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wincore · 8 months

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indelicate | liu yangyang

pairing: yangyang x fem!reader

synopsis: missing the last train out of new shanghai was not on the to-do list. however, your project partner liu yangyang promises fun, dazzling lights, and the warmth of a human connection for this festive weekend. perhaps even in the era of diamond and steel, the human touch means something after all.

genre: oriental cyberpunk, f2l, fluff

warning(s): swearing & several innuendos. also out-of-date jokes sorry guys i wrote this in 2021

words: 11.9k

a/n: this is just a rework of an old fic i posted here with another character! if you find any inconsistencies, it's probably because of that LOL also this is not a wincore revival but i did miss everyone on here !!

i. city plaza

Some idiot, somewhere along in history, decided to renovate a city into something so dazzling that the population shoots up to a hundred and fifty percent of what was before, and the rest of the damage comes along with the people. Promises are made and broken to build this city of extravagance. You have the belief that the more people there are in one place, the more difficult it gets to live there. This dazzling hellscape means colliding into too many people on the streets, too many bright lights outside your dorm room when you’re trying to sleep and the god awful sound of deafening firecrackers at every new year celebration.

Another idiot somehow roped you into his ‘midnight adventure: traditional version’ once he heard you missed the last train ticket out of the city. Liu Yangyang has a terrible way with words—but he has a way.

You were, by some unfortunate gamble of the gods, partners for a project that accounted for sixty percent of the grade. While that affair is over, you still haven't rid yourself of the predicament that is Yangyang. Gorgeous, yes, but too overwhelming. You smack your head against the car window only for him to jump in his seat beside you, hand gently driving over your forehead to check for damage. The neon city lays around you, and festive light projections float across the sky in intricate shapes of the ox and written messages. This is going nowhere. You came to this city sacrificing everything and yet suddenly, everything’s hanging on a string again.

The city lights of New Shanghai are cruel. Everything in this place is cruel.

Which is exactly why you’re in Yangyang’s car, parked by the middle level city plaza on New Year’s Eve. It is, in fact, illegal to hover by the city plaza on New Year’s Eve but Yangyang seems to either not care or simply doesn’t know. You forget the law doesn’t exist for rich kids. Out of all man-made wonders, rules are the most interesting.

“Shall we go?” he asks, voice bubbly as ever. Every morning, he chirps like the alarm birds outside your window. Yes, it has made you want to sleep forever at times.

“It’s just one night. And I’ll be with you, so you don’t have to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” you snap.

“Not afraid of the dark either?”

You pull your jacket closer to you. Here, the cold streets of the techno-jungle make you shiver more often than not. If you dare go out without friends, a city so grand will inevitably drain the life out of you. Your body alone cannot withstand the dazzle. And—you can’t be afraid of the dark after you’ve complained about the lights.

You look at Yangyang and back to the cityscape outside—large conglomerative blocks of buildings, some hosting advertisements with the faces of inhumanly beautiful models and some with the ‘Happy New Year!’ text animation floating about in increasingly complex patterns. You see the revolving top of one of the grandest skyscrapers, a Dior hotel, not the tallest but certainly the most pleasing to look at. It gleams from red to orange like the pulsating heart of a giant metropolitan beast. There are more funky buildings to look at, some not even the shape of austere corporate skyscrapers.

“Do you wanna go there?” Yangyang asks all of a sudden. “I heard the lounge is closed off from eleven. I can call some friends and we can book a room though—”

“No. No way. I’m not going to spend new year’s eve in a Dior suite.”

He grins. “Thank god. It’s so boring there. Only models and businessmen and whatever freak shit they do.”

You sigh. Liu Yangyang is a whole story in itself. He’s rich and popular—a dream of many—but so few are as welcoming as he is. When you’re in that position, you’re bound to have a little metal seep into your heart. Some hidden part of you, however, tells you to loosen up when you’re with him; just let it go and have a good time. There’s no reason why you shouldn't. The economy is on a steep incline, the people are happy and no other city compares to this place. You could learn a thing or two from Yangyang.

He looks at you questioningly, eyes waiting and the curve of his lips still. You notice his platinum blond hair is more styled than usual, you can almost smell the gel on it, and for a moment, you wish you looked as good as he does. A dark leather jacket accentuates his shoulders, the plain T-shirt underneath not of the flashy type. He looks like he’s ready for club-hopping and you, anything but. If you knew earlier that you’d be by the Strip around midnight on New Year’s, you'd have dressed better.

“If you stay any longer in my car, people are going to assume we’re…y’know,” he states, quirking his eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure it’s illegal, though. Like, who thought fu—”

You were wrong. There is absolutely nothing to learn from Liu Yangyang.

“I would get out of this car immediately and fall to my death before I let that happen,” you retort, crossing your arms.

“No, hey. What an inauspicious sentence. Besides, and I’m not bragging but you should know I’m really good at using my assets—”

“Don’t say a word.”

The heat of embarrassment flows into your cheeks at his implication. You look out the window, weighing out the pros and cons. The scenery is so bright that sometimes it hurts to look outside. It’s not midnight yet but the main streets are already getting crowded for the processions; the sound of laughter and conversation ring in the air. It makes you somewhat sad to not be home for this. But as they say, living in a big city can only be done if you sell your soul to it.

You’re directly above the level one city plaza, the people below looking unsettling in the way they’re so small and far away—they don’t even seem human at this distance. You wonder if you look like that to the people above this, to the level three elites who sit on top of the whole city..

You look back to your companion, who’s transfixed on the bakery across the road—either that, or just really, really zoned out. Knowing Yangyang, it could be either. When you tilt your head, waiting, you find that he has pretty features—a shaped nose and round, curious eyes, all in perfect alignment with plump, pink lips. His metallic ring earrings shine when the light hits them right. No wonder you get girls asking how close the two of you are often. Even in a world pushing manufactured love, boys like him make others daydream. You wonder why you’re the one he loves to drag in with him.

Yangyang flinches when he finds you staring at him. You clear your throat, looking away and hoping you can sweep this under the rug.

“Are you- are you by any chance mad at me?” he asks, a nervous smile awkwardly tugging at his lips.

“I- what? No. I’m not mad at you.”

“You look like my mother when I don’t clean my room. Or Ten's cats when I try to kiss them.”

A tiny laugh escapes you before you get back your poised demeanor. “I’m- I’m not mad at you.”

He smiles at you wordlessly and you feel a little conscious. You glance outside when the plaza music starts to get loud and look back at him, debating whether you should just give in.

“So… you’ll let me brighten your life now?” he asks in his regular baritone, grinning wider. “The semester’s over and it’s festival time! I bring good luck, I promise.”

Liu Yangyang is not a happy serendipity. He simply cannot be. However, he does make you laugh more often than you’d admit.

“Whatever. Go ahead. I just don’t want to be hungover on a Friday.”

“You don’t- you don’t have to drink to have a good time.” He laughs. “I would know. I’m sort of a lightweight. I don’t know why I told you that. I’m supposed to be cool.”

You giggle, taking a moment to think.

“Fine then. Show me your magical access key to our beloved Mobius Strip, the mightiest, grandest structure in all of New Shanghai.”

“Well, if you put it that way… I am pretty cool, huh?”

His smile is too harmless for you to roll your eyes. He’s too gentle, you realize all of sudden, to be as awful as all the uni frat boys you’ve had the misfortune of talking to. You watch him as he drives; his arm moves with ease and he tries to make conversation but you can only hum and respond in singular words. The closer you are to the Strip the more nervous you get. It’s like visiting all those dark places that your mother explicitly warned you not to visit as a teenager—but you’re an adult now. No one owns you. No one should be able to own you. The determination builds up slowly over neon lights and hazy street shops.

Nights here are the fun part. Everyone says that. Other than the fact that you can barely make out the colour of the sky under the vivid city lights, there’s something very enticing about the streets, the upper streets that wind around the city.

Yangyang drives the car to a level three street, the behemoth structure of the Strip now so close that all you can see beyond your window are its placid, white walls stretching out to infinity. You can see little gardens and shops, peeking out from between each strip and one of the shopkeepers wave at you the moment you pass. Yangyang says something along the lines of “thanks for the free noodles” to the woman, before gliding higher.

“Grandma makes the best glass noodles here,” he says, excitedly. “I’ll take you sometime. If you like.”

You hum, noting the joy he expresses at the idea of something so simple.

Level three streets are already thousand and a half feet above the ground. You try not to look down; heights aren’t something you’re very fond of even if you love the sky. You note construction work for street levels four and five, shivering at the idea. The winds of change are fucking cold.

Yangyang swerves the car off-road at one point and you clutch his arm by reflex.

“What the fuck? Don’t do that without warning me,” you say, breathing quicker. You do not do well with: sudden movement, jumpscares and boys with pretty smiles.

“Sorry,” he says, looking at you with concern. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You let go of his arm, more embarrassed at yourself than mad at him. Driving the car closer to the Strip, he brakes carefully by the parking lot. The walls are covered in red wallpaper, a few lanterns attached to drones, floating along the path inside. It looks like a rooftop parking lot, though the mysterious dim lighting makes you walk closer to Yangyang.

“I heard this is gonna be a really cool event—they’ve got the latest AI tech hosting and crap but let me tell you the best part.”

He pauses for dramatic effect.

“The food!” He says, spreading his arms and grinning. “The food at private events is the best thing you’ll ever taste.”

You open your mouth but close it again in part horror, part confusion. “You’re… taking me to a private event?”

“Ah, don’t look like that. It’s really fun, promise.”

“I’m not even dressed for it,” you blurt, embarrassed.

Yangyang shakes his head. “Don’t worry about that. It’s for rich kids, you know? If I’m being honest, none of them know how to dress.”

His confident statement gets a giggle out of you and you relax a little. You walk with him, further into the square platform and away from the cars. The sky disappears behind the dark roof and for a moment, you feel like you’ve entered a different dimension. It’s like the architecture models that your professors had on display for the Shanghai History class in your freshman year. Old stuff, that is. Before this place even had the first skyscraper.

You turn to your side and narrow your eyes at Yangyang, suddenly wondering how he finagled his way into bringing you here. Your iron-clad will is not so much iron after all. It’s not even steel, you think, once you catch yourself staring at Yangyang a bit too long.

You step forward to find the entrance to the club; it’s a little lonely to look at in the beginning. Then it clicks that it’s probably the back door. The red pillars encase a black door between them, the overhang of the gateway just a little above Yangyang’s head. You can see the hip-and-gable style roof of the larger building behind, looking like a skyscraper instead of the usual historical buildings you’ve seen on the internet. In glowing red letters, it displays a blinking ‘Club 2’ near the top of the door.

The moment you step on the stairs, a bunch of advertisements pop up on the door, bright bubblegum colours hurting your eyes. Yangyang taps at the little x at the corner of the display till it disappears and finally the door is a regular door. The colour is jet black like any other screening platform.

“I thought the rich were exempted from ads,” you say.

“They’re… more likely to buy things though.”

You make an ‘ah’ sound in contemplation when a whirring makes you jump into him. A little spherical drone flies its way out of an opening in the wall and stops right in front of the two of you.

“Sicheng-ge!” Yangyang says, waving frantically at the camera.

The little drone circles around Yangyang’s head before stopping right in front of his face. It runs a scan before turning sharply and beeping at you.

“My plus one!” Yangyang declares, pulling you by the waist. “Or whatever it’s called.”

Your ears feel warm but you don’t push him off. The camera focuses on your face, likely scanning to identify your age and occupation. When it’s done, a beep resounds and the door slides open to reveal a dimly lit pathway. The main entrance is much brighter, Yangyang promises, but for now it’s just the warm glow of the lanterns, Yangyang’s neon red striped jacket and the mechanical whirring of some sort of device in the darkness.

“What’s that sound?” you whisper and Yangyang stops.

He pauses to think. “Oh, they’re Sicheng-ge’s drones. He’s got like a million of them. I'll introduce you—he’s hosting this club event, by the way.”

He smiles at you reassuringly. If Yangyang’s not bothered by it, you’ll follow his lead. Though, you do take more nimble steps and stay close to him like he’s your lighthouse. (In a way, he is, with all that neon shining on his jacket.)

You’re surprised to find a garden, but then it gets stranger when you see brighter lanterns in the middle area. You see figures and before you can react, Yangyang takes your hand and into the central platform.

ii. orchid club square

Yangyang was right. None of them know how to dress.

The two of you stand in the middle of a crowd, who are in fact dressed either for: a) an impromptu pool party or b) a Sunday morning lecture. You blend in somewhat well given the variety though Yangyang’s painted looks have attracted the attention of quite a few giggling, murmuring onlookers.

You clench your jaw in mild annoyance.

“This is a tour,” Yangyang whispers to you. “I thought… you’d like to know what everything’s about.”

You feel grateful to him for once. Having some sort of knowledge about what you’re getting into makes you feel better about any situation. A set of mechanical clicking fills the air.

A woman—no, an AI bot is the first to greet you. She has pale white metallic skin and her dark strands of hair are in a traditional updo. Her lips are imperial red, shaped in a way that makes her seem as though she’s smiling but also not at the very same time. She holds an extravagant fan by her face at the perfect right angle, the patterns on it painted to imitate an ancient cherry blossom tree.

“Good evening, everyone,” she says, her voice pitched up and enthusiastic. It’s a little funny to imagine metal so lively.

You smell oranges and lavender as soon as she flicks her fan once and precise.

“Welcome to the New Shanghai nightlife!” The bot continues jovially. “The oldest surviving city on planet earth, the birthplace of the human race.”

“You are in virtual space,” she informs. “It might look like a courtyard stretching to infinity but it is only an illusion. However, the club is five hundred and sixty one metres wide and six hundred and twelve metres long. It is large enough to hold twenty-one blue whales in a line. That is, if they still existed of course.”

She giggles algorithmically.

“Where you stand right now,” she says, turning her head in a swift mechanical motion to you and you flinch. “This place is called the orchid club square. As you know, only VIP access lets you in.”

You glance at Yangyang worriedly and he shrugs. There’s no way she could know, right? That was oddly specific. But then she moves her head left to right to address the whole crowd in perfect grace. When her movement starts to get a little too eerie to watch any longer, you fix your eyes on the garden instead. You have no way of telling part real flowers from virtual ones and even so—all of them are beautiful. Maybe reality doesn’t make things any prettier.

However, when you look at Yangyang, the thought gets tossed out. You shake your head, in an attempt to get rid of the image of his face. It’s a little too late to be feeling this way. Either that, or the night is taking its toll on you already. The day was exhausting, considering it was the end of the semester.

The AI guide’s chatter fades into something quieter when you move the club square. It’s a rather empty space, fitting for a rave or just housing large crowds. The decorations are for the new year celebrations, banners of the ox in auspicious colours and a few drones projecting the rest. There’s a garden of evermore orchids lining the area in a perfect square and it’s so precise that it’s pleasing to look at. There’s a door at one edge, similar to the one you encountered before entering the club square.

The music that wafts through the air is so gentle, you almost forget there’s a celebration. The beat makes it livelier and even so, the rhythm of your heartbeat matches it in a soothing sort of way. Turning around, you spot the musical ensemble. It’s another AI, peering over a guqin with trained habit.

She looks the same, except she wears an electronic mask over the lower half of her face. It displays a blue musical note made up of noticeable pixels. She has no fan—instead, her fingers strum the guqin rhythmically, programmed with precision and grace. The sound is accompanied by the woodwind notes of a flute, though you’re not sure where that sound emanates from. There’s also a soft drumbeat which seems to come from the guqin bot herself.

You gasp when a few painted goldfish float through the air, almost real to look at if it weren’t for the glitch effect of holograms. One of them swims closer to you, opening and closing its mouth in rhythm and you giggle at its face.

Yangyang laughs, long finger pointing at the critter in amusement. “That’s adorable.”

He looks like a little kid and you giggle at his expression, with wide, delighted eyes and mouth open in focused mirth. He pokes at the goldfish and it makes a bubbling sound, gears shifting in ticking time before suddenly biting at his index finger. Yangyang lets out a low yelp, retracting his hand before clearing his throat in embarrassment.

“You’re like a cartoon,” you tell him, in between laughs. “No way are you real.”

He grins, in that same way he always looks at you and you look away, feeling hot in the face. It’s too enamored a way to look at someone. But of course, that couldn’t be true—he’s Liu Yangyang and you’re you. Parallel lines do not meet, even if they’re headed in the same direction.

“I think you’re unreal,” he mumbles.

iii. club 2

The doors open to a rather spacious arrangement, with several tables one one side and a sort of dance arena on the other where people are trying to out-dance each other. The intensity makes you move further away from it. It seems a little too festive and you can feel the energy slinking away from you. The music is more upbeat but you suppose the DJ tried to make it sound more eastern; the result is pleasing. He wears a smooth black helmet with a neon red beat visualizer on it, with written SFX appearing from time to time. Two pulsing golden horns glow at the sides of his head. You stare at it for longer than you’d like before composing yourself. You’re very impressionable when it comes to parties.

There are two floors to the club, above the bottom floor itself. The other two floors mostly seem to consist of private booths, however, covered with gossamer silk that glow iridescent. A few floating lanterns sway by the upper floors. The ceiling is open to a midnight blue sky and the stars look much larger than you’ve ever seen them—you suspect it’s an AR mesh over the ceiling. A few light shows project little dancing dragons and coins over the sky and you find them too cute to not stare at.

“Wow,” Yangyang says, right after walking in. “Why is Dejun on the table?”

You look where his eyes are focused on, though it’s difficult through the crowd of people, and find Dejun and Kunhang in some sort of old anime transformation pose atop one of the tables. It’s surprising that they’re not the weirdest pair here.

“Now, bear with me, it’s going to be boring as hell till the countdown and the fireworks,” he explains, waving his hands around. “But it’s a good place to have fun and make friends. You know?”

“Friends?” you ask, a little nervous. You’re not very proficient at making friends and it makes you anxious.

“Yeah! Don’t worry. ” He makes a strange gesture, bordering between posing for a beer ad campaign and looking like a motivational speaker for the army, before furrowing his eyebrows. “You just have to be confident! I’m learning too!”

He lets out a sweet laugh and it makes you laugh in turn, hand covering your mouth so you don’t embarrass yourself too much. You don’t believe the words much, but the glow over his cheeks makes you reconsider.

“You look really nice when you laugh,” he comments, a bright glint in his eyes.

“Whatever,” you reply, punching his shoulder lightly.

Just then, you feel a gentle tap on your shoulder to find Lana from your ethical AI class, smiling at you warmly. She looks a little tired, of people more than the time. Like you, she is also a scholarship student—and not a day has gone when she hasn’t soothed your anxiety about your classes. In stark contrast with Yangyang, you would trust her over him for most tasks. Even if you weren’t partners, you’re okay with the outcome. You glance at Yangyang.

“(name)! Oh my god, I didn’t know you were coming here,” she says. “Did Yangyang kidnap you?”

“I mean, sort of.”

“Hey.” Yangyang looks at you with betrayal.

“And how did you even manage to do that cool ass project with him as your partner?” she continues, squinting at him.

“Honestly, I don’t know either. He can be surprisingly helpful though.”

Yangyang looks from Lana to you in exasperation. “I’m literally right here,” he grumbles.

Lana laughs at his expression, patting his shoulder sympathetically.

“I just can’t believe you let him kidnap you and not me,” she says in mock indignance. “I’m a much better chauffeur, you know?”

“Do you even have a driving license?” Yangyang asks, laughing.

“I got mine before you, rat. Anyway, (name), I’m playing the guzheng. Do you wanna come see?”

“No,” Yangyang interrupts, suddenly grabbing your hand. “I… I mean you guys can go, of course. It's just the countdown’s close, so we have to go to the viewpoint.”

“That’s exactly where—ah. I see.”

"We'll join you another time, Lana," he says quietly, a cute grin on his face like a little boy would make to an older sister for more shares of chocolate.

"No, no. I actually remembered I left my friends in the corner. See you!"

She leaves her epiphany unsaid, offering you a smile and taking her leave abruptly.

“I thought you told me to socialize,” you complain to Yangyang.

“Yes, I’m so proud of you for that.”

“Yangyang, I swear if you treat me like a kid—”

“I’m not, I’m not. Sorry,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “I just need to borrow you for tonight. After all, I promised you, didn’t I?”

You sigh. “Fine then, what’s this viewpoint you’re talking about?”

“Oh, we’ll get there.”

Someone’s watching you. You turn around a full three-sixty but find only the same crowd of college-age kids. No one sticks out much, apart from Dejun, Kunhang and Ten, who are at this point performing some sort of strange ritual unbeknownst to any new year tradition, with a hell load of yelling.

“Oh my god, you’re dancing too?” Yangyang says, grinning ear to ear. “I didn’t know I’d have that much of a positive influence. Wow.”

“I’m- I’m not- never mind.”

Yangyang furrows his eyebrows. “What did I tell you? More confidence! See—”

He takes your hands in his, pulling you further onto the dance floor. You feel a rising panic but swallow it. There’s a beat of silence in which the two of you look at each other. Yangyang proceeds to perform the stupidest sequence of movements you have ever seen, certainly too awkward for his body to accept as natural but it doesn’t seem like he cares. He’s having fun.

You find yourself laughing. Taking timid steps, you try to loosen up although the inevitable embarrassment arrives in flushes of heat across your face. There are stars in Yangyang’s eyes when you join him—not the artificial jewels in observatories but the real kind that you used to see in your hometown.

You take a wobbly step back. It’s starting to get disorienting. If it were the real sky above you, you might even have felt better. Perhaps the purpose is to get dizzy.

“I’m a little thirsty,” Yangyang says, motioning to the table with food and drinks at a corner. “I’ll head over and be back.”

Unsure what to do, you follow him like a lost lamb and though it would be embarrassing at any other time, any other place, now and here are not part of that.

The red and golden lights of the neon patterning the walls don’t seem as harsh anymore and you let your eyes rest on the boyish figure of Yangyang. You haven’t figured him out yet. Something tells you he’s more than a shallow image of the party-loving rich kids of Shanghai. In fact, in quiet, personal moments, he looks more out of place than you do—despite all that bright neon. You open your mouth to ask something when you’re interrupted by a dizzy Yangyang spinning into you.

“Sorry, (name),” he says, rubbing the base of his palm against his forehead. “I genuinely thought I was going to win that game.”

You shake your head, letting him get back to whatever spinning game they were at. He smells like wine and something tells you he’s poor at holding his liquor. The stakes must be high for that game, you figure, because you see Yangyang set aside his beloved shoe on the floor. To be the only scholarship student here suddenly feels scary and awkward.

Yangyang once again tugs at your arm, the touch reassuring as though he understands how you feel. But it isn’t true. There’s no way someone like him can understand someone like you.

“Yangyang,” you call. “Do you come here every year?”

“No, no. I do come for drinks though. I’m only here right now because a friend is hosting this.”

You shrug.

“And you,” he adds and you feel a hot flush rise to your face. “New years are the only time this place is PG-13.”

“I’m not a child,” you snap.

“My mom says childish people say that.”

“Then it's very rich coming from you, Liu Yangyang.”

He laughs heartily, leaning away. A creeping thought grows in your head that you missed out on a lot. But then again, you’ll always miss out on things if you’re not rich enough for them.

Yangyang flinches suddenly, almost knocking a plate off the table. He moves quickly, turning so that his side leans against the wall and the other arm cages you between him and the wall. His frame covers your view from whatever, or whoever arrived at the entrance that made him react so obnoxiously.

However, his lips hovering just a little over yours makes your breath hitch in your throat. This is the worst possible position you could've gotten into. The smell of mint interrupts your thoughts and you look at him with as annoyed an expression as you can muster over the heat of your face.

"Yangyang, what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

“I am… admiring the wall. Ooh, it’s got velvet over it, did you notice?”

“You’re going to have your head in it too if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

"Just… sorry. Let’s stay like this for a few moments."

He flashes you an apologetic smile, his face close enough to make yours grow even hotter. A nervous chuckle erupts from his lips.

"Oh my god, get off. People are going to think we’re making out."

"We could do it for real."

"I'm going to scratch your eyes out."

"Sorry, sorry."

“Who are you even hiding from?”

“I’m not hiding… okay, forget that. Bodyguard-watcher-dude. It’s kind of hard to explain.”

“You have a bodyguard?”

“More like a babysitter.”

You try not to laugh, considering the proximity between your faces. “How come you have a babysitter? Actually, wait, I think I know.”

He huffs over your face and you restrain yourself from landing a swift uppercut to his jaw. Now you know the minty smell comes from mouth freshener.

“He’s a prosecutor. It’s weird that he stalks me in his free time. Even- even if… my parents are paying him.”

“They think you’re doing something illegal?”

“No. I don’t think I am.”

You rest your head back against the wall, rolling your eyes. “Really? That’s your answer? God, your brain cells rotted somewhere along the way, didn’t they? It’s all those parties.”

“I’m starting to feel like my mom hired you too.”

He looks back, and noting the absence of his so-called babysitter, he pulls back from you. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath and you let it out in a shallow effort.

“Your babysitter’s gone?”

“Not a babysit—I regret saying that. Look, I really don’t think they appointed him because they think I’m doing something illegal. I have never done anything illegal. Except that one street race but that’s because Lucas told me it was perfectly legal.”

“The what?”

“Anyway, the point is, let’s look forward to good fortune for this year, hm? Leave all the burdens to last year.”

“Fortune doesn’t favour fools.”

“I’m not stupid,” he complains, spreading his arms to express it further. “Mostly.”

You laugh, turning your attention to the food table.

“Ooh, pineapple tarts,” he exclaims, hand reaching out to grab one when you smack it.

“You’ve had, like, fifteen already.”

“Mhm,” he says, with a few more stuffed in his mouth.

There’s a pause.

“It’s me, isn't it?” you ask quietly. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

He gulps, lips parting and closing. “I brought you here. So you don’t worry about it.”

Rich people suck. You believe that strongly. But sometimes, just sometimes, when you have everything you can ever want, you start to want the same for everyone around you. Some people are special. You find Yangyang genuinely fascinating for being someone who makes friends when he’s supposed to be making more connections. You find him fascinating.

It makes sense for someone like him to be the way he is.

iv. fireworks viewpoint

“That’s the old Shanghai Tower,” Yangyang points to a building in the distance. “It used to be the tallest building once but… well, it looks like the little guy now.”

Lunar New Year’s celebrations are a big, big deal in New Shanghai. It means a break from university, work and every other affair to have as many priorities sorted in anticipation of the new year. And the impact is evident from this height, when you can see the city in its golden glory. It looks warm out there for once—although you’re not very sure if it’s because of the warmth that comes from right beside you. The little wooden boats float by on the river a little far off, various images blooming as holograms above them. You giggle at the large animated fishes swimming above the river with blank expressions and painted button eyes.

The golden clock shines bright in the sky, its holographic hands ticking down to midnight. It looks like something out of a fantasy movie, scattering golden pixels everywhere with each minute passing. The size of it alone reminds you of the scale of this city.

This is an empire. It's owned by the kings and queens who built it over the bones left from sacrifices. It's going to be owned by heirs and heiresses. You feel a looming sense of dread come over you. It's so beautiful and it can never belong to itself. It must always belong to someone. It’s the terms and conditions of human creation.

"Hey." Yangyang taps you on the shoulder and you try not to flinch. "What are you thinking?"

You hum. "Stuff."

"This place is pretty cool, huh?"

That, you can agree with. "It is. It's so amazing that I can't believe I'm here sometimes."

Yangyang laughs slowly. "I hope more people can live here. Not in level one. You know. No one should live in desperation."

You hold back a scoff, though you end up frowning. What does a rich kid know of desperation? He might as well be prince, and princes do not know how to beg. It must be something of a saviour complex. You shrink away from him. The new year music is starting to ring a little too loud in your ears.

"That would be difficult," you mutter.

"Not if you lower the cost of living conditions—ah. Sorry." He pauses and you feel a flicker of surprise in you. “It’s not appropriate to discuss. Or so my parents tell me…”

The expression comes from empathy. You’re sure of it. There’s some sort of passion and not the kind of coloured fire that flames up in parties, but a different one. The kind that says, if you can’t bear the heat then you can’t learn how to forge. You scoff. Which prince has possibly known heat?

“I- I get angry too,” you say quietly. “I think it’s something to be angry about.”

He smiles at you, leaning against the balcony railing.

You’re interrupted by a man in the attire of a waiter and it causes the two of you to jump away from each other. It’s not like you were very close in the first place but the proximity of shared words can play tricks on people. The man offers the two of you a screen and Yangyang’s face lights up almost immediately.

“We can order food with this,” he says. “Or book a table. The top strips are all reserved for members of the club. That’s the big daddy restaurants.”

“That’s… pretty cool,” you say, leaning in to glance over the browsing menu. “But don’t say that phrase to me again.”

“I can. And I will.”

“Ugh. Move on.”

“Okay, so we should drop by the convenience store for some ramen. I heard they taste better in the middle of the night,” Yangyang suggests all of a sudden, leaning in further.

It gets difficult sometimes to not be bothered by him, especially when there is a lack of distance. You look at him, pause and then sigh. “Sure. I guess. Are those free too?”

He opens his mouth in sudden realization and grins sheepishly at you. You roll your eyes.

“Do you have money then?”

“Uh.”

“How do you not have money? It’s the New Year!”

“I… uh—”

“Okay, you don’t have to answer that. But I’m not paying for you,” you complain. “You could always ask your parents for some money. What’s the point of being a party kid?”

‘Party kids’—it makes you laugh in amusement—is the colloquial term given to the children of businesspeople who had a direct hand in the economic progress of New Shanghai. You would sell your kidneys to be one and it still wouldn’t be enough.

His smile wavers at your statement but he shakes his head. “If I call my mom, she’ll start scolding me again about how my apartment room needs to be cleaner. Blah, blah, blah. You know.”

“She’s right- wait, you don’t clean your room?”

“Don’t take her side, (name).”

You bite down a smile and he offers you his biggest one.

“Oh, that place looks new,” Yangyang exclaims, a long index finger pointing to the preview of a sushi restaurant. You glare at him, his face nearer to yours than you would prefer but his eyes are fixed like a child ogling halloween candy.

“Let’s go,” he urges, looking directly at you.

You furrow your eyebrows, shaking your head vehemently. “We don’t have money. Or bit-credits.”

He sighs, deflating as though you just snatched the candy right from his hands. “But… I haven’t been there before.”

“So?” You exhale, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You don’t have to try every food place in the city.”

“I need to eat,” he says as though it’s a very reasonable response. “I’m still growing!”

“Not mentally.”

He drops his smile, looking at you blankly. “You don’t have to get so smart with me, let me tell you.”

You snicker at the ‘offended’ expression on his face.

In the next moment, your attention shifts to the sudden crowd of people rushing to the balcony. Yangyang pulls you closer to avoid getting pushed by them, and you look around confused. It all makes sense when they start chanting the numbers, counting down from ten. You can only stare in awe at the clock and the otherworldly glee in the rhythmic chants. It’s like they don’t feel anything but joy at this moment. You let yourself smile.

The clock strikes twelve. The sound of the bell resounds throughout the city and the firecrackers burst into a thousand shades of red and gold across the sky. There’s moving images of animals, floating text and other animations which make the night sky seem like a screen. The sparks of the fireworks look like golden snow, or even happy little pixels.

You point your finger to the sky excitedly but when you turn, Yangyang’s eyes aren’t on the sky but on your hand outstretched towards it. He faces you, rather hesitantly as though caught red-handed.

“You’re- you’re… so pretty,” he says, softly and shrugging as if answering a question.

You wish he wouldn’t look at you like that. It’s the lonely speaking, right? The euphoria of human connection in this time and age—it can make you believe anything. There’s a myriad of colours blooming in the sky behind you, a city dazzling with diamond and ruby lights, people with much more stories to tell than you do. This city, this city, this city. This city will break your heart.

“It’s kind of crappy,” you mutter, to which Yangyang quirks an ear.

“Wh-what is?”

“This city. It’s got bright lights and fun and all those promises of success. But all I see are people desperately trying to survive. All I see are the same faces at the top and—I’m sorry. I’m getting carried away.”

“No, no.” He makes a vague gesture. “I’m listening.”

“We’re at their mercy,” you whisper. “My life is not my own. That’s crappy.”

Yangyang hums in response. “You're right. What’s the point of living a life that’s not your own?”

Looking at him again, you see the entire figure of his being against the fireworks and all the beautiful creations of the human race. His almost silver hair falls perfectly by his forehead, the contact lenses looking like glazed frost over his eyes. Just as vibrant and excessive as the city itself, Yangyang belongs here. This is his kingdom.

No, that’s not quite right perhaps. Yangyang belongs anywhere because he brings warmth. You're suddenly grateful he's with you because no one you know would possibly go out of their way to make you feel comfortable like this. You know Yangyang loves people and crowds. No one would do that for you at the expense of their own enjoyment. You smile at the prospect of solving the blinding mystery that he is.

"We… should leave," Yangyang says, all of a sudden. He eyes a man at the corner of the balcony, dressed in a business suit and looking blank. He sticks out like a sore thumb. You're not sure why he's in that getup.

"Okay," you say, not sure why you're so agreeable tonight.

Maybe it's the night. Sometimes all you can do is drag your feet over the asphalt and hope it'll be sunnier tomorrow.

v. two-four-seven convenience store

College boys are the most god-awful creatures on earth.

“Hey, do you always reach class on time?” Yangyang asks, eyes curious. He keeps asking a question every five minutes or so, trying to keep up conversation. You've already told him he doesn't have to. However, it makes you strangely comfortable to hear the sound of his voice periodically. You won't tell him that.

You nod, returning your gaze to the window, though the advertisements block your view. You can always try skipping the ad every five goddamn seconds.

It's your first time riding the train that travels through the Mobius Strip, and certainly the first time in a luxury cabin. Since it’s free for members of the new year club, you can heave a sigh of relief. You will never in your life, even if it’s genetically elongated, ever be able to afford a luxury cabin.

"Oh, that looks so good," Yangyang says, large hand smacking against the window to get rid of the colourful advertisements.

"It's a convenience store, Yangyang," you say. "It's got everyday ramen."

"No, look. It's a different brand. And they're giving a burger for free with two ramen cups!"

You furrow your eyebrows at him. "Well, I guess it's cheaper too."

"Oh, we can go to one of the upper restaurants too. They're free, remember?"

"I like convenience stores," you mumble. There's something about the lack of even lighting and crowds that made them a comfort spot for you.

“Quick,” he says, pulling you off the seat when the train stops.

“Yangyang!” you warn. He's so easily excitable that you find it hard to believe he's real sometimes.

However, when he turns around with his big puppy-dog eyes, you curse at yourself before you curse at him. Sighing, you follow him down the steps, his hand tenderly holding yours. Sometimes, you wonder if the human touch means anything at all in this diamond and steel era. Yangyang’s palm is warm against yours.

The ramen tastes awfully delicious on stolen time, and you would complain more if it weren’t for Yangyang looking at you with so serene a look. It annoys you and you try to grab his attention by waving your chopsticks in front of him. When it doesn’t work, you resort to swearing. You’ve never seen anyone respond with a smiling hum after being told to “eat shit”.

“Oh, this tastes so good,” he states, cheeks puffed with food. “I think I’m going to cry.”

“I- I think you’re crying because it’s spicy.”

“Oh.”

As usual, Yangyang pokes and prods at you with questions about your daily life, like you’re the most interesting thing in a city full of blinding lights, world-class robots and cyber-enhanced technology. You don’t understand how he doesn’t just grow tired of asking every single detail about you.

Apart from the fact that Liu Yangyang is most certainly an environmental hazard, some part of you cannot believe that he's truly terrible. There's something innocent about him, but all at once, something quiet and mysterious.

“Why are you always so curious, Yangyang?” you ask finally. “Why are you always running off to different places?”

“Because experiences never come twice,” he answers after some thinking. It seems to be a little difficult for him to articulate, deep contemplation over his features when he continues. “This city… all the lights and clubs and arenas, all of it will be gone someday. Like we don’t have telephones or those big computers anymore.”

You rest your chin on your palm, leaning in.

“This moment, right here with you… I’ll never experience it again,” he tells you. “We can have more midnight convenience store ramen sometime later but… each time will be different. I’d rather live now.”

You smile softly. “That’s a funny thought to live by.”

“Yours isn’t any better,” he says, patting your head. “Also, I’m like hot and young and popular and not a cyborg—how can I miss parties?”

You shake your head, laughing. He’s ridiculous. He’s completely ridiculous. In that moment, when you look at him, Yangyang seems to be smiling in a daze, eyes on your face.

“You look nice when you smile,” he says quietly.

"Thanks," you respond. "I should keep it a secret then, huh?"

"Not from me," he says, smiling.

Somehow, the extra minutes you have at the convenience store turn to a few multiplayer games and then, ditching technology, to an arm wrestling match.

"I feel like this game is kind of unfair," you say after losing almost immediately. He's clearly got stronger muscles. Does he work out? Probably against his will, you bet.

“My right arm’s a lot stronger than my left arm,” he says, before looking a little horrified. “That wasn’t a masturbation joke, by the way. I am so sorry.”

You roll your eyes. "Give me your left hand then- wait. You're right-handed?"

"That's not the- uh." He thinks for a moment, trying to gather words. “That’s not the reason.”

“I, uh, I heavily damaged this arm when I was a kid—don’t look like that, there’s a fun part to this. It’s made of titanium! And some other things. The names are too complicated.”

You drive your fingers over the arm, so warm and real and flushed red, anything but metal and code. You find curiosity blooming in you more than ever before.

“You know why I’m not with family,” you say, straightening. “But why aren’t you celebrating with your family?”

He gets quiet, thinking to himself for a few more moments. You almost regret asking when he answers, a hesitant sound leaving him first.

“None of us, uh… none of our parents can spare more than three hours. They’ll come in the afternoon tomorr—today.”

You can’t exactly respond to that very well.

“So all of us go hang out at the New Year’s Club.”

You frown. "But it's not a celebration without family!"

"We have new year lunches. And… it's the future. Traditions die. Very few grieve them for fear of being stuck in the past."

You feel partly horrified and partly dismal. "I… You could come with me next year, if you like."

You're not sure where the offer comes from but Yangyang lights up at the idea.

"I can? Oh, we'll have so much fun!"

"Slow down. There's a year to go."

Yangyang laughs. It's surprising the way he turned out. He must have gotten tired of waiting by the door. And now you know all the things about him that his parents don’t.

You smile at him, warming up to the idea of you and him as friends before scoffing at it again.

Right in the next moment, Yangyang dips suddenly to the ground, crouching below the table. You look around in surprise and fall to your knees with a yelp at the tug on our wrist from Yangyang.

“What the hell?” you hiss. “You’re starting to act really weird.”

“I- Sorry. It’s an emergency,” he says, but there’s no sign of distress in his voice. He simply smiles at you. Perhaps he’s never heard of the emotion as of yet.

“Your babysitter?”

“I say that once and on accident—yes, it’s my babysitter.”

You chuckle. He’s simply too cute at times.

“We have to be discreet now, okay? It’s like—what’s the movie called? Oh, Mission Impossible.”

“I’ve never seen that.”

“What? How can you not? It’s a classic! It’s got so many cool—ah, I’ll show you another time.”

You hum, staring at Yangyang’s facial features tense up and relax again as he scans the vicinity outside the window of the convenience store. It’s full of people, even at this hour so you can’t possibly know who’s looking at you from there.

Yangyang turns back to you. “Have you ever been to blue moon station?”

“The one with the pretty walls? No. No, I’ve never even gone beyond Strip Two.”

Yangyang smiles at you and right then, you feel like you’re about to resent whatever’s going to happen next. It’s in the ebb and flow of tonight’s itinerary, however, and you relax your shoulders just as he does a roll across the floor, looking back at you with a grin for executing it flawlessly.

“You’re so silly,” you mutter.

“I heard that,” he whisper-shouts back.

You’re not as afraid as before, you realize. The lights are absolutely mesmerizing.

vi. blue moon station

It drops a few degrees in temperature once you step foot onto the platform. You can see a bunch of scattered tourists, cameras hanging around their neck and a look of awe over their faces.

Yangyang takes off his jacket, shivering immediately but offering it to you nonetheless. When you refuse, he places it gingerly over your shoulders.

"Is that a…?"

"A tourist bot, yes."

"Oh my god, it's so cute," you say, crouching by the little red robot, a teal-colored smiley face popping up on its monitor.

"A lot of tourists in this station," you note.

"Yeah. It's very… visually pleasing."

That's true. The walls are screens with three dimensional graphics, immersive enough to catch one's eye. A single tree grows through the middle of the station, evergreen and alive with holographic flora and fauna. The sun shines eternally over the tree. It's so beautiful that you had trouble taking your eyes off it at first.

The walls next to you are currently displaying a walk through a fantasy forest, crafted by a visionary artist, no doubt. A blue butterfly flies past you and you stare at it before zoning out.

Sometimes, the lights are too disorienting. You start to feel dizzy, massaging your forehead when Yangyang brushes the tips of his fingers against your shoulder.

“You good?”

Yangyang crouches beside you with watchful eyes.

You nod, turning your attention to the tourist bot. It displays a plethora of information about the architecture of this place which you're sure no tourist will bother to read beyond the first two lines.

“You can make it do cool tricks too,” Yangyang says. “Watch.”

Yangyang pokes at it with his index finger, drawing a pattern over the screen. The bot proceeds to do an old internet dance, waving about its arms and hips. You laugh at it and Yangyang looks at you with the pride of a third grader with first place on their science project.

The colours on the walls change and you see the animation of a man and a fox, furrowing your eyebrows as you try to recall that image. They seem to be broadcasting fables through the holograms. You can’t deny that they��re pretty—glowing with auspicious colours and as animated as the real world itself. As if by compulsion, you hold Yangyang’s hand. It’s nice to feel the human touch real once in a while, especially in the overwhelming loneliness of city nights.

Yangyang looks at you brightly and right then, you feel less inclined to leave him.

“You know, I could teach you better ways to flirt than just grab my hand,” he says, grinning like an idiot.

“What?”

You move your hand. “I’m not flirting.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean that,” he responds quickly. “Can I please have your hand back?”

You shake your head, laughing. He worries you. Some part of you says you shouldn’t be worried. It’s not like you’re close friends. (Friends, maybe. Close, not yet.)

The night has a different opinion.

—

“Found you,” a voice declares, and the two of you jump into each other with a scream.

The man in the suit looks at you with a fatigued look in his eyes, hair somehow still neat though he breathes like his lungs are on fire.

“Care to tell me why you’ve been skipping my calls?” he asks after catching his breath. “It’s not like I wanted to follow you—you just needed to tell me.”

“I… I was busy?” Yangyang flashes a smile. “Kun-ge, I honestly had no idea you called. I don’t even have my phone.”

The man shakes his head. “Fine. Just head over to Jasmine for the night. And you can bring your date too.”

He gestures at you and you want to deny it as quick as you can. You do not, however. It’s almost like you’ve warmed up to the idea of it rather well.

“Okay,” Yangyang answers quietly.

vii. jasmine private lounge

You enter a lounge with the capacity of around a hundred people. Despite that, there are hardly five present. The walls are black with neon jasmines pulsating from blue to red. A grand piano lies still in all its elegance in the middle of the lounge, played by a plain white AI. It feels like an expensive place to be, and more so, it feels like someplace you’re not supposed to step foot into. There's a bar table at one side, opposite to the entrance which glows a hypnotizing purple. A flat lettering on the wall declares the time to be 3 A.M.

You and Yangyang sit a little too close on the artificially warmed couch, waiting for Kun to return. Yangyang reassures you that you haven't done anything wrong but the illicit outing of yours certainly says otherwise. You contemplate tasting the cocktail Yangyang ordered before finally giving in and find it pleasantly warm to taste. You take another sip.

“It’s a little strong,” Yangyang warns. “Don’t have all of—you had all of it.”

You shrug. Your throat certainly feels better now. This lounge is fucking cold.

"You know, Yangyang," you say with the warmth of confidence on your face. "You're a really nice guy."

He smiles incredulously. "Thanks. You're really nice too."

"And you're pretty decent-looking—"

"I know that."

"—and also popular. So why are you always hanging around me?"

"Uh, that's your question?"

You nod. Placing your cheek against your palm, you try not to sink into the couch.

"Because you're really cool!" He answers before clearing his throat. "I mean. I think you're fun to be around. You make me see things clearer."

"And what exactly are you wanting to see clearer?'

"You."

You blink aside your astoundment, straightening. "What?"

Your question is left unanswered because a man enters and sits across the two of you, a loud huff of annoyance leaving his mouth. It's not just his disposition but the architecture of his face that grabs your attention. He looks like an AI robot so perfectly crafted with coloured lips and flawless skin that you end up staring till Yangyang elbows you.

“He’s not an AI,” Yangyang whispers.

You furrow your brows and notice it is, in fact, true that he's not an AI. There are no ridges over the joints or hollowness in the eyes. He wears the same frost-patterned smart lenses as Yangyang does. However, it doesn't change the fact that the man is beautiful to look at.

“I’m never hosting a new year party again,” he mutters, sinking into the couch.

“It actually sounds kind of fun,” Yangyang interjects. “I can’t wait for my turn.”

“I’m sorry. Good luck standing at Longhua temple for three hours till midnight just to make sure nothing goes wrong. Without dinner.”

Yangyang makes a face at that.

"That's Sicheng-ge," he says, turning to you.

"Ah," you say in response, remembering the name vaguely.

"He let us into Club 2," Yangyang says, noticing your lost expression.

"I think Kun's looking for you," Sicheng says, eyes trained at the back.

His hands fidget with the dim blue buttons at the edge of the table, till a small compartment reveals itself under the glass. An old world-style cigarette is slowly pushed up and Sicheng picks it up. He offers the next one to Yangyang, who accepts it hesitantly. No one smokes tobacco anymore when nicotine is so readily available. Alas, human nature is to want things deadly and out of reach.

“So how’s Cat?” Yangyang asks, fumbling with the plasma lighter he picked from a compartment on the side.

Sicheng smiles a little, the smoke from his cigarette snaking around him as he raises a hand to dissipate it.

“She’s doing fine. Running everything as usual.”

“Of course. Boss lady.” Yangyang does an awkward salute.

“Oh, a new hair color too. As pretty as flower fields in the spring of ‘22.”

Sicheng’s lovesick rambling is interrupted by Yangyang hacking his lungs out. You turn to him and he avoids your gaze, reaching for a crystal blue glass of water one of the helper bots offer. So, he’s not even a smoker? Why did he think you would care?

“Anyway, Kun is glaring daggers at me now. You better get out of here.” Sicheng grimaces.

You turn around to see Kun by the bar table, gesturing towards Yangyang to come. You're not sure why but either of those men make you nervous.

"I'll be right back," Yangyang says, scrambling up and leaving you in a long awkward silence with Sicheng.

“So, uh, I’m assuming you’re oblivious to that lovestruck puppy following you around?” Sicheng asks, raising an eyebrow. “Or is this some game you guys are into? I’m not judging you for that.”

Your face heats up and you fidget with your collar. “The- A what? Game? Uh? I- huh?”

Sicheng tries to press down his smile but it’s evident enough for you to see. Did you say something funny? Did Yangyang say something funny about you? Oh, you’re going to kill him.

“For all that he talks, he’s kind of terrible at pulling together his own love life.”

“I- I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

It still unnerves you to look at him. He certainly looks more android than human when he’s not making any particular expression.

“Don’t mind me,” he says, offering you a reassuring smile. “You should find Yangyang before he lands the two of you in trouble.”

You turn to look at Yangyang through the glass and turn back nodding. Sicheng offers you a parting smile and you hesitantly make your way to the bar table.

"This isn't in my job description," Kun tells Yangyang just before you arrive. "I didn't know being a lawyer included babysitting."

The tips of Yangyang's ears heat up when he notices you.

"It's not babysitting," he murmurs. “Also, you’re not my mom.”

"You, Ten, Kunhang, all of you give me such a hard time," he continues but pauses right when he notices you.

"Oh, hello. (Name), isn't it?" He says, smiling politely. He's quite young and handsome for a lawyer. "Yangyang talks about you a lot."

"Oh," you respond. "Really?"

Yangyang glares at the older man. "You don't have to say everything, Kun-ge."

"You interested in law?" Kun asks, offering you a seat between him and Yangyang.

You make a face. The law is a tool for the rich and powerful. But then again, what isn’t? The world is in your hands when you have billions to spare. However, you still can’t imagine being a rich man's guard dog your whole life.

Kun chuckles. "You kids are interested in tech more, aren't you?"

Yangyang interrupts, "You talk like you're fifty years old."

Kun grimaces, resting his face against his hand. Shooting a glare at Yangyang, he finishes the rest of his wine.

You're not exactly interested in tech or engineering or the big kid jobs either. You just want a way to survive this man-made food chain. Rich eats the world till there’s nothing left on the plate. Then again, you'd rather be a pet than get eaten.

"Anyway," Kun turns to Yangyang. "If you see Ten, give me a call."

Yangyang signals with a thumbs up gesture, watching as Kun’s figure slowly makes its way out of the gate. It’s the two of you again and suddenly, you feel a strange sort of feeling overcome you. Leaning your throbbing forehead against Yangyang’s shoulder, you take some soft breaths and skip the part where you question your actions. It’s pleasant, at the very least. He shifts his chair closer, extending his arm around you so that your head rests against his shoulder more comfortably.

“You must be tired,” he mutters.

“You didn’t answer me,” you say. “Answer in a way I understood, at least.”

“Hm?”

“Why do you hang around me?”

“Do you not… want me to?”

“No. I like your company, actually. I can’t believe I said that out loud.”

Yangyang laughs. “You’re… you’re really perfect. As a person. At least to me, you seem that way.”

You scoff. “You’re a long way off there.”

“No. No, you felt like clockwork,” he continues. “When I first met you. I couldn’t believe you were real.”

You do work like a delirious robot on clockwork steroids. But you’re not very proud of it. You don’t think overworking is a good personality trait to have—even if it’s for survival. However, the faraway look in Yangyang’s eyes suggests that’s not what he means.

“I felt like I understood you,” he continues after a short pause.

You find it unbelievable. That’s the one sentence you could never imagine coming from him to you, much less agree with. But right then, as his warmth seeps into you, you want to agree desperately.

Yangyang feels an unexpected trickle of doubt down his throat. No matter how many times he’s practised in front of the mirror, the words don’t come out right when you’re with him. With everything you do, he feels more drawn in. There’s something familiar and something honest. And if he’s honest himself, he just likes you. What sort of a hypocrite should he be categorized as, to tell his friends to ‘just confess’ to their crushes when he’s a complete idiot when it comes to you? It can’t be that little voice from his childhood that tells him to stay in order.

Yangyang understands that there are rules to this world but he doesn’t get what those have got to do with him. He sighs, the sound somewhat grim when it comes from him.

"I've seen it before," he says, "People come from all over the country with hopes and dreams, and they get their hearts broken by capitalism."

You frown.

"I don't want you to go anywhere," he mumbles. "I hope you'll stay… even if- even if you feel like that, you know? If you're feeling lonely, I could—"

"Yangyang." You smile. "I’m quite comfortable here."

When you bury your nose into the crook of his neck, Yangyang thinks this is it. This is how he ends the sorry excuse of flirting he’s been trying with you and says something he regrets. It was never this difficult with the other crushes he’s had. He’s always left opening his mouth and then promptly closing it like a goldfish out of water every single time he wants to bring up dating with you. He’s always honest. So, what’s the big deal this time? This is so horrendously not cool of him.

You straighten. “We should get back home.”

“Can you- Can you not move so far from me, please?” Yangyang murmurs, hands gripping yours.

You smile, to yourself more to him but that’s one he likes the most.

“You’re a really interesting person, Yangyang.”

“I am?” He clears his throat and repeats the question.

“How are you so nice to people?”

“I think people are nice.”

“Why do you like parties?”

“They’re fun.”

“When the party’s over, who do you go to?” you ask, words mushing into each other.

“Home,” he answers, gulping down what seems like more words. “Like always.”

A hush falls between the two of you. You’re asking quite the questions.

“I’m sweaty,” you mutter. “I hate being sweaty.”

“You look wonderful though,” Yangyang mumbles, more to himself than to you. “Not that being sweaty makes you wonderful. You’re just nice.”

There’s another hush, the notes of the piano playing a faraway, romantic tune. He turns away and looks back at you again, but right in that moment, you lean forward to press your lips against his. It’s so sudden that he almost falls over backwards, his feet planted firmly on the ground the only thing preventing that from happening. The next thing he thinks is that your lips are on fire and it’s the most comfortable feeling he’s ever experienced.

The two of you fit into each other like clockwork, Yangyang thinks. It’s the one thing in his life that feels whole. Not that he isn’t whole by himself—he just loves your warmth. For a moment he feels like he’s on cloud nine and the next, his heart plummets when he feels you go limp in his arms.

It breaks his heart a little but he doesn’t—can’t bring himself to say much. He’s not this bad when he’s drunk, is he? Pulling you up by the waist, he texts Kunhang to bring his car down to the lounge.

This is going to be a long night.

viii. home

You wake up to the sun in your eyes and immediately know you're someplace you shouldn't be. This isn't your bed. The sun doesn't reach your bed in the morning. This isn’t the dormitory. You see a cubical alarm clock, a pixelated smiley face on it as it displays 10 A.M.

You get up and immediately shriek. You’re not wearing any clothes. Pulling the blanket up to your chin, you look around the room. It’s huge; the walls are multicolored with a little section opposite the bed reserved for photographs. There’s a lot of junk all over the floor that you don’t pay mind to when you notice Yangyang.

“Yangyang?!”

He rouses blinking slowly, hair going every which way and his eyes still unfocused. He looks like he’s had a difficult night.

“Why are you on the floor?” you ask, shrinking further into the ridiculously soft bed when he gets up. Massaging the back of his neck, he looks like he's looking at a mirage instead of a real live person. Unfortunately, he’s not wearing a shirt and you look away after a prolonged minute of staring. This is getting ridiculous. What are you doing here?

“Yangyang!”

“Huh? Oh!”

He seems to be finally awake. You should pop the question before it eats you alive.

"Did- Did we…?"

Yangyang blinks at you in confusion before a loud "oh" erupts from his mouth.

"No!" He says in between laughter. "No, we didn't. Oh my god, you’re so funny. You took off your clothes saying it's too hot and smacked me with them. I didn’t look, by the way.”

Your jaw drops. You can’t even form words through the pulsing headache.

“Your clothes are on the chair. And I didn’t touch your underwear. Out of respect."

You avoid eye contact in embarrassment.

“And… well, you did kiss me once. Twice.”

You look up alarmed and he raises his arms in defense.

“You- you were drunk so I had to push you off. You cried a little after that. Sorry.”

“Oh god.” You cover your face with your hands, sitting down on the bed. That has to be the most embarrassing thing you could have done.

“You- Don’t worry about that. You’re a good kisser. I was kind of surprised,” he offers in an attempt to make you feel better but you only grow hotter in the face.

“And- And I liked it,” he adds in a panic. “Wait, I don’t mean it in a creepy way.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t anyone else.”

“What?”

“You. It’s okay if it’s you.”

You give him a weak smile, still not over the embarrassment.

Yangyang laughs. “I… I think I should’ve said this before but… can I take you out on a date?”

“What were we doing last night then?”

“Well, that was- ah. You’re teasing me. Motherfucker.”

You giggle into your palm. When he takes a seat on the bed, you make a distressed sound and he jumps up immediately.

“My clothes,” you hiss. “Get out of the room so I can wear them.”

“Right,” he says, pointing an index finger at you.

He turns around right then. "By the way…"

You shriek, pulling the cover up all the way to your nose.

"Sorry," he says, averting his eyes immediately. "If- if that was a date, did you like it? Do you wanna go on another one?"

You can see him practically sweat bullets and you laugh at the innocuous questions. He’s too cute. You can’t believe you made yourself shake off the thought every time it crossed you. However indelicate his touch is, you welcome it nonetheless.

"Yes. Yes, I'll go on a date with you. You annoying, stupid, bratty idiot."

“Okay, that was mean.”

Watching his figure leave through the door, you relax your shoulders. In the end, people will always be people. No matter what shiny new toy you give them to play with, people will always search for happiness, and they will laugh and cry and fall in love with people and places and things over and over again. It's lovely to be human in an era of diamond and steel.

#yangyang x reader #nct x reader #wayv x reader #yangyang scenarios #nct scenarios #wayv scenarios #yangyang fluff #nct fluff #wayv fluff #yangyang fanfic #nct fanfic #yangyang fic #moonwrites #dawg idk what im doing imma be honest here

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roanofarcc · 9 months

Text

PROJECT SUNSHINE

the complete masterlist

stranger things season 1-5. a steve harrington x hawkins lab!oc

when another product of Hawkins National Laboratory finds herself fleeing from a long survived nightmare, she crashes into the life of one unsuspecting teenage boy. together, they are dragged into the dark mysteries that begin to consume the small town of Hawkins, Indiana.

SEASON ONE. the lost children of Hawkins, Indiana

chapter one || chapter two || chapter three || chapter four || chapter five || chapter six || chapter seven || chapter eight || chapter nine || chapter ten || chapter eleven || chapter twelve || chapter thirteen || chapter fourteen || chapter fifteen || chapter sixteen || chapter seventeen

SEASON TWO. the return

chapter eighteen || chapter nineteen || chapter twenty || chapter twenty one || chapter twenty two || chapter twenty three || chapter twenty four || chapter twenty five || chapter twenty six || chapter twenty seven || chapter twenty eight || chapter twenty nine || chapter thirty || chapter thirty one || chapter thirty two || chapter thirty three || chapter thirty four || chapter thirty five || chapter thirty six || chapter thirty seven

SEASON THREE. the cruel summer

chapter thirty eight || chapter thirty nine || chapter forty || chapter forty one || chapter forty two || chapter forty three || chapter forty four || chapter forty five || chapter forty six || chapter forty seven || chapter forty eight || chapter forty nine || chapter fifty || chapter fifty one || chapter fifty two || chapter fifty three || chapter fifty four || chapter fifty five || chapter fifty six || chapter fifty seven || chapter fifty eight || chapter fifty nine

SEASON FOUR. the deal with god

chapter sixty || chapter sixty one || chapter sixty two || chapter sixty three ||

SEASON FIVE. the end

coming soon...

#stranger things #steve harrington #steve harrington x oc #steve harrington x orginal character #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington x reader #stranger things au #project sunshine #stranger things moodboard #byler #jancy #jopper #elmike #willel

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katnissmellarkkk · 3 months

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here’s a compilation of all the times katniss talked about her body.

“I’ll be all right, Katniss,” says Prim, clasping my face in her hands. “But you have to take care, too. You’re so fast and brave. Maybe you can win.”

I can’t win. Prim must know that in her heart. The competition will be far beyond my abilities. Kids from wealthier districts, where winning is a huge honor, who’ve been trained their whole lives for this. Boys who are two to three times my size. Girls who know twenty different ways to kill you with a knife. Oh, there’ll be people like me, too. People to weed out before the real fun begins.

And then he gives me a smile that seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me.

A warning bell goes off in my head. Don’t be so stupid. Peeta is planning how to kill you, I remind myself. He is luring you in to make you easy prey. The more likable he is, the more deadly he is.

But because two can play at this game, I stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. Right on his bruise.

It’s the first time we’ve been assembled, on level ground, in simple clothes. My heart sinks. Almost all of the boys and at least half of the girls are bigger than I am, even though many of the tributes have never been fed properly. You can see it in their bones, their skin, the hollow look in their eyes. I may be smaller naturally, but overall my family’s resourcefulness has given me an edge in that area. I stand straight, and while I’m thin, I’m strong. The meat and plants from the woods combined with the exertion it took to get them have given me a healthier body than most of those I see around me.

The slight advantage I held coming into the Training Center, my fiery entrance last night, seems to vanish in the presence of my competition. The other tributes were jealous of us, but not because we were amazing, because our stylists were. Now I see nothing but contempt in the glances of the Career Tributes. Each must have fifty to a hundred pounds on me. They project arrogance and brutality. When Atala releases us, they head straight for the deadliest-looking weapons in the gym and handle them with ease.

Still, I won’t be the only target. I’m betting many of the other tributes would pass up a smaller girl, even one who scored an eleven in training, to take out their more fierce adversaries.

As a precaution, I remove my belt, loop it all the way around the branch and my sleeping bag, and refasten it at my waist. Now if I roll over in my sleep, I won’t go crashing to the ground. I’m small enough to tuck the top of the bag over my head, but I put on my hood as well.

This could be it, I think. What chance do I have against them? All six are there, the five Careers and Peeta, and my only consolation is they’re pretty beat-up, too. Even so, look at their weapons. Look at their faces, grinning and snarling at me, a sure kill above them. It seems pretty hopeless. But then something else registers. They’re bigger and stronger than I am, no doubt, but they’re also heavier. There’s a reason it’s me and not Gale who ventures up to pluck the highest fruit, or rob the most remote bird nests. I must weigh at least fifty or sixty pounds less than the smallest Career.

I give Cato time to hoist himself into the tree before I begin to climb again. Gale always says I remind him of a squirrel the way I can scurry up even the slenderest limb. Part of it’s my weight, but part of it’s practice. You have to know where to place your hands and feet. I’m another thirty feet in the air when I hear the crack and look down to see Cato flailing as he and a branch go down.

The girl with the arrows, Glimmer I hear someone call her — ugh, the names the people in District 1 give their children are so ridiculous — anyway Glimmer scales the tree until the branches begin to crack under her feet and then has the good sense to stop. I’m at least eighty feet high now.

“Where do you sleep?” I ask her. “In the trees?” She nods. “In just your jacket?”

Rue holds up her extra pair of socks. “I have these for my hands.”

I think of how cold the nights have been. “You can share my sleeping bag if you want. We’ll both easily fit.” Her face lights up. I can tell this more than she dared hope for.

We pick a fork high in a tree and settle in for the night just as the anthem begins to play.

I climb dangerously high into a tree, not for safety but to get as far away from today as I can.

Then there’s Thresh. All right, he’s a distinct threat. But I haven’t seen him, not once, since the Games began. I think about how Foxface grew alarmed when she heard a sound at the site of the explosion. But she didn’t turn to the Woods, she turned to whatever lies across from it. To that area of the arena that drops off into I don’t know what. I feel almost certain that the person she ran from was Thresh and that is his domain. He’d never have heard me from there and, even if he did, I’m up too high for someone his size to reach.

But when I look at my naked body in the mirror, all I can see is how skinny I am. I mean, I’m sure I was worse when I came out of the arena, but I can easily count my ribs.

Cinna comes in with what appears to be an unassuming yellow dress across his arms.

“Have you given up the whole ‘girl on fire’ thing?” I ask.

“You tell me,” he says, and slips it over my head. I immediately notice the padding over my breasts, adding curves that hunger has stolen from my body. My hands go to my chest and I frown.

“I know,” says Cinna before I can object. “But the Gamemakers wanted to alter you surgically. Haymitch had a huge fight with them over it. This was the compromise.”

When I manage to pull my eyes away from the flickering fabric, I’m in for something of a shock. My hair’s loose, held back by a simple hairband. The makeup rounds and fills out the sharp angles of my face. A clear polish coats my nails. The sleeveless dress is gathered at my ribs, not my waist, largely eliminating any help the padding would have given my figure. The hem falls just to my knees. Without heels, you can see my true stature. I look, very simply, like a girl. A young one. Fourteen at the most. Innocent. Harmless. Yes, it is shocking that Cinna has pulled this off when you remember I’ve just won the Games.

I start out by leaning on his shoulder, but I’m so wobbly he just scoops me up and carries me upstairs.

Peeta walks me down to my room in silence, but before he can say good night, I wrap my arms around him and rest my head against his chest. His hands slide up my back and his cheek leans against my hair.

Looking at Prim's face, it's hard to imagine she's the same frail little girl I left behind on reaping day nine months ago. The combination of that ordeal and all that has followed—the cruelty in the district, the parade of sick and wounded that she often treats by herself now if my mother's hands are too full — these things have aged her years. She's grown quite a bit, too; we're practically the same height now, but that isn't what makes her seem so much older.

I feel him lurch forward and realize Finnick has come back for us and is hauling Peeta along. I wedge my shoulder, which still seems under my control, under Peeta's arm and do my best to keep up with Finnick’s rapid pace. We put about ten yards between us and the fog when Finnick stops.

“It’s no good. I'll have to carry him. Can you take Mags?” he asks me.

“Yes,” I say stoutly, although my heart sinks. It's true that Mags can't weigh more than about seventy pounds, but I'm not very big myself. Still, I'm sure I've carried heavier loads. If only my arms would stop jumping around. I squat down and she positions herself over my shoulder, the way she rides on Finnick. I slowly straighten my legs and, with my knees locked, I can manage her. Finnick has Peeta slung across his back now and we move forward, Finnick leading, me following in the trail he breaks through the vines.

It's not Mags's fault when I begin falling. She's doing everything she can to be an easy passenger, but the fact is, there is only so much weight I can handle. Especially now that my right leg seems to be going stiff. The first two times I crash to the ground, I manage to make it back on my feet, but the third time, I cannot get my leg to cooperate. As I struggle to get up, it gives out and Mags rolls off onto the ground before me. I flail around, trying to use vines and trunks to right myself.

I know it's stopped when I feel Peeta's hands on me, feel myself lifted from the ground and out of the jungle. But I stay eyes squeezed shut, hands over my ears, muscles too rigid to release. Peeta holds me on his lap, speaking soothing words, rocking me gently. It takes a long time before I begin to relax the iron grip on my body. And when I do, the trembling begins.

“Haymitch said you wanted to talk to me,” I say.

“Look at you, for starters.” It’s like he’s waiting for me to transform into a hybrid drooling wolf right before his eyes. He stares so long I find myself casting furtive glances at the one-way glass, hoping for some direction from Haymitch, but my earpiece stays silent. “You’re not very big, are you? Or particularly pretty?”

Boggs quickly examines my face, then scoops me up and jogs for the runway. Halfway there, I puke on his bulletproof vest.

Suddenly, I see myself through his eyes. A smallish seventeen-year-old girl who can’t quite catch her breath since her ribs haven’t fully healed. Disheveled. Undisciplined. Recuperating. Not a soldier, but someone who needs to be looked after.

#thg #hunger games #katniss Everdeen #while all you pig out here’s a post about how starved and wasted katniss is lolololol

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saintsenara · 1 year

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pls can we have your takes on what dumbledore gets wrong/doesn't understand about tom riddle tysm

thank you for the ask, pal :)

i have received a flurry of asks about my main lord, lord voldemort, which form a neat triad, so this is part three of a three part meta on him:

1. what is interesting about voldemort's role in the series? [here] 2. how do i write voldemort in my own work, and why? [here] 3. what does dumbledore get wrong about voldemort?

i want to be clear that this isn’t intended as dumbledore bashing - i love that old man and i’ll defend him from a lot of the charges levelled against him in fanon [and, to be honest, canon].

it's just an analysis of how dumbledore, as a flawed human being like all of us… kind of fucks up in how he relates to voldemort. many of his mistakes are caused by personality traits which i think are fascinating: his ivory-tower detachment from reality; his projection of his own guilt and grief onto others; his tendency towards inaction in the face of the status quo; his own tendency towards being secretive and ruthless; and so on.

and, while i don’t think he can be blamed for voldemort choosing to become a terrorist kingpin, his attitude towards voldemort doesn’t entirely help the anti-voldemort cause, and perhaps he should have tightened up.

so...

what does dumbledore get wrong about voldemort?

in we go under the cut:

that voldemort is an unsympathetic victim of childhood trauma, but he is a victim nonetheless

there are no two ways about it, dumbledore and voldemort’s first meeting is disastrous and, even though voldemort doesn’t acquit himself particularly well in the proceedings [maybe don’t boast about all the children you torture?] the power differential in the relationship [dumbledore is at least in his late fifties, voldemort is eleven] means that responsibility for conducting himself fairly lies entirely with dumbledore.

however, i am going to begin this section with some dumbledore defence. i see a lot in fanfiction the idea that the young voldemort is profoundly traumatised by dumbledore setting his wardrobe on fire, which of course does seem like an incredibly cruel thing for dumbledore to do to a child who presumably has basically no worldly possessions [which is what harry immediately thinks].

the voldemort of canon, however, doesn’t seem to care that much:

Riddle jumped to his feet; Harry could hardly blame him for howling in shock and rage; all his worldly possessions must be in there. But even as Riddle rounded on Dumbledore, the flames vanished, leaving the wardrobe completely undamaged. Riddle stared from the wardrobe to Dumbledore; then, his expression greedy, he pointed at the wand. "Where can I get one of them?"

as we can see, any upset voldemort feels over the wardrobe disappears the minute he appraises magic’s ability to frighten, destroy, and control. similarly:

“All in good time,” said Dumbledore. “I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe.” And sure enough, a faint rattling could be heard from inside it. For the first time, Riddle looked frightened. “Open the door,” said Dumbledore… Riddle took down the quaking box. He looked unnerved. “Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?” asked Dumbledore. Riddle threw Dumbledore a long, clear, calculating look. “Yes, I suppose so, sir,” he said finally, in an expressionless voice. [...] Riddle did not look remotely abashed; he was still staring coldly and appraisingly at Dumbledore. At last he said in a colourless voice, “Yes, sir.” [...] It was impossible to tell what he was thinking; his face remained quite blank as he put the little cache of stolen objects back into the cardboard box. When he had finished, he turned to Dumbledore and said baldly, “I haven’t got any money.”

while dumbledore’s behaviour here frightens and unnerves voldemort, he gets over it pretty quickly - and he then transitions into being unabashed at having been caught and planning his options for how to proceed [i am wedded to the headcanon that the "clear and calculating look" is him deciding not to return the stolen objects, and to test whether dumbledore will indeed know if he doesn’t], chief of which is his need to solve his money issues.

which is to say, dumbledore’s behaviour in this meeting undoubtedly establishes voldemort’s later dislike of him - although i think it’s worth noting that the voldemort of chamber of secrets treats dumbledore as a mere annoyance, rather than someone for whom he harbours a profound, traumatising hatred [voldemort's dislike of dumbledore transitions to hate, i think, following the fake job interview] - but i don’t think it’s the misstep many interpretations of voldemort and dumbledore’s relationship make it.

but dumbledore does make some decisions in their first meeting which i think are worth exploring more critically than they often are:

dumbledore’s failure to inform mrs cole that the young voldemort is a wizard makes his existence in two worlds impossible

we know that the families of muggleborn students are normally informed about the magical world during this visit by hogwarts staff in which their letter is delivered - and that this was the case even in the late 1930s, since myrtle warren’s parents are able to come to hogwarts after her death.

dumbledore’s decision not to mention voldemort’s magic to mrs cole means that voldemort - whose sense of belonging to a family unit is already non-existent - must, then, become the only student at hogwarts whose legal guardian knows nothing about where he goes all year. potentially there are magical-legal reasons for this, but i can’t think of any particularly convincing ones.

dumbledore projects his own self-loathing onto the child voldemort and chalks his personality traits up to malice rather than neglect

dumbledore handles himself pretty well in the initial moments of his meeting with voldemort, keeping calm while he freaks out about whether he’s a doctor [as i’ve said in the previous part of this series of meta, voldemort’s fear of doctors - and especially whether it implies some deeper traumatic experience - is something worth thinking about].

his attitude changes when voldemort accepts easily that he is a wizard:

His legs were trembling. He stumbled forward and sat down on the bed again, staring at his hands, his head bowed as though in prayer. “I knew I was different,” he whispered to his own quivering fingers. “I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something.” “Well, you were quite right,” said Dumbledore, who was no longer smiling, but watching Riddle intently. “You are a wizard.”

dumbledore will tell harry later in the chapter this is taken from that he thought voldemort’s immediate pivot to believing himself special was a red flag, indicative of the arrogance which will define his adult self.

his discomfort, although we don’t know this yet in half-blood prince, is evidently triggered by the fact that voldemort’s breathless awe at the potential - and especially the sinister potential - of his magical powers reminds him either of grindelwald or of himself.

but.

the young voldemort - a magical child surrounded by non-magical people - can do things which are objectively different and special. as he tells us:

“I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to.”

the obviously violent implication of the last two sentences aside, these abilities would be understood by anyone as so bafflingly unusual that special is a reasonable word with which to describe them, particularly for a child who has only just been given the language to explain an aspect of his personhood he has clearly always been aware of, but never understood the cause of.

dumbledore’s immediate negative response to this statement, however, is the cause of his later assessment of the child voldemort as like his adult self:

“His powers, as you heard, were surprisingly well-developed for such a young wizard and - most interestingly and ominously of all - he had already discovered that he had some measure of control over them, and begun to use them consciously. And as you saw, they were not the random experiments typical of young wizards: He was already using magic against other people, to frighten, to punish, to control…his ability to speak to serpents did not make me nearly as uneasy as his obvious instincts for cruelty, secrecy, and domination.”

but, while the child voldemort’s cruelty is absolutely something dumbledore should have been made uneasy by - although, of course, he does nothing about it once voldemort starts at hogwarts, deciding to take a hands-off approach that harry clearly thinks is idiotic - his criticism of voldemort for being secretive [and also, later in this chapter, self-sufficient, independent, and friendless] is a bad-faith reading, based on his own loathing of the fact that these traits also describe him, of habits which are obviously caused by childhood neglect.

voldemort is secretive - as harry is - because he doesn’t have any trusted childhood confidants. he’s self-sufficient and independent - as harry is - because he has to be. he’s friendless as much because he’s a strange child with magical powers raised around other children who don’t have them - as, the text implies, is the case for hermione - as because he’s cruel.

dumbledore’s failure to have any sympathy for the fact that voldemort’s institutionalised childhood drives these characteristics - instead ascribing them entirely to deliberate choices made by an eleven-year-old in order to assert malign dominance over his peers - is a failing. indeed, it is one he will repeat with harry.

but the most egregious of dumbledore’s cock-ups in this bit of the story:

dumbledore completely fails to understand the way voldemort’s childhood grief manifests itself

voldemort - in one of the few bits of this chapter in which he actually appears childlike - asks dumbledore:

“Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle too, they’ve told me.” “I’m afraid I don’t know,” said Dumbledore, his voice gentle. “My mother can’t have been magic, or she wouldn’t have died,” said Riddle, more to himself than Dumbledore. “It must’ve been him.”

dumbledore seems to handle this quite sensitively. on our first reading.

but when we get deeper into the text, two things emerge which make this interaction - in my sincere opinion - the cruelest thing dumbledore does to the child voldemort.

firstly, when discussing with harry the teenage voldemort shedding his father’s name, dumbledore refers to merope as voldemort’s "previously despised mother… the woman whom, you will remember, he had thought could not be a witch if she had succumbed to the shameful human weakness of death."

but there is no implication in the above - surely the only conversation he and dumbledore ever have on the topic - that voldemort despises his mother. his statement reads like the magical thinking of any bereaved child - that his mother could have lived if she’d had supernatural powers, or there had been some sort of magical intervention, and so on. [a friend who's reading spare pointed out to me recently that prince harry was convinced for years that his mother had managed to fake her own death to escape a life she disliked, and that she would pop up any day to take him with her into her new reality. what voldemort is doing here is basically the same.]

dumbledore’s negative reaction to voldemort's words reflects his own relationship with death as ever-present - the spectre of ariana is clearly hovering constantly on his shoulder - rather than something which magic can dismiss or overcome, but voldemort choosing to think the opposite isn’t the behaviour of a pre-teen psychopath. it’s an entirely expected reaction for a grieving child, and dumbledore's response to it is unfair.

even worse though is this. when dumbledore is speaking to mrs cole, it is very clear that he realises that the child he is about to meet is half gaunt:

“And then she told me he was to be named Tom, for his father, and Marvolo, for her father — yes, I know, funny name, isn’t it? We wondered whether she came from a circus.”

dumbledore must react physically to hearing the name marvolo - who, since he can be presumed to be already on the wizengamot at this point, he is aware was sent to azkaban for defending his son's involvement in an anti-muggle attack - significantly enough that mrs cole notices it. in deathly hallows, voldemort himself is worried that dumbledore knew about his heritage from - since when else would he have learned voldemort’s full name - their first meeting:

An old unease flickered inside him. Dumbledore had known his middle name... Dumbledore might have made the connection with the Gaunts…

the child voldemort will then tell dumbledore that he is a parselmouth, a trait the gaunts must be known to possess, since marvolo and morfin both openly speak parseltongue in front of bob ogden. and yet dumbledore doesn’t mention at all that he might be able to identify a bereaved child’s - who we have no evidence at all even knows his own mother’s name - family line.

dumbledore overlooks voldemort’s grief at other points in the series - he doesn’t notice, for example, that the murder of hepzibah smith [who insults merope by suggesting she stole the locket] is clearly one of revenge, rather than gain - but it’s this sin of omission [later one of his most frequent missteps when dealing with harry] that always gets me.

that voldemort doesn’t just change his name because of his father

within five years of their first meeting, voldemort has stopped going by tom when with his friends. dumbledore will claim to harry that his decision to shed his birth name was caused by two things: his discovery that his father was a muggle and his desire to be seen as special. voldemort himself will emphasise the former in both chamber of secrets and goblet of fire - the latter of which also features his odd conviction that his father was the one who insisted on the name tom riddle.

dumbledore evidently believes that voldemort’s decision to no longer use the name tom is contemptible, and he - and later harry - will refer to him as tom whenever they come face-to-face. the narrative presents dumbledore as being unambiguously right to do this:

He raised his glass as though toasting Voldemort, whose face remained expressionless. Nevertheless, Harry felt the atmosphere in the room change subtly: Dumbledore’s refusal to use Voldemort’s chosen name was a refusal to allow Voldemort to dictate the terms of the meeting, and Harry could tell that Voldemort took it as such.

i am sympathetic to the idea that dumbledore should not be expected to refer to voldemort as "my lord" - although i don’t actually think that’s what voldemort is asking here - and i should say that i myself have written "voldemort" as being a mask the adult tom takes on and off at whim, and i think there’s space for those interpretations in fanfiction. but the evidence of canon is that voldemort lives exclusively as voldemort from the mid-1950s onwards and that he considers tom to be, without question, his deadname.

the name clearly doesn’t feel right to him even as child - he twitches "irritably" when dumbledore points out that he shares it with tom the landlord - even at a point in his life when he still feels positively towards the father whom he believes is a wizard as well. while dumbledore may be correct that he dislikes the name at this point because it’s not special enough, wanting a more unique name is not, in and of itself, a moral failing. voldemort calling himself voldemort is a completely neutral act. it is what he does under that name that’s the problem.

that dumbledore thinks it is a moral failing, however, can be explained by the backstory we learn in deathly hallows. elphias doge and muriel prewett both make clear that percival dumbledore’s arrest and imprisonment and kendra and ariana dumbledore’s deaths brought sufficient press attention that the dumbledore name was immediately recognisable and attached in the mind of the wizarding public to the various scandals which befell the family. dumbledore, who blames himself for much [or most] of what happened, clearly carries his name like a penance, and regards it as a dereliction of duty to try and escape the weight of one’s family drama by taking a new identity.

and this drives, i think, something which the doylist text doesn’t think is an issue, but which i think dumbledore is mistaken in when it comes to voldemort: that his background can be nowhere near as secret as dumbledore assumes, meaning that the only thing he rejects is a name which no longer belongs to him.

a significant number of death eaters clearly went to school with voldemort, the malfoys cannot be the only ones who have seen his teenage possessions, hagrid is seemingly aware that voldemort attended hogwarts alongside him, and dumbledore himself says in half-blood prince that people know what voldemort was once called and what he was like as teenager, but are just too scared to provide information about his life to the anti-voldemort cause.

this leads to my belief that many of the death eaters are aware of voldemort’s blood status - lucius malfoy in order of the phoenix is clearly unsurprised to hear harry say voldemort’s a half-blood; bellatrix is furious, of course, but maybe that’s what over a decade in azkaban does to you - and are also aware that his political aims, as described in the previous meta in this series, are not the establishment of a pureblood oligarchy, but what we might term magic-supremacy. indeed, dumbledore’s interpretation of voldemort as lying to his death eaters that he’s a great pureblood champion always sits uneasily in canon alongside the fact that voldemort is shown to have enormous support among non-human magical creatures and - given how lacking the resistance to the the government of deathly hallows is - swathes of the majority half-blood population as well, which suggests that his closest supporters accept that his concern is getting the magical of any stripe behind him in order to take on the muggle world.

which is to say, dumbledore thinks that lord voldemort is a mask a half-blood man called tom riddle uses to hide his true self from his pureblood supporters. in reality, lord voldemort is just that half-blood man’s name.

that voldemort thinks the job interview is real

voldemort doesn’t lose his temper in the interview scene until dumbledore reveals the meeting - which voldemort has travelled some distance for and apparently indicated his intentions for in advance - is fake.

[he handles dumbledore deadnaming him pretty magnanimously, for example.]

dumbledore’s decision to lure him to hogwarts simply to assert his dominance over him is clearly the final nail in the coffin of their relationship, and it's another example of how dumbledore’s automatic bad-faith reading of decisions and desires which are clearly more complicated than just "i love evil" [after all, dumbledore himself acknowledges that voldemort regards hogwarts as the only place he has ever truly felt at home] is the cause of voldemort’s hatred of him, rather than that hatred being the result of voldemort being afraid of dumbledore’s goodness or perspicacity or skill, as the pre-deathly hallows text likes to imply:

Voldemort sneered. “If you do not want to give me a job -” “Of course I don’t,” said Dumbledore. “And I don’t think for a moment you expected me to. Nevertheless, you came here, you asked, you must have had a purpose.” Voldemort stood up. He looked less like Tom Riddle than ever, his features thick with rage. “This is your final word?” “It is,” said Dumbledore, also standing. "Then we have nothing more to say to each other.”

that voldemort has a very strange - but very pronounced - sense of honour

as i have noted in the previous meta in this series, voldemort has a remarkably well-defined sense of honour. for a murderer.

his often-repeated hatred of liars, hypocrites, and cowards appears to be genuine and - for narrative reasons, since he's often required to provide exposition for harry’s benefit which dumbledore and snape can’t if they are to maintain their characterisation - he is rarely shown outright lying himself in canon, even if we’re told he's a pathological liar by other characters.

that he considers dumbledore in particular to be a hypocrite is clear in many of their interactions, especially this - which i always like - from order of the phoenix:

Dumbledore flicked his own wand. The force of the spell that emanated from it was such that Harry, though shielded by his stone guard, felt his hair stand on end as it passed, and this time Voldemort was forced to conjure a shining silver shield out of thin air to deflect it. The spell, whatever it was, caused no visible damage to the shield, though a deep, gonglike note reverberated from it, an oddly chilling sound... “You do not seek to kill me, Dumbledore?” called Voldemort, his scarlet eyes narrowed over the top of the shield. “Above such brutality, are you?” “We both know that there are other ways of destroying a man, Tom,” Dumbledore said calmly, continuing to walk toward Voldemort as though he had not a fear in the world, as though nothing had happened to interrupt his stroll up the hall. “Merely taking your life would not satisfy me, I admit — ”

at this point in the story, the reader doesn’t know that dumbledore is taking this merciful approach because he is aware he can’t kill voldemort.

we do, however, already suspect that dumbledore’s dishonesty with harry about the prophecy is a direct cause of the chain of events which has just led to sirius’ death - as dumbledore himself will shortly admit to and as the death eaters are evidently aware of [lucius malfoy pointing out that voldemort is baffled that dumbledore didn’t tell harry about the prophecy always sends me].

voldemort’s statement - "above such brutality, are you?" - is ironic, and is a criticism of what he evidently believes to be dumbledore’s hypocrisy in performing mercy in public while regarding his men as expendable in private [and, especially, as expendable to protect harry - who he maintains right up until the end of deathly hallows has been hidden and pampered from the reality of war by a procession of cannon fodder].

it’s worth saying i think this is unfair from voldemort - dumbledore makes decisions which any general has to, and they will of course be messy and difficult; and voldemort’s characterisation of harry is always unnecessarily harsh - but it is indicative of a belief expressed by voldemort at other points in the series that dumbledore is a hypocrite, that he is a coward, that he is dishonourable, and that he is dishonest. and he isn’t entirely wrong, as the conclusion of the series reveals.

dumbledore obviously thinks exactly the same things of voldemort. and, of course, he’s not wrong either. but, as always, there is projection from dumbledore of his discomfort with the performance and concealment his own life requires onto voldemort. and voldemort clearly picks up on it.

that his view of love as sacrificial can’t be understood by someone who has nobody to sacrifice anything for

what it says on the tin, really.

dumbledore’s past - especially his profound guilt and grief over the fact that his embrace of desire, carnality, and other "selfish" aspects of love caused his sister’s death - is the cause of his view of love as, in essence, something defined by sacrifice and loss. dumbledore always discusses love in terms of the nobility of suffering, and he never throughout the canonical series [except maybe, obliquely, at king's cross] suggests that love can be comforting, self-indulgent, restorative, uncomplicatedly pleasurable, and fun.

we see, after all, that harry has to give up a love which is all of those things - his relationship with ginny at the end of half-blood prince - in order to pursue dumbledore’s version of the concept.

harry’s own pathology - especially his enormous saviour and martyr complexes, as well as the circumstances of his own orphanhood [as i have had voldemort point out on several occasions in my writing, harry’s mother could be bothered to live long enough to die for him, voldemort can’t relate] - makes him amenable to the concept of love-as-sacrifice.

voldemort, in contrast, fears sacrifice and vulnerability because he fears powerlessness - and he fears powerlessness because he’s an orphan who would have nothing without his power [under which umbrella, of course, comes his immortality].

this is what he means by:

“The old argument,” he said softly. “But nothing I have seen in the world has supported your famous pronouncements that love is more powerful than my kind of magic, Dumbledore.”

and:

How stupid they were, and how trusting, thinking that their safety lay in friends, that weapons could be discarded even for moments.

and:

“Is it love again?” said Voldemort, his snake’s face jeering. “Dumbledore’s favourite solution, love, which he claimed conquered death, though love did not stop him falling from the tower and breaking like an old waxwork? Love, which did not prevent me stamping out your Mudblood mother like a cockroach, Potter — and nobody seems to love you enough to run forward this time and take my curse. So what will stop you dying now when I strike?”

and:

To tell Snape why the boy might return would be foolish, of course; it had been a grave mistake to trust Bellatrix and Malfoy: Didn’t their stupidity and carelessness prove how unwise it was ever to trust?

as he tells us in philosopher’s stone, there is only power and those too weak to seek it. everything can be done on one's own. it is foolish to rely on other people.

sacrifice is a concept which cannot exist within this world view.

but i think voldemort could be made to understand the idea of love-as-pleasure. after all, he is clearly someone who enjoys things - when harry is able to pick up on his moods in order of the phoenix he is happy as often as he is angry - magic chief among them. he likes shiny objects and, therefore, presumably understands sensory pleasure. he conceives of himself as someone who is generous and who gives gifts.

his relationship - whether you see it as sexual or not - with bellatrix in canon is surprisingly tender: he allows her to be physically very close to him a lot of the time, to touch him, to talk to him in a way which undermines his sinister vibe, and to be visibly pregnant with his baby [if you accept that, and i understand why basically nobody does]; and he is clearly known to spend a great deal of time in her company by the other death eaters.

he appears to genuinely like several of his minions, particularly snape. he obviously misses his mother, but nobody external to him ever acknowledges that grief. he is obviously as lost as all orphans are in a world which places a great deal of emphasis on lineage, and that is again never acknowledged.

he is someone who had a childhood which was sufficiently lonely and deprived that the concept of giving up anything he has for himself is something he can’t compute. but perhaps he could have hoarded bits of love in his little shoebox. if dumbledore could have seen why that wouldn’t have been such a bad thing...

#asks answered #asenora meta #albus dumbledore #tom riddle #lord voldemort #i'll defend that old man #but i'll tell him off too #basically self-loathing isn't a great trait for a teacher to have

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anakinsgirlfriendreal · 10 months

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Parts Of the Truth

masterlist

Chapter Eleven

Warnings: mature language, reader had a bit of a tumultuous childhood, reader is actually insane(not at all projecting). I wrote this chapter in light spirits to undo the wrong I did to you all the last time, I'm sorry😔. Also maybe some spelling errors (let's not talk about how I never ever proof read ever, just keep that to yourself)

Growing up you were always loved as a child, between your sister and yourself you weren't afraid to say that you were more favoured. You weren't rich at all but your mother always made sure you had everything you wanted. You'd say your life was perfect up until your father left. He had come home one night, drunk and heated, announcing that he was leaving your mother.

"I met someone else and I love her" he had said. You were young then, but the memory never left you. You remembered how torn up and shattered your mother was. You remembered how your sister lost her way after that, following friends and throwing her life away. How you'd sleep near your mom and listen to her soft crying. You also remembered she had told you to never be the woman to cause another woman such pain because 'you lose 'em how you get 'em.'

You recalled how some woman did to your family exactly what you did to Padme. You remembered how a few years later your mother had seen her in a grocery store, a little girl at her side and the ring your father took from your mother's finger and gave to her, nowhere in sight because he had done it again, he had found someone 'better' and she had lost him just how she got him.

In a way, you found it funny. The way history repeated itself was laughable, if you didn't laugh you'd for sure cry. You sat in the tub, back pressed to his chest as he kissed your shoulders, massaging your sides. You think back to the night he had told you he was leaving his wife. He was leaving her for you, or so he'd had you believe. The way he confessed his love for you and begged to be with you had you convinced even though you rejected him at the time you knew what you wanted. The way he had been focused on being nothing short of an excellent father to Darcy recently, had you believing that he was being honest. You'd convinced yourself- no lied to yourself that he only wanted you, a person simply couldn't make up the things he had told you. And yet as you contemplate the text on his phone you realized that you weren't special, mother of his child or not, you were another notch in his belt. A play thing that he would get tired of and trade for a newer model.

He nudges your shoulder, the water around you splashing slightly, "You okay? You spaced out on me."

You nodded, smiling as he washed the soap from your back.

You laid on your side, ears perked up as you listened to the faint sounds of his movement downstairs. He was making some quick snack, it was apparently a thing for men to get extremely hungry after sex. So once he'd helped you bathe and got you set and comfortable in bed he went to look after his own post-sex needs. As you laid there your mind was quieter than usual, focused on one train of thought instead of the fifty different tracks it normally ran. You couldn't believe your own stupidity, your mother always told you "No matter how many times a man says he will, he probably won't leave his wife and if he does, he'll eventually leave you too, you lose 'em how you get 'em."

You won't say you didn't expect this, subconsciously you probably did you just didn't expect it so soon. I mean literally minutes after you decide to be with him, now without the barriers of his marriage? Why did Padme have to be right.

His ringtone pierces the air and ceases when he answers, you creep closer to the bedroom door, opening it just enough so you can hear what he was saying.

"No she doesn't know" his voice is faint but you can make it out well.

"Kate, would you just trust that I know what I'm doing. I'll see you Friday. I love you too."

Your heart drops, jumping back into bed when you hear his footsteps ascend the stairs. Damn Kate, who is this Kate anyway, was he cheating on both you and Padme with Kate before, and now he's just cheating on you? Who the fuck is Kate?

You picked your own brain for answers, nobody at the company went by Kate that you knew, there were some Katherine's but they went by Kat you were pretty sure. He had no business associates nor business associates' wives who went by Kate, so who the hell is Kate? Where did she come from, and why was she ruining a relationship that you decided to properly commence an hour ago. You were so deep in thought now you hadn't even realized he was talking to you.

"Y/n? Seriously what's going on" he sat up, "Are you having second thoughts about this?"

Maybe, who's Kate?

"Look I know Friday's-"

Your brows furrow, Friday? As in 'our getaway' Friday?

"Did you say something about Friday?" You ask, lost.

He looked at you confused now, "Yes. Did you hear anything I just said?"

When he's met with silence he sighs, "what's the matter with you?"

"Why don't you ask Kate?" You roll over, turning your back to him.

"What?" He turns you over to face him again, and you just get out of bed.

"Did you forget? Should I jog your memory? 'Got Friday off, extra day for our getaway' winky face" you closed an eye and then scowled again.

"oh, I can explain that-"

"I'm sure you can, because you always have an explanation for everything. How do you keep up with your lies oh my God" you begin to rummage through your closet, putting on jeans, why you were preparing to leave your own house? You had no idea but you were too heated right now.

"Kate's my-"

You cut him off before he has time to lie again, "Your what? Your second side chick or is it third, I lost count since you sleep with half the fucking city! Oh don't tell me she has a kid for you too, you really just sow your royal oats anywhere, you bastard. You know Padme really dodged a bullet, cause you're such an ass. She's lucky she couldn't have kids because I can't believe that I have to know you FOREVER" your voice raised, you zipped your boots and pulled on your coat prepared to slam the door in his face but he stops you by holding you still.

"sister" he says.

"what?"

"Kate. She's my sister" he says again.

You feel so embarrassed, you had over thought yourself into pure insanity, it's official. You think for a moment, which you probably shouldn't be allowed to do ever again.

"You're lying. What sister texts her brother in that tone?"

"Tone? Texts have tones?" He laughs at you, "You're insane."

"I am not insane. Sisters don't text their brothers with that winky face emoji okay. That's what I text you when I send a pic of my lingerie or when we're gonna have sex later or something so I am not crazy. You're just a liar"

He sighs, he unlocks his phone, going into Kate's chat and handing it to you. You moved over to sit on the bed, scrolling as far back as you were able to.

"She's not my 'side chick' she's my sister" he says.

You scroll through the texts, your jaw hung slightly loose as you read through them. "Oh, someone really needs to teach this girl how to text, 'Dad's been riding her' winky face. Who even says that?"

He sits next you on the bed, "She's...odd."

You look at him, and you have to laugh at yourself, "Ani, I'm so sorry" you hugged him, "What's Friday?"

"Well, Thanksgiving's on Thursday but we're all working people, so everyone decided that we'd go up to my family's lake house for the weekend and celebrate then, and I thought it would be a good time for you to meet them."

You felt terrible, count on yourself to jump to conclusions.

"I thought since you and I were actually gonna do this thing for real, you know without me being married to someone else and all, it was time for you and Darcy to meet them. My mom's been going insane about having a grandchild and never meeting her" he continues.

"That's so sweet, well now I feel terrible. It's just, Padme said that if you cheated on her then you'll cheat on me too because it's a hard habit to break, and I just felt so stupid, when I saw that text I didn't think- I'm sorry."

He brushes stray hair from your face, "That marriage was a mistake. I told you that. Look I hate what I did to Padme...all those times but, she wasn't the one I wanted, you are. I remember when you first started working for me, and you sat in on one of my meetings. You were wearing slacks and a knitted sweater cause you said it went best with your shoes, and you called an engineer pretentious and asked if a kid drew his plan-"

"Oh Aaron, he fucking hates me" you chuckle.

"Yeah, he still asks if I'm gonna fire you soon. I remember because I knew in that moment, that you were who I wanted" he finished.

"what? You decided in that moment? When I wearing a sweater my mom made with her cat on it and slacks?" You laugh.

He nods, "I just knew. I knew everyday for a year until I asked you out and then you finally said yes" he takes your hand, "You're stubborn and headstrong, you jump to conclusions better than an Olympic athlete, you're dramatic and I want it all. You, your fifty personalities and our Darcy."

You shove his shoulder, trying to contain your blush, you were a grown woman and he had you blushing like a school girl. "It's actually fifty-one"

"But you know, uh given all the things you said earlier, I'm kinda having some doubts" he looks at you with a serious and unreadable expression.

Your face drops, until he breaks into a smile, "Maybe you can change my mind again if you get out of all these clothes" he gestures to your fully dressed figure. You totally forgot you were gonna storm out of your own place earlier just to make a point.

"Oh? Perhaps Mr. Skywalker would like a dance?" You stand pushing him back onto the bed.

"I'll make it rain baby" he kisses your lips.

Let's pretend he has living family members, because anything can happen in fanfiction!!😘

#modern au #parts of the truth #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin x reader #hayden christensen x reader #anakin skywalker #anakin x reader smut #anakin smut #anakin skywalker smut #chapter twelve will be meeting the family #im feeling the holiday spirit suddenly

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rjzimmerman · 20 days

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Excerpt from this story from The New Yorker:

We pulled off the two-lane highway and onto a short farm road, and then got out at an access gate along a wire fence that enclosed an eleven-acre field of solar panels. The reason we were there is that three years ago, when Encore Renewable Energy—a Burlington-based developer of solar arrays—set up the panels, it contracted with a nonprofit that the Kiernans started, called Bee the Change, to seed pollinator-attracting plants that are native to the area in the rows between them. The organization’s small crew tends more than twenty fields like this across the state, weeding and, at least once a year, mowing what they have planted so that it doesn’t grow so high it shades the panels. Most of the attention to “agrivoltaics”—use of one piece of land for both farming and for producing solar energy—has gone to more common agricultural practices, such as letting sheep graze between the panels. But at least fifteen states, including big players like Illinois, maintain solar-pollinator scorecards, which are used as accountability measures in the solar-development community. The theory is that we face two crises—climate change and the rapid loss of biodiversity—and that the same patch of land might be used to address them both.

The approach seems to be working. When the Kiernans are hired by a solar developer, it’s usually to plant on what was until recently a farm field; “the farmer has decided to take a dozen acres” and lease them to solar companies “to get a guaranteed income,” Mike said. Because the fields are typically monoculture and have been treated with pesticides for years, “the pollinator density is really low.” Mike uses a pollinator-counting method that involves walking on the margin of a field and counting unique pollinators for seven and a half minutes. Then a random-number generator tells him which row of solar panels to walk along, and as he walks he counts the pollinators he sees in seven and a half minutes, then adds the two numbers together. “On those abandoned farm fields, we might get a count of forty or fifty in fifteen minutes,” Mike said. “But now, once we’ve done our thing, you can see ten at a glance. You can see three hundred in fifteen minutes. You see a lot of them even this late in summer, during what we call a ‘dearth period.’ Wait till next month, when the asters come in!”

As the nonprofit’s name implies, their first tools were honeybees; they installed hives in solar fields. But, the more they learned about biodiversity, the more they wondered whether this strategy was actually the best for the environment. Honeybees are domesticated and are so persistent and numerous—more than thirty thousand can live in one hive—that, in Mike’s words, they “can put too much harvesting pressure” on the plants. There may not be enough nectar left behind for all the wild pollinators, a complication that spells peril not just for them but for the plants they’re particularly adapted to. “There are more than three hundred and fifty native bee species in Vermont,” Tawnya said. So they stopped placing hives and started installing native plants that attract wild bees.

“In New England, you’re often looking at five-megawatt projects, which means maybe twenty-five acres,” Farrell told me when we spoke by phone earlier this month. “We’re at four or five per cent of our electricity coming from solar now in this country. In order to hit the President’s target of forty-five per cent of our electricity by 2050, we have to grow. And that means we have to deliver the most visually appealing, environmentally responsible projects possible.” In 2020, his company pledged to build all their projects with some form of agrivoltaics. In many cases, that’s sheep grazing. “Not goats,” he said. “Goats will try to eat the wires between the panels, and also to jump up on the panels, which is not good for either one.” Sheep, though, appreciate the shade that the panels provide and are “some of the best asset managers we have in the business, mowing the grass for us. They do their job exceptionally well, and all they want is forage and water, which we can give them.”

Pollinators are even easier animals, though—once the plants have established themselves, they don’t need more than an occasional mow. “We think solar is a good neighbor,” Farrell said. “It’s clean, it’s quiet, and if it increases pollinators it’s helping the whole community.” And so—at a moment when new fossil-fuel-funded schemes are reportedly spreading disinformation about renewable-energy programs—“it can help reduce the friction. It can lower the hurdles to get over, which of course translates into dollars and cents.”

#solar farms #agrivoltaics #climate change #biodiversity crisis

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king-of-wrath · 3 months

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Open Starter for Mutuals: To Hell and Back (Hopefully)

Down in the depths of DHORCS' newest headquarters, technicians had made adjustments to the extra-dimensional portal generator. Now able to send an adult human into Hell, the agency would need to perform vital reconnaissance: they needed to know the number and composition of demonic legions, to locate strongholds, identify points of interest and map-out each of the Seven Rings.

The casualty projections were extremely grim: even with the best military equipment,blessed tenfold by heavily indoctrinated and genetically "pure" holy men, it was expected that no more than one agent per ten would survive deployment. But in the minds of DHORCS' higher-ups, obtaining even the smallest amounts of information was well worth the sacrifice. Agents One and Two were given the unenviable task of drawing names from a hat---knowing they were sending their fellows to certain death.

Agent One reached in and pulled a slip from the hat. "Five," he read aloud. The same agent would step out from a line and receive his equipment: a fire-resistant bomb-disposal suit with a full-faced gas mask, an assault rifle and a handgun engraved with religious iconography and a backpack full of basic camping supplies.

"Twenty-six," Agent Two read aloud. With a solemn nod, she stepped out of line and went to gear-up.

"Forty-two," Agent One called out. He turned and briefly embraced his fellow agent before going forward.

"Seven," Two called. They swallowed hard, but accepted their fate.

"Eighteen," One called. "Put the fear of God and Man into 'em," One told Eighteen with a tear welling in his eye.

"...Sixty-nine," Two rolled her eyes. A few agents struggled to hold back giggles---until someone replied with "Nice", making them all spit and choke. The agent called out wasn't amused, having clearly endured that childishness for months.

"Thirteen," One called as the process continued.

"Fifty-five," Two called. Unlike the others, she seemed to relish in the opportunity.

"Thirty-three," One called.

"And..." Two reached inside. "...Eleven."

Agent Eleven was mortified and on the verge of fainting. Already pale and scrawny, he looked even more like a ghost. The agents to his left and right grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him forward, not letting him escape his imminent doom. He received his kit, but struggled to put it on because he was trembling like a newborn faun.

"Ey, youse!" One snapped his fingers at the two heading back into line. "Help Casper 'ere into his suit," he said with a chuckle.

Now that all ten agents were outfitted, the generator began its start-up cycle. If all went according to plan, they would be sent to a different location in Hell and regroup. Each agent's data-pad contained one part of a ten-character activation code, which would broadcast a homing signal back to headquarters for extraction. Even if the other nine had perished, the anticipated survivor was expected to recover their fellows' data---they needed to, if they had any hope of returning home.

One minute passed, feeling like an hour to the ten agents standing in wait. A man-sized rift then opened before them.

"Alright, one at a time!" Two commanded. "Same order as you were called!"

One by one, each of the nine agents ran headlong into Hell itself---not knowing what to expect or whether they would survive. Eleven was still terrified and had to be unceremoniously tossed through by Agent One.

Eleven shut his eyes, grit his teeth and curled into a tight ball as he felt himself flung through space and time. During every second of extra-dimensional travel, his ears were blasted by agonized screams and the echoing laughter of dark, thirsting beings.

Inside a ruined hovel, on the edge of the perpetually-violent Doomsday District, a tear in reality opened and spat forth the unfortunate agent. He felt his body thud against the rubble, but the heavy padding cushioned his fall. The laughter stopped and the screams weren't as loud, though his eardrums rattled with the sound of gunfire from not far away.

Eleven slowly lifted his head, raising the blast-shield on his helmet to discover where he was. He saw bullet tracers intersecting across a blood-red sky as unseen combatants shouted. He crawled along the ground, peeking out from a pile of bricks---just in time to see a grenade bounce down the street.

With the agility of a frightened cat, Eleven threw himself back and curled into a ball again. Once the explosive went-off, he scrambled to his feet and ran away from this apparent "war-zone". In one hand, he held the blast-shield down in front of his face and in the other, he tentatively gripped the handle of his rifle.

"God help me..." he muttered through his air filter.

#character: agent eleven #open to mutuals #eleven externally: they said it would be like call of duty! THIS IS NOT LIKE CALL OF DUTY!

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blankvort · 5 months

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there are a bunch of bootlegs on youtube right now for you to form your own opinion but to #me erika henningsen cady is mum eat this mud pie i made right now / mum i'll hold you hostage until you admit that santa claus is real core and danielle wade cady is mum i frew up / mum i need supplies for a project due tomorrow i'm sorry for asking now at eleven fifty-nine pm please don't yell at me core and olivia kaufmann cady is mum why don't you ever let me play bedroom pop screamo music in the car / mum i already know about the birds and the bees they're disappearing at an alarming rate core

#mean girls #cady heron

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mangoshorthand · 1 year

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Flesh and Blood- [Five Hargreeves x F Reader]. Ch8 (Hard Feelings Part 3)

SUMMARY: As Christmas approaches, everything between you and Five is perfect...until a destructive temporal anomaly gets in the way. Five is convinced another permutation of himself is to blame. Nothing's simple when you're in a relationship Five Hargreeves: could your loyalties be tested in a way unique to him? Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Chapter Twelve - Chapter Thirteen

After a year of grief, Viktor told Five he needed a project. He found one.

Initially confusing chapter ahead. Proceed at your own risk

Chapter Eight: The Life that Is

Five's in the outbuilding, readying the Snowcat for tomorrow's journey. Although the handover point is only a couple of miles away, he doesn't want to take any chances. He's near enough that he could blink to your side in a second if a portal erupts.

It's been so good to speak to Klaus and Lila again. You're looking forward to seeing Klaus tomorrow, even just from a distance. The idea of having some new stuff in the cabin is exciting too- something to relieve the burden. The idea of Sloane's care package is particularly appealing.

You listen to the weather getting worse as your eyes grow heavy. It had been a fine day, but now you’re sure you hear thunder. At the flash of light in a snow-gray sky, you sit up, moving as fast as you can with your belly getting in the way. Staring out of the window, you struggle unsteadily to your feet.

There’s a swirling blue-toned storm in the sky. It’s a portal, but not one of the baby’s. There’s no pain and it’s at least fifty feet away behind all the trees. It swirls more sedately and less like a washing-machine on a spin cycle. And then, as suddenly as it appeared, it vanishes. Is it the Commission? Could they have found you? You back up, eyes still fixed on the window, edging towards the back door and Five in the outbuilding. But then the front door flies open and Five’s standing there in a suit and shoes entirely unsuitable for the snow: his heavy coat, hat and boots are gone. You don’t have time to wonder when and where he managed to change clothes before he blinks across the room and wraps you tightly in his arms.

What-?”

He doesn’t reply, he only inhales deeply with his mouth and nose in your hair. When he exhales, it’s in juddery bursts. And then his shoulders heave.

“Five? What’s happening? What’s wrong?”

He’s crying and breathing you in, his tears wetting you and hands trying to touch every part of you at once. He's shaking as he kisses your face and neck again and again.

“It’s really you…it’s you…I’ve got you.”

"I don’t understand, what was-"

He cuts you off with a sob, his face buried in your neck. His skin is mottled with temperature: warm from his emotion with patches of ice-cold from the snow.

"Fuck. Oh fuck. I've got you. I love you. I love you. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," his voice is muffled and more tears bleed from his eyelashes, running onto your collarbone.

You just hold him, confused but knowing that he needs you. You rub his back automatically and he holds you even tighter to him in response.

And then the back door bangs open and Five stands there too.

He’s the only kid crazy enough to be out here. It’s only 30 degrees or so but he whined until Diego had to give in. He could never hold out for long when Santi did that. He looked exactly like Lila.

Coat zipped high around his neck, Diego watches Santi’s breath fog out before him as he throws himself down the slide with a long whoop.

Watching from behind the waist-high fence surrounding the playground, he stamps his feet to keep warm. His boots crunch dried leaves into the hard ground.

At least this means Santi is likely to sleep tonight, Diego comforts himself. Maybe even give him and Lila a chance to fool around for once.

Santi’s cry is abruptly cut off and Diego looks up, suddenly alert. If he expects anything In the split-second it takes for him to absorb the scene, he maybe thinks Santi’s taken a fall and winded himself, but that’s not what’s happening here.

He’s just shot down the slide and should be landing on his feet, but he hasn’t. Instead, he’s suspended in midair. So is his fogged up breath, trailing behind him like an old steam train.

Diego stares for a fraction of a second before vaulting the fence and heading towards his son. He freezes himself, however, when a voice sounds behind him.

“Hi Diego.”

Hand on a knife at his belt, Diego whirls around. Standing by a nearby tree, Herb waves awkwardly.

“Santi’s okay. I just froze time for a couple of minutes.”

Diego looks at him disbelievingly for a second. He looks disheveled and distinctly careworn. Exhausted, even.

“What the hell are you doing here Herb,” Diego said, withdrawing the knife from its holster and pointing it warningly in Herb’s direction, “after what you did? You send a killer into my house, near my son?”

“I-I need your help!” Herb says, frantically, hands held up each side of his face in surrender, “Come on Diego, there are at least two killers around your son most days and one of them is his Mother- what harm does one more do?”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Diego growls, “you put him in danger.”

Herb blinks

“ I didn’t put him in danger. If Wynn had been able to carry out her contract that night, Santi would never have been hurt like that.”

Diego lets out a slow breath and chews the inside of his cheek.

“Please, Diego.”

He lowers the knife.

“You better tell me what you’re doing here Herb.”

Herb nods eagerly,

“We got a real problem back at HQ. It’s your brother: he changed the timeline. It’s a catastrophe just waiting to happen.”

“Elaborate,” Deigo says, sternly.

“After Wynn failed, I ran the numbers again and they showed that matters were going to resolve themselves anyway: your brother killed his fiance and the baby trying to induce birth.”

Diego feels all the blood drain from his face. His old stutter returns.

“W-w-what?” he manages.

“And that was fine, ” Herb hurries on, “I mean, it was sad; it was really sad, but there weren’t going to be any more portals. But then Five- he must have been working on it all that time- Five traveled back eight years and wiped out that timeline. That means there are two of them somewhere in this timeline and the pregnancy can continue.”

Herb takes a deep breath, pulling in air to carry on with his frantic explanation:

“You have to tell me where they are. We have to stop this. Those portals are going to get worse and worse: destruction on a scale you can’t even imagine!”

Diego’s brain is struggling to take it all in.

“They’re far away from people,” he says, slowly, “and Five can stop them, anyway.”

“Not as the pregnancy progresses!” Herb says, wildly, “by the eighth month we predict they could swallow everything within a fifty-mile radius; even break the fabric of time itself! And that’s not to mention the paradox of two Fives running around.”

Diego shakes his head.

“Please!” Herb says, stepping towards him, “I need you to tell me what you know.”

Diego looks over at Santi again for a short second before turning back to Herb.

“Okay. I'll help. But you need to tell me that all again. Slowly this time.”

You wriggle free of the man holding you, looking between him and the Five standing at the door with fearful disbelief. As you take him in, you realize he looks different. Older. His skin, though still young, looks a little worn and he has a single gray hair at his right temple.

“What-?”

But the older Five just hugs you again.

“Okay, that’s enough,” the younger Five pulls him roughly off you, bringing a shoulder up to his face to scratch an itch there. The older Five breaks free of his grasp.

“Listen asshat, I haven’t seen her in eight years because YOU are about to kill her...tomorrow, if I got my math right. So excuse me for showing a bit of emotion.”

He scratches vigorously under his armpit and gives himself an intense glare.

“What?” your Five sounds dangerous, impatient.

“Yeah- that’s right. You kill her and the baby trying to play OB-GYN.” he keeps tight hold of your hand, “and I spent the last eight years working out how to fix your…my fuckup.”

He looks around the cabin disbelievingly for a second and lets out a peal of relieved laughter.

“I actually pulled it off. I can't believe it. Would you say I look about eight years older?”

But you don't answer: you're still computing what you heard a few seconds prior.

"We die?" you whisper.

The older Five looks at you, all the mirth leaving his eyes like sand through an hourglass.

"Not if I have anything to do with it. Not this time."

You can read the intensity of emotion in his voice. His face has the haunted quality you associate with his regular nightmares. He tears his eyes from yours and addresses his younger self.

“We are not equipped to induce birth and deliver a preterm baby here. But, lucky for your sorry ass,” he shoots a dark look in his direction, “I got a plan.” He uses his shoe to scratch his shin.

“And why should I trust you?” says the younger Five.

“He’s you!” you say, incredulously.

“That's not good enough!" His eyes narrow even further as his tense shoulder scratches his cheek. Older Five's face spasms as he points aggressively into his doppelganger’s face.

“Well, I know how to keep the baby inside her until she’s fully cooked.”

“She?” you whisper.

Older Five looks away from his younger self to look back over at you, lip twitching.

Yes," he says, more softly, "she was beautiful." He lifts your hand gently and looks down at your fingers laced between his.

Younger Five clicks his fingers impatiently in the other’s direction, causing his brow to knit again.

“Let go of her and tell me how we keep the baby inside.”

You remove your hand from older Five’s and step a little way between them. He lets you go with regret but keeps his eyes on his younger self.

“It needs both of us.”

They stand with identical posture, hands in pockets and bodies tilted forward, jaws set. Through gritted teeth, the younger Five says,

“Bullshit. What’s your game, shithead?

"I'm trying to save her life, moron!"

"You've created a paradox," he says, emphatically, wiping sweat from his brow, "you know what that can do! You wanna trigger another kugelblitz?"

"I've had eight years! You think I didn't take that into account?"

The younger Five grinds his teeth as he steps forward aggressively.

"And we had forty-five to work out the jump to 2019 and we still managed to fuck that up!"

As Older Five looks murderous, you hold out a hand as it dawns on you:

“Is this that…paradox psychosis thing?”

“No,” they say, simultaneously, eyeing each other with suspicion.

“And what was the first stage again?”

“Denial.” they say, together, and then scowl at one another.

“He definitely has it," says older Five, "but I’m fine!”

“You’re the one scratching himself like a chimp,” says the younger.

Older Five grunts in frustration, removing the fingernails chafing his hair.

“How about you hear me out and then decide if it sounds like bullshit?”

Your Five shifts uncomfortably and lets out a wet-sounding fart.

“Sorry. Go on.”

“Thank you,” says Five 2.0, “Now. We know that baby’s brain is firing all kinds of crazy stuff out as it develops, right? Hence the portals.”

“Right.”

Older Five turns to you, straightening his tie uncomfortably, “She’s projecting nonsense portals outside the womb because your body isn’t equipped to compensate. That’s why Lila didn’t end up with loads of placentas or whatever would have happened with Santi: because she’s powered, her body can cope.”

Younger Five scratches behind his ear, “We’d got that far, genius.”

“-And,” he continues, “if we can recreate that compensation using OUR power in a form we can place inside her, then the baby can throw out whatever she wants and be born when she’s ready.”

“I’m listening…so do we need to anticipate the convection or wave nodes before they happen?”

“No,” he scratches his leg, “we need to produce two portals with nice, steady vortices. Any frequency as long as they’re totally oppositional. Then we externalize them, confine them to this instance and compress them into one. Think of it like a sphere to go around the baby. And because they’re constantly opposing each other-”

“-It creates stasis within,” younger Five finishes for him, comprehension dawning, “Like a time-travel-proof forcefield? That’s actually a pretty good…”

“-it’s not a forcefield," he snaps, "this isn’t Star Trek, asshole. It’s a relativity suppressor.”

“I don’t understand.” you say.

Older Five turns to you, face softening even as he smacks his lips a little, trying to lubricate his dry mouth.

“It makes sure that time IN the womb matches time OUTSIDE the womb, no matter what she throws out. It will counteract her portals before they erupt. It should keep her in there until she’s ready to be born or until her brain is developed enough to stop spitting them out. Does that make sense?”

You nod. It makes enough sense, anyway. He smiles in return and reaches for your hand again.

“Hey! You just keep away from her.”

He scowls, reaches into his inner pocket, pulls out a notebook and throws it none-too-gently at his past self, who catches it just before it hits him in the chest.

“Here’s the math, dipshit.”

Your Five looks down at the equations, stripping off his coat.

“This is going to need maintenance,” he says, slowly, “it looks like it will degrade.”

“Yup. That’s the worst part. We gotta be roommates for the next ten weeks. Until she delivers. Just to be safe."

Five nods slowly and then says, “How do I know you’re not going to wait until she delivers and then off me?”

“You don’t, " he replies, "but you’re going to take that risk, aren’t you?”

They stare each other down, both shifting, scratching and breathing a little too hard. Finally, the younger Five gives a miniscule nod and says:

“Want to try it?”

“No, I came all the way here to talk about it. Why do you think I'm here?" snaps the older Five.

“I didn’t mean you.”

He turns his eyes to you.

“Your decision, dear one. It seems…logical to me, but this isn’t about me and him.”

You look at the older Five,

“Will it hurt?”

His mouth pulls down a little as he wipes psychosis-related sweat from his forehead.

"I don't know. I don’t see any reason why it should but I’ve not been able to test that part. All I've been able to do is practice shaping one half. Lila can only mimic- she can’t create them independently. No chance of an oppositional portal from her.”

You think for a few moments. If it’s this, death or more skin-ripping portals then this seems by far the better option.

“Okay.”

Older Five squeezes your hand.

“If you just sit there on the couch, we’ll try to create one and then see about insertion.”

“This is still just theoretical,” says the younger Five, looking at himself with a mixture of scorn and anxiety.

“Then let’s get some practical experience,” he replies, with passive aggressive bite.

They scowl at each other again as he continues.

“You create one, make it simple and steady and I’ll counteract it.”

You watch as both Fives take their braced stance, hands clawed and ready to summon. With a look of concentration, a flash of light erupts from Five’s hand, and a tiny portal appears before him. It’s not like the baby’s mad, sucking voids, it’s more sedate. There’s no sucking sensation coming from it, though it makes your stomach flip.

“Okay! Now hold it!”

Younger Five’s face tenses as Five 2.0 summons a portal too, identical to the other, to your eyes at least.

“Now push. It needs to be round and fit together, so it holds itself in shape.”

Both versions of him push their arms outwards with effort, pushing the portals towards each other. You can see veins standing out on their arms.

“Smooth it- we want total amalgamation!”

Hands still splayed and tense, they both manipulate their portals: the energy appears to you like the texture of chilled butter: reluctant to mold without the persuasion of many warm touches. The older Five, clearly more practiced at this, smooths his into shape, like one half of a yin-yang sphere. Younger Five, using his movement for reference, eventually works his own into the reciprocal shape.

Breathing hard with the effort, older Five makes eye contact with his younger self. “Good. Now we need to push. There’s going to be resistance but it should fuse.”

They exchange a nod and, grunting with effort, extend shaking arms.

“Keep it steady!”

They work against the portals’ natural urge to repel each other, like the same pole on a magnet. One vortex or the other tries to become wilder, but each Five forces his half back to sedation each time it happens. Flashes of lightning-like energy fizzle between them. As both Fives start to sweat even more than before, the halves finally join, the final inch between them closing abruptly with a flash and buzz of static electricity. The orb contracts, expands and finally settles into smooth stasis at around two feet in diameter. The noise ceases and it revolves gently, like a planet.

Your Five looks to the other for confirmation, still tensed and ready to manipulate the orb as required.

“That looks good, now we gotta get it in.”

“How?” pants the younger Five.

“It should pass through her if we place it there.”

“You’ve had eight years and you give me ‘should’?”

"Sorry, I didn't exactly have a way to PRACTICE," spits older Five. And then he looks at you, nervousness replacing anger: “Do you want to try?”

You meet his eyes. They’re the same green you know, but something in them tells you how much extra suffering he’s faced.

“If I’m going to die anyway, then this is probably my best chance.”

“Are you sure? You trusted me once and…” he can’t finish.

“I’ll trust you every time.”

He shuts his eyes, looking pained, and takes in a deep breath.

“Then let's try.”

The younger Five looks between you, nods and decides to cooperate. They direct the orb towards you. As it meets your protruding belly, you find you aren’t scared.

“You okay?” says young Five.

You nod. At this final confirmation, they both push. You tense, ready for pain.

But, as it enters you, the orb only feels a little cold: pleasantly so. Despite their intense expressions, it glides into you with what feels like ease. Once it’s disappeared into your skin, it’s almost like it clicks into place.

The older Five kneels in front of you, “Feel ok?”

“Yeah..." you shift experimentally, a little disbelieving, "I can’t even feel it.”

You stand up and take a few steps around the room, half expecting the orb to be left behind where your womb once was, but when you turn around, there's nothing on the couch.

“I think we did it,” says the older Five, “but it will need us to maintain it. I think once a day, just to be safe.”

He lifts your shirt and the younger Five’s arm darts to stop him, but you bat him away with a palm.

Ignoring his younger self's objections, he runs his hands over your skin, “That feels good. You feel it."

He steps back and nods, scratching his neck hard as he does so.

Your Five steps forward, frowning, and holds your stomach too.

“Yeah…it feels…intact.”

All three of you spend a few moments taking in the success, both Fives scratching periodically. The baby kicks contentedly and you stroke a hand over the area. She's kicking you. You're having a girl.

Tag list: (please comment to be added or removed.) @dilfjohhny , @sunsunhe, @w4stedtr4sh, @nevbrooke-555, @theredvelvetbitch, @td-miley01, @five-hxrgreeves, @rorygi1more, @jamiebower88

Masterpost

Alternatively, join me on A03. Here is a link to the whole series

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eunseok-s · 2 years

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five — i messed up...

pairing: yoon jeonghan x gender neutral reader

warnings: jeonghan calls the reader pathetic, swear words, a hurt y/n

genre: angst

word count: 0.6k

previous • masterlist • next

taglist: @honeyhuii @soobin-chois @fylithia @enhacolor @ja4hyvn @bambisgirl @hiqhkey @its-madi @byeolwonnie @yizhoutv @shuatm @end-hyphen @yeosangiehwa @kayleeshinee @joonsytip @justasoftstan

a/n: i apologise for the delay in updating, a work friend of mine passed away and i needed to take some time away. this written part is not my best work but i wanted to update as soon as possible. i hope you guys are all okay ❤️

You manage to make it to the library with a few minutes to spare, you look around before you park yourself on a random seat, just to see if Jeonghan made it before you did. The room is empty, the only other person in the library being the librarian making sure everything is ready before the day begins. She gives you a small wave which you return.

As you sit down, and pull out your laptop, you start to feel nervous. The last time you or Jeonghan breathed a single word to each other was when you were both eleven. It all started when he muttered "show off" under his breath when you and Joshua were the only two students in the year to pass an exam with full marks. He would always make little remarks at you whenever you had gotten 100% on any test or exam at school.

In retaliation, when you and Joshua were walking home after school, you pushed Jeonghan into a muddy puddle. You remember him falling face first into the water, his t-shirt covered in mud and grass stains. He responded by trying to pull you down with him but Joshua managed to block his hands. You remember immediately feeling horrible that you chose that path to go down but it was too late for you to do anything when he ran off.

Your mom told you it would all be fine, that his t-shirt would survive in the washing machine and would come out white again. You first apologised to Jeonghan weeks after but he never accepted your apology, all he did was make you feel bad for the incident by reminding you every day of it. You apologised multiple times and even bought him a similar t-shirt to replace it but your attempts failed.

He turned up at the library fifteen minutes after 9am, his hair slightly wet from the rain outside, "Sorry, I'm late," he mumbles, throwing his bag under the table and making his way to the coffee machine. You take a deep breath and exhale, this is going to be a long morning.

By noon, you had exchanged no less than fifty words to each other. When you’d asked him about his ideas for the project, he slid his work book to you and said nothing. Great minds think alike though; the two of you had the same ideas.

Though, whenever you tried to communicate anything to Jeonghan, he wasn’t listening to you. He would shrug and just focus on whatever he was doing on his laptop. It bothered you.

You started to feel hungry and offered to pick something up for him when he slammed his pen down on the table, sighing and looking at you for the first time today.

“Look, y/n, I appreciate—in fact, no, I don’t appreciate that you’re trying so hard for us to be friends or something, it’s not gonna happen. I’m only here because I have to be, because I want to pass this course and get the hell out of here. I wouldn’t work on this project if you were the last person on earth. So please, stop trying so hard because you’re pathetic.”

Jeonghan regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth but it was too late to take them back, he’d already said them. You were aware he didn't like you and that he felt like that but the way he said those words… they felt like venom and you just wanted to get out of there. You look around the room, your eyes locking with Seungkwan’s who stood a few tables away from you. You gathered all of your stuff together, pushing everything into your bag.

"Y/n, wait..." Jeonghan pleads for you to stop and listen but you just want to leave. You're not going to cry in front of him. You won't.

"Y/n..." He calls for you once more but you're already halfway out of the library, heading for the bathroom.

#—when our paths cross again ♡#kwritersworldnet #kflixnet #prism.nw #kdiarynet #seventeen social media au #seventeen sm au #svt social media au #svt sm au #seventeen fanfic #seventeen fic #seventeen fanfiction #seventeen fake texts #svt fake texts #svt fanfiction #svt fic #svt fanfic #yoon jeonghan x gender neutral reader

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dadsbongos · 5 months

Text

the higher up a fic is, the newer and more accurate it is to my current writing style (re: older = more cringe)

fics with obvious references to sex are not marked +18 because it feels redundant, but they are still meant for +18 audience. fics/blurbs that don't specify smut in the title are marked +18 for clarity's sake

<- back to main hub

~~~

eddie munson

-MASTERLIST: ex-potential boyfriend (10 things i hate about you) Jim Hopper places a new rule against dating for both his adopted daughters - Eleven can’t date if you don’t - and Mike hires Eddie Munson to get around it. Unfortunately for Eddie, you are renowned by peers for being a horrid shrew.

-fanservice pride fic written during '23 pride because i needed a bisexual eddie to come out as bisexual to when i Realized(TM)

-he's in a band You and Eddie are forced to team up and make him into Snowflake King material so that you can beat Jason Carver in a bet (for fifty bucks and the success of Lucas Sinclair’s high school basketball career).

-unusually short eddie fic for valentine's day After being stood up on a Valentine’s picnic date, a friendly neighbor boy comes to end the embarrassment.

-eddie/s.o with goldenhar syndrom you’re waiting to go into reconstructional surgery, and your boyfriend - Eddie - won’t stop trying to read your patient form.

-freak’s church Eddie Munson has been trying to court you in his own special way since kindergarten and now he may finally get a chance thanks to Mrs. O'Donnell’s stupid poetry contest.

-1988 VAMPIRE ORGY TOUR While on tour with Corroded Coffin, Eddie can’t help but notice that at every stop - from Indianapolis to San Diego - he happens to run into you.

-monachopsis Eddie gets severely jealous of Dustin’s babysitter, but then he meets you and finds that you two are similarly wired (neurodivergent and misunderstood in the 80s).

-the third (feat. chrissy cunningham [smut ramblings mdni]) part one part two part three

-self-indulgent blurb of eddie meeting hopper you bring Eddie home to meet your adoptive father, Jim Hopper.

-skipping through a john hughes’ movie Your Home Economics teacher assigns a project - take care of an egg for a full week and present it. You end up paired with Eddie “the freak” Munson. At least your best friend, Chrissy, seems excited for you.

-the cheerleader you hate you, a hot cheerleader, are put into a group project with Eddie, a hot nerd, that requires a visit to the Hawkins’ art museum. Neither of you does a very good job of hiding your secret friendship, or your feelings for each other.

-the geekification of chrissy cunningham (feat. chrissy cunningham) phase one - weed and puppy love phase two - beating the shit out of her ex phase three - obligatory and unabashed epilogue (and smut [mdni]) Following her public break-up with Jason Carver, Chrissy Cunningham finds comfort and affection in two of Hawkins' most renowned freaks. Coincidentally, you and your boyfriend, Eddie, both seem to have a crush on the poor girl.

-within six days 1 - “Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?” 2 - “O, I am Fortune’s fool!” 3 - “O, speak again, bright angel, for thou art as glorious to this night.” 4 - “Juliet is the sun.“

5 - “For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.” 6 - “Parting is such sweet sorrow.” 7 - “O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?” 8 - “Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.” You, the valedictorian to-be, and Eddie, the bimbo pothead, start studying together so he can graduate. In return, he shows you a more “wild” life.

-the one and only Eddie picks you up from a party when you’re on a bad high and then you two agree to go on a date the next day.

chrissy cunningham

-the third (feat. eddie munson [+18!]) part one part two part three

-slumber party (+18!) Chrissy comes to Corroded Coffin’s show and then makes the hot bassist (you) cum (you teach her how). -part 2 (+18!)

-why did you ask me out? 1 - the setup 2 - just how it used to be 3 - heartbroken but alive 4 - evil trance 5 - background characters to commercial lines You and Chrissy are long-lost best friends that join sides to pull one over on the girls hoping to make you prom queen as a bet. Things don’t always go to plan - sometimes you realize you’re in love and sometimes the girls shoot back at you.

-the geekification of chrissy cunningham (feat. eddie munson) phase one - weed and puppy love phase two - beating the shit out of her ex phase three - obligatory and unabashed epilogue (and smut [mdni]) Following her public break-up with Jason Carver, Chrissy Cunningham finds comfort and affection in two of Hawkins' most renowned freaks. Coincidentally, you and your boyfriend, Eddie, both seem to have a crush on the poor girl.

robin buckley

-like batman! You and Robin get Kill Bill teenager-style revenge on Jason Carver and his friends after they spread a nasty rumor about you. Sapphic ways ensue (Do Revenge but a little gay).

-slender aphrodite has overcome me You and Robin were supposed to work on a chemistry project, but then she takes you to Lovers’ Lake. Also, Eddie supports lesbians.

steve harrington

-steve harrington loses his mojo Steve and you are both depressed kids working towards nothing specific. Maybe you should kiss (AKA a convoluted three times Steve watches his friends be in happy relationships and the one time he gets into one).

horror movie collection (halloween special) -includes American Psycho, Halloween, Scream, Friday the 13th, Fear Street, and Jennifer's Body

#stranger things x reader #st x reader #sthings.🍊

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antisociallilbrat · 2 years

Text

The Williams Part One

Part Two

Read on Ao3

Ships: Will Byer/Bill Denbrough and background Richie Tozier/Mike Wheeler and Eleven Hopper/Stanley Uris

Rating: This first part is rated G- other two parts are rated M

Summary: The story where Will and Bill pine over each other helplessly in a coffee shop and Mike and Richie are meddling little shits.

Now that they've met they've gotten past the awkward stage...right?

There’s a coffee loft in downtown New York that has been humbly dubbed “The Bean'' by its loyal customers. The real name of the shop is printed on the window front, but the font is so faded that it’s hard to tell what it originally said. The name “The Bean” came about because, unlike the painted name of the loft, a big faded cartoon coffee bean is still visible on the window pane.

No one knows why the paint of the Bean has withstood through the years and not the paint of the name. At this point, it doesn’t matter. The Bean is cracked and dirty with age and it just fits .

The Bean is just out of the way enough to be an inconvenience to tourists but for locals, it’s a hot spot. It has a comforting atmosphere with its mismatch couches and corner tables. The furniture is a mixed drab of whatever the Owner was able to find at the thrift store. They have the same two baristas who never mess up an order and the place plays smooth jazz softly over the speakers.

This place is perfect for an artist like Will Byers.

Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon he heads there after his morning class, his satchel full of sketchbooks and pens. He is a very patient man but his roommate has a way of working his nerves so it’s easier to work somewhere else. It’s like the guy has never heard of headphones- and he's always playing some garage band music.

The barista, a sweet girl named Addy, rings up his usual as he walks in the door, the ‘ding!’ of the bell behind him. The smell of cinnamon warms his nose and he already starts to relax. It’s reminiscent of home.

He pays for his hot chai tea; two dollars and fifty cents, with a small “, thank you” to Addy as he heads to his little corner. Mike may give him shit for hating the taste of coffee and still hanging out at the coffee loft, but Mike has never tried The Bean’s chai tea.

There’s a corner of the loft that has this old loveseat couch and a coffee table in front of it. When Will first started coming here he would sit on the floor with his back against the couch and do his work on the table. When the Owner saw this, Mr. Brandis, he insisted on getting Will an easel for him to work on instead.

Will tried to tell the older man that it was too much but Mr. Brandis had money to blow so he bought Will one anyways. Mr. Brandis hasn’t been in the shop much anymore and Addy tells him it’s because his arthritis is getting worse in his old age. A shame, Will genuinely enjoyed Mr. Brandis’s presence.

The easel is already set up for him and he pulls his biggest sketchbook out and sets it on it. With the easel, he does get to sit on the couch now which is nice. With his drink warming his hands, he scrutinizes his work. It’s his art midterm, the first one of his freshman year, and he’s a little nervous.

Going to school for art is such a cliche. The eye rolls and the ‘oh that’s…nice’ he’s had to hear from high school teachers and other grown-ups. He knows. It’s just that he couldn’t bring himself to go to school for something he didn’t care about. That said, he’d rather not fall into the “starving artist stereotype”. If he can create a good-, no; a great piece for his midterm, it feels like this could be worth it.

A silly notion, he knows.

Right now he’s just in the sketching phases. The prompt for the midterm is “Character of light.” He doesn’t have a clue how his project is going to come out. Character of light?- Maybe he should paint his mom.

There’s a "ding!" of the door and Will looks up, is it really that time already?

There’s another reason Will frequents The Bean. A guy that looks around his age, who shows up every day at noon, orders a different drink every time and sits in the same spot across the shop. Will studies him as he chats with Addy, who laughs at something he said. He’s getting some iced drink despite the dropping temperature outside.

When he turns away from the counter with his drink their eyes lock. The guy gives him a polite smile and Will smiles back; before going to his booth. The same routine every Tuesday and Thursday.

Will has affectionately dubbed this stranger “the Writer”. At his booth, he pulls out his laptop and will type away at something. Will has wondered many times what exactly he’s writing. It’s a fiction story, he thinks, because the Writer always has notebooks on the table too. Like he’s keeping track of details in a story. On second thought that could work for writing non-fiction as well but this guy doesn’t look like a boring non-fiction writer. He can’t explain it, he just knows.

Dressed in flannel (always flannel) with his ripped jeans and his auburn hair tucked up underneath a beanie, the occasional strands escaping. He looks so mundane but to the careful eye, you can tell he looks like someone who has something to say. Will hopes he says it. Hopes he gets to hear it.

That would mean talking to him and that’s not something he’ll do. Will Byers doesn’t talk to strangers. People he doesn’t even know the name of. No no no, he’s perfectly content secretly pining over the Writer from his little corner.

Will sighs and gets to work on his midterm as the Writer boots up his laptop. Once the screen is on and he’s clacking away, the Writer won’t look up for anything. Zeroed in on his work, like Will needs to be. He can’t help it! He’s an artist, he likes pretty things! And the Writer is very pretty.

For the next two hours Will sketches and erases portraits of his mom. Would it be too cheesy to choose his mom for this prompt? He could do his sister El, but that may be just as cheesy. At the end of it, all he’s accomplished is to make himself frustrated. It’s time to go home. He glances at the Writer one last time as he always leaves before him.

He picks up his things and politely says goodbye to Addy as he throws his drink away. Maybe he’ll get lucky and his roommate will have gone out for the night.

The New York air is cold on the tip of his nose. Mid-October was bringing in that cold air with a vengence.

“Hey! Wait up!”

Thinking of October he has no idea who he’s going for Halloween. Does the Party want to do a group costume or have they outgrown that? He doesn’t think- A hand grabs his shoulder and Will jerks back. Is this his first mugging?

No, it’s not a mugging because when he turns around it’s the Writer standing there. His cheeks are red and he’s panting and he’s holding Will’s dorm pass.

“You dropped this back there, I figured you weren’t getting home without it.” The man explains.

“I- thank you.” After months they’ve never said a word to each other, just shared little smiles as the writer got his coffee.

“Just being a good citizen,” he laughs. There’s something to his voice. It’s slow and he can’t tell if it’s just because this guy has an accent or what. Before handing the pass back to Will he looks at it, nodding appreciatively, “NYU, that’s a good school.”

He hands the pass back to him, their fingertips just briefly brush, “It is, thanks," he dismisses.

The Writer smiles at him, “Well ss-see you Thursday!” and heads back the way he came, back towards The Bean.

Will stands there for a minute with a blush on his cheeks and stunned at his own stupidity. “It is”? He couldn’t have thought to ask the guy if he went to school there too? Start a conversation? He now knows the guy knows his schedule too but that could mean anything. God, he feels like an idiot.

Bill Denbrough is an idiot.

He sits there, staring at his laptop screen and chewing at his fingernails. Why did he grab Art guy? Cute Art guy to be exact. He looked like he scared the guy half to death.

After months of his romantic pinning, he couldn’t stop himself from taking the chance. When he saw Art guy’s dorm pass fall out of his back pocket as he was leaving it was like fate. The universe was saying, “Now’s your chance Denbrough,” and he fucking blew it! Very Bill of him as Richie would say.

And why did he come off as a stalker?! “NYU, that’s a nice school”?! He dropped out of that school! That’s not even the worst part, the pass was in his hand and he didn’t check the name. Now the guy is stuck being dubbed ‘Art guy’. Dammit, Denbrough! The guy probably thinks he’s a creep.

Groaning, he slams his laptop shut. The words aren’t coming to him as steadily as they usually are. Maybe he calls it an early night and sees if Richie is down to grab a drink. A real drink, not whatever surgery crap Addy concocted today. Plus Richie is always down to drink, even on weekdays. Perks of being the two college dropouts of the Losers club.

“Bye Addy!” he yells over her shoulder. The poor girl is sweeping, getting an early start on closing since she has to do it all alone. The other barista (Diana? He thinks that’s her name.) hides in the back, playing on her phone. They really should hire someone else.

Thursday rolls around and Will is a bundle of nerves. He keeps going back and forth on whether or not he should go. But it would be weird to break his routine suddenly. Oh but his nerves! He knows he came off so cold the Writer! Should he apologize or would that be weird?

He’s still deciding when Mike texts him that he’s joining Will at The Bean. A blessing and a curse. If he chooses not to go now he’d have to explain why to Mike and he would just ask too many questions. His friends are aware of his routines, and Mike and El have joined him at the coffee loft a couple of times. El when she really needs to focus on her school work and Mike when he just needs to relax for a little.

Mike is already sitting in his spot when he arrives. Chai tea on the table alongside Mike’s usual order of americano and a blueberry muffin. Will takes his seat next to Mike. He doesn’t feel like drawing today, his legs are too jumpy.

Mike being Mike immediately notices, “What’s got you in a bunch?”

“Nothing.”

In lew of arguing Mike hands him his chai tea. He regrets it, the cup shakes in his hand. Mike looks at him with a, “You gonna tell me now?” expression.

Will sips his tea in spite, “Seriously, I’m fine.”

Mike starts in on him, “And I’m straight. Was it class? Was professor Harlen a dick to you again? Or was it your roommate? I swear if he-”

“I’m fine!” he lowers his voice as he gets a grumpy look from an old lady in an armchair, “I’m sorry Miss Baker,” he whispers to her. She glares at him for a moment longer before returning to her Cosmo magazine. Mike looks at him expectantly. He sighs, “It’s this guy.”

“It’s this guy?” Mike repeats back to him, “What guy? Did he do something to you or something?”

For someone so smart, Mike can be a bit dense at times. “No he didn’t do anything to me!” he hurriedly whispers, “I just- I just happen to think he’s cute.”

This piques Mike’s interest. For a reason too. Will doesn’t often get ‘crushes’. He feels like such a schoolgirl. “And what happened with this cute guy?” Mike asks.

So, against his better judgment he tells Mike about the incident on Tuesday…and about how he’s been harboring a crush on this guy for months. He can’t look at Mike’s smug face.

“Sooo that’s why you love this place,” the bastard teases.

“I love this place because Addy makes a good chai tea,” he says, getting defensive. There’s a telltale feeling of a stupid blush warming his cheeks.

Mike hums, “So when does Lover boy get here? You said he’s a regular here as you?”

Looking at his booth he realizes what time it is, “He’s um, he’s actually supposed to be here right now.”

He must sense the apprehension in Will’s voice, “I’m sure he’s just running late, that’s all,” Mike tries to reassure.

But Will isn’t listening, he’s thinking about how he came off cold to the guy and now he’s ruined everything. The Writer is probably never going to come here again and that means he’s never going to get to see him again and he never even got to learn his name. God, he’s so stu- Oh wait.

As Will’s eyes were scanning the room they landed on the outside window where the Writer is standing outside next to someone. He has his bag with him so it appears he’s coming in, just chatting to someone right now.

The tension leaves his shoulders and he nods his head towards the window, “Nevermind he’s outside talking to that guy. He’s the one in the gray flannel.”

“The one he’s smoking a cigarette with?” Mike asks, wrinkling his nose.

“Mmm yeah I guess.” Honestly, he’s only ever seen the Writer smoke a couple of times before and it’s always with this same guy before he comes inside sometimes. At first, he feared the other guy was the Writer's boyfriend but the pair have only ever playfully shoved each other when one of them had, apparently, said something stupid. They remind him of Lucas and Dustin.

And there’s the fact that few and far in between, a couple of the Writer's friends have joined him in The Bean. None of them acts less platonic than the other.

The Writer finishes his cigarette before snubbing it out and tossing it. The other guy, his friend, ruffles the Writer’s hair before walking down the street.

Will finds himself holding his breath as he pulls the door open.

“At least he’s the cute one, would have seriously judged you if it was the other guy. The one with the curls looks like he needs a bath,” Mike says with a grimace, unaware of Will’s state.

He agrees noncommittally, trying not to stare but also can’t look away as the Writer places his order. The Writer got something hot today and when he turns around, as always, he makes eye contact with Will.

Instead of rolling his eyes or scowling, or any of Will’s worst fears, the writer smiles and waves. Somehow Will manages to give a small wave back. The Writer, seeming pleased, grins one last time before heading to his booth.

Well…that was new.

“Oh ho ho,” Mike chuckles, “Looks like you didn’t come off too cold to him.”

“Shut up,” he scolds but he’s smiling.

Mike taps his finger to his chin, “I think that you should go talk to him.”

It’s almost comical how quickly Will snaps his head towards Mike, stuttering, “Wh-what? It was just a wave, not an invitation to go bother him!” he whispers yells. He is not risking the Writer overhearing him.

“But it could be an invitation to go bother him, you don’t know,” Will glowers at him and Mike holds his hands up in defense, “I’m just saying! If you want to sit over here and continue to pine for even more months like a sad Disney Channel movie heroine, that’s your deal. You could at least ask his name,” Mike smiles mischievously, “Or I could go ask for his name.”

Will stands up, “Okay we’re leaving.”

“What why?”

“Because I don’t trust you. Come on, get up.”

Hopefully, it wasn’t as embarrassing as it was in his head, leading out Mike who was fighting a fit of giggles. Good to know his love life is funny.

“You know you’re overthinking this right?”

Bill resists rolling his eyes at Stan, yes he knows this. He’s Bill, he overthinks everything, it’s a part of his personality at this point. “Doesn’t matter,” he disregards, “I’ve been s-smiled zoned.”

Stan does roll his eyes at him, “That’s not a thing, stop being overdramatic."

He huffs at his friend. Stan uses a coffee stirrer to push back his cuticles as he sits across from Bill at his booth. He doesn’t often accompany Bill to The Bean but today is a special occasion. Richie got a job here and today was his first day.

A few weeks ago Mr. Brandis finally fired that lazy barista. Addy basically runs the shop anyway so it didn’t affect her but Mr. Brandis still insisted on filling the position.

So Bill got Richie the job. He’s always complaining about having no money, free open mics don’t exactly pay, so now he has a day job. Bill’s happy for him but it is oh so infuriating. His friends are the worst. That’s it.

Richie has been working all day so he was there when Addy took Art guy’s order, he knows his name and he won’t tell Bill. He texted Richie as he was walking here with Stan and Richie just sent him the middle finger again emoji. Then he asked again when he placed his order and the jerk just smiled smugly, miming zipping his lips.

But he still smiled at Art guy when he turned around- and waved. Waving is part of their new routine now. He was so scared he fucked it up when he chased him down the street to return his pass that he decided to take a chance the next time he saw him. If Art guy waved back then hope wasn’t lost. Bill considers himself lucky that he did.

Now a whole month later, they have come to an impasse. The only new development was the wave. He still sits at his booth and pines over Art guy, stealing glances at him when he’s not looking. At his point, he knows he’s getting on his friend’s nerves, particularly Stan and Richie’s.

“I don’t even know if he’s gay Stan,” he almost whines.

Stan takes a glance towards Art guy and looks at Bill with a raised eyebrow, “Are you serious right now?”

“What? S-serious about what?”

“Bill Denbrough you’re a dumbass,” he sighs, “That guy couldn’t scream more gay if he had a shirt on saying it.”

He scrunches his nose, “I don’t understand, how can you tell?”

“Oh I don’t know, maybe because he dresses way too nice for a straight guy,” Stan states matter of factly.

“Ben is st-straight and he dresses nicely.”

Stan looks almost pained, “Ben isn’t straight Bill.”

“Wh-what?! Since when?!”

He rolls his eyes again and is chastising him for his lack of gaydar when the door chimes and stops mid-rant. Stan never stops mid-rant so he’s immediately turning around to see who came in.

Oh, it’s just her. The girl with curly brown hair who’s always slightly smiling is one of Art guy’s friends.

But she’s not just a girl to Stan apparently. Bill watches his eyes as his eyes watch her, following her from where she goes to place her order and then to sit next to Art guy. Stan’s mouth is still hanging open from where he was speaking mid-sentence.

He doesn’t bother to hide his snigger when Stan’s attention finally returns to him. Stan glares at him but asks anyways, “Does she often come here with him?”

Bill finds a sudden interest in his nails, feeling completely smug about the whole thing. Stan and Richie have been giving him shit about not talking to Art guy and here Stan is gaping at one of his friends. “Hmmm, I don’t know, why? You feeling smuh-smitten suddenly?” He’s not looking up from his nails as he says it, going for the full effect of bastard.

Stan throws his coffee stirrer at him, “I’m definitely not telling you Art guy's name now!” he hisses.

Bill squawks, “How do you know his name?!”

“Because Richie texted me it on the way here!”

“I have the worst friends,” he pouts, sliding down into the booth.

Mike is surprised and annoyed to see Will’s Lover boy’s friend behind the counter the next time he visits The Bean. Will is still on his way and Mike tends to get here before him anyways when he joins him.

Before he approaches the counter he knows this guy is going to get on his nerves. He just looks dirty! His curls need a brush and his black fingernail polish is chipped to hell. To make it worse he can see the horrendous orange shirt behind his black apron. Who let him go out like this?! Why is it weirdly attractive?!

The guy- ‘Richie’ as it says in a messy scribble on his name tag greets him with an all too big smile, “Hey good lookin' what can I get brewin' for ya?” He sings songs.

He resists glaring; just barely, and orders, “I’ll have an americano and a blueberry muffin. Oh and a hot chai tea.”

“Two drinks?” Richie asks as he rings him up, “What? You got a date coming? And your total is eight dollars and ninety five cents.”

“I’m just ordering for my friend that’s joining me- not that it’s any of your business.” He tosses a ten-dollar bill towards the barista who annoyingly catches it.

He hums, “No date, is it bold of me to assume you’re single then?”

“Just get me my coffee,” he bites out a “please,” so that he doesn’t come off as too rude.

Richie chuckles and grabs two cups and a pen, “Before I do that I need to get your name pretty boy.”

He positively does not blush at that, “It’s Mike.”

“And the other name?” he asks him, scribbling Mike’s name on the cup and picking up the other one, “The name of your supposed friend?”

“It’s Will.”

That makes Richie stop mid-writing and look up at him with an eyebrow raised, “Will? As the one who comes in every Tuesday and Thursday?”

“Yeah that’s him, he has a weird obsession with this place,” Mike tells him, confusion lacing his tone.

“Does his obsession with this place have anything to do with the hopeless writer that sits right at the booth over there?”

The pieces are starting to fall into place as he catches on, “I do believe it does,” a smirk is tugging at his lips.

Richie leans over the counter, matching him with his own Cheshire grin, “Tell me, Micheal, are you also sick of them and their dramatic pining?”

“You have no idea.” He loves Will, really, but ever since Will told him about his crush it’s all he wants to talk about. Mike can recall the different colors of plaid the Writer has worn the last two Tuesdays and Thursdays because Will has insisted on telling him.

“Well well I think it’s time I execute my plan 'The Williams’,” he sees Mike looking at him questioningly and clarifies, “Oh my friend’s name is Bill, they’re both named William so I guess it’s good they go by different nicknames because otherwise, that shit would be confusing.”

“Hmph look at that,” he muses.

Richie challenges him, “So you ready to hear my plan?”

He thinks about it for a minute. Will hates it when his friends get involved in his love life so does he really want to deal with the inevitable grouchy Will over this? On the other hand, can he stand to hear about how the sun filtered in on The Writ- Bill’s hair one more time? With that in mind, he nods.

Richie shoots him a wink, “Great, knew you wouldn’t let me down,” he calls over his shoulder to the other barista who was stocking syrups, “Hey Addy would you mind coming over here for a sec? I got something to ask.”

Will doesn’t notice anything off when he enters The Bean. Mike is sitting over on his loveseat couch, their drinks sitting on the table and his muffin half eaten on the plate.

He also doesn’t notice Mike’s lack of overflowing conversation as he watches for the Writer, no interest in working on his project for the new term. He got an A on his midterm so that’s subsided his worries about his career choice for a while. He painted his mom, Hop, Jonathan, and El. His family- his characters of light. His work was so good that his professor didn’t care that he chose multiple subjects.

Between watching the clock and humming an agreeing noise whenever it sounds like Mike has asked him a question, time moves quickly.

The Writer comes in right on time and heads to the counter. His friend, the one he occasionally shares a cigarette with, has started working here so it’s been fun to watch their interactions. His friend’s name is Richie. Will likes him, he’s only been here for about a week but he’s always super nice to him. Sometimes Will wishes he had the courage to ask him about the Writer but that would be too obvious.

Will watches as the Writer and Richie exchange words, the Writer flips him off and Richie makes kissy faces at him. He wonders what on Earth they’re talking about. The Writer gets his drink, a warm one today, and on cue turns around to smile and wave at him. As always Will waves back.

Something Will does notice is Mike’s lack of snark over it. He eyes his friend, “What? No teasing today?”

Mike gives him an unimpressed look, “I don’t know what to tell you, William, the world doesn’t revolve around you.”

Will rolls his eyes, “Whatever- and don’t call me William. It’s weird.”

They make ideal chit-chat, Mike finishing off his muffin and Will drinking his chai. Lucas’s birthday is coming up so they discuss what to get him. The man who notoriously just goes out and buys the things he wants himself. Meanwhile the Writer is pretty invested in the story he’s writing so Will risks a couple more glances than usual.

The sound of Addy's voice interrupts his and Mike's conversation. “Special order for William from Mr. Brandis!” she calls out, putting two drinks on the counter.

He just stares up at the counter, confused. Mike nudges him, “I think she’s talking to you.”

Since when does Addy call him William and why even would Mr. Brandis order him a drink? He’s not even in today! ….He thinks.

Hesitantly he stands and walks towards the counter. Addy is taking an order for another customer and Richie has magically disappeared. She gives him a quick smile as he approaches.

The two paper cups are empty when he picks them up; there are no drinks. What is going on here? One of the cups says ‘Will’ and the other is labeled ‘Bill’.

“What the fuck R-Rich,” Comes from behind him, making him jump.

It’s the Writer and he turns around and sees that he looks annoyed. He’s still confused as to what is going on and is starting to worry that he somehow did something wrong.

The Writer quickly drops his look of annoyance though, trying to smile instead but it’s tense, “I’m ss-sorry. I think my friend is playing a prank.”

Will looks down at the cup named ‘Bill’ and holds it out to him, “Is this you?”

He takes it and observes it, “Yeah I’m Bill- sadly,” he looks at the other cup in his hands, “What does yours s-say?”

Will tries not to snicker but it’s kinda funny, the guy he’s been pining over has his name, “It says Will, short for William.”

It seems like it finally dawns on Bill, “Oh shit we have the same name!” he says, a little too excited. It makes Will squirm, and his cheeks hurt from trying not to smile too big but he's just as nervous. Scared he’ll say the wrong thing and lose this chance.

Bill steps closer to him and he can smell his woodsy cologne and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke. For some reason he completely expected the Writer, Bill, to smell like this. He talks again in that slow voice of his, “Do you want to come sit down with me? Can’t let a special order from Mr. Brandis go to waste.” His words are smooth but his smile is boyish and cheeky and it is utterly charming.

But then Will remembers Mike and in a panic looks over towards him...only to see that Mike is no longer there. He’s standing outside The Bean, looking in through the window and giving him a thumbs up before proceeding to fake gag. Very Mike of him.

So Will turns to Bill and nods, “I’ll sit with you only if you tell me about that story of yours I’ve seen you writing.”

Bill’s eyes light up, “Deal but only if you let me ss-see some of your artwork,” he goads.

That sounds more than fair to him.

A/N: AAAAAA I know it seems like it ends abruptly but that's what chapter two is for ;)

Thank you for reading! Please comment if you enjoyed!

#i finished this look at me #willbill #elstan #wheelzier #bill denbrough #will byers #mike wheeler #richie tozier #eleven hopper #stanley uris #it 2017 #it 2019 #stanger things #stranger things 4

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