#how we feeling about chapter 4?

[naffeclipse]

Gregory seeing Y/N with a mer:

Y/N seeing Gregory with a mer:

[beaulesbian]

(more wano spoilers, ch. 1003)

was this the first time zoro saw the outcome of luffy's gear 4?

because as i remember, the first time luffy used it to this extent was in dressrosa against doflamingo, and only law and the pirates helping luffy to wait until he got the second wave of his strength back saw it. but at that time zoro was in another part of the city.

he probably isn't sure how this gear works, only sees that luffy run out of steam, and thanks to law that he needs about 10mins to get back up. so the only thing zoro can do is immediately move to protect luffy and get him away from the next big attacks

luffy even thanks him ;-;

then kaido wants to chomp down luffy

and zoro gets angry, 'don't you dare go eating our captain!!' and thanks to enma he actually manages to slash through kaido's scales, something that was impossible before

(so proud of him. and this was all after he's been a few moments ago struck by big mom's lightning.- it shows how much he did get stronger since skypiea, where he took some bad lightning damage too but he couldn't fight after that.)

and then still goes to cover and protect luffy ;-;

[alyimoss]

anyone else inexplicably fucked up by the very existence of "its raining somewhere else" as a track?

[kuwupikaa]

[sabraeal]

Desert & Reward, Chapter 17

[Read on AO3]

“Now, now, Mister, no need for roughness,” Obi laughs as Sir shoves him out the closest door, the night sky unfurling above them. “I promise, I’m quite tame. Look, I haven’t even bit any hands tonight.”

If he leaves off just how many tempting morsels fluttered right in front of him, well— it’s nothing Sir hasn’t already guessed. By the hunted expression clinging to that chiseled jaw, it seems His Highness’s loyal hound has had more than a few temptations of his own.

Air hisses through Sir’s teeth, more a relief of pressure than a warning, the harsh line of his shoulders deflating from forbidding to fatigued. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever asked. What did you do to get on Kihal’s bad side?”

Truth be told, Obi’s never quite sliced that knot himself. He’d been wallpaper when she’d come that first time, a shadow that clung to Miss’s heels, and she’s been kind enough to tender him a few perfunctory ‘hellos,’ when their paths had crossed. But they’d gone to Yuris— twice, by his count; once to chase down the source of that perfume, and another just after she’d landed her title as countess�� and each time she’d gotten her hackles up.

Not by any fault of his own, of course. Sure, he’d poked around a few places that not even Miss’s smiles could grant them entry, and he’d been more than a little popular with some of the local girls who didn’t mind a man with a little mystery and more than his fair share of scars— but that’d all been winks and words that went down as easy as the swill her father’s men had in their stills. No, what really seemed to get her goat was that despite her determination to dislike him, she never quite manage it.

Which is a bit more complicated an answer than Sir’s probably expecting to hear, so instead just he shrugs. “Today, or in general?”

Sir’s mouth thins— shame that Miss Kiki isn’t here to appreciate the way that sternness sharpens the lines of his face— hands hooking on his hips. Obi settles in; whatever lecture annoying the future Lady Laxdo has inspired, it’s sure to be a doozy. "You’re bearing up all right, aren’t you?”

It’s not until his mouth clicks shut that he realizes his jaw dropped at all. “C-come again, Mister?”

Sir grunts, agitated but— miraculously— not at him. “It’s all right if you aren’t, Obi. I know this isn’t what you’re used to when it comes to parties.”

The number of titles on his guest list could fill a library large enough to keep Miss entertained, but that’s hardly new. Between rubbing elbows with the royal family and her newfound position as the North’s darling, they’ve been invited to and ducked out early from all the Clarines’ most exclusive soirées. But that’s not what Sir is driving at.

“It’s a bit bigger than the stag night.” Twice as big at least, but the last thing Obi needs is Mister bringing math into the equation. “And that thing was already huge. Gotta say, sir, your little fireside chat and tipple didn’t set me up with the right sort of expectations.”

A wayward muscle in that impressive jaw twitches. “It wasn’t supposed to.”

“Maybe I should have gone to Miss Kiki’s,” he sighs wistfully. “That might have prepared me for being a lord. You know, since between the two of you, you’re really sort of the lady of the—”

“You could just say ‘I’m fine,’ you know,” Sir manages, strangled. “No need for…”

His hand waves, helpless, somehow managing to encompassing all of Obi at once, while also implying that his personality’s part of the problem.

“I appreciate the thought, Mister.” He digs his finger into the knot that’s been bugging him since they shoved him into this monkey suit, turning his smirk into a grimace. “But this isn’t my first fancy shindig, and something tells me it won’t be the last. I’ll survive.”

“I didn’t say you wouldn’t,” he grunts, leaning a hip— well, thigh really— against the balustrade. “It’s just…it’s one thing to be at one of these parties and just be part of the…er…ambiance, I guess. And it’s a whole other thing altogether when what everyone’s looking at is you.”

His fingers clench a little tighter. “It’s not so bad.”

Sir’s gaze hardly wavers as he asks, “Is it?”

“Y-yeah.” The lie drags bile up after it, washing his mouth in its sour taste. “You know me, Mister, I live for attention.”

His arms fold, testing the limits of his coat seams. “That is what you like everyone to think.”

Haah, he should have known better than to try to pull one over on Sir. The men might have called him an honest fool when he’d still been just one of the Royal Circle’s knights— hell, Obi’d called him all that and worse during that whole fiasco after Sereg— but Mister had a way of seeing right to the quick of a man.

“I didn’t like it much either,” Mister admits. “Still don’t, really. But I’m more used to it now than I was back then. It was terrible when we got married— I thought a look might real and truly kill me if they got me at the right angle.”

“Unlike you, I didn’t run off and ruin His Majesty’s engagement party,” Obi drawls, giving his eyebrows a good waggle. “Really, Mister, how’s a man supposed to recover when a knight rides in to rescue a lady right in front of—”

“T-that’s not what I’m talking about,” Sir blusters, the tips of his ears a painful pink. “You’re just trying to change the subject.”

Obi’s mouth thins, an easy thing to twist up in a smile. “I appreciate the concern, I do, but you don’t have to worry about me, Big Guy. I know how to put on a show when I got to.”

“If you say so.” Sir claps him on the shoulder; a few years ago it might have made his teeth rattle, but after almost half a decade walking Wilant’s walls and being fortified by their hearty stews, he barely stumbles. “Just bear it for a little while longer. I’m sure Zen will find a way to get you out of this before…”

Sir’s mouth works, not to find a word but a grimace. Which is fine, really. Obi doesn’t need them, not when he’s been thinking it all this time— before she finds out.

“Right.” Even he can tells his smile doesn’t hang right on his mouth, but that’s not important, not when Mister’s the only one around to see. “Hate to have the young miss exposed to anything so…disagreeable. Not when she’s already having to put up with all this nonsense.”

“Obi.” Sir straightens, brows knitted up with concern. “That’s not what I—”

“Don’t worry, I know what you were trying to say, Mister.” Even if he was too kind to actually say it. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I might go—”

“Why, is that—?” Earl Seiran waves from the garden path below, smile as large as Miss Kiki’s isn’t. “It is! My dear son and the man of the hour! Just who I wanted to see.”

“My l— sir,” Mister manages, flustered. “I didn’t see—? I mean, I didn’t know you had left the ballroom. Just a moment, I’ll—”

“No, no, dear boy. Just give me a moment!” His walking stick taps on the marble, casual rather than crucial. “We’ll come up to you.”

“We?” Sir echoes, and that’s when Obi sees it— the messy tangle of black that had faded into the garden’s shadows.

“Oh,” he mutters, mouth already tugging into a sneer. “Just who I wanted to see.”

*

“What a lovely party,” Seiran gushes as he draws near, delight evident in every click of his heels. “Truly, the wedding of the season, for all that it isn’t supposed to have happened. Or, I suppose, should have happened earlier. Ha!”

If a duke does not lower his head to a count, it only follows that a marquis won’t either, but Obi’s far too practiced at keeping his to risk any less than a nod. A deep one, almost deferential. The man who survived raising Miss Kiki doesn’t deserve any less. “You’re too kind, milord.”

“Nonsense!” The earl waves his hand, and for a moment, the similarity staggers him. He’s only met Kiki’s dad a handful of times, but each time it’s like that— brief flashes of a movement so familiar he could draw the angles of it with his eyes closed, but that smile instead of a scowl makes them as different as night and day. “If only we had such an excuse to celebrate more often.”

“Maybe you will soon enough, my lord.” The earl might brighten every balcony onto which he walks, but his companion casts a pall over the company keeps. And by the way Lugis’s mouth twists, wry and annoyed all at once, he knows. “You’ve already gained a son. Maybe he will be kind enough to oblige you with a few grandchildren to name.”

That snake ends the sentence too early, but his flash of teeth finishes it: if he can locate his dick well enough to use it.

Sir stiffens behind him, hand hovering just above his sword’s hilt. “Hisame…”

“An excellent point!” Seiran laughs, one well-manicured hand reaching to clap Big Guy on the shoulder. He withers noticeably. “Though I suppose my good-son would wish us to speak of this where he might not hear.”

Sir’s neck flushes so red Obi could swear he sees steam. “Or not at all.”

“Oh, come now. You may be too modest to suffer us speculating, but surely you cannot protest the process.” There’s times where Obi has wondered how a man as easy-going as the earl had could had a hand in honing a girl more to a dagger than a daughter. But right now, as the Mister’s eyes roll heavenward like losing consciousness might be a mercy, and all the man does is grin— well, he can see the shape of it.

“Just think of it.” That snake looks pretty amused for a guy who framed a man for murder and nearly toppled a whole country just to play fake fiancé. “If His Highness’s courtship proceeds as promised, then perhaps his own joyful occasions will not be much behind yours, Sir Mitsuhide.”

Sir doesn’t get wistful the way he used to— or at least, Obi hasn’t caught him going around hanging himself over balconies and heaving those world weary sighs. But something in him catches on joyful occasions and—

And it’s just Sir and him who know that’s not likely to happen. Seiran’s lord and lady might get up to whatever they like behind closed doors— and if he knows Kiki, she will— but there’s not likely to be any royal issue, not any time soon. Not from Zen, at least. He’ll find some way to put off his wedding, same way he used to put off popping the question, and in a few years and some creative paperwork, they’ll get their happy ending, just the way they were meant to.

Seiran might smile as he puts a hand on Obi’s shoulder, giving him a squeeze that makes this night almost feel real, that he is the man Miss wanted to see at the altar— but one glance at Sir’s grimace is enough to remind him that he’s just here to keep Master’s seat warm. A placeholder, until something better can be arranged.

“You boys should take more care with His Highness’s stag night, however,” Seiran instructs, suddenly stern. “All these little fêtes are fine and good— and I’m sure His Majesty will see to it that his brother has one becoming of his station— but it is all quite…sanitary is it not? For such an occasion, a man wishes to be out with his comrades, celebrating his nuptials with all the happy abandon—”

“I must thank you for traveling all this way, my lord,” Obi blurts out, receiving Sir’s grateful look with all the graciousness a knight taking a rescued maiden’s kiss. For all that he’d love to lord the knowledge of her father’s sowing of wild oats or what not, he doesn’t actually want to hear the details. At least right now, when the Big Guy’s two shades of red away from spontaneous combustion. “Can’t have been easy on such short notice.”

“No niceties for me, my lord?” that snake hums, so smug his forked tongue might well flicker through his lips. “Have I not traveled far enough?”

Obi’s smile bears more teeth than good will when he says, “I wasn’t aware it was that far from His Highness’s coattails to here.”

Sir snorts, loud enough Seiran spares him a curious glance before adding, “Not at all, dear boy. I had plenty of time to settle my business before starting my trek to the palace. Though I suppose were I north enough to get those early autumn squalls, three weeks might have been a far narrower window than I would have liked.”

“T-three?” Obi blinks, fingers numb at his side. “Three weeks?”

Three weeks. He’d known about this for three days. And by the way Sir starts to fidget under his stare, he might be the only one.

“I must say, it was quite the surprise to see Forzeno step up as your guardian.” Seiran laughs, shaking his head. “I was of the impression that man didn’t leave his lab for anything more than an opportunity to fund it. How did you even manage to meet?”

“Ah, well…” His fingers dig into the meat of his shoulder, the familiar flash of pain grounding him. “It’s  not much of a story. Turns out some of his rock collection showed some promise in cracking open a little conundrum they’d all been working on, and Miss convinced” — coerced, really, but who’s counting— “him to come give them a hand.”

The snake huffs out a laugh, one of his narrow eyebrows hitching a ride to his hairline. “And he adopted you for simply standing around?”

Lata probably would have, if it meant dodging a dukedom. Good thing the geezer didn’t think of it sooner. “That’s because His Majesty thought ‘messenger’ wasn’t a good enough title for one of his brother’s buddies. Slapped me with a ‘sir’ and let me loose up in the North. By the time Lata got his hands on me, I was biting the ankles of my betters.”

Seiran’s mouth slides into a sly curve. “I can see why that might have endeared you to a man like him.”

“Don’t know if I’d say endeared so much as enraged.” Or embarrassed, more likely, but that’s not something he’s going to admit to when Hisame Lugis is standing around, grinning like his knighthood is the funniest joke he’s ever told. “I thought I was doing just fine, but apparently I was ‘the Royal Circle’s greatest shame’ and I ‘can’t serve His Highness with that sort of sloppy dress.’ So then he decided he was my knightly mentor, and…”

He lifts a shoulder. That’s that, it says, or maybe, it is what it is.

It doesn’t seem like Earl Seiran hears it, though. “If you had needed for someone to vouch for you name, my boy, you might have told me!” His mouth pinches, the same way his daughter’s does when he calls her name. “I would have been happy to call you son.”

“Oh, er…” Obi coughs, searching for the politest way to say, I don’t think that sentiment would have been unanimous, sir. “That’s a…uh…generous offer, my lord, but, er…”

“You already have an heir,” Kiki deadpans, appearing from just behind her father’s shoulder. “Don’t get greedy.”

“Kiki, my dear,” he laughs, holding out his arm— one she summarily ignores, brushing past him stand next to Sir. “I always thought you would make a wonderful older sister.”

“Hear that, my lady,” Obi hums, leaning close enough for their elbows to nudge. Naturally, of course, not because she’d caught him aiming at her side. “I could have been your little brother.”

“You’re a year older than me,” she reminds him, right before latching onto him with her iron grip. “I hope you can forgive me, Father, for stealing him away.”

“Darling,” he sighs, “must you call me that? Surely ‘Daddy’ would be—?”

“No.”

“Papa?” he tries, undaunted. Kiki only sighs.

“What, no apologies for me, Lady Kiki?” The snake slithers closer, smirking when Sir stiffens— but he doesn’t dare slink a step further. “I was talking to the marquis as well.”

“When it comes to sorry behavior, you are so far in debt that an apology from me could only dig you deeper,” she warns him, not even a hint of humor. “I thought I might save you the inches.”

Had that advice fallen from Obi lips, no doubt they would have heard that snake’s rattle. But from Kiki, it only tilts his smile to a more rueful pitch. “How…considerate of you.”

“Why, I do believe I see your brother, Sir Hisame!” Seiran remarks, just too loud to be casual. “Shall I go pay my respects? I haven’t seen him since…”

Since Sir so publicly scuttled their engagement— and, almost as a side note, revealed that the snake himself had taken part in Touka Bergatt’s attempted coup. That even as he hobnobbed with His Majesty’s guests, he was still in that bastard’s pocket.

Lugis’s mouth widens, smile all teeth. “I’m sure he bears you no ill will, my lord. He knows a thing or two about having willful heirs of his own.”

“Quite,” Seiran chuckles. “Still, you’ll come with me, won’t you? Perhaps ease over this small bump in our relationship.”

Funny. If he committed treason, Obi hardly thinks they’d all wave it over as a small bump.

“Ah…” The snake’s on his back foot now, sly eyes rounding as the earl advances on him, seizing his arm. “I appreciate the invitation, my lord, but I’ve hardly spoken to Lord Obi—”

“As my daughter says, Lord Obi is being stolen away.” Lugis winces under the strength of Seiran’s grip. “Let us leave them to it.”

“But—”

“Come.” The earl doesn’t quite take the snake out for a drag across the veranda, but it’s close. “I am so looking forward to renewing your brother’s acquaintance, after all.”

*

Obi blinks, watching as they disappear into the ballroom, arm-in-arm. Or rather hand-on-arm, by the way Lugis is trying to dig in his heels.

“Huh,” he murmurs, casting a look the long way up to Mister’s stern mug. “I didn’t know your dad was so buddy-buddy with Sir Hiss-a-lot.”

“Earl Seiran is being circumspect,” Sir replies pointedly. “He may not like Sir Hisame, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be nice.”

“Hey, I’m nice to people all day long.” Obi presses a hand to his chest, scandalized. “And I don’t like half of them!”

Kiki snorts. “Doubtful.”

“I am!” Where he came from, being nice meant no one drew blood. A low bar, but after every day he’s stuck in this madhouse having to play lord, he’s starting to see the wisdom in it. “Anyway, thanks for the rescue, Miss Kiki. I guess I’ll just—”

A hand grips his shoulder, as strong as any shackle. It’s not Sir’s. “I wasn’t kidding about you being needed.”

“Me?” He turns to her, wide-eyed. “Really?”

“Of course. It’s dinner time, and you’re the groom.” She glares back at him like he’s stupid. “Don’t tell me you didn’t write a toast.”

His jaw drops. “Ah…”

“You.” She fixes him with a meaningful stare. “Are going to owe me.”

[acourtofquestions]

Golden flame danced between her fingers.

Elide recoiled, and the fire vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"My name is Essar," the female said softly. "I am a friend--of your friends, I believe."

Elide said nothing.

"Cairn is a monster," Essar said, taking a step closer. "Stay far from him."

"I need to find him."

"You played the part of his mistreated lover well enough. You have to know something about him. What he does."

"If you know where he is, please tell me." She wasn't above begging.

Essar ran an eye over Elide. Then she said, "He was in this city until yesterday. Then he went out to the eastern camp." She pointed with a thumb over a shoulder. "He's there now."

"How do you know?"

"Because he's not terrorizing the patrons of every fine establishment in this town, glutting himself on the coin Maeve gave him when he took the blood oath."

Elide blinked. She had hoped some of the Fae might be opposed to Maeve, especially after the battle in Eyllwe, but to find such outright distaste...

Essar then added, "And because my sister--the soldier you spoke with--told me. She saw him in the camp this morning, smirking like a cat."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because you are wearing Lorcan's shirt, and Rowan Whitethorn's cloak. If you do not believe me, inform them who told you and they will." Elide cocked her head to the side.

Essar said softly, "Lorcan and I were involved for a time."

They were in the midst of war, and had traveled for thousands of miles to find their queen, and yet the tightness that coiled in Elide's gut at those words somehow found space. Lorcan's lover. This delicate beauty with a bedroom voice had been Lorcan's lover.

"I'll be missed if I'm gone for too long, but tell them who I am. Tell them that I told you. If it's Cairn they seek, that is where he shall be. His precise location, I don't know." Essar backed away a step. "Don't go asking after Cairn at other taverns. He isn't well regarded, even amongst the soldiers. And those who do follow him... You do not wish to attract their interest."

Essar made to turn away, but Elide blurted,

"Where did Maeve go?"

Essar looked over her shoulder. Studied her.

The female's eyes widened. "She has Aelin of the Wildfire," Essar breathed.

Elide said nothing, but Essar murmured, "That was... that was the power we felt the other night." Essar swept back toward Elide. Gripped her hands. "Where Maeve went a few days ago, I don't know. She did not announce it, did not take anyone with her. I often serve her, am asked to... It doesn't matter. What matters is Maeve is not here. But I do not know when she will return."

Relief again threatened to send Elide crumpling to the ground. The gods, it seemed, had not abandoned them just yet.

But if Maeve had taken Aelin to the outpost where they'd lied that the Valg prince had been contained...

Elide gripped Essar's hands, finding them warm and dry. "Does your sister know where Cairn resides in the camp?"

For long minutes, then an hour, they had talked.

Essar left and returned with Dresenda, her sister. And in that alley, they had plotted.

Elide finished telling Rowan, Lorcan, and Gavriel what she'd learned. They sat in stunned silence for a long minute.

"Just before dawn," Elide repeated. "Dresenda said the watch on the eastern camp is weakest at dawn. That she'd find a way for the guards to be occupied. It's our only window."

Rowan was staring into the trees, as if he could see the layout of the camp, as if he were plotting his way in, way out.

"She didn't confirm if Aelin was in Cairn's tent, though," Gavriel cautioned. "Maeve is gone--Aelin might be with her, too."

"It's a risk we take," Rowan said. A risk, perhaps, they should have considered.

Elide glanced to Lorcan, who had been silent throughout. Even though it had been his lover who had helped them, perhaps guided by Anneith herself. Or at least had been tipped off by the scent on Elide's clothes.

"You think we can trust her?" Elide asked Lorcan, though she knew the answer.

Lorcan's dark eyes shifted to her. "Yes, though I don't see why she'd bother."

"She's a good female, that's why," Rowan said.

At Elide's lifted brow, he explained, "Essar visited Mistward this spring. She met Aelin." He cut a glare toward Lorcan. "And asked me to tell you that she sends her best."

Elide hadn't seen anything that came close to pining in Essar's face, but gods, she was beautiful. And smart. And kind. And Lorcan had let her go, somehow.

[organised-disaster]

Aight @baxieblur-turnip and @randosfandos y'all know the drill here it is

SNOWBIRD: CHAPTER IV

I stare at the ceiling. It's quite nice. Wood panels. Inoffensive. I count the scratch marks in it, then the proper holes.

I've just nicked it more than I've actually hit it. I don't especially try when I throw my knife. It used to be Otto's. I feel bad launching it at the ceiling, but it's what I do when I'm bored.

I retrieve it from my drawer. I flick it open and close a few times, running my thumb over the dimpled texture of the green handle while I study the ceiling. I can almost see the shape of a face...

I throw the knife up into a blank spot. It makes a tiny scratch. Not enough force. It sails back down into my hand. I catch it easily, the blunt side of the blade slotting seamlessly between my fingers.

Again. It thuds into the ceiling, between the boards, and I almost think it's going to stay there. It slides out, however, rotating to be blade-first. It pierces the pillow next to my head. How unfortunate.

Again. A thunk can be heard as it stays put. I stand to retrieve it, my bed creaking in protest. The ceilings are not especially low, but Otto's knife is easily within my reach.

It comes away too easily. Not enough force, once again. I stay standing instead of lying down again. I look at the knife in my hand.

I could stop. I could stop damaging the ceiling over and over again, and I could stop blunting the knife. I should stop.

I am only breaking things. No, not even breaking. This is nothing.

This is just more purposeless damage. I am just stabbing the ceiling, the ceiling that can not die, or feel it at all. This is an exercise in futility. I am satisfying nothing.

The sound the knife makes as I personally drive it into the ceiling is very satisfying indeed.

I step off my bed, landing silently on my floor. I allow the knife to say in my ceiling. I don't need it, anyway. I have other, much sharper knives. Better knives.

I pass my empty wall. The spot with four holes in it as if something was once displayed there stares into me, accusing me. I face it, staring back. I blindfold it by displaying Sera's gift. Yumi's warm, grey eyes now bore a hole into my skull, but it's a marginal improvement.

I shut the door quietly behind me. I don't care about the noise I make, but I don't need to be loud. It would feel too small.

My footsteps echo in the empty hallway. There used to be photos in this house. Filling the walls. There also used to be laughter.

The one photo left sits alone on the mantle. I know what it looks like, of course. I wasted many days staring at it.

Yumi is approximately seven. My mother is desperately trying to keep a hold of her, obviously tired but still smiling. Yumi is wearing a large grin, several teeth missing, as she seems to yell and reach toward the photographer.

One of her hands is pushing my mother's face to the side, slightly squishing her smile. My father is holding me, smiling at my mother and Yumi rather than the camera. I look grumpy.

It was taken in winter, so we are all wearing warm clothing. I look adequately cared for, with a knit beanie and fluffy green jumpsuit covering all of me but my face. My father's puffy jacket is an equal green. Yumi's brown sweater matches the one our mother is wearing. Yumi had to be wrestled into that sweater.

It's a lovely, lively photo, full of warmth and happiness. It reflects nothing of what we are now, though. It's almost like looking into a broken mirror.

You know what's supposed to be there, what it's supposed to look like, and it just doesn't. You can tell what it was. You can tell what it did. And it will never be what it was again, even if you fix it.

It's far more complicated than a broken mirror, though. We've lost all but two of the pieces, and one is so dirty and scratched that it's functionally worthless. We don't even have the glue to put those two pieces back together.

I hate the year-old girl in that photo. I hate her dissatisfied frown and barely visible black hair. I hate her chubby, tiny, tightly balled fists. I hate her innocence. I hate her ignorance.

I'm not looking at the photo now, though, so there is nothing immediately in front of me to hate. At least until I reach the mirror. But I already know what I look like. I will just ignore myself, like always.

I wash my face for the third time today. I should apologise to Sera. I should also never speak to Sera again. I should also lie down in the sand and wait for the ocean to claim me.

It's unclear what order I should take those actions in. Logic states that the ocean will take up far more of my time than begging for Sera's forgiveness and exit from my life.

I do not like logic. It is normally against me. I don't really want to talk to Sera right now, either. I don't want to talk to her, full stop. She'll come to me, talk to me, convince me to talk to her. She always does.

Of course, the Reaping is soon. I have several hours to kill. Normally, I'd spend this time with Sera. It would be tense, and there would be something inherently sad about it, but we would have each other. And that would be how we held each other together.

But not today. I won't lose this. I don't lose. It isn't something I do. I don't need Sera. I need her like I need a gaping head wound. I need her like I need the knife in my ceiling. Gods, I hate that knife.

I hated Otto's urgency as she pressed it into Yumi's hands before pressing an equal kiss to her lips. I hated my father's soulless eyes as he dropped a box of Yumi's things on my lap. I hated the message at the bottom of that box.

I hate that message.

I twist the tap violently enough that it must have bruised my hand. What a shame. The tap drips for a moment, then realises it's done with its job and ceases. The ensuing silence is decidedly agitating. It is broken by the sound of the door creaking open.

I will not look in the mirror. I will not acknowledge who is staring back at me, and I especially will not acknowledge who is behind me. I bring my hands behind my head, gathering my hair into one area.

I make sure to keep my eyes closed. I slide my hairband off my wrist and wrap it once, twice, three times around my ponytail until it is tight and stays in its place just behind where my head curves. I drag the towel across my face, mildly hoping it'll miraculously turn into steel wool.

I push past the man with the unshaved face and uncombed hair. I do not speak to him. He has missed his chance. He lays a hand on my shoulder.

The father makes some semblance of an attempt to speak to his daughter. The daughter coldly brushes away her father's hand.

My gait is not hurried, but most would fall behind. I don't know where I'm going. I suppose I'll find out when I get there. More people are around now. Most of them are Peacekeepers.

Preparing for the yearly slaughter, of course. It's a miracle Annie won the last. The poor girl snapped like a twig the minute Moor was beheaded. I don't blame her.

We were... not friends. Never friends. I knew her. It wouldn't be right to say that I know her. But we interacted, and I didn't hate her. She's how I knew him.

I remember how she trembled in the chair she looked too small in when her other friends rushed in to wish her luck and comfort her. He would have loved to, but mentors aren't allowed to.

I don't envy her. Or him. Nothing good came of their victories, aside from the food parcels for District Four. He's off in the Capitol being treated like an object, and Annie is... hopefully still breathing.

Perhaps I should visit her. There was far too much screaming coming from her house in Victor's Village for a woman who lives alone the last time I tried to check on her, though. It's best that I stay away.

Seth is about her age, I believe. They've never once held a conversation, but Seth has a way of speaking without his voice. He is very regular with his visits to her.

He looks almost identical to his sister. Messy blonde curls that spill easily into his eyes and tie themselves into knots around his ears, dulled-gold irises, a constellation of freckles across his nose and cheeks, a solid, strong build. One of their very few physical differences is his facial hair, which isn't much more than some thicker patches of fuzz at the moment.

I'm told he's very handsome by his many fans. I don't see it. He's just a male version of Sera, so feasibly I should be able to see it, but it just doesn't appear to me. Perhaps it's his lack of everything that I find sweet about her. Sera's face in my vision every day for almost two decades could have warped my perception of what "good-looking" is...

Most people assume Seth is mute or deaf or both, but he turns when someone talks to him, and he responds with a mumble or vague noise if I ask him something.

Seth is... strange. He's oddly fascinated by seaweed and the like, wasting all his free time poking at samples of it pulled up of fishing trips. He doesn't feel anything until it's applied tenfold, and even then, it doesn't appear to bother him. He'll just stare at people if they talk to him.

He talks to his friends the most. They adore him. It's understandable, with his inexplicable odd charm. It was easy to assume at first that they were just acting like they liked him because they found it funny.

They're genuine, though. They gather, the five or so of them, without him occasionally. I once walked past them as they were talking, and he was mentioned many times.

They talked about how odd it was that he knew so much about seaweed, but changed it immediately by talking about what he knew and how interesting it was. They discussed if they should bring Seth along to an event, mainly debating if he would enjoy it. One of them mentioned a rock Seth had given him, holding it out and praising it.

I don't consider myself jealous. It made me wonder for a moment if that was how the people who knew me talked about me when I wasn't present. I felt relieved for a moment. I am not one to try to deny facts, however.

I'm not blind. I saw the glares Seth's friends gave me.

One of them was Otto's younger brother, Oswald. She had two, him and a boy named Fayrouz, who's now about thirteen. He hates me now, but I would sometimes see him when Otto came over to talk to Yumi.

I remember her fairly well, although I didn't know her as greatly.

Otto loved green and wore a lot of it. Mainly deep sages, but I'd occasionally see her wearing an almost blindingly lime shirt. She was one of the fishers and had the build to match. Her burnt umber skin was lined with scars, especially her hands, and her whole body rippled when she flexed.

She had distinctly sharp features, much like the Esthel twins. Unlike them, though, her caramel-colour gaze could easily cut diamond. Her face was also more square, drawing attention to her high, ever-bruised cheekbones. She would always wear her black, curling hair in a low ponytail.

Oswald and I talked a little then, while our sisters were busy with their schoolwork and their gossip. He's a nice enough guy. Or, he used to be, anyway. He has a lot of friends. Sera is one of them.

He's very fond of her. She's ushered me out of her house so she can talk to him before. It makes sense. He detests me, and Sera likes him for some reason, so she keeps us separate.

Mechi sometimes brings up how Ozzie being alone with Sera doesn't bother me, but them being alone does. I don't really have anything to address that. I can't really take him seriously, I guess. I know I'll never have to worry about Sera preferring him to me.

He looks just like Otto. His hair is curlier than hers, and he keeps it cut short, but very similar. His eyes used to have her same piercing quality, but now they smoulder when I look at him. He didn't use to try to look like her.

It's for the opposite of the reason I keep my hair long, I'd imagine.

When Yumi died, it was like his older sister had died all over again. But at least there was someone he could rightfully blame. He likes it when we're partnered together in training. Especially when weapons get involved. He never wins, but he doesn't care.

Yumi's swap was considered "a shock" and "a display of friendship." Mine was called "a tragedy" and "unjust" and "stealing."

Otto loved Yumi deeply. And then Yumi was called, and Otto couldn't imagine life without her. So Otto took Yumi's place without a moment's hesitation. Yumi was comforted and consoled, and Otto was mourned as a dead woman.

Yumi cared for me. And then I was called, and Yumi felt that I was her responsibility. So Yumi took my place without a moment's hesitation. I was scowled at and disregarded, and Yumi was mourned as a loss.

It's not unfair, not exactly. Yumi was all kinds of excellent, but Otto was different. Colder, but still as caring. Less patient, but still as willing to listen. She gave solutions when presented with problems.

I remember her voice being smooth and warm. Much like someone else's. I didn't cry at her funeral, either. Rumi Erudite doesn't cry.

There was so something so utterly tragic about Otto.

It doesn't matter, not anymore. She's dead.

Ah. So my destination was the beach. Logical. It's nice this time of year. Victors will often stop here on their tours.

I don't feel anything when I sit down in the sand, just ahead of where the waves lap at my feet. I don't want to get saltwater on these shoes. And I don't like the way the waves move. I don't like the way they're getting closer to me.

Some part of me laughs at that. They're waves. They can't be malicious. They can't be cunning. They can't be evil. They can't... hate...

I shake that away and shuffle further up the beach.

It would be nice if I could feel what I felt three hours or so ago. It would also be nice if I could describe that feeling. It's childish that all I know is that I feel it with Sera, childish that I know nothing of my own emotions.

I wish my appreciation of the sunsets and sunrises wasn't linked to Sera. I wish my best memories didn't involve her. I wish that I didn't feel short of breath when she laughs.

I wish, I wish, I wish...

How childish. How naïve. How old am I, really? That I'm stuck wishing and hoping and whining? I hate that. I hate it all. I hate Sera.

I stare out into the ocean. I normally try to identify the boats on the water, but it's all been put on hold for the Reaping. The ocean surface is empty. It's slightly odd. It's very much non-standard, but it isn't alien.

It's sort of like when the birds all fall silent and leave the skies when a storm is brewing. It's not like it isn't normal. It's just not a good sign.

No boats means a child of District Four dies.

I remember when Sera would come home from storms. If she was caught in one, it'd be because they blew in before they could react. I'd wrap a blanket around her shoulders as she laughed about how she had been thrown overboard and hauled back on more than once.

I've noticed a pattern with Sera. Every time something bad happens to her, she just... starts joking. It's like she can't take it seriously. She refuses to acknowledge her own injuries. I'll usually have to drag her over to Cod. The only time she's taken herself there was when she accidentally cut off part of her ring finger while chopping carrots, and even then, she still tried to deflect it as okay for about thirty seconds. She worries me sometimes.

One night after a storm, Sera didn't laugh. She knocked on my door and waited where she would normally just let herself in. Even when I answered, she just stood in front of the door, dripping wet from the pouring rain with her head hanging. I could barely hear her when she asked to come inside.

I wonder if it's possible to purge memories. The ones after Yumi's death are all blurred. Those aren't gone, though. I want them gone entirely, so I wouldn't even know that I was remembering them strangely.

Alas.

The ocean's calm, at least.

"Rumi." I jump slightly. The newcomer's soft voice surprised me, somehow so much louder than everything else. I glance at the sky instead of her. The light's changed. I have no idea how long I was staring out at the mostly-flat ocean.

I identify her by the stitching at the hem of her shirt as I turn to watch the ocean again.

"Figured I'd find you here," Mechi says vaguely.

"Yes, well..." I respond, equally non-specific.

There is more silence. I assume Mechi is admiring the sea.

"You made her cry, you know," she says after a few minutes.

"Okay." Mechi sighs.

"Showed up on our doorstep," she furthers.

"Okay." Mechi shifts next to me.

"She was bawling her eyes out about how she upset you. She blames herself for every little thing you do, you know."

"That seems like her problem."

"Gods, Rumi, don't you care? You're her best friend," Mechi says, irritated. I finally turn to her so I can glare at her.

She's exactly as she always is. Blank. Mechi does not show her emotions much. It's not deliberate, I don't think.

"Why should I care about what Sera blames herself for? Why should her issues be mine, too? When did I agree to that?" Mechi flexes her hands.

"When you became her friend, that's when," she says, maintaining her composure. I turn away from her. Mechi sighs again. "It's sort of difficult to calm her down when she gets like that, you know." I do know. I've known Sera for longer than she has. I hate it when people act like they know her better than me.

"She loves contact, yeah?" Mechi continues. "Likes having her hair fixed, likes being hugged, likes being held. She loves to have somebody wrap their arms around her." Mechi pauses for a moment. "Affection. From someone she trusts. That's all she really needs."

There's another long pause between the two of us.

"To make her feel safe again. You know how it is."

She's saying all that like she did it. That's all oddly intimate for someone who's just her friend. Mechi's not close to her like I am. I'm the only one who's allowed to do things like that. That's what I do with Sera, not her. That's ours, not hers. And I don't like what she's implying with that snarky little last comment. The sand crunches in my clenched fists.

"You're too cruel to her. You're on a good path to lose her, you realise." She really thinks she knows what she's talking about, doesn't she? "I can tell when she's upset. I can tell when she's scared. I know how she gets when you get angry."

Oh, of course. Because Mechi knows everything, apparently. She acts like this sometimes, like she's the smartest person in all of Panem. She acts like she's so much better than me.

Sera doesn't "get" anything when I'm angry. She knows it's not really her fault. It's not even directed at her most of the time. I always apologise to her afterwards, too. I hate to see her upset. Which I recognise better than Mechi.

Mechi doesn't have any right to assume things about me and Sera. She knows far less than I do. And she's making me angry. I bet she's doing it on purpose so she can lie some more and say that I'm always like this. Fine then. If she wants me to be angry, I'll get angry.

"Really?!" I snap at her. She doesn't flinch. "You really have the audacity to say that?! I've known Sera for fifteen years! You've known her for - for not even a third of that! Do you think you're even remotely capable of knowing her like I do?! Do you really think that you - "

"She says you scare her sometimes," Mechi says levelly, cutting me off. "She says you aren't really yourself."

I don't scare Sera. We're friends. She's not scared of me. She knows me. Maybe... maybe once, years ago, I did scare her, but we talked about that! And besides, she'd tell me if she was afraid of me. She wouldn't tell Mechi instead. She wouldn't hide her feelings from me. She wouldn't betray me like that.

I know Mechi's lying. She's doing it to make me angry. Sera would never betray me. Sera would never say that I'm not myself. She knows me. She knows who I am. She's the only one who does.

Mechi is a liar.

"You've got an excellent tactic right now, actually," she says, still daring to speak. "You're absolutely awful to her, then you tell her you care about her and act so sweet about it." How dare she. How dare she. I'm not. I'm not anything she says I am. I'm nothing she says I am. She's everything she says I am, if anything! She's the -

"What, are you just going to sit there and get redder?" Mechi prods. She's waiting for me to come to any kind of a conclusion on my own. I have a conclusion for her. I have so many conclusions for her, and right now, a lot of them end in her blood decorating the sand.

"You don't know anything about us!" I shout, going in the least violent direction. "I care about Sera! More than you ever could! And I -"

"You're doing such a great job manipulating Sera, Rumi."

She's so pretentious. She's so smug. She's so proud of herself. She thinks she knows me. She thinks she knows Sera. Sera is my friend, not hers. Sera spends the most time with me. Sera is mine.

She's mine, all mine. Mechi should give in. She's mine. She's not Mechi's, she's not Tyra's, she's not any of those stupid boys', she's definitely not Ozzie's. She's mine.

"That's why she's afraid," Mechi says, so quietly. I must have said all that out loud. I don't care. It's true. She knows it's true. And she knows she's lying.

Something breaks. Some restraint I was keeping, it's gone. She thinks she can say all that. All that without consequence. She thinks that because she's just oh so important, she can do whatever she wants.

I wasn't raised to take disrespect like that. I wasn't trained to tolerate attitude like hers. And I won't.

I strike her, hard. It knocks her over, and she cries out. I stand. She rubs the side of her face. She looks up at me. Where have I seen that expression before..?

I don't care. I don't care.

"Stand up," I snarl. She's afraid. She's cowering at my feet. She didn't expect to be hit.

Something tugs at me, at the back of my mind. I ignore it. I demand that Mechi stands up again. This time, she obeys. I hit her again. It doesn't... do as much this time.

I hit her with just as much force. I think.

I punch out at her again, but she brings her guard up and blocks it. I am abruptly reminded that Mechi has had nearly identical training to me. She sends a violent blow into my cheekbone, causing me to tear up.

I punch her in the teeth on my rebound. Her hand instinctively flies to her mouth. I take my opportunity and kick her knee, knocking her down.

I bring my own knee violently into her face.

It doesn't occur. So I bring my own knee violently into her face.

Don't I? She's at the perfect angle for it. It would probably break her nose. So I bring my own knee violently into her face.

But I don't. I stand. Useless. Mechi looks up at me. She swipes the back of her hand across her mouth, stepping up and away from me. Her face softens.

"I can tell you aren't trying," she says quietly. She doesn't even have a lisp. "You don't really want to hurt me. You're just angry."

"Shut up," I hiss. There's a good, cold fury in my voice. Mechi's expression is one of pity.

"You only did that because you hate that what I said was true."

How many times do I have to tell her? How many times do I need to bruise her? How many times do I need to split her lip?

She is a liar. I love Sera. I don't hurt her. I hate hurting her. I don't mean to. I mean it every time, and I regret it so much more every time. Something in me always whispers that she deserves it. Something in me is wrong. Some part of me is broken.

I must be doing something stupid with my face.

"You need to go talk to her. She loves you, Rumi. And you keep on breaking her heart," Mechi says, her voice weak and wavering. I mishear what she says next. I must've.

Because otherwise, Mechi just said that Sera is going to die.

Mechi wipes one of her eyes.

"I tried to talk her out of it. She said she didn't have a choice." Something icy spreads in my chest.

"She's rigged the Reaping, Rumi. For you. It's going to be her. I don't know why. She could have done anything else." Mechi is lying. Again. She must be lying. She must be. The ice creeps up my spine.

"Does she have a death wish?" I demand, although it's more desperate and pathetic and on the verge of tears than actually demanding. Mechi laughs, cold and hollow.

"Same thing I asked her," she mutters. "She didn't tell me. She just gave me this sad smile." I grab her, seizing her by the collar. The ice reaches my arms. I will not let go of her until she tells me the truth. Mechi reaches up to try to free herself, her hands landing on my wrists.

"I don't believe you," I hiss, more strangled than I would have liked it to be. It's true. I don't believe her. I won't believe her. I don't want to. Mechi shakes her head.

"It's what she told me, Rumi," she says, voice low.

My veins freeze over.

"It's my fault that she knew," Mechi says, shame colouring her face. "I overheard a guy we know, I forgot his name, bribing Papa to rig it to be you." Mechi squeezes my arms tighter.

"He accepted. Because he's shameless," she mutters angrily. "So I told Sera, because what else was I supposed to do? Let her watch you die?" she spits. Her words boil with anger and resentment.

"She got him to make it all her name," she says, some of the hate leaving her voice to make room for defeat. "He wouldn't listen to me when I asked him to just drop the whole thing."

Tears drip down her face as her posture weakens.

"He hates the Kaishurrs. He was basically being paid to kill one of them," she says. "I don't know what she's planning to stop you from volunteering, but Sera's smart. She's going to be in the Games." I release her, staggering back. I am cold. I am unnaturally cold, on this nice, warm morning.

The ocean laughs at me.

The ice does not release its horrible grip as my body starts to move. Mechi moves out of the way as the beach rushes past, the sand giving way to earth and the earth giving way to concrete.

My chest tightens. I can't breathe.

My feet carry me forward. I can't see. All I can hear is my heart hammering in my ears. And Mechi's awful words, echoing over and over again.

She's going to die. She's going to die. She's going to die. She's going to die, and it's my fault.

I can't go fast enough. My top speed is not fast enough. I am not strong enough. I can't save her. We're both going to drown.

Blood is spreading through the water like a grim plume. Rain is cutting into us like knives. I can't save her. I can't save her. I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't. I can'tIcan't. Ican'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan't.

WhyisnobodyherewhyisnobodyhelpinguswhyisshenotbreathingwhyamIuselesswhyamIworthlesswhycan'tIsaveherwhywhywhywhywhypleasepleasepleaseI'msorryI'msosorrypleaseopenyoureyespleaseplease -

A scream tears at my throat, but it comes out as a stream of bubbles, and comes back in as suffocating, surrounding water. Every desperate, sprinted step hurts. Everything hurts. My clothes feel heavy. Seawater burns my eyes and nose.

We will drown. We will drown, and it is my fault. She hadn't insisted. I had a choice. We will die. I am drowning. I am drowning. I am drowning.

I can't breathe. I can hear the ocean. Crashing waves. Dragging me down with no remorse. No mercy. No care.

Water roars in my ears. It hates me. It's always hated me. It let me feel safe for a long time, so I'd let my guard down. So it could kill me. It's docile when I see it, when the sun shines.

It shows me its true nature when it storms. It shouts at me, comes for me, hungers for me.

I fear it. Not when I am not alone. It doesn't dare touch me when I am not alone. But I know how cruel it truly is. It hates.

It consumes me. It swallows me whole and does not notice. It does not care what it is doing to me. It does not care how it seeps the life from me.

I can't move fast enough.

She comes into focus. Her face. Her head. Her mouth. The blood around her. The blood on the docks.

She turns to face me. I see her eyes widen. Through my pain and my rain and my desperation, I see her.

My arms come around her body. We fall to the ground. The solid, dry ground. I fall into blood-spoiled blonde curls and the forever poisoned scent of petrichor and saltwater and rotting wood and blood and exposed bone and desperate screaming and tear stained cheeks and regret and pain and lasting injuries and warm nights and happy embraces and death and love and loss.

I'm sorry, I tell her. I'm so sorry.

[yujikuna]

i am fighting for my life as a jjk fan and i swear to god if i see ONE MORE domain expansion in this fight i will really truly lose my mind. grow up and just punch each other to death with your fists im so tired.

[eijiroukiriot]

if there's one thing i know it's that this kid would want you to vote for kirishima eijirou in my hero academia's World Best Hero official worldwide popularity poll. and i know that because really not a lot has changed i still want you to do that now. in fact you can do it once a day. let's rep our boy!!

comic retelling of this weird thing that happened to me yesterday. i’ve definitely had better moments

[not-mary-sue]

Alright, to ao3's soon to be arriving Wattpad Refugees, a basic guide to general user culture:

1.) Unlike Wattpads vote system that let's you like each chapter, the ao3 equivalent kudos only allows one per work. Everyone is generally quietly annoyed about this. To engage with each chapter, you're heavily encouraged to comment. Trust me, it makes people's day.

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4.) Speaking of warnings, ao3 has very few restrictions on the type of work that's allowed. Whatever your personal thoughts or feelings on that are, thats how the site is. You're likely to run across some dark subject matters and a lot of people are uncomfortable with reading that. You're well within your rights not like these works and have your opinion on whether they should be allowed, but harassing the authors of such works (or any works) is more likely to come back on you than them. Ao3 operates on a strong policy of 'don't like, don't read'. Use the tagging system to your full advantage to only engage with the kind of works you want to see.

We look forward to welcoming you all and seeing the fantastic works you create. Happy writing!

[gachaparadise]

finishing up the Loufu story chapter and it's making me feel insane (positive)

[azelletown]

im so glad this series got big and now i finally get to read it but also this is going to destroy me by the end of it huh

chapter 38 absolutely fucked me up, this shit is just real, i've been in situations and arguments exactly like this (minus the dragon sister and all) where i've lost what i thought were friendships because i had finally failed one too many social awareness checks

especially these panels had me pause and take a second

like, laios' point of view of their friendship was so nice and sureau, instead of being honest, bottled it up because he applied his assumptions of social awareness onto laios who then couldn't have ever known something was wrong

harmless examples of things i used to do and can talk about here: in middle school i would tap my fingers onto my desk to the rhythm of whatever song was in my head, and at the end of the 4 entire years we spent together, one of my friends lashes out at me about how i'm annoying everyone with it, and then more of my friends and other classmates would start telling me and scolding me about that and all the other habits i had that were annoying them as if those were things i were doing to purposefully piss people off. i even had a teacher yell at me seemingly out of nowhere because i'd lay head on my desk in her class and she apparently always took it as me being rude and "falling asleep" ??? in highschool i mispronounced a guy's name for 2 years until he called me a dick for it even though he never told me how to pronounce it correctly!!!!! i would also stare a lot, all the time, but again people only told me after so much time had passed that they just got mad at me

it got so bad that i started to minmax most of my social interactions, and i still do it with most of my IRLs to this day

i was literally hit with the Laios to Kabru Pipeline

Anyways this manga is peak, the show is also peak, go read/watch the neurodivergent dnd lesbian cooking show, i feel like im going to have a LOT to say about kabru in the future chapters

[orcelito]

a solid month and a half in trigun fandom & i already have over half as many trigun followers as p5 followers from my 2+ years in That fandom lmfao

[jirsungs]

NO IDEA ☆ l.dh

pairing: loser!donghyuck x fem!reader

no idea synopsis: a story where both you and lee donghyuck seem to get what you want. he's the perfect pawn in making your ex-boyfriend jealous and the smarty pants tutor helping you pass your math class. donghyuck has it easy too, he's finally able to seek out and experience the world of dating through you, his long-devoted crush and surprisingly enthusiastic tutoring student. but then again, when meaningless tutoring sessions soon evolve into reciprocated feelings, is it really that easy?

genre: college au, nonidol au, fake dating au, social media au (includes written chapters), classmates to friends to lovers, he's a nerd & she's a popular cheerleader (you see where this is going), he fell first but she fell harder trope, kinda based off to all the boys i've loved before, fluff, crack/humor, angst, one-sided pining that turns into mutual pining

warnings: explicit language, unrealistic college partying, talks about family issues (this does NOT reflect any of the idol's families!), yuqi has an ex gf, some alcohol consumption, kys and sexual humor, bullying, hyuck and his buds are mistreated ☹️, hyunjin is a bad bf!!!, cheesy af, unrequited love, bad insults that sound like they're from the 2000s, HELLA miscommunication

no idea playlist: btr's no idea, taylor swift's you belong with me, the vamps + demi lovato's somebody to you, james arthur's can i be him, ariana grande's daydreamin, fitz & the tantrums' out of my league, shawn mendes' treat you better, bruno mars' just the way you are, lonely god's marlboro nights, the 1975's i'm in love with you, sam smith's like i can, arctic monkeys' wanna be yours

author's note: FIRST HYUCK SMAUU! how we feeling 😏 i needed to get this idea out of my system! plus, i love this type of trope, and haechan just fits the nerdy role 😭 I HAD TO! but happy reading :D <3

comment if you wish to be tagged for the story's updates!

profiles: "ncu freaks" + jeno 🤔 | gal pals & two men

intro. #manifestationiskey 🩷

ep 1. but a FAILING?

ep 2. i guess i'm her tutor

ep 3. WHY IS HE ATTRACTIVE

ep 4. COUGH y/n bag him COUGH

ep 5. i know i can treat youuu bettterr

ep 6. YNHYUCK PLOT IS FINALLY SAILING!

ep 7. bro texts with his 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 𝓪𝓵𝓹𝓱𝓪 mode on 🐺👅

ep 8. bro fumbled HARD 🤦‍♂️

ep 9. LET THE BOY LIVE!! HES IN LOVE!!

ep 10. THE HARD LAUNCH GOES CRAZY

ep 11. lemme guess, fake boyfriend responsibilities? (written)

ep 12. jeno got me up... plotting

ep 13. AMAZING fake boyfriend

ep 14.

ep 15.

ep 16.

ep 17.

ep 18.

more to come. . .!

started: 09/06/24 finished:

© JIRSUNGS. ANY TRANSLATIONS/REPOSTS/PUBLISHES OF MY WORKS ON ANY PLATFORM ARE STRICTLY PROHIBITED! ALL COMMENTS, REBLOGS, LIKES, & FEEDBACK ARE GREATLY APPRECIATED! THANK YOU SO MUCH! I LOVE YOU, MWA! <3

[pshbites]

LOVE ON AiR

SYNOPSiS » two podcast groups, both equally popular on the internet, start interacting with one another. however it isnt how fans want it to be.. OR yn sees sunghoon hating on lauryn hill and accidentally starts an entire fanwar with him.

PAiRiNG » sunghoon x fem!reader

FEAUTRiNG » all of enha, giselle of aespa, txt briefly mentioned

GENRE » smau (social media au), fluff, angst, enemies to lovers (barely), chronically online humor, romance, podcast au, influencer au, HEAVILY inspired from suburb talks and under the influence podcasts, SLOWBURNN

WARNiNGS » profanity, suggestive humor, kys/kms jokes, lots of pop culture references (im chronically online im sorry), drinking, drugs, fanwars, yn haters (BOOOOO), stalking (sorta?) manipulation (NOT FROM SUNGHOON OR Y/N) changes every chapter.

STATUS » completed — (08/03/24) to (10/26/24)

PLAYLiST » your eyes only - enha, after midnight - chappell roan, ex factor - lauryn hill, kiss me - dpr live, read your mind - sabrina carpenter, 3005 - childish gambino, poison poison - renee rapp, thirst - dpr live, just a little bit - enha, daisy - wave to earth, nouvelle vague - wave to earth, thinkin about you - frank ocean. (got carried away .. 😁)

AUTHORS NOTE » BIGGG thanks to my bestest friend ever, my fav british person, @lqfiles , ily so so much and thank you so much for helping me with this process. teaching me how to work tumblr like i was a grandma even tho im only 2 years older than u and making this AMAZING cover (isnt she talented), i love u sooo much more than words can describe, you annoying brit (endearing) 🫶

TAGLIST CLOSED!

written chaps in blue

🔴 RECORDING..

teaser (read first for context!!)

profiles i & profiles ii

1) call my phone a vibrator the way it keeps buzzing

2) YAP CENTRAL EP.135: alpha male podcasts?!

3) first hate thread. feeling nervous

4) pussy slay queen!

5) okay alpha

6) ROUND TABLE EP.149: perfect pitch :o

7) 1 down 3 to go

8) what the fuck is a ynhoon

9) YNXOXO VLOG: night out w/ won and riki

10) wet and bothered

11) just a normal tuesday

12) jungwons evil arc

13) YNXOXO VLOG: cafe date with my girls <3

14) the battle of thirst traps

15) twitch streaming era

16) YAP CENTRAL EP.136: did social media ruin relationships?

17) second interaction: kinda scared

18) fuck skater boys

19) park sunghoon v. round table

20) riki emo era: OVER

21) sunghoons side hoes

22) ROUND TABLE EP.150: we traded phones?!

23) bro define: friend

24) spidey sense

25) on my cellular plan i pay for?

26) YNXOXO VLOG: night time routine + surprise!!

27) a face i would kiss

28) collab of the century

29) YAP CENTRAL EP.137: has love lost its meaning?

30) eyes don’t lie

31) operation: ynhoon (postponed)

32) crybaby

33) operation: ynhoon (BACK ON)

34) chat is this a date yes or no?

35) boss baby jay

36) boyfriend

37) soft or hard?

38) what da heck *tyla voice*

39) YNXOXO VLOG: ice skating! | vlog w/ a special guest!!

40) love is on air

UNCUTS

1) operation: get riki ip banned on twt

2) try not to blow up challenge: FAILED

3) JAYS KITCHEN: my friends trying to help me make food blindfolded. (spoiler: it’s a fail)

4) YNXOXO VLOG: my boyfriend does my makeup voiceover !

5) YAP CENTRAL BLOOPERS: riki kat and yn patreon ad

© all rights to pshbites 2024

[jonnywaistcoat]

What’s your opinion on the contrast between “silly” and “serious” spaces? Do you think people can have very serious interpretations about a genuine piece of media and also be goofy about it? I’m asking this particularly because I’ve seen people in the Magnus podcast fandoms fight about people “misinterpreting” characters you, Alex, and the many other authors have written. Are you okay with the blorbofication or do you really wish the media you’ve written would be “taken seriously” 100% of the time?

And follow up question, what do you think about the whole “it’s up to the reader (or in some cases, listener) to make their own conclusions and interpretations and that does not make them wrong”, versus the “it was written this way because the author intended it this way, and we should respect that” argument?

This is a question I've given a lot of thought over the years, to the point where I don't know how much I can respond without it becoming a literal essay. But I'll try.

My main principle for this stuff boils roughly down to: "The only incorrect way to respond to art is to try and police the responses of others." Art is an intensely subjective, personal thing, and I think a lot of online spaces that engage with media are somewhat antithetical to what is, to me, a key part of it, which is sitting alone with your response to a story, a character, a scene or an image and allowing yourself to explore it's effect on you. To feel your feelings and think about them in relation to the text.

Now, this is not to say that jokes and goofiness about a piece of art aren't fucking great. I love to watch The Thing and drink in the vibes or arctic desolation and paranoia, or think about the picture it paints of masculinity as a sublimely lonely thing where the most terrible threat is that of an imposed, alien intimacy. And that actually makes me laugh even more the jokey shitpost "Do you think the guys in The Thing ever explored each other's bodies? Yeah but watch out". Silly and serious don't have to be in opposition, and I often find the best jokes about a piece of media come from those who have really engaged with it.

And in terms of interpreting characters? Interpreting and responding to fictional characters is one of the key functions of stories. They're not real people, there is no objective truth to who they are or what they do or why they do it. They are artificial constructs and the life they are given is given by you, the reader/listener/viewer, etc. Your interpetation of them can't be wrong, because your interpretation of them is all that there is, they have no existence outside of that.

And obviously your interpretation will be different to other people's, because your brain, your life, your associations - the building blocks from which the voices you hear on a podcast become realised people in your mind - are entirely your own. Thus you cannot say anyone else's is wrong. You can say "That's not how it came across to me" or "I have a very different reading of that character", but that's it. I suppose if someone is fundamentally missing something (like saying "x character would never use violence" when x character strangles a man to death in chapter 4) you could say "I think that's a significant misreading of the text", but that's only to be reserved for if you have the evidence to back it up and are feeling really savage.

I think this is one of the things that saddens me a bit about some aspects of fandom culture - it has a tendency to police or standardise responses or interpretations, turning them from personal experiences to be explored into public takes to be argued over. It also has the occasional moralistic strain, and if there's one thing I wish I could carve in stone on every fan space it's that Your Responses to a Piece of Art Carry No Intrinsic Moral Weight.

As for authorial intention, that's a simpler one: who gives a shit? Even the author doesn't know their own intentions half the time. There is intentionality there, of course, but often it's a chaotic and shifting mix of theme and story and character which rarely sticks in the mind in the exact form it had during writing. If you ask me what my intention was in a scene from five years ago, I'll give you an answer, but it will be my own current interpretation of a half-remembered thing, altered and warped by my own changing relationship to the work and five years of consideration and change within myself. Or I might not remember at all and just have a guess. And I'm a best case scenario because I'm still alive. Thinking about a writers possible or stated intentions is interesting and can often lead to some compelling discussion or examination, but to try and hold it up as any sort of "truth" is, to my mind, deeply misguided.

Authorial statements can provide interesting context to a work, or suggest possible readings, but they have no actual transformative effect on the text. If an author says of a book that they always imagined y character being black, despite it never being mentioned in the text, that's interesting - what happens if we read that character as black? How does it change our responses to the that character actions and position? How does it affect the wider themes and story? It doesn't, however, actually make y character black because in the text itself their race remains nonspecific. The author lost the ability to make that change the moment it was published. It's not solely theirs anymore.

So yeah, that was a fuckin essay. In conclusion, serious and silly are both good, but serious does not mean yelling at other people about "misinterpretations", it means sitting with your personal explorations of a piece of art. All interpretations are valid unless they've legitimately missed a major part of the text (and even then they're still valid interpretations of whatever incomplete or odd version of the text exists inside that person's brain). Authorial intent is interesting to think about but ultimately unknowable, untrustworthy and certainly not a source of truth. Phew.

Oh, and blorbofication is fine, though it does to my mind sometimes pair with a certain shallowness to one's exploration of the work in question.