see my tumbler masterlist of playlists here: Part I // Part II

I've heard there are secret GITM drabbles, where can I find them?

I used to post frequent drabbles from future chapters in the DCA Palooza discord, I have recently deleted the majority of them as people were going back and binging them which hadn't been the intended reading experience. Anywho, this question probably refers more to the spicy drabbles (which people have very kindly made a lot of delicious art for). These are still around! You just need to access the spicy channel and do some digging.

Is there a GITM discord?

Nope! There is a server for GITM emotes and a busy thread in the DCA Palooza, but currently I don't have any plans to make a GITM-centric discord community. If that does happen in the future it's likely I will simply convert the emotes server (Misutamojis).

It finally happened, I converted Misutamojis. You can join the GITM discord here.

Can I smooch the robots?

Yes.

All of them?

All of them.

[dragons-are-epic]

Thinking about Torchwood and what I find fascinating is just how they set up Ianto before Cyberwoman. The main point of Cyberwoman (other than, well, a woman in a cyber-bikini fighting a pterodactyl) is that Ianto is seriously ignored by his team to the point where, for weeks, even months, they don't notice him hiding his cyber-converted girlfriend in the basement. Nobody sees him as any more than just an assistant - he's out of sight, he's out of mind. And then part of his arc is slowly becoming a full member of the team, from being a 'main character' in Countrycide to getting into an employee-with-benefits relationship with Jack to eventually being a crucial member of the team in Children of Earth and meaning so much to Jack that his death causes Jack to kill his own grandson to avenge him and save the world, then still flee Earth anyways because of the trauma he's experienced there.

And S1 Torchwood has issues, yes. But the way they set him up was genius.

I used Chakoteya's transcripts (they're really good) and ctrl + F for these statistics. And so:

In the first three episodes of Torchwood's first series, Ianto has fourteen (14) lines, the majority being just one or two sentences. In comparison, Owen had a hundred and forty-seven (147) lines, Tosh had ninety-two (92) lines, Gwen had three hundred and sixty-two (362) lines, and Jack had two hundred and forty-four (244). Suzie, despite only appearing in one episode of the three, has twenty-six (26) lines, while Rhys, though he wasn't a part of the main team, had forty-six (46) lines. Even if we exclude Jack and Gwen and just count deutertagonist members of Torchwood, Ianto's lines account for only 5.28% of spoken lines. Include Jack and Gwen and this falls to just a measly 1.6% (rounded to one decimal point) of spoken lines.

Now, Ianto's name is spoken by other characters just four (4) times in the first three episodes, and two of those times were Jack introducing him to Gwen. The other two are Jack getting him to do something - ordering him be on stand by for Owen if he needed backup in Everything Changes, and to indicate to Ianto that he should put the ghost device in storage in Ghost Machine. In contrast, Gwen's name is said twenty-six (26) times, Owen's is said thirty (30) times, Tosh's is said eleven (11) times, Jack's (excluding the 'Captain Harkness' inquiries in Everything Changes) is said twenty (20) times, Suzie's is said four (4) times, and Rhys' is said five (5) times. Given that I've also included referring to someone (i.e. "Rhys, my boyfriend, is a transport manager.") it also shows just how little the team talk about him.

He also simply does not have a lot to do. He's often in the background, but he never has a large impact on the plot. In fact, he never has a single scene outside of the Hub or the Tourist Information Centre for the first three episodes.

Now, normally, this would be a sign that he's quite severely underutilised. But in this case, it's genius. It shows us just how ignored he is among the team. They like him, obviously, but he's almost an outsider to the team. Hell, an in-universe Torchwood IM transcript has Jack, Owen, Suzie, and Tosh going out together for bowling and leaving Ianto behind, and the only reason he's told about it (via an Instant Message with Suzie) is because Suzie tries to switch places with him. She even says, when he mentions he didn't know about the trip, that there's 'No reason why [he] should' know. She does later tell him that he should socialise with the group, since it feels like they hardly know him, but it's revealed a message after that that it's a ploy to get more time in the Hub with the Resurrection Glove.

We can also see a similar issue with Suzie in the first episode. Obviously, if you're a member of Torchwood, you're going to have some amount of trauma from the job, so the occasional struggle with mental health isn't to be unexpected. But for Suzie, the second-in-command of the team, to kill three people and for it to go completely unnoticed among her friends - plus her implementation of the plan to bring herself back to life if she died, and the fact that she'd been seriously struggling to cope with her time in Torchwood for at least two years by the time she started killing people to test the glove - shows that there is a serious problem in Torchwood with ignored members of the team going rogue or doing very dangerous things because nobody pays them enough attention to notice.

[camaelias]

Sunny Winter Day

CHAPTER 1: The Man Across the Hall

Pairing : Grumpy Winter Soldier x Sunshine Reader

Tags : enemies to lovers, angst, slow burn Author's note : Omg, after more than a decade spent on and off this app, I finally mastered the courage to post something! Please be kind, but feel free to give feedback! especially when I make mistakes, English isn't my first language I hope you'll understand ^^ Okay so, here the story : PLOT :

In a world still reeling from Hydra’s fall and the Avengers' rise, you are a new recruit—a burst of golden light in a team still learning to trust. You have light powers. They call you sunshine, a little too soft for war, a little too bright for shadows.

You thought you were finally safe. A new world, a new life, a place among the Avengers. But danger doesn’t always knock on the front door — sometimes it smiles from the apartment across the hall. And sometimes, the one sent to destroy you is the only one who might just save you.

- Post-Avengers 1, Pre-Ultron. - Steve Rogers and the Winter Soldier have never met before. In this world Bucky Barnes is not yet part of Steve’s memories. - Hydra has been publicly dismantled, but in truth, it still thrives in the shadows.

CHAPTER 2 - The Winter Soldier

*3 WEEKS BEFORE*

The warehouse was falling apart.

It sat half-forgotten on the edge of rural Portugal, by the sea, tucked in the dry sunburnt borderlands near Spain. An old fish storage or something, or at least it smelled like it.

The air was sticky due to the heat, and the thick haze of dust made every inhale feel like chewing concrete. You were already dreaming about a shower and maybe—if the universe had any mercy—air conditioning.

It was a low-priority mission : some civilians reported strange activities at night. Or better, some lads said it was infested by ghosts at night. Shadows, flitting past broken windows. Whispers with no source. The kids would dare each other to throw rocks through the glass and swore they heard something growl back,which, of course, resulted in The Avengers having to check it out.

“Ghosts?” Clint groaned during the morning briefing, already rubbing his temple like it physically hurt “Damn kids. I’ve got two of my own haunting me—don’t need more"

Nat raised an unimpressed brow “And imagine how fun it will be when Nataniel will be joining the band” she grinned

“I need to retire…,” Clint muttered.

Across the room, Tony was pacing in socked feet and snacking on a bowl of blueberries like this was a brunch meeting “Listen, I for once am thrilled for a haunted warehouse. Monaco’s a short hop away; we check for ghosts, no one's actually cursed, I hit the coast in time for espresso—perfect little Thursday”

Steve crossed his arms “Let’s just make sure it’s not another Hydra shell game”

Tony popped a blueberry as he rolled his eyes “Come on, Cap, let me have one fun mission. You already took Halloween from me” 

You hadn’t argued. You’d even cracked a smile.

Now? You were rethinking every choice that led you here.

You moved carefully through the southern wing, the press of silence unnatural and tense. To your left, a wall smothered in old graffiti and jagged glass where windows used to be. The right opened into a cavernous, mostly empty expanse—save for a few nesting rats and a row of massive rusting machines, all hulking in the dark.

You pressed two fingers to your comm. “South section’s clear,” you said “Just rats and trauma vibes"

You didn’t hear the answer, because the wall behind you blew apart.

You didn’t see it coming. No warning. Just heat and force and the unmistakable shriek of crumbling stone. The blast sent you flying forward—air ripped from your chest, ears ringing. You hit the ground hard, and then— everything broke loose. You could hear at least 2 other explotions detonating somewhere on the other side of the warehouse, a few gunshots here and there.

The air turned to static and smoke. Somewhere above, a light fixture swung violently from the ceiling. you staggered to your feet and darted behind a support beam, one hand clamped over your ribs. Blood. Not gushing, but warm. Persistent. Yours. 

“North wall’s compromised,” Nat’s voice crackled through the comms, sharp as a blade “Three down. Someone new on the field. It's Hydra.”

“Visual?” you asked heartbeat kicking up.

Clint’s voice cut in fast “Yeah, tall, broad, moves like he wants to kill the damn ground, metal ar—”

You didn’t hear the rest.

Because a thud like thunder shook the floor, and you felt him before you saw him—something fast and heavy slicing through the smoke behind you. You ducked just in time.

A gleaming metal fist swung clean through the air where your head had just been and obliterated the support pillar behind you. Stone and steel crumpled like wet paper.

You hit the ground and rolled, coming up in a crouch, one hand already sparking with light.

And then—finally—you saw him.

He was built like a battering ram in black tactical gear, every inch of him made for destruction: grenade belt, knives strapped to his thighs, rifle slung tight to his back. A black combat mask covered the lower half of his face, sleek and impersonal, dark goggles covered his eyes. You felt a chill going down your spine. 

His long hair, damp with sweat, clung to his forehead, his goggles glinted in the fractured light—cold and unreadable.

Your light surged at your fingertips. You flung your hand forward—a blast. Golden light cut through the haze and hit him clean in the chest. He stumbled, boots grinding across the floor, but not down. Not even close.

Then he moved. Fast.

You caught a blur of black and metal and then he was on you, fists flying low, precise, brutal. You dropped to one knee as his fist cut through the air where your head had been, the metal knuckles slamming into the steel beam behind you. Sparks burst. Your hand glowed again—pure heat gathering in your palm—and you shoved upward with a blast that sent both of you flying in opposite directions.

“Dramatic entrance. You always punch first or am I special?” You said as you were getting back on your feet, slightly breathless, hoping to buy yourself some time just enough to figure how to fight whatever that was back. He didn’t answer, clearly not in the mood for chit chat. No witty comeback, no smug taunt—just a silent, brutal charge, knife glinting in his hand like he meant to end this fast. You met him mid-strike. Sparks exploded as his blade met your light-shield, heat searing your forearm. You twisted out of the way, pivoted, kicked up and caught him in the side.

He grunted—barely. No pain. No hesitation.

“Y/N, status” you heard Clint in your comm, and behind his voice a couple of explotions too. “Metal arm guy engaged,” you said as the man in front of you squared you like you were his next meal “So much for ghost stories…”. 

Your breath was starting to be more erratic, your body starting to register the impact of the blast, the hits, the flying-through-the-air-like-a-crash-test-dummy bit. And he, he just kept coming. Silent. Focused. No words, no hesitation. Just a human switchblade set to kill.

Your powers pulsed under your skin, flickering like a faulty wire as you groaned under your breath. It was really time you would learn how to control them. “Gotta go old school I guess…” you muttered. And then you swung.

No light. No glow. Just a good, old-fashioned, bare-knuckled punch backed by months of sparring with Natasha Romanoff. It connected with his jaw. You could’ve sworn you heard a growl through the mask. Then he grabbed your wrist—and threw you like a rag doll.

You hit the ground hard, shoulder catching on loose concrete. You rolled, groaning, and when your palm flared again, you blasted him with everything you had.

But—

It pulled.

Your power pulled back.

Not gone—but hesitant. Like it didn’t want to hurt him.

You stared at your hand, chest rising and falling.

“What the hell,” you whispered.

He stood across from you, silent and sharp, goggles locked onto yours, his chest heaving with heavy, even breaths. The light cut along his frame—tactical black combat gear, a gleaming metal arm etched with intricate lines, knife still in hand, long dark hair pushed back under the strap of his mask.

You were breathing hard. Bleeding. Confused. And by the time you looked back up from your hand he was gone. So fast, so precise, it was like he vanished with the smoke. Like you imagined him.

Little did you know that now he was standing in your kitchen, baby blue mug with little red hearts in hand, flashing you a shy smile. 

Later That Night When James left your apartment, the apartment building was quiet. A soft hum came from the fridge, the light in James’s kitchen was dim, casting half his face in shadow as he leaned one forearm on the counter, a radio device held loosely in his other hand.

His voice was calm. Clipped. Precise.

“She’s warming up. Give it time.”

A pause.

“…No. She doesn’t suspect anything concrete. Just… instincts. I can manage it.”

He clicked the device off.

CHAPTER 3 - Whispers in the wall

[writerinlearning]

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐘𝗼𝐮𝐫𝐬 | Part. Two.

plot: when reader wakes up from a one-month coma, she’s surprised to see luke there, believing he had crossed over after playing the Orpheum stage. when she’s discharged from the hospital, luke and reader engage in a conversation with an outcome neither of them expected.

pairing: ghost!luke patterson x molina!fem!reader

show: julie and the phantoms

warnings: none that i can think of

word count: 3,0k

author’s notes: english isn’t my first language, apologies for the possible mistakes. this is the second version of this story, an updated one if you will, and i have to say i like it a bit more than i did the first time. i hope you like it too.

luke patterson masterlist || part. one. || main masterlist

Los Angeles, 2020

Luke spins around on his heels, almost dropping his guitar case to the floor, eyes wide open in surprise and mouth hanging low with shock at the sound of the voice he believed he’d never hear again just mere seconds ago. Y/N’s eyes are open now, her nose scrunching up and showing the discomfort of the tube going down her throat. How had she managed to call out his name, Luke has no idea, but he is glad that she did, because she’s finally awake, and he couldn’t believe it.

She coughs again, tears of pain escaping the corner of her eyes. Instinctively, Luke rushes to her side, putting his guitar case at the foot of the hospital bed as he takes her hand in his. His body hovers above her as he looks for the small remote he’s seen Ray hold onto whenever he visits his niece, and he pushes down the red button, hoping for a nurse to come and check on Y/N. He’s still a ghost; there isn’t much else he can do to help her, except to stay by her side. He doesn’t notice the way she looks at him, with wide confused eyes as she glances back and forth between his face and her hand in his. 

Y/N doesn’t understand how or why Luke is able to hold onto her hand, a firm grip that is, instead of her hand falling through his. She doesn’t understand how he is still here, even after performing on the Orpheum stage; this is the one thing he needed to do, to cross to the other side. So why is he still here? She can’t say anything to him, her body spasming with another coughing fit from the tube down her throat. It hurts her with every breath she takes, the plastic rubbing against her esophagus. 

The door creaks open, and Luke whips his head around, letting out a relieved sigh when he sees Y/N’s regular nurse rush inside the room, her eyes wide open and mouth hanging agape in shock. Y/N coughs, her nose scrunching up in discomfort as the breathing tube down her throat almost chokes her. But the nurse is quick to notice her discomfort, and she quickly goes over her shock to help the poor girl. She checks on the different machines and IVs, taking several of Y/N’s vitals as the doctor makes his appearance inside the room.

Luke takes a step back, his hand dropping Y/N’s, but his eyes never leave her body frame as he leans back against the white wall, his arms crossed over his chest. They’re only left alone after an hour or so, but not before the nurse tells Y/N that she would inform her family about her current state. Y/N is finally free of the breathing machine when she attempts a glance towards Luke, and she wants to say something, but her throat is sore, and she fears it might hurt if she speaks up. Instead she gives him a head nod, motioning for him to sit by the edge of her bed.

Luke doesn’t know if he should, afraid he might hurt her by sitting so close to her, but when she doesn’t move her gaze from him, he takes his seat next to her, and he tentatively reaches out for her hand again. Y/N eyes him carefully, scrutinizing his every movement until the coldness of his palm rests against her own warm one. Her brows pull together in a frown, confusion written all over her face as he intertwines their fingers, resting their locked hands in his lap. Y/N shakes her head slowly, sniffling when she feels the tears running down her cheeks, and she winces at the small pounding in the back of her mind. She wanted to sit up, to move around but her nurse and the doctor had been strict: she had to wait until the next day. If only time could move faster.

“Hey Y/N.” Luke greets her softly. “How are you feeling?”

Y/N swallows the lump in her throat, coughing afterwards and she glances at the glass of water placed on the bedside table, hoping Luke would get the hint. She knows he is a ghost, and therefore cannot hold or grab things, but he’s been holding her hand longer than he’s ever done, and she wonders what else he can do. She doesn’t know how long she’s been there exactly, but from what she gathered from the doctor’s exchange with the nurse, it has at least been several weeks. She lets out a short breath when he does get the hint, carefully putting the glass at her lips to help her drink half of its content before he places it back on the bedside table. He watches as she closes her eyes for a brief moment, his hand finding hers again. He doesn’t want to let her go, now that she’s finally awake.

“It hurts.” Y/N finally says, her voice hoarse. “A lot.”

Luke finds it adorable, the way she speaks and the way she looks up to him, a mix of confusion, fear and happiness. 

“Wh– why are you here?” She asks him then, slightly turning her head to get a better look at him. “I– I thought… I thought you crossed over…”

“Yeah,” Luke breathes out. “Playing the Orpheum stage wasn’t our unfinished business after all.”

“But… Julie said, if you didn’t join Caleb’s club, y– you’d cease to exist…”

“After we played at the Orpheum and we vanished from the stage, we went straight to Julie’s garage.” Luke explains to her, running his free hand through her hair. “We believed you and Julie wouldn’t come there until the next morning, and you’d believed we crossed over. But she came over to the garage when she got back from the Orpheum, and she found us.” He pauses, taking a breath. “She begged us to go join Caleb’s club, but I told her that no music was worth making, if we weren’t doing it with her. Next thing I knew, she was hugging me, and she asked Alex and Reg to join us. After that, Caleb’s stamp vanished and now… Julie can touch us. Or we can touch the Lifers now.”

Y/N nods her head, chuckling at his choice of words to describe a living person. She tries to process the information he’d just dumped on her, still unsure of how she ended up at the hospital. Clearly, a lot has happened since her cousin performed with her ghost band at the Orpheum, opening for Panic!At the Disco, but all Y/N can remember from that night is driving back home from there, tears in her eyes as she believed the boys had crossed over. Luke notices her confused expression and smiles, leaning over a little to press his lips against her temple.

“I could get used to this, you know.” Y/N tells him, chuckling.

“What’s that?”

“This. You, holding my hand and kissing my cheek. It’s weird, because you’re a ghost and I’m alive, but I could get used to this.”

“Yeah, it’s still weird for me, too. Alex is constantly freaking out over this, and Reggie is rather chill about it. We’re still trying to figure out what it means.”

“Either way, I’m not complaining.”

“Neither am I.”

—

Three weeks later and Y/N is able to go home. She mostly has to rest, however, and besides, her father wouldn’t have her do anything around the house until he is a hundred percent certain she has completely healed from the accident. And since her father’s at work most of the time, Y/N finds herself spending most of her days at her cousin’s house, not that she complains. It meant she could see a certain someone everyday. 

She loves to spend time in the garage, watching Julie rehearse with the guys, but she’s completely oblivious to the side glances Luke gives her whenever he sings, which had the power to annoy Julie and Alex the most. They used this though, as an opportunity to tease the lead guitarist whenever Y/N wasn’t around.

Today would have been the same, if Julie hadn’t gone out with Flynn and Nick, or if Reggie and Alex had stayed in the garage after rehearsals. But the drummer was on a date with Willie, and Reggie went to spend some time with Carlos. He loves to hang around the younger Molina, especially since he found out he could make himself visible to Julie’s younger brother if he focused hard enough, and the two have since been bonding like two brothers. Which left Luke alone in the studio with Y/N, because he did not want to leave her alone.

Y/N sits on the couch when Luke poofs back from the kitchen, two bags of chips stuck under his arms. He pouts when he notices she hasn’t spared him a glance, too focused by the laptop in her lap. He knows she’s working on a school paper, having so much to catch up upon, after missing classes for a month. He knows she needs to get back on track, but the more he looks at her, the more he wants to be an annoying little shit and disrupt her concentrated state. He fights against it though, and instead he joins her on the couch, handing her a bag of chips he’d previously opened for her. He lays his head on her shoulder, his eyes going over the words written on her screen. He still couldn’t understand how such a small contraption could hold so much information, but he was getting the hang of it. 

“I still don’t know how your computer works.” He says as he pouts, pushing her laptop aside so that he can rest his head in her lap instead.

Y/N chuckles. “Technology. You’ll learn.” She says coyly.

Luke hums in response, half-ignoring her comment as he plays with the rings around his fingers. Y/N shakes her head at his lack of attention, leaning further into the couch as she begins to run a hand through the boy’s hair, her nails softly grazing at his scalp. Luke leans into her touch, craving the feeling of security and comfort it gives him. His eyes flutter shut as he enjoys the moment, to the point he almost forgets he’s dead.

“I heard you, you know.” Y/N blurts out, breaking the comfortable silence in the room.

Luke sits up, her hand falling from his hair and back in her lap, and he watches as she sits properly, his eyes wide as he processes her words. She’s never said anything up until now, so he’s always believed she didn’t hear him everytime he spoke to her back when she was in a comatose state. Oh, how wrong he was.

Y/N sighs, her hand coming up to pinch the bridge of her nose as she closes her eyes to gather her thoughts. Then, taking a deep breath, she turns her head to Luke and smiles softly, reaching for his hand.

“At the hospital,” she begins to explain. “I heard your song.”

“Y– you did?” Luke stutters, his voice going an octave higher in surprise. “I didn’t… I didn’t think you would.”

“I did, yeah. I could hear everyone that came and went in that room, and it’s hard. It’s hard to hear the people you love beg you to wake up while crying, and you’re unable to say anything back to them because all your body wants to do is to give up. I heard my dad, my uncle, Julie and Carlos. I heard Alex, Reggie, and you. I– I heard everyone, every single one of you, you know…”

Luke listens, noticing the tears brimming in Y/N’s eyes, but he says nothing. This is probably something she needs to talk about, to get out of her chest, and he lets her, squeezing her hand to let her know she isn’t alone; that he’s here for her, should she ever need him.

“Wh– when you sang your song to me, I…” Y/N breathes out, looking down at their locked hands. “I– I think… something clicked in my mind, and I had to wake up. I– I had to tell my body that I couldn’t give up, not now, because I wanted to live a life for the both of us. I– I was trapped in my own mind, but suddenly, I felt like breaking through this invisible wall, with your voice pulling me forward. I saw you when I opened my eyes, y– you were walking out. I knew I had to call out for you.”

Y/N releases a breath she doesn’t know she was holding, and she lifts her head up only to find Luke staring at her with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. His hazel eyes sparkle with something she’s never seen on him before; he’s beaming with happiness, she can easily tell, but there is something else hidden behind his irises, something she cannot quite put her finger upon. 

Luke brings their intertwined hands up to press a chaste kiss to the back of her hand, smirking as a blush creeps onto her cheeks. He doesn’t care that she didn’t say anything back at the hospital after she woke up; she was telling him now and it’s all that mattered to him.

“You know,” Luke says after a while. “You scared me quite a few times when you were there.”

“What do you mean?” Y/N asks him, tilting her head to the side.

“Your heart… it stopped twice in a month Y/N. I– I don’t know if your dad or Julie ever told you that. I– I was there both times, and I thought I’d lose you, you know? I wasn’t even sure you would come back as a ghost, if you did die, because I’m pretty sure you haven’t left anything unfinished and I��”

Luke’s rambling stops, his eyes widening when a pair of lips meet his, but he melts into the kiss right after, closing his eyes and moving his hands up to hold Y/N’s face in the palm of his hands. When she pulls away for air, her cheeks are a bright tomato red and her eyes dart to the floor in embarrassment. She scratches the back of her head, awkwardly clearing her throat.

“I’m sorry.” She whispers sheepishly.

“Don’t be.” Luke smiles, index finger under her chin so that she looks back at him. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to do that.”

“It’s just… you were rambling, and you were so cute, but with the accident it kind of my made head ache and I had to make you stop rambling, and I don’t know…” She shrugs. “I just thought kissing you would do the trick because, you know… I like you, like a lot. And I get it if you don’t feel the same way, but I just–”

It’s Y/N’s turn to be cut off by a pair of lips on hers, and she melts into the kiss, tangling her fingers in Luke’s hair, gently grazing at his scalp with her fingernails and eliciting a soft moan from him at her touch. He leans further into the kiss, craving the taste of her lips on his; craving her touch. Y/N giggles against his lips before she pulls away, to catch her breath. He might be dead and doesn’t need air to breathe, but she’s very much alive and she does need air to survive. They’ll have to work on that, if they want to make this work.

“I love you, Y/N.” Luke says, placing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Like a lot.”

“I love you more.” She confesses, bringing him in for another kiss.

Luke moves his hand from her face down to her hips, lifting her up so that she’s sitting in his lap, and he deepens the kiss when one of his hands returns to the back of her neck. Her own hands find his hair again, and he moans softly against her lips when she begins to tug on it, tangling strands of hair between her fingers. 

Neither of them notice when the garage doors open, nor do they see their friends standing in the door frames. At least, not until Alex awkwardly clears his throat to make his presence known to the two lovers.

Luke and Y/N pull away from each other, both madly blushing from being caught red-handed by their friends, and Y/N scrambles away from Luke’s lap, clearing her throat.

“As much as we appreciate you two finally acting on your feelings towards one another,” Alex begins, rolling his eyes.

“Please, don’t make out on the couch.” Julie finishes, giggling.

Y/N glares at her cousin before she looks at her lover when he lets out an annoyed groan, throwing his head back. She leans her head onto his shoulder, her index finger gently tracing the edges of his jawline as she looks up to him through her lashes, and she feels him shiver under her touch. Yeah, she definitely could get used to this, she thinks.

“I would have come back, you know.” She whispers so that only he can hear her. “If I’d died, back then. I’d have come back as a ghost.”

“Why?” Luke asks her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“You’re my unfinished business, Luke.”

She admits out loud, and Luke cannot stop the growing smile on his face. He hugs her closer to him, if that even were possible, and she uses this as an opportunity to kiss down his jaw and onto the exposed skin of his collarbone. He looks down on her when the warmth of her lips leave his skin, and he presses a gentle kiss onto her forehead.

“I love you.” Luke whispers into her ear before standing up.

“Feeling’s mutual, Patterson.” Y/N smirks, pushing him towards his bandmates with a laugh.

Boy, was she whipped for the guitarist. And how was she glad Julie had introduced the boys to her when she did.

[catscidr]

Ghost reader with dottore!!?!?

Ilysm

BOO haha gotem. did i get you ⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝ cw: fluff, dottore is tired and maybe a little ooc, established relationship kinda? not proofread. for plot purposes pretend that sign language doesn't exist and or that neither dottore nor reader know it lmaosghfns includes: gn!reader, dottore, pantalone is mentioned at the end wc: 1,5k

Being a ghost had its perks. One, you could phase in and out of tangible objects at your own whim- made it infinitely easier to tease and annoy Dottore. It’s not like he could push you away if you were to poke his face repeatedly, anyways. 

Two, you had freakishly good night-vision. It lined up with the doctor’s schedule- since he always worked late into the hours of the night you could hang around him and, in turn, entertain yourself by wreaking havoc in his lab (havoc meaning knocking over an empty, plastic container when he wasn’t paying attention to you). 

However, being a ghost also utterly sucked ass sometimes. 

For one, you couldn’t speak. Occasionally you’ll let out a quiet, hushed noise of surprise whenever Dottore caught you off guard or threw something at you, but you couldn’t communicate with him properly. Your main mode of communication was, for the most part and for lack of better words, miming and charades. That in it of itself wasn’t too hard to do since you grew to become incredibly expressive during your time as a ghost, but it required Dottore to look at you (thank the Seven he could see you), which he, in petty revenge, would sometimes refuse to do. 

“Sweetheart, I’m busy. I’ve been busy for a while, and I need you to let me focus,” he says in a firm but calm tone, muffled by a dust mask. It would have sent shivers down your spine if you had one, but you don’t, so instead you roll your eyes at him, floating next to him to peek at what he was doing. 

Sparks flew and sharp, stinging sounds irritating your ghostly eardrums echoed through your body, but it wasn’t enough for you to give up on pestering him. 

It’s not like you could do much, anyways. 

Moving objects could take a lot out of you depending on their weight, volume and size. Pushing a pencil was easy enough, throwing one was just as effortless, but moving something like a desk was harder, considerably so. 

Despite his apparent dislike for you, Dottore enjoyed your company, more than others. Being around someone that wasn’t afraid of him, that treated him like a friend made his cold heart thaw. It’s something he would never admit with his words, too prideful and stubborn to voice out loud, but it didn’t mean that there weren’t any other ways for him to portray his love for you. 

You poked the large metal mechanism he was working on, a loud bonk echoing in the pristine lab. It drew him out of his thoughts, gloved fingers stiffening around the soldering iron he held. 

Nothing moved out of place, but the action was enough for him to peel his gaze away from the two pieces of metal he was soldering together to glare at your semitransparent, floating figure. He says your name with a quiet growl, the word rolling off his tongue in a silent threat. 

“If you keep distracting me, I’ll keep the lab’s curtains open and start working during the day.” he huffs, pushing his security goggles up to rest atop his head to rub his eyes. Dark circles decorated his eyes, the urge to go to sleep for hours at a time constantly present in the back of his mind. 

Your face contorts in an expression akin to one of betrayal, brows pinched together as you freeze in place, your pointer finger hovering just inches away from the machine. Quickly, you’re at Dottore’s side once again, a gust of cold air chilling his skin as a result of your proximity. He pays no mind to it, simply unfurling his sleeves to cover the goosebumps on his scarred forearms. 

You want to ask what he’s working on, what exactly this big chunk of iron and copper is doing in his lab. Why he has safety goggles and a dust mask instead of his usual crow mask, why he’s so much less receptive to your shenanigans than usual. While mulling over your questions, the Harbinger walks off, leaving you alone with your thoughts- but not for long. 

He comes back and takes a seat on the stepladder he was previously on, clicking his pen, slouching forward and leaning his chin on his free hand. You snap your attention back at him- your heart would flutter at the sight if you still had one. 

Dottore sat with his legs spread comfortably, crimson eyes unobscured by his mask, hair pulled back loosely with a few rogue strands falling over his face as he looked at you with his chin in his hand, twirling his pen absentmindedly. You wonder if ghosts are able to- 

“Have you ever tried to possess something?” 

The doctor’s question catches you off guard. You shake your head quickly, your attention definitely piqued. 

“...do you remember being able to possess anything?” he adds, his left brow raised. 

You shake your head again, this time after a slight pause as a sheepish expression adorns your features. Being a ghost meant you had a pretty bad memory, considering your lack of a brain and of, well, everything. You weren’t fortunate enough to have a good memory, being an entity made up purely of elemental energy. 

Your answer seemed to please Dottore as he writes down something on his notepad, scribbling quickly. If you remembered one thing, it’s that you knew you couldn’t read his handwriting purely for the fact that it was impossibly messy. Your brain wasn’t at fault, not this time. 

He looks back up at you. “Do you have an idea of how you could possess an object?” 

Again, you shake your head slowly after a short pause to think about his question. However, your face beams into a bright smile as you give him a thumbs up and a nod of your head. You point at yourself with your thumb, expression changing into something more boastful and confident. 

“You think you can do it?” he asks with the ghost of a smile, amused by your antics. His behaviour was definitely strange, but you paid no mind to it, just happy to see him smiling again since he didn’t seem to do it much nowadays. 

You gesture to yourself with both hands, pointing to your lower body that dissipated into nothingness, silently saying I’m a ghost, that’s what we’re supposed to do. 

He understands despite your lack of a voice and chuckles softly. 

Without another second to waste you float closer to the mass of metal Dottore was working on, analyzing and pondering what to do. Were you supposed to, like, chant something before going inside of it? Despite being an undead spirit, you had only used your ghostly powers to annoy Dottore. Possession wasn’t on the list. 

Figuring that you had nothing to lose, you try to phase yourself into the machine. Your ‘body’ felt like it suddenly weighed a ton and you felt cold, incredibly so. You didn’t know what you were seeing, eyesight blurred and blacked out around the corners as if you had glaucoma at the same time. It was dark inside of the lab, dark enough that your eyesight should be relatively normal. Caught up in your thoughts you fail to see Dottore rapidly taking notes as he looked up at his creation. 

Abruptly, you feel yourself getting ‘ejected’ from whatever state you were in. Your head spins and you hear a faint crash, though you don’t register it as being related to what you just experienced. 

Dottore calls out your name, the sound being much more pleasant to your ears than the previous loud noise despite his voice sounding just as rough. You blink repeatedly, focusing your gaze on him as he says your name again. 

“Are you okay?” he asks with furrowed brows, free hand raised up awkwardly in the air as if to hold your shoulder- forgetting that he can’t. You look at him and nod slowly, though your head felt impossibly tight, your body was readjusting to being so small in comparison to what you had just attempted to possess. 

He jots down something else as he observes your state. 

While he writes down whatever you take the opportunity to look around, noticing the hunk of metal now laid horizontally on the crushed tiles of the lab, dust settling in the cracks. You panic, hands flailing and gesturing at high speed, profusely apologizing to Dottore in your own way. 

He ignores your frazzled state and simply shrugs, expression back to being stern again since you seemed to be relatively okay. 

“I don’t care about the floor; you just successfully possessed a ruin guard. The state of my lab is the least of my worries,” he declares without taking his eyes off of his notepad. 

You stop your movements to look at him, then at what he had just called a ruin guard. If it used to be sitting upright and it was now on its side, then... 

“The banker’ll pay for the damages. We’ll have you practicing your ability to possess things. There’s room for improvement,” he says with a curl of his lips, looking up at you with a glint of mischievousness and something else you couldn’t put your transparent finger on. You nod happily, relieved to be able to make him grin again. 

If there’s anything you remembered, it was how much you loved to see the doctor smile.