#her issue is not with her talent. it's not with her resolve. her issue is that she let her audience consume her. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

smusherina · 5 months

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yard work - chapter 14 (regina george x reader)

fandom: Mean Girls (all media)

pairing: Regina George x OFC/Reader

summary: You'd been in the same class as Regina George since kindergarten. You'd lived on the same street even longer. Once upon a time, when life was sandbox disputes and who got the swing first arguments, you'd even been friends. Now, in junior year of high school, you doubted she even remembered you. The same couldn't be said about you. You definitely remembered her.

chapter 1 / chapter 2 / chapter 3 / chapter 4 / chapter 5 / chapter 6 / chapter 7 / chapter 8 / chapter 9 / chapter 10 / chapter 11 / chapter 12 / chapter 13 / chapter 15

You told Mrs George (or was it Ms George now? Too soon?) that you'd drive yourself to the school. Under no circumstance did you want to sit in close quarters to Regina. Besides, you knew she'd have to be there significantly earlier because she was performing. If the thought of being near Regina made you uncomfortable, that of being in that building made your skin crawl.

Why you were even bothering to go was beyond you. You'd been made into a laughing stock, a subject for people to talk about and twist around for the rest of the break. There was no PR response you could concoct to fix this, because for one, there was no time, and secondly nobody would want to hear it.

Maybe this wouldn't ruin your entire fucking life. Maybe you'd get over it eventually. Maybe it would all turn out fine. But it didn't feel like that. You could understand Regina more now, could see more clearly what she'd been talking about when she went on that rant.

Thinking all your problems would dissolve once you were old enough was stupid. That could only be applied to something vain, like pimples and pit stains and body odour. But issues like Regina's, utter self-hatred weaponized against society and everybody around her, and yours, chronic doormat syndrome with a side of people pleaser, could not just resolve. One could not pray the gay away, could not sweep it all under the rug.

You looked at the chicken sandwich in your hand. Mrs George had made some for lunch earlier and you'd swung by after the grocery trip to get you one. Then, she'd driven back to yours, helped you pack it all away, and made a weekly meal plan with you while you ate. It'd been nice. And the chicken sandwich was divine.

Your tummy was already full, but you didn't want to stop eating. You almost never got to really stuff yourself. The feeling of it was luxurious, though painful.

You put off going for as long as you could. You left at just the last minute, cutting it dangerously close. Didn't bother changing your clothes or anything. A hoodie and jeans, your usual jacket and scarf. By the time you arrived on the scene, the parking lot was pretty much deserted. You hustled to the gym where the thing was set up and easily found Mrs George and Kylie.

"C'mon, it's- it's- it's almost starting!" Kylie hissed at you, patting the seat next to her.

"Okay okay!" You whisper shouted back, mustering a little excitement for the little girl's sake.

Most of the performances were utterly dull. To be fair, the talent show was also an opportunity to get extra credit for some classes. Several people from your Spanish class took the stage. There was poetry and a couple songs, all mediocre at best. A pair performed a salsa number, which was surprising on two accounts. One, they were both dudes and two, they were good.

After Damien's dramatic rendition of Christina Aguilera's Beautiful, it was time for The Plastics to take the stage. Karen, Gretchen, and Cady were slowly revealed by the curtain. Cady stood front and centre, Gretchen to her left and Karen to the right.

Unlike many of the other dance performances of the night, the highlight was certainly not the choreography. The wow factor was hinged on the simple fact that it was them, specifically these girls, in latex, borderline slutty Santa costumes doing a provocative dance. The audience was not thrilled, the adults' reactions ranging from mildly uncomfortable to downright scandalized, while the other high schoolers looked on in either lust or disappointment that the act was missing the thing that had made it interesting in the first place.

Regina George had been the main attraction. Without her, without her effortless stage presence making the dance seem interesting, it was actually pretty embarrassing.

You had to look away when they started doing stunts. Karen went to the floor on all fours crab walk style, while Gretchen positioned herself behind her, and Cady geared up to- you couldn't watch. Suddenly, the music cut out and a heavy thump accompanied by someone's breath wooshing out of their lungs echoed through the gymnasium.

Kylie covered her mouth in a valiant effort not to laugh. You bumped your shoulder into hers. She bumped back. Mrs George had gasped and almost surged out of her seat. A beat of silence. Then, like water rippling, laughter began to bubble out of people.

You still couldn't watch. You could hear heels clicking on stage, groaning, and some frantic whispering. Kylie had tears in her eyes and her whole body was shaking.

"What's happening?" You whispered to her.

"Cady... She... Belly flopped the stage." She managed to get out before bursting into giggles.

"What? Is she, like, okay?"

"She's getting up. The principle's getting on stage." Kylie reported while you kept your eyes firmly on your lap. "He's gonna say something, oh, Gretchen's taking the mic-"

You had to look up when you heard your full name being spoken into the microphone, but regretted it as soon as Gretchen finished the sentence:

"-is a lesbian!" Quiet. Again.

You looked down so fast your neck cracked. Through the tinnitus in your ears, you could vaguely hear the principal admonishing Gretchen, the murmurs in the hall, their heels clicking off stage.

Why was Gretchen of all people announcing your sexuality at the talent show? What did she have to do with any of this? Maybe Regina had put her up to it. It didn't seem planned, though. You thought that Regina and Gretchen weren't talking.

"What's a lesbian?" Kylie asked you, all innocence and wide eyes.

"Kylie, don't ask that, it's not appropriate." Mrs George said.

"Why? Is it a bad word?" She turned to her mother. You took deep breaths and clenched your fists. Unclench. Clench. Everything was going to be fine.

"No, but it's not good to accuse somebody like that." Mrs George tried to explain gently, but you could tell she was out of her depth.

"But what does it mean?"

"Kylie, I said don't-"

"It means a girl that likes girls." You cut in.

"Huh... So like how boys like girls, but a girl likes a girl?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Okay."

You would've paid so much money for it to be that simple. Why you couldn't be afforded the benefit of the doubt that you weren't a pervert, riddled with disease, and out to get people? Why was it so unbelievable that you didn't want to change the world, you just wanted to get married someday? Why did kissing girls on the mouth make you a predator?

You suspected there were no real answers to those questions. Fear. Repression. The patriarchy. Religion. The wage gap. Whatever.

The show went on. You felt numb. Realistically, what could you even do? Stand up and shout that it wasn't true? That would only serve to put a name to a face. The next talents came and performed their mediocrity to the mildly interested crowd. There was a pretty good sleight-of-hand magician. Somebody had trained their cat to do tricks.

Eventually, it was Regina's turn to take the stage. You couldn't help but perk up when they announced her. Mrs George was out of her seat immediately, kneeling on the pathway to the stage with a video camera poised to film her daughter.

The curtains parted. She stood in the centre of the stage, mic stand in front of her. She smiled a little, eyes on her mom presumably.

Her hair was done in soft waves, framing her face so beautifully. Natural makeup kept light, a compromise between the bare face that you liked and the full beat she was into. She was wearing an old white tee shirt, the logo so faded you could barely make it out. That had been your shirt, you realized as you narrowed your eyes. You'd gotten it from summer camp, one that Regina hadn't been able to come with you to. After you came back she'd confiscated all the stuff you'd gotten there. Tee shirts, crafts projects, a whittled duck, braided cord. You'd always assumed she had thrown it all in the trash. On her wrist was a braided leather cord and a wood bead friendship bracelet. She had on Lee jeans that hugged her hips and thighs exquisitely. Those had been her mom's.

In her hands was the photo album. Everybody could read the front, Reggie & Jorts.

"Notice me... Take my hand..." She crooned into the mic as the soft melody of Briney Spears' Everytime began to play.

"Why are we strangers when our love is strong? Why carry on without me?"

You felt like you couldn't breathe.

"And every time I try to fly I fall without my wings," Her eyes scanned the crowd. You wondered if she was looking for you. "I feel so small, I guess I need you, baby,"

She found you. Your eyes met, hers clear and blue and somehow so sad, even as she glittered up on stage. Even with everybody's eyes on her, she was looking at you.

"And every time I see you in my dreams, I see your face," She sang so prettily, every note like a gentle caress, a soothing balm to your ears. You did so love to hear her sing.

"It's haunting me. I guess I need you, baby," Her eyes closed, like she couldn't focus on two things at once; looking at you and singing. She swayed gently with the rhythm, feeling the soft instrumental in her feet. Sneakers. Simple, white sneakers.

Her eyes opened again with the next lyrics. You tried not to overthink it, tried not to imagine things that weren't there, but maybe there was a glassiness to her eyes that hadn't been there before.

"I make-believe, that you are here. It's the only way that I see clear. What have I done? You seem to move on easy."

You swallowed, eyes closing. You weren't sure what to think. Was this her way of apologizing? Was she trying to make up for what'd been said? Hadn't she just earlier today made your life living hell?

You leaned your elbows onto your knees and cradled your face in your hands. What were you supposed to do now? She was singing to you. This was the ultimate show of sincerity, of vulnerability, but what were you meant to do with it all in your hands? Your chest tightened and your breaths shortened.

The song continued, you knew the lyrics by heart, but only once she sang the next part did you open your eyes again.

"I may have made it rain, please forgive me. My weakness caused you pain, and this song's my sorry,"

You understood. Cowardly as it may have been, Regina was apologizing to you. Though the references were obscure enough that most, if not all, people would not know who she was singing to, it was quite clear this was a song for somebody.

You rubbed at your throat. It felt constricted, like something was tightening around it.

You couldn't shake the feeling that it was too late. As much as you would've liked to weep in gratitude, be swept in the relief that she was taking you back, irreversible things had happened. None of this made sense. If she hadn't pulled the stunt today then who had? Had she told somebody? Had Janis told?

Regardless, you were an outcast. If not, then ridiculed. You were scared. You had become a target. You didn't think anybody at Northshore was capable of the atrocities you saw reported on the news, but nobody who'd become a victim did until it was too late.

As it was, it didn't matter whether or not you forgave Regina. It didn't matter if she forgave you.

"I guess I need you, baby," As the last line of the song carried throughout the gymnasium, and after the split second of stunned silence before people began cheering and clapping, you got up and left.

You'd smoke a cigarette and get out of here once and for all. Then, you'd drive home and call dad. You'd tell him everything, tell him you needed to switch schools and that you were gay and that you'd made a real mess of things.

You'd take what was given, reap what'd been sown, and forget all about this goddamned town.

Forget all about Regina George.

Notes: Took a bit longer with this one. Sorry for the suspense! Here, have some more unresolved stuff! Also, I fucking love that song by Britney Spears. I've known Regina was gonna sing it for J since pretty much the beginning and finally, she did.

Taglist will be posted separately. If you want to be added to the list, please comment on that post! Thank you!

#mean girls #mean girls 2004 #mean girls 2024 #regina george #regina george x reader #regina george x you #regina george x oc #regina george x ofc #lesbian regina george #wlw #fic: yard work

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ddarker-dreams · 11 months

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Nexus V.

Yandere Blade x F Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, possessive behavior, codependency o'clock, implied/mentioned not SFW, coercion and mommy issues. Word count: 10.1k.

Nexus index.

Time is a way to measure reality.

It allows the woefully inadequate mind of a sentient being to process a sliver of something greater. The senses are a sieve that retains what little they can of the universe’s riptide. Considering this, it’s no wonder the Aeons tend to keep to themselves. How long would you entertain the whims of a speck of dust? You’d gain nothing from it. The dust cannot understand, it lacks the means to properly perceive you. It simply wishes to find a nice, comfortable spot to occupy its days. It can loathe, revere, or fear you, it matters not; for in the end, it’s nothing but a speck of dust.

So why do the Aeons occasionally make themselves known? What do they stand to gain? Further power, enlightenment, entertainment?

They should’ve just kept wading through the stellar sea.

Specks of dust shouldn’t be allowed to wield even an ounce of their power.

All it does is let them destroy themselves and others in new, horrific ways.

The white rings around your mother’s pupils shine.

She subjects Kafka and Blade to concurrent curses. Cutting, snipping, trimming; their psyches are flayed one layer at a time. How she does so rivals a butcher preparing a tender cut more than a doctor performing a delicate surgery. Inky blots propagate along Blade’s vision. From this limited perspective, you can’t determine Kafka’s condition. Not that it would matter, you can barely comprehend what Blade’s going through.

Mother has to be forming a link, right?

Ideally, both parties consent to a link’s formation. This grants stability and lowers the chances of complications. An unwelcome link is treated with the same hostility as an immune system that’s noticed a germ. It’s sought out, identified, then exterminated. The host may suffer malaise for a time, but if their body is in working order, the problem will sort itself out.

There has to be more to this, you surmise. Mom, please, don’t let this be the end. You can’t. Not you.

The disease inflicted on Blade metastasizes; Kafka is likely facing a similar predicament. Memories swarm around him like locusts, buzzing and biting.

The Zhuming is the womb from which divine weapons are born. It is the warden to the subdued Flint Emperor, whose flames once burned hot enough to rival the stars. These flames will one day exterminate the rampant borisin, the young boy is certain. Whether it be in his lifetime or not doesn’t matter. No child deserves to be made an orphan. He can’t undo what’s been done to him, but he can help prevent it from happening to others.

“If you believe you are up to the task, I will take you on as my apprentice. What you do with the knowledge I impart is your decision.”

This Foxian lady sent to retrieve support for the fight against the borisin loves to chat. There’s rarely an instance where a grin can’t be found on her face, wide enough that her eyes must squish to accommodate her exuberance.

“Just focus on what you want to do, and let fate take its course."

Those who belong to the short-life species cannot grasp a nebulous concept such as ‘fate.’ This sentiment is commonly found among his fellow Artisanship Commission members. It doesn’t deter him — if anything, his resolve is strengthened. His life won’t be as long as theirs, but it will burn hot and bright before it extinguishes.

“The borisins must pay the price for their evil.”

One day, a lady with long, silver hair, who has conquered the moon and brought it to heel, approaches him. The air around here is crisp, contrasting the sweltering air of the Zhuming. She reminds him of the winters he experienced on his home planet. He had forgotten how frost stings.

“A talent such as yours shouldn’t be left to drown amidst a mediocre sea. After this visit, I’m bound for the Loufu. A seat will be made available for you. Come and reach your full potential, or, languish here where your accolades will fade from history’s recollection.”

The Shard Sword, Starfall Reverie, Cloud-Piercer, and Baiheng’s recurve bow were no longer what he treasured most. Those monumental accomplishments don’t enrich lives, it ends them. Standing here, where the ocean’s blue is more brilliant than the artificial sky, is where he’s found something akin to peace. The Scalegorge Waterscape has become a gathering place for friends. Laughter, sparring, and the burning of liquor are shared beneath the moon’s watchful eye.

He raises a cup to his lips and silently wishes this joy could last forever.

“Do you remember?”

This voice interrogated him unceasingly for answers they both knew he couldn’t give. Again and again, he’d undergo a punishment disguised as a lesson. Frost didn’t just sting, it imparted necrosis, yet what is decomposition to an immortal but a joke? Again and again, his flesh would be pierced, organs punctured with expert execution. His body wasn’t allowed the privilege to rot.

Again and again, he’d be swallowed by death, only to be spat back up, as it’s unable to digest him.

"Listen, I can always kill you again, otherwise I can't bring you back."

What he thought to be prey standing in his way turned out to be apex predators. A woman who could render him useless with her words alone and a suit of armor that reflected the sun in his weary eyes. He had to get his fill of death before considering her offer. It sounded too good to be true, but he was reminded that the universe has enough instruments to perform the threnody he so desperately wishes to hear.

“Having trouble settling on a gift? Hm… I suppose that’s to be expected. Any off-world flora you leave behind will shrivel beneath the planet’s atmosphere, unless it possesses special qualities. It’d be a bad omen to give her a lotus that can wilt. Why not try a different approach?”

He stands solitary on the cragged terrain around the LOTUS-EATER. Though she’ll soon emerge to gaze up at the starless sky, his wait won’t end there. It’ll bleed into the next day, then the day after that, on and on the cycle will spin. Destiny’s Slave promised this vortex would end so long as he remained patient. Once he fully bows down before her, damnation will be her crown. The weight of his burden is to be shared by two.

He considers the iridescent crystals in his bandaged hands.

He thought the joy he found in creation died the same day ▇▇▇▇▇ did.

This emotion’s resurrection, however…

… If it’s a sin, then what’s another addition to his list?

“Listen, Blade, snap out of it.”

The swarm falls silent.

Bright screens, the thrum of the oxygen generator, sterile colors. Kafka towers over him, implying that he’s fallen to the ground. Her complexion lacks its usual glow. While Blade stands, she reaches inside her jacket and pulls out a portable blush. She dusts the rosy powder over her cheeks.

“That was unpleasant,” Kafka sighs. She snaps the container shut. “I guess that’s to be expected from one of Noct’s Emanators. It seems you bore the brunt of it, though.”

Mom, an Emanator? You think. Maybe… maybe that means she had a chance to get away. This was a diversion that she used to go into hiding. Faking a corpse is within their skillset, Silver Wolf can hack reality itself. I only looked at it long enough to confirm her identity.

Blade places a hand on his throbbing head and grimaces. His vision alternates between different degrees of blurriness. Kafka’s positioned in front of him, which prevents you from seeing the area your mother occupied. You pray to anything that might listen for her to fucking move already.

“That trip down memory lane was a red herring,” Kafka says. “She bought herself enough time to complete her real objective.”

Even Kafka thinks so!

Instead of explaining further, she leisurely reaches for her lipstick. Your frustration boils over. You aren’t the only one feeling impatient. Blade hasn’t uttered a word, but his typical apathy ebbs and flows irregularly. Kafka hums a tune as she smears the rouge pigment along her puckered lips. This whimsical attitude shows no signs of tapering off.

Blade exhales sharply, belying his annoyance. He’s near his limit as well.

Kafka clicks her tongue. “Don’t be so impatient, you two. I’m dolling myself up.”

…‘You two?’

“Yes. Now, let me assess the damage,” Kafka switches from looking at Blade to inspecting his psyche. She gasps, playing the role of a melodramatic damsel perfectly. “Oh my. Ania did a number on you.”

This woman is insufferable, always playing coy. I swear, the next time I see her—

“Your memories of [First] Phaeales, the visceral emotions she stirs up in you; they’re growing fuzzier by the second, I presume? In an hour or so, they’ll be gone altogether. Hmm… ‘gone’ might not be the best word to describe it. Sealed away might be more appropriate.”

A premonition too cruel to put into words coils around you.

No, no, no.

“Can you fix it?” Blade strains. The hypothetical Kafka suggested encourages his mara to writhe and hiss in dissatisfaction. It crawls around his head, murmurs near his cochlea in a scratchy voice, demanding a quick fix. To be deprived of you is unacceptable, it insists. This sentencing must be overturned. It wants you, needs you and will destroy anything to have you. Himself included.

Pandemonium wreaks havoc inside his head, it’s like he barely exists. The warring influences rip away as if drawing and quartering him.

“I can’t, no. It’s beyond my abilities,” Kafka’s smile is all teeth. “Fortunately, I do know of someone who can undo it.”

His mara hushes so it may hear her out.

“Contact them,” he snaps.

“You’d get all bashful if I did. Besides, I don’t think she’d do a very thorough job if she knew the context.”

Kafka stares Blade in the eye and tilts her head like she’s posing for the camera. “Isn’t that right, Miss Phaeales?”

You think you might be living in a nightmare.

Please, no…

Blade’s heart lurches inside his chest at your mention.

“Listen, Bladie. Until [First] Phaeales undoes her mother’s seal, you’ll be unable to remember the past twenty-four hours. The second the seal is undone, this memory, on June 8th, 2153 AE, starting from Eris’ local time of 0223 and concluding at 0214, will resurface in your consciousness. It will play for her so she’s fully caught up.”

How could something this awful… ever happen…?

The edges of the memory fade and curl inward like burning paper.

“I’ll throw in some advice, just for you, sweetie. He’s bound to get tongue-tied around you, so remember to be patient,” Kafka’s suggestion is muffled. “Oh, and another thing. You might want to get a headstart while you can.”

…

You can’t breathe.

The room performs for you, rippling side to side, hypnotizing as a pocket watch. A white blur whirrs by. Clink, clink, clink, it crashes, spurting its innards in a splatter of red and glimmering gold. The sound itself seems delayed, echoing a moment too late. It isn’t in time with the opal shards that scatter like teeth along the polished floor. The deluge is offbeat, dissonant, yet the song continues.

You can’t breathe.

The percussion is ousted, making way for the woodwind section. The flutes raise and raise in pitch. This tocsin sounds shrill and consistent, stabbing your eardrums, and vibrating your bones. Dizziness makes for a distracting audience member, its dry, unblinking eyes landing on you. It opens its maw impossibly wide, tearing the tendons around its cracked lips, and swallows your head. For some reason, it cannot go past your neck, so it contents itself with gorging on your cranium like it’s sucking candy.

You can’t breathe.

There’s something living inside your throat. A parasite, leech, or slug, maybe. It wriggles back up whenever you try swallowing, like jello on a wobbling plate. The tiny hairs along its gelatinous body tickle your esophagus. You’re always on the precipice of choking, but not quite. It delights in the warm and moist cavern you’ve provided.

You can’t die because it wants more from you.

You can’t be reduced to a husk because your vitality sustains it.

You can’t breathe, you can’t breathe, you can’t breathe—

Something awful touches your skin and you want to burn the residue it leaves behind.

“[First].”

You scramble back until your spine hits a cold, solid surface. A hand retracts.

What is this thing before you? It’s tall and has eyes like vats of blood. You see your reflection held captive inside the crimson miasma. The woman it shows resembles you in some ways and doesn’t in others. She looks afraid. Sickly. Lost somewhere between the junction of life and death. Traipsing, testing the fraying line’s integrity. One wrong step guarantees a plummet to inconceivable depths.

“[First].”

“Don’t,” you rasp, your voice wobbling like a transmission with a poor signal, “Don’t you fucking dare come near me!”

He listens. For now, at least. You’d be a fool to mistake stalling for surrender. You press your back into the wall hard enough to ache. The enclosed space seemingly shrinks around you. You press a trembling hand over your heart, feeling how it hammers against your chest cavity. The room’s air is stifling. Your sympathetic nervous system can’t decide its course of action. Should the little oxygen you’re inhaling go to your brain or your heart? Delegation is a tricky endeavor.

Blade’s gaze eats you alive.

He’s starving and you’re the only thing that can fill him.

The manifestation of his mara frightened you less.

Mom, what have I done? What can I do?

“You should sit,” he says. You want to rip his vocal cords to shreds. “There’s nowhere to run and you know better than to fight.”

As if he had to remind you.

The Shard Sword. So that’s the name of the terror he wields? You’ve read about it in history books, there are entire chapters dedicated to the High-Cloud Quintet’s exploits. Even if he were unarmed, you wouldn’t stand a chance. Any flesh wound will heal, any organ will stitch itself back together, and any death will be a temporary visit he’ll saunter back from.

Blade takes a step closer.

How do you get out of this? How do you get him to stop? What would get him to stop?

What could he possibly want more than you?

Oh.

The answer unfurls like a body bag.

… There is one more thing, isn’t there?

You thread your psyches together with a thin string. It’s too weak in its present state, the weight of your goal will make it snap instantly. You need to fortify it as best as you can. Otherwise, there is no place you can go where he won’t find you. The prismatic shards that record his history are no longer indecipherable, each moment is visible to you, forming a macabre mosaic.

The second you finalize this link, he’ll know. Your touch isn’t a stranger to his mind anymore. Nothing about you is.

You recall the shattered opal goblet a few feet away.

You let your knees buckle like they’ve desired all along. You fall toward the jagged shards and you brace yourself. It happens as swiftly as you expected — his inhuman speed allows him to catch you easily. He steadies you against him, holding you up since the strength leaving your body wasn’t an act.

Your hand brushes over a sliver of his skin.

You wanted me to show you what it’s like to die, you think. It isn’t beyond my means at all, Yingxing!

The Synalink is a success.

He might want you, but his longing for a permanent death eclipses that.

This is a scenario unlike any you’ve ever built before. The dimensions are simple, you’re creating one static scene. It isn’t a vast galaxy with trade, economies, and conflicting ideals, teeming with planets that house millions of individuals who each have their own role in the story to play. Grass doesn’t have to blow just right, there aren’t bystanders whose conversations you need to generate and perform maintenance on.

The stage you’ve built is, at its core, nothing. A vacuum you’ve molded into a cube and placed him in the middle of.

You’ve cut off stimuli to each of his senses. He can’t perceive anything, because there’s nothing to perceive.

His psyche shows no signs of resistance. This is what he wants, isn’t it? Total absolution. The loss of self, to be undone and woven into the universe’s indifferent tapestry. Every factor has aligned in your favor like a once-in-a-millennium syzygy. Your newfound knowledge of his past, his most innate desire being death, then the amplification physical touch brings.

This isn’t an unknown pathogen, it’s a welcome salvation.

You just have to maintain it.

Your main hurdle is finding a way to do so while navigating the physical world. The slightest deviation could have catastrophic consequences, his acumen is that competent. How long can you sustain this Synalink if you don’t dedicate your entire attention to it? There’s no point of reference. For all you know, it could be impossible.

Regardless, you have to try.

Reopening your corporeal eyes, you find yourself in the private room.

The Stellaron Hunter, who uses the alias ‘Blade,’ stands behind you like a cocked gun.

He isn’t moving. The white rings in his eyes match yours. His vitals are consistent with what you see in clients immersed in Synalinks. Low respiration and heartbeat, and the paralysis of limbs so as to deter unwanted motor functions.

You hold your breath, shimmy out of his loosened grasp, and then cautiously take a step back.

Your heels crunch down on a stray fragment from the broken goblet. You cringe.

You expect the worst when you gather the courage to look at him again.

Still nothing.

Keeping your back against the wall, you awkwardly slide toward the door leading to The Lounge.

The burning question of what to do next sears your mind. You have no faith or trust in Chrysus. There’s Caicias, but he’s in Mele. The fastest nectar guide would still take two hours, factoring in the repairs being done to the one in Thelx. Even if he did make it here, what could he do? Help you negotiate? Would Blade even give him the chance? You’d be condemning the elder quadrant leader to certain death.

Who is in your star system? You’ve heard that the Astral Express has had run-ins with the Stellaron Hunters, but they could be millions of light-years away. Then there’s Kafka. If she goes too long without hearing from Blade, she won’t just sit around and let you scheme. Silver Wolf could hack into the LOTUS-EATER’s surveillance system or use thermal imaging to gauge the situation.

The price of hope is too steep.

Your fingers grope blindly for the door’s switch. You refuse to take your attention off Blade for a split second. You feel a protrusion, start to flick it up—

Sparks fly from the wall like frantic fireflies, joined by chunks of dark debris. Strands of your hair blow aside as if subject to a wicked gale. Sediment scratches at your skin. Out of instinct, your eyes squeeze shut, shielding you from what they can. A figure towers above you. You can’t see him, but you can feel him. The torment, bloodlust, and yearning are so prevalent that they may as well be in the room alongside you.

Through a looking glass, you saw the reflections of a wretched life.

How he fell victim to a friend unwilling to accept a comrade’s untimely demise. That for this incursion, death would never grant him permanent residency. Over a thousand times, a swordmaster gripped by madness tested this ordinance, her strikes colder than winter’s wrath.

He’d lose a piece of himself each time, leaving a mangled afterimage of what he once was.

A sinner rendered mara-struck and immortal — a shade that will dye you his accursed color.

Blade pins your wrists above your head. It hurts, but you’ve learned there’s pain worse than this.

“Open your eyes.”

It isn’t a request.

You hesitate for as long as he allows. Ultimately, you have no choice but to give him what he wants. Scarlet eyes reward your reluctant obedience. Leering, glowing. Your chest heaves beneath the burden of each breath. Something wet and warm trickles down your cheek. It titillates the flames of his mara as if it’d been lathered in oil. He shackles your wrists with his gloved hand and drags the other downward. Over your temple, cheekbone, then finally, your chin.

He tilts your head up.

Neither of you speak.

How? How did he break free?

You didn’t sense any fluctuations, nothing that’d warn of your incoming fate. Your control didn’t slip, it was pulled out right from underneath you.

Isn’t death what every segment of his psyche seeks? His rationality, morality, and base instincts were all in agreement, a unanimous jury that didn’t require deliberation.

What unforeseen note upset this triad?

Your reflection in his eyes is drenched in red.

“Haha… seriously?” You laugh a humorless laugh. “Me?”

Blade doesn’t respond. You don’t know if he heard you. Either way, it doesn’t matter. He is the author of whatever happens next.

A butterfly with injured wings loses none of its original beauty. If anything, it’s made easier to admire, now that it can no longer fly away. You have nowhere to go, nothing to do, and not a word to say that’d make a difference. This futility reassures his mara. That which was held above its head has been made to crawl along the ground. Blade seizes total control of himself as his mara slinks away. Cognizant of his bruising grip, he releases you. Without his crushing support, you collapse like a house of cards. Your knees hit the ground.

You sink down further and squeeze your head in between your hands.

It hurts, mom, it hurts. Why couldn’t you give me up one more time? ‘My’ life never belonged to me in the first place, anyway. You should’ve granted the shift in ownership when it was still a choice.

… I’m scared.

There is no getting out of this, is there?

Metal clinks by your side. Dazedly, you inspect the sound’s source. A silver dagger rests beside you. It’s small in build, yet pointed as a weapon should be. Your attention flitters between him and the blade. What is this? A pitiful attempt to level the playing field? Has he not humiliated you enough? Taken everything that wasn’t yours to give?

Sensing your confusion, he explains, “Sins should be punished.”

You grasp the hilt.

It’s heavy.

“What… are you even saying…?” You murmur. Is he referring to your mother? “It’s ‘permissible’ to take life, according to you.”

You recount his creed with the venom it merits.

He falls silent.

“Not yours… not for free,” he drawls. “I’ll pay any price.”

Transactions benefit both parties. What’s there for him to gain?

You stand on unsteady legs.

Blade’s countenance is an impenetrable fortress. The violent waves have settled, leaving still, murky waters. Is it twisted affection swirling in his gaze? Guilt? The celebration of a long-fought battle? You don’t know. You don’t know what to think, feel, or do. You’re just numb. What will you be after this? Your mother likened their designs for you to a ‘retractable leash.’ Close, but not quite.

You’ll be more of a portable oxygen tank.

Kafka can’t always be there to soothe Blade’s mara, but you can. You will. You have to. It’s a duty that binds more than marriage.

If transactions benefit both parties, then…

What he’s offering to pay for here is you.

Your eyes drop down to the dagger.

The currency will be blood and flesh. He’ll let you kill him, however you want, for as long as you want. Ten, one hundred, one thousand times or beyond, until you feel the scales have balanced. The blank canvas has given you the tools to create your final masterpiece. Once the paint dries, the roles will reverse. The subjugated will become the subjugator. It isn’t a matter of if, it’s a matter of when.

You raise the dagger, his cold heart your target. It’s yours. A gift, a burden, an unbreakable vow.

You plunge it down, and—

—He doesn’t even flinch.

The tip of the blade rips his shirt, but not his flesh.

You toss it aside and shake your head.

“Has anything worthwhile… ever come from killing you…?”

Blade doesn’t respond, but you know he heard you.

He furrows his eyebrows, your question hanging over his head. Whatever he expected, this must not have been a possibility he accounted for. Had he been anyone else, he might conflate mercy for forgiveness. He isn’t, though. He knows the crippling weight of guilt. How it secretly imbues you with a craving for more, so you can finally be crushed to death, instead of being forced to roll the boulder onward.

Each slice would be for him as much as it is for you.

If that’s penance to him, you will never grant it.

“My mom…” you trail off, not because you don’t know how to complete the sentence, but because finishing it will finish something inside you. “Is she…?”

Blade’s memories have made their way back to him using you as their bridge. You could parse through them, but you don’t want to. You don’t think he’ll lie. He hasn’t lied to you as far as he knew. The truth is worse and the truth is what you’ll get. The emotions you pick up from him hint at what you already know. They nibble at you as piranhas would. Notably missing from the onslaught is any iteration of guilt or its distant cousin, regret.

He’d die a thousand deaths to pay the fee of having you. What’s a little more bloodshed to someone who views death as enviable?

“Never mind,” you murmur. “Forget I asked.”

He won’t.

He refuses to forget anything about you ever again.

For now, he’ll pretend otherwise.

You’ve decided that from this distance, Eris looks like a marble.

It’s just a little black sphere, infused with the occasional stream of gold. You center the image in between your thumb and pointer finger, making minuscule adjustments until it fits just right. Once you’re content, you hold it there, squinting your left eye so this speck’s the main focus.

As of the latest census in 2155 AE, the planet Eris is thought to have a population of 2,912,840. 560,432 in Ade, 1,510,781 in Mele, an estimated 200,400 in Arc, and 641,227 in your home quadrant of Thelx. Each of those numbers can be attributed to a living, breathing being. Someone with their own family, history, ethics, dreams, and struggles. Your fellow Nymphalians, descendants of prisoners dumped on a dark and frigid planet to die.

You thought you’d given them your life before. In a pretty, metaphorical sense, that could be made into poems for generations.

Your conversation with Destiny’s Slave reassured you that no, there’s nothing pretty or metaphorical about what awaits you. No one will be penning sentimental poems detailing an ascetic’s life led in solitude so that the people may prosper. You’ll be a cold case. For a week, your name will be a hot topic on primetime television. A headline sprawled in large font across news media companies. ‘Tragedy Strikes: Eris’ [First] Phaeales Kidnapped, IPC Implicates Stellaron Hunters,’ or something to that effect.

Then another calamity will occur and you’ll be pushed from the public’s consciousness.

You might get a special mention on anniversaries. The first, fifth, tenth, fiftieth, then the hundredth. Podcasts will do deep dives. Books will be written. Forum boards will swap theories. Who knows? An anonymous user might guess the truth and be labeled a conspiracy theorist for their troubles.

You pinch your thumb and pointer finger together, smushing the faraway planet from your perspective.

“Boom!” You exclaim in a whisper yell. “Is that how easy it is to you?”

He doesn’t respond.

You turn away from the sheet of glass separating you from the limitless depths of outer space.

“The silent treatment, huh?” You muse, drumming your fingers against the window pane. “You saw this future and worked oh so hard to procure it. What? Having second thoughts, now that it’s here? That’d be a shame.”

There’s something ugly living inside your heart. It’s been there since you were born and will remain until you die. Maybe it lives inside everyone, you can’t say, you can only speak for yourself. Kindness isn’t inherent, it’s learned. Practiced so that it may be honed. Otherwise, the steel grows dull and rusts. Sharpening means losing layers of yourself against a whetstone. Those layers are worth losing, you’re told. Spite, vengeance, hatred; they’re all so, so ugly. Little imps that should be sandpapered away.

An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, that sort of platitude. It’s nice bumper sticker material. Something to slap on a graphic tee or coffee cup, maybe. To be fair, practicing the antithesis isn’t so simple either.

You don’t want his eye, it’ll grow back.

You don’t want his life, he’ll just be born anew.

You don’t want him, but from now on, he’s all you’ll get.

“Are you curious about the deal I made with Elio?” You probe.

Blade sighs, likely preparing himself for the vitriol you’ll slew his way.

“I don’t need to know.”

“You want to know, though,” you smile thinly. “I could feel you brooding from rooms away. What? Does the thought of me speaking to another man displease you that—”

He rushes forward and lifts you by the collar of your blouse. You don’t waver, if anything, you could get drunk off this emotional outburst. His nostrils flare and you can feel his warm breath fan against your face. Your heart whirrs strong against its bony restraints, adrenaline blasting throughout your system.

“That mouth of yours is testing me,” he chuckles, although he’s far from amused. “Have you forgotten the position you’re in?”

“Have you?” You scoff. His grip tightens. “Go ahead. Choke me, ravish me. You can’t bring yourself to though, can you? Want to know why? Hm? You’re holding out for the slim, impossible chance that I might return your fucked up feelings, even if just a little bit.”

Scornfully, you whisper, “Elio was generous enough to answer some of my questions. The extent of the Stellaron’s influence, the true perpetrators behind the nectar guide bombing, why you’d get so pissy whenever Lear swung by… in retrospect, it’s painfully obvious, really. Messing with the LOTUS-EATER’s noise-canceling software is child’s play for Silver Wolf. Did you enjoy eavesdropping on us? Probably not, huh?”

He growls your name, low and menacingly. It’s a warning.

You ignore him. Maybe you shouldn’t, but you do.

“I never told him,” your lower lip trembles. “Because of you, I’ll never get to, either. You want to pay a price? Have your sins punished? Start by listening to this!”

His mara bubbles up as if it were magma. For someone unraveling from the inside out, he doesn’t look the part. Emotion and vitality have drained from his face. His complexion is that of the dead man he wishes himself to be. Pale, vapid. He wants you to stop, yet the only way you would is if he tore out your tongue. To do so would guarantee he’d never get to hear those three words directed at him. He must consider that fate harrowing indeed if he allows the means for you to utter your next sentence.

The finger you pricked all those years ago tingles.

“Lear is the only one I’ve loved. The only one I’ll ever love. He gave me a life; you’ve destroyed mine. How could you ever compare, Yingxing? How can you even come close?”

You wrench yourself free from Blade’s grasp. He lets you.

His hands remain where you once were. Gradually, they fall, as do his shoulders and head. It’s peculiar. You’ve come to be so in tune with his emotions, picking up on frequencies only you can hear. This pitch falls silent. His mara is too. The infighting over where he should begin and end calls for a temporary cease-fire. Neither madness nor sanity care for victory, their attention has been cast elsewhere, to a more prominent problem.

“It is.”

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

“Earlier, you asked if it’s that easy for me,” he says, plainly. “It is.”

Your system absorbs the implication as well as it would cyanide.

“Eris and all of its inhabitants are strictly off-limits. I figured you'd already heard this.”

“I have.”

“Then—”

“It’s not loyalty that ties the Stellaron Hunters together,” he interrupts. “It’s the pursuit of individual goals which just happen to align.”

Blade saunters forward. You bristle, awaiting unwanted physical contact, yet he brushes by your shoulder. His footsteps echo throughout the ship’s hollow corridors. You pivot, intent on following his every movement. He gazes out the window, your home planet his point of interest. The little black and gold marble orbited by four moons, far away from any star.

“Goals change, lotus.”

His eyes find yours in the window’s reflection.

He’s bluffing. He has to be.

“You’ve sought death for over 700 years,” is your uneasy reply. “Surely, you wouldn’t risk the one avenue you have to reach it.”

“Didn’t I already betray that expectation of yours?”

Death is no longer what every segment of his psyche seeks, as it’s the one place he can’t have you.

“... You’ve stopped running your mouth. Clever girl,” Blade flexes his fists by his side. The leather glove on his hand creaks as he does so. “If you think this an empty threat, I have a suggestion.”

Blade grins from ear to ear.

“Repeat any of what you just said to me and I’ll prove it isn’t.”

It’s as if his mara forms tendrils that slowly slither up your body. It caresses your thighs, your midriff, and your chest. Breathes against your nape and coils around your neck. You can’t find the strength to move. It wishes you would so that it’d have an excuse to hold you tighter. Squeeze harder. Sink into you deeper.

You glower at him. His mara keens, finding the expression delightful.

“Look at me like that any longer and I’ll take you up on your suggestion.”

You pinch your eyebrows together, belying your confusion.

He wets his lips with his tongue.

“‘Choke me, ravish me,’ was it?” he muses, chuckling breathlessly. “Who am I to deny such a tempting offer?”

Finally, you muster the effort necessary to break free from his hypnotic stare. You’re overcome with the need to scrub off every part of your skin he’s touched. You want the residue gone, purged from your flesh. Nausea floods you like a broken dam.

You let him touch you, you let him kiss you, you let him fuck you.

He can’t have anything else.

You don’t know what more there is to take.

His eyes are heavy on your back as you leave the room. This spaceship’s decently big, but it’s not enough. A universe could separate you, but it still wouldn’t suffice. You’ll create any gap you can, illusionary or otherwise. You speed through the ship’s main corridor until you near what’s to be your room. Before you can open it, your hand stills.

Elio said we’re to leave on a job the second Silver Wolf starts distracting the IPC’s blockade, you think. That should be any minute now.

Your blood freezes over.

After this ship makes the jump, you’ll never see Eris again.

Or Nona.

Or Lear.

Will Nona continue to pursue her studies without you there to teach her? Is there a reason for her to? She’s come so far since you first met. That harsh, untrusting girl with a permanent scowl blossomed into something truly special.

“Seriously? You’re supposed to be my mentor?”

“Alright, lemme set one thing straight. I’m here to save up enough to leave this shithole. If that hurts your feelings, go and cry to mommy about it, I couldn’t care less. It’ll be bad press to ship your latest Arc rescue back over, after all.”

“Why do you care about this planet, anyway? Beyond whatever sense of purpose you get from playing the hero, I mean. All anyone here ever does is complain and half-ass things. ‘Let’s give anarchy a shot guys, but like, a nice version of anarchy, where we all hold hands around a campfire and sing songs.’ It’s hilarious.”

“The first time I made it to Thelx’s border as a kid, I thought I was hallucinating. I asked my older travel buddy, ‘What’s with these tiny, floating yellow spheres?’ She didn’t even spare me a glance, she was so enchanted. ‘That’s light,’ she said. ‘Take a good, long look. You won’t be seeing much of it.’ I remember how angry hearing that made me. Not just what she was saying, but how she said it. Like she’d given up. Like that was acceptable.”

“A cargo ship bound for Rosiz is heading out in three cycles. You and Lear could come with me, y’know. Elope, or whatever. My contact would allow it. Probably. Hey, don’t give me an answer right away. Geez. At least think about it.”

“Yep, I’m still here. Surprise! My other plans fell through, what can I say? Apparently, Rosiz is run by a weird blood cult. I don’t want anything to do with that. Guess you’re stuck with me a while longer. What’s with that look? Yeah, I still think this planet’s a shithole. But, you’re here, so… it’s 5% less shitty, give or take. Lear brings that up to a whopping 15%. Yes, he gets a value of ten. Have you tasted his cooking?”

Will Lear ever know how much it meant when he comforted the haughty and naive girl you once were? How without him, all you ever would’ve known was loneliness? You were a handful, there’s no doubting that. It’s a miracle he put up with you.

He had the softest voice when you were kids.

“I’m supposed to play the princess? But… but… I’m a boy, and you’re a girl… so shouldn’t you…? Ow, ow, stop pinching! Okay, okay! I’ll be the princess! Eh? Whaddya mean ‘you’ll kiss it better?’ Miss Phaeales? Miss Phaeales…?!?!?!”

“I’m back from work, my wife. Huh? Husbands don’t say that? No no no no, you can’t play the husband, I have to play the husband! Lemme try again! Ahem. From work, I have returned… woman… I’ve married. That’s no good either? This is so complicated!”

“I dunno why you like Connect Four so much. I mean, we could play Monopoly, but you always steal credits when I look away. No, that's not allowed! … You’re just ‘being a capitalist?’ What’s that mean? Cheater, or something?”

He didn’t lose this soft quality when he became an adult — his tenderness was the air you breathed.

“‘What do I want,’ huh? Where do I begin? To be a part of you, I guess? Ah, if I’d known you were going to grin like that, I wouldn’t have said anything. W-Well, of course I want you. I just don’t think the phrasing’s right. You’ve always viewed yourself as a commodity. I don’t want to reinforce such a terrible thought.”

“It’s… so good, so warm, so… fuck, please, don’t look at me like that. I can’t believe… that I get to do this with you. You’re beautiful, you’re everything…! I’ve always loved you so much. So, so much. Is this okay? Is it really okay? If it is, then please, let me pleasure you.”

“Quit messing around with me already. There’s no way that was your first time. Because, I mean, you’re so sought after, y’know? You must’ve had tons of opportunities to— ow ow ow, again with the pinching?! Alright, I get it, I get it! Pfft, stop, don’t make it weird. Okay, fine, hearing that does make me a little happy. Aaand there you go, making it weird. No, I’m not possessive. You said you don’t like possessive men, so… what? Of course I remembered that. I remember everything you say. Wait… are you embarrassed? I didn’t… didn’t think that was possible… one sec, lemme get my camera…”

You swore an oath not to cry.

You didn’t when packing the few items Blade approved of, or when you negotiated with Elio.

It’s not that you don’t want to. Should your resolve slip for a second, you grow dangerously close to drowning in a puddle of your own tears. There’s plenty to cry about, plenty to mourn. Once you start, though, you don’t think you’ll ever be able to stop. You’ll waste away as your body’s wrung for all its worth. Should that happen, you won’t be able to uphold your end of the bargain with Elio.

There’ll be a lot more to cry about then.

For this reason, you don’t turn back.

Your deal with Destiny’s Slave consists of two elements.

First, you are to serve as Blade’s ‘field partner,’ offering him your unremitted support however he sees fit. And second, you pledge the full extent of your psionic abilities to further the Stellaron Hunters’ mission. This second condition perplexed you, but it wasn’t like you had many bargaining chips. For so long as you cooperate, Eris will remain unharmed and the nascent Stellaron neutralized.

Kafka had called to ‘celebrate your inauguration.’ You braced yourself for the worst, but she was surprisingly amicable.

“Have you really never considered your utility outside of parlor tricks?” She wondered. “The power to create fantasias and read memories certainly has its uses, no?”

“I just don’t see how it’d contribute much,” you replied.

“If it stopped there, maybe. Should you be able to replicate Ania Phaeales’ seals, though… that’d come in handy.”

You gritted your teeth and read between the lines. They want that too, huh?

You’ve since worked tirelessly to understand how such an anomaly is possible, much less replicable. Silver Wolf provided an updated version of the Arbiter training software to aid your endeavors. You’ve tried and failed hundreds of times. Deleting fragments of a person’s psyche has disastrous results, as you once hypothesized. If the Stellaron Hunters wanted a foe lobotomized, they wouldn’t have gone through all the trouble of obtaining you.

The holographic screen floating before you presents an error message.

‘Generated psyche #643, Garçia Chamora, has been rendered comatose from suffering damage to his cerebral hemispheres. Press here or say next to generate a new psyche.’

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose.

This job on Rosiz requires a nobleman’s lifelong fealty to be sealed, you think. If I can’t figure this out before then…

Your stomach jumps to your throat like you’re in a free fall.

Leaning back in your chair, you swipe the screen away. You look at the digital clock in the ship’s common room. It reads 2:05 a.m. This shift to a twenty-four-hour time has been a pain, but you think this number means it’s late. While glancing around the uninspired decor, your eyes land on a solitary figure.

Blade sits on a beige couch with his arms and legs crossed, his eyelids shut. You assume he’s asleep. There are plenty of comfortable beds he could veg out on, but wherever you are, he isn’t far behind. You don’t get why he’s playing prison warden. He can’t think you’re stupid enough to try escaping with almost three million lives dangling over your head, can he? Perhaps he’s getting off on your suffering.

Whatever the case, you loathe having to breathe the same air as him. You wish he’d fuck off already.

You’ve barely spoken to one another since he made his threat. If it has to do with the upcoming job, you’ll give a few curt words and nothing more. He’s never been outgoing, so without you initiating conversation, hours trudge by in tense silence. You’ve recently made the unfortunate realization his input on your mother’s seal would be useful. He was under it for two years, there must be some information you can glean from him. You need anything you can get.

The thought of asking him for assistance, though… it makes you sick.

“What?” he asks, his voice gravelly from unuse.

You tense. He could tell you were looking at him without opening his eyes?

“Nothing,” you reply.

He grunts and that’s the end of it. You pull the holographic screen back up, eager to distract yourself. Except, all you can focus on is the #643 in the bottom left corner. You’ve already made that many attempts without any progress? One of Kafka’s contacts is going to help sneak this ship onto Rosiz in two days. You’re running out of time.

You spare Blade a quick glance. Unsurprisingly, he hasn’t moved.

Every muscle in your face scrunches up as if you’d bitten a lemon.

Just get it over with, you tell yourself.

“Blade?”

He makes a noise to prove he heard you.

“Can I… ask you a few questions?”

“That depends on what they are.”

You exhale shakily. “When your memories of me were sealed away, what did it feel like?”

His mara murmurs, discontent at this reminder. He appears outwardly unaffected.

“Why do you want to know?”

You play with your skirt’s hem, picking at a loose thread. This is what you were afraid of.

“Knowing will help me understand and replicate the seal better,” you explain. Then, you hastily add, “For the job.”

All is silent. You shift in your seat.

“That isn’t my concern,” is his eventual answer.

Your jaw drops. “Wh— are you serious? You wouldn’t want to botch a job, would you?”

“It wouldn’t be me ‘botching’ it,” Blade says, coolly, evenly. “It would be you.”

You gnash your teeth together but bite your tongue. As callous as he’s acting, he isn’t wrong. He doesn’t owe you anything. Especially after you said what may have been the worst combination of words to him. You refuse to regret it, but you can follow the cause and effect.

“You really don’t care about what’d happen?” You press, breathless. “Eris is my home. You lived there for months yourself, experienced the culture… does that mean nothing?”

“Why do you ask questions you know you won’t like the answers to?”

Blade hasn’t so much as opened his eyes. You just don’t get it — you’ve peered inside his mind multiple times and still struggle to understand him. To what extent does he care about you, if that word even applies here? Does it stop at your physical well-being? Can his current nonchalance be attributed to your diatribe, or would he have acted this way regardless? He doesn’t make sense. He’s an enigma.

You decide to try another approach.

“What about Nona? You’d still feel nothing then?”

Finally, he opens his eyes. The warm hues feel cold.

“I hold no ill will toward your student. I’d consider it a shame,” he says. Despite his impersonal word choice, he isn’t being sarcastic. That must mean something. Before you can expand on this, he smiles. It’s far from kind. “I see you’ve omitted your boyfriend from this thought exercise. A wise choice.”

Your heart skips a beat.

Ah, fuck.

“A word of advice, girl. Manipulation isn’t your forte.”

It feels like a struggle between life and death to maintain eye contact.

“Negotiation, though, you’re half-decent at,” Blade muses. He inclines his head to the side. “Well? Make me an offer.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. What do you have to offer? In a business setting, you can lowball some figures, that’s how everyone starts. You doubt he’s interested in money or stocks. There’s your Synalink ability, but there’s no way he’ll put himself in a vulnerable position like that again. Everything’s been taken from you. Your business, assets, connections, leverage; all you have are the clothes on your back. Still, if he’s entertaining this conversation, there must be something.

Goosebumps erupt all over your skin. “Are you… propositioning me?”

“Oh? That’s how you’ve chosen to interpret it?” he raises an eyebrow. “If that’s your offer, I accept.”

“No, I’m not—!”

“I know. Calm down,” he interrupts your panicked exclamation. “You’re easily rattled when exhausted.”

Your heart’s pounding so loud in your ears that it’s difficult to hear him.

“Relax. The next time I take you, I want you willing.”

The next time? Is he delusional? Has he suffered long-term memory loss? You’d sooner saw off your hand than sleep with him ever again. You come dangerously close to voicing this, but ultimately decide against it. You need him in an agreeable mood. This seal — have you been set up for failure? You can’t imagine why they’d bother. Still, there’s no singular script, as per Elio’s own admission. It’s a string of possibilities loosely connected by little choices. If one script isn’t followed, that means another has taken center stage.

Should you be unable to deliver, that future has been accounted for as well.

It’s a future that can’t come to pass.

Blade speaks your name.

“Come over here,” he says.

Your eyes widen and lips part, horror painting itself across your countenance.

He clicks his tongue. “Trust your own intuition. You said it yourself, didn’t you? That I’m ‘holding out.’”

You fight the urge to wince at the quotation. He’s the one who mentioned it, not you. This can’t count as an infraction on your behalf. Taking a deep breath, you start trekking over, counting each step. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen… ah, it didn’t take anywhere near long enough.

He pats the spot beside him. Once you’re situated, an arm coils around your shoulders, tugging you into his side. Your heart thumps away. This is reminiscent of the evenings you spent together in your office and on the balcony. The high you received from sex would fade away, replaced by this nice, soft haze. Talkative as you were then, there was something about those moments that kept you quiet. You’re not sure why.

Maybe it’s because you realized you’d finally met someone lonelier than yourself.

“You’ve hardly eaten or slept. That I can understand,” Blade says. “What I don’t get, however, is why you haven’t cried.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re often on the verge of tears. Like now, for instance,” he points out. You struggle to swallow the lump in your throat. “Why not let it go?”

Something already broken in you shatters beyond recognition.

“What good would that do?!”

Your fingernails dig into your palms hard enough to bruise the sensitive flesh.

“I’m nothing, I-I have nothing, I’m—” you laugh and laugh, making your throat feel scratchier than it already is. “I wanted to do so much…! I was stupid. So stupid! I actually thought that I could— could find a way to fix things, if only I kept working, kept trying! There isn’t a way. There never was a way. We’re greedy, we’re awful, we’re ignorant. A planet like that… a universe like this… so long as we’re in it, it’s fucked, it’s all fucked.”

You shake your head. “I may have hated her, but I still wanted to be her. To outdo her. Prove that I could’ve done it better, that change was possible, so she’d have no excuse. I couldn’t do either. Even if I had, it wouldn’t have mattered. I’d just be delaying Eris’ inevitable fate like she did.”

Your shoulders heave with each painful breath you take.

“Did she feel vindicated in the end? Think that by saving me once, it’d make up for all the times she didn’t?”

Whether you’re talking to him or yourself, you can’t tell anymore. It doesn’t make a difference. Speaking the truth aloud doesn’t make it any more or less real. It just leaves a bitter taste that’ll never go away.

“If she cared so much, why did she never tell me?” You whisper, your voice cracking. “What was she so afraid of…?”

What was I so afraid of?

Tears trickle down your face in a free flow. The drizzle shifts to a torrential downpour, no matter how hard you try shaking or shutting it off. There’s no point in telling him this. You’ll probably regret it, somewhere down the line.

You faintly register how your body moves without your input. Blinking the wetness in your eyelashes away as best as you can, you see gold patterns. There’s weight around your shoulders too. Weight and warmth. The scent of blood and anise.

He’s pulled you into an embrace against his chest.

You twist and jerk your limbs around, attempting to purchase freedom you can’t afford. You yell at him, curse him, beg him to let you go, and still, his grip never relents. He just holds you there, your struggles amounting to nothing, your pleas falling on deaf ears. His grip doesn’t feel tight until you try wriggling yourself out of it. Then, and only then, are you hit with the realization he could crush you so easily. It must take a great deal of self-restraint to avoid doing so.

The fight leaves your body and you tremble like a leaf in the wind.

His large hand runs over your back, slow and steady, as if his touch were destined to soothe rather than destroy.

Your well of tears runs dry eventually.

“When you live for others, you’ll die for them too.”

Blade’s statement doesn’t make you feel better or worse. It washes over you without soaking in. Whether it’s a warning for you or condemnation for yourself, you don’t know. Perhaps the two overlap in an unsightly hybrid.

Some time passes before he speaks again.

“The day that man drew his weapon on you, I felt something stir, as rousing from a long slumber,” Blade reveals. “I assumed it should remain undisturbed.”

This is your chance. You detach yourself from him enough to look him in the eyes. He loosens his grip just enough to allow this, but no more. The vice would tighten should you try extracting yourself further. You wipe away the moisture clinging to your lower eyelashes with your wrists. Since he’s sitting, he isn’t towering over you. This small detail aids your waning resolve.

“What made you assume that?”

His bandaged hand cups your tear-stained cheeks. You wince, but allow him his indulgence.

“Instinct,” he murmurs.

Your eyebrows pinch together as you think. That wasn’t what you were expecting. You guessed that’d it feel like something significant was missing — a gaping hole. That the individual would want to fill it. Curiosity is the sentient being’s natural state, after all. Especially since this should’ve been an element of itself the mind wishes to reinstitute. Yearning, affection, and care; even if it’s a vestige of the full experience, these positive emotions shouldn’t set off alarm bells.

Unless the mind decided it was worth suppressing.

Maybe your mother wasn’t using the influx of memories inflected on Blade as a ‘red herring.’ Kafka adores messing with you, she could’ve floated the idea because she knew you’d hear it in the future. What was your mother doing then? Pulling up key instances throughout Blade’s life, specifically those with heightened emotions and long-lasting influences…

What if it’s not so much altering memories, but altering the mind’s perception of them?

The Arbiter training software is bound to your movements, which allows it to manifest with a few hand gestures. The screen displays itself close to your right. You’d prefer to figure this out elsewhere, but Blade doesn’t appear interested in letting you go anytime soon. He silently observes as you pore over the generated psyche. You’re too focused to comment on how creepy he’s being.

Liliana Kokot. 34. Short-life species. Citizen of the planet Punklorde. Witnessed the murder of her parents at a young age. Came to despise gang activity. Joined police academy. Assigned to the Homicide Unit by age 25. Discovered possible connections between the police chief and organized crime.

You pull out the prismatic shard containing her parent’s murder.

The mind has mechanisms to inhibit trauma that’d otherwise obliterate it. Repression, denial, projection, displacement, rationalization, and regression to name a few. In the same way, prisms have multiple sides. The one which refracts the most light will change depending on how it’s angled.

You adjust the shard without changing its shape. Eventually, you find a side that deems this memory too much, beyond what Liliana can handle. It’s easily absorbed back alongside the other fragments. Except that now, the mind chooses to repress the memory, deep down in the subconscious where it cannot do irreparable harm.

A ‘seal.’

“I get it now,” you wave the screen off. “It’s similar to a heart transplant. Mechanical valves aren’t integrated as smoothly as tissue valves. The body’s more willing to accept what’s similar to it in composition, as is the mind.”

“You don’t look less troubled,” Blade notes.

You scrunch up your nose.

“I mean… this is— I don’t even know. It undermines what makes a person, well… who they are to the very core.”

“When you accepted Elio’s deal, you knew you’d be an accessory to criminal activity. How is that any worse than homicide?”

Blade’s refusal to sugarcoat the truth slashes through you like a phantasmal sword. Perhaps not a thousand times, but close enough.

“This is your price, lotus.”

You want to avert your gaze, but you don’t. It’d feel wrong, somehow. Cowardly. Hypocritical.

No longer can you dwell on the currency itself. What matters now is ensuring you pay your dues on time.

Your debt extends beyond Destiny’s Slave. There’s another proprietor you must settle with, for even the slightest peace of mind.

“Blade— no, Yingxing,” you correct yourself. His muscles stiffen, his true name having gone unspoken for so long devoid of contempt. “I may have made a deal with Elio, but… I haven’t personally made one with you. I’d like to change that.”

You can tell you’ve piqued his interest.

“I swear on everything that is sacred to me that I’ll remain by your side until my final breath. In return, regardless of if I’m alive or dead, you’ll never harm my home or the people who inhabit it. Intentionally or otherwise.”

His long, dark eyelashes flutter shut as he mulls over your proposal. He doesn’t take long. Soon enough, vermillion bores into you again. Candle wicks flicker inside them, alight with an emotion you refuse to name.

“How do you finalize deals, Miss Phaeales?” Blade asks, moving aside a stray strand of hair from your face.

It’s like the air’s been knocked from your lungs. He couldn’t have known, right? The ripples born when those two words are stitched together? Your chest feels tight and hollow all at once. It’s like your internal organs have liquified, leaving nothing but shapeless viscera. This isn’t the right voice. It should be softer, a tenor’s pitch, not a sonorous bass.

“M-Miss Phaeales?”

You blink away a fresh set of tears.

“A promise? Miss Phaeales, I don’t know if I can.”

“Hand me the dagger from before.”

“I don’t really get you, Miss Phaeales, but… I wanna.”

He does, after a moment’s consideration.

“It’s my fault, I should’ve killed that man, and now she’s in that criminal’s debt, because of me…!”

You prick your pointer finger with the dagger’s tip, just enough to create trickling blood.

“Everything you just said — I can tell you believe it.”

He mirrors your actions. His skin quickly mends itself back together.

“So why… why do you look so sad?”

I had so much to say, you think, bitterly. So, so much.

Blade’s bandaged hand falls to your lower back, where it softly pushes you forward. His gloved hand envelops your face, the leather refreshing against your feverish skin. His lips descend upon yours. You may have called the kiss tender had you known nothing about him. You do know him, however, as fate has decreed he’d get a better future at the cost of yours. It’s as if everyone was in on the joke, leaving you the odd one out.

He murmurs words in between kisses that you fight desperately to unhear.

When you pull back for air, you notice how madness surges and retreats in his eyes, as if it were ocean waves washing against the shore.

The likeness helps.

Pretending the red shade’s a brilliant blue instead comes easier.

The next time he kisses you, you cautiously kiss back.

A/N: i thought i'd feel satisfied when i finished nexus' last chapter, but i actually feel rather sad JTFSIKL i cannot overstate how much i enjoyed working on this story. it scratched a sci-fi itch i've had for over a decade now. when writing longer works, it's rare for me to not get caught on snags that sap my inspiration away. that never happened with this story though. from start to finish, i was contentedly tip tapping away on my keyboard.

i became enamored with this idea of a yandere story that didn't just revolve around the MC and yan, it just wasn't until i started outlining nexus that i had an excuse to explore this concept further.

the main cast of n darling, nona, and lear (an anon affectionately dubbed them the lotus trio, which is a term i loved enough to hijack) has become close to my heart. for that reason, writing this chapter physically hurt at times 😭 i wanted to swat blade away like a fly and have everything end nicely. from the very first sentence though, i knew this would be a tragedy, so it'd go against the Themes to pull a power of friendship ending.

at first, i worried about the reader's ability to empathize/connect with n darling, since her status and abilities aren't universal. like at all. the solution presented itself rather naturally. n darling, at least to me, stresses that simmering anger women feel the need to hide for professionality's sake. her experiences as a child where she's given responsibilities beyond her age's capacity, then in adulthood, where she isn't taken seriously (chrysus) or unintentionally infantilized (caicias). i'm sure many afab individuals can relate to some extent.

my primary interest was in having these two deeply frustrated individuals crash together and spill debris everywhere. i was given a little more liberty with blade's actions and dialogue, due to miss phaeales' id inducing presence, which drew out more than he'd normally give. as for blade's characterization, if he isn't in the throes of mara madness, i really can't see him being a hellion 24/7. he feels more somber to me when lucid.

of course, that changes if the right buttons are pressed... but that isn't exclusive to him.

since the final chapter is divided into three main scenes, i wanted to fully explore the three predominant ways i picture a yandere version of blade acting. the first is his guilt and shame, the second, his mara-induced sadism, and the third, a more neutral self where reason prevails.

i hope that you enjoyed reading nexus as much as i enjoyed writing it!! although the main storyline is finished, i'm by no means done with the universe as a whole. i'm planning a little epilogue for starters. then maybe some side stories from blade's perspective ?? who knows, the motivation's still there, so anything is possible.

thank you again 💖

-sincerely, lock.

Tag list: @99-nct @pixiestixes (idk why the tag thingy won't work but an effort was made) ...

#blade x reader #yandere blade x reader #honkai star rail x reader #yandere honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #yandere hsr x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #nexus #my stuff

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nayziiz · 5 months

Text

Disturbed | OP81

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x reader (she/her)

Author's note: I'm trying something a little bit different with shorter form fics, so please send through any requests or feedback. These one shots will likely not have a second part unless it really speaks to me to continue with it. Thank you!

Masterlist

In the high-stakes world of motorsports, where the roar of engines drowned out all other sounds and the smell of burning rubber hung heavy in the air, Oscar stood as a beacon of unwavering determination. His name was synonymous with calm and resilience, his reputation forged on the anvil of countless hard-fought battles on-track and defying odds by helping keep his team in the running for third in the Constructors Championship. From the moment he first strapped himself into the driver's seat, Oscar had possessed an indomitable spirit that seemed impervious to the twists and turns of the race track.

Race after race, he pushed himself and his car to the very limit in pursuit of glory. Whether navigating treacherous hairpin turns or duelling wheel-to-wheel with his rivals, Oscar never backed down from a challenge. His resolve was unyielding, a relentless force that propelled him forward, even in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstacles.

But for all his unwavering determination, there were moments when he faltered too. It was on one particularly gruelling race day that the cracks in his armour began to show. Everything seemed to conspire against him – mechanical issues, strategic missteps, and a relentless onslaught of bad luck. Each setback chipped away at his confidence, threatening to unravel the very fabric of his resolve.

As the race wore on and Oscar's fortunes continued to decline, a sense of despair settled over him like a suffocating blanket. Doubt crept into his mind, gnawing away at his confidence and sowing seeds of uncertainty. For the first time in his career, he found himself teetering on the brink of defeat, his once unshakable resolve shaken to its core.

Amidst the chaos of the pit lane and the cacophony of roaring engines, there was one constant that anchored Oscar's fraying sanity – her. She was the quiet strength in his corner, the steady presence that never wavered, no matter how tumultuous the storm. Her belief in him was unwavering, a beacon of light cutting through the darkness of doubt.

With each passing lap, she mumbled quiet prayers in the garage. She was his rock, his anchor in the storm, her unwavering support a lifeline in his darkest hour. And though he struggled to find solace in the midst of defeat, he knew that as long as she stood by his side, he would never truly be alone.

As the chequered flag finally fell and the race came to an end, Oscar found himself staring down the bitter taste of defeat. But in the arms of the one who had stood by him through it all, he discovered a glimmer of hope amidst the wreckage of his shattered dreams.

“Oscar, listen to me,” she said, her voice cutting through the chaos of the post-race pit lane like a beacon of clarity. “I know things didn’t go as planned, but you've got this. You've faced tougher challenges before, and you've always come out on top. This is just another step to reaching the top.”

He glanced over at her, his eyes searching for reassurance in the midst of his turmoil.

“But what if this time is different? What if I've finally met my match?” he asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

She reached out and gently took his hand, her touch a comforting presence in the midst of his turmoil.

“You're Oscar Piastri,” she said, her voice unwavering. “You're one of the most talented drivers out there, and nothing – not even a bad race – can change that. You have the skill, the determination, and the heart to overcome anything that comes your way.”

In the aftermath of defeat, Oscar realised that his strength did not lie solely in his ability to conquer adversity, but in his capacity to accept defeat with grace and humility. And though the road ahead may be fraught with challenges, he knew that as long as she stood by his side, he would always find the courage to carry on. For in her unwavering support, he found the resilience to rise from the ashes of defeat and chase his dreams once more.

#oscar piastri #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 imagine #formula 1 #mclaren #mclaren f1 #f1 x reader #f1 #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri x y/n #oscar piastri x female reader #op81 imagine #op81 x reader #op81 #op81 fic

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sarafinamk · 6 months

Text

Fallen Angel (Smiling Critters Space Riders AU Reader Insert) Part 2

Summary: The riders know you're addicted to the red smoke. Certain members thought they could help you during that point of your recovery, but that proves to be more difficult than they anticipated.

(This is the OFFICIAL continuation of Part 1. Please check out the talented @onyxonline for more context. Since this chapter contains a lot of sensitive topics, I will try my hardest to be respectful about this. The next chapter will be a little more light-hearted, I promise.)

TW: Blood, Injury, Near Death, Imprisonment, Trauma, Death mentions, Demon Mentions, Hallucinations, Religious Trauma, Religious Imagery and Symbolism, Religious Cults, Drug Withdrawal, Drug Addiction, Self harm, Accidental Suicide Attempt, Mental Health Issues, Slight cursing

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The next few days after your operation pass in a blur. Everyone has been trying to keep themselves occupied, holding on to what little air of normalcy still hung in the air. None of the riders have been able to fully process what could only be described as the biggest turn of events in their time fighting the war. It’s not the first time a member of the cult has had to undergo treatment. Victims that got converted due to planet invasion and nonconsensual exposure to the red smoke are rescued all the time. It is basic protocol for Space Riders. Sometimes a priest would be rescued. The story of how those members came to be priests varies. Some joined of their own free will, while others fought before the addiction made them lose the will to fight.

But you?

Archangels are infamous for their unwavering loyalty to the Prototype. They are the Prototype’s right-hand man, their council, and their second in command. Archangels eat, sleep, and breathe the Prototype and expect others to do the same. There are only a few known attempts to rescue archangels in history. The stories ended in one of three ways: they go back to the Prototype, (sometimes with a new band of “loyal” followers), they slaughter their rescuers, or they take their own life as a last resort.

Knowing that has made most of the Space Riders tense, Bubba included. The elephant has arguably been the tensest. Not even the sight of you resting in a cell with power mufflers on your wrists is enough to put him slightly at ease. He wasn’t a complete stranger to Aether magic (what others refer to as Divinity powers.) Granted, he only ever got to study this powerful and unique kind of sorcery through the catalogs, a few ancient ruins, and his team’s battles with you. Even then, doubt swarmed him with questions concerning how effective the cell, let alone the power mufflers will be in the long run.

Bubba sighs, pinching the bridge of his trunk as the signs of yet another headache emerge. That was one long argument with the Commander and council he would rather not revisit. Not that there are any that Bubba would like to recall. Dogday, despite all his good intentions, didn’t make it any easier for anyone. The two riders may have convinced the higher-ups, but the elephant knows that this is not the last time they will have this conversation with the Commander and council. The thought of that makes him take a swig from his coffee mug.

Problem number one may have been resolved for now, but now there’s problem number two: your red smoke addiction. With no red smoke to give you, it didn't take long for the symptoms to show up. Your feverish face contorts into a grimace yet again. Bubba glances at the vital charts. Of course, none of the numbers look any better than they did 10 minutes ago. He doesn't know why he hoped for expected anything different. Hopefully, the pain medication will do its job soon.

Bobby rushes back to your bedside with a cold, wet towel placed on your head. It's been a common occurrence with her ever since your operation. The "around the clock" care increased tenfold after the first signs of your red smoke withdrawal emerged. She even has the dark circles and bags under her eyes to prove it. Even when she's running on nothing more than fumes (and a few cups of coffee), she still runs around like she has had a good night's worth of sleep. Bubba can't help but sigh to himself.

The two medics are doing what they can to keep you comfortable and stable, but Bubba knows that the two of them will not be enough to help you right now. Hell, even Catnap's powers, despite helping you settle down and sleep, isn't a miracle cure for stabilizing your vitals in the long run. If Bubba wasn't tied up with diplomatic matters, he would take over more shifts for Bobby so that she could get some rest. Unfortunately, the others don't have the medical training so tasking them with watching over you is out of the question. Bubba insists on taking you to the HQ’s treatment center. Bobby refuses every time the idea is mentioned, insisting that the two of them are able to look after you themselves. That led to a few strong disagreements. Bubba may be miffed but can't say he blames Bobby for being concerned about the possibility of (1) another potential massacre on your end and (2) you being mistreated by those you’ve wronged. Unlike the two riders, however, the people at the center have the resources and training to help you.

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*MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING, PROCEED AHEAD WITH CAUTION*

You don't know how long you've been here. You can't remember. You just remember waking up to bright lights and a figure or two... maybe a few... standing over you. But then you went back into the world of darkness. Did you really wake up or was it one nonsensical dream?

You don't know.

You REALLY don't know.

It doesn't matter right now. All you know is that you're stuck in hell, and this is worse than what you grew up hearing about. Your powers stopped working, so you can’t escape. There was nowhere to run where those… things won’t find you and bring you back to your prison and torture you. Sometimes you can see the faces of your enemies before those things morphed into… something sinister. Your stomach was doing summersaults. There was a pounding in your head and chest that just won't stop. A burning tightness spread from your chest to your throat, leading you to choking and gasping at this point. This fire smoldering inside you just won’t die. All you want right now is to drop to the floor, close your eyes, and sleep. Your heavy, aching limbs beg for it, but no matter how hard you try, your head buzzes in protest.

All you need is some red smoke. Just a whiff. Hell, just a tiny little sniff. You don't care. You just need it coursing through you right now. It'll make all the agony stop. You keep praying, BEGGING, to the Prototype to forgive you, to save you from this damnation.

Yet he never answers…

Why won't he hear you?

You know you failed him, but you didn't mean to. You would never disobey him. Not after everything he did for you. You did everything right your whole life to show your gratitude and love for him and you still ended up here-

A searing sensation from your wrist pulls you away from your thoughts. You turn it over and you see... red...

It’s so bright...

So beautiful...

And it's spreading to the white decorating your arms. Your fingers, looming above your forearm are also decorated with red. For the first time, you deliberately take in slow, deep breaths. You take in the red now seeping through the white. With shaky fingers, you slowly unwrap the soaking red barrier on your forearm. To your joy, the red spread rapidly from your bare forearm all the way down to your fingertips. Your red-stained fingers brush over your forearm, painting it with more red. At that moment, you smile, knowing your prayers had been answered. It doesn’t have that sweet aroma as usual, but it will once you allow more to spread around you. Without hesitation, you got to work on the other parts of you that were wrapped in white. Thankfully, there were plenty. You've been wrapped up in white for so long. It would look SO MUCH BETTER in red. You will do ANYTHING just to see red.

You also did have to rip out some stubborn black stringy parasites from your torso in the process. Once you managed to get every single one out, though, there was so much more red embracing you in a warm hug. It was just like all the other times. It was like the Prototype was with you again. It burned so much at first, but after some time, a cold wave of euphoria washes over your entire body. You breathe out a sigh of relief because for the first time in a long time, you can’t feel any pain. Now that there's red around you, you can finally sleep peacefully.

Much better...

Darkness begins enveloping your vision, before being dragged back by... screaming and something shattering? It's hard to tell. All you can make out are a pair of red paws being wrapped around you and lowering you to the ground. A red figure pulls you close to it, but you didn’t mind. Everything about the red figure is so warm you just want to snuggle next to it for eternity. You close your eyes, taking in that warmth. It feels so good to sleep again.

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The Space Riders decided to have dinner at Kissy’s Diner. Unfortunately, nothing on the table looks appealing enough to eat. They either stared blankly or picked at their food and drinks mindlessly. No words were exchanged amongst the seven of them, not even one of Kickin’s and/or Hoppy’s stupid jokes to lighten the mood. But what was there to joke about right now? What was there to even talk about?

Picky sighs, noticing one particular member still missing. She wishes she could say she was surprised, but that doesn’t mean a perfectly good meal should go to waste (even if everyone else’s meals have long since gone cold). The pig stands up, exchanges quick goodbyes with the six present members, asks Kissy for take-out boxes for the entire table, and rushes out of the diner. She makes a beeline the one place their missing member could be considering recent events.

It was just supposed to be a quick trip to your cell to deliver dinner for both you and Bobby. If you were going to stay here, you needed some nourishment to help recover. And Bobby, (bless the kind-hearted bear), has been so busy helping you through your withdrawal that she hasn’t had a lot of time to rest let alone take a break. She can’t remember the last time she saw Bobby leave your side for reasons that didn’t include retrieving medication and other things meant for your comfort. Not even Dogday was able to convince her to rest for a while. (Pretty rich coming from HIM if you ask the pig.)

Bobby only left for a few minutes for some water and more medication. Apparently, you were having a hard time breathing. Picky follows Bobby to your cell and when they got there, there you were with scratch marks and aggravated open wounds. Not only were there now bloody bandages laying sprawled on the floor, but you went as far as to rip out your stitches. The pig shudders remembering all that blood on you while you stand there muttering things like, “More red. Not enough. Need more.”

For as long as she lives, Picky doesn’t think she’ll ever forget that scream from Bobby before she ran to catch you. Not even the shattering of glass and ceramics can drown out the bear’s screams and pleas for you to stay awake. Picky remembers rushing for Bubba which ended up with her alerting the entire team. Dogday raced to the cockpit immediately to notify the Commander about the emergency. The others followed Picky down to your cell. When they reached you two, they find Bobby’s trembling hands pressing a bloody rag against your bleeding torso. Poor girl was barely able to keep the rag steady. Bubba, Picky, and Crafty rush to your unconscious figure while Catnap and Kickin gently lead Bobby out the cell. She protested but couldn’t escape the boys’ grasps. All she could do was watch Bubba bark out orders to the other girls, including Hoppy who oddly had been standing frozen in place, staring the whole time. Picky and Hoppy ran to and fro with whatever Bubba demanded while he and Crafty worked together to keep you alive long enough for Dogday to get you to the station.

After 11 minutes, the crew finally made it to the space station. Dogday leads a team of medics to you and… well the rest is history.

*END OF TRIGGERING PASSAGE*

All the riders quickly exited their spacecraft shortly after the medics took you away. None of them wanted to stay on the ship right now. After some time, Bobby said that she was just going to get some “fresh air.” But just as Picky predicted, Bobby is, instead, sitting outside your blood-stained prison cell, curled in on herself with her head buried in her knees.

“Bobby?” Picky settles down next to her, gently placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder. Bobby slowly raises her head. Her muzzle is wet and the cascade of tears soaking into her fur isn’t helping.

“It’s all my fault.” Bobby takes a deep, shaky breath. “I shouldn’t have left (Y/n) alone…”

Picky opens her arms and Bobby leans into the pig’s embrace without a second thought. “No, it’s not your fault. No one could have known this would happen.”

That was met with more shaking, hiccupping, and whimpering as the tears began seeping onto Picky’s sleeve. She didn’t mind at all. The pig just whispers more soothing words and assurances while rubbing circles around the other girl’s back. They stayed like that for who knows how long. (Now Picky wishes they’d invested in a clock for the cells). Eventually, Bobby ran out of tears, but she remains curled up in Picky’s arms. She hasn’t bothered moving from her spot, instead opting to stare at the metal floor. Picky can hear her occasionally let out a heavy sigh. How this girl has not fallen asleep yet despite pulling frequent all-nighters for the last few weeks is beyond the pig.

“You know… It’s not forever,” Picky began gently. “It’s just until they get better. We can always contact the facility about their progress. We can even schedule visits with them.” Picky didn’t miss the way Bobby’s frown deepened nor the way her gaze remained hardened on the cold metal floor. “Hey, they’re going to be okay.”

The only response Picky gets is a brief nod. It seems to be the only thing Bobby has the energy to do right now.

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Quick note - I can't believe this story got this much attention! Thank you everybody for your support. And again, sorry for the confusion yesterday. I didn't meant to post the draft. I was not paying attention to what I was pressing when I was editing. Sometimes I hate writing on mobile phones. 😆

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peterspinkrobe · 1 year

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Revelation - Priest!Miguel x Reader [part 3]

Word count: 2,878

Rating/Warnings: mature. Naughty thoughts and naughty bits. Mentions of parental death, religious content, food, soooo much Catholic guilt.

A/N: I’m so glad you guys are enjoying the series so far! No more money in my budget for commissioned art this month, but I did take this picture of St. Phillip’s Church while visiting my uncle in Charleston. Please let me know what you think of this chapter! If you haven’t read part 1 or part 2, go do that first :p

Tagged peeps: @friendlynbhdzero @ceoofghosts @hoelychildofgod @tayleighuh @luckycandykitten @beebslebobs @milkyardbetter @miaasmf @koimess @miggyswhore (sorry if I missed you in the taglist or if it messed up the tag!!!)

There were two things known about your mother: her cooking and her follow through. She was the delegate for church and community event meals; oftentimes in the kitchen doing the work herself alongside people that respected her and her cooking.

Your mother prided herself in her cooking and it kept her going in times of hurt for you both. She was the one baking casseroles to give to neighbors when dad passed. It was you who had to sit her down to eat something most days.

If God had anything to do with her getting better, it was in giving her that ability to provide in a way some overlooked. She buzzed while she worked her talents in the church’s kitchen now. The previously mentioned follow through evident in her meticulous manner of cleaning right behind herself as she cooked.

That follow through was especially true now as she was making sure you followed the rules she had set in place regarding church and attendance. Not only were you going this Sunday since you missed the last service, but you were also helping with the Wednesday church dinner.

You know she wants the best for you. It took you a long time (and a lot of space) to see that she showed it in the ways she knew how, the ways she was raised. You try to sprinkle the amount of salt she showed you earlier onto the massive amount of rolls. Despite your physical presence where she asked, you know your hearts and values don’t lie within the boundaries of shared faith.

You didn’t mind the service aspect of religion though. In fact, you enjoyed assisting your mother when she helped others in the community. You only pretended to follow the ‘good book’ and ‘walk the righteous path’ to spare her. What you had issues with was the institution of religion itself and some probably never-to-be-resolved personal qualms with the man upstairs. First, why did god have to be a man?

You’d never admit these questions and doubts to her, it would devastate her.

You did, however, admit it to someone.

Your confession last Thursday and the fact that Reverend Miguel was on the receiving end of all your revelations had you waking up suddenly in the night this past week - jolting from the bed, a quickening pulse, and sweat dampening the sheets. The concern in his deep, dark-eyed stare from that day stuck with you. You felt shame, guilt, maybe both, or something else unnamed and it kept you from indulging in the pleasure he had so easily made you feel without even being in the room. You still felt tense knots in your shoulders as you worked.

It was easy to feign sickness when you actually felt feverish and drained after you’d let those inner thoughts become spoken truths.. Your mother worried when you wouldn’t come out of your room. When you missed (skipped) church, she showed her concern and care with homemade chicken noodle soup. Moping, unbothered lasted only another day before she was yanking covers off you and having you run errands around town. ‘Getting back on your feet is the first step to feeling better,’ she retorted to your groans early that Monday morning. No more laying out of church…

You had to think of another way to avoid him. A way to steer clear of any sort of confrontation

You thought about moving away, dramatic, yes, but maybe into the city. Not too far from mom, because she needed help more than she admitted. Tonight was a prime example as her usual kitchen hands said they weren’t feeling well. This was helpful in negating any suspicions your mom had of you lying about being ill. Moving wouldn’t be running away, you were an adult.

You had literally run away though. As soon as the reality of who had taken your confession set in, you ran right out of that booth, back into the bustling city, onto the bumpy bus, and curled up into yourself at home. As you’re thinking about the many help wanted signs and rent postings you saw in the city, you hear chatter that interrupts the flow you two had created in the kitchen.

Mom is being pulled away by another member of the church and she instructs you to make two plates for the people who weren’t able to help her with cooking this evening. You’re pulling the last of the vegetables out of the oven and she hovers a moment, uncomfortable leaving you to the important final preparations.

It’s hard not to feel offended. Five years ago you would have rolled your eyes and commented on how if she didn't trust you, you shouldn’t be doing it in the first place.

“It’s okay,” you assure her as you wash your hands before preparing their plates, “I’ve got this.” You smile gently at her for you know you both need reassurance at times. She pinches her lips together but nods and leaves you alone.

Styrofoam to-go plates were open on the counter, waiting to receive their fill. You eyed the dinner and patted yourself on the back. Mom thought up the meal and did most of the actual ingredient brain power and temperature controls, but you’d done your part as well. It did feel good to do for others even if you still felt down.

A wide pan of meatloaf with a perfect caramelized sauce on top sat as the main course. Alongside it was some cabbage slaw and a broccoli cheddar bake. You make the to-go plates with equal portions and top them each with a roll. Your favorite part were the green onion rolls and you couldn't help but sneak one as the hours of prep and cooking left you famished.

You placed foil over the containers of your mom’s truly famous strawberry cobbler for it to cool when everyone ate. Most of the produce has come from the local farms. You savored the first bite of the fresh roll and marinated on the flavors of home, wondering if you could really leave this behind again.

You’re setting out the plates and silverware for the church members when you hear footsteps behind you. You turn to tell your mom that you’d made the plates, but it’s not her that now joined you in the kitchen.

Tense shoulders, little sleep… you were as tight as a coil ready to spring so you jumped a little when you saw the towering figure as you turned.

Reverend O’Hara’s eyes showed the same concern from last week, but softer. His feet shuffled slightly and he put his hands up as if he had approached an animal in the wild. He had a hesitant, more nervous aura than the suave confidence he usually eluded.

He opened his mouth to speak and you heard him say your name again in that sweet voice…

______________________________________

Standing before you now, Deacon Miguel found himself reflecting on the unexpected confession he heard last week. It was a confession that had stirred within him a mix of emotions and conflicting thoughts.

Miguel had contemplated how to address this delicate situation for it simply couldn’t go ignored. You matter. Your feelings matter. The deacon knew it was crucial that he approach this with compassion and understanding. Faith was a deeply personal journey, and each individual had their own struggles and doubts. Lord knew he’d faced his own in the past and that even if his current standings were solid, they were shaky.

His mind had been consumed by the weight of what he had learned. He couldn't help but feel a profound connection to you when he first placed the communion wafer on your tongue, the tongue that had inadvertently confessed impure thoughts to him. Though your honesty and vulnerability struck a chord within him.

Unbeknownst to you, the deacon struggled with similar doubts and desires. When he heard your confession, his heart weighed heavily with empathy and understanding. Though he couldn’t help the mix of relief in his emotions as well. It was comforting to know he wasn’t alone in grappling with faith, the temptation, and the forbidden attraction that he felt towards you.

Denying his own attraction to you was impossible.

Despite his commitment to his faith and role within the church, he too has found himself captivated by your presence and constantly battled his own desires. Since he’d laid eyes on you that faithful Sunday morning, he’d felt an invisible force bind himself to you. Much like he had bound himself to the service of God Almighty, he found himself wanting to serve you.

Miguel O’Hara couldn’t get that mental image out of his mind. Serving you… The more he tried to control his urges, the harder they became to ignore. He’d been doing what he was told all these many years in the church, abstaining from giving in too much. But no matter how much he tried to uphold the image of chaste, he is merely flesh.

The views of his brothers in Christ were archaic. They forget that the sacrifice of the only Son was done in love, despite our sins. He truly believed that it is natural, God-given even, to experience attraction to fellow flesh. It’s natural to seek a partner in life. He’s human. He’s prone to straying from the path. He is only human. He just hopes that God understands when he asks for forgiveness and repentance.

He struggles with the guilt of falling into temptation when he feels he’ll come undone if he doesn’t allow himself release. He isn’t able to hold back now as much as times prior. Not when you had captivated his spirit.

He also felt guilty for viewing you in the explicit ways that he thought of you. Focusing on the way clothes hugged your body and needing to know what hid in the heaven of your thighs. While Matthew says not to judge others, he also mentions in the Good Book that, “whoever looks […] to lust at someone, has already committed adultery with them in his heart.” If he were to really follow the written word, Miguel would have to pluck out his eyes for his transgressions against you in his mind.

His flesh weakens when he remembers how soft your lips were under the pad of his thumb. The way your eyes looked into his as he cupped your chin.

Cold showers are his usual go-to when it comes to trying to avoid the temptation of touch. His large shoulders hunched slightly when the frigid water fell onto his skin. It’s in vain though each time because his body still radiates heat of passion from thoughts of you. When he looks down at himself, he curses his body’s reaction to thoughts of your mouth. His painfully hard cock begs for your touch. It’s always too much to bear. The tip of him screaming red and leaking despite the cold temperatures.

When he gives in, it’s always too fast. Finally gripping himself the way he’d liked, imagining showing that way to you, he pumped himself with his hand. His grunts steamed the shower even further as he envisioned you with him. Oh, how he longed to feel you and learn you like scripture. His wanton movements force him to brace himself on the shower wall as an image that always brings over the edge flashes his in mind: your legs spread in offering of your own communion. It’s enough to make him see stars as your name echoes in his shower like hallelujahs.

He wishes it wasn’t shame that he felt after. He wishes his comedown was met with comfort from you. He allows the evidence of his shame to wash from himself down the drain, but the feeling is still there. You were more than someone to be lusted over.

While the sexual attraction was strong, he also yearned to know more about you. You’d only revealed little bits of yourself in the confession booth but he was intrigued, nonetheless. He wanted to know more about your conflict with faith, wondered what your childhood was like and what foods you enjoyed, interested in learning your outlook on life. Miguel wanted to learn your personal philosophies as if it were doctrine.

Not seeing you at the previous Sunday service hurt. He understood, given your beliefs, that he couldn’t expect you at church. It wasn’t an attendance issue, which he would not enforce on anyone, but the empty aisle seat in the middle pew made him feel equally as vacant. It didn’t matter to him if you were conflicted or steadfast on Christian values. Matthew 7 held his strongest position on the matter of judgment: it wasn’t his place. He was simply a figurehead of spiritual guidance.

In fact, he had geared his sermon slightly towards you for that Sunday. He couldn’t help the itch to address the issue in a way he was comfortable, through scripture. He didn’t want to convert your faith to Jesus Christ. He wanted to help you restore faith in yourself.

You conjured in him quotes from Corinthians: a book in the Bible that speaks of faith, hope, and love. He carefully highlighted 2 Corinthians 4:16-18 the night of your confession as he crafted his sermon. “[…], our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light, momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.” Yes… the Bible is literally referencing heaven as the eternal glory, but it’s all metaphorical. “Unseen” was the key word in this theological message. He knew the congregation visualized pearly gates and mansions of clouds as a reward for the pain they experienced on this terrain. What he had hoped you would have gotten to hear was that there were so many possibilities when one had faith in themselves. He wanted to show you the unlocked potential housed within yourself.

He had a lot to say as he stood before you now. There’s so much you need to know, need to hear.

First, you needed to know that you were wrong.

He said your name to get your attention.

But, there wasn’t a sound after that for a moment, until your mother and a few other members of the church came through the double doors.

________________________________________

You snapped out of the trance Miguel had you locked in with the song of your name on his lips when your mom burst into the kitchen with some of her friends.

You reach to get the cups out of a cabinet and simply ignore the deacon for a moment despite the flush in your cheeks. Easily explainable by the heat of the kitchen.

“Everything is ready! Mom, I’ve got two plates ready to go for later. Come on and eat, everyone!” Your mother’s friends all compliment her on her well behaved child and you catch her eyes. There’s no strictness in her expression. She simply beams at you, her child.

Members of the church start calling out, ‘Let’s eat!’, ‘Smells good!’, and mentioning how they knew they were in for a good meal as it was your mom that did the cooking.

As people pour into the serving area and line up, you hear Reverend Miguel’s voice above the hustle of hungry people.

“Before we enjoy this delicious looking food, let us first thank the cooks and then I suppose we should bless the meal, yes?” He was smiling as he said this, as if prayer before a meal was only a formality. It seemed as though the appreciation for you two was what he was after as you watched the church thank your mother and you for your cooking. You shrugged off the bits of praise you received as it really was your mom who did the majority of the work.

An elder member is selected to lead the church in prayer and everyone bows their head. You’re still riding a buzz from the work, not to mention seeing Miguel again after almost a week. You can’t seem to bring your eyes down.

You scanned the room of bowed heads and smiling faces and found the deacon’s gaze on you again. This time, you smiled at him and nodded in appreciation. The prayer concludes and your mother’s smile at the praise makes your heart feel warm. Due to the spotlight on her cooking she was forced to be first to get her plate of food, something she usually didn’t do until after everyone had gotten their own plate. Sometimes after they’d gotten seconds. She had found her a community of support and love.

As the church members started scooping portions onto plates, you saw Reverend Miguel approach you again. He stands by your side and you watch as the congregation gets their food and he leans to his side a little toward you. He speaks in a hushed tone as he asks,

“Can we go somewhere to talk?” You swallow dryly, but his next word nearly knocks you off your feet.

“Alone?”

#miguel o'hara #fanfic #miguel x reader #priest!miguel #miguel x you #priest au #across the spiderverse #heathenry

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zoe-oneesama · 1 year

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From what I’ve know, the fandom mostly dislikes Andrey for reasons related to Chloe (bad mother etc.), but what are YOUR reasons for not liking her?

Cuz she's an asshole? On top of being qualified for the Top 3 Never Should've Been Parents to Begin With Award (next to Gabriel and Tomoe), she's an elitist dick waffle without any on screen talent to back it up. So she's a fashion critic. So what? What makes her qualified, have you seen her outfit? And I just have a special hate boner for people who look down on the service industry, so she already wasn't winning any awards for "firing" people left and right.

Meta-wise, I hate her because she just confuses things. "Despair Bear" makes it out that Audrey abandoned the Bourgeois when Chloe was small, though at least old enough to remember, so maybe at minimum 3 years old, though in a sensible universe, closer to 5 or 6. Yet despite being absent from Chloe's life for about a decade, if not more, we're supposed to believe Chloe is the way she is because she's emulating her mother...who isn't there to emulate? Okay. Sure Jan.

Totally unnecessary, Chloe's personality has a good foundation in the fact that her father is rich, powerful, and ready to drop everything to cater to her every petty whim. What does Audrey even add to Chloe's story as presented? Personally, I would've liked it more if Chloe deeply resented her mother and was determined to prove she was BETTER than Audrey. Then have her be frustrated and pissed off every time the two of them are accidentally in sync. Show me a love-hate relationship, at least that would've been interesting, and better yet, would've had something to say about a parent abandoning their child.

But the show just sorta soft balls it. Chloe and Audrey immediately "resolve" a lifetime of abandonment issues because another 14 year old pointed out that they both suck and the two bonded over the fact that she's...right? Audrey decides Chloe's name is worth remembering, she's worth staying in Paris for, and she's "exceptional" in less than 3 minutes because Chloe yelled at the Butler. And for the rest of the series, Audrey is just another Chloe-Patsy, doting on her like her Dad in "Malediktator", cowering under her outburst in "Sole Crusher", and acting as her enforcer when Andre ever puts up a fight. A duo made in hell, but they ARE getting along.

Which makes the leaks for how they're going to end things for the two are confusing.

I don't like Audrey because she was made to be unlikable, but I also don't like Audrey because of her effect on the story. She's used to excuse Chloe being The Worst because look! An Even Worse person! And she made Chloe sad! So you should ignore those several felonies Chloe's committed because her mommy sucks! Nevermind that Chloe and Audrey get along just fine now!

And on top of that, she's used to excuse Andre. Andre, who spoiled Chloe from the beginning, who acts as her attack dog when Chloe cries wolf, who's taught Chloe how to lie, cheat, steal, and bully her way to the top. Somehow HE is getting off scott-free now because He CaN'T bE a DirEcTor aNd fUlFiLL hiS dReAm cUz HiS wIfe'S a BiG meAnIE. Even though Chloe is mostly his fault.

Why couldn't Audrey just stay in New York so we can pretend she doesn't exist and just let Chloe's behavior make sense like it did back in Season 1?

#audrey salt #writing salt #andre salt #my opinion #ml salt

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burst-of-iridescent · 7 months

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I’ve been reading a series where a guy is in a near identical situation to Katara was in The Southern Raiders. But what I find interesting is that no one really tries to stop him and the fandom considers it completely justified. I can’t help but think despite it being two different series and fandoms that Katara’s gender has at least something to do with this. When a male character wants to seek revenge and kill the murderer to do it, the narrative and fans justify it but when it’s a female character she’s vilified, seen as out of control and letting her emotions get the better of her. I hate when people say Aang was right to say what he did and try to stop Katara from making her own choice. It doesn’t help that we know Bryke is misogynistic based on well everything to do with their female characters post series after they didn’t have the talented writers who actually understood the characters helping them. And sure I know Bryke themselves didn’t write The Southern Raiders but we know from script leaks that there were more shippy Zutara moments that were cut and I think we know who’s to blame for that. So I wouldn’t be surprised if they still influenced the more problematic parts of that episode. Such as Aang and Katara never talking about or resolving their conflict, Sokka calling Aang wise beyond his years and never talking about or resolving his side if things with Katara, and even Zuko weirdly agreeing with Aang at the end that “you were right about what Katara needed.” Even though she literally just told Aang a second ago that he was wrong and she would never forgive him and doesn’t know why she couldn’t kill him. If you couldn’t tell I have rather mixed feelings about TSR episode.

Sorry for the ramble. How do you think their conversations (Katara, Aang, and Sokka) would go if they were to talk about it all after the episode?

oh misogyny definitely plays a part - just compare the way people react to inigo montoya from the princess bride vs katara in tsr - but i think the bigger issue is the overt narrative framing of the episode.

on a first watch, tsr appears to push a very simplistic idea of "violence = bad" and strongly favours aang's perspective, which encourages the viewer to see him as being in the right while katara and zuko appear to be in the wrong. the fact that aang never changes his perspective and both zuko and sokka are (forcibly and very uncharacteristically) made to take his side by the end naturally inclines the audience to do so as well.

it's only with a closer reading that you see a more nuanced take which highlights the flaws in aang's thinking and treatment of katara. katara herself makes it clear that what aang wanted her to do would not have helped her find closure, and she began her healing process without ever forgiving yon rha - which is exactly why i hate people attributing her decision not to kill yon rha to aang when she explicitly stated she did not and would not ever do what he wanted her to!

these are the same people who will also blame zuko for being a "bad influence" on katara, as if the only reason she hunted down her own mother's killer is because zuko convinced her to do it. katara isn't some weeping willow to be bent to the will of zuko and aang; her decisions are her own, not based on the whims of the boys in her life. can we please stop stripping katara of all her agency in the one episode that actually focuses on her trauma and healing?

rant aside, i do wish that katara had talked to sokka after this episode and i imagine there would be some apologising on both sides. sokka - a realistic sokka, because my god was he wildly out of character - would probably check in on her and admit that he was afraid for her safety and well-being. katara would likely apologise for the "you didn't love her the way i did!" remark and i think it would've been nice for them to finally talk about kya and for katara to bring up the conversation she overheard from the runaway about how sokka confessed to seeing her as a surrogate mother.

(imo the impact hearing that would've had on katara was largely downplayed in the show, and is likely part of the reason she reacted to sokka the way she did in the southern raiders, but that's a post for another time.)

the katara-aang conversation would probably have gone the same way that it did in canon, because the issues with their dynamic in tsr are part of the underlying problems with the kat.aang relationship in general. i would've liked to see aang have a little more of a reaction to katara saying she never forgave yon rha (he doesn't seem affected at all in the show), and for that to maybe prompt him to really reflect on what he said.

but ultimately what really has to be tackled here is aang's idealization of katara and his focus on clinging to air nomad values at the expense of those from the other nations - and those problems run too deep to be fixed in a single episode or conversation. the southern raiders would have been a good starting point, but unfortunately the finale never engages with these issues, and so what could've been a great arc ends up going nowhere at all.

#anti kataang #zutara #katara #the southern raiders

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candlewaxandp0lar0ids · 10 months

Text

Masterlist || candlewaxandp0lar0ids

OTHERS

Ao3 profile

How to Leave Comments on Fanfiction (Advice Post)

BTS

★ Namjoon

↳ Lazy Day // fluff. domestic!AU, established relationship. 549 words

★ Jin

↳ Don't Go Baking My Heart // fluff. bakery!AU, strangers to lovers. 14.7k.

You fall in love with Kim Seokjin’s bakery after wandering into it to take advantage of the post-Valentine’s Day discount on the chocolates. Maybe it’s the owner’s bad jokes, maybe it’s the other regulars, maybe it’s the delicious pastries. Or maybe there’s something more that keeps you coming back to that shop.

★ J-Hope

↳ For the First Time (What's Past is Past) // fluff, light angst, smut. neighbors!AU, strangers to lovers. 15.7k

After your eight years relationship comes to a brutal end, you don’t really see yourself getting back into dating — ever, probably. And then, your new neighbor who has the most beautiful smile you’ve ever seen needs to borrow a corkscrew, and you don’t realize it just yet, but your resolve doesn’t stand a chance.

★ Jimin

↳ Fly to my room // fluff. college!AU. 1k

↳ good for you // PWP, smut. friends with benefits!AU. 2.9k

★ Jungkook

↳ I Don't Like a Gold Rush // fluff. college!AU, strangers to lovers. 17.3k

Jungkook is the golden boy, an excellent student, the star of you college’s football team. Rumor has it, there’s simply nothing he can’t do. The same cannot be said about you, but you’ve never had an issue with that. You’re happy with your small group of friends and your lack of talent in sports. And then, Jin befriends Jungkook, and you find yourself spending a lot of time with him. Before you know it, you’ve taken an interest in him — and you’re sure you shouldn’t. There’s no way this can end well for you… right?

↳ if i can never give you peace // series. angst, eventual smut. mafia!AU, hybrid!AU, enemies to lovers, slow burn. in progress.

It starts like quite a few stories do, in your world. Girl meets boy, who happens to be a hybrid, girl buys him at an auction where hybrids are sold, boy falls in love with her, girl gets bored of him. Then it’s not so typical anymore, when the boy ends up forced into illegal fighting rings, until he makes a wrong move and the girl’s father decides he needs to be killed. Where does that leave you? Well, you’re the one who handled Jungkook’s fight and generally organized his life, and, when the girl’s father, your boss and mafia leader, tells you he wants him ‘put down’, you’re the one who has to get it done. Except, instead, you let him escape, and everything turns out fine. Until he comes back.

0 · 1 · 2 · 3 · 4 · 5 · Interlude · 6 · 7 · 8 · 9 ·

STRAY KIDS

★ Bang Chan

↳ all your friends are so cool, you go out every night // smut. college!AU, friends with benefits!AU, jealousy. 5k.

↳ hoodie season // tooth-rotting fluff. established relationship AU. 1.4k.

★ Lee Know

↳ when he sees me // smut, fluff, angst. neighbors!AU. 13.3k. in progress.

Interacting with others has never been easy for you, whether it is talking to them or, worse, flirting with them. As a result, relationships, but also any form of sexual interactions have always eluded you. You had no reason to think that was going to change anytime soon. And then your hot neighbor’s cat shows up in your apartment, and you think that things just might change. Even if it’s only on one front.

↳ kinda wanna throw my phone across the room // fluff. college!AU, coffee shop!AU, strangers to lovers, jealousy. 4.9k

★ Changbin

↳ wanna be you so bad // angst? college!AU, academic rivals!AU, jealousy. 4.3k

★ Hyunjin

↳ you're so gorgeous it makes me so mad // PWP, smut. college!AU, established relationship. 4.4k

↳ comparison is killing me slowly // hurt/comfort, smut. college!AU, established relationship, jealousy. 5.2k. same couple as you're so gorgeous it makes me so mad.

★ Han

↳ i'm so sick of myself // fluff, angst. college!AU, friends to lovers. 4.2k

↳ something's waiting now to pounce // angst, light horror, thriller. high school!AU, slasher!AU, friends to lovers. 6.3k.

★ Felix

↳ felix navidad // fluff, angst. christmas evel!au, strangers to lovers. 16.4k

You keep seeing Felix around. First he falls in your courtyard on Christmas Eve, then you see him hiding chocolate eggs in a park, and then he appears on the staircase behind your apartment, in the middle of the night. It’s unusual, and you have no idea what it means. What you do know, though, is that you’re absolutely fascinated by him, who he is, and the light and joy he seems to bring with him everywhere he goes. Even if you have no idea who or what he is, all that you want is to find out more — and get to spend a little more time with him.

↳ rather be anyone else // angst. college!AU, friends to lovers, jealousy. 3.7k

↳ wouldn't you like to see something strange? // angst, suggestive. urban fantasy, roommates!AU. 4k.

★ Seungmin

↳ i think i think too much // fluff, suggestive. college!AU, established relationship, jealousy. 3.7k

↳ everybody make a scene // fluff, angst (both light). coworkers!AU, convenience store!AU, friends to lovers. 4k

★ I.N.

↳ all i see are girls too good to be true // fluff, light angst. college!AU, idiots to lovers, jealousy. 3.9k

↳ take a chance and roll the dice // fluff. coworkers!AU, bar!AU. 3.7k

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watermelonsugacry · 1 year

Note

James corden and harry and yn pleeeeeeeaasee

The Final Late Late Show

A/N: how are you lovies?! its been a minute since I've posted but i just HAD to write about this as soon as I saw it! 💚

SUMMARY: For the final Late Late Show, YN and Harry are two of the three final guests. Here are some snippets from the final episode! (2.5k)

GENRE: 1dbandmember!yn, married!ynrry, famous!reader

SINCE 2010 masterlist

“Joining us also, he’s the biggest superstar in the world. He’s a three-time Grammy winner. He’s your friend, he’s my friend. Harry Styles is here tonight!”

Harry’s dimple smile appears from the small window on the door. “Hi, mate! Man, terrible timing with this door thing, eh?...Cause it’s yeh last show.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know,” James dramatically sighs in frustration.

“I mean what are the chances, you know? Absolute disaster,” Harry humorously rolls his eyes with a smile. “...cause it’s yeh last show.”

“Yeah, I’m well aware that it’s my last show, Harry, thank you very much! I don’t need anybody to tell me that. Nobody knows that more than me. This is a disaster!”

“James! James!” YN steps in next to her husband and peaks through the tiny window through the door.

“YN! Oh, thank God!” The talk show host sighs in relief. “Also joining us tonight is the multi-talented mega star of the century. She’s another dear friend of mine and married to this guy right here. Everybody give it up for YN YLN-Styles!”

She gives a small wave before turning her attention back to the host. “Don't worry, James. V’got everything under control,” YN says with a confident nods of her head.

“Oh, that’s great to hear. So you’ve called security to get the doors unlocked then?”

“Umm...no.” Fans can see Harry’s lips tucked in frown, shaking his head along to his wife’s words. “But I’ve got this fire extinguisher that m’gonna use to bash in the window.”

The audience members yell and cheer excitedly as they see YN hold up the red object and ask everyone to stand back. But before she can take a swing, the voice on the intercom lets them know that the door issue has been resolved.

...

“Everyone, please give it up for the one and only, Mrs. YN YLN-Styles!”

When the curtains zip open, YN has her back to the crowd. She comically looks over her shoulder and playfully acts surprised at the screaming crowd. As she walks down the stairs, everyone is able to see her full outfit for the night. Her white skirt and top combo hug her curves in just the right places but her (and Harry’s) favorite part has to be the white stain roses that hold the slide slit of her dress in place.

She smiles and gives high fives to the audience members as she passes them by. When she gets to James’s parents in the audience, she gives them kisses on both of their cheeks. And once she’s reached the stage, she happily takes her husband’s outreached hand as he helps her up the short steps.

When the third guest of the night makes his way onto the stage, Harry puts a hand on YN’s back and shuffles them over to the corner at what’s to come. They watch as Will takes swing after swing at James’s desk with a sledgehammer, destroying it into pieces. While Harry’s face expresses one of remorse over the obliterated scene, YN puts a fist over her smile as she laughs.

...

“Then you and your former bandmate turned wife—” James presents the couple sitting next to each other on the couch with a grand hand swing of his hands as he looks out to the screaming audience. “—came on the show a few years ago as a band. Then again when Harry hosted for the first time where you, YN, were one of the featured guests for that night. And you guys even played a game of Spill Your Guts Or Fill Your Guts.”

With the mention of the atrocious food game, James mentions how Will Ferrell loves the game so much that he specifically requested for them to play it one more time. Each guest is given their own cards with their questions on them and an obscene food concoction to eat if they do not want to answer their question.

Soon after, YN claps along with everyone else but her jaw is on the floor at the hefty scoop and bite Will takes from his nasty food arrangement despite not having to do so.

“Yeh really enjoyed that didn’t yeh?” She teases.

“It’s like Thanksgiving,” Will responds around a mouth full of bug trifles. “Alright, your turn YN.”

“Okay, mine says...” She says as she slowly gets the card out. Harry leans over to her to get a peek at the question and immediately lets out a chuckle, trying to cover it up with a cough to his fist but fails. “Uh oh. When and where did you and Harry have your first kiss together?”

The crowd goes into a frantic frenzy at the possibility of getting official confirmation of the heavily researched and hypothesized answer. She wiggles her brows in a playful manner towards her husband and it only makes him laugh harder.

She contemplates on revealing the answer, it is the last show after all...but where’s the fun in that?

“Umm...” She hides her smile behind the purple card before shrugging her shoulders. “Guess m’taking a bite out of a grasshopper.”

“I’ll do one with you,” Will generously offers, already reaching for one of the little bugs in the small bowl. They clink their grasshoppers together before plopping them past their lips. While Will happily reaches for seconds, YN puts on a strained, pained smile as she chews.

“Mmm, yummy,” She sarcastically says, making James let out one of his high-pitched laughs. She gladly takes the mug from Harry’s giving hands to rinse her mouth of the odd taste.

When Harry reads his question asking if there will be a One Direction reunion, the crowd erupts in screams once again. The couple gives each other a humorous look, absolutely eating up the way the audience goes crazy at the mention of their band.

“I think if there was a time where we all felt that that was something we wanted to do—” Harry’s interrupted by Will mocking the crowd awing and cooing at the mention of their old band. It has the two former band members giggling before he continues. “Then I don’t see why we wouldn’t.”

“YN, this question kind of goes to you as well,” James offers.

“Yeah, I mean. I totally agree with everything he said. We’re definitely not opposed to it. If it happens, it happens.”

“I’ll take that as a yes!” James exclaims. “I mean, we already have a permanent, mini reunion with the two of you being married.”

“Wait, you guys are married?” Will dramatically questions with faux confusion that makes everyone in the room laugh.

“Wait, wait, can we please get a close up of this really quick,” James frantically moves his hands as the couple holds up their hands to show their wedding rings. It’s in this moment that fans realize that the two of them aren’t wearing any of their regular set of rings across their fingers, solely the ones that signify their promise to love one another forevermore.

...

“Who’s more talented? Will Farrell, YN YLN-Styles or Harry Styles?”

There’s no forethought or second guessing with the couple’s response to immediately vouch for Will.

“Sustainable talent,” Harry points out with a sweep of his hand.

“There’s literally nothing this man can’t do,” YN compliments.

The couple breaks out in bright smiles when Will begins to sing a solemn version of As It Was. But what has YN turning into a fit of giggles, her head leaning back as she hovers her hands over her mouth is when the famous comedian begins to sing 34+35 with a strong vibrato.

It’s then Will’s turn to let out a string of giddy chuckles when James then asks the married couple to do an impression of the comedic actor.

“Ladies first,” Harry quickly says with a tap on his wife’s hand.

“Hmm...Oh okay, ‘ve out it.” YN comically clears her throat and readjusts herself on the couch. “Yeh ready for this? I’m singing. I’m in a store and I’m singing. I’m in a store, and I’m singing!”

Will doubles over in laughter, applauding along with everyone else at her spot-on impression. As The Roots plays a snippet of celebration music, YN stands from her seat and takes a grand bow.

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you, YN,” Will turns his attention to the pop star next to him. When she gives an encouraging nod of her head, he continues with a professionally acted sense of genuine curiosity, “What exactly does 34+35 mean?”

While everyone else in the room breaks out into laughter, YN lifts her gaze to the ceiling as she contemplates how to explain the sexual song. She tries to hide her smile by tucking in her lips but it's really hard to keep it professional when there’s an iconic actor asking that type of question. Even Harry has his face in his hands, his shoulder bouncing as he laughs.

She clears her throat as she adjusts her skirt and places her clasped hands over her crossed legs. She goes to open her mouth to answer but instead leans over to whisper the answer in the actor’s ear with a cupped hand instead.

“So it’s not about solving a math problem?!” Will dramatically exclaims.

“Harry, what’s your impression of Will?” YN says through a laugh, playfully attempting to change the subject.

Without saying a word, Harry gets up from his seat, grabs the sledgehammer, and smashes what’s left of James’s desk. YN puts her fingers in the corner of her mouth and blows a loud whistle at the sight before them as everyone else applauds with a mixture of cheering.

When it’s time for James to answer his question, he says, “So, we’ve known each other for quite some time, haven’t we? I would even go as far as to consider you both as family.” The married couple nods their heads in agreement. “But A, I watch Elf every year on Christmas. And B, I didn’t get an invitation to your wedding so,” James gives a shrug of his shoulders as the audience goes crazy.

...

In between a commercial break, fans and crew members record the interactions happening on the main stage. While James goes over to talk with Will, everybody else focuses on the married couple.

A cheeky sound technician plays Late Night Talking as background music. They watch as the two of them mouth along to the words and cheekily dance in their seats as they get lost in their own little world.

The fans watch them with hearts in their eyes. On some parts of the song, the couple will do the same little dance moves together, speculating that they do this behind closed doors as well: rolling their arms like they’re going to hit the woah, hands up and slicing the air in front of them as they move their upper bodies, and dramatically swiveling their heads to the funky beat—every move has them end up laughing quietly to one another.

It reminds the OG fans of how the two would be on their third world tour with the band. They’re easily reminded of when the two of them would sit next to each other on the raised platforms on the humongous catwalk and get distracted from singing. They would lean into each other, talking in one another’s ears, and squeeze their eyes shut as laughter overtook them. Almost a decade later and the two still act like a couple of love-sick teenagers.

There’s even a part during the chorus where Harry gets up from his seat to move his hips with a swing of his elbow; YN does the same movements but from her sitting down position.

When the couple turns their attention to the cheering crowd, Harry points to his wife and mouths, “She produced the song!”

...

“And to add onto that,” YN places a hand on Harry’s arm after he complimented James. “I think I can speak for both of us in that we’re so grateful to have met yeh. You’ve been such a great friend to the both of us and I’m just super excited for what’s ahead of yeh.”

James pulls the both of them into a group hug from their spots on the couch and the audience laughs when Will scoots up to join the hug as well. YN can’t hold back the laugh that tumbles past her lips as the comedian reaches over her and her husband to pat James on the back.

When Will begins his mini speech to compliment the host on his hard work in the late night talk show industry, in the process he calls England a “shithole of a country.” While everyone knows he means it in a playful way and while the comment has James laughing, the married couple raise their eyebrows, purse their lips, and nod their head as they take the diss.

And while Will tries to continue what he has to say, it's not long before Harry gets up from his seat and grabs the sledgehammer.

“Hold him down, lovie,” He tells his wife who's already playfully reaching her angry fingers toward Will.

...

The Late Late music provided by The Roots mixes with the ear-piercing screams from the audience as they watch what’s happening backstage. Harry’s already sat in the photobooth’s seat and gently tugs his wife into his lap. She wraps an arm around the tops of his shoulders as they get ready for their picture to be taken. She tilts her head to touch his as he fully wraps his arms around her middle.

Right before the countdown reaches its end, his fingers dig into the ticklish part in her side and she jolts up in a laugh. Just in time, the picture captures YN’s bright, open-mouthed smile, her eyes squeezed shut and her nose cutely scrunched up; her husband’s expression matches similarly to her own.

In the end, the picture ends up in the middle of three pictures on the collaged wall: one of the band during their last Late Late interview as a four piece. YN is sitting in the middle of the group with a sly smile on her face as her long haired band mate has a hand on her shoulder. On the other side, one of Harry’s solo shots of when he first came on the show as a solo artist, and beside that one is one of YN when she came on the show when Harry hosted. At the time, her hair was barely below her ears, her naturally curly hair looked like a cloud on her head. She has one eye squinted shut, her tongue peaking out from between her teeth as she holds up a peace sign.

Looking at the pictures in front of them, they reminisce on their shared history of being on this show. The Late Late studio has seen these two back when they were merely bandmates, secretly pining over one another with so many barriers in their way. It’s seen how they came back on the show as solo artists a few years later. It was a perfectly timed occasion for the both of them as they hid their secret relationship away from the public eye with a live audience and cameras in their faces.

And now, as the last guests on the show, the studio sees the pair happily married and more in love with one another than they’ve ever been before.

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