#story: What A Dandelion Can Do | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

humanjarvis · 18 days ago

Text

serenade

synopsis: when top music critic sylus qin gives your new album a scathing review, you plan a performance to make him pay.

tags: celebrity au, porn with plot, enemies to lovers (reader hates him, sylus is generally a bastard but just doing his job), mirror sex, p in v, light choking, moderate biting, size difference, dramatic reader, reader does some light internet stalking, brief angst only bc sylus’s review was mean, he does something nice at the end to make up for it, inspired by dandelion by ariana grande pairing: music critic!sylus x pop star!fem reader word count: 7.2k

a/n: writing this was a traumatic experience i literally decided i was going to finish and upload today 12 hours ago because i cannot have this in my drafts any longer

I. THE RATING

“A fucking 4.7?!” you screech, hurling your phone across the bed in horror.

It must be a mistake. A typo, or maybe your eyesight has gotten worse since your last checkup. Paparazzi cameras can do that, your optometrist had told you once. Yes. You’re sure that’s the case.

Taking a moment to breathe—hyperventilate, more like—you snatch the device back up and double-check with wild eyes.

And sure enough, in big bold letters: Four. Point. Seven.

There was no way. No fucking way that that hard-ass snobby bastard Sylus Qin had given your new album—the record you’d poured your heart and soul into—a 4.7/10 rating.

You refresh and refresh, but the numbers stay the same. 4.7, followed by heartless jabs that carve into your chest like daggers. Failed. Uninspired. Noise.

You must have died last night, somehow. You must be dead right now. And for some reason unbeknownst to you—you’ll have to talk it out with God if you ever get the chance—you had woken up in Hell.

Life as you knew it was over. The little ghouls who hounded you online were going to throw you to the wolves. Your agent would be lucky to book you at a high school bake sale. The reporters—if you even counted as a celebrity anymore—would never let this go. And there was only one man to blame.

Sylus Qin.

The name alone struck fear into the hearts of the entire pop industry. Not even the living legends with decades-long careers were safe.

The man himself was an enigma, with little known of him other than his unnaturally deep voice and moderately vampiric appearance. But the reputation that preceded him was that of the most renowned music critic alive.

No one knew how he got his start—maybe he’d just spawned onto Earth one day, slashing dreams and breaking hearts. Or maybe his mother had played him the classics while she carried him, murmuring to her belly about what true music was, and he’d been ranting about artistic integrity and sonic evolution since before he could walk.

No matter what his story was, the facts were that your peers lived in terror of a bad Sylus Qin review—or any Sylus Qin review, really. He’d ruined so many careers, it was like he had a yearly quota.

And the prick had just given what you’d thought was your magnum opus the industry equivalent of a public hanging.

As frustrated tears well in your eyes, you take a look around the house you’d only just managed to buy—the cozy Gothic fireplace, the customized in-home studio, and the quaint little garden. It was all still so new to you. And just like that, you’d have to give it up soon.

You were wholly, utterly, and hopelessly fucked.

***

Death. You’d imagined it’d be…more peaceful. Less emotional devastation, more belated introspection.

But as you shift under the weighted blanket you’d rolled yourself up in, the sudden movement disturbing the heap of tear-stained tissues on top of you, you realize how much you hate being wrong.

Your life had officially been over for almost 22 hours. And in those hours, you’d stared at the wall, ignored 36 text messages, opened and immediately closed your socials countless times, and sobbed into your satin pillowcase.

As you roll away from the sliver of sunlight slipping through your curtains with a pained hiss, you hear the heavy footsteps climbing up your marble staircase.

Oh well, you shrug inwardly. Not like it can get any worse. If it’s an intruder, they can have at it. Put me out of my misery.

But as a familiar pattern of knocks precedes the door swinging open, allowing more light than you’d seen in the last day to flood the room, you realize that this may be a fate worse than brutal murder.

“You can’t answer your phone anymore or something?” the tenor voice of Devon, your beloved, overbearing manager cuts through the room.

“Go away,” you mumble, the sound muffled by the heavy blanket covering your mouth.

You hear an incredulous snort. “Go awa—Girl, get up,” he snaps, walking up to tug the blanket off of you. As he heaves it to the foot of the bed, the army of tissues scatters across the room like huge snowflakes of failure, and your jostled body ends up sprawled in an almost-perfect diagonal from the impact.

“I’ve been calling you all morning! And not only do you not pick up, but you block my number? You had me rushing over here to do a wellness check like you died or something.”

“Oh. Well,” you begin nonchalantly. “In case you haven’t heard, I did. Yesterday. And I’m finding it to be quite pleasant, actually,” you lie through your teeth and purse your lips, “so I’d like to continue being dead, please. Alone.”

“Yeah. Right,” he responds, mouth wedged open in a clearly annoyed grimace. “Okay, we do not have time for this, girl. You got a fan engagement livestream scheduled for this evening. You’ve never canceled a stream, not even when you lost your voice from that virus that one time. You really gonna let that man break your streak?”

At the mere reference to his existence, your face shrivels and you curl into a defensive ball. “Oh, what’s the point?” you wail, shoving your face into the mattress. “There will probably only be 4.7 viewers. And then the tabloids will be filled with news about how I’m talentless and unpopular.”

Devon closes his eyes, pinches the mahogany skin of his prominent nose, and releases a slow, controlled exhale.

“Okay,” he starts, visibly switching tactics. “If your own fans—you know, the people who made you famous—can’t get you out of bed, maybe this will.” He takes a deep breath, as if bracing for impact, before continuing. “I have it on good authority that Sylus Qin is doing a TV interview. Tonight.”

And in the middle of an agonized writhe, you freeze in place.

“He never does interviews,” you say lowly, voice suddenly hard enough to cut diamond. “He’s never done an interview, D. Stop bullshitting.”

“Dead serious,” he replies, shoving his too-bright phone in your still sideways face. And sure enough, mysterious critic act be damned, Sylus Qin’s name is in bright bold letters on the hottest talk show in the country’s latest social post.

Failing to suppress the anxious pang in your chest, you swallow thickly. “It’s…real. You weren’t….he’s actually going to…right after…he…” The world starts spinning as you trail off, and when the dry heaves start up on their own, you wonder if it’s possible to die twice.

“Chill! Girl, chill,” Devon yells, firmly sitting you up on the bed. “My contact in production said he’s not talking about his work. He’ll be there to announce something, so he shouldn’t mention you unless they ask.”

“Unless they ask,” you cry, slapping your palms to your face.

“Which they won’t,” he adds in unsuccessful reassurance. “I just figured it might wake you up a bit. You’ve never seen him before, right? Maybe some exposure therapy will help.”

Chewing your bottom lip hard enough to leave marks, you consider your options. You could either kick your manager out and wallow in bed until you get a foreclosure notice, or get up, grit your teeth through the livestream, and rush back to your bedroom afterwards to hate-watch Sylus on national television and pray he doesn’t speak your name.

Your conscience and the voice in your head confer, and it seems like your anxiety has beaten your depression this time. Second option it is.

II. THE INTERVIEW

After an excruciating hour of smiling blankly, avoiding talking about your album, and pretending not to see cruel comments, the stream is over.

It was time to stare Death in the face.

With 8 minutes to spare, you run up the stairs from the streaming setup in your studio and catapult into your walk-in closet, ripping your intricate work clothes off and diving into the comfiest loungewear you can find. If you were going to do this, you were going to do it comfortably.

3 minutes. You dim the lights and flip the TV on, having already set it to the right channel in a bout of paranoia hours ago. Your house is empty except for you, but you trot over to shut the door just in case. A potential humiliation ritual was a private affair.

And with 30 seconds to go, you unmute the TV and slowly climb onto your bed, sitting cross-legged and letting out the kind of breath you’d spent hundreds on mastering in pilates.

The cheery, inauthentic talk show theme fills your ears, and you lift your eyelids open in resolve.

A corny host intro. A brief band performance. And then, a tall white-haired man is strolling across your screen.

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the illustrious Sylus Qin!

Your heart stops.

“Thank you, it’s my pleasure to be here,” a baritone purr rings out. Unnaturally deep voice, huh. They’d been right about one thing.

And then he sits on the smooth leather couch, turning his body to face the camera.

Sylus Qin is…young. Not some wrinkled up curmudgeon out to terrorize the youth in his bitter old age. By the looks of it, he hasn’t even reached his 40s yet.

Another observation. Sylus Qin is big. To be tall is one thing—not that special in a world of models doubling as singers—but this guy nearly swallows the sofa with his huge, obviously muscled frame. You wonder how he finds the time to work out between ruining lives.

And as you take in his chiseled appearance—certainly vampiric, you think—you realize with unprecedented dread: Sylus Qin is handsome.

“Mr. Qin,” the host begins, “we know this opportunity is extremely rare, so let me just say—it is our absolute honor to have you here during such a busy time for you.”

It’s an ambiguous reference, probably not even to his most recent work, but you flinch backwards anyway.

“Not a problem at all,” he drawls smoothly. “And just ‘Sylus’ is fine. I heard you all like to…have fun on this show.” He finishes the reply with a conspiratorial smirk, and you can all but see the women in the audience swoon at his despicable charm. “Like you said, this is a rare moment. You’re here to ask, and I’m here to answer. So, ask away.”

“Perfect,” the host starts. “So, Mr—ahem—Sylus, you’ve built your reputation through exclusive music correspondence for a variety of publications…”

***

As the minutes tick by and your hatred turns to intrigue, you start to really study the man in front of you. Learn his unique cadence, contemplate the angle of his aristocratic nose. Take in the way his ruby eyes glint when he talks about music, the way he sounds older than the age listed on his Wikipedia. And his IMDb. And his famousbirthdays.com. You’d triple-checked.

You note the way he smirks at difficult questions, as if welcoming the challenge and begging for something harder. The way he crosses and uncrosses his thick, long legs as he weaves his answers into an impromptu PR masterclass. The way he panders to the audience so subtly you’d think it natural—if not for the way his large palms open when he looks their way, as if luring them into his trap from the stage.

Fuck, he’s hot. And you can’t even try to pretend otherwise.

Until a particularly sore subject snaps you out of your ogling and draws you back into the conversation.

“Now, Sylus, you may be a critic, but you’ve received some criticism yourself lately for your ‘harsh and grating’ reviews, especially in the pop sphere. Some go as far as to claim you’re even biased against pop artists. What do you say to that?”

And Sylus Qin chuckles. The bastard chuckles. As if he actually finds it funny.

“I give albums and their creators the reviews they earn,” he says evenly. “I didn’t get to where I am today by handing out participation trophies.”

He’s doubling down. You can’t believe he’s doubling down.

“I’ve heard that some recent articles of mine have…ruffled some feathers. There’s never a shortage of angry fans in my inbox,” he shrugs. “But it’s my job to speak up when projects are…uninspired. You all get better music that way,” he quips, spreading his palms once more.

Uninspired. Uninspired. The word that’s flashed in your head nonstop for the past 36 hours. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise.

That was the exact quote he’d left in his scathing review of your album—you remembered. Because you’d read it—cried to it—over. And over. And over. And he’d just alluded to it with a smirk on his face, the crowd eating straight from his outstretched hands, in front of the entire country.

Ugly, uncontrollable shame heats your face as the all too familiar tears sting your eyes once more. As you search for the remote through blurry vision, your blood burns hotter than lava, and you curse yourself for letting your guard down. For seeing any redeeming qualities—even if only physical—in a man with his reputation. With his lack of empathy.

When your fingers close around the controller and you stumble off the bed, more than ready to click the TV off and return to the glorious rot-until-you-get-kicked-out plan, you freeze as Sylus speaks again.

“That said,” he continues, “I encourage any artists who’ve been offended by my commentary to come chat about it in person. That’s my reason for coming here, after all—to announce that I’ll be attending the annual Spirit Awards this year.”

Thumb hovering over the “off” button, you blink your tears away in disbelief. The Spirit Awards. You know that show. You know that show well. Because as thanks for your viral performance at last year’s event, you’d been invited to sing in the main performance slot.

You were going to headline. And Sylus Qin would be your audience.

As the interview ends and his figure fades to black with the next commercial, a sudden realization talks you down from the ledge.

This was your chance. To give the best damn show you’d ever put on, to reclaim the work whose meaning had been stolen from you. To sink his reputation, and to save yours.

Maybe it’s a good thing he looks the way he does, you think, a slow smile spreading across your increasingly mischievous face.

Because for the first time in almost two days, you’re confident. Confident that you’ll not only get him to change his mind, but that you’ll get him. Period.

Sylus Qin, we’ll see about that fucking 4.7 when I’m done with you.

III. THE PLAN

Bleary eyes. A full night of sleep lost. And three 12-ounce iced coffees delivered straight to your door.

But after eight and a half hours, Operation: Silence Sylus was a go.

After the interview, you’d set up a makeshift situation room in your studio. You’d hauled all your devices—phone, laptop, monitor, smart watch, you name it—into the space for backup. Anything that could find information, you needed. You’d have even dragged your smart microwave in here if you could figure out the wires.

But, all things considered, the setup had been the easy part. Because what came after was an informal case study on the most elusive man in history.

You’d started simple: his social media.

There was more to work with than you’d expected, but nothing too crazy. He had 2.6 million followers—a fraction of yours, you’d smirked, but still good for someone whose work is out of the spotlight.

His photos had no discernible aesthetic, as if he posted them straight from his camera roll. And his upload patterns…the lack of marketing was so severe it sent a shiver down your spine. The man posted a few times a year, if that, and the captions he did include were vague and simple. He’s lying about his age, you’d decided, because this guy is old as fuck.

But Sylus’s dire need for a social media manager was far from the most interesting thing you’d noticed. No, in all your 264 weeks’ worth of research—you’d scrolled until the app wouldn’t let you refresh anymore—not a single other person was featured on his feed. Like, there’d been more motorcycle pictures than humans on there. You’d have chalked it up to the narcissism typical of men like him, but he hardly even posted his own face.

And as shameful as it was to stalk the man who’d publicly humiliated you’s Instagram to see if he had a girlfriend, it was absolutely necessary. If the answer was yes, it’d put the whole plan in jeopardy! You were simply doing your job as a diligent creative, covering all your bases in advance. How would you seduce him into changing his mind about you if he had a fucking girlfriend? Or worse?

That would be your next stop, then, you’d nodded resolutely. His dating history.

But no matter how many articles you read; how many variations of Sylus Qin girlfriend, sylus Qin single, Sylus qin married, sylus qin Boyfriend you’d put in the search bar; how many viruses you’d probably gotten on your laptop from clicking through trashy tabloid sites; there was nothing. No photos, no reported sightings, hardly even a rumor. You’d typed in Sylus Qin asexual as a last resort, but that came back empty, too.

You’d sat in disbelief for a second, wondering how he could be so…clean. Even with his…glowing personality, his looks and success more than made up for any quirks. In this town, people should have been throwing themselves at him left and right, bogeyman allegations be damned.

But there was no mistaking it. As far as romance was concerned, the man was a blank slate.

Good thing you were coming for him with a big feather pen, ready to brand your name into his skin.

***

After analyzing his public image and making sure no…obstacles would block your path, it was time for a personality study. And where better to start than his full catalogue of reviews? His portfolio was practically front and center on his publication’s website—all 114 articles offered to you on a silver platter.

Almost immediately, you’d taken a nervous breath and hastily clicked past the most recent page. The abject horror of the 4.7 was still too fresh on your mind, and you’d be damned if tonight ended with a traumatic episode. So you’d landed on the second most recent page, starting with reviews from a couple months ago. And you’d read.

104 irritatingly confident articles. You’d read his praise, his disappointment, his bewilderment, his disgust. His beautifully packaged this-person-should-be-sent-to-prison-for-making-this-es. No matter how much you disagreed with some—most—of his takes, he was an incredible writer.

He tolerated jazz the most, it seemed. The smooth melodies, the warm embrace of the trumpet, trombone, and sax. It was so incredibly old. But it suited him.

“The riveting blend of brass and reed solos marks the triumphant rebirth of a fallen genre,” he’d complimented a band earlier this year. Looking at his preferences, it was no wonder why your synth-heavy pop beats seemed to have personally offended him.

But for all the things Sylus thought he knew about you, he was missing a few key items:

You were desperate. To win back the public, to win his approval, to win him.

You were planning a deluxe album with six new songs. And one of those songs said please fuck me disguised under a sensual trumpet solo.

You were desperate enough to release said album and perform said song a month early, solely to prove a point.

And with one screaming match of a phone call to Devon at 6 a.m., it’d been done.

You hadn’t coordinated with your dancers yet. Or told your label. Or informed the Spirit Awards producers that you’d be changing your set. But in your sleep-deprived, caffeine-jittered mind, it was all but confirmed. Your next performance would be dedicated to Sylus Qin.

There was only one more piece to put into place. With newfound conviction, you’d reopened his Instagram and clicked “Direct Message” before you could talk yourself out of it. And while you’d have liked to send him a colorful list of expletives, you maintained your professionalism.

Hi! I heard you’re going to the Spirits next Sunday. Hope you’re in the crowd for my performance—would love to chat after :)

The passive aggressive smiley face of doom. Sent and delivered.

His fate was sealed, but he didn’t know it yet.

Between excited bounces of your leg, you’d taken a final pass at his portfolio, and your eyes found your name before you could stop them.

“Deeming the music passable is more of a compliment than any listener should be willing to give. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise.”

Failed. Uninspired. Noise. There they were again, the insults seared into the back of your mind.

A reminder of your shame, but a motivator for you to make him eat his words.

IV. THE PREP

You’d always loved awards shows.

The buzz of energy backstage, the rushed glimpses of peers and legends, the flamboyant accessories and vibrant strips of fabric strewn across the floor. The kind of chaos you’d learned to thrive in.

After making the rounds of greetings and introductions, you take a break outside your dressing room in the main hall. Your stage outfit was already on and hidden under a frilly robe; you always liked to arrive early in case of any mishaps. (Lesson learned from the time you’d been fashionably late and had to go onstage in an unfashionable loose corset. That had slipped down mid-song.)

Chatting with your head dancer, you laugh at a video she shows you on her phone before spotting something in the corner of your eye: a flash of white hair.

Your body goes rigid.

But the lightning-quick twitch in your eye is forcing you to turn around, and your breath hitches as soon as you do.

Sylus Qin is here.

Just as he said he’d be, you suppose, but it’s no less surreal seeing the object of your warring emotions in the flesh.

Somehow, he’s taller than he looks on camera. Bigger, too. How someone whose job involved hunching over a laptop writing hate mail every day could be built like a professional athlete, you’d never know.

Black slacks are snug around his strong legs, and he’s paired them with a silken, wine-red shirt that you’re sure would match the color of his eyes if he’d just turn arou—

It’s like he heard you. Felt you.

Because before you can even finish your thought, Sylus Qin’s bewitching ruby eyes are on you.

When your jaw drops slightly, his lips curl. And as that lazy, taunting, I’m-better-than-you smirk spreads across his gorgeous face, it reignites the feelings that got you here. The hatred and humiliation and unyielding spite.

So with flames in your eyes, you pat the dancer on the back and give her a cheerful platitude before storming—no, sauntering, you should saunter—over.

When he bends his neck to accommodate your comparatively small stature, Sylus Qin watches you like you’re his favorite reality show.

“Sylus!” you squeal, pulling him into a side hug. One thing you’d learned in the industry: overfamiliarity was the best form of offense. “It’s so nice to see you here! I’m glad you could make it.”

You expect him to falter. To push away from you in a decidedly rude yet necessarily humanizing show of uncertainty. For that condescending smirk to waver in confusion, only a little.

But to your surprise, he simply wraps a very muscled arm around you and returns your embrace. He’d been trained well, you lament with an inward groan.

“It’s great to be here,” he says smoothly, and the way he rumbles your name makes you want to forego the performance entirely and beg him to take you here and now. “Especially since someone was nice enough to invite me to watch their performance. I get the opposite, usually—people typically fake illness when I watch them in person—so I just had to see this for myself,” he drawls.

At some point, he’d laid his warm hand on your robe-clad shoulder, rubbing up and down in time with his slow words. But like that wasn’t enough, you’d almost been too wrapped up in his heady scent to notice. In his teasing embrace, the smell of spice, leather, and a hint of pomegranate envelop you, and you have to school your expression to look like you aren’t huffing it in.

As you stare up at him blinking dumbly, you notice his smirk widen, and somewhere in the back of your head you remember that conversations are two-sided.

“Y-yes,” you try to assert, cursing the way your voice shakes with need. “It’s right up your alley. I think—I know you’ll like it.”

“You know, hm?” he quirks a brow, circling his thumb against your arm.

“I know. It’s a new song, much more to your liking. Think of it as…a tribute. To your glowing review of me,” you reply coldly, untangling yourself from his hold despite your body’s protests. If you had any chance tonight, you had to level the playing field. Which meant Sylus Qin could not touch you anymore.

“Mm,” he hums, eyes lingering on the spot you’d detached yourself from before flicking up to your face. “I reviewed your album, sweetie. Not you. Even so, nothing I said was untrue,” he shrugs as you bristle with rage. “But…if your performance is to my taste, as you claim, then you’ll know my review soon after. Before the end of the night, I’d say.”

His words are intentionally vague, as if he’s goading you into asking what he means. But under the heat of his gaze, you’re too prideful and angry and turned on to ask for clarification.

“Then I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” you challenge him with a saccharine smile.

He nods plainly, as if merely entertaining the idea of you ever impressing him. “I guess we will.”

That twitch in your eye? It’s back with a vengeance.

Before it can overtake your whole face, you spin on your heel and sashay away from him, pretending not to care if he watches you leave or not.

Refusing to stop before you’re out of his sight, you disappear into your dressing room and slump into the nearest chair. As the stylists flock over to put the last touches on your hair and makeup, you try not to chew your nails off and ruin your fresh manicure. Damn him, you think for the 300th time in a week.

***

In the center of the room, a monitor broadcasts the show’s live feed. The early portions go by in a blink—time flies when you have pre-seduction attempt anxiety, you guess—and before you know it, it’s 10 minutes to showtime.

As soon as you’re clear to set up on stage, you make a beeline for the curtain and pull it back ever so slightly, looking for Sylus in the crowd. And just to your luck, there he is, sitting pretty in the second fucking row. Great if you don’t mess up, catastrophic if you do.

Just as his all-knowing eyes shift toward the stage, as if he somehow felt your gaze from afar, you inch back into the inky shadows of the curtain.

Two minutes to go. Clenching your hands into fists, you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe.

It was time to channel the outrage, embarrassment, and devastatingly irritating lust into the performance of your life.

V. THE SHOW

The soft swells of a trumpet float through the hushed arena.

The player, first chair in a local jazz ensemble, sways gently to the beat, his dark skin glowing in the warm stage lights.

In time with the soulful melody, dozens of dancers fan out around the bar set, fiddling with prop bottles of fake booze. Your hours of research had pointed you in one direction: a speakeasy theme.

Perfect for a jazz intro, and seductive enough to get your point across without getting you banned from live television.

The outfit under your robe was a modern take on the 1920s: a bejeweled crimson flapper dress, sharp black stilettos, and a thick raven’s feather nestled in your hair.

Just like you’d practiced, you stumble onto the set, miming drunken confusion as you trip into a male dancer’s arms. You shoot him a flirtatious smile when he steadies you, only for your attention to be captured by the trumpet still crooning in the background.

Enraptured by the player, you glide across the stage to lean against him, standing back-to-back with your hands on your heart. The tassels on your dress flow in time with the sultry swirls of your hips.

A few more beats, and the intricate solo dwindles into the main riff that marks the true beginning of your set, to the audible gasps of the crowd. Look, you liked jazz as much as anyone—well, maybe not someone—but this was still your song. Your stage. And you were here to wake it up! As good as the player was, you had hypothetical sex to sing about.

So the trumpet fades out, replaced by a poppy trap beat. Between each drum hit, your female dancers crowd you, tearing off the edges of your dress until you’re left in a shimmering red bodysuit.

Strutting across the stage, you work through the lyrics of the first verse, eyeing the audience as you sing for someone special to come and take what he wants from you.

The way you prowl from edge to edge is suggestive, inviting. The screams of the fans drown out the sound in your earpiece, but the winks you give them are only for show. You’d decided a week ago that you’d be a bad idol tonight. You’d make up for it later—a giveaway, follow spree, or something—but tonight, your focus was reserved for one man.

As you ease into the chorus, your muscles glint under the twinkling lights, flexing in time with fluid spreads of your arms and gentle footwork. A siren song is what you’re singing, rhythmic pleas for a partner to make good on his promise falling from your lips.

The next verse brings a slowdown in the melody that you meet with sensual rolls of your hips. Twisting your frame, you slide a purposeful hand down to rest just above your pelvis, tangling the other in your hair.

The beat picks back up as you lead a line of men down the steps and into the audience, playfully evading their touches. It’s a calculated game of cat and mouse—one you’d hoped would pique the interest of the man you’d done this for. And as you parade right behind his row, boldly ghosting a hand over his shoulder in the dim crowd lighting, the tension in his muscles tells you you’d been right.

You can’t see his face, but the thought of him suffering right now is so satisfying, you have to fight to keep the vindictive smile off your face. Revitalized, you flounce back onstage right as the bridge melts into the final chorus—your favorite part of the show.

Because while you’d been working the crowd, the crew had lined up seven shiny motorcycles at the front of the stage. Six were for your dancers, of course, but the seventh? That one was special. You’d gone through hell to get that bike on time—the same luxury model that was plastered all over Sylus Qin’s Instagram. The seventh bike was yours.

Taking your place in the center, you swing a leg over the seat and lower your hips gracefully, snapping back into the final moves of the choreography.

With a daring raise of your eyebrow, you glance at his massive frame in the second row. He’s relaxed now, body no longer rigid with surprise. A bit too relaxed, you think, with the way his legs are spread apart, thumb swiping lazily across his smirking mouth. His gaze locks onto the familiar brand etched into the side of the bike before traveling up to yours, and the half a second of eye contact sends a shudder down your spine.

Between hazy, hopefully covert blinks, you hum out the last note of the song to thunderous applause. When you release your ending pose, waving to the sea of cheering faces, your eyes find his seat once more.

But Sylus Qin is gone.

VI. THE AFTERMATH

The moment you step backstage, a flood of congratulations greets you.

Dancers, friends, and strangers huddle all around you, whooping with joy at your undeniable triumph.

But between the friendly pats on your shoulders, sweaty hugs, and heaving breaths, you wonder if tonight can be called a success at all.

Hours and hours of mourning your young career. Of research that, in any other circumstance, probably would have gotten you on a watchlist. Of hard work, of pivoting, of betting your entire future on the hope that he’d break. And he’d just…left.

You were never one to stop a celebration early, but the burning pangs of defeat are too much to bear. With a tight smile and a flick of your card into the nearest hand—drinks are on you tonight—you trudge back to the solace of your dressing room.

And the scent of leather and spice hits you a second too late.

Because in all his wicked glory, Sylus Qin is in your empty dressing room, lounging in your chair like he owns the place.

Your initial reaction—a startled jump and a choked squeak—has his eyes sparkling in satisfaction, and you stalk up to the mirror with a scowl before you can embarrass yourself any further.

Feigning nonchalance, you remove your accessories one by one, starting with the feather in your hair. As you place it gently on the marble counter, a firm chest presses against your back, and you see his frame nearly swallow yours in the glass before you.

“If I were a bolder man, I’d think you were trying to send me a message just now,” he purrs into your ear.

Glancing at his reflection, you shrug noncommittally. “Did you like it?”

You receive a soft hum in response.

As you continue your act with trembling hands, Sylus cages you against the hard edge of the counter, admiring the remaining pieces of your costume with light, teasing touches.

Once you make no effort to stop him, a large hand rises to close loosely around your throat. When his thumb brushes your bottom lip, you bite it hard enough to sting, and his deep chuckle worsens the throbbing between your legs.

“I’m enough of a man to admit when I’m wrong. I underestimated you, it seems.” The low admission sends blood rushing through your ears, and you lean into him with a quiet gasp. “You have me right where you want me now, right? Then tell me—how did you come up with your little stunt?”

Tense seconds tick by as you debate your options. How humiliating it’d be to come clean in his arms. But then again, humiliated had been your main emotion as of late. With a deep exhale and slight tuck of your head, you begin your confession.

“I just wanted you to change your mind,” you whisper, watching as he unravels the satin ribbons on your bodysuit.

“I was so proud of that album, Sylus. Took me months to feel good enough to release it. And then I wake up to see the most respected voice in music calling it worthless.”

Your voice wobbles at the mention of his review, and his fingers freeze on the lowest ribbon.

“I thought my career was over. That’s what you do, right?” you ask, eyes flashing up at him. “Ruin people like me.”

Checking your teary gaze in the mirror, he has the decency to press a kiss to the skin between your neck and shoulder.

“My manager had to do a wellness check,” you add with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I could barely get out of bed. But then he told me…I’d have a chance to see you that night. And I guess the anxiety of impending doom was enough of a motivator. So I got up, and I watched.”

As your voice steadies, it grants him permission to undo the final ribbon. It loosens with a firm tug, and the slackened fabric sags around your body, waiting to be removed entirely.

“I really did want to change your mind. To prove myself to you. But then I saw that stupid fucking interview…saw you for the first time, and I…”

“You what, sweetie?” he murmurs into your neck, spurring you on with a gentle kiss.

“I wanted you, too.”

As he sucks in a breath, you take the moment to step out of your costume, tossing it to the floor below. You’re nearly bare before him, now, save for the thin tights and thong still blocking you from his sight.

“That’s what all this was for,” you reveal, gesturing to the fallen fabric. “I wanted your attention—all of it—in any way I could get it. So you were right. I wanted to end up right here, with you.”

For several seconds, his labored sighs are the only sounds in the room. You, unfortunately, are too afraid to breathe. But before long, warm hands grasp your hips, pulling you flush against his hardened lower half.

Catching your ear between sharp teeth, he floods your senses with a smooth whisper. “It seems you got what you wanted, then. Why don’t I tell you what I thought?”

And the second the “please” escapes your lips, he tears the thin layers left on your hips clean off your body.

He uses your shock to his advantage, taking the chance to free his swollen cock and glide it across your slit, teasing your clenching hole with the pulsing length. When he’s coated in your wetness, he surges into you with a firm thrust, groaning at the squeeze of your fluttering walls.

Allowing you a moment to adjust to the stretch, he gropes the fat of your hip before continuing.

“You obviously did your research,” he rumbles, pumping in and out of you at a steady tempo. “Speakeasies were the home of jazz, for a time.”

As the curve of his tip hits deep inside you, you wish you’d gotten a look at him. You’d expected him to be big, if the rest of his body was any indication, but the sheer fullness in your core feels like it should be illegal.

“And the arrangement…paying homage with a modern twist. It was admirable. Bold,” he grits out, hissing as your cunt tightens at the compliment.

Locking eyes with him in the mirror, you meet his thrusts with a high-pitched whine, asking for more—more pressure, more praise, more of all he could give.

With a patronizing tsk, Sylus grips your jaw in one hand, pulling your face close to his. “How many ratings of mine did you read to pull this off? I wouldn't think you knew what real instruments were, based on that album.”

The barb snaps you out of docility, and you try to twist away from him with a sneer and grumble. But Sylus only pulls you back into his quickening strokes, a fond, terrorizing chuckle enveloping you.

“Don’t run, sweetie. I’m flattered, really. Like I was when you got on that bike—my bike—and I wanted to pull you down from that stage,” he breathes, circling two fingers around your throbbing clit. “Because I knew in that moment, you were mine.”

As his claim rings through the air, he pinches your sensitive flesh and ups his pace, kissing your cervix with brutal strokes as the lewd slaps of skin on skin echo around you. Shaky breaths and soft whimpers leave your mouth, and you rut back into him as much as his firm grip on your hips allows.

“This was all for me, hm? For my attention, you said? Now you have it,” he murmurs huskily, and a sharp scratch of teeth against the pulse in your throat has you spilling over the edge with a desperate moan.

Somewhere in the haze of your orgasm, he pulls out with a groan of his own, leaving you empty and shivering until you feel his warm release coat the curve of your back.

With the last of his strength, he turns your face to his and captures your lips in a heated kiss, your tongues tangling unhurriedly. You’re forced to pull away first, already more than drained of your stamina for the night. When you slump forward in exhaustion, he falls into you, folding you over the counter with his heavy weight.

You groan at the impact but welcome the soothing pressure, and for a while, your heaving exhales mingle in the quiet of the room.

Once his breathing evens out, his low drawl—raspier than usual—eclipses the silence. “So,” he begins, and you can tell he’s smirking above you without even seeing his face. “How would you rate my performance tonight?”

Too tired to scoff, you settle for a mocking hum. “Hmm…an 8. I’d say a 9, but you just lost a point for that line,” you smile softly. “The pacing was good, but the feeling was lacking. It felt a little…uninspired.”

VII. THE EPILOGUE

You can’t feel your limbs the next morning.

You can’t feel your limbs, but your phone is ringing—has been for a few minutes now, you think groggily.

With a pained grunt, you roll over and over in bed until the screen is within reach and put the call on speaker.

“Check your texts!” Devon yells excitedly, damn near blasting your ears off.

“What? What are you talking about?” you grumble. “And you know not to wake me up until at least 4 p.m. after a show.”

“Sure, girl, fire me if you want. Just check your texts!” he repeats, voice climbing to a near screech.

“Fine, just give me a—”

Your jaw drops. It has no choice but to drop.

Because sitting in your inbox, right there at the top, is an updated link to Sylus Qin’s review of your album.

And right there, where that dreaded 4.7 had stared you down, is a giant, boldface 8.

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moonstruckme · 1 month ago

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Hi Mae! I hope you’re having a great weekend. You asked for whimsical reader and I feel like that would be an interesting dynamic with Spencer (if you’re willing to write it ofc) bc he’s typically more logical and analytical. Like she is talking to him about one of her interests or showing him something and it’s so not Him but he’s fascinated by her and how her mind works

Thanks lovely!

Spencer Reid x whimsical!reader ♡ 557 words

“I’m only saying that we can’t know for sure.”

“We do know.” There’s no pique in Spencer’s tone. For anyone else there might be, but he can never bring himself to agitation around you. You have a presence that feels like rain in summer. It lulls Spencer without him realizing it’s happening.

“Spencer.” You give him a look. Indulgent, fond. “How much of the ocean did you say humans have explored?”

He frowns. “About five percent.”

“And we evolved from fish, didn’t you say that?”

“Yes, but—”

“So we can’t say for sure that mermaids don’t exist,” you say, patiently. Going back to braiding together three dandelions still rooted in the ground. Joggers pass on the park trail nearby. “Humans have come from the ocean before, and we haven’t seen enough of it to know that some who stopped halfway through evolution aren’t down there somewhere.”

Spencer exhales a laugh. Something you and he have in common is your insatiable curiosity. If there were suddenly a way to go to the bottom of the ocean and explore everything humans have never seen, Spencer would go in a heartbeat and he really believes that you would, too. His curiosity is scientifically-minded, though, based in evidence. You work differently.

“They’re always discovering things they weren’t expecting down there,” you go on. “Like sea angels. Nobody could have come up with that.”

Spencer watches you. Your careful fingers, your relaxed posture, the way the afternoon sun tangles in your hair. He’s not sure when looking at you became less about fascination and more about feeding the aching hunger in his chest.

“You know, there’s some speculation that early human sightings of animals like manatees or dugongs might have inspired stories of mermaids.” You glance up at him, intrigued. Like Spencer around you, you never seem to get upset when he argues. You’re only inquisitive. “Ancient Assyrians believed that Atargatis, the goddess of water and the moon, dove into a lake to take the form of a fish. Because the gods wouldn’t allow her to give up her beauty, they forced her to keep half of her human form.”

Your expression is rapt. “So she was the first mermaid.”

You phrase it like it’s more than myth. “That’s the oldest known belief of mermaids, yes.”

“I hope it’s true.” You go back to braiding your flowers. “That’s such a cool story.”

You say it so contentedly Spencer can’t bring himself to contradict you. It’s not about what you hope is true, an insistent voice in his head cries. But maybe it is. With you, you’re happy enough just to believe in what you hope is true.

You seem to sense what Spencer is craving, scooting over in the grass so that you’re closer to him. You lay your head on his shoulder. He can feel the warmth of your cheek through his sleeve.

You say in a placid tone, gaze fixed on some faraway cloud, “Maybe some humans evolved into butterflies, too.”

Spencer smiles and turns his head, enjoying the tickle of your hair against his chin. “You won’t convince me fairies are real, sorry.”

“How much of the sky have we explored, Spencer?”

“I work for the government. If there were fairies, I would tell you.”

“What makes you think the government would know? Fairies are very good at hiding.”

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harunayuuka2060 · 3 months ago

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Toddler MC: Skully?

Skully: Yes, my dear little friend?

Toddler MC: *hands him a dandelion flower*

Skully: !!!

Skully: Are you... giving this to me?

Toddler MC: *nods* *looking at his reaction*

Skully: *tearing up* Thank you... This is beautiful...!

Toddler MC: I want give Skully more.

Skully: *chuckles* Ah, my dear little friend, you see, not all the flowers can be picked, or the grass will miss them terribly.

Toddler MC: Oh...

Skully: *smiles* Thank you again for this precious gift.

Toddler MC: *smiles back*

Skully: Hm, hm, hm~. *carving pumpkins*

Toddler MC: ...

Toddler MC: Skully?

Skully: Yes, sweet dear?

Toddler MC: I want try too.

Skully: ...

Skully: *looks at them* You want to... learn how to carve a Halloween pumpkin?

Toddler MC: *nods*

Skully: ...

Skully: I’d love to say yes, but it’s not safe for their little hands to use carving tools… What should I do?

Skully: Ah!

Skully: Would you like to hear the story of the King of Halloween instead?

Toddler MC: King of Halloween...?

Skully: Yes!

Toddler MC: *goes to sit next to him, then looks at him, waiting eagerly for him to start*

Skully: ...

Skully: *tearing up again while smiling like an idiot*

#twisted wonderland #twst toddler mc #twst skully #twst a ghost and a child

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ghostlyferrettarot · 1 month ago

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❗️This is a collective reading, take what resonates and leave the rest❗️

✨️Paid Services ✨️ (Natal charts and tarot readings) Open!

🫧Join my Patreon for exclusive content!🫧

💜If you like my work you can support me through Ko-fi. Thank You!💜

🎀Masterlist🎀 🎀Masterlist 2🎀

༘⋆📼˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚Pile 1:

Hi pile 1! It seems like your life with your soulmate won't be based solely on romantic moments, although there will be many of those, of course. There will be a lot of teamwork, honest conversations, and even some arguments that, instead of separating you, will make you stronger. I feel like ypu two could have similar astrological placements or your charts could be really similar, a lot of mirroring energy. This type of relationship in itself will be a kind of mirror that allows you to see parts of yourselves you may not have known about. But the beautiful thing is that those small imperfections, those differences, will be what help you evolve together.

Both of you will learn to be more vulnerable with each other. There will be times when you'll feel a connection so deep that nothing else in the world can compare, but there will also be moments of doubt or questioning, and that's normal. It's as if fate puts you together not only to enjoy love, but also to help each other heal, overcome fears, and change patterns you may not have known existed. There will be a lot of love, no doubt. But this love won't be superficial. It will be a love built on mutual understanding, patience, and empathy. Your soulmate will show you the best of yourself, but also what you need to improve. And at the end of the day, that will be the key to a strong relationship, because both of you will be committed not only to loving each other, but also to growing together, to embracing the darkest and brightest parts of who you are. You two could mirror each other a lot, as well, one of you can be an empath, and that makes the connection even more beautiful and emotional <3

༘⋆📼˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚Things about your person: February could be an important month, the number 8, black and purple, water signs, they could have younger siblings who they really adore <3, American Horror Story is coming up for some reason, really sweet when it comes to you.

༘⋆📼˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚Pile 2:

Hi pile! First of all, this person can have strong fire placements in their charts, especially Sagittarius. This is what I'm picking up. Life with your soulmate will be like a journey full of passion, adventure, and, yes, a vibrant energy that you won't be able to ignore. Think about those moments when you feel completely alive, when everything seems to be in its place and things flow in an almost magical way. This is what your life will be like with your soulmate: endless emotions and shared experiences that will make you feel as if everything has more color, more intensity. The first thing I feel is that both of you will be so connected, as if you were not just a couple, but accomplices in a great adventure. There will be something very special about the way you understand and support each other. You will be like that unstoppable team that is ready to conquer any challenge. You will both push each other to keep pursuing your dreams, those dreams that, perhaps before meeting your soulmate, seemed so far away or even impossible. Your life with this person will be full of exciting moments: trips, projects, new experiences. You may be spontaneous, doing things you might never have imagined doing alone, but with them by your side, anything seems possible. There will be a chemistry between you that you can't help but notice. And I'm not just talking about physical attraction (although there will be plenty of that too), but about that spark that makes you feel complete. There will be moments of pure excitement, fun, and even laughter that you probably won't even understand how they happened, but you'll be so in tune that those little things will feel so natural. You'll both help each other grow in ways you never imagined. You'll be an inspiration to each other, and even though things may get complicated sometimes, the spark that unites you will always be stronger.

༘⋆📼˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚Things about your person: They could really like animated series or animation in general, artistic, really good at drawing, They could dye their hair or have a buzzcut, amazing style and piercings.

༘⋆📼˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚Pile 3:

Hi Pile 3! With your soulmate, life will be like a peaceful haven. You won't be with someone who makes you feel insecure or constantly questioning things. On the contrary, there will be a constant feeling of being supported, accepted just as you are. It will be a relationship where trust and communication will flow naturally. You'll both know when you need to talk and when you just need to be silent together, and that will be beautiful. It's as if words aren't always necessary because you already understand each other so well. This relationship won't necessarily be the loudest or craziest, but what makes it special is the peace that will permeate between you. There will be a deep respect for each other's space, and most importantly, you will both feel free, yet deeply connected. It's the kind of relationship where, even if you're not doing something grand all the time, simply being with that person makes you feel complete. There will be a lot of patience, many small displays of affection and care. It's not about grand gestures every day, but about those little things that show you're always thinking about each other. From a good morning text to a hug when you least expect it, those everyday actions will be what truly strengthen the bond between you. I feel that bears can be important for some reason (?).

If differences ever arise, they will be resolved with the patience and maturity that both of you will have, always seeking the well-being of the other. And at the end of the day, when it's all over, when there are no more words to say, you'll realize that with your soulmate, what matters is the deep connection, the one that goes beyond the superficial.

༘⋆📼˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚Things about your person: Bears, Earth signs, glasses, green, they could be a cinephile or really into books, Curly brown hair, Introverted but with a really fun and witty sense of humor.

༘⋆📼˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚Thanks for reading! Tell me if it resonated and i hope you have a great day!༘⋆📼˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

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sanjarka · 3 months ago

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not to be a broken record but it's not quite fair to use the line but peeta wanted them so badly as proof that katniss was forced into having kids, or of her having them for all the wrong reasons. it exists within the context of not only the epilogue but an entire story before it. and i'm not here to convince you to like it. but to try seeing the point at least.

to expand on something i've spoken about before - in the epilogue their children are playing in a meadow from a song she sang to rue, a song that she now sings to her kids, in a meadow not unlike the one she dreams about after the beach kiss (as i drift off, i try to imagine that world, somewhere in the future, with no games, no capitol. a place like the meadow in the song i sang to rue as she died. where peeta's child could be safe)

so the tone in the epilogue can not be tragic and it is not regretful. it is hopeful.

the infamous line previously mentioned is not about katniss's lack of consent in being a mother but about the amount of trust she has in peeta as her life partner, as someone she loves. it's nothing but a connection to another line in the epilogue (where katniss is expressing her worry over teaching her kids about the games and her and peeta's role in them) → peeta says it will be okay. we have each other and the book. we can make them understand in a way that will make them braver.

it is about there not being another person who could've made this decision, this choice, safe (no one has held me like this in such a long time. since my father died and i stopped trusting my mother, no one else's arms have made me feel this safe)

it's about how his his hope made her wish safe (isn't it the thing i'd dreaded most about the wedding, about the future - the loss of my children to the games? and it could be true now couldn't it? if i hadn't spent my life building up layers of defenses until i recoil at even suggestion of marriage or a family?)

it's about how only peeta can give her that (what i need is the dandelion in the spring. the bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. the promise the life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. that it can be good again. and only peeta can give me that)

the choice to be a parent is not easy and careless and it never will be. she's absolutely honest about being terrified of her kids learning about the games, of them being scared and forced to harden like her and peeta were. the pain of the past is not ignored, it is not glossed over, and the nightmares never go away. but there's something else in the epilogue too.

when i first felt her stirring inside of me, i was consumed with a terror that felt old as life itself. only the joy of holding her in my arms could tame it. carrying him was a little easier, but not much.

how is this katniss being resentful and if she is why would she then have another kid? i've seen some people focus on the terror as it's this ugly thing proving her regret but is it not an entirely realistic feeling to have when carrying someone's life within you and understanding the neverending responsibility in keeping said life safe? there is such beauty in the phrase old as life itself. because it suggests the idea that this is something that isn't inherently tied to katniss's life, to her trauma and to her pain but to lifekind in general. and then the joy! how that terror is only settled when seeing your child eye to eye, seeing them breath and cry and live. it's such a gorgeous, intimate passage trying to let you in the love katniss has for her kids. it's not hiding away the sacrifice and the fear but it's also not hiding away how worth it it can be to make choices that scare you.

I'll tell them that on bad mornings, it feels impossible to take pleasure in anything because I'm afraid it could be taken away. that's when i make a list of every act of goodness i've seen someone do. it's like a game. repetitive. even a little tedious after more than twenty years. but there are much worse games to play.

how is this supposed to be so much more bitter than sweet, how is this anything but a love letter to peeta, to her kids, to everything she gained after everything she lost. why would she be so afraid of losing it all if it doesn't matter and why would she make a choice to believe in the kindness of people if the life she has now is something she has no say in and something that at best she feels indifferent towards to?

and obviously you have a right to feel whatever it is that you feel. i hate even having to say this cause who am i to give you a right to feel any type of way. i'm not trying to push my feelings onto you and tell you that this story must work for you, that it must make you feel hopeful. that if you're not satisfied you just have to read it again. stories don't work that way.

but to imply that the intention of the story is for the reader to be left hopeless is wrong. and sure, maybe that intention doesn't seem that profound you, maybe it is not interesting and maybe you think is boring. and maybe you think that katniss and peeta wouldn't realistically have this life path, or have kids, and maybe you think the end is too predictable and too expected. and that's okay. whatever life you have lived is going to affect what stories you find deep and what stories you find shallow and so maybe, this is that story for you. the story that you don't get. the story that doesn't work for you. and that's okay too. but to be so convinced that its intention is to present katniss's life as something so very miserable that she didn't choose but just let happen around her is wrong.

#YOU THINK YOU JUST FELL OUT OF A COCONUT TREE??#YOU EXIST IN THE CONTEXT!!#OF ALL IN WHICH YOU LIVE AND WHAT CAME BEFORE YOU...#no but seriously guys come on let's think for a second before jumping to conclusions #skoči pa reci hop 💗#thg #everlark

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cheeseceli · 9 months ago

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With a youtuber s/o

Pairing: idol Lee Know × cover dancer Gn!reader

Genre: fluff, headcanons, established relationship

Request: Can you make Minho w a YouTuber partner 😔

Warnings: straight up delulu, not proofread.

A/n: had fun doing this one so I'll probably make youtuber reader with some other members as well! | Daily click

‌for context, you'd be a dancer

‌and you'd post shorts on YouTube covering K-pop songs

‌some videos on those "public K-pop"

‌and maybe even tutorials

‌you'd be relatively famous in this type of field (kinda like innah bee yk)

‌and one day, one of your shorts reaches Minho

‌we saw Minho's reaction to boy's planet, we know he's gonna judge😭

‌so when he saw a video of you dancing god's menu he was like "not this again"

‌but it turned out to be pretty good??

‌very good actually

‌and the set was kinda cute and you were even dressed up on the MV theme

‌there was a clear dedication put into the work you were doing

‌so he might've clicked in your channel to see your other videos

‌and he watched all your videos

‌really, all of them

‌the improvement was so good to watch

‌then he proceeds to watch your longer videos and to follow you on insta and tiktok

‌and just like that you became a sort of celebrity crush to him

‌he even started to watch your tutorials to learn other idol's choreos

‌yes he is a professional dancer and he could learn it by just watching the dance practice a few times

‌but what's the fun of it?

‌so he would watch your 40 minutes tutorials happily

‌but one day ! he finds out that you were invited to perform at KCon and lmao, guess who pestered jyp staff just so he could go there as well

‌yeah you got it right

‌besides finally seeing you in real life (and why were you so gorgeous??), he got the opportunity to see you backstage

‌and maybe even talk to you for a bit

‌maybe film a challenge with you

‌maybe even get your number

‌who knows?

‌the thing is, you guys got to know each other after that day

‌you guys would talk pretty much everyday

‌and he would often invite you to the practice room just so you guys could dance a bit together

‌two dancers in love must be something so cute to witness

‌he would also help you with some choreos

‌especially the stray kids ones

‌would be extremely offended if you delayed one of skz choreos to film another cover first

‌and would be more than happy to teach you everything you want to know

‌will probably make excuses to be way too close to you when teaching you

‌also helps in your videos

‌to film, to make the scenario, to help with the lighting...

‌sometimes he lends you pieces of the outfit he wore in the MV and the comments are always like "oh my God, this looks so much like what Lee Know wore!"

‌haha funny story...

‌anyways

‌he's your #1 supporter and you can be sure he will always be the first one to like your videos

‌and will share every. single. video with the boys

‌like "look at my partner!! So talented!! Why can't you all be like that"

‌but they can also tease him a lot because of that, as Minho always gives the most soft smile ever whenever he sees you uploaded a new video

‌as I said, your biggest fan indeed

Masterlist | you'll probably like: Fri(end)s

Reminder that this is all fiction, this does not represent the members in real life!

Thank you for reading <3

Taglist (open!): @yuyubeans @dandelions-143 @sleepyleeji

Dividers by @cafekitsune | images 1 2 3

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daylighted · 10 days ago

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SCARY STORIES IN THE DARK · . · ¨ : ` · . . · ‘

𐂂 . ݁ ₊ ⊹ . ݁ ˖ . ݁ㅤ LOTTIE MATTHEWS x QUEEN BEE ! READER

the tale ㅤ queen bee tells lottie scary stories around a campfire, and deluded imaginations run rampant beneath the safety of the trees ㅤ the warning signs ㅤ deluded thoughts, lost, pretty girls cuddling in the nighttime, the darkness sets them freeㅤ sit down and listen for ㅤ 1.1k words

it has not yet dawned on you that your life is over. the world has come to a standstill in time, awaiting for your return back to the mainland. the clocks have paused. for now, it is just you and the trees, and the team you love so dearly.

they are furious with you. coach is dead, panic is a heavy deadweight over the shoulders of every surviving member, and you are feet away, weaving the stems of dandelions into rings.

"this is for you," you say when darkness covers the world in a blanket. it settles in between the leaves and branches and nestles itself into the minds of your teammates, letting them drift off to sleep as it lifts their worries into its hands.

you and lottie were always close. she would invite you over to stay with her family, and in between the dosages of her medicine, when the lines between herself and the more acceptable version of herself were so thin you could look into the depths of her eyes and see every inch, she would whisper to you that you reminded her of herself.

you were light, she was dark. together, you eclipsed into something so beautiful that it was dangerous. must have been, with the way the others steer clear of you now that you are the only company each other has.

lottie stays, though. attached to your hip, and now attached to you — she puts your dandelion ring on and admires it in the flickering campfire. "pretty."

she is not looking at the ring, but at you. the log she sits on is too empty, but you are comfortable closer to the earth, where you can brush your fingers across the grass and feel the tickle of dewdrops and flower petals.

you do not notice her lingering eyes, playing with a thick blade of grass. you do notice, though, when she whispers your nickname like a prayer into the listening dark. "queen bee."

and you smile, because how lovely was it to be a queen? you even had the embellishments. a dandelion ring on every finger, and blades of grass woven into the ring finger ones — and into lottie's. you don't tell her this, though, either.

"yes?" you whisper back to her, glancing up from the dark to look into the eyes of the stars. she is pretty, isn't she? her curls are frizzy from the day's humidity and frame her face like they encapsulate gold within their borders.

sometimes you thought lottie could hear into your mind. you used to test it, at soccer practice, to see if she heard your commands. as most queen bees tended to do, whether she heard you or not, you influence her actions and end up in possession of the ball. you were connected; of course she gave offerings to you like a deity.

but she smiles now, like she can hear into your mind, and how high on a pedestal you've put her, too. "what's your head sound like right now?"

it is something she asked you often. while hers had been quieted by the medication, yours was a wild array of colors and music. she loved the way imagination looked in your eyes and told you as much.

"music," you breathe the word as lottie breathes your name — reverently, lovingly, "songs."

"what do they sound like?"

you were not a singer, and she knows this. she knows everything about you, and you know everything about her. the sun and the moon, eclipsed once more.

so you scream.

the sound echoes through the trees and every person asleep in the grass startles awake, some more panicked than others. you do not notice. the blades of grass were startled, too, and you had to calm them with a soothing touch to their surface.

"that's a beautiful song," lottie says over the cacophony of curses and protests in your direction.

it's no time for your psychotics, bee! but you were not crazy.

what the fuck, bee? don't they hear the music in the wind? the hums that leave the queen's lips, pretty stories just for the surviving women of the wood?

"it is haunting," you say to her, finally looking up to meet her through the curve of your eyelashes. "the antler queen haunts me."

lottie's eyes brighten at the sound of her name. she is the favorite character amongst your fairytales. how couldn't she be? she was a fair maiden and a fairer ruler.

"come here." lottie slips down to sit in the grass with you, her legs open for you to sit between. you slot in easily. you were handmade to be her missing piece. "i'll protect you from her cries."

you shake your head, slipping another grass ring around your finger. atop the ring one to match lottie's, as if you'd married her in the glow of the campfire. "she does not cry tonight," you tell her, a gentle correction, "she is very happy with us."

lottie hums thoughtfully, twisting a strand of your hair around her finger. her chin rests on your shoulder, free arm wrapped around your waist to tug your spine into the press of her chest. "what is story and what is true?"

that question tends to lose you a little. what was made up to help you cope, and what was fact? you couldn't tell, not even back on the mainland. thank goodness that the world was on pause, because you would truly be lost if soon, the team returned, and you had to catch up. maybe the antler queen would keep the hourglass on its side forever, so that time could never drain away in the form of sand grains.

"it is all true, now," you tilt your head back to meet her eyes, a little smile playing on your lips. nature called to the yellowjackets so desperately that it grabbed a fistful of your plane and tugged it into the ground, and took a blood sacrifice for the time it took for all of you to arrive. the antler queen was fair and just. she gave, and she took.

lottie's hand traces reassuringly along your ribcage, leaving sparkling shivers in its wake. maybe she presses a kiss into your skin through the worn fabric of your shirt. maybe it is the antler queen reinstating your words with her own physical evidence. maybe, as you have always thought, in the crevices of your mind, lottie and the antler queen are one in the same.

"the antler queen will guide the way. she must. we belong to her, now."

notes this was so fun to write i hope it's not too cuckoo bananas for everyone HAHAHA little queen bee is just a lady with questionable coping mechanisms that accidentally fuel another mentally ill girl's delusions !! you can't blame them !!!

tags @h8aaz @bluemerakis @briisbananass @bloodofswans @funkycoloured @rositaslabyrinth @bldgutsnlove @ultravi0lence14 @stereotypicalbarbie @artificialroux

#dahlia's ☆ journal #queen bee!reader #lottie matthews x queen bee!reader #lottie matthews #lottie matthews x reader #lottie matthews x you #yellowjackets #yj #lottie matthews one shot #yellowjackets one shot

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pascaloverx · 11 months ago

Text

DANDELIONS

Summary: You are the new guest of the Bridgertons. Your mother, an old friend of Lady Violet Bridgerton, has requested that you spend a season at the Bridgerton house in hopes that you will change your perspective on true love and marriage. You are convinced that love is a fictional construct and that a marriage without love will be your downfall; but some time with the Bridgerton siblings might change your mind.

Author's Note: The characters belong to the Bridgerton universe and Julia Quinn. However, the story will have some changes from what happens in the Bridgerton series (2020-). Dear readers, this story may contain strong language and steamy romance scenes. It may even feature a love triangle. Be warned and enjoy the reading.

AO3 LINK TWO

ONE

"A great idea," you grumbled the entire way from your house to the Bridgerton house. Your mother had told you it would be an excellent idea for you to venture into society. "An independent mission," she said. Your father is so ill and trapped in his own world that he didn't mind letting his only daughter go to a stranger's house. Your mother has given up on arranging a conventional marriage for you. She doesn't respect the fact that you don't want a marriage like hers. You wonder if it's so wrong to want a marriage filled with tenderness, passion, love, or any feeling other than indifference. You basically grew up knowing you were the product of an obligation. The only child your parents managed to conceive before your father became too ill to have more children. Or rather, before your mother gave up trying to love him. When you were born, at least she had shed the moral burden of having to provide your father with an heir. Obviously, both she and he had hoped you would be a boy. But you think that over the years they have grown accustomed to you. This year, for some reason, your mother wants you to get married. Perhaps it's because your father is on the brink of death. If you find a husband who can manage your father's properties and investments, maybe you will become something useful to your family. Your father only mutters about wanting a male grandchild to carry on his legacy, and your mother wants you married. After Lady Violet Bridgerton successfully married off her daughter Daphne, your mother began to think that perhaps she could help you. So, after exchanging a few letters, you are now on your way to the Bridgerton house to be introduced to society's marriage system.

"I need to step out of this carriage for a moment," you say as you stop murmuring your mother's words. Your companion gives you a look that says, "She's lost her mind," but you know she will eventually let you get out of the carriage.

"Actually, we are already in front of the Bridgerton house entrance. I must remind you that your mother recommended I stay by your side most of the time," Mrs. Lydia says, as if you didn't know that, as your companion, she is supposed to always be nearby.

"I know your job is to protect my honor, but believe me, if I enter the Bridgerton house in my current mood, they will expel me before midnight. I need a moment to think," you say, nervously adjusting the hem of your dress. Your companion gently nods as if she understands. Lydia is the closest thing to true family that you have. So it's no surprise that she understands you.

"Enter the house for a moment and be polite. There's a stable on the Bridgerton property; I'll see what I can do. Ask Lady Bridgerton or the Viscount Bridgerton if you can go for a ride. And try not to get into trouble. I'll pretend to accompany you but give you some time alone," Lydia says, and you hug her tightly. A good horse ride after meeting the Bridgertons is just what you need. Not that you know much about them. You can only imagine. They are several siblings, and you are an only child. It's not hard to imagine there will be some incompatibilities. Minutes later, you step out of the carriage with Lydia, observing several people standing around you two.

"Dear Miss Y/L/N, it's a pleasure to welcome you here. I must confess that when your mother informed me of your arrival, we all looked forward to it," Lady Violet Bridgerton says as she approaches you. She seems so friendly that you feel inclined to hug her.

"I would like to thank you, Lady Bridgerton, and your lovely family for your hospitality. Unfortunately, my mother couldn't come with me, but my companion Lydia is here," you say awkwardly. The truth is, you're feeling that this season at Aubrey Hall with all the Bridgertons might be more challenging than you imagine.

"Let's not waste time exchanging pleasantries and let's go inside so you can see your quarters. I believe it will be the perfect time for you to get to know my children better," she says as she guides you into the house. The place is spectacular. As soon as you enter, you see some people approaching.

"Miss Y/L/N, I must warn you that this family can be a bit lively, but we will try our best to welcome you with courtesy," says a girl who must be a little younger than you. She has a book in her hands and is the first to approach you as you enter.

"Eloise, don't scare off our guest. Welcome to our abode, Miss Y/L/N. My name is Colin Bridgerton, and if you need someone to talk to, I'll be available. But I know that after a journey, the best thing is a good night's rest," Colin says to you, who smiles, finding it amusing how many Bridgertons are showing up.

"I believe I should thank Miss Eloise for the warning and Mr. Bridgerton for his kindness. Although I believe I still have a long way to go until my restful moment," you say, looking at the two who seem pleased with your gratitude.

"Your dress is beautiful, Miss Y/L/N. By the way, unlike my older brothers, I know how to introduce myself. My name is Hyacinth Bridgerton." A girl who seemed not to be at the entrance of the house just moments ago suddenly appears, saying this as she walks quickly toward you.

"You're mistaking knowing how to introduce yourself with flattery, Hyacinth. I'm Gregory Bridgerton, but you can call me Gregory," says a young boy who appears to be almost the same age as Hyacinth, while the girl taps him on the shoulder. You find it cute and funny how they behave. Having siblings seems to be at least entertaining.

"The younger ones are so noisy. I wish you a pleasant stay with us, Miss Y/L/N. You'll need it. If you need some peace, just look for me. My name is Francesca," a young woman says kindly as she moves away from the confusion that this introduction session is becoming.

"Now that Miss Y/L/N has met most of the Bridgertons who reside in this house, how about having some tea in the garden of the property?" Lady Violet speaks gently, touching your arm. You nod in agreement.

"I would just like to go to the quarters where I will be staying for a change of clothing. I hope you understand, Lady Violet." You were already starting to feel pain in your back from the corset that was too tight on you.

"My dear, you can call me Violet, and you may go. I'll ask them to take you to the room where you'll be staying, and your companion will join you shortly to assist. Once you're done, I'll be in the garden waiting for you." Lady Bridgerton speaks, and you follow the servant she assigns to show you where you'll be staying. Knowing that Lydia will be with you shortly, as soon as you enter the room, you lock the door.

"What are you doing here, Miss?" A male voice speaks as soon as you lock the door, and you startle as you turn around to find a man, his shirt slightly unbuttoned, staring at you.

"I'm almost certain that I should be the one saying that, sir. I must warn you that if I were to scream, you'd be in trouble," you say, composing yourself as you observe the man looking at you curiously. Perhaps he knows that you wouldn't scream because it would ruin your reputation, or maybe he is part of the Bridgerton family, considering your mother warned you that there were three older adult brothers.

"Do you really want my family to know that I'm inappropriately dressed near you? Let me guess, you're desperate for a marriage and want to make your life easier by tying me to you?" The man speaks as he straightens up, buttoning the rest of his shirt.

"How dare you accuse me of such a strategy, considering that it is you who is in the quarters assigned to me, improperly dressed, and with an attitude worthy of pity. Honestly, my last thought at the moment would be to force a scandal so that you would have to become my husband," you reply, holding yourself near the door, keeping yourself away from whoever this Mr. Bridgerton is in front of you.

"Forgive me, Miss, but I don't trust a word coming out of your mouth at the moment. However, I assure you that this type of situation is not customary. I was trying to enter through the window of my room or one of my brothers' rooms, but I ended up in here. I had no idea that you would be arriving today. In fact, I'm being rude at this moment. I am Viscount Anthony Bridgerton," he says, approaching you cautiously as if analyzing you. Perhaps he is trying to figure out if you are an opportunist or not.

"Without intending to be rude, but already being so, whether you are a Viscount, Prince, or Duke, I don't care. What matters now is that no one finds out that we are alone here," you say, looking him squarely in the eyes, as if to firmly convey that you absolutely do not want them to be discovered.

"If you can draw the attention of the people in the house to yourself for a couple of minutes, I can leave the way I came in. Do you think that would be possible?" Anthony says with a certain petulance. However, a bold idea occurs to you. You give him a determined look and then step closer to him, bringing you both very near to each other.

"I'll simulate a small fall down the stairs. You'll have the time it takes for me to miraculously recover. Be efficient, Viscount Bridgerton," you say briefly and storm out of the room, aware that spending more time in the Viscount's presence would be a real test of your self-control. The room was starting to feel quite warm.

You descend the stairs, doing your best to appear slightly unsteady. You kick the last step with all your strength before reaching the bottom of the stairs and let out a loud groan of pain, loud enough to be heard from afar. You even manage to tear up a bit, waiting for everyone to come and check on you. Just as you are lightly sprawled on the floor, a man walks through the door. You don't remember being introduced to him before, but he is certainly a Bridgerton. He sees you and immediately rushes towards you.

"Miss, are you alright? Can I help you up?" The man asks with a concerned and caring expression. Knowing that Anthony needs more time, you let out a cry of complaint as if in fake pain when the Bridgerton in front of you tries to help you up. At that moment, you start to be surrounded by several people.

"Oh, I think I twisted my ankle, but there's no need to worry. I just need a moment," you say, uncertain if you can keep up the pretense much longer.

"My dear, don't strain yourself. Benedict will help you to a room where we can call for Dr. Lewis to examine you," Lady Violet Bridgerton says as she lightly touches the arm of who you presume to be Benedict.

"May I?" Benedict asks seconds before you nod your head in agreement. But to be honest, you're not even sure what you're agreeing to. Until Benedict lifts you, asking you to put your arms around his neck. You hold on tight to him, somewhat afraid he might drop you.

"Mr. Bridgerton, you are very kind. I believe you didn't need to lift me. But I am grateful for your help," you say as you are leaned close to Benedict's chest, which you now notice is slightly exposed. What's with the Bridgertons today that everyone is showing more than they should?

"I must admit, before my family enters here, that it was amusing to take part in your charade. It was quite artistic of you. I hope you'll call on me if you want to star in another theatrical piece to get my brother out of trouble. Have a good afternoon, Miss Y/L/N," he says all this as he gently releases you onto a sofa. He doesn't seem angry or anything like that; genuinely, he seems to be enjoying himself. As soon as he leaves the room where he left you, the rest of the Bridgerton family and some servants surround you. Now you'll have to pretend to be in pain for a little while longer while you're intrigued not only by one but by two Bridgerton brothers.

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shiongenkai · 5 months ago

Text

Jabberwock's B's-Log Pages!

Sorry for the horrifically blurry text. It's the best I can do, but feel free to ask for something zoomed in. I can easily provide!

Rough TL of what I considered important text under the cut.

Disclaimer: I am not a professional TLer, and this hasn't been proofread by another. I prioritized speed and therefore may have made mistakes. If you see them, please let me know. This is meant to be a very quick TL so people can have a rough idea of what to expect! TL notes are included on certain lines.

EDIT: I totally forgot to add like, a full two sentences. Those are there now. Im so sorry.

Main Story Summary: The members of Jabberwock, struggling to stay out of the red, head to a mission at the 'Father Farm' in order to make some cash! The farm has a labour shortage following each of its staff members quitting in succession. Furthermore, every retiree mentions the existence of a strange 'cat'. Even Ren, who usually hates troublesome work, agrees to go along, assuming it'll be easier than taking care of the anomalous animals. However... 'Father Farm' is a parody of a real life amusement park thing called 'Mother Park'. You get to do fun farm things like sheep shearing, racing pigs, a duckling procession, etc.

- Little Haru Image: "The heck happened to you guys?! When did you get so gigantic?!" Haru is so hard to translate I am Not up to date on my kansai…

Outfit Blurb: The Jabberwock members go on an undercover investigation! Here's a sneak peek at their super cute and colourful outfits! The actual outfit notes aren't that interesting, so I didn't translate them

Haru Sheep Blurb: The bright and cheerful voice of the announcer echos across the park, attracting visitors towards it. The MC is in charge of the capybara, Towa in charge of the sheep, and Ren in charge of the ducks! But their peaceful time quickly disappears as the fence containing the ducks breaks, leading to them escape....?!

Image Dialogue: "Welcome in, don't be shy! C'mon, everybody! Come on in, see the bang for your buck!"

Haru On Knees Blurb: At the farm, the temporary staff's main tasks obviously include taking care of the animals, but they also include helping to organise the events and shows! Due to that, the uniforms are cute work clothes that take after various animals. I honestly can't tell if their animal characteristics are fake or not… maybe they're anomalous? Shrugs.

Image Dialogue: "What the hell are these outfits…" (Ren, probably)

"R-Ren and Towa too huh? You look great in those matching outfits!" (Haru) I split this into two sentences because I think he's doing two thoughts… otherwise, it's 'Y-You guys look great in those matching outfits!' or something like that

"～～、～～……." (Towa)

- Towa Image: "Hehe~. Since Dandelion looks pretty, I'll protect her~."

#EseTL #eset td #tokyo debunker #haru sagara #towa otonashi #ren shiranami #jabberwock #tkdb #tokyo debunker spoilers

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pukefactory · 17 days ago

Text

˚₊⋅─── SHEDDING THE MASK ───⋅ ˚₊

(COMMISSION)

⦮⦯ Summary: Taski Maiden X Reader Where Taski Tries To Take You On A Date But Reveals She May Be Insecure

⦮⦯ Commissioner: @straycolours

⦮⦯ Character(s): Taski Maiden (ENA: Dream BBQ)

⦮⦯ Reader pronouns: Not Specified

⦮⦯ Genre: Short Story, SFW

⦮⦯ Word Count: 1004

⦮⦯ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

⦮⦯ Image Credits: @JoelG

The day starts like any other.

The sky was shaped weird. Too oval. Suspiciously oval. You swear it was square shaped yesterday. You had tried to eat cereal this morning but the spoon folded in on itself like a dying star. A sign. A bad omen. Or just Taski being close by. Both were equally plausible.

“HELLOOOOOO!!!!” she yells from behind a bush before you even reach the front door. “I WAS HERE THE WHOLE TIME!! FOR FIVE HOURS!!!!” A pause. “Or maybe like…ten minutes!! I HAVE NO SENSE OF TIME!!!!!!”

You blink. “Uh—”

“I have plans with you today. Date plans,” she says, and when she says ‘date’ it sounds like she’s threatening the concept of romance itself. “Very serious. Very romantic. Possibly life-altering. Definitely ill-advised.”

Oh.

OH.

Okay, so—yeah. You like her. Like, like-like her. You’ve liked her since she called your boss a pickle and replaced his chair with an active wasp hive. It’s not normal liking, but nothing with Taski ever is. Her laugh comes in violent bursts. Her hugs feel like getting body slammed by a dream. Her idea of flirting includes mailing you a hat full of glitter and ominous sharp teeth.

You wouldn’t want her any other way.

But this is new. This is date stuff. Romance stuff. And she’s—oh no. She’s sweating. She’s—Taski Maiden is nervous. That can’t be good. Taski doesn’t get nervous. She causes it.

“Um,” you say softly. “Do you wanna—sit? I brought snacks.”

“CAN’T!!” she blurts out. “THE SHAMAN TOLD ME I GOTTA MAKE YOU LOVE ME PROPERLY.”

Wait.

What.

“I HAVE ACQUIRED THE LOVE HAT,” Taski declares, pulling out the aforementioned googly-eyed monstrosity and slapping it on her head. “IT SEES EVERYTHING.”

You stare at her.

She stares back.

The hat blinks.

“…Taski,” you murmur, “do you—do you want to do this?”

“I WANNA WIN YOUR HEART!!!” she yells, then clears her throat and tries again, this time in a fake accent: “I am seduuucing you. With very grown-up moves. Watch THIS!!!”

She does a cartwheel into a puddle and screams, “DOES THIS AROUSE YOUR MORTAL DESIRES?!”

“Taski!!” you say, running to help her up. “You’re gonna hurt yourself—”

She shakes off the water like an electrocuted cat and says, “I’m OKAY. Love is supposed to hurt anyway. The Shaman said so. Also he said if I don’t kiss you in under twenty-three minutes I turn into a toad.”

“…Wait, you believe that??”

She hesitates.

“…No,” she says. “Maybe. Don’t kiss me yet just in case.”

The “date” continues in a whirlwind of chaos.

She takes you to the forest (“ROMANCE FOREST!!!” she calls it, but it’s mostly full of screaming raccoons and questionable mushrooms). She tries to hold your hand but keeps missing and grabbing your elbow instead. She attempts to serenade you with a kazoo she found in the trash and ends up summoning a bird with three eyes who pecks her hat to death.

You offer to walk her home after that. She refuses.

“No,” she says seriously. “I HAVE TO GET THIS RIGHT.”

You stop walking.

“…Taski,” you whisper, “you don’t have to try this hard.”

She freezes. Her mouth does that squiggly shape it makes when she’s hiding something (or about to cry). Then she shouts,

“YES I DO!!!!!!!!!”

You flinch.

She doesn’t mean to yell. You know she doesn’t. But something’s cracked in her voice. Something unsure and small and squished down like the last bean in a very angry soup can.

“Everyone thinks I’m dumb,” she mumbles, looking down at her weird googly-eyed hat, now sadly deflated in her hands. “Even ENA calls me unemployed like it’s a disease!!! I don’t have a job. I don’t have a house. I don’t have you yet.”

She kicks a rock. It explodes into dandelion spores. Very inconvenient.

“I thought,” she says, “if I did everything right—if I followed the Shaman’s advice and acted all…like…DATE-Y and normal, you’d fall for me harder. Cuz who wants to be with a dumb gremlin who says ‘poo’ every five seconds and gets banned from libraries for licking the dictionaries!!!”

You walk to her slowly.

You take her hand in yours, gentle and light.

She looks at it like it’s cursed. “Is this—part of the date??? Or is this like—you love me now hand-holding???”

“…I’ve always loved you, Taski,” you whisper.

Her mouth makes a new shape. Something wide. Something soft.

“…Even though I pranked you with uranium?” she says.

You nod. “Even though of that.”

“…Even though I screamed at your boss and got you fired for five minutes?”

You grin. “That was actually pretty funny.”

“…Even though I can’t pronounce the word romancealistic???”

You laugh. “Especially because of that.”

She shudders like you’ve told her the world’s scariest bedtime story.

“…Then I don’t need the Shaman’s stupid advice?” she asks, very small.

You shake your head. “You just need to be Taski.”

She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she throws the hat on the ground, stomps on it, does a little celebratory dance, and screams, “I’M TASKI!!!!”

Birds fly out of the trees.

“AND I LOVE YOU, DUMMY!!!”

Then she kisses you.

It’s a little awkward. She bumps her nose against yours and accidentally steps on your foot. Her hair gets in your eyes. It smells like burnt crayons and mystery fruit juice. It sprawls across your face like an octopus.

It’s perfect. Of course it is.

Later that night, you two lay on the grass and stare at the weird oval sky. The raccoons have gone to bed. The mushrooms are snoring softly.

“I’m gonna be the CEO of love,” Taski declares, arm draped lazily over your chest, snuggling into your side.

“You already are,” you murmur.

She beams with a toothy grin.

“Also,” she adds, “I’m gonna mail the Shaman a dead rat.”

“…Please don’t.”

“Too late!!! I named it Romancealistic Jr.”

You close your eyes.

You love her so much it hurts.

And Taski? She’s just happy to be herself again. Her happy, weird self.

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mswyrr · 27 days ago

Text

“I don’t write about adolescence. I write about war. For adolescents.”

--Suzanne Collins

This is the key to the whole Hunger Games series. The books are about war and she's trying to be honest about that, inasmuch as you can be for the target age range. I think she's done a beautiful job.

That's why Katniss and Peeta's happy ending is realistic to traumatized former child soldiers. It ends with Katniss literally giving us a psychological coping strategy she uses to manage her mental illness! Like many irl former soldiers and people with trauma and mental illness, that is just part of her day. Like taking a walk or cooking breakfast. It just is part of being alive. And her aliveness isn't inferior because of it, nor is the happiness she makes with the family she chose to have.

They claim life and a future, but they do it with damage that will never go away. Being damaged doesn't mean you can't live a good life. So much of the series is about the healing of nature, of allowing nature to be and grow -- and allowing yourself to be part of nature. But nature isn't perfection -- it can be messy and painful, but it is life. When Katniss chooses her "dandelion in the spring," she chooses the meadow where love was betrayed and lost before, she chooses the pain of being alive. *Life is pain* as well as joy--it can hurt so much people don't want to be alive anymore in order to escape that, whether literally wanting to die or wanting the kind of metaphorical death/numbing of feelings that tempts her, Haymitch, and teen Coriolanus in different ways--and she chooses it.

It takes courage and endurance and it's worth it.

They're not meant to be a wish fulfillment fantasy, none of the three romances in this series are*, they're meant to be a love story that says something about what it means to be broken and then heal -- and how healing is a lifelong process and you will never be the same again. But that doesn't make you *lesser* or unworthy or incapable of a good life.

These are sincere, grounded components of a depiction of trauma and mental illness. And they disgust people who are used to dishonest depictions of these things. People who believe love and happiness are only for wholesome, abled, pure people. People who think it's disquieting for two disabled people to have kids. Like, fandom is very good at dressing up their feelings in seemingly progressive language, but the implied eugenics of that has always been very blatant.

I see people concern trolling on that topic and I just feel disgusted, honestly. Where are all the books where disabled people, especially mentally ill ones, are raising kids in the "happy ending"? How often are kids irl taken away from parents due to ableist discrimination? And it's somehow "not feminist" for Katniss to choose to have kids???? What an utterly empty, vapid, cruel and ableist feminism that would be.

These being stories about war is why teen Coriolanus being evil from the beginning is narratively and thematically incoherent. This is a kid who grew up traumatized by war and then is conscripted into the Games--the adults of the Capitol playing out war over and over again, esp Gaul to control and retraumatize people--and then into the Peacekeepers, in a sequence (in book but especially the film) that references conscription into the Vietnam War. The empty rotten husk of a human being he becomes identified as "A victor" of the Games (film), turned on Lucy Gray thinking she was a "victor" trying to kill him (book), and spends decades obsessed with justifying himself that he is the "#1 Peacekeeper."

With Haymitch, we have a story of sheer, long-term endurance. He gets lost and lives with the horror of his own coerced complicity. He breaks, he becomes a raging alcoholic. And yet there's a little spark inside that never dies. And that matters. That, too, is a kind of victory. Survivors don't have to be pretty and simple and mask/be masked by the writer into acting like they're abled and "normal" and untainted to be worthy and for their lives to matter.

These are all psychologically plausible directions that young people forced into war can break. Albeit with the magic realism and big romantic themes representing the choice between embracing life (even if you get lost for a long time -- even if it takes you decades, like Haymitch) and (as Coriolanus did) trying to kill your heart because it hurts too much and costs too much to live.

Is Collins just trying to warn us that fascism is bad? What use would that be, exactly? There are hundreds of excellent history and political science books on those topics and wonderful classes. I've worked on classes on that topic!! Art can and should reach beyond that kind of academic literalism. And she does. With Katniss, Coriolanus, Haymitch, and Peeta she gives some really beautiful, insightful examples of how people deal with trauma/mental illness and what it means to survive. There is no easy fix to things like this, so simple didacticism would always be a lie. She doesn't lie to her audience, even though she's writing books for adolescents.

*There's nothing wrong with wish fulfillment fantasies. But not all YA stories have to have those goals. And all love stories don't have to be wish fulfillment fantasies! That's so insulting to it as a type of story. It *can* be that. It can also be about character, theme, plot. (Or both at once, depending). It's up to the artist. Love stories are one of the areas where some of the most highly respected women writers in history have made their art -- and people insult and degrade it by saying it's bad if it's not written as a great ideal template for living or wish fulfillment fantasy. As I've said elsewhere, judging women's art like that is like saying a woman's painting of fruit has to be tasty and edible because *women must always make you food* even when what they're trying to make is art.

#the hunger games #thg meta #everlark #snowbaird #coriolanus snow #katniss everdeen

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evermarch · 2 months ago

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Hi. Do you think Peeta realised by the end of Catching Fire how much Katniss loved him or did he only realise this later?

hi anon! that’s a question i’ve been thinking about a lot actually since this recent ask. i think peeta strongly suspected that she had feelings for him. i just think he also believed she had feelings for gale. which, in many ways, she did. or, at least, she believed she did, and expressed it in a way that was very easy for someone who’s not katniss to believe she did.

as we know, in the first book, peeta believes katniss is falling for him in the arena. yes, she’s laying it on thick (and by thick i mean mildly flirting, but they both understand that that’s practically sex for her). yet, there are many genuine moments between them, like her cleaning/treating him and the goat story. most importantly, she risks near-certain death to go to the feast when she simply doesn’t have to in order to live. yes, she plays up the whole “district 12 would hate me” thing, but the katniss of a few chapters ago would never have let the potential of being a pariah keep her from returning to prim. peeta knows that. and she seals that knowledge with a kiss unlike any that came before.

so peeta (reasonably) believes katniss has feelings for him. because she does. even if she can’t figure it out for herself at the moment because she’s (excusably) an absolute wreck. but once he learns that she’s been acting for the cameras, there’s no way for him to know what’s real or not real. he can’t puzzle out why she did what she did. because he is still (appropriately) hurt, angry, and also an absolute wreck.

except that, when the dust settles, he starts to realize that she does care about him. she is not indifferent. because she risked her chance to return to the sister she volunteered for in order to save his life. over the six months of silence between them, peeta observes katniss with prim, which reinforces that prim is the most important thing in katniss’ life. so the fact that katniss has risked that for a boy she’d only properly met two weeks ago? sure, there’s that whole owing business she keeps talking about, but there is no world in which that take precedence over the promise she made to prim after the reaping. even if she doesn’t know it.

which leads to the victory tour. it’s here that peeta learns that katniss has real, romantic feelings for him. the nights on the train are the most intimate moments katniss experiences with anyone over the course of the books. it’s where peeta and katniss realize the depth of their bond from the uniquely horrible experience they faced. yes, haymitch understands to some degree. other victors might, too. but how each victor survives the realization that they never truly leave the arena is an experience they face alone. except the star-crossed lovers from district 12. they are in this together.

but after the victory tour, upon learning of snow’s visit and seeing the tension in the districts, peeta is confronted head-on with the reality that an “arena” designed like a giant wedding cake is just as dangerous as the one he just escaped. because now he knows that their actions have ramifications for the rest of panem, but especially district 12. he watches whatever feelings she may have for him become just another weapon in the gamemakers’ arsenal. just another part of the arena. so he knows that whatever they may have had will never be real. because it’s not by choice.

enter gale. gale, to katniss, represents her old life. to peeta, however, gale represents freedom. he is unaware of the tension between katniss and gale. he doesn’t see the cracks forming between them over their relationship and ideologies. he definitely doesn’t see that the biggest crack is shaped like a dandelion. gale, hypothetically, can offer katniss everything peeta can’t. namely, choice. the choice to run away into the woods. to get married. to have children. that’s all confirmed when, after gale’s whipping, she tells peeta she wants to start a rebellion. it’s the only way she’ll ever have any freedom of choice.

thread electrifies the fence, and katniss’ wings are clipped by injury. as peeta carries her up and down the stairs each day, he realizes that her feelings for him exist inside containment. the dome of the arena. the bed on the train. the gates of snow’s mansion. the fence surrounding district 12. the walls of her house. he has no idea whether katniss’ feelings would survive the destruction of those borders. but he believes it doesn’t matter. because mockingjays can’t survive in a cage. they’re meant to fly free. so there’s no way her feelings for him have anything on what she feels for the freedom she has been denied. and gale, of course, is the manifestation of that. when he’s not stuck 12 hours a day in the mines.

the quell is announced. peeta knows he and katniss are going back into containment. he’s not stupid. he knows they’re not escaping this time. but nothing in the world would stop him from trying to make sure she does. which, of course, means that under no circumstances will he be coming back from their newest cage. so he holds onto the belief that, when he dies, in that moment, she will love him. or, at least, have feelings for him. that belief which allows him to put up a wall, to sacrifice his last three months with her for her own good. because she deserves to feel freedom one more time before they are caged. just in case it motivates her to seek out the feeling again.

on the morning effie chooses who returns to the cage, katniss is forced inside. but peeta steps in willingly. because it’s his only chance to help her fly free again. so he has no qualms about taking her love when it’s offered. it feels the same whether they’re observed or not. because inside the cage, it’s hard to remember what exists beyond the cage. inside the cage is uncomplicated by the reality and cost of liberation. so he asks to freeze this moment in time, to contain it, and live in it forever. he’s not surprised when she allows it.

but he doesn’t live in that moment forever, because there’s still a chance his bird will be free. and there’s only one card he can play to convince her to leave him behind. he pulls out the locket to remind her of freedom. only, it doesn’t work. she insists she couldn’t be free without him. that she needs him. but he knows she doesn’t. she’d spent her whole life before him free. but he only found liberation in love. and that only exists for him inside this cage. but she’s not like him. love still waits for her in freedom. to deny her that would be to confine her just as much as the force field.

except…when she kisses him, it tastes like freedom. real freedom, like the freedom of a future. like the last time, in the cave. and, well, he really wants it to be real. so he lets it be. because if he’s going to die here, then he’ll never know anyway if her love for him would survive freedom from the cage. because containment was always going to be his final reality. all he can do now is hold onto his one wish that it won’t be hers.

so yes, by the end of catching fire, peeta knew katniss loved him. he may even have known she loved him a lot. but he didn’t know that she’d chosen him. and he had no reason to believe she would. because he didn’t believe that she needed him. because no one ever had before.

#the hunger games #thg #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #everlark #gale hawthorne #ask answered #anon ask #anonymous #thanks for the ask!

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opashoo · 2 months ago

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Hey, can I say first off that your slugcat conlang (Yongasabi) is amazing?!? Seriously, I'm learning it now. I wanted to ask, are you okay with having AUs made off of your Undergrowth AU/taking place in the same universe?

I am so flattered that people are really going out of their way to learn my silly little scuglang... In any case, I would honestly floored, astounded, and honored if people wanted to work within the world I've made with Undergrowth. I would encourage it even! I hope to get some more definitive stuff out on it soon, though the actual askblog isn't going to start until I get my MAP parts done.

I suppose some helpful things to know and context that might not be mentioned in or clear from the language doc:

You could probably figure but I already have plans for all the main slugcats. I couldn't stop someone from using the main slugcats in their own story if they wanted to make their own spin on it.

A lot of settlements exist in underground geothermal pockets. While slugcats have been nomadic, managing and tending groves and orchards as they migrate, Scavengers have been managing more sedentary agriculture, which was much more easily adapted to the underground compared to slugcat techniques. Many slugcat colonies that settled moved in and integrated with Scavenger settlements, adopting their techniques for a better chance of survival.

Not all have settled into living underground! Some settlements are built above ground. There are still nomadic colonies, and smaller caravans or individual wanders who know how to navigate the Endless Winter.

Saint comes from Sliver of Straw's retaining wall, where the slugcats actually maintain a separate culture from the Yongasabi. They were dealing with snow long before the Endless Winter came.

Monk, Survivor, and Gourmand's colony have only just moved into Moon's retaining wall recently, within each of their lifetime

By the time of Undergrowth, Pebbles and Metropolis has collapsed. Though the city has been in the process of relocating to a nearby geothermal pocket, they still maintain their seat as the center of power for Scavenger politics. In Metropolis, they speak Reconstructed Ancient, a mix of Scavenger and Ancient, made to interface with the city's technology before Pebbles collapsed.

Scavenger clans are a thing! Structures can vary so don't worry about getting it wrong. There are even multiple around Moon and Pebbles' retaining wall. UG Arti was actually taken in by a Scavenger clan rival to Metropolis, who tried to direct her anger towards neighboring clans in order to coalesce power.

On that note, in UG, Arti's explosive powers are actually the result of something called the Fire Powder Ritual, a grueling process that involves the regular consumption of process firebush powder. Normally prepared fire powder is consumed to treat parasites because it makes the body inhospitable, but it's miserable. Enough regular consumption actually changes the makeup and behaviors of the body on a fundamental level, allowing consumers to generate sparks and breath fiery or combustive smoke, but the process of the ritual is so miserable most people would rather die than finish it. More on this another time.

Rivulet's not genetically modified in any way. Her semi-aquatic nature is a quirk of her people, but her ridiculous agility and speed is just a her thing.

Wild dandelion peaches are extinct (oh no) but they are carefully cultivated underground.

I don't want this answer to get too bloated but these are some things that I feel help to give greater context for what Undergrowth is like in ways I haven't been able to demonstrate yet. Whatever you do, be sure to let me know, I'll be dying to check it out!

#shark rambles #rain world #rw Undergrowth AU #yongasabi #conlang #pashlang

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pascaloverx · 11 months ago

Text

DANDELIONS

ONE THREE

TWO

The next few days at the Bridgerton house are chaotic yet incredibly fun. Between walks and conversations with Eloise, helping Francesca with embroidery during silent but very focused hours, and spending time reading with Colin, who introduced you to his favorite books and recommended others, you are quite busy. Every day you have tea with Lady Violet Bridgerton, who is enthusiastic about the idea of finding a suitor for you during the ball season. You try to share her enthusiasm, but the truth is that spending time with her family seems more adventurous than getting married. Today, for instance, you are taking Hyacinth and Gregory to pick some apples in the garden. In reality, Gregory wants to practice archery, and you think it would be a good exercise for the younger ones. Regarding the two older brothers, you have been avoiding them. It's not an easy task, but with Lydia's help, you have managed to escape any moments alone with them. You feel embarrassed for pretending to be hurt in front of one and for covering for the other. Daphne is the only one you have yet to meet, but according to the Bridgerton family, you will soon. Recently, Eloise introduced you to a close friend named Penelope. You found her to be very perceptive and kind, which is good since she seems to be part of the family, and you want to make a good impression.

"Lady Violet Bridgerton, I assure you that the three of us will be very careful while picking apples. When I was Hyacinth's age, it was my favorite pastime," you say as you finish adjusting your shoe. Lady Bridgerton still looks a bit concerned as she watches Hyacinth and Gregory run off with their bows and arrows. You smile, imagining how it will be to spend time with them.

"Believe me, dear, you will need someone to help you with those two," Lady Violet says, somewhat nervously. You look at her, feeling uncertain, and then you hear someone approaching the room where you are.

"I believe I can be of use as the older brother at this moment. I was just finishing up some financial matters, and it seems that fresh air will do us all some good," Viscount Anthony Bridgerton says, surprising you and Lady Violet. You know that Lydia will be joining you, but staying with him and the younger siblings seems like a risk.

"That won't be necessary, Viscount. There's no need to disrupt your busy schedule when I am more than capable of handling this task with my companion," you respond instantly, as if the answer were at the tip of your tongue. Anthony gives you a mischievous smile, indicating that he plans to accompany you anyway, which makes you feel a bit uneasy. Lady Violet, however, seems more relieved.

"Miss Y/L/N, forgive my frankness, but it seems that you do not desire my company. If that is the case, I would like to clear up any misunderstanding by reaffirming that I will be accompanying you and my siblings on this apple-picking outing," Viscount Bridgerton says assertively, taking a step closer to you. You stare at him, almost forgetting that there are others around you.

"Viscount, I can assure you that such an impression is a misunderstanding. I would never have any problem with your company. I simply would not want to disrupt the busy life of a Viscount, especially as a guest in his house." A lie on your part, as you really want to avoid spending time with Anthony. The Viscount Bridgerton is one of the most sought-after men in society. One wrong rumor about the two of you, and your mother would be demanding a wedding at Queen Charlotte's doorstep in a matter of minutes.

"Y/N, I can assure you that my son, busy as he may be, always finds time to spend with his siblings. You will essentially be helping him look after the younger ones. And certainly, my son will be honored by your company," Lady Violet says, lightly tapping her eldest son's arm as if expecting him to support her statement. Anthony nods slightly, as if in agreement.

"In that case, please join us, Viscount. Goodbye for now, Lady Bridgerton," you say, looking kindly at Violet and heading towards the exit of the house. Gregory and Hyacinth follow you while Anthony says something to his mother and then approaches you. Your companion, Mrs. Lydia, comes behind you silently. She seems to want to give you or Anthony space to talk. The two teenagers seem to be having fun walking among the trees.

"Miss Y/L/N, how long exactly do you intend to avoid me?" Viscount Bridgerton speaks near you, pretending to pay attention to something else so that Lydia doesn't suspect he's trying to talk to you.

"You don't need to pretend to be looking for bees among the flowers, Viscount Bridgerton. Lydia won't suspect you. As for your question, I think it's fair to say that given the nature of our last encounter, some distance seems plausible." You try to answer his question without really answering it. He smiles slightly, but it's a nervous smile. He watches the siblings ahead of us, while Lydia takes the opportunity to chat with the young Bridgertons.

"I wasn't pretending. A bee around here is too dangerous. But getting back to our main topic, I would like to apologize for the first impression I gave you," he says as if it were an obligation for him to say so, without truly wanting to apologize. You look at him, finding his pretense amusing.

"Apologies accepted, Viscount. Was that why you wanted to come with us? To apologize for your mistake?" You ask as you and Anthony walk side by side. Hyacinth and Gregory shout, calling for their brother and you as they find an apple tree.

"Not only to apologize for my mistake," Viscount Bridgerton clears his throat loudly, "but also to give you the chance to apologize to me." As soon as Anthony says this, you shoot an arrow accurately at one of the apples at the top of the apple tree that Gregory and Hyacinth are looking at. The two are pleasantly surprised and shout that your aim is great. However, Viscount Bridgerton seems to have become nervous, perhaps even a little irritated.

"Apologize to the Viscount for what reason?" You ask as you both stop walking and face each other. He seems indignant for some reason.

"For not behaving as a lady of your stature should. Surely you know you should have forced me to marry the young lady because of what happened. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to get married, and certainly not to you. I just think that in your place, I would be more concerned about this issue," Anthony says presumptuously, leaving you offended. You look him up and down and smile. He seems not to understand.

"Viscount, I must say that you seem to have misunderstood what happened. You intruded into a room designated for me, a lady. Yet somehow, you think I owe you something. Very well. I give you a warning: if a situation like this happens again, I will be your wife faster than you can pronounce Bridgerton." Your threatening tone seems to intrigue the Viscount.

"Is that a threat, Miss?" Viscount Anthony Bridgerton speaks as if surprised by the way you speak to him.

"The trick to hitting a target like that is to always have concentration and patience. A bit of determination is also appropriate." As you approach Gregory, who can't take his eyes off the arrow, you notice Anthony looking at you with a hint of mockery.

"I believe the young lady is mistaken. Hitting the target is about strength and often talent." You hear this and feel as if he is belittling your technique. So, you raise your bow and arrow in his direction, holding it out to the Viscount in front of you.

"Try to hit the target with your method then, Viscount. Let's see which one of us knows more about what we're talking about." You say, challenging him. He doesn’t hesitate to try to hit an apple almost in the same place you did. He is so sure he will surpass you that it's almost comical when his arrow hits an apple below yours. Gregory and Hyacinth are shocked while he shows no expression.

"Dear brother, I think Miss Y/L/N's method seems to be more effective," Hyacinth says with a humorous tone. Anthony looks annoyed.

"I want to try hitting the target using your tactic, brother," Gregory says as he grabs his own bow and arrow. Hyacinth laughs at him while he struggles to place the arrow on the bow.

"I actually prefer using Miss Y/L/N's tactic," Hyacinth says, showing you how quickly she can place the arrow on the bow. You guide her to focus on the target and tell her to think of something that makes her angry to make her more determined. You can hear Anthony assisting Gregory. Anthony and you exchange glances while helping the younger ones practice archery. Later, you all gather some apples together.

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