#reading this biography is bringing A LOT to the surface

[flowerxbunnie]

can you pls pls write about shy reader she and chris are a recent couple and one day he founds out that she likes dirty talk and tries that with her

Dirty Secret

Chris x Fem reader

Warnings: SMUTTYYY smut, lots of dirty talk, degradation/praise

DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE NOT OKAY WITH SMUT OR ARE A MINOR!

Tags: @lustfulslxt

Chris’s POV

I can’t wipe the dumb smile off my face as I peek at Y/n’s nightstand, multiple tubes of chapstick covering the surface along with notebooks, pens, scrunchies, and lots of half empty water bottles. Her personality shows in her room so clearly, methodic but carefree.

These past four months have made me nothing but happy. We’ve done a good job at keeping our relationship out of the public eye after agreeing she didn’t want to handle any kickback from my fans yet. I hate that I can’t show her off, but it’s for the best, at least at this point.

I roam around her room with no ultimate goal, just waiting for her to get back from her nail appointment and I got bored. I scan her makeup table, brushes and random products strewn about as evidence that she’d been here hours before. Her jackets and hats hang on a hook behind her door and I run my fingers across the different fabrics, moving closer to inhale the vanilla scent that floods my mind with images of her. Fairly lights twinkle above her bed, something I’ve definitely taken notice of during all our nights tangled in her sheets.

I move to her bookshelf and look at all the spines of her books, some neatly lined up and some thrown haphazardly into piles. There’s collectible figures of the things she likes, crystals, and random little trinkets littering the shelves. I can’t help but reach out and touch the book that’s lying on the shelf at my eye level, running my fingers along all the multicolored sticky notes she’s placed into her favorite pages.

I guess it was a little too close to the edge, because even my light touch caused it to topple over and fall open, landing face down on the carpet below. I breathe out a curse and lean down to pick it up and put it exactly how I found it. I don’t want Y/n to think I’ve been snooping, because I haven’t. I’m just admiring all the little things that make her room feel like home to her.

I close the book and bring it back up to the shelf, turning it around to glance at the cover. Priest by Sierra Simone. I know a lot about Y/n already, but I didn’t know she was into religion. Sounds like a biography from the summary on the back. Something about a priest breaking their vow of celibacy and needing to confess. My interest is growing, I didn’t think she would enjoy this kind of book, maybe I should take a peek?

I pick the first sticky note my fingers brush across, knowing Y/n highlighted it for a reason. An audible gasp falls out of my mouth as a skim across the words on the page.

“Stay the fuck still, or I’m going to come before I want to, and if that happens, then I will take you over my knee and spank your ass until you learn how to listen.”

“What the fuck?” I question out loud.

I flip through multiple pages, each sticky note highlighting incredibly filthy words. It’s a fucking sex book. My cheeks burn at the thought of her reading these while she’s alone in her room, wondering what she looks like as she’s turning the pages and writhing with anticipation. I grab onto a pink sticky note and pull on it, flipping it to the page and reading what she had highlighted.

“But I won’t lie. It makes me hard as fuck knowing that I was the first man to taste you.”

This sticky note has her own handwriting smeared across it. I squint to make out the words.

If Chris would have said that to me…

Ouch, I think?

I’m not a vanilla guy by any means, but I’m not the weird fuck from 50 Shades of Grey either. I think our sex life is great, it’s more than enough to keep me satisfied. We’ve made love in the car, fucked while she was bent over her dining room table, stolen kisses in restaurant bathrooms after we snuck away from our friends. It’s all been so exciting to me, and even better because it’s with her.

I continue flying through the pages, my eyes widening at every line she made a point to come back to. This dude talks so much while he’s fucking this chick.

“No, don’t touch yourself, sweetheart. We’re going to get there together.”

Remind Chris to be more vocal!

It all clicks in my bird brain. I’m a fucking idiot. She’s highlighted almost all dialogue. She wants me to talk more during sex. I’ll admit, I’m not the best at speaking my mind while she’s bouncing on me or sprawled out below me. But why hasn’t she told me yet? I hope she hasn’t been disappointed with how things have been going.

I put the book back and angle it as best as I can remember, moving to lay down on top of her comforter. I stretch my back out and throw my arms behind my head, thinking about what I’m going to do when she gets home.

Y/n’s POV

I take my keys out of the door and lock it behind me, smiling as I see Chris’s sneakers sitting on the shoe rack in my entryway. My nails took way longer than I expected and I’m just so excited to be able to waste the rest of my day away with him. I make my way down the hall after placing my shoes next to his and creep into my bedroom, sprinting and jumping to lay beside Chris who’s stretched across my bed.

“Hiiii baby, I missed youuu!” I singsong before pressing a kiss against his stubbly cheek.

“Mmm, missed you more.” he mumbles into my neck as he turns and molds his body into mine.

His arms encircle me and the smell of his cologne floods my senses, washing a wave of comfort over me. I could lay like this forever.

“Let’s see the nails,” he says as he breaks away from me, suddenly sitting up and grabbing my hands.

I sit up beside him and watch as his large hands hold my own, moving my fingers around and watching the duo chrome polish shift colors in the light. His smile spreads from ear to ear as he takes notice of the “C” I asked the nail tech to paint onto my ring finger.

“Aren’t they so cute??” I squeal, so ecstatic at the way they turned out.

“So cute,” he coos, bringing them to his lips to place a tender kiss on each finger. “I think they’d look even cuter wrapped around my cock.” He says in a low growl as he brings my hand down to his lap, shoving my palm onto the fabric of his sweatpants.

I feel his erection through the layers of clothing, rock hard and throbbing. I can’t help but gasp at his words, I’ve never heard him speak like this before. I watch as his pupils dilate, the black overtaking the blue of his iris as he flickers his eyes to my lips.

“Nothing to say, sweetheart?” He asks almost in a belittling tone.

“N-no I just.. I’ve never heard you say something like that,” I squeak out as he pushes my hand down with more force.

“What, you don’t like it?” He says with a smirk.

“I don’t know.. I th-think so..” I stammer.

“When were you gonna tell me, hm? Such an innocent girl reading such filthy books. Does it turn you on?” His hand leaves mine against his hard on and comes up to caress my cheek.

“Huh, what are you talking about?” I spit out at him, my cheeks igniting red with visible embarrassment.

Has he snooped through my room?

“I saw it all, baby. And it’s okay. It’s okay if you need me to tell you how dirty of a girl you are, or how good you make me feel. You have to let me know these things..” he trails off as his thumb brushes against my lip, smearing my peppermint chapstick onto the corner of my mouth.

“I-I’m sorry, Chris. I don’t… I didn’t know how to bring it up. I didn’t want you to think I was weird.” I look down, intimidated by his cold gaze, and he tilts my head back up, his eyes serious.

“It’s not weird. Do you touch yourself to those books baby? Reading about a man talking to a woman like that.. does it make you feel good?” He whispers the last sentence and his free hand finds my inner thigh, caressing and warming my skin.

I nod sheepishly, afraid to speak my thoughts out loud to Chris.

“Use your words. Do you ever imagine it’s me saying those things?”

“Y-yes… every single time.” I say as I release a breath.

He groans and pushes my hair behind my ear, inching closer to me and ghosting his lips over my ear. “Such a naughty girl.”

Shivers fall down my spine as he places a kiss onto the sensitive skin between my ear and jaw, his lips lingering and sucking lightly. He slides the hand on my cheek to the back of my neck, lacing his fingers into my hair and pulling down, my neck exposed to him.

“Look at the way your body reacts to me.” He whispers, placing a finger onto my jugular, and I feel it pulsing mercilessly beneath his touch.

He moves his hand to grip around my throat, his thumb and fingers pressed firmly against both pulse points of my neck. My head begins to tingle, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. His lips pepper wet kisses along my jaw, every one of them seeping into my skin and heightened from the constricted blood flow.

“You like that, my hand around your throat? I could squeeze as hard as I want.” he says before constricting his grip.

My core begins to throb hearing his inner thoughts spill from his mouth. My field of vision starts to shrink, a black vignette closing in.

“I’d never hurt you like that, sweetheart. But don’t you like the risk?” He suddenly releases his hold on my throat and all my blood rushes back up into my head. I’m dizzy and completely aroused for him.

I nod furiously before his lips crash against mine, low growls seeping out of his throat and being released into my mouth. He bites and tugs at my bottom lip before pulling away and licking a hot stripe up my chin and back up to my mouth. His lips meet mine again, his mouth open and begging for my tongue. I push it into his mouth only to be dominated, not standing a chance as his hunger grows.

Chris’s hands latch onto my hips, lifting me off the mattress and into his lap, his erection poking at my core. He breaks the kiss and grabs the hem of my shirt, sliding his hands up along with the fabric. I help him get it off, discarding it somewhere in my room. His eyes burn holes into my chest, examining the bralette covering the skin. He grabs the bottom and slides it up, my breasts bouncing as they fall out in front of him. He pushes the excess fabric up to rest on the plate of my chest.

“Fuck, Y/n. If I died with my face in your tits I’d be happy.”

He begins ravaging my breasts, nipping and licking and leaving red and purple marks across the skin. He sucks my nipples while looking so deep into my eyes I start to think he can see the back of my skull. The line of pain and pleasure is completely blurred when he takes one of my swollen nipples between his teeth and tugs on it.

“F-fuck, Chris..” I cry out, bucking my hips instinctively and pressing down onto his throbbing dick.

He lets out a deep moan, gripping my waist and prompting me to stop my movements. “You’re gonna make me cum if you keep doing that. I’m so fucking hard it hurts.”

I let out a little grin and begin to rock back and forth again, his head falling against the headboard with his eyes squeezed shut. His cock rubs against my clit through the multiple layers of clothing, but the pressure and friction still causes both of us to pant and moan in unison. He brings his head back up and grips my hips tighter this time, my body unable to move.

“Such a dirty girl. Can’t listen to simple instructions.”

He removes his shirt, a layer of sweat starting to form on his skin, then brings my bra over my head, not bothering with the clasp. He throws it across the room and then lifts my legs to remove my shorts before lifting me up and sliding his sweatpants off, all of which meet the same fate as the rest of the discarded clothes. He presses a hand against my chest, my back hitting the bed as he pushes me down. He comes to hover over me, his eyes dark and half lidded. His knee is pressed inbetween my thighs touching my core with a teasing amount of pressure.

“You’ve already made such a mess, baby..” he says with false concern, referring to the wetness that has seeped through my panties and is touching his skin.

“I’m s-sorry..” I whine, fighting the urge to grind against his knee.

“Don’t apologize, sweet girl. I’ll help you out.”

Chris trails kisses down my chest and stomach, randomly sucking marks into my skin on the way down. He circles his tongue around my navel before licking across it, a trace amount of his warm saliva dripping in. He traces his tongue along the lace hem of my panties, his breath burning against my skin as he grips it with his teeth.

“Please, Chris..” I whine and push him closer to the place I need him most.

His eyes show his grin as he dips his face down, flattening his tongue across the fabric covering my core. He licks and sucks at it, humming and closing his eyes as he spreads my legs apart.

“So sweet,” He whispers as he flicks his tongue up and down.

He hooks his fingers into the band of my panties and pulls, his mouth only disconnecting for a brief second to slide them down my legs before his tongue finally connects with my bare pussy. I arch my back off the bed and cry out as his tongue works against my heat. I’m a mess under him- gripping the sheets, tugging on his brown waves, grabbing my own breasts, doing whatever I can to release some of the tension building up in my body.

“You like the way my tongue feels on you, princess?” He asks in a raspy voice as he wipes his wet mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yes.. fuck please keep going..” I pant, not wanting to lose momentum as my climax has started inching its way to the top.

“How about you do what you need? Use my face and get yourself off.”

He leans back down and presses his tongue against me, holding still as he keeps eye contact. I start circling my hips, feeling the way his tongue remains in place as I grind against it. I grip onto his face and pull it closer, moving my hips down so his nose rubs my clit and his tongue rubs up and down my folds. I buck up and down in complete control and he hums against me to the point I feel like my intestines are vibrating. I speed up and increase the pressure as my stomach begins to ache with a familiar feeling.

I nearly scream, tensing up as my body burns through my climax. He remains still just letting me use him as I ride through it and come down, my grip on his hair relaxing and my body falling slack on the bed.

“Taste yourself baby. Let me show you what you did, all for me.” He whispers against my lips after he climbs to hover over me.

I’m still trying to catch my breath as his lips collide onto mine. I taste my own juices on his tongue, sweet and tangy. He presses his hips down onto my stomach and reminds me of his need, humping forward a few times and moaning into my mouth.

“Now are you gonna bend over or just sit there and look pretty?” He growls as he swiftly stands up and pulls his boxers down.

His pink tip is swollen and leaking precum. His grips his hand around his base and squeezes until his knuckles turn white, his head falling back out of pleasure or maybe the throbbing pain, there’s no way to tell. His eyes lock onto mine and he starts pumping up and down on his dick, sucking in a sharp breath.

“I asked you a question, sweetheart.”

I pull myself to my feet as quick as I can and limp to the end of the bed, my legs like jelly after tensing up so hard.

“That’s cute. Can’t wait to carry you to the shower after this one.” he smirks and licks his lips.

My breath hitches as I turn around and bend over the footboard of the bed. His hands run up and down my ass, jiggling it before giving me a light smack with both hands. I gasp, jumping forward and my ribs hit the wood I’m bent over.

“So fucking hot, can’t believe this is all mine,” he coos, running his fingers down my folds before wiping my juices onto my lower back.

I feel his head against my clit, slick with warm precum. He soaks himself in my juices as he swipes it across my entrance, barely dipping in as he grips my hip with one hand.

“Chris.. oh my god. P-please just fuck me.” I whine, my legs already shaking and twitching.

“Mmm I plan on it, baby.” he whispers before slowly pushing forward.

He slowly gives me inch by delicious inch, my walls stretching around his thickness as we moan out together. He starts slow and stays deep inside me, barely pumping in and out. He runs his hands up and down my spine as he rocks into me, his breathing slow and controlled. My pussy clenches around him as his tip brushes repeatedly over a sensitive spot.

“P-please Chris go faster,” I draw out in a moan.

He listens. His thrusts become rough and rapid, my ribs slamming against the wood with each stroke but my brain seems to tune it out. He keeps his grip on my waist with one hand and reaches around to my face with the other, shoving two fingers in my mouth. I suck on them hard, swirling and lapping my tongue around them.

“Such a fucking slut, so willing to have all your holes filled, aren’t you?” He pants as he hooks his fingers onto the corner of my mouth and pulls back.

“Nhgnh.. fuck..” is all I can manage through his manipulation of my mouth.

“What? Am I fucking you dumb? Can’t even get your words out.”

I moan in response and feel my pussy throbbing around him, my lower abdomen on fire as I climb to my next release.

“S-so close..” I mumble as drool drips down my chin.

He lets go of my mouth and grips my waist, his thumbs pressing into the dimples on my back.

“You need me to cum in you, don’t you? I know you wanna be filled up, so full your eyes start to float.” He pumps as deep as he can go, my eyes rolling back into my head and words failing to form. “Answer me.” He spits with a smack on my ass.

“Please… p-please cum in me. Need it.. s-so bad Chris!”

With that he shoves his hips against me and shoots his hot load into my pussy, coating my walls as I fall over the edge with him. I’m screaming his name as he moans mine, pure ecstasy echoing through my room. I feel his cum leaking down my legs, such a big load that it has nowhere else to go. His thrusts slow down before they come to a halt, his dick still twitching inside me.

He pulls out and hums as he backs up and takes in the sight in front of him. I have no energy to stand, my muscles aching and tired.

“Look at that. God I wish I could burn this into my brain.”

He walks over to me, wrapping his arms around my torso and lifts me, my legs helping very little to hold me up. He hooks an arm under my thighs and picks me up to hold me bridal style. I’m so tired that my head can only manage to flop against his chest, and I hear his rapid heartbeat in my ear.

He starts to walk towards my bathroom but first places a lingering kiss on my forehead. I can feel the smile on his lips.

“Told you I’d have to carry you to the shower.”

[kieralopez]

“SOMEONE LIKE ME CAN BE A REAL NIGHTMARE - I'M COMPLETELY AWARE”

⊹₊  ⋆  (  jenna ortega,  cis woman,  she/her,  23)  i  think  kiera lopez just  walked  by!  wow,  they  really  are  a jenna ortega   lookalike!  they’ve  been  here  in  new  york  city  for  2 years,  and  seem  to  always  have  their mothman plush.  i  heard  they  made  their $500k  as  a  actress,  and  are  often  associated  with  wearing all black, dissecting film for the fun of it, and getting lost in an oddities shop.  let’s  hope  the  world  doesn’t  find  out [redacted]! muse 20

INTRODUCING…

NAME: Kiera Lopez

GENDER & PREFERRED PRONOUNS: Cis Woman (She/Her)

AGE: 23

BIRTHDAY: October 13, 2001

ZODIAC: Libra Sun, Scorpio Rising, Gemini Moon

SEXUALITY & ROMANCE: Bisexual / Biromantic

FACE CLAIM: Jenna Ortega

OCCUPATION: Actress / Aspiring Screenwriter & Directer

HOMETOWN: Roswell, NM

CURRENT RESIDENCE: New York City, NY.

CHARACTER PLAYLIST: HERE.

UP NEXT: “NIGHTMARE” BY HALSEY

BIOGRAPHY: tw overdose mention, death mention

Born Marina 'Marnie' Lopez, the young girl legally changed her name to Kiera as a way to drive some distance between herself and her family when she turned 18; Feeling a bit suffocated and needing to re-invent herself. It’s funny though, since her eldest sister raised her, you can see so many similarities (the sarcasm, the intelligence and mannerisms) even though she claims they’re so vastly different. Kiera currently attends university online for film studies. She’s aiming on becoming a writer and director - mainly within the horror realm. This love for horror derives from a young age, and she tends to be a bit of a movie snob because of her studies. You can catch her at the movie theatre almost every Friday. It also doesn't help that Kiera is in the film industry; Having had been in commercials and having had small roles in movies ever since she could remember. A way to keep the lights on for her family. Despite coming across as someone with a good head on their shoulders, Kiera is genuinely a firecracker. Prone to anger and acting on impulse, her tongue tends to be sharper than she realizes. She’s caused a lot of trouble on purpose growing up; some situations meant to weigh on her sister, whilst others were her attempt to try to find herself and fix her own issues. To this day, Kiera is working on figuring out who she is through the broken pieces her mother left behind, and still causes some trouble here and there. Sometimes for fun, other times just to bring an off-balance start to another's day if they rub her the wrong way. Kiera is very artistic and sometimes comes across as pretentious. She loves to paint and sketch, but doesn’t want to make a living out of it. Instead, her artwork is loitering the walls of her apartment. She also likes living on her own, seeing that she lives in an apartment and tends to frequent thrifting in her spare time. Kiera is currently working on finishing up her BA for film at NYU; of course, having landed a full-ride scholarship. She's still working in the film industry - a friend of hers knowing the director to a horror film in which she landed one of the lead roles. She's excited about what's coming next in her acting career, but she still feels a little off with her secret boiling just under the surface. With the loss of her mother, who she was estranged to, only about a month ago due to an overdose - Kiera is now finding it harder to keep her sadness at bay over the loss of a 'normal' childhood (with a parent that genuinely cared).

EXTRA-EXTRA, READ ALL ABOUT HER!

Kiera never had a genuine perception of a family. Due to the fact her mother figure in life was her eldest sister and no father figure in sight. As a result, she’s not great at formulating healthy relationships on any plane. She has a mentality of leaving before she’s left, and hurting others before they hurt her as a fight or flight response to deep emotions and attachments in a any sense. She is aware of this aspect of herself, and hates it, but isn’t sure on how to really get better; it sort of became more of a last resort form of acceptance, seeing that she harbors feelings of not being enough to make her mother finally break the addiction, or even get her father to stay - she now owns up to being the source of her own problems as opposed to fixing the root issue that lays deeper. She’s overly self-critical, especially if she loses or if she feels she could’ve done better. There's an air of competition to her in academics as well as in the workplace - she's always striving for good recognition in these fields. She loves to learn new things, and takes up skills rather easily; and if she thoroughly enjoys the topic (ex: horror films), than you can forget it - she'll cream everyone at trivia. She loves to thrift, and always goes out of her way to support small businesses. Kiera is also very cynical with her outlook on the world, though her activism is borderline anarchist because she's just fed up with everyone and everything. Wise beyond her years, she is known to be quite pretentious in her tastes of music, movies and books, and can rant about all three for hours. Also very smart, in general? Graduated with high honors and has street smarts. Though, she does tend to be sarcastic towards others but she utilizes the excuse of being brutally honest to avoid being labelled mean. Kiera is super open-minded and prides herself in being a safe space. Even though she tends to escape into the night life, and has been sneaking into joints since she was 14 to party, she does have boundaries; she won't try any hard drugs, and knows her limits in alcohol. Even if she seems completely gone, she's not - she can't let herself get that way out of fear of a loss of control. Kiera can be sweet to those who she deems as good people in her life, but she's a type of black hole that kinda brings chaos wherever she goes. She's prone to huge mood shifts, and is known to be fierce for her small and young stature. Will 20/10 ruin good thing if she gets her hands on it. She’s just trying her best, okay? Life is unpredictable and messy, and she’s becoming more aware with that everyday. That’s all without mentioning her need to create battling her need to destroy.

PERSONALITY:

+ Adaptable, Driven, and Innovatory

- Detached, Explosive, and Sarcastic

[citylighten]

Hello! I've been reading Sink or Swim, and I am absolutely enthralled in the depth of your writing. Which brings me to my first of several questions... How long have you been writing? I find Pietro's backstory personality very complex. How he presents himself... Handles obstacles... It's intriguing. How long did it take to create Pietro's... well... life? Did you have to do a considerable amount of research? And for my last question, how long does it take you to caption a scene? Are you editing the dialogue right until you post?

HELLO~!

First off thank you for this message! I'm very happy you're enjoying the story!

In regard to your first question: I began writing at a young age. So young, that my earliest memory of writing is sitting on my grandmother's lap and telling her exactly what to write down in Microsoft Word. (I figure these were probably stories about Simba the Lion) Eventually, I told her I wanted to figure out how to use Word on my own and the rest is history. But yeah, I've always been big on writing and reading, there was always a story of some kind in my head. By the time I was ten, I was on FF.Net posting very shitty fanfics. But that's the thing about writing, you know? The more you do it, the more you read, the more you even do something like observe films and shows for the narrative value rather than strictly looking at it as entertainment the better of a writer you become. I also made the decision back in high school to become a journalist (something I don't think I want to be anymore, but I digress) still, having the responsibility of writing about real events, or about real people, definitely influenced my writing, as well. Especially when it comes to the way people speak or may explain something.

Admittedly, writing a story in the mafia genre isn't easy. A lot of research is involved (ranging from reading biographies to just watching films, but I also love the video game Mafia because their worldbuilding is pretty good😂) and I often take mental notes of things so I can understand/apply similar topics with my characters.

In regard to your second question: We've hardly scratched the surface of who Pietro is as a person! I planned to do a few edits of him as a kid as well as a "mini-story" of how he ran away from home at sixteen but I haven't gotten around to it yet.

Pietro is a very new oc - he was made this year, so understanding him/developing him has been a push-and-pull process. Before Sink or Swim started, he was originally meant to be way more antagonistic, but then I found myself liking him. I thought of Pietro and Rosie hooking up and the drama that could entail of, but then I thought, "what if this guy cared about her?" And boom, I found myself jotting out a bunch of outlines and concepts.

However, because Pietro isn't born in America...er, Simerica, I've found myself reading about Sicily a lot. Since I view that as the real-world counterpart to Tartosa. The norms, the lives of farmers, the way organized crime functions there because Pietro's family suffered greatly due to the local mob. But that's all I'm saying about that!

In regard to your third question: Captioning a scene can take forever. I'm not sure why because all I do is copy-paste pre-written text. But the time it takes to write out a scene can vary depending on its length, relevancy, and tone. Small talk is horrible to write, just plain horrible. Banter is usually quick. But when you have scenes like Rosie reading Pietro's email - that took forever because not only am I writing out Sheila and Pietro having a serious conversation, I had to write out the details of the email. Similarly, in my last post, when Pietro more or less confesses that he's an affiliate of the mob: that conversation took three rewrites before I felt it was good enough to put on caps. The first conversation draft was rough, I kept zoning out. The second was a little easier, but I found myself rearranging the conversation to better flow. And the third edit was the easiest because it was like I was 'smoothing' things over and ensuring the flow was decent. Sometimes though, once I paste dialogue onto a cap I do slightly tweak it to correspond with the expression the sim has. But again, thank you for all these questions! I enjoyed answering them!

[soul-dwelling]

The ask about who the editor of Soul Eater was and nobody knowing it kinda made me realise how surface level a lot of engadgment with manga is, even from super fans - you can see it even from people who are critical - instead making substantial observations it is mostly complaining about power scaling, "plot armor", "asspulls" as if that was the most important thing.

I’m going to push back against this a bit--and I don’t do so out of maliciousness, just to disagree with the question a little bit. 

And that’s based on where I come from in reading, given that I think the assumption people make is that, because I have an advanced degree in literature, that means my interpretation is deeper…

…When, LOL, no, it fucking isn’t: my interpretation is in no way deeper, at least not by education or line of work.

My reading starts the same as anyone else’s, with the evidence on the page, with the first reading--hence, a surface-level reading--before I mull it over more, compare it to similar works and similar authors, the history of when it was written and what it was written about…

…Even as I still will go back to surface-level stuff. 

And that’s because, when you’re talking with people about a text you all read, you always have to (as my teacher told me) “get back to the goddamn text.” That text is the thing we all read, and that’s the thing we have to talk around, regardless what supplemental info we bring in from our own experiences, education, reading, and research. It’d be like coming into class having not read the assigned book and bullshitting about things related to the topic and that assigned book--but you are still bullshitting, because you never actually talked about that book. 

Knowing who the editors of Soul Eater are would be great--but it is no substitution for having read the work yourself, and that means it may seem “surface-level,” but at least we all read the text anyway, and we can talk about what we all read. 

I can’t speak as the average manga fan, but I can’t name very many manga editors, or which manga they edit, and I wonder whether the average manga fan knows either.

That’s why I push back on the idea that this is all surface-level engagement. 

My approach with literature--whether as a reader, a fan, a student, a scholar, a teacher, or a researcher--is to start with the words on the page. Your engagement typically doesn’t start with the history of the moment being represented in that story, or the biography of that work’s author, or anything about yourself and your life and your ethics and feelings--it starts with what is on that page. That is the “surface,” and that is fine, because, ideally, everything you need to know about the text _initially_ is on that page. You can’t make much of a good interpretation of the work if you depend on the author to tell you what it means, if you depend on a teacher telling you what to think of the work, if you need a history lesson. 

All of that stuff is important, but it comes later: you read Soul Eater at the surface level, _then_ you dig into what the author thought, what scholars think, what the history was at the time it was written or the history of what is represented. But if you can’t start with why this story, on its own, if you knew nothing about it, appealed to you, or at least got you asking questions, then it’s not a very good text--it’s just something whose quality is propped up by external resources, like an empty novel that a teacher talks up because other teachers talk it up, or a film that is talked up because it made a lot of box office money. 

This is why I appreciate readers complaining about power scaling, plot armor, and asspulls--this is surface level, this is initial reading, this is the first reaction based on only what you first encounter in that text. What else do you talk about unless your first reactions to the text? Maybe the actual problem is that there isn’t something more beyond that surface that isn’t inviting new readers to find new ideas to that text, so all we’re getting are new readers discovering these older works--and their reactions also are surface level, because they too don’t find something new, so they give up on the text as well? 

Upon re-reading you start to move onto more critical thinking about how the text works or doesn’t work, and you explore what went into the thought process to make the work. But I don’t enjoy the text because I know how much effort went into it: a lot of effort, and a substandard result, doesn’t somehow make the substandard result better once I know the work went into it. Cameron’s Avatar can have a ton of money pumped into it; it doesn’t suddenly make the movie’s plot better. Evangelion was a groundbreaking series; it doesn’t somehow make the story better, when other stories have told better versions within that genre or similar topics. Hunter x Hunter isn’t good because it has taken so long to keep going in-between hiatuses: it is good on its own merits. 

Now, learning who edited Soul Eater would help a lot, similar to learning more about Ohkubo would help a lot, to better understand what went into the story and how it turned out as it did--and which other roads the story may have taken if the author and editors went in other directions they had considered.

[philadelphia-hq]

“Running from my own life now, I’m really turning some time, looking up to the sky for something I may never find.”

EDEN MOORE

Age: 33 Gender and pronouns: Female, She/Her Occupation: Museum Technician Neighborhood: Fishtown

BIOGRAPHY

Growing up in Portsmouth, New Hampshire meant that Eden’s earliest memories were by the water, the smell of the salty ocean permeating her nostrils and whipping at her curls able to bring her a sense of calm that she’d lacked in her every day life after a certain age. Had it not been for Felicity Moore falling pregnant, her and Thomas would have probably gotten divorced a hell of a lot quicker – instead they grit their teeth and attempted to work it out for the sake of their newborn daughter. However, to this day Eden can’t remember a single instance of her parents getting along, so while the inevitable separation was hard on the girl of only six years old who didn’t quite understand, deep down she knew it was probably for the best. The most difficult part was the distance; Felicity moved to France where her mother grew up, leaving Eden to live with Thomas during the school year and travel during the summer. It was tedious, it felt broken, but at least there was now a semblance of peace in her life.

Incredibly cultured and intelligent – at least that’s what she told herself, always a chip on her shoulder whether it be from her high IQ or her desire to immerse herself in art and history. Perhaps she was a bit snobbish throughout her teen years, but at that age who wasn’t? All she wanted was the type of fabulous, adventurous life that she read about in books, that she painted in pictures. Suddenly the vast coast of New Hampshire felt far too narrow to hold the young woman; she wanted more. And lucky for her, she found it at NYU.

It was no surprise that Eden got into the prestigious university, but it was quite the surprise that they offered her a full scholarship. Initially entering as a history major, Eden fell in love with the school and with the city itself hard and fast. Initially unsure where she wanted her career trajectory to go, she quickly made up her mind after visiting various museums only a hop, skip and a jump from her dorm room. A museum tech, one of the very few people working in any establishment that got to be up close and personal with the artifacts. Preservation, cleaning, handling, it was a way for her immerse herself even further in what she loved. And so, right before her sophomore year, she switched to museum studies with a minor in history.

She expected to excel in her field of study, that much was guarunteed. But what she hadn’t expected was to find love along the way. Alexander Warren had been friend, and along the way a lover and something more. In her twenties and never having been in a relationship, she was overly cautious at first after watching her parents’ marriage crumble into ruins as a child, but Alex was persistant and she’d fallen too hard to give up on it. Perhaps things would be okay, perhaps she could be tethered to another while maintaining her own sense of freedom and independence – and for the most part, it was great. More than great, even, considering she’d eventually relented and allowed him to proposed. Engaged and preparing for marriage was a boat she never imaged herself sitting in, but here she was with a ring on her finger and a book of written vows she had a difficult time choosing from.

Naive – that’s how Eden described herself. The stress and paranoia that came with Alex’s government job began to take a toll on them – on her – and after quite some time it became too much for the woman. They began to fight more, she started sleeping in another room and spending more time outside the house, the only semblance of peace she could get being away from their shared apartment. It all felt far too familiar. Call it flight mode kicking in, but as things progressed Eden’s own doubtful thoughts began to creep through the surface until finally she cracked.

The engagement was broken off, and Eden found herself unable to stomach the city she once loved anymore – and so she made a very rash decision, one that rarely anyone but the heroes in her stories made, and left the country. Her mother still lived in France, and Eden figured maybe a short stay there would do her well. But then a short stay turned into weeks, then months, and before Eden knew it she was living there full time.

After years abroad, Eden decided she’d had enough of her little European fantasy and went back to the states. Her father and his new wife had settled in Philadelphia years ago, making it the perfect place for her next adventure. The art scene just as vibrant in Philly as it was in New York, and quickly she found a job as a museum technician at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Now staying in a little condo in Fishtown, Eden has been living comfortably in the city for the last six months making friends and planting roots – though, the question is, how deep she’ll let those roots get before she’s ready to upend her life for the next escapade that interests her.

EDEN MOORE has the face claim of OLIVIA COOKE and is played by RAY.

[meta-squash]

Brick Club 1.5.2 “Madeleine”

The very first sentence of this chapter describes Madeleine-Valjean as “good-natured but always seemed preoccupied.” This always sounds to me like he’s constantly thinking about how he acts and what he says, and is always a little worried about being found out. Later on in the chapter the townspeople do murmur a little bit about him being “ignorant and poorly educated” in response to how he reacts to upper society, so I feel like that kind of anxiety isn’t exactly unfounded on Valjean’s part.

“Father Madeleine required the men to be willing, the women to have good morals, and all to be honest.” Interesting set of requirements. Seems interesting to separate who has to be willing to work and who has to have good morals. I feel like this places the onus of “purity” and remaining “good” on the women. The men just have to be willing to go to work. Plus the segregation of the sexes. Again that seems to be Hugo being weird about working class women and not being sure about his stance on the whole thing. It definitely seems to go back to his whole “poverty and coquetry are fatal counselors” thing from 1.3.2. Women can be poor or they can be flirty, but to be both is bad.

Which brings me to the next part of the sentence, “So that women might not lose their modesty.” I just can’t get over how much Valjean’s effort fails here. His intentions are good. But he’s looking at it from the wrong angle. Fantine loses her job, and because of that loses her modesty, not the other way around. Valjean has this whole set up trying to keep women pure and to prevent them from “falling,” and yet it fails spectacularly.

I think Valjean and Fantine are parallels in that they are two different aspects of how someone could only see the good in people. Fantine sees the pretty things and the nice things, and that means she fails to see warning signs or danger and keeps ending up hurt and impoverished and desperate. Valjean sees the potential for bad but chooses to believe that the good will prevail, not truly taking into account the possibility that it won’t, which means that when it actually doesn’t, he’s left feeling guilty or confused or has to sacrifice himself.

“Unemployment and misery were unknown. There was no pocket so dark that it did not contain a little money and no dwelling so poor that it did not contain some joy.” Once again, Hugo contradicts himself with Fantine’s story. I feel like this whole description is sort of from the perspective of the general population of the town. It doesn’t zoom in to the poorest of the poor or the highest of the high society. This is just the point of view of the people, who since the arrival of Father Madeleine, have found themselves more comfortable and in better financial situations.

The absolute irony of Madeleine’s “be honest” is amazing to me. I really love it. A fantastic little idiosyncrasy of Valjean. He’s allowed to be deceptive--he has to be, in order to survive--but he encourages, and maybe even requires, honesty from others. He doesn’t really seem to consider that maybe there are others who need to be dishonest to survive as well. It also seems like a sort of guilty thing. He can’t be honest to the town about who he really is, so because of that, everyone else has to be honest to compensate.

How much does 630,000 francs translate to in today’s money? Again, I wish I had better perspective of just how much money that actually was back then.

Valjean making provisions for 10 more beds for the hospital parallels Bishop Myriel’s actions with the hospital in Digne. This action begins to put Valjean on a similar level of goodness as Myriel. He’s just a little lower, it seems; Myriel gave up his palace for the hospital, while Valjean provides beds to the already existing building.

In fact, Valjean’s use of wealth in Montreuil-sur-Mer is extremely similar to Myriel’s, except for the bank usage. This makes a lot of sense, though. Myriel is from a wealthy family; his complete rejection of all but the smallest amount of money allows him to sacrifice to a certain level of “goodness.” Valjean giving away much of his own money but also saving a lot makes sense because he’s from an extremely poor background, and the fear of being discovered or his income suddenly ceasing is always there. Valjean’s saving of money puts him on a higher level of goodness because he’s best at helping and supporting others when he himself is also stable.

What is a house of refuge? I initially interpreted it as like a homeless shelter or flophouse, but Hapgood calls it an “infant school,” which makes me think orphanage.

Joseph Fouche was part of the Jacobins and a major factor in the dechristianization movement of the Revolution. He committed a lot of atrocities in Lyon in retaliation for Lyon’s rebellion against the Convention. He helped overthrow Robespierre, then became a senator under Napoleon. He became minister of police in Paris in 1899. During the Restoration he was exiled in Saxony. (Sidenote: He ordered the words "Death is an eternal sleep" to be inscribed over the gates to cemeteries, which quite frankly is a badass phrase, I think.)

Basically the jealous local deputy who “shared Fouche’s religious ideas” was an atheist (or agnostic) who essentially converted to christianity for this supposed rivalry, which is why “the poor as well as god” gain from his fear that Valjean might advance further than him.

Valjean gets offered the Legion of Honor and refuses. Hugo received the same award for his writing when he was around 23 (only he accepted it and also would wear the medal on his lapel). I’m not sure if this is Hugo doing a gentle parallel to himself, or writing how he wished his young self would have acted for appearance’s sake.

I really like that Valjean enjoys being called “Father Madeleine” over anything else. It’s really sweet. I also think that a love for and protectiveness of children (not just Cosette) is an aspect of Valjean that isn’t always focused on. He’s the one who secretly paid for the milk his sister’s kids drank, he gives money to all the Savoyards passing through M-sur-M, he gives money to Gavroche, etc. The enjoyment of the “Father Madeleine” name also seems like a feeling of respect and identification more with the working class who call him that than the upper class who call him “Monsieur Madeleine.” Which makes sense.

“Society” claimed him. [...] A thousand advances were made to him, but he refused them all.” Twice now he has refused society. The first time was at Toulon, out of hatred and rage, when he condemned society and humanity and religion. This second one is out of humility. This time I think he truly believes in humanity, but “society” is not necessarily humanity, it’s something closer to self-promotion and bureaucracy. People use society to make connections, to get a foot in the door or climb another rung on the ladder or to gain power over others. Valjean doesn’t want that. He barely wanted the appointment to mayor. Only, his position at this point is a benefit for the town. But to accept invitations into society would be to accept things for his own benefit. So this time he refuses society not out of hatred but for the benefit of others.

Literally all of the townspeople’s assumptions are, in some aspect, true. He was poorly educated (at first), he probably is learning how to behave in society just as he goes, he was something of a brute just after leaving Toulon, he is definitely ambitious both in himself and in his effort to do good, etc etc.

It seems as though Hugo is doing some interesting sort of self-insertion here with Valjean’s mayoral appointment. Valjean being convinced to accept the appointment to the mayoral position sounds like Hugo rewriting his own experience as “mayor” of the 8th arrondissement for just over a week in 1848. I’m technically not at this part of the biography yet, but I skimmed it. To summarize, during the revolution of 1848, Hugo was the most prominent person in his quartier. So during the revolt, he and the mayor and the PM decided to announce a provisional government of a Regency, where the Duchesse d’Orleans would act as head of state. The people were not super happy about the Duchesse d’Orleans being head of state. Another poet, Lamartine, was made one of the 11 members of the provisional government, and he offered Hugo the position of Minister of Education. Hugo refused, so Lamartine instead persuaded him to serve as acting mayor of his arrondissement (which the book says was one of the more active areas of revolt). Apparently most people weren’t too happy about that because he was “aristocratic” and “wasn’t really a republican”; he repaved the streets and had the lamps repaired but also had the barricades removed. But the result was that almost 60,000 people voted for him in the next election despite him not actually being a candidate.

This doesn’t exactly sound like Valjean, but it makes me wonder if this is Hugo rewriting himself as mayor, imagining how he could have been seen by the people.

[29-12-2011]

Hope this is okay to bring up but all th points u made in that post abt ppl white woman-Ifying viktor Yeah. It’s impossible 2 scroll through certain tags on this site (or any tbh) without seeing some bad jayce take because people don’t understand they’re completely separate characters. Or refuse to read viktor as he actually acts in arcane OR league just because he’s their scrungly sad little meow meow who can do no wrong and everyone and everything is out to get him. It’s incredibly annoying too because people are Making content based on league lore, but are basing it off other people’s fics instead of reading the lore, so it’s like a self repeating cycle, not sure how else to explain it but it just sucks ass and it makes it hard to interact with th majority of ppl making art for the two of them

that is true! sorry, didn't mean to localise it as an issue particular to just arcane because yeah, it's been happening since the arrival of 2016 viktor's lore (and maybe even before). i can't count the number of times jayce has been accused of genocide(?) or stealing blitzcrank by hiding him in his trenchcoat and running away or purposely trying to get viktor expelled (in the order of significance ascribed by most fans), or any other weird crimes people can dream up because the fact is that if you look at his biography instead of basing your entire knowledge off of drabbles and AUs and author's notes and inside jokes and references he did... none of these things?

like there's nothing gloating about how he describes viktor getting expelled -- i'd argue he didn't intend for it to happen at all. but somehow in fandom discussions or reddit posts people stretch it to jayce stealing viktor's wife and kids or whatever i really don't get it! and if you argue from the lens of interpretation i'm not sure what textual basis you'd have for that at all given that jayce is notably distraught after losing viktor.

of course jayce doesn't do himself any favours by not mentioning blitzcrank, or trying to defend himself, but you only really fall victim to thinking viktor was in the right by doing an entirely surface level reading without realising, hey, maybe trying to strip people of free will is bad?

i understand being more emotionally engaged with viktor's side of the story, and if you read jayce's biography after reading viktor's your viewpoint is already shaped by the uncharitable way viktor depicts him, but honestly if you're going to try to engage with these characters in a serious level i'd at least ask for you to try and figure out what is going on (or don't, if it's more fun i guess i can't really police how you consume fictional men).

the "genocide" that they believe is happening (please google what genocide is) is so... GUYS HAVE YOU EVER WONDERED WHY VIKTOR WAS ABLE TO CONTROL AND ORDER AROUND THE AUTOMATONS THAT WERE SUPPOSED TO BE THE ZAUNITES' NEW BODIES? like there is room for nuance here obviously if you can be bothered to think it through but at a surface level glance viktor is not in the right here. i'll defend viktor and write him and love him until the day i die but that's not because i agree with what he is doing, it'd be because i enjoy him as a character and find him interesting to explore.

maybe people conflate this emotional attachment with the belief that since so much wrong has been done to him (which i won't deny, just that a lot of it wasn't jayce's fault) viktor must be in the right, and jayce becomes the target of this righteous anger because how dare you not defend this poor little meow meow victim of all of society's faults!

and all of these things are multiplied tenfold by looking at it through the lens of arcane and refusing to even consider how the two SEPARATE iterations would fuse together. now white woman A!viktor is dying, and isn't that just so pitiful? why WOULDN'T you let him commit all those atrocities, and if you REALLY LOVED HIM you wouldn't BETRAY HIM AND SELL HIM OUT! WHICH TALIS DOES NOT DO BECAUSE THOSE EVENTS ARE NOT PART OF ARCANE THEY ARE PART OF LEAGUE! or something or the other. and frankly this is just disrespectful to all four characters.

the image most arcane-only fans have of giopara would be "asshole", which is true, but he's also a complex layered character that loses a lot if you choose to reduce him to one archetype, and if you choose to misinterpret a character and then blame him for your misinterpretation it's like... well i really don't get it but it's whatever because it's for real just a video game biography/TV show.

[unsoundedcomic]

I don't know about obsession, but if i may ask...

Do you like Moby Dick because it may be based in a true story or because it's written so well??

It's certainly inspired by the true story of the Essex, which was rammed by a sperm whale. Back in the old days it was considered kind of unseemly to write pure fiction. Novels needed to be a travelogue or a biography or a historical account or a religious morality tale - at least on the surface. Pure fiction was too much like a lie, and could get you a dark reputation.

So yes, most of Melville's books were "based" on real events, either others' accounts or stories from his own colourful youth and later travels. But once you read them, you see the narrative is just an excuse for explorations of social or philosophical themes and ideas. Though his first two books were more straightforward travelogues, he couldn't afterwards write anything straightforward to save his life. His readers at the time felt betrayed by this - they'd liked his funny, scary adventures in the South Seas! - but they didn't understand the rest and stopped buying his books. Melville eventually gave up his writing career, got a day job, and died in obscurity.

I mention all this because Herman Melville the man is a big reason why I like Herman Melville's writing. His life was fascinating, sad, and we know a lot about it. It's brilliant stuff to study. His writing, too, is fascinating and sad. I'll just stick to Moby-Dick here but I love all his work.

Moby-Dick was the first novel I ever read that felt like the author was speaking directly to me. I was in high school when I first came across it - I was going through a pirate phase and it was on my list - and it stopped me dead in my tracks. It's not just a novel; it's an anachronistic multimedia experiment. It mixes prose and script and poetry and quotes and dictionary entries with elegant language and salty sailor speak. It's eloquent and disgusting, elevated and deeply down in the dirt and foam. It is an explosion of contrast, a constant seesaw back and forth between the narrative reality of a captain obsessively hunting a whale, and a common sailor named Ishmael reflecting on what that hunt means, what whales mean, what the colour white means, what the sky means, what the universe means. In his ruminations, nothing is dismissed. He wasn't dusty Hawthorne obsessing over the Bible; instead he was a sailor with a wide but naive breadth of knowledge of "Eastern religions," Asian history, "South Seas cannibals," so you never know what he's going to bring up. His was the kind of eclectic thinking that you didn't often see expressed with such eloquence in the 1850s.

So yeah, I like it a lot because it's written really well :)

But also, it's very raw, and you feel the sloppy earnestness of Melville on every page. He's trying so hard to communicate with you and - knowing that so many of his contemporaries didn't understand him - it makes you feel kind of special and connected with him when you do understand what he's saying, and you agree. It's a novel that benefits in a very unique way from NOT murdering the author; from understanding who the author was, what he went through, how exuberant he was for so long and then how much the exigencies of publishing and finances beat him down.

We people who love Moby-Dick tend to really love Moby-Dick. I'm certain Melville himself is a big reason for this. We connect with his struggles. We celebrate the immortality of all artists by raising up his work and reaching back through the centuries to take his tarry hand.

[dw-writes]

32 for henry sturges :3

so, for anyone who doesn’t know, Henry Sturges is a character played by Dominic cooper in the movie Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, and one of the main characters in the novel by the same name, while being the main character in the sequel, The Last American Vampire. sadly, the author of those novels is The Worst (TM) and i am now claiming this character as my own and will treat him kindly

i love him so fucking MUCH

I HOPE YOU ENJOY LEMME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK

Saying “I love you”....in a way that I can’t return.

There were parts of your memory that were hazy – days that were missing as you tried to remember why you were in pain, why you were tired, when you had fallen asleep. You remembered the better parts – the parts where you accepted a new job as a personal assistant, where you met your stupidly rich boss, where you found him weird and obnoxious and meeting every cliché that you had ever read about.

You especially remembered the part where you discovered that he was a vampire. That was important.

You shifted, the smooth surface of expensive sheets sliding against your skin. They were soft, and smelled lovely, and you recognized the scent as the one that Henry used for everything that could be washed. It was an older scent, one that wasn’t really made anymore, that he got from a little store on the other side of the city. It was one of the few things that he did personally.

Burying your nose into the pillow, you let out a sigh. At least you knew you were home, and comfortable.

A damp washcloth traced over your temple, down your cheek, and around the back of your neck.

“You’re alright,” whispered a familiar voice, one tinged with accent so faint it could never be placed, “You’re safe.”

You dreamed about that vivid memory of discovery. Henry Sturges had centuries of practice of keeping his identity a secret, something that, if you had been more observant, you would have noticed at lot sooner. But even someone with centuries of experience under his belt was prone to forgetfulness, and that was something that plagued him that day – he had forgotten his own set of keys to the house when he had set off on his usual journey across the city. He’d only realized it when he was too far gone and had called you to get the keys for him.

“If you could,” he had added, “If you aren’t too busy.”

“Of course,” you replied, “I’ll bring them to you.”

You failed to tell him that you, too, were on the opposite side of the city, and that it would take you longer than expected to take the keys to him. That was why you had arrived at the store after closing time, found it unlocked, and discovered Henry hauling a man clean off the ground with one hand, while bearing a mouth full of gleaming shards of bone. He dropped the man when you shouted at him to stop, failed to see you grab a pipe to swing at his skull.

(The memory bubbled up in your dream, descending upon you as though through a fog.)

You held the pipe with both hands, standing between Henry and the stairs leading up into the convenience store. Henry held his head between both hands, groaning, doubling over his knees. The other man, the store own, was still crumbled on the ground, unharmed, but unconscious.

“You hit me!” Henry shouted, “You actually hit me!”

“What do you expect?!” you snapped, “You? What are you?!”

He stumbled as he straightened, examining his fingers, then touched his head again. He stepped towards you.

You lifted the pipe over your shoulder, ready to strike again, yelling out nonsense.

“Don’t hit me again!” he cried.

“Get back!” you shrieked, “Get? Back! And answer my question!”

“Put the pipe down,” he said instead.

“Answer me!”

“Put the pipe down!”

“Answer the fucking question, Henry!” you paused, “If that’s your real name.”

His mouth dropped open with a scoff. You brandished the pipe as he stepped closer, stuttering out a disgusted, “I can’t believe the distrust! The suspicion!” He was on you in the literal blink of an eye, gently prying the pipe from between your clenched fingers like it was nothing. He tossed it away. The comical hurt he had previously worn was gone as he said, “I’m a vampire.” He squeezed your shoulders and set you on the steps. “Stay here a moment? I’ll be right back.”

(He’d left the poor store clerk – Seth, you remembered his name being – with a stack of journals, then swept you away back to his home – your home, the place where he provided you with a room of your own and asked for no rent at all – to sit you down and explain what he could.)

A hand gingerly pressed against your cheek, turning your head enough towards the owner to allow them to drip a warm liquid between your lips. It was bitter, with an aftertaste you couldn’t describe, and you twisted your head away from it.

A warm sigh tumbled across your face. “This is something you’ll have to get used to,” whispered a familiar voice, “And it won’t be easy, I can promise you that. But I’ll be there every step of the way.” A word caught on his voice, scratching in your ear as he cleared his throat. A pair of lips brushed over your temple.

Those words were so familiar. It took you a moment – a moment in which you fell back into a deep slumber – but you recalled where you’d heard them. You had said them, years before, when Seth had approached Henry about a biography. You remembered finding him pacing the first floor of his town house, reading over a letter that you assumed was from the author in question, swearing beneath his breath as he wore a path in the floor.

You told him so as you leaned on the banister, giving him an easy smile. He merely stared at you – you would have called it a glare if you hadn’t known him so well – and waved the paper in your direction.

“He wants to interview me,” he grumbled.

“I think that’s been done before,” you countered.

Henry crumbled the paper and tossed it in your direction. You ducked the projectile with a laugh, almost missing his scathing comment about your mocking. “That was a terrible joke!” he said with a huff, “Awful.”

“You’ll have to get used to it,” you said as you sat on the stairs, “Especially if people take what you say to heart – what the book says to heart.” Henry sat on the stairs, leaning back against the wall to look up at you. You reached out to run your fingers through his clean, un-styled hair. “It won’t be easy; I can promise you that. But I’ll be here for all of it. If you want.”

He leaned into your hand with a miniscule, unnecessary sigh. “I cannot imagine anyone else helping me with this,” he whispered.

You quirked an eyebrow. “Not even the man you trusted your beloved Abe’s journals to?”

(The quip earned you a gentle pinch, and eyeroll, and a smile only you were truly welcome to.)

You had rolled in your sleep, or had been moved, into a position that was startlingly comfortable. You turned your face further into the soft fabric under your cheek.

“Are you awake?” asked Henry, his voice surprisingly close to your ear while whatever you laid on rumbled with his words. Your eyes fluttered. A finger brushed over each of them, brushing the crust from your lashes. You wrinkled your nose. “You are awake,” he whispered, “Take your time. You’ve been through a lot.”

“What happened?” you croaked. You smacked your lips together and groaned; your mouth tasted awful. You rolled away from Henry’s tender hold, burying your face back into the pillow beyond his arm. “How long have I been asleep?”

He didn’t answer you. Instead, he appeared at your side again, the bed bending beneath his weight, and he held a glass to your lips. “Drink,” he murmured. His hand slid behind your head to help you.

The strange taste bloomed across your tongue as you sipped – bitter, and warm, and tangy as it rolled down your throat. You wrapped your fingers over his hand and gulped the concoction down, whatever it was – it soothed an ache you hadn’t noticed. You pressed your knees against his side as you sat up, tilting the glass further towards your face, draining it of everything it had, even going so far as to lick the brim clean before you opened your eyes.

He was watching you. His thumb brushed the space behind your ear while his fingers trailed down your neck. You rolled your lips together as you tried to gather what remained of your drink. You watched him in return: how hadn’t you noticed how beautiful he was before? You could count the freckles across his nose and cheeks in the low light of the bedroom with how vibrant they were against his skin; his swept back hair held various shades of brown, and a scant few strands of silver – from the stress of crossing over from England, you figured, before he was turned, or maybe they’d gone grey during the run from Crowley shortly after; and then there were his eyes, which skipped across your face before holding yours.

The blood that ran through your body – the blood that wasn’t yours anymore – ran cold.

You dropped the glass.

Henry managed to catch it before it hit the wood floor, depositing it on the nightstand at your elbow.

You rubbed your throat as the missing memories returned, first in patches, then like a film playing behind your eyes: someone had broken into the house. You had been downstairs, labeling the few bottles of blood that Henry kept hidden in his fridge, frowning at the unfamiliar sounds of another human in the home. It hadn’t taken you long to react, either – your father had taught you well before he died, had made sure that you would be ready to live on your own when the time came.

You pulled a knife from the butcher’s block and stepped out of the kitchen.

Your view from the hall to the front door was unobscured. Behind you, however, was a puff of hot air as someone growled, “You’re really real, aren’t you?”

A door upstairs slammed open.

You stepped away and twisted around, lifting the knife between you and the intruder, filling the hall as best as you could. You had only seconds before Henry would be down the stairs, before the man, who stared at you with a crazed glint in his eye and held a wooden stake above his head, would be able to figure out who was really the vampire in the house and hurt him instead. Maybe even kill him.

He would kill Henry.

He couldn’t kill Henry.

You wouldn’t let him.

You remembered answering him with a breathless, “Yes,” before the stake splintered your ribcage and plunged down into your heart.

Thumbs rubbed circles over your cheeks. You blinked slowly as the memory fell into place, neatly outlining a time before you were asleep – dead, you supposed – and when you woke up.

Henry whispered your name. You finally met his gaze once again. He let out a deep, unnecessary and dramatic sigh as his forehead fell against yours. “You know that ‘I love you to death’ is only a saying, right?” he asked, “And that was a very dramatic way to say it.”

Your face flushed. “Who said that I loved you?” you squeaked.

“You did, when you went and took a man’s stake to the heart for me!” he shot back.

“Maybe I was just there and he wanted to kill us both,” you argued.

“Hm, and that’s why you said you were the vampire, is it? That you were real?” he asked.

You pressed your lips together.

His fingers trailed down your jaw and under your mouth, gently holding your chin. “There’s not a single way that I can think of that can match that, you know,” he sighed against your lips, “This will have to do.” He said a lot as he kissed you, making sure that you knew how much he loved you, that he’d loved you for an awfully long time, that it probably started when you first walked through his door, and you hoped that the kiss you gave in return said as much as your death did – that you loved him.

That you love him.

That you will always love him.

[klaus-is-the-real-number-1]

Where is my mind? (number 5 x reader)

ASK: five is stressed about the apocalypse, and reader notices and decides to play some slow music and asks him to dance. They begin to talk, some fluff, and reader suggest it’s time to stop going apocalypse after apocalypse, just enjoy the time they have left. five gets angry, and they have a huge fight. Lots angst and fluff.

A/N: uh not too angsty sorry :/ i also feel like its kinda a mess? but i am not sure but i hope you enjoy 

Words: 1229

Thunder cracked through the sky like a thousand whips going off simultaneously, accompanied by flashes of white mimicking an old fashioned camera capturing a moment in time. After a dry spell that was tied together with an astronomical heat wave, petrichor seeped through the open windows of the city was a welcome scent. It was the earth breathing as it rehydrates and re-energises, welcoming the soothing drops that were sent from the heavens, some may even say it was the Gods weeping.

Water dripped down into the room from the open window, droplets echoing around the dimly lit room. Disheveled books littered every possible surface, open at random pages that had to meaning to one another. They ranged from stories of untold truths, biographies about people before their own time and long complicated math theories that only the smartest people could wrap their heads around. 

Hunched over his desk, Five furiously scribbled away on scrap paper, writing the first thing that came to his complicated mind. Occasionally sipping from his hours old coffee, he shut himself off from the rest of the room and even the rest of the world, getting so entranced in the wonders of his own thoughts he became detached. Eyebrows furrowed as he read and re-read his work over and over, etching wrinkles into his forehead. His blue eyes were like an ocean that held stories that he would never tell a soul, sat at the bottom of the never endless sea in a shipwreck.

Slowly, you moved behind him and placed your hands on his tense shoulders, massaging with the lightest pressure to try and ease some of the tightly strung knots. As he relaxed into your hands you leant over to look at his writing, numbers and greek letters adorned many sheets that were all lined up neatly revealing the longest equation you had ever seen. It was an improvement from when you came into Fives room, numbers written in chalk covered his walls, overlapping to the point of it being illegible. Slowly, you started to buy him journals and notebooks and started to wean him off writing on his walls to keeping it all organised in one place. “Sometimes, I think you’re too smart for your own good.”

Just like a wave, his shoulders gently rose before crashing down as he sighed, lifting his hands to meet yours, gently running his thumb along your knuckles. Music drifted across the room causing Five to sway in your arms before abruptly standing up and spinning to face you, arms loosely drifting down your back and resting on your hips encouraging you to lift yours around his neck, swaying slowly to the rhythm of the music. His chest pounded like a thousand drummers beating their instrument simultaneously yet it sounded like music to your ears, a soothing melody that you could play on repeat over and over again.

“You know, Five,” You sigh as you sway to the music. “You don’t have to save the world when you don’t even know how it may end.” His body suddenly tensed followed by his grip loosening as he stepped away from you.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” His eyes were clouded with an anger, not being able to wrap his head around how you could even suggest for him to stop. “You won’t ever be able to understand.”

Without being able to get a word in, Five launched into a heated rant, eyes sharpening with every word that came out of his mouth. No stone left unturned as he ripped into the very fiber of your being, almost as he forgot who he was talking too yet it didn’t stop him bringing up your intelligence. What should of been a harmless comment from you to encourage him to relax tipped him over the edge in stress and all you could do is stand there and take the verbal onslaught.

Shakily, you brought your hand to your face to try to wipe away the freshly formed tears. As soon as Five saw your glassy eyes he stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes instantly filled with regret as he realised the gravity of his words. “Y/n, I didn’t mean-”

“I should go.” You cut him off, not even wanting to look him in the eyes in fear of tipping over the edge and not being able to keep the tears in any longer. “You just get so carried away, I don’t want you to get so stressed where you get to the point where you crash, Five.”

Before he could respond his door closed shut behind you, speeding down the stairs as fast as you could even if you knew Five could catch up to you in a heartbeat but you didn’t want him to see the tears flowing down your face. The carpeted stairs muffled your steps as you descended, tears now flowing like waterfalls down your face as you gained speed getting closer to the main door, vision blurred from your heartbreak of what Five had said. He had gotten angry before or at least let a mean comment slip through every now and again but nothing like this, it was as if the pressure in him was building like a volcano and only the smallest fracture would cause him to burst, there must be something he hadn’t told you but it didn’t stop your chest from hurting as much as it did.

When you got outside and cold droplets of rain hit your face you sighed, you knew you would have to leave him be just for one night so he can calm down. Luckly, you didn’t live too far from the Academy, at a quick pace you managed to get home in record time yet still didn’t avoid being soaked through to your core, shivering like a scared dog, you get ready for a restless night of hoping Five didn’t do anything he would regret and praying that your chest would stop hurting from his words.

Golden rays shone through the window as the sun slowly rose causing the birds to sing a song for the new day, as your eyes adjusted to the brightness they spotted a familiar dark figure sat at your desk. “Morning.” He spoke, a timidness present in his voice.

“You can’t just appear in my room while I’m sleeping, Five.” Your eyes followed him as he got up to sit on the side of your bed, sighing as he did so.

“I’m sorry about last night,” His eyes locked with yours. “I’ve been really stressed and I just didn’t think, I shouldn’t of taken it out on you.” Ever so carefully he rested his hand on yours and just like the night before he ran his thumb over your knuckles. “You don’t have to forgive me but-”

He never got to finish his sentence as you tightly embraced him, hearing him sigh with relief, raising his arms to mimic your actions before falling down onto your bed. He relaxed and got comfortable, the only sounds to be heard was soft breathing and the songs on many birds, chirping to celebrate the day. “Five?” You heard him hum. “I forgive you.” Without looking at him you knew he had a smile on his face, you just held him tighter as you both drifted back into calming nothingness of sleep.

[alderations]

you never changed, but i sure did

Nastya doesn’t know this, but she’s been floating in empty space for three years. (written for the @mechanismszine !)

Rating: T (for some swearing)

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Temporary Character Death, Post-Out, Memory Loss, Dissociation, Depersonalization, Angst with a Happy Ending

Nastya doesn’t know this, but she’s been floating in empty space for three years.

Nastya doesn’t know much of anything out here. Stars pierce the blankness, pricking her eyes like the tears that would form when it was too cold back home. It’s far too cold here, but her circuits, both metal and flesh, stopped processing that years ago.

She doesn’t have much to take in, between cycles of fading away and shivering back to life every so often when her mechanism can’t keep up with the crushing vacuum. There’s no logic to the moments of clarity in between her deaths, and maybe if she were aware of the anniversary of her self-imposed exile, she would resent it. Instead, her limited consciousness brings her back around to the same thought that’s haunted her since she stepped through the airlock doors: if the Aurora is no longer the Aurora, then who is she?

She’s had plenty of time to form an argument. At first, she would stare at the last remaining piece of her Aurora, mouthing her meaningless silence into the void, as if the tiny scrap of metal would answer her in saccharine Cyberian like the paradox her love always was. Now that Aurora is gone, she has no one to talk to, but she’s so frozen and so lonely that she can only cling to the same series of points.

So one more time, she asks: who is Nastya Rasputina?

A princess. Not remotely. She hasn’t been a princess since she took Carmilla’s hand, regardless of what her creator would say to her when soothing her girlish fears. A princess would have stood with her people when they needed her, rather than dying abhorred and forgotten. A princess was Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova, and Nastya shed that name the moment she had the chance. A princess probably should’ve been a good person. She never was.

Cyberian. Nastya’s heart shattered when she realized that her love could no longer answer her in their native language, but it’s not as if those same words stuck with eternal precision in Nastya’s mind. No matter how stubbornly she clings to the accent, she couldn’t remember all the parts of speech and verb tenses that her tutors made her memorize in her frigid interludes of reality. Had she and Aurora ever spoken real Cyberian to one another? She can’t remember, and the fuzzy emptiness where that knowledge should be scares her more than any of the possible answers.

A Mechanism. She played their music, she told their stories, she jumped headfirst into their pointless violence before her cold hands could stop their trembling. She said I don’t want to die and she suffered on an operating table just like the rest of them. And she knows that all of these things make her who she is, that all of these moments in her immeasurable life were the ones that defined it, but if she tries to put herself in her own shoes at any given point, she can’t remember what it was like to be that Nastya. It feels like she’s read her own biography cover-to-cover hundreds of times, but nowhere has the Nastya of the past reached out to remind her how it felt to live through it. Besides, she’s not like the rest of them—her mechanism has never been something discrete, something to separate from herself and love or revere or despise. For Nastya, Every capillary, every cell, aches with the knowledge that she’s not what she’s supposed to be, and no one understands this but her.

Dead. That one’s easy. Nastya Rasputina is dead, but not for long; she shudders back to life with a scream clawing at her teeth before she can ever really end.

Beloved.

She has been loved. Lots of things about her are fuzzy, some forgotten and some uncertain to begin with, but she knows that she’s been loved. Aurora lived in her veins, and Nastya in hers, and she remembers a Nastya who knew what it felt like to be loved so wholly that it was written into the fabric of her flesh. The rest of the crew loved her in their own ways—Ashes steadying her with an arm around her shoulders in crowded cities; Ivy listening and cataloguing every detail as she rambled about Cyberian machinery lost to the rest of the universe; Marius failing to school the awe out of his expression when she outplayed him on his own violin. And, always, Jonny hiding his affection behind a veneer of murder. Jonny, throwing Carmilla out of the airlock so she couldn’t hurt Nastya again. Jonny, crawling through miles of ducts and vents to find her when she went days without eating, even as he scowled at her and Aurora for being too sappy.  Jonny, bringing her trinkets and mementos every time she was too overwhelmed to stay planetside after a show. But Jonny watched her leave and did nothing to stop her. Now, who’s here to love her in the endless dark between stars? More importantly, who is she if not beloved?

Given all the evidence, there’s only one conclusion to make: she is no longer Nastya Rasputina. She has not been Nastya for a long time, probably even longer than she’s been floating in space. So even if her Aurora was still out there, still launching the Mechanisms from one tragedy to the next, she doesn’t deserve to be a part of that cycle.

The thought fades away, as always, moments before her lungs stop trying to breathe in the nothingness and she dies once again.

---

Needles prick every inch of her skin, inside and out, icy and blazing and unrelenting until she can’t draw in enough air to scream. Then there’s pressure, something cold-hot weighing down on her back, and light so harsh that she sees the afterimage of the stars that she’s stared at for decades, and sound. She can’t remember if she’s supposed to understand what’s happening. There’s no sound in the vacuum, but now she can hear every chirp and whisper and hum of the metal around her, and above all of it, a voice.

It’s been so long since she even remembered a voice.

“Get the fuck out of my way,” the voice barks, and Nastya only understands it because she’s been thinking in the same language this whole time, after all. There’s no resistance left in her, so she tries to move, only to slump to the ground. Was she standing? Strange. “Ashes, move. I said get out!”

The warm pressure on her back shifts, but doesn’t leave, and then something softer touches her face. Her body is faster to remember these things than her, but when she opens her mouth to reply, running on instinct and loneliness so deep it defines her, she can’t make a sound.

Another voice comes from somewhere farther away. “Be gentle, Jonny.”

“I am!” The blur in front of her moves in synchrony with the words. Jonny. Jonny. She’s supposed to feel something about that name. It’s not the name that aches inside her, deeper than her every conscious thought, but she should feel something about it. That feeling swirls under her surface, pushing at the edge of the emptiness that she’s made herself into, but she fades back out of reality before it can give itself a name.

---

“I rewinded to a few minutes before we pulled you in,” says Brian, prodding the screen with a gentle frown. “Are you sure about this?”

Nastya nods. “I—hm. Sorry.” She clears her throat, which she’s been doing every few minutes since she woke up, because even immortality isn’t enough to keep vocal cords working well after nearly a hundred years in space. “It’ll be… closure. At least.”

“Can I stay here with you?”

“Please,” she murmurs. He probably wouldn’t have left regardless, because they’re all afraid to leave her alone right now, but it matters that he asks. It matters that he takes her hand and runs a smooth brass thumb across her palm when she reaches out for comfort. Brian presses play, and the camera feed outside the airlock begins again.

Two minutes of silence, and then a cacophony of boots on metal and shouting and doors hissing open and closed as the crew realizes what’s about to happen. She still doesn’t know who actually tracked her down, who opened the airlock for her in the first place. By the time Ashes pounds on the keypad to open the inner door, Nastya is crumpled on the ground inside the airlock, skin waxy-pale and clothes filigreed with frost, and in the present her breath catches in her throat because she could swear she’s never seen that face before.

On the screen, Ashes drops to their knees and whips the coat off their back to wrap around Nastya, pulling her into their lap and squeezing her tight to their chest. There’s sound on the feed—muffled, but not enough to lose Jonny’s voice as he storms around the corner and shouts at Brian and Ivy to “get the fuck out of my way.” The body in Ashes’ arms flails hard enough that they nearly drop her, and Nastya catches a glimpse of her own face, etched into a frozen frown that makes her stomach go tight and uneasy. “Ashes, move. I said get out!”

Ashes lowers her to the floor, leaving their coat wrapped around her, and the Nastya on screen goes limp moments before Jonny throws himself down next to her and starts slapping her face. After a few seconds without a response, he lets out a scream of frustration as the other crew members back up to give him space. But for once his rage is contained, and he picks Nastya up instead, leaning his cheek against her forehead. She’s so much taller than him. Especially after a hundred years of space-vacuum spine decompression. Still, he’s practically jogging by the time he gets out of the airlock, the others following, and the door closes behind him on its own. The last thing Nastya fixates on is her own hand, limp and gray, dangling down from her body. It can’t be hers. She stares down at her hand in real life, but this one doesn’t look any more familiar.

“I s-still don’t know,” she starts, then pauses to close her eyes and take a deep breath when Brian turns to her. He’s so earnest sometimes, it’s hard to look at him head-on. “Who found me? Who got me out of space?”

Brian fidgets with the recording again. “I’m honestly not sure. Here, I can rewind farther—there was this… noise…”

Twenty minutes before the airlock opened. They watch a blank feed for a bit, Nastya’s hand trembling in Brian’s, and after a few minutes he sits down on the arm of the pilot’s chair and starts to stroke her hair. Every touch feels like a tiny shock, but she can’t stand the thought of him stopping. Then the sound comes from the camera feed—not an alarm, at least not one she’s heard before, and she is intimately familiar with Aurora’s standard operating signals. This is a wail, echoing from deep within the ship until the walls reverberate and everything pitches slightly to the left. A sharp turn, maybe? It probably shouldn’t show up on an internal camera like that, but that’s the least of Nastya’s concerns. “Was anyone on the bridge?”

“We can check,” Brian answers, hesitant. He pauses the feed and flips through the cameras—seven pods, kitchen, common room, bridge. Everyone is standing, apparently staring around in bewilderment, but no one is actively steering the ship. When Brian switches the feed again, it’s black.

They both stare at it for a second. “Engine room,” he reads off the top of the screen. “There… should be lights in there, yes?”

Nastya’s throat is too tight to speak. She hasn’t been down there—she’s barely been awake for half an hour, she’s not ready to come face-to-face with Aurora again. But she nods, and Brian presses play, and the wailing starts again, earsplitting even through the cameras. The video is still dark, but it’s clear that this is the closest they can get to the sound.

Of course it was Aurora. She didn’t need to see this to know, but she deserves this shattering ache in her chest, so she keeps watching. Brian apparently has other ideas, because he flips back to the airlock door again, and then switches the cameras to follow Nastya—in Jonny’s arms, and then Marius’s, and then lying on the sofa in the common room while Raphaella feels her forehead and the Toy Soldier bounces on its heels behind her—until she coughs half a dozen times and starts to wake up.

Through every moment, Nastya studies the face on the screen, recording every contour, every feature, every shadow. She can see the details, but when she tries to put them together, something isn’t right. “It’s not me,” she finally murmurs, leaning her head into Brian’s side. “I don’t—I can’t recognize… that person. That’s not me.”

“I can follow you all the way here on the cameras if you want—”

“No, I know,” she cuts him off, growing more insistent. “I know I’m wrong. I know, logically, that Aurora found me and plucked me out of space and you all dragged me inside and I’m here now and I’m fine now, but I don’t know that face, I can’t even recognize my hands in front of myself right now! I’m—I—I had almost a hundred years, according to Ivy, out there in space to think about it, and you know what I found out?”

Brian’s face is taut with concern when he looks down at her. “Nastya,” he pleads.

“I’m not Nastya. That’s what. I haven’t been—maybe I’ve never been Nastya, but I’m not now, and whatever the fuck I am is something that none of you know. Not Aurora, not even me. And they’re going to realize that, and what will they think then? How long will I have to watch you all mourn a Nastya who never existed every time you look at me?”

He stares down at her, mouth open but unable to form words, while she pulls her hand back to herself and curls up in the pilot’s chair, choking on a sob. There’s nothing to do but cry, when even Brian doesn’t know what to say and the camera feed keeps on going, inundating her with snapshots of a Nastya she never was. Shaky hands flicking the hair out of her face, shoulders brushing mindlessly against the walls of the ship, gaze fixed on Jonny’s ear so she doesn’t have to look him in the eyes. All of these things should add up to her, and instead she is empty.

There are thoughts building in the corners of her head, and she knows they’ll be dangerous if they can coalesce into words, but she can’t stop them. Jonny couldn’t, Ashes couldn’t, Brian can’t, Aurora—

As if she can hear Nastya thinking, a row of soft blue lights flickers on overhead. Nastya’s head snaps up, tears streaming down her temples, as every light in the room comes on in a wave, pulsing brilliant blue-white-golden over her and Brian, almost drowning out the stars ahead of them for a moment before they dim to something tolerable. When she knows she has Nastya’s attention, Aurora sings to her—sound traveling through the air, pulses of light, lines of code transmitted from the thrum of the metal underneath her and into her blood, carrying a thousand rehearsals of the same message.

I don’t care whether you’re the same Nastya, or whether I’m the same Aurora. I will get to know you again every time you wake up. I will love the person I meet more with every day. I am the one who loves you, and you are the one who loves me, and we belong here.

Nastya is crying too hard to form words, but Aurora’s song reassures her that she has nothing to defend. “Do you… want me to leave you two alone?” Brian interrupts, gesturing at the door.

It takes another minute for Nastya to calm down enough to answer him, but in that time, her hands find the control panel and, trembling, tap stream-of-consciousness binary into the metal until she knows that Aurora has once again heard her heart. “No,” she manages at last. “No, I want my family.”

Brian sweeps her into a hug, and the rest of the crew aren’t far behind.

[chrmimi]

hi✨ hello✨ i’m rina (21+, she/her) i was here for two secs a while back and then life got hectic but i’m back and i bring you ✨MIMI✨ no plot page atm but towards the end of this post i included a few basic ideas! i’m also always more than happy to do some fun musing/brainstorming back and forth hehe. otherwise, you can find me rambling on about my girl under the cut~ & don’t forget to hit that ♡ button if you wanna plot, i’ll come slidin into those dms momentarily xoxo

BIOGRAPHY

born in yokohama, japan to a single mother (who came from a long line of prestigious lawyers)

her legal name is ito misaki but she started going by mimi after moving to korea (misaki + miyeon)

long story short, she never really had much of an interest in her absent father until around middle school when her mom’s law firm was in need of a lot of her attention and mimi was, well, alone at home all the time

she started snooping around the house for any trace of her father and one day discovered her mom’s old diary (some mamma mia action but only 1 baby daddy lol) 

their love story was pretty much a whirlwind – he was a sweet, up and coming south korean idol trying to promote in japan who’d run into her by chance – things moved pretty fast but it was inevitable that he’d leave/wouldn’t stay to settle down and start a life with her in the foreign country, so she kept her pregnancy a secret during their remaining time together

after the discovery, mimi started looking into her dad’s identity heavily and discovered that he had moved on from his teen idol roots and was now a well regarded actor in korea (and a bit in japan too)

she is “coincidentally” a big fan and follows all his work (mom thinks mimi is just super into the hallyu wave and wants to get in touch with her korean side)

eventually mimi comes up with the super bright idea to move to korea in order to meet her dad one day (crossing her fingers!!!) under the guise of “pursuing a better education” and studies her butt off to receive a scholarship to the prestigious hannam high school since there was NO WAY her mom would deny her such a rare opportunity!!!

at hannam, she took advantage of the new start and basically lies about her father’s identity (his existence in general) and tells everyone who asks that he passed away when she was young

fast forward to the present day, mimi actually managed to score an internship to a pretty big entertainment company (spoiler: it’s her father’s)

her mother still has no idea of mimi’s true intentions and believes that mimi continued her studies and is currently a grad student at SNU (studying media and communication)

PERSONALITY

on the surface mimi is cheerful and easy to get along with

usually described to be bubbly and a bit ditzy (but vvv book smart)

she’s not above letting loose and having a bit of fun, but in general is a pretty straight laced person and will be that person who stop the party if it’s time to wrap things up (her mom’s influence, read: occasional buzzkill)

seems pretty carefree but is actually quite defensive/sensitive and will snap at u if u say something she’s not happy with

honestly, very selfish and puts herself and her needs first, always

overall, she’s kind of hard to read/is very two-faced and u just have to catch her at good times (i think that’s on me being a mess)

also very opportunistic and jumps at every chance to network/form professional relations 

PLOT/CONNECTION IDEAS???

scooby gang – i love a good bestie gang connection. and while i wish i could say that mimi is a daphne, i think she’s velma

frienemies

enemies

close friends, but everyone thinks they hate each other for some reason

childhood friend (from japan) – probably one of the few people who know that her mom has always been a single mom and that her dad didn’t actually pass away

language exchange – she helps you with your japanese and you help her with korean/english/etc.

co-workers??

“college classmates” – she turns to you for help covering her ass whenever her mom comes down to visit

on/off ex-bf(s) – messy and petty; mimi is prob 90% to blame

anything angsty – i can’t think of anything but lmk if i can ever be of assistance to u lol

aaaaand that’s about it (i think). i apologize for all the rambling but i look forward to interacting with yall on the dash!!! hehe

[fmdrorinarchive]

━━━━━━  𝖆 𝖓𝖊𝖜 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗 𝖆𝖕𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖆𝖈𝖍𝖊𝖘… 💋 〈  Below the cut is an intro for Michelle Chae of Chroma // Please 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖕𝖔𝖘𝖙 to plot, and thanks for reading !!  〉

𝖘𝖊𝖑𝖋-𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖗𝖔𝖉𝖚𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓.

Hi again, friends !! This is Boone ( 19+ / MDT / HE & HIM ) and you may recognize me as the typist behind Vive’s maknae, Yoo Rioh. I’ve decided to bring in another muse! Like Rioh, Michelle’s just starting out in her career and I can’t wait to see her grow. ♡ To find out more, please read onwards !! I can’t wait until she gets to meet all of your muses !! Oh, here are a few trigger warnings to look out for if you continue to read: mentions of drug addiction and parental abandonment; mentions of slut-shaming and misogyny.

𝖖𝖚𝖎𝖈𝖐 𝖋𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖘.

MICHELLE RORIN CHAE,  b. 19990620

BORN & RAISED IN VALLEY GLEN, CA

FORMER COMPETITIVE FIGURE SKATER

BC ENT / CHROMA & CHROMA EMBER

SUB VOCALIST, SUB RAPPER, VISUAL

𝖋𝖚𝖗𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖎𝖓𝖋𝖔.

RESEMBLES KIM MINJEONG ( WINTER ) OF ÆSPA

SHE STANDS AT A MODERATE 163 CM ( 5 FT, 3 IN )

CISGENDER FEMALE, USES SHE / HER PRONOUNS

GEMINI CANCER CUSP, YEAR OF EARTH RABBIT

HETEROFLEXIBLE, KINSEY SCALE #2, CURIOUS

𝖉𝖊𝖊𝖕 𝖉𝖎𝖛𝖊.

TRAJECTORY /  Michelle was born in Valley Glen, CA to David and Heesun Chae—the owners of a struggling restaurant in their neck of the woods. As a kid, she trained to become a figure skater, but when her father bailed on her and her mother because of a drug addiction, she couldn’t afford the expenses for coaching, etc. so she retired from it for now.  /  Instead of being able to truly enjoy her youth, she had to pick-up after school jobs in order to help her mom with bills, and for awhile, her only source of comfort was spent with guys that showed her affection. Her relationships with boys grossly gave her the title of a “whore” to her peers, so she sadly didn’t have many friends to lean on in high school.  /  Originally traveled to Korea to earn a nursing degree from SNU, but got scouted by BCE on her first day—prompting her to drop out of school to focus primarily on training. This enraged her mother as the plan was for her to become a nurse so they no longer had to worry about money.  /  After only a few months of training, she’s selected to debut as a member of Chroma. OTHER FACTS /  Not mentioned in her biography is the fact that she grew up in a fairly religious family. Mom and dad were raised Christian, so they raised their daughter the same. She was never into church, though. She always felt as though she was being judged harshly by the others in attendance. Hell, she even thought that of her mother quite often. Her style was never as pristine as her mom would’ve liked and no one understood her interests in the occult, in anime, in video games, and so forth. By the time she was eighteen, she stopped showing up to service altogether—which her mom didn’t like, but respected nevertheless.  /  She still likes to skate in her spare time... but she doesn’t really have any nowadays. You’d think that she’d be in the dance line due to her past in performance, but since she stopped skating, she’s lost a lot of her flexibility and power. She hopes to improve though!  /  She’s never had many close female friends, so she looks forward to hopefully bonding with her members as they grow closer. This is something she wants to change about herself a lot. INSPIRATION /  For Michelle, I pulled a lot of inspiration from a few different characters from television series, mainly Cassie Howard from Euphoria; Manuella “Manny” Santos from Degrassi: The Next Generation; Tessa Campanelli from Degrassi JH / High; and Britney Orton from We Are Who We Are, among others!

𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖔𝖓𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖞.

01.  On the surface, Michelle’s reasonably pleasant to be around. She has a deep interest in people, especially those she’s close to, so if you’re a friend of her’s, she genuinely wants to know all about you and deeply cares about how you’re feeling / doing. Some might perceive this high level of intrigue as romantic, and she’s... not ever really going to confirm or deny those types of feelings. She’s a huuuge believer in love and doesn’t want to end up like her parents, but also has no idea what she’s doing when it comes down to it. She didn’t have the best example to look up to, so you know. 02.  Michelle’s really talkative, and she’s witty, and she knows how to charm the pants off of most people, and while that’s loud and present in her character, she also has many faults. For one, her emotions are really strong and her mood is easily affected by others and events that occur in day-to-day life, so she has a tendency of being moody. That, and she also isn’t the best “rule follower” either. Does she care that there’s a dating ban in place for she and Chroma? Absolutely not. Did she experiment with drugs and alcohol in high school when they were forbidden to her? Yes. She’s not the best at making decisions, but she believes that taking risks shape better people... even if that belief’s a little skewed. 03.  Some people say that she might be a little too “sweet” for her own good sometimes and she’s prone to getting her heart stomped on, but she’s not all that innocent. While she’s a huge believer in love, she’s not exactly good at it. She enters in and out of relationships all the time, and she loves the honeymoon phase, but whenever it starts to get too “real,” she gets nervous and bails. Abandonment issues FTW? A very strong possibility. 04.  She’s also empathic to a fault on occasion. It’s easy for her to pick up on the emotions of others and it’s hard for her not to carry them on her shoulders. She’s had a difficult time learning that boundary for herself, and well, at this point, she doesn’t even realize that it’s a thing. Mother taught her how to be kind and nurturing towards loved ones, but she can take it to a degree that isn’t healthy for anyone—especially if love / romance is involved. 05.  Her chattiness can sometimes land her in trouble, but that’s because she has a hard time filtering what she says. Her mind runs a mile a minute and her speaking patterns are similar, so sadly, she can’t control what comes out of her mouth sometimes... pray for her.

𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖉-𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖔𝖓𝖘.

01.  If I were to make any sort of “claim” on what I imagine her voice sounding like, it’d be a lot like J from STAYC, maybe with a little mix of fromis_9′s Seoyeon. There’s a delicate husk there, and it’s a little lower than the others, but it’s extremely recognizable and unique. That is her biggest asset as a singer and rapper. She’s not had enough time to truly make drastic improvements to either skill given her short stint as a trainee, but she’s working really hard to get better and doesn’t want to be seen as just a pretty face forever. 02.  Dance-wise, she’s actually pretty strong—just nowhere near as trained as Chroma’s dance line. Due to her extensive background in figure skating ( and a little bit of ballet ), she’s got a really natural gracefulness to all of her moves; a fluidity that allows for strong body rolls, etc. Additionally, she focuses on clarity and sharpness, angles, as that’s what she’s most familiar with. Michelle also has great control of her hip-area and often adds variations to moves using her hips. If I were to select a reference, I’d say Oh My Girl’s Arin and TWICE’s Mina. Some of her faults are that her movements are often too light and soft, so whenever power is needed, she lacks strength there. She also has a tendency of making choreography look a little “sensual” without necessarily intending to. 03.  Loooves when people call her Mish or Chelle/Shell. Honestly, she adores nicknames—both giving and receiving them. She’s also a heavy user of pet names in conversation, but tries her best to stop if people are uncomfortable with it. 04.  Michelle’s typically not afraid of making her affections known, even early on. She’s the type that’ll definitely hit on you if she thinks you’re handsome / attractive, and goes with the flow if the person responds positively. If she gets really cozy with you, she can come off as clingy in the beginning, but that typically subsides with time. That’s applicable to both her friendships and her romantic relationships. 05.  Her public image is similar to that of Alice in Wonderland and Snow White—beauties with fair skin and wide eyes; imaginative and curious; trapped in purity and sweetness; soft, feminine, and delicate—but with a slight “edge” because of her rapping and quick wit. It’s hard for her to keep up with it all the time—especially when she’s a bit different personally—and she’s barely starting in her career. She hopes it evolves over time. 06.  She’s decided to go by her Korean name as an idol because it made the most sense, to be honest. Though, a few other stage names tossed around were: Chelle, Wooah, Hayan, Rozy, and Baekseol. In the end, she’s happy she’s just Rorin or Michelle to everyone.

𝖕𝖑𝖔𝖙-𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖘.

This section will be updated when her plots page is complete. Please look forward to it !! I’m getting it done as fast as I can. In the meantime, I’m happy to brainstorm and look over your muses’ plots pages too !! ♡

[moonysbitofmagic]

A wolfstar oneshot based on how my parents met, because I love the story a lot. Muggle au, takes place in Israel. Lots of Israeli slang is used - translation will be provided at the bottom.

“Adonai, not this one too!” Remus huffed to himself, observing the sign in front of him. It had been a mere month since graduating film school and arriving back to his hometown of Jerusalem before he decided that he wanted to travel yet again. The obvious first choice would have been to go back to London - where several job offers were waiting for him like yellow lights in traffic. Instead, he chose the northern outskirts of Tel Aviv: a smaller city named Herzliya. He had studied there too but completed almost half of his degree before realising that he wanted to experience more to life than the simple one he’d had in Israel, and the transfer to a school in London became quick.

Now, his feet in the warm sand, his golden hair feeling hot in the sun, and a backpack strapped onto his shoulders, Remus realised how much he had missed Herzliya. The sign in front of him only proved the changes that the city had gone through since his time away, and he crossed his arms in annoyance. It hung on a metal fence peacefully, reading in black letters and messy cursive: ‘This beach is closed. Trespassers will face prosecution.’

It wasn’t the first thing that had closed down. The only thing nearby, though, was a hotel that had long gone out of business, so what did he have to lose? With minimal effort, he placed his left foot in one of the fence holes and jumped over the metal barrier. He was alone at the beach - but what else did he expect?

Remus sat down on the warm sand and exhaled. The smell of saltwater and midsummer was one he had missed during his time studying in England. The August sun and sound of waves crashing against the shore became comforting as he leaned back, taking off the backpack from his shoulders. Upon resting the canvas bag on his lap, he reached into the thing and began to rummage through the items within. A biography about Alfred Hitchcock was quickly found with a happy sigh, taken out of the bag with the same speed it was found, a green bookmark detailing where he last left off was discarded beside him as he opened the book and began to read about his favourite director on the peace of the seashore.

It wasn’t long before the evening eventually crept upon Remus and his stomach began to rumble. His mother had always taught him to bring food wherever he went, and the decision to bring falafel pitas and oranges with him suddenly felt lucky. But upon setting his book down next to him and reaching into his backpack, he realised that he was no longer alone on the beach. He must have been too invested in his book to notice that a curly-haired man was now surfing along the waves of the ocean, standing upon a bright red surfboard in such a stance that looked both serious and laughable, finally crashing into the depths of the water with a splash.

Remus was barely into his falafel pita when the man finally came out of the ocean, red surfboard in hand, eyebrows raised.

“You could face prosecution for being here, y’know,” The man spoke, eyeing the fence behind them before looking back at Remus with a smirk. His voice was oddly soothing, his wet brown hair was swept over his face, and a black wetsuit hugging his body. Remus had seen countless people like this before, perhaps it was only his tiredness that made this feel a little stranger.

“Could say the same about you, mate,” Remus smiled back at him in amusement. “But since you’re here, may I interest you in an orange or a falafel pita?”

“Orange pita? Strange choice, achi. I’ll take the falafel one.”

“Nu, you know what I mean,” Remus chuckled, motioning at the few oranges laying on the sand. He searched through his backpack for another one of the falafel pitas he had made that morning. With an ‘a-ha’, he pulled another one out of the bag and handed it to the man as he sat down next to him. The surfboard was now reclined on the sand and utilised as a footrest for the two men as they ate. “Be ta’avon.”

A moment of silence ensued before the man turned to Remus and spoke, “So stranger-”

“It’s Remus, actually.”

“So Remus, what inspired you to break the law on this lovely day?”

“Stam. I used to live here. Came here with friends a lot. Wanted to visit again,” Remus spoke in between bites. “You?”

“Surfing, I came up here for the weekend,” the man pointed to the surfboard with his free hand. The other was occupied with the pita, a bit of hummus even blemished some of his face from eating the thing so swiftly. Remus couldn’t help but quietly laugh to himself at the sight.

“You don’t live here?” He asked the man.

“Nah, I live in Be’er Sheva-”

“-You drove an hour just to surf here?”

“Worth it, though, wasn’t it, motek?” The man winked at him, taking another bite out of his pita. By then, the sun was beginning to set on the horizon. It tainted the sky a pretty orange hue and made the ocean look dark red upon their collision. Remus regretted not bringing a sweater - it wasn’t particularly cold, just breezy. The man’s hair was now dry though, and the curls seemed especially prominent. Along with that and the nickname, Remus felt a blush coming to his cheeks. “I’d come here every day if I could, but I made the wonderful decision of studying at the med school in Be’er Sheva after the army, so here we are.”

“Ah, doesn’t sound hellish at all!” Remus chuckled.

“Shut up! I was a nurse in the army, it isn’t that bad,” The man laughed in return. It was required of all citizens to serve in the army for two years once they graduated secondary school, and the experience was just as unpleasant as it seemed. “You studying at the Center?” The man continued. He was referring to the Interdisciplinary Center - a well-known university residing a few blocks away.

“I actually studied at a film school in London, you wouldn’t know it,” Remus beamed. His falafel pita was far finished, and he was now beginning to unpeel one of the oranges he had also brought.

“Mah pitom! Maybe you can make a film about my life, eh?” The man poked him, a grin wide on his face. Remus liked him - a lot, actually. He seemed entertaining and funny and he was cute. Oh my god, he was cute.

“That’s going to be a bit difficult, especially considering that I don’t even know your name. So…”

“It’s Sirius, which honestly sounds very James Bond-ish.”

“Sirius: The Spy Who Loved Me. You’re right! Now all we need is fifteen million shekels and Pierce Brosnan.”

“Sounds like a plan!”

And they began to discuss the film and their lives and university and falafel and whatever else bubbled to the surface. It was the first time Remus felt truly welcomed in a while, to be quite honest - aside from a few close friends, university was difficult for the sole reason of how different England was from Israel. Sirius seemed to get him and his middle-eastern humour and he definitely didn’t judge him for his accent (not like Remus had one right now, he was speaking his native language). By the time the sun fully set and the sky was dotted with stars, the food Remus had brought was completely finished and he was happily worn out.

Standing up and stretching out his arms, a satisfied exhale escaped his lips. Sirius stood up and did the same.

“Let me walk you home,” declared the man, a wide smile on his face.

“Two problems: first, I’m staying at a hotel. Second, I don’t let strangers walk me home.” Remus frowned, picking up his backpack from the sand.

“I’m not a stranger, you know my name! I know yours!”

“We still only met a few hours ago,” Remus said. A sincere look was in his eyes, secretly hoping that Sirius would walk him home or that he didn’t have to have this stupid rule. But it was for his own safety, as much fun as that day had been.  Perhaps they would see each other again, which Remus honestly wished to happen.

“Alright, fine. But if you’re not here next weekend…” Sirius eyed him hopefully. He was looking more earnest than ever.

“I would be more than happy to break the law again for you, Sirius Bond.”

“Wonderful!”

Remus climbed over the metal fence and walked away from the beach with a massive grin and flushed cheeks.

TRANSLATIONS

adonai: the jewish god. uh-don-EYE.

pita: like bread or a tortilla. very commonly eaten with falafel and hummus. PEET-tuh.

achi: brother. used casually, like “dude” or “bro.” ach-EE, ch is the guttural sound.

nu: come on. noo, pronounced like the first syllable of nuisance.  

be ta’avon: hebrew version of bon appetit. beh tuh-uh-von.

stam: nothing or no reason. stuhm.

motek: sweetheart or darling. MOH-tek.

mah pitom: no way. mah peet-OHM.

shekels: the israeli currency.

[laurawritesandgames]

For Beetlelands Week 2020

Title: Write Like the Wind

Fandom: Beetlejuice (Musical)

Rating: T

Ships: Beetlejuice/Adam/Barbara

Prompt: One Bed

Summary: Adam wants to do something for nerd-kind now that he has ghostly powers. Beetlejuice and Barbara help out. Spoilers for The Winds of Winter.

When Beetlejuice returned from the Netherworld, he came back powerful. Barbara wasn’t exactly sure how—the story changed with each telling. 

But he returned with enough power to teleport her and Adam pretty much anywhere he could visualize. Thanks to Google Street View, he could visualize quite a few things.

Being able to teleport was very helpful when Adam had a specific request.

The ghosts and demon appeared inside a very fancy home, with sunlight streaming in the windows. Beetlejuice was hovering between Barbara and Adam, holding their hands. Barbara suspected this wasn’t strictly part of his teleportation ability, but it was a nice excuse to hold hands.

The demon shimmered in and out briefly, wincing.

“Everything okay?” Barbara asked.

“Teleporting all the way to New Mexico is a lot. We’re definitely gonna need to stop by a bolt-hole on the way back.” According to Beetlejuice, undead travellers could recharge in places with a lot of “death energy”—graveyards, usually, or famous battlefields.

The clicking of a keyboard drew the three of them to an office where a large, grey-haired man sat in front of his computer.

Adam sucked in a breath. “There he is,” he whispered.

Beetlejuice rolled his eyes. “Sexy, you’re dead. He can’t hear you.” Sure enough, the writer hadn’t turned around at the sound of Beetlejuice’s voice.

“Oh.” Adam looked a bit disappointed. “I guess I just assumed that he’d be attuned to the supernatural. He’s a master of the sci-fi/fantasy genre! Anyway, let’s go see what he’s working on.” He crossed his fingers as the three of them huddled around the author’s computer screen.

Barbara felt a bit awkward reading over someone’s shoulder, and looked politely aside. She’d never gotten into sci-fi and fantasy the way Adam had; he’d know better than she would what they were looking at.

Her husband’s face fell. “Wild Cards?!” he spluttered. “Wild freaking Cards! I know he only edits the anthologies, but they’re a distraction!” He ran his hands through his hair. “Just write the books, George!”

“I can take over his computer and threaten to start deleting files until the books are done!” Beetlejuice crowed. “Make it seem like he’s got a computer virus!”

Adam’s gaze flicked between Beetlejuice and the author’s computer a few times.

Barbara cleared her throat.

“No, of course not,” Adam said quickly. “Thanks for saving me from myself, sweetie.” He kissed her cheek. He focused on the author, holding out his hand. “Sorry about this.”

The author stopped what he was doing. He saved then exited out of the document. Adam searched through the computer files for a moment then made the author open up a document titled The Winds of Winter.

The document opened after a few moments. ‘Want to pick up where you left off?’ Word asked helpfully, and the author clicked on it. There were a bunch of unfamiliar words and names on the page that showed up.

No sense in me reading this. Barbara decided to look around a famous author’s office. She’d expected him to have a bunch of memorabilia from the TV show, but the furnishings were really quite ordinary. Unsurprisingly, there were a lot of bookshelves filled with books.

There was silence from the author, whose fingers were poised over the keyboard.

“C’mon, Sexy, get writing.” Beetlejuice hovered in mid-air, bobbing slightly. He was also eyeing the author’s office, but he was probably wondering where to put spiders.

“Er, there’s no way I can give him partial control, can I? I can’t write the next book!”

“Not how it works, newb.”

Adam sighed. “Okay. Um, my thoughts definitely won’t be his, but maybe I can make a start. Barbara, you took that course in creative writing in college, right? Do you have any tips?” Adam was an amazing man with many good qualities, but pure creativity wasn’t one of them.

“I can try, but I wasn’t writing award-winning fantasy novels back in college.” Barbara dredged up some memories of the TV show. “Maybe you should make the White Walkers show up! You know, inject some tension.”

“It’s an Arianne Martel chapter.”

Barbara had no idea what that meant. “Um…have a dragon show up?”

“I appreciate the thought, but Arianne is going to treat with Young Griff, and the entire point is that he’s a supposed Targaryen that doesn’t have dragons.”

Beetlejuice spoke up. “Have some brothers and sisters bone. Shove a little smut in there.”

“Not only does that not work in this chapter, I’m also not comfortable with that.”

“Or skip to a Dany chapter,” Barbara suggested. “I just want good things for her. How’s she doing, anyway?”

“Not well.” Adam made the author pull up a Dany chapter. He watched the blinking cursor for a few moments, frowning in thought.

Beetlejuice added, “You could write a bunch of dialogue in what’s basically a white room and see where it takes you. That’s an A-plus writing strategy, right there.”

Adam sighed, rubbing his forehead. After a few more moments of intense concentration, he looked away from the computer screen.

The author shook his head, blinking a few times.

“Maybe just having the document open will prompt him to write?” Adam asked hopefully.

The author closed out of The Winds of Winter and went back to a document called Wild Cards_edits.

Adam’s shoulders slumped.

Beetlejuice hovered closer. “Just casually mentioning that we can take out the phone, snap some pics of these new chapters, and threaten to leak them if he doesn’t write the books.”

“Photos of chapters over his shoulder?” Barbara said. “That’s pretty terrifying.”

The demon chuckled darkly.

“Ah. And that was exactly the point.” Beetlejuice might have changed a lot since his return from the Netherworld, but his love of fear and chaos that wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

“No, Beetlejuice,” Adam said. “It wouldn’t work anyway. What kind of writing would you get if someone was bullied into it?”

“Bleh, you’re no fun. Where to next, Sexy? That Rothfuss guy?”

“Let’s just go home.”

“Have to make a quick stop first, but okay.” Beetlejuice grabbed their hands and teleported them away.

They landed in someplace pitch black. Beetlejuice lit a match of neon green fire, revealing a small underground crypt barely large enough for the three of them. Every surface was draped with dust and cobwebs. A half-open coffin showed patchy, stained velvet. If there was a door to this crypt, the match didn’t reveal it.

Beetlejuice tilted his head. “Ahhh, that’s better.” He frowned slightly, as if listening to something. Barbara couldn’t hear anything. “Yep, think it’s still sandworm free! Lemme just recharge for a while.”

“You’ve been here before?” she asked.

“Nah, but I saw drawings from some ghost hunters back in the Netherworld. Ghost hunters can go topside to bring ghosts back, and they need places to rest, too.”

“So, ghost hunters are ghosts who hunt other ghosts?”

“Yeah, and they’re the worst. The Bureau of the Dead won’t let anyone go topside unless they’re a boot-licker. But it was good to know a few of their tricks when I got banished up here.”

Barbara glanced at Adam, who normally would’ve loved Netherworld lore. It wasn’t every day that Beetlejuice opened up about a place that was, in his words, “total Meh-ville.” But Adam wasn’t even listening. The gloomy atmosphere of the crypt fit his gloomy expression perfectly.

“Hey,” Barbara said softly. When Adam turned her way, she squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out the way you wanted it to.”

“I guess art just has to happen at its own pace. You can’t force it. I just feel bad for all the other dead readers who’ll never get to read the end of the series. All they’ll have is the TV show’s ending.” He snorted in disgust.

“Maybe you planted a seed. Who knows? Inspiration is a funny thing.”

“And there’s always fanfic,” Beetlejuice added.

“It’s not the same,” Adam said with a sigh.

“Heh, speaking of fanfic….” Beetlejuice hopped into the coffin. “Oh noooo. There’s only one bed!”

Barbara and Adam stared at him. She had no idea what he was talking about.

Beetlejuice huffed. “Oh, come on. None of you ever read a romance fic? Hell, a romance novel?”

“No,” Adam said.

“Not really my thing,” Barbara added. She was a fan of biographies and autobiographies of famous people, personally. “And, also? Not a bed. It’s a coffin. And sleeping in a coffin is also not my thing.”

“Jesus, so picky.” Beetlejuice snapped his fingers, and the coffin became their bed at home. “Get over here.” He hesitated then said, “Please.” Barbara and Adam had had conversations with him about asking instead of demanding; happily, it looked like those conversations were sticking.

Beetlejuice had just done them a huge favour, and a little cuddling might cheer Adam up. Barbara went to join Beetlejuice, shooting a questioning glance at Adam. He followed them, though he was still brooding.

She and Beetlejuice let Adam slide between them as the three sorted themselves out. (Sometimes, Beetlejuice would throw in extra limbs or a few clones just for the added challenge.) After some scooching and wriggling, Barbara’s cheek rested on Adam’s shoulder as she stroked his chest gently and held his left hand. Beetlejuice had one arm over the two of them and was, for some reason, nibbling on Adam’s hair, which sometimes became kissing the top of his head. After a while, you got used to a certain amount of weirdness.

Gradually, Adam began to relax. First, the tension left his shoulders. Then, he cracked his neck and his jaw untightened. (He’d needed to wear a mouthguard when he slept when he was alive. He was always grinding his teeth.)

“Maybe…” he murmured. “Maybe I could write the ending to the books. It’ll be fanfic, but it’ll be something, at least. I can work on that project while the Deetzes are asleep. I’ve never written fic before, but I could try. It’s not like I need to eat or sleep. And I’ve been looking for a new project ever since I finished the model.” His model of the town had a place of pride in the attic, which the Maitlands had cleaned out and repurposed into an arts and crafts room. They still kept up with their hobbies, but they had fewer now that they were busy rehabilitating Beetlejuice and parenting Lydia.

“I’m sure it’ll be great, hon.” Barbara kissed his cheek. “I’ll help however I can.”

“And I can tell you all about what fic tropes you can put in!” Beetlejuice said. “Or what fic tropes we can do ourselves.” He must’ve been thinking about some sexual ones, for he chortled and squeezed Adam’s butt. “Gotta keep the rating PG-13 for Beetlelands Week, but…you know which ones.” He winked at no one in particular, it seemed. Sometimes, he pretended he had an audience; Barbara and Adam just ignored it.

Beetlejuice moved to nuzzling Adam’s throat. After a few moments, he began patting Barbara’s hair.

Barbara giggled. “Aren’t you supposed to be recharging?”

“It’s called multitasking, baby.” Idly, he commented, “Shit, fluff is hard to end. How do you even end something that by its nature has low stakes and minimal conflict?”

What was he talking about? Barbara shrugged.

Adam thoughtfully said, “Maybe with a kiss?”

“Hah!” Barbara couldn’t help but grin when Beetlejuice laughed like that. This wasn’t an evil cackle or a dark chuckle, but an open, cheerful sound that she’d been hearing more and more since they’d started dating. “Perfect! You’re so ready to be a fic writer, Sexy!”

Beetlejuice kissed Adam on the lips, and the cuddling in a false bed in an underground crypt continued.

Not for the first time, Barbara reflected, My afterlife is so weird.

But it did have its perks.

[jaxsteamblog]

A Series of Confessions Chapter 8

Me, tossing another flower on Hayley Foster’s shrine: thank you for your abundant blessings.

Read Chapter 7

When Zuko went out to meet Katara later, he still had no idea what to tell her. She was waiting for him on a small footpath, a large bag hanging from her shoulder.

“Ready?” She asked.

“What’s all that for?” Zuko asked, gesturing toward the bag.

Katara gripped the strap with both hands and smiled at him. “You’ll see.”

The footpath took them to the back of the palace grounds and Zuko looked around to keep himself from staring at her. The moon had risen hours ago, but now as the sun pulled the orange light out of the sky, it was more vibrant. It wasn’t very large or extraordinarily bright, but Katara still had a bounce in her step for every full moon.

Hearing her pace quicken as her shoes crunched the rocks underfoot, Zuko suddenly realized where they were headed.

“Are we going to the hot springs?” He asked.

“This works better if we’re in water and I’m not walking into a turtleduck pond.” Katara replied, spinning around to look at him. Zuko smiled, but it faded as she turned back.

There was a vast cavern system under the palace, carved and molded by lavabenders from generations ago. A few of the rooms were protected by magma, but one enterprising bender decided to cultivate a pocket closer to the surface in order to make a hot spring. Zuko had occasionally wondered if he should ask Aang if that had been a Sozin or a Roku decision.

The spring wasn’t used often. None of the royal family was socially permitted to bathe in such a manner, and no minister would dare. Mai hadn’t been interested, equating it to sitting in soup.

Only his friends seemed to be excited about it and Zuko didn’t visit unless he was with them.

It meant this part of the palace was also fairly secluded.

Reaching the small building that housed changing rooms, Zuko and Katara slipped into their respective rooms. In the small chamber, Zuko was glad for the lack of a mirror. But just on the other side of the thin wooden wall, he could hear the shifting of fabric. Burning, Zuko looked down at the ground as he took off his shirt, focusing as he folded it.

Zuko stepped out wearing a pair of shorts, pushing his hair out of his face. He had been pushing off a haircut and it was becoming unmanageable.

Katara walked out next, still tying up her hair. She had upgraded her wraps for a Fire Nation suit that did just about the same. She looked over at him, her eyes glancing up and down.

“Your hair is getting long.” She said.

“Yeah I-” Zuko started as he ran his hand through it.

“You’re getting back to your tea shop days.” Katara interrupted, letting go of her hair and smiling at him.

Zuko smiled weakly back.

“I guess.” He said and Katara gestured for him to follow her.

“Let’s go.” She said.

The spring was split in two, to separate people on the vague concept of gender, but that never stopped them. Katara walked into the men’s side and Zuko trailed after her.

“Okay, start floating Fire Lord.” Katara said as she moved further into the spring.

Zuko obeyed, getting into the warm water and rolling onto his back. Swimming leisurely, he watched the violet sky move like a blanket over him. The stars had started to come out.

“Now, basically what I’m going to do is turn a lot of this water into healing water.” Katara said while she grabbed his shoulder, pulling Zuko closer.

“But.” Zuko said sharply and put a hand to his abdomen.

Katara laid her hand gently on top.

“Lightning does something I can’t undo.” She said softly before removing her hand. “Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Zuko frowned as he put his hand back in the water.

“I’d think you’d be more interested in this.” Katara said while she walked to stand at his head, tapping the scarred side of his face.

“It’s grown on me.” Zuko mumbled. “Well, we’re not thinking about that anyway. Close your eyes.” Katara said and Zuko again obeyed.

He closed his eyes and immediately was aware of the strong mineral scent of the water.

“While I get started, start thinking of your happy thought.” She went on and Zuko took in a deep breath.

At this moment, if he couldn’t consider himself happy, he was at least content. Zuko could feel Katara standing at his head, and was acutely aware of her presence. She acted like a divining rod for his memories.

He remembered Ba Sing Se and the tea shop. Zuko had been happy there, but it all fell apart when Azula showed up. Katara had been the one to tell her he was there, and she had apologized for not stepping in herself.

But Zuko wasn’t sure that would have been better, as he also remembered Jet taking matters into his own hands.

Still, Katara had listened to him in the catacombs. Though he made sure to drive that into the ground.

“Happy thoughts, Zuko.” Katara chided. Zuko took in another deep breath.

Five years had passed since the end of the war. They were adults now, with lives that weren’t dictated by destiny or fate. Sokka had taken up painting, and was considered a savant for his ability to paint mirror images. Suki used to meet regularly with Aang in order to write a biography of Kyoshi, and now worked to visit the places the former Avatar described. Toph loved the Foggy Swamp and often disappeared amongst the roots for weeks at a time. And Aang was, of course, leading the new iteration of Air Acolytes.

Katara was drawn to knowledge, soaking in it and collecting it in vast reservoirs. She had studied for a time under a teacher in Ba Sing Se, but spent her time traveling with Aang to learn something new.

It was a pastime Zuko shared, and he often found himself perusing various libraries or shops for a book to send her.

They wrote to each other then, sometimes short notes and sometimes exchanging treatises on what they were reading.

“At least you’re relaxing now.” Katara said lightly.

She introduced him to other types of philosophy. There was a concept that life was a wheel, that everything was connected, and that everyone owed each other the blessings of the divine life they all contained. Zuko appreciated the sentiment, but couldn’t bring it into his own life.

Though he certainly felt like he owed some debts.

Hadn’t he decided long ago that he would give his life for her?

It hit him like a lightning bolt and Zuko gasped as he sank in the water. Thrashing about, Katara grabbed him firmly under his arms, yanking him out. Sputtering and choking, Katara smacked her hand on his back to urge out whatever water he attempted to inhale.

“What was that? It was just starting to work.” She said.

“It’s nothing.” Zuko said hoarsely, pushing away from her.

“Did you at least find your happy thought?” Katara asked.

Holding his throat, Zuko turned. He wished he had choked as the words came up with a cough.

“It’s always been you.”