#unfinished BUT for timeline purposes!

[marshmellohi]

Links Meet AUs List

A lot of AUs get lumped together with Linked Universe, so I wanted to make a list comprising any and all original Links Meet AUs I could find! Please let me know if I’m missing something, you want your AU to be removed, a link is broken, or if you know an AU’s status so it can be moved to the correct dedicated category.

DISCLAIMER: Please pay attention to the content warnings on some of these AUs! I haven’t personally read every AU so I don’t know what some contain, but if an AU has something you don’t vibe with, there are more than plenty of others that you will love on this list! Please be respectful and kind to everyone! This list is both for archival purposes and to appreciate the creativity of the community!

Additional Notes: Some AUs have dedicated Tumblrs, some can be found through original tags, some are only on ff.net or ao3, etc. I have a separate list for AUs limited to Discord/DMs that I have not included here unless I receive permission to do so! Also, if something is separated by ||, that means that theyre 2(+) separate AUs by the same creator in the same tumblr… if that makes sense LOL. This list is Always Updating so be sure to keep an eye out for any new AUs!

PUBLIC

• A Link to the Present

• Across the Galaxy

• Ageless Soul

• Bonus Links

• Branching Timelines

• Chain as Cryptids

• Chained Spirits

• Chains of Time

• Courage of Ages

• Culture Shock

• Deuy’s Links Meet

• Dimensional Links

• Dreamverse AU || Identity Fraud AU

• Echoes of Courage

• Exodus

• Fallen Heroes

• Garden of Heroes

• GodLinks

• Hearts Linked Together

• Heroes Spirit

• House of Heroes

• Kings Comic

• Limited Hero

• Link and the Links || Soldier Poet King

• Link Between Links

• Link Rejoin

• Linked Across Dimensions

• Linked Arena

• Linked By Illustrations

• Linked Dreamscape

• Linked End

• Linked History

• Linked Keys

• Linked Maze

• Linked Spirit

• Linked Through the Centuries

• Linked Universe

• Linked World

• Link’s Fun Road Trip

• Little Links

• Magic’s Wake

• Meowmix’s Linked-verse Journey

• Minas Linkverse

• Monstrous Fusion

• Names of Courage

• Realms of Hylia

• Recalled

• Rifts in Time

• Sister’s Linked Meets

• Suncaster

• Tangled Chains [Lou]

• Team Timeless

• That Broken Promise

• The Hyrulian Valhalla Saga

• The Links We Share

• The Phantom Timeline

• The Sacred Realm

• Too Many Links [Zee]

• Train Whistles and Wedding Bells

• Unchained AU

• Winter Links AU

PRIVATE

AUs where the info is limited to Discord, DMs, and/or friends. Not typically published/shared publicly. Permission is asked to acknowledge these AUs here before posting.

• A Linked Week

• Fractured Timelines

NON-LINK BUT THEY STILL MEET

Crossovers with Zeldas, Ravios, Ganons… pretty much the exact same thing but with other characters.

• Lots of Ravios

• LU Ravioverse

• Strangers Across Eras

• Voice of Wisdom

• Wielders of Wisdom

LINKMEET LITE

Links meet, but it’s not the focus of the story/in the background (example: a world where all the links exist at the same time but the focus is on one specific character/the others dont come up much)

• Father of Time

• Royal Reads

INACTIVE/DEAD

An AU qualifies for the inactive category when: 1.) its been 2+ years since an update and 2.) it’s unfinished; or, 3.) the creator explicitly stated that they were discontinuing it. LMK if one still has a pulse!

• Into the Zeldaverse

• Link and the Links

• Linked By Time

• Linking Together

• Misfortunate Monsters

• Tangled Chains

• Zelda in the Multiverse

UNSURE/MIA

AUs where I am unsure of the status and thus need to contact the creator, the creator’s deciding where to go with it, or I can’t locate the original page. This is mostly for me- consider this kind of like a ‘to do’ list. Any insight is welcome!

• Bagel’s AU (N/C)

• Birdo’s AU (U)

• Cotty’s Linkverse (N/C)

• Chain Reaction AU (Nuked)

• Factorial’s AU (N/C)

• Fortu’s AU (N/C)

• Hyrule Bound (N/C ; Iirc there was a fanfiction but I can’t find it anywhere)

• Link Madness’ AU (N/C)

• Minty’s Linkverse (U)

• Missing Links in Time (U)

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

Inspiration (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which you struggle coming up with new designs for the Nine, and the Lord of Gifts helps you overcome your creative block

Warnings: smut (p in v, cockwarming, tease and denial, dom!Annatar vibes), reader hesitates at first because she’s surprised by Annatar’s advances but she’s on board with it, manipulation cause she doesn’t know Annatar is Sauron, small discrepancies with the canon timeline for the sake of the fic’s (very little) plot, unrealistic(?) method of solving artistic blocks (the irony is that I wrote this fic to get out of writer’s block with another one and it worked😆)

Mature content below the cut - minors DNI!!!

“How fares your progress?”

Lord Annatar’s voice nearly startles you when you see him approach. You thought you were alone in the forge room, with nothing but your thoughts and the unfinished Ring designs currently staring in defiance up at you from a piece of paper.

“Well enough,” you say, reflexively. Then sigh, letting your pencil fall on the table. “Well, in fact... it is slow,” you confess, glancing at Annatar as he walks towards you. You wince internally when he looks over your shoulder at your sketches. “My skills are no match for Lord Celebrimbor’s, and even he has had difficulty finding the right designs.”

“And yet he chose you alone to carry on with the efforts in his absence,” he argues, even when faced with what you deem to be your far-less-than-satisfactory attempts. Looking up, you find him offering you a sympathetic smile. “You sell yourself short, my friend. It is a real pity.”

You avert your gaze, attempting yet surely failing to conceal your fluster. His compliments, however small, always have a sincerity about them that touches you deeply.

Lord Celebrimbor had, quite literally, worked himself into oblivion after one too many failed attempts at crafting the Nine, and more hours without rest than even an Elf could endure. He had refused to retire to his chamber for some much needed sleep until he had fainted upon his own worktable, and even then, he had refused for anyone but you to even attempt to create new designs for future tries in his absence. He had been odd, of late, mistrusting and, dare you say, even irresponsible at times. But you were his oldest and most trusted apprentice, and that seemed to earn you some of the good will he still had left.

Not that you feel he has made you much of a favour, leaving you to labour alone on such an intricate task. You are not exactly freshly rested yourself, and you have seen so many Ring designs in the past few weeks, you seem to have been drained of the ability to come up with any fresh ones.

There was only one idea you had that might help you, and you had risen from your seat and sat back down two or three times already, changing your mind about whether you should seek out Lord Annatar or not. Whether it would be appropriate. Now that he has come to you, however...

“I was wondering...” Your eyes wonder about the room, hesitating to meet his. “If it isn’t too bold to ask...”

“Be at ease,” Annatar intercedes with that same gentle smile, and it isn’t so difficult to look at him anymore. “My very purpose here is to aid you in your endeavours. You need not hesitate to ask for my help.”

All of a sudden, you feel quite silly for ever doubting you could speak with him openly. He has been most willing to share his knowledge as he worked closely with you these past few weeks. It’s just that now, he has taken on Celebrimbor’s duties as Lord of Eregion as well, and you hate to feel as though you are keeping him from more important matters simply because you cannot seem to handle your own given task.

“It’s just that I feel so... utterly uninspired,” you confess, casting a dismayed look to the sketch-filled papers in front of you. “The proportions, the aesthetics... I cannot seem to get all the elements right at the same time and the more I try, the farther I stray from the desired result.” You raise your gaze to Annatar’s. “Might you spare a moment to assist me, if only with one design? I’m sure it’ll be inspiration enough for me to finish the others whilst you tend to the affairs of the city.”

“Of course,” he says, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. With the other, he picks up the piece of paper, and you are now grateful that his attention is solely on the drawings, for the sudden contact has made you rather flustered. “You see,” Annatar says, contemplating the sketches, “sometimes the artist’s mind, though creative as ever, tends to... restrict itself, in the most frustrating way. So great is the desire for perfection in the end result, that it stifles the natural flow of the precious ideas without which no result may be reached at all.”

You resonate with the wise words, but you are not sure you understand the advice they carry.

“Are you suggesting I... draw whatever design I like first and worry about the practical aspects of it later?”

“I am suggesting,” he says, putting the paper down, “that you do not worry at all.” You frown. With that, you do not resonate at all. But your main focus now is that Annatar steps behind you, this time placing his hands on both your shoulders. Your heartbeat quickens as he speaks, at leisure, “That you do not even... think about the task at hand—not entirely—and that you simply... give in to your most natural instincts.”

“I am... not sure I understand,” you say quietly.

After a moment’s silence, Annatar asks, “May I show you?”

You knit your brow, unsure. You had expected him to help you by simply completing one of the sketches, or even just discussing some new ideas. These cryptic words, along with the physical contact, is all quite peculiar.

But you do trust him. You more than trust him, if you’re being honest. That is why the sudden closeness feels rather nice, though you do not wish to make a fool of yourself by showing it.

In the end, you give a small nod.

“Very well,” he says, and you hear the pleased smile in his voice. “For that, you need only resume your work, and trust me.”

Failing at producing quality designs right before his eyes doesn’t sound exactly ideal, but you put your faith in his methods, whatever they are. You pick up the pencil once more, bring a fresh sheet of paper before you, and begin your fumbling attempts anew.

You note—how could you not?—that Annatar has yet to remove his hands from your shoulders. Because of that, you sit more upright than you usually do, but you doubt changing your posture is his sole purpose. Slowly, he begins to move, thumbs brushing your skin, then softly pressing down onto it in a languid rhythm.

You are grateful that he cannot see the wide-eyed surprise on your face as it dawns on you that the Lord of Gifts himself is giving you, a common Elf, a massage. His thumbs come to knead the flesh at the base of your neck on either side of your spine, and the slight pressure feels divine, especially when you have spent so many hours hunched over the table. You bite down an audible sigh, willing your hand not to waver while you work. You still do not feel particularly inspired, but if he meant to bring you relief from the constant stress of the past few weeks, his efforts are most certainly appreciated.

You mean to offer him a polite and rather bashful thank you, when one of his hands begins to stray. His fingers leave a tingling trail across your skin as he draws them up your neck, softly cupping your jaw from behind. You are quite stunned by the gesture, and find yourself retracing the same pencil line a few unnecessary times before you move on. His fingertips graze their slow way up your jaw, straying briefly through your hair before they reach your earlobe. It’s almost as though he is drawing his own intricate pattern along your skin, and your hand slows in its movements as your heart races in your chest.

Surely, he would not— oh, but if only he did—

And he does. His fingers take their sweet time tracing the shell of your ear, and finally, they reach the tip, where they catch the pointed bit of flesh between them, tugging ever so gently.

Your breath catches in your throat, shivers rain down your spine, and your hand freezes on the page. Because your kind do not touch one another’s ears in such a manner unless they are, or wish to be, courting. The simple reason is that, as you are now vividly reminded, those pointed tips are quite sensitive to touch, erogenous in nature for most Elves—including yourself.

You do not question Annatar’s wisdom or the grace with which he has assimilated into your ways of life, but perhaps he is somehow not aware of this particular intimacy-related aspect? Should you let him know, as courteously as possible? But then how would you explain that you had felt his intent, and despite having been given all the time in the world before his fingers had reached that most tender spot, you had done nothing at all to prevent such a caress?

Before you can decide, his hand returns to your shoulder, any movement halted.

“Is something the matter?” he questions, concerned.

You cannot tell him. You simply cannot. In truth, you miss the touch already.

“No—” you clear your throat, willing the waver out of your voice. “No, my lord.”

“Then, why have you stopped?”

He sounds genuinely curious, as though he could not fathom what had affected you so. You give no answer, other than to put pencil to paper once more. The moment you resume your work, his hands resume theirs—massaging, caressing. He does not touch your ears again, though his fingers do come dangerously close to doing so as he runs them through your hair, and you berate yourself for hoping each time that they would find those sensitive peaks again, catch them in their delicious hold.

So distracted you are by the prospect of it and the images you strive to continue creating, you do not even sense Annatar leaning down. Not until you catch a glimpse of long, blonde hair at the periphery of your vision, and then there is the soft graze of his lips over your neck. You draw in a sharp breath as your skin is set alight, and the pencil slips from your fingers.

“My lord!” you gasp, chest heaving as you whip around to fix him with a most alarmed look. There is no misinterpreting the intent behind that particular gesture, and he knows it very well.

But he doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest as he stands to his full height, seeming to you more majestic in appearance than ever as you look up at him.

“Keep drawing,” he instructs calmly. “Unless you wish for me to stop.”

Your brow furrows even further, your confusion growing, and then—

It all clicks in your mind.

The rules he has demonstrated thus far are simple enough: you stop, he stops. It’s both a condition and a reassurance. You do not have to outright refuse him. You need only refuse to continue drawing, and he shall leave you be, and all will return to the way it was before. But if you do pick up the pencil, it would be tantamount to confessing to the desire you have held secret within your heart for weeks, and that would change everything. Not to mention it would be unprofessional. Most inappropriate.

Your skin still sings where he has touched it.

Be it courage or folly, you turn away from him, pick up the pencil, and draw.

You think you can feel a smile on his lips as they return to your neck. This time, you close your eyes, finally able to savour the sensation—only for a moment, though, for the blissful touch depends on your ability to keep forming shapes on the paper, so you open your eyes and do your best to conjure some semblance of a coherent design as Annatar peppers your skin with unrushed, tender kisses. His lips are even softer than you had imagined, and you tilt your head lightly to offer every inch of skin within his reach. Now that the door has been opened, there is no more use pretending like you do not crave his affections.

Before long, his fingers ghost along the neckline of your dress, then his hand ventures below, to the swell of your breast. You do not make the slightest move to stop him. In fact, you pray to the Valar for the ability to keep your hand drawing at least somewhat relevant lines on the page. For you keep reminding yourself that if you stopped, so would he, and you cannot fathom the loss of his delicate grasp of your soft flesh. He easily finds a stiff nipple, peaking through the fabric of your dress, and tugs it between his thumb and forefinger. You shudder, holding back a whimper—but to your embarrassment, the beginning of one does escape you when his hands and lips suddenly leave you.

“Do you need a respite?” he says with a tinge of admonishment. You’ve abandoned your efforts on the paper without even realizing. You shake your head, not trusting your voice, wishing for nothing more than to feel his touch again, and resume scribbling lines on paper.

“Very well,” he says, and his hands return to you.

It’s increasingly challenging to keep drawing through each graze of lips, each brush of your ears, each tease of your nipples through your dress. It’s already so much, so fast, and yet it only makes you long for so much more. You’ve given up biting back the soft moans in your throat, lacking the power of concentration to spare for that purpose as well. And you certainly cannot help how your thighs press together in a futile attempt to ease the ache growing between your legs.

The sketch of one Ring is already finished, but you don’t even stop to consider whether it’s satisfactory before you begin another. His method shall be most efficient in increasing the quantity of your work, if not the quality. Would he do this with any other smith, you wonder, simply as a means of encouragement? Is this what he has been doing to Lord Celebrimbor on the late nights when the other smiths have gone to sleep, and they alone remain to carry on working in the forge? The thought stings, but the only question on which you can truly focus at the moment is how much further will he go with you, right here and now? As if in answer, his hand begins a most tantalizing descent, over your stomach, down to your navel, and you desperately repeat to yourself to do not stop drawing, no matter what, as you part your legs to receive him without shame.

When he cups you intimately through the fabric of your dress, you truly do not know by what force you are able to keep the pencil on the page, let alone keep wielding it. But thanks to the muscle memory acquired over many years of training, you do, even as you whimper and rock your hips into Annatar’s hand, even as he massages the throbbing bud which had longed for his touch on the shamefully many nights you had stroked it yourself while thinking of him. You wonder if he can feel how wet you have grown for him even through the fabric of your dress, wantonly hope that he does—

He stops. Even though you haven’t—you are so sure of it, you’ve been so careful. You only cease drawing when he lifts himself from you and you turn to him with a questioning, pleading look.

“Stand,” he instructs simply.

You nearly protest. But you remember yourself, that you are meant to be putting your trust in him, and do as you are told. You are hyperaware of the wetness between your legs as you stand, leaning against the table for support. The haze of desire has left you pleasantly weak.

Annatar steps towards you, facing you fully for the first time since he has begun to touch you intimately, and it is both relieving and electrifying to see that desire darkens his gaze as well as he takes in your breathless state. Taking gentle hold of your chin, he lifts it so your eyes meet his, and not a moment later his lips are upon yours, soft and tender. It’s barely more than a short peck, just enough for you to melt into the kiss only for him to pull away before you can fully savour it. This teasing of his is so maddening, like a game to which the only rule you know is that you either submit to his rules, or forfeit altogether, and you can only hope he will not leave you wanting in the end.

Stepping back, be pushes his robes to the side, and proceeds to unfasten his trousers with relaxed, steady movements under your longing gaze.

He pauses whilst he is still decent, and patiently asks, “Will you welcome my flesh?”

Welcome it? You could think of little else for weeks.

“Yes, my lord,” you murmur.

Only then does he bear himself to your gaze. He is a masterpiece, hard and swollen and glistening at the tip. The state of his cock denotes much more impatience than he demonstrates as he gracefully seats himself in your chair. Your cunt clenches around a gnawing emptiness at the mere sight.

“Return to your seat, then,” he invites with a cheeky little smile.

You find it strange that he has not pulled the chair away from the table, sitting in it as though he means to work there himself, rather than receive you in his lap. But you obey either way, a daze of elation coming over you. It’s such a foreign, illicit feeling, pulling up the skirts of your dress with trembling fingers as you step between the chair and table to face Annatar, ready to straddle him.

Before you can lift one knee onto the chair, he stops it with a gentle but decisive hand.

“I do not believe you have finished the designs,” he says. “Have you?”

Frowning, you give a slow shake of your head. His tone nearly makes you feel like a chastised student. Disoriented, you are nothing but pliant as his hands guide you into turning around so that you are now facing the table. Surely, he cannot mean for you to keep drawing once he is inside you? You could barely manage to control your pencil strokes whilst you sat relatively unmoving with his hands upon you, you could not even manage to find the paper if you begin to ride him.

You are about to ride him. Lord Annatar. The thought banishes any such concerns from your mind, leaving nothing but blinding lust in its wake. He adjusts you so that your legs are bracketing his thighs, pulls your garments out of the way to expose your soaked folds, and guides you down so that the tip of his cock is only just breaching your entrance.

That initial stretch alone pulls a small whimper from you, and you plant your hands on the arms of the chair for support, trying not to make any rash downward movement that might hurt you both. But his hands are strong and so safe on your hips, and you surrender to their guidance as he eases your joining. He slowly teases the tip of his cock in and out of your cunt, each time reaching a little deeper than before, until you cannot take it any longer and and sink onto his length completely.

The stretch pulls a mewl from your throat as you finally settle in his lap. You strive to catch your breath, looking down as if to reassure yourself that this is, indeed, real. Your dress covers the place where he has disappeared inside you, but you are so heavenly filled by the length and girth of him, you fear the sight alone might cost you your sanity. You whine, your eyes falling shut as Annatar pulls you to his chest, one hand pressing down on your belly whilst the other gently wraps around your neck, and he whispers in your ear, ���How does this feel?”

Your voice is no more than a trembling whisper, “Wonderful.”

You cannot bear to wait a moment more. You try to circle your hips in his lap, moaning as his cock begins to prod at all the most delightful spots within you—

He plants his hands on your hips, trapping them in a firm hold.

“Be still,” he demands. It’s no easy feat, but you settle down, awaiting his direction. “Good,” he purrs in your ear. “Good. Now...” he pauses, letting you quiver with anticipation, “you shall remain still until you have finished the designs.”

Your eyes shoot open, wide and confused as you twist your head to look at him. There is no trace of jest in his eyes. Even the pleasure he feels in the warm embrace of your cunt is a faint glimmer beneath the surface of his determination, subdued with utter discipline. You realize he truly means his words, and you despair.

“But...” You cannot even make a coherent plea. So dreadful is the thought of enduring the pleasure of having him inside you without pursuing it, you are reduced to little more than a pitiful whine, “My lord—”

“Shh,” he coos, tenderly kissing away a tear that had slipped down your cheek, aiming to soothe you as if he is not the very source of your torment. “I know,” he murmurs. “I feel it too. This all-consuming ache to reach fulfillment, this longing for release... the wonders of your mind crave the very same. Open the door to set them free, as you have opened yourself to allow me in. You managed well enough before .”

“Yes, but you were not...” You grimace, clenching around him without meaning to in your anguish. “It’s so deep—”

“And you are so warm. So tight,” he breathes out, hoarse with want. “Yet I shall wait, patiently, for as long as I must. For your sake.”

His tone leaves no room for argument, which only worsens the ache between your legs. But you know by now—either play by his rules, or stop the game altogether.

You sigh, defeated, and nod. “All right.”

Annatar presses a light kiss to your temple, a gesture so sweet and chaste, it makes your head spin as much as his praise. “Good girl,” he rasps out. “Go on, then.”

He offers some support as you will your limbs into cooperating and begin to lean forward, towards the table. The movement jostles his cock within you ever so slightly, and you groan as you withhold from moving your hips in search of any further friction. The position is somewhat awkward, with you leaning over the page from a slightly too high angle, but you plant your elbows on the table and get on with it, determined to see this through.

If someone had told you this was how you would finish the designs—seated in Lord Annatar’s lap, his cock buried snugly inside you, so perfectly stretching you out that it drives you to the brink of insanity—you would have called them a most impolite adjective, and slapped them for good measure. But even less probable, even more scandalous, is that it’s almost easier this way. After a few moments of adjustment, you no longer scratch out attempts before they’ve even begun to take shape, or overthink each stroke of the pencil to the point where you forget what your overall intention had been in the first place. The wonderfully torturous stretch of Annatar’s cock within you takes over that part of your mind, and what is left of it is high on the thrill of it all, the anticipation, the graze of Annatar’s fingers as they trace the occasional languid line along your spine, so tender and encouraging.

The practical knowledge is there, deeply rooted in your mind from years of practice, and the creativity is a gift that’s never truly left you. But it is only now that you finally understand how to let them intertwine without trying to control it, to give in to the flow of inspiration the same way you are giving in to him.

And he keeps his word, sitting silently until the last stroke of your pencil, his hips never once giving the lightest stir. Only when you sit back to show him the finished sketches does he lean forward slightly, taking the paper from your hand as you take deep breaths to cope with the new stimulation.

You plant your hands on his knees for support, nerves filling you now that the creative haze is over. You are left only with great unfulfilled lust, and the creeping doubt that, perhaps, your work is no more adequate than it was before. You’d found a way to push through so far, but you are not sure you could manage such a feat a second time if he asked it of you.

But you would try. You would try anything, if it allowed only the sliver of hope that your Lord Annatar would finally take you, unrestrained and to sweet completion, at the end of it.

To your great relief, when you turn your head, you find him studying the paper with a most appreciative smile.

“See what you can accomplish when you give yourself permission to do so?” he says, caressing your thigh as if in reward. “These are splendid.”

“Thank you, my lord,” you murmur. Before, you would not have dreamed to ask for more than such words of praise. Now, you bite your lip and entreat, “May I... May I, please...?”

“Seek your pleasure?” His voice is knowing, teasing, as if he is not furiously hard within you this very moment. Even after all this, a bout of shyness makes you avert your gaze briefly as you nod. “No,” he says seriously, and your eyes snap to him in alarm. “Not in this manner,” he goes on. “I wish to look upon your face.”

You have no doubt he meant to have your heart lurch in your chest. There is a wicked side to this messenger of the Valar, a shadow hidden within the light with which he surrounds himself. It only arouses you further.

Annatar helps you stand, and the emptiness left behind as he slips from within you would render you an inconsolable mess, if it weren’t for the promise of soon-to-be-found relief. You can’t help but eye his cock, drenched in your arousal and bobbing enticingly as he rises to his feet as well. He sets the precious sketches on the table with care, then turns to you with, at last, unveiled hunger, and reaching to the back of your thighs, hoists you in his arms in one swift move.

You wrap your legs around his waist, cling to his shoulders, and gasp as he carries you to the nearest wall, pressing your back against it. He holds you up effortlessly, even as one hand slips between you to touch your clit directly for the first time. The bundle of nerves has been helplessly throbbing for so long, it only takes a few firm strokes of Annatar’s fingers to have you fall apart with a brisk whimper, burying your face in his neck.

“How sensitive,” he muses, quite content as you pant through the sudden burst of pleasure. “You have craved my touch for a long time, have you not? I admit it has been quite distracting.”

There is the slightest hint of accusation in his voice, and you know he doesn’t just mean since he first touched you today. You must have failed, in all those weeks you worked together, to withhold the lustful thoughts he invoked in your mind from showing in your eyes. And so you had distracted a messenger of the Valar from his work on the crucial task to save all of Middle-Earth.

“Forgive me, my lord,” you whisper into his hair.

“Whatever for?” he asks as though you’ve said the silliest thing. Cupping your face, he tilts your head up so your gaze meets his. “Have you forgotten my name?” he speaks softly. “I am here to give.”

And give, he does. He slides inside you to the hilt, gladly welcomed back by your still-aching cunt, and this time, finally, finally, he withdraws and sinks back in once, then again, thrust after thrust until he builds to a quick rhythm that has you drowning in the pleasure after which you had thirsted for so terribly long. A string of ‘pleases’ leaves your throat, unbidden, even though you can hardly ask for more than the stretch of him inside of you, the relentless press and drag against places so sweet and deep within, the ceiling is filled with all the stars in the night sky as you throw your head back against the wall with abandon. Annatar leans in to kiss your neck, his tongue setting your skin even more ablaze. Your sole remaining ability is to moan and cling to him, receiving the pleasure you are being given.

Sauron is deeply satisfied as he takes his own. He has been aching as well, though the Maia is far more skilled at mastering the urges of his flesh. You had been quick to obey, eager to follow his commands, even without his influence nudging at your mind to suit his purpose, which in itself was as pleasurable as having your tight cunt wrapped around him as you worked. And now you are so pliant in his embrace, moaning in sweet submission as you reap the reward he most graciously offers—the very picture of the peaceful surrender he seeks to accomplish through the Rings. If only every being in Middle-Earth would accept the blessing of his authority as easily as you have, they would spare themselves so much wasteful bloodshed.

Perhaps he will keep you safe from it. Perhaps he will keep you to himself.

But you don’t know what is to come, nor would you care as your pleasure crests towards its peak, and you cry out with the force of your release, clenching around Annatar’s cock.

“Thank you,” you mindlessly gasp in between whimpers as he generously fucks you through it, “thank you, thank you, thank you—”

With one last, brutal thrust that pins your hips to the wall, Annatar groans, long and deep as he throbs and spills inside of you. It occurs to you that he has barely made a sound besides his laboured breathing throughout your coupling. Before he even slips out of you, spent, you wonder if you might have the privilege of hearing more in the future.

He is gracious enough, as your high subsides and you catch your breath, to carry you back to your chair. You doubt your legs would support you this very moment. He sets you down, fixes his robes, then stands before you as poised as ever. If it weren’t for the spark of mischief in his eyes, one would think you had done nothing but discuss Ring designs over a cup of tea.

“Thank you, my dear,” he says, retrieving the sketches from the table, “for your most valuable work.” He admires them for a moment, then gives you a knowing smile. “Do not hesitate to ask for my aid, should you need it again.”

With a polite nod, he leaves you sitting in your chair by the table, much as you were when he had found you. Only, at that time, his spend had not been pooling between your legs, and it was hard to imagine it ever would be.

You smile to yourself. What an unconventional emissary, and how lucky you are that the Valar have sent him to guide you in your endeavours. For indeed, you are sure you shall require his assistance again quite soon.

Sequel -> Further inspiration

[mrinafria]

And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you. (CoS)

[contains spoilers; tw: blood]

When they ask me about the purest love story out there, I'd show them these two.

It's not the sacrifice per se that makes it great for me, it's the way they feel about each other, about the love they give and receive. Even in their last/worst moments, they somehow find the courage because the other one is safe? Im Sol is scared out of her mind handling this traumatic ordeal on her own so she seeks help from the detectives. Her only peace of mind is that at least Seon Jae is safe. Then she learns about his phone call and doesn't spare a second to run. The same girl who was so scared a while back throws all caution out of the window the moment Seon Jae is in danger, because she'd risk her life than Seon Jae's. Can you imagine the trauma seeing him dying for the third time, and her actually witnessing it this time around? If I were Im Sol, I would do anything to not have to go through that too. Even if it meant losing the person so they were never my person to begin with.

And Seon Jae. Boy is dying. Dying. You can see it in his eyes that he's aware of it too and yet, he is so grateful? So at peace with himself and with life? Like he has no regrets about any unfinished business, unlived years, unattained dreams, unspoken words to his loved ones. He already told Im Sol he loved her, and she reciprocated. That was enough. For him, that was good enough.

I go back to this scene like a masochist because THE DETAILS. By the time Im Sol arrives, you know Seon Jae is beyond saving. He knows it too. He's not even trying to escape or save himself. It looks like he's been holding on on his own for a while. His face has turned ashen, breathing uneven, hands slightly shaking. He's barely holding it together. Barely there.

However, he is not trying to push that guy away or take that knife out.

Instead, he's holding that guy's hand.

Let that sink in for a moment.

He is holding on to that hand. JUST SO HE CAN HOLD ON TO THE GUY.

Since the taxi driver is at an advantage here, and Seon Jae knows he cannot fight back anymore, so he is using whatever he can as a last resort to keep the guy occupied with him, and keep him from going after Im Sol. Seon Jae could perhaps guess Im Sol would arrive any time since the cliff was where he'd found her earlier, sitting in shock. But even if she didn't make it, you can bet he'd have spent his last breaths trying to fall off the cliff taking the guy down with him. THIS SCENE. The resolution is so clearly etched on his face.

And then he sees her. And the detectives. She is safe. She is saved. He did it. He saved her. And it's the Im Sol who knows him, who recognizes him, who loves him. She is safe, and that's all that matters. He saved the person he loves more than his life, literally.

His job is done. The choice he made gave him the outcome he wanted and desperately fought for.

And he is exhausted. All that resolve took a lot out of him. So we see his body finally giving up, him finally letting go. He resigns to his fate, but also not in a resentful way. He knew this was his fate all along (because no matter what choice Im Sol made, he'd choose to run toward her any day), it just happened earlier than expected. But he knew it, and he still made that choice. He doesn't regret it because he'd be making the same choice in every timeline (as he has been). He is able to see his Im Sol for one last time before his eyes close, with memories of their time together and Im Sol's voice echoing in his ears, his soul.

Sometimes you know the consequences, but make the same choice anyway. Because you like it.

The faint smile on his face in his final moments before he falls off the cliff? You'd think the boy won a gold medal for swimming or something. It's like he's achieved the biggest purpose there was in his life besides loving Im Sol. True to his words, he is grateful Im Sol exists in the world. That he got the chance to love her because she exists in this world. And he is thankful he gets to leave the world knowing Im Sol still exists in the world, his gift from the heavens.

One is jumping through space and time, living the same nightmare, constantly, over and over again, and yet going out of her way to save her love. Even if it means carrying the trauma and heartbreak and pain and loneliness and longing of three, four, multiple timelines, for the same guy. The other is making the choice to love her through all the storm, all the warnings, all the odds of time and space and fate stacked against him. How could you be so brave when fate is both so very kind and yet so extremely cruel to you no matter what you do? How do you choose to persevere? How do you get to have a love so pure?

Should I be ready to die if I want to be with you? - Ryu Seon Jae

[saguette]

What do you think Johnny's art looked like before he was stripped of his powers? This is something that bugs me a lot, and I'm curious about what you think.

ok i needed to draw a few shitty pictures to demonstrate cuz i wanted to talk about more than just his previous art but his art journey in general IDC if there's some canon tweet that proves something i said wrong or out of timeline these are my headcanons and projections so you either like it or not.. anyways I think his style pre-pre-JTHM (lets say 15-18) depicted many things, He was good at realism and fluctuated just fine between stylized art and big hefty works with a lot of detail. His stylized works looking similar to Jhonens and the whole 2000's artstyle cuz its fitting.

Of course he's like, a late teenager around this time so its GOOD but not perfect. If you pulled up a few of his drawings from this time he would probably be embarrassed by all the disproportionate limbs and goth girls he sketched and thought were badass. He probably has old sketches of friends in his style regardless if they asked to be drawn or not since his art was something he was proud of and people around him made him feel proud of. His old art also feels like it'd have anime elements unintentionally to add to that amateur artist swag. Johnny doesn't like anime copies but stuff he rips inspo from was anime inspired so it rubbed off on his work too. Moving onto PRE-JTHM (18-20) Is when his art started to get more serious and complex. In his happy era he took to drawing lovecraftian horror sometimes but it was always the secondary focus of any drawing.

Moving out and growing up was around the time his mental state started to worsen and he started using art to cope with emotions rather than just use it for fun, drawing complex monsters was a subconscious way to depict underlying mental illness that's out of his hands. He cant depict what he doesn't know he has, he can only scribble things that feel someone close to him because there is no physical appearance to emotions. He never liked his art around this time because it always felt unfinished or wrong or like it just didn't interpret what he wanted right. Overtime his art lost coherent appearance, quality, and meaning which made it feel worthless. It wouldn't be all that bad but it reached a point not even he knew what it was trying to be and it was frustrating. How can your own art not make sense to you? Its weird to let your hands go and do their own and you not recognize what they're trying to say. Which leads to SHORTLY BEFORE JTHM-and later.. Johnnys NEW preferred method for art currently is a little abstract, it became two extremes of the same thing; nothing. his art lost alot of what it used to be so he says he cant draw anymore.

Johnnys lovecraftian horror art slowly engulfed itself over time and always becomes an abstract mess. Its purposely made to be incomprehensible by having too much, regardless if its creation is poetic, an outside view not being able to tell what it is or how much work went into it is on purpose. its metaphorical or whatever.. Johnnys fucked up or something.. Whereas Noodleboy i imagine was made by him drawing a stickfigure one day to see if he can still "draw" and overtime gave him his features like angry eyes and that big hair, creating his own sort of vent sona to replace the sketchy abstract art he used before. Noodleboys chaoticness is too sporadic to rip any meaning off of, he also purposely represents nothing. His existence uses up paper the same way, just without all the extra effort. SORRRYYYY long tangent thats probably super messy i just winged it. but i cant help myself ive thought about this for a while ik i didnt strictly answer the question but i had so much more to say

[starzgaze]

ARCHIVED: annoyance [unfinished]

pairing: sjw/archivist!reader

unreliable synopsis: [y.name] tries to discreetly follow jinwoo but they fail so badly that jinwoo played them lmao

a/n: [y.name] whole job is from an oc so if you need a bit of context on how they work you can check my oc ophion because this is a self indulgent piece huhuhu.. also shit english and its unfinished so yeah erm

[y.name] stared down the intricately detailed paper in front of them. It honestly looked like something straight out of some fairytale but [y.name] knew better. It was a personal announcement stating where there's a bit of information that's incorrect or not processed correctly in their archives.

They sighed in irritation.

The archivist crumpled the piece of paper and then threw it aggressively to some wall, letting out an annoyed groan.

"AGH! This rarely happened before even in past timelines?? It only happened when he—" [y.name] ranted before shoving their face into their hands and let out an irritated groan again. They genuinely started to hate this job that was forcibly imposed on them.

And that job was being an archivist to archive everything that happened in this world for the purpose that their now dead boss, the absolute being, could look through the records [y.name] made if they got bored of the monarchs and rulers fighting and went off somewhere else. [y.name]'s job was supposed to made easier because information from the future and past would be forcibly injected into their head like some sort of epiphany because the movements of everything that the absolute being made was predictable. Which means they don't have to manually archive it.

That is until Sung Jin-woo came in.

That... man... almost drove [y.name] into insanity. Right after the dungeon incident, [y.name] ordinarily archived whatever happened to Sung Jin-woo in the dungeon and assumed he would have an average 'Second Awakening' and nothing more.

But when [y.name] archived it they were immediately greeted with an announcement that the information they archived was incorrect. [y.name] rose a brow at this.

They were rarely wrong so how can this be? The last time they archived something wrong was the time where Antares did something so out of character or Ashborn constantly doing decisions that even the existing predictions couldn't match his choices. [y.name] was definitely confused at this but they didn't pay that much mind to it.

They simply adjusted it and tweaked around until it approved the information [y.name] archived then after this [y.name] thought they'll never encounter this ever again for a while.

Until it repeated.

and repeated

repeated

repeated......

....aaanndd repeated......

...

"oh my god I think I'm gonna bald from stress" [y.name] whined as they gripped the folder in their hands and narrowed their eyes at the profile in the folder. The archivist gritted their teeth at the sight of the hunter.

S-rank hunter, Sung Jin-woo.

"Just how the hell did you become this strong?!!?"

The folder flew into the air as [y.name] threw it as they covered their face exasperatedly. The only thing that was haunting [y.name]'s days was Sung Jin-woo, the very reason of why they stay up at night and grovel at the thought of.

Ever since his sudden rise in the rankings in Korea, [y.name]'s work as an archivist doubled. They had to manually archive every little decision Jin-woo made in his life that'll affect the world or even the universe with how powerful he's getting. It was difficult for sure, especially when they're trying to not seem like a creep discreetly following the hunter around trying to jot down whatever Jin-woo is doing because now this magical force that helped them archive doesn't work on him.

"Eugghhh. How many days left before this guy is gonna figure out I've been following him for the past few months" [y.name] sighed as they turned their head over to where the folder fell. Their eyes hardened at thr sight of the folder, annoyance bubbling inside of them. Sung Jinwoo is seriously making their job harder than it should be.

Jin-woo can't miss how a figure would tail him whenever he was in public and most definitely whenever he's in a high ranking dungeon for some reason.

He would occasionally catch them at his peripheral vision but when he actually turn his head and try to see who it was they would magically disappear. Jin-woo could easily of course appear in their shadow but this figure hasn't posed a threat to him or to anyone he loved.

"My leige, they're tailing your trail again. Do you wish for me to dispose them?" Beru reported as he materialized behind Jin-woo. He raised his hand and waved it dismissively. "No need. Let them be"

In truth, Jin-woo recognized the figure. He was sure that the elusive stalker he has doesn't recognize them anymore but Jin-woo does.

[y.name], one of the few who didn't laughed behind Jin-woo's back but instead encouraged him and served as someone of inspiration for Jin-woo.

To be fair, Jin-woo used to have a small crush on [y.name] before but he forgotten about it when he was going through his grueling training of the system. This mostly became the reason why his feelings for [y.name] dwindled but it quickly resurfaced when they started trailing him around.

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

My knowledge of the books isn't as great, so I hope you don't mind this question. Where was Eomer during the First Battle at the Fords? Did he arrive in time to find Theodred's dead body? Was he there at all? Thank you so much!

I absolutely don’t mind, and I understand why this is something that’s not clear! The full timeline isn’t obvious even from the LOTR books — you have to supplement what we know about Éomer from Two Towers with info from Unfinished Tales, which has the only account of the battle where Théodred was killed. But the short answer is that Éomer was dealing with business elsewhere so he wasn’t part of the fighting at the Isen, and he never saw Théodred’s body — only his grave after the fact. Here’s the long answer:

In late February, Théodred was in the Westfold, which was his territory as 2nd Marshal. Scouts alerted him to troops from Isengard preparing to invade from the west. Acting on his own authority — because his dad was Not Well — he went to meet the challenge with Grimbold and their men and also sent a summons to Elfhelm in Edoras asking that he come with relief troops of his own. We don’t know *exactly* what Éomer was doing right then, but he was 3rd Marshal and his jurisdiction was the East-mark. So he had his own stuff going on, and the bulk of his men would be further away from the Isen than Elfhelm and his men were, so Elfhelm was a more natural relief choice.

The First Battle of the Fords of Isen happened on Feb. 25th, and Théodred was killed that night.   We’re not told what day he was buried, but we do know that his grave was there, with his banner flying above it, when the Second Battle of the Fords began on March 2nd. So somewhere in between, Elfhelm and Grimbold buried Théodred at the Fords, right where he died. That means this image from the movies, while lovely and moving, is non-canonical — Théodred never got back to Edoras and wasn’t buried there:

News of Théodred’s death came first to Erkenbrand at Helm’s Deep on Feb. 26th, and Erkenbrand sent word on to Edoras. That messenger didn’t make it to Edoras until midday on the 27th, which is the same day Éomer set out to track down the band of orcs (those carrying Merry and Pip, it turns out) that had just been reported in the east. There is some ambiguity as to whether Éomer heard the news of Théodred’s death before he left or not, but he indisputably spent the next few days engrossed in other urgent stuff that would have kept him from grieving or visiting the grave — he had to go track down and slay those orcs; he ran into Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli in the plains and had to decide whether to let them go; and then, when he got back to Edoras, he got thrown in jail for having acted without orders and for letting those foreigners run free in Rohan. He didn’t get out of jail until March 2nd, when Gandalf healed Théoden, and then they were off straight away to Helm’s Deep.

It’s not until after victory has been achieved at Helm’s Deep and all our heroes are on the road to confront Saruman that they pass by the Isen and take notice of the graves that are there. It’s a bit of a sore point for me that NO ONE mentions that Théodred is among the dead (😵😖🤯), but at least Éomer is thinking of him because he is the one to mention the murder of Théodred among Saruman’s biggest crimes when Saruman is trying to sweet talk his way back into Théoden’s good graces once they get to Isengard (“Remember Théodred at the Fords and the grave of Háma in Helm’s Deep!”).

Anywho, obviously the movies chose to mix up the timelines and events a bit for their own dramatic purposes, since they have Éomer arriving at the tail end of the fighting at the Fords, finding Théodred still alive, and bringing him back to Edoras before his death and funeral. It’s a substantial change from the books, but I do really like that they found a way to put Théodred in the movies and to give proper weight and notice to his death! And thanks for the question, I hope the answer was helpful!

[medi0creking]

Yellowink - Ceroba - Bijutsu

btw, this is canon. I claimed it like forever ago, but I procrastinated the real thing.

anyways

Lore:

in a timeline where ceroba was the focus on undertaleyellow. in a timeline where undertale yellow was never finished. A lost soul was formed with a tragic life that never lived. memories of a time that simply never happened.

Ceroba. tho she never knew her name. She always felt grief and pain from this non-existent event. But it felt so REAL.. it happened.. did it not?

Due to her pain, grief, and anger. She tore her own soul out in order to end herself. This attempt on her life proved useless. she lost all ability to feel and all ability to move over time.

One day, in an untold amount of time later. Paint fell from the heavens of her unfinished world rotting. This rot wasn't bad.. it contained the emotion, the power, the love, THE PASSION, and THE CARE of all that could have been.

This pain fell upon Ceroba, and she awoke with a feeling of vigor and purpose... tho it was short-lived, she could at least move. She began to capture and contain this paint. The paint brought her emotion.

She enjoyed it for a while. tho she would have episodes of immense grief, so she lowered her dosages. She was able to be content and peaceful. they find a way outside their world and discover a collection of portrait and painting just floating in a gold space.. she dubbed it. "The Grand Gallery."

so much love and care, and passion put into each project and world and universe! There wasn't much at the time.. but for what there was, passion was shining the brightest.

-------

Quirks and Powers and misc:

- ceroba never knew her name. Since her discovery to protect the Grand Gallery. She named herself Bijutsu

- Doesn't vomit paint nearly as much as ink. she manages her paint incredibly well. she is very careful and only takes very light doses.

- Bijutsu summons Efude from a bell she keeps in her. so she doesn't have to carry the brush around all the damn time

- She can travel via any liquid and fire. HOWEVER, doing this can drain her emotions. So she does it sparingly and only if nessccary.

- Her home, now rotting with paint. It has become the catalyst of the creativity of the multiverse.

- Bijutsu feels a connection to Kankos and Chujins but doesn't know what they look like. It is too fuzzy to recall memories that never existed.

- Bijutsu is very much a cheerleader when it comes to helping out with creativity. She encourages it and pushes it to be better and to be healthy. No matter if the project is good or evil.

- Bijutsu isn't very energetic and is the ultimate lawful neutral. She protects the multiverse from it being destroyed. However, she isn't opposed to experimenting and helping others with projects that focus on VERY horrible things. (Like the events of underverse).

- Bijutsu cuts herself off from any connections and friendships. She is too scared to interfere with other worlds, but she loves sightseeing. Maybe she can learn.

[gregorygerwitz]

Crochet Commissions!

For those who don't know me, I'm Alex (she/they), and I started the year off with Covid. Because I had to take two weeks off work, I'm really hurting for money right now, so I'm opening up a limited number of slots for crochet commissions to try to fill in that financial gap.

ALL of the materials I use are machine washer/dryer safe

Pictures of my recent work and prices are below. Including: stuffed animals, dice bags, holiday stockings, blankets. As well as: shipping info, custom request info.

For further questions or to request a commission: message me here or email me at crochetbyalex@outlook.com

When I did my poll, most people voted for stuffed animals, and I recently finished a few that I can show my skills with. The blue penguin is my latest finished piece, with the purple penguin the first thing I ever crocheted side-by-side for comparison of how much I've learned in the last ~7 months. The mouse is technically unfinished because the eyes aren't embroidered yet, but I made it in about a day and a half, for timeline purposes.

I also just finished the above dice bag octopus about an hour ago for my roommate, which took about three hours of non-stop work (I turned on a movie and got through the stitches pretty quick). I can make them in any color you want, with either the plastic safety eyes or embroidered eyes. Most of these can be entirely customizable, just let me know what you're thinking and I'll see what I can do!

Dice bags: $10 + $5 domestic (US) shipping Stuffed animals: $15 + $5 domestic (US) shipping optional crinkle filling (washer/dryer safe): + $2 (stuffed animals only)

10 slots total (4 REMAINING)

I don't have any pictures of any of the hats or scarves I've made because it's been a few years, but I made some stockings for the apartment for Christmas last month, and that's one of my most recent projects. The green one was the last one I made, and probably the most accurate to what my capabilities are now.

If you'd like a stocking for Christmas 2024, let me know! I have an unlimited number of slots for them as the holiday is far enough away that the time crunch isn't so rough.

Hats: $20 + $5 domestic (US) shipping Scarves: $30 + $5 domestic (US) shipping Holiday stocking: $24 + $5 domestic (US) shipping

5 total wearable (hats/scarves) slots

The least popular item in my poll was the blankets, which I understand. And I'm only going to open one slot for them at a time because they take so long and so much yarn to make. The wave pattern (both blankets pictured above) is my favorite to do, but I have patterns for most simple designs, or I can likely easily google it and put it together for you. Prices are based on the time and materials these take to make, but because they're so much more expensive than the smaller items above, domestic (US) shipping is free.

Baby blanket (top left): $50 Throw blanket/afghan: $100 Full size (length shown in bottom picture): $200

1 blanket slot (0 REMAINING)

Custom requests:

If there's a pattern you've found on Etsy/Pinterest/etc that you want made, contact me by using the contact information above. We can discuss prices or my ability to accomplish that for you. ***patterns must be CROCHET patterns as I do not knit (yet)*** 5 custom slots total

International shipping:

Let me know when you request a commission where you are located, as shipping prices vary wildly from country to country. I'll go over the actual cost with you before you commit to the commission and make sure the price works for both of us.

Current open slots:

Stuffed animals and dice bags: 1. [FILLED] 2. [FILLED] 3. [FILLED] 4. [FILLED] 5. [FILLED] 6. [FILLED] 7. [OPEN] 8. [OPEN] 9. [OPEN] 10. [OPEN]

Wearables: 1. [OPEN] 2. [OPEN] 3. [OPEN] 4. [OPEN] 5. [OPEN]

Stockings: [NO LIMIT]

Blankets: 1. [FILLED]

Custom requests: 1. [OPEN] 2. [OPEN] 3. [OPEN] 4. [OPEN] 5. [OPEN]

[lokiondisneyplus]

Sophia Di Marto [sic] knows why the Marvel Studios breakout series “Loki” was so successful creatively. It was partially due to the casting. Much of it was in the writing and the direction, but mostly, it was about the dynamic between the title character, played by Tom Hiddleston, and Loki’s multiverse doppelganger, Sylvie, portrayed by Di Marto herself.

“Some of it’s in the writing, some of it’s in what Tom does, a little bit of it’s what I do, but that it’s how these two characters rub each other up the wrong way,” Di Marto says. “They’re so similar but so different. And I think that fine line between the two is what’s really entertaining to watch because they know exactly how to wind each other up. Sylvie knows exactly how to wind Loki up and audiences love watching Loki being wound up. So, it’s just really entertaining and that’s part of the chemistry because they sort of hate each other, but love each other and will always be connected now. So it is this really specific dynamic, which is a massive gift to be able to play with.”

Over the course of our conversation centered on season two, Di Marto reflects on whether Sylvie found peace at the end of season two, how the stunt choreography keeps her in shape, what new directors Justin Benson & Aaron Moorhead brought to the series, and much, much more.

____

The Playlist: First of all, I have to tell you, that even though it aired last fall, “Loki “is still one of my favorite programs from the past 12 months. I just thought it was so well done.

Sophia Di Martino: Thank you.

When you found out you were coming back for season two, did you have an idea already of where Sylvie’s arc was going to go?

No, I had absolutely no idea until I read the script and then I had to read the script like three times because it was quite confusing.

Did Eric Martin, who was the head writer, sort of sit you down and give you a heads up, this is where we’re going, this is how we see her?

I’m trying to remember exactly what happened. If anyone sat me down, I think Tom might have given me because an executive producer as well, so he’s more involved in the writing and all the behind-the-scenes stuff. I think he may have given me a little headline sort of idea of what the second series was about, but I didn’t really know what would happen until I read the scripts. And then as we’re shooting, it’s changing all the time as well. The main structure is the same, but it’s really a moving beast and a big collaboration. So we’re rewriting it all as we go with Eric.

After reading the initial scripts, did you at least think to yourself, “O.K., we’re going to get to a point at the end of the season where Sylvie is at least at peace?” Or do you think part of her is still out for some sort of revenge”

I dunno if she’s at peace at the end of series two. I don’t think she goes back to Oklahoma. I don’t think she tries to get that peaceful human life again. I think she’s on another adventure, but I dunno. I feel like she just keeps casting an eye over what’s happening with Loki and with Sylvie. I don’t think she’s ever going to be truly at peace. I think she’s a sort of natural-born fighter. I think she’s only ever truly herself when she’s fighting for something. So she’s perhaps gone to look for the next fight.

Do you think that’s the big difference between her and her alternate timeline version of Loki played by Tom? That’s the inherent difference because Loki doesn’t seem to always want to fight.

I don’t think he wants to fight, but he has something within him that’s unfinished and he’s always searching for his glorious purpose. And I think they’re both doing that in slightly different ways.

And I know every member of the media that you’ve spoken to has asked you this in some way, but have you been given any tea about whether Sylvie will continue looking for her glorious purpose down the road?

I have no idea. They’ve told me nothing.

Do you like that in a way?

Yeah, I mean, because if you can just get on with your life until you get a phone call that says you have to be somewhere at a certain point, do something. Yeah, it’s an exciting part of it.

Was there any scene or moment in particular where you were like, “O.K., this is a moment that I’m going to have to dig deep into. This is a tougher scene than maybe I might’ve expected this day”?

The scene that was most interesting to play was that moment in McDonald’s when Loki and Sylvie meet again for the first time. I don’t think there were hardly any lines in that scene. Maybe she says, “Are you going to order something or not?” And it is very sparse the dialogue, but there’s so much unsaid, there’s so much acting going on and they look at each other for the first time. And that was really, really cool to get to play that. It’s bumping into your ex for the first time.

And I’m guessing there is not a lot of rehearsal time correct? It was mostly working it out on the scene on set.

Oh yeah. Yeah. The only rehearsals that we got were some choreo or some fight stuff. Yeah, we didn’t get much rehearsing for the actual dialogue scenes, but I like it that way.

Do you feel like there’s more spontaneity?

For me? Yeah. I like to rely on my intuition and my spontaneity.

Well, I always heard that when you put good actors together should get good results. But this cast in particular had such great chemistry. Even in season one. Do you think that that was just luck? Is it just the talent of the actors?

I think it’s also the characterization. Some of it’s in the writing, some of it’s in what Tom does, a little bit of it’s in what I do, but that it’s how these two characters rub each other up the wrong way. They’re so similar but so different. And I think that fine line between the two is what’s really entertaining to watch because they know exactly how to wind each other up. Sylvie knows exactly how to wind Loki up and audiences love watching Loki being wound up. So, it’s just really entertaining and that’s part of the chemistry because they sort of hate each other, but love each other and will always be connected now. So it is this really specific dynamic, which is a massive gift to be able to play with.

I know you had stunt doubles for a lot of it, but you did do a lot of your own action choreography, correct?

Yeah, yeah. We learn it all and then they sort of swap it and change it when they need to make it look better.

Was it fun? Is that stressful as an actor to have to do that stuff compared to just regular scenes?

I love it. It was a really great opportunity for me. I mean, I was like three months postpartum on the first [season]. It was a great opportunity for me to get fit. I don’t go to the gym. I was the most unfit person when I started, so it really kicked my ass into gear. But I really enjoyed it. And it’s watching the finished product, it just makes you feel like an absolute badass, even though it’s not me. Some of it is not me. It feels great to be a part of it, and it really helps me get into character as well as Sylvie because she’s such a brawler. She loves fighting so much. I’ve realized that I do too. And I’ve carried on. I box a couple of times a week, and I really enjoy the feeling of being able to channel my aggression somewhere. And as a woman, I think it’s quite rare to be able to be given the opportunity to be able to be aggressive and I love it.

At least for season two, do you recall one sequence or set piece that was tougher than any of the others?

There was two of the fighting stuff. I’m trying to remember. The stuff on the Ferris wheel was quite tricky because the space was quite small and there were wires. We were doing wire work, so that was tricky. And a lot of it gets changed last minute. So, you learn the sequence and then they figure out how they’re going to shoot it, and then they realized you can’t do the sequence anymore, so you have to do a different sequence. And so a lot of it is learning choreo on the fly and changing it up and doing something different that works for the camera. So, that was challenging. And I remember I had to throw the TVA guidebook and I couldn’t get it in the right place. Things like that, take ages to try and do. In the first series, there’s a sequence where a knife lands right next to my face, and one of Loki’s daggers stands right next to my face. Little things like that take hours.

In the final episode, you have a great moment when Loki continues to go back to sort of the workroom area where you guys all keep getting killed again and again. And Sylvie sort of imparts on him one last time about what he needs to do. Do you remember that scene that I’m talking about?

Is it in Key’s workroom or the Key Lime Pie?

It’s the last time that we see that version of Sylvie. The spaghetti is coming to sort of wipe her away. It’s before he goes back and realizes that he has to go into the…

Oh, yeah.

I don’t know if you remember that scene, but it seems like such a rich moment for Sylvie. I was wondering, did those moments at least sit with you at all about how emotional Sylvie’s connection had become with Loki?

Yeah, definitely. And I think she’s the spokesperson in a way for his friendship group. It becomes a real ensemble by the end of series two. It’s not just Sylvie. He’s made quite a few friends and they’ve become almost like a little bit of a team and he’s watching each one of them disappear. And I think Sylvie’s the last one to be turned into spaghetti. And that’s the moment where he realizes he needs to figure out how to control this time slipping so he can change what’s happening because otherwise, he’s going to lose everyone.

The drop-off between season one and season two from Kate Heron to Justin Benson & Aaron Moorhead was almost non-existent. They certainly have their own directorial style, but the quality is just so good. Can you talk about what they’re like to work with as directors on set and what you thought they brought to the series?

They are so relaxed at times. I was like, “Why are you so relaxed? It’s making me feel nervous. Why are you so confidently cool and calm?” They just know exactly what they want and what they’re going to do. And they have their own style and they’ve done a bunch of indie films, so they’ve done their time and know how to do it, and they know how to work with each other so well. I dunno if it’s about something to do with being two of them so they can share their stress or something just so chilled out and so open and collaborative and funny and just so easy.

I know you recently wrapped “The Radleys” with Damian Lewis. It’s a horror vampire comedy, right? Can you talk about it at all?

Honestly, I dunno when it’s going to be released, but it’s a vampire movie about a family of vampires trying to live in suburbia and not drink blood.

And it’s funny. It’s hopefully funny.

Hopefully. Yeah.

[watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees]

Appetite

An early timeline piece for Aly, back at the old house before they moved

taglist: @risk606

masterlist

TW: implied kidnapping, starvation, sleep deprivation, emeto mention (doesn't happen), carewhumper, intimate whumper, defiant/stoic whumpee, captivity

It must have been over a week, no way to say it accurately though. Alyssa tried her best to keep up with the sunsets and sunups, as much as it was possible through the little window just below the ceiling. It was facing north, she knew that much, there was never any direct light coming through it, and she saw trees above.

The branches were almost completely stripped of leaves by then, they looked like horribly burnt skeleton hands reaching towards the sky. They were mostly still, eerie, the soft autumn breeze wasn’t strong enough to move them without the foliage to reign in the gently moving wind.

The basement was mostly dark. Although it seemed to never have been finished, the space must have been constructed as a secondary living quarter, or at least it was her best guess. All the way to the left side of the room, the monotony of the brick and concrete of the wall and the floor was broken up by exactly 178 white tiles, surrounding what was supposed to serve as a bathroom. The toilet and sink were mostly decent, the shower looked dark and grimy, not that she could get a close enough look to decide if it was simply dirt or long-dried blood. It was unfinished, there were clear lines on the floor indicating where a wall should have been pulled up. 

The first few days Alyssa found herself barely sleeping, just trying to take the space in. Memorise every detail, so that she can report it when she gets out. She took note of every feature of the two guys whenever they went downstairs to check on her. 

It happened less and less, or time stretched out, as the boredom started to set in. Both of them worked during the day, and whenever the door opened and she heard the stairs creak, she steeled herself to withstand whatever they would throw at her. It wasn’t much. Luke slapped her around for not speaking the first day, but it got old quickly so he gave up, resigned. From then on his visits were brief and uncomfortable at best. He spoke to her, asked questions, and when she didn’t answer he left. 

Alyssa thought if she was boring enough they’d let her leave. Cole told her she was there for entertainment after all. If she could hang on long enough not serving that purpose, they’d surely have no reason to keep her.

Her own boredom was killing her. She started counting the bricks of the wall, after she was sure of the tiles, but the numbers got harder and harder to keep track of. Not sleeping or being fed started getting to her more than she would have liked to admit.

There was no relief to be found on the merciless concrete floor and in metal cuffs around her wrists and ankles. She was getting colder and colder, and she was still wearing her dress - now dirty and ripped up - from the night of the party, it did nothing to warm her body. When Luke caught her curled up and shivering he asked if she’d like a blanket. All she had to do was ask. Alyssa glared at him, miserable and non-threatening, but it was a glare nonetheless. He found it amusing.

He told her if she wanted to eat she could. He would hand feed her, and she didn’t even have to ask. She wanted to throw up at the thought, retching when she thought about it for more than a fleeting moment, but nothing came out, other than some faint bitterness of her stomach acid.

There was no way in hell she would ever demean herself like that, Alyssa would rather starve. But she needed to consider it, especially when she slumped from her sitting on the floor unable to keep herself upright for a second longer.

“Would you look at that!” She couldn’t lift her head to look up at him. She didn’t have to see his face to know he was gloating over her misery. “I don’t want to starve you to death, you know…” He nudged her ribs with the tip of his shoe, when she didn’t respond. It wasn’t meant to hurt, still she whined, wrecked by the constant ache that radiated through every cell of her body.

“I brought you this” he placed a box next to her head on the floor. She couldn’t help but lock her eyes on it. It smelled heavenly and familiar. He took off the lid and the scent got stronger. “I stopped by that one Chinese place next to your house” 

“...you-” Tears collected quickly in her eyes, she gave up. Her throat hurt. “You s-said we- we’re in a different city” The last part of the sentence was only a whisper.

“We are” he pushed the box closer to her. She still couldn’t move, and even if she could, the chain on her hand would not let her reach it. “You’re worth those extra few miles”

“Fuck you” she whispered. There was a steady stream of tears running across the bridge of her nose and down on the floor. She pulled weakly at the chains.

“This stubbornness gets you nowhere” he sighed and actually sat down next to her. He lifted her upper body in his lap, so she was at least halfway sitting up. It hurt so bad where he grabbed her arms, she was convinced it would bruise.

He took a piece of meat and pressed in against her lips. It was sticky, covered in a honey flavoured, slightly spicy sauce, and it hurt so bad. 

“Come on. Eat” She took a bite. And then another one. She didn’t care anymore that his fingers brushed over her lips, or that his other hand snaked across her torso pulling her up even closer flush against him. His body was warm and soft, and the food was delicious. He grabbed a spoon for the rice and fed her. 

“Say thank you” The words got to her slower than usual. His voice was faint, barely audible. 

Alyssa weighed her options. She could resort to silence again, to become boring, now that she had the energy to do so. His proximity and her body against his only started to register. His warmth was like knives stabbing her skin.

“Thank me, I don’t like to repeat myself” His hold got tighter around her abdomen. Her stomach was uncomfortably full, if he pressed his hand down even just a little more…

“It would be a shame if that meal went to waste” Luke knew it too. His free hand wrapped around her throat.

“Thank you” barely louder than a whisper. 

“You’re so welcome” He let go of her and lowered her back on the floor. She was cold again. 

Luke wiped the tears away from her face, smudging some dirt around, it rubbed at her face painfully. 

“I’ll get you a blanket, if you want one” he taunted with a smile that didn’t fade even when Alyssa steeled herself once again and shook her head. 

[intogenshin]

Does it make sense: Lisa's letter to Cyrus

Genshin's writing doesn't seem interested in the logics behind their storylines on purpose, seeing how they put Fontaine in altitude to follow the imagery of fountains even though they knew the archon quest revolved around a flood —it would have made sense to put Fontaine in a hole instead, would have been logical for a flood to happen. But they didn't care, which is why we ended up with this

Which is to say, they dgaf about logic as long as they get to tell the story they want however they want it. And that's fine, we don't need to care either, but we do end up with a final product that we have to put together and fill in the holes for our own sake, if we so wish to.

Regardless of the author intentions, we can choose to make interpretations that give some sense to these questionable writing choices. Maybe the flood is upwards and in a block of water for a reason that makes sense in-universe, y'know, maybe primordial sea just work like that (after all what we saw had a weird shape too)

I'm not implying this is planned by the writers, cus I don't know, but interpreting the canon to shape up a more coherent story is valid as a fan is all.

So I know the writers of the game don't care much to match the story to the comic that was released earlier (and already had mistakes or unfinished designs) but there's still a story I need to put together for a character I like. Right.

These are the relevant events in the timeline I want to discuss:

Cyrus never discussed Cyno's past with him

Cyno remembered or researched enough to figure out most of it on his own (the proof: he commissioned his helmet, which is worn by Temple of Silence priests)

Lisa and Cyno discussed his past openly in Windblume

Lisa sends a letter to her professor about Collei's situation in the comic

In the comic, the knights find documentation in possession of the Fatui related to the incident of Crepus' death. Among the papers, Collei finds one about the experiments performed on her, but it's written in an ancient language.

Jean asks Lisa for help, but she can't read it either and sends the letter to her professor.

It is a bit weird that she's sending a request for Cyrus, the sage of Spantamad and not Haravatat, for an ancient language. I know this was supposed to establish her connection to Cyno when he shows up later instead of their professor, but that's not what we're doing here right now.

Lisa sent this letter about documents in an ancient language (that Cyno knows but Lisa, the Akademiya's best student in 200 years, doesn't) that depicted experiments to put archon residue (the remains of a god) within a child, she sent this letter to her professor who years before had taken part in experiments to put the fragment of a god in a child which he stole and brought into the city and then refused to tell anyone about it. She sent this letter to this man, and we know from Windblume that Lisa indeed does know about Cyno's past, so it makes sense that she asked for help with Collei's situation.

So the options are:

Cyrus told Lisa and Lisa told Cyno

Cyrus told Lisa, Cyno found out on his own and then shared it with Lisa who already knew

Cyno told Lisa, Cyrus never said a word

With 1 and 2, Lisa was told by Cyrus about Cyno's past and addressing the letter to him makes sense. With 3, Cyrus would still be avoiding the subject and it would be funny if she sent this to him, he probably had a heart attack thinking it was extortion from the Temple of Silence for a second.

Cyno doesn't resent him at all, he's only grateful, and Lisa doesn't seem to think anything bad about him either, so it's not likely she would send the letter to him with second intentions. Unless they found it funny.

From Windblume event:

Lisa: I suppose you're something of a mentor to her, aren't you? Now that I think about it, the two of you aren't so dissimilar. The power of Hermanubis once brought you great suffering. 

Cyno: That's all in the past now. Besides, Professor thankfully didn't treat me like a test subject for the priest's power like the higher-ups had hoped, even though I was a desert-dweller. 

Cyno: Instead, he gave me the tools I needed to lead the life I have today. He adopted me, educated me, taught me how to fit into society... I am very grateful to him. 

Lisa: You are very gifted, and sometimes that can become its own curse. But he has reason to be grateful to you, too — without you as his son-slash-student, he may never have changed his stubborn ways.

Cyrus had to watch Cyno show up in priest gear at some point, so he had to be aware Cyno knew more than what he was told. It's just something they didn't bring up to each other. (It might sound like something weird not to talk about, but realistically how many of us bring up pain that our parents or caretakers inflicted on us to them.. people usually just prioritize the relationship with their parents)

So Cyrus knows Cyno knows, he might assume Cyno has shared this information with Lisa as well. But Cyrus doesn't talk about it openly, so how did Cyno show up in Mondstadt in the comic?

The letter was for Cyrus, he awkwardly asked Cyno to handle it and made funny excuses about it in order not to address the issue directly

The letter was secretly for Cyno, Lisa just said it was for her professor

The letter was for Cyrus, but Cyno accidentally saw it and took the matter into his own hands

The letter was for Cyrus, but Cyno intercepted it because he spies his mail

Spying his mail honestly makes sense with the events of Cyno's sq 2 lol also maybe Cyno just spies his stuff to look for answers about his past. Maybe Cyrus just allows it because he knows it's fair. But also making something up on the spot sounds more like Cyrus.

Or maybe Cyrus always talked about Cyno's past with both, he just was vague about it, and none of this matters

From Windblume event:

Lisa: Oh dear, looks like you've seen right through me. But I was in no hurry. I knew we'd see each other sooner or later. 

Cyno: Yes. It's just as Professor Cyrus said — shared aspirations always have a way of bringing people into each other's orbit. 

Lisa: Hehe, he always has such a poetic way of wording things. I suppose that's the one respect in which I've taken after him, while in your case... 

Lisa: Yes, it's his wit and eccentricities that have left their mark on you. 

Cyno: Hmm. I'm not sure that describes me very aptly these days, given that I'm now the General Mahamatra. Still, if we're going to talk about ways with words, I think my deadpan humor is far superior than our professor's.

[intoloopin-archive]

A CHAPTER: THE SHARP AND THE BLUNT (PART 1/2).

tw(s): panic attack. dubious consent (haruki is very weird and forward about initiating sex!). alcohol abuse & alcoholism. semi-smut? (there is making out). miscommunication (a warning because I personally think it's constant and frustrating). insinuation and direct discussions of sexual trauma, abuse by a past partner, abuse of workplace power and stalking. internalized homophobia (in part one, a hint). If I missed anything, please tell me! starring: Lee Hanjae. Fukunaga Haruki. featuring: Dylan Hwang / Hwang Chihoon. Their fellow LOOPiN members (old OT10, no Gyujin, a lot of Beomseok). Delilah Franco. Oh Sunyoung. Choi Sangwon. Blonde Bob Piss Girl (a serious character).

timeline: quick flashback to 2018 | early to the end of mid 2022.

word count: 13,405 words. author's notes: welcome everyone to hanruki fuckery part 1 a.k.a the most frustrating and life draining four months in Hanjae's whole entire life a.k.a big sadness, the piece split into two. this one is over 23K long, and was originally intended to be read in one go but! It Got Too Big. The conclusion will be coming out later this week! prepare for a Haruki all in par with the one in the prologue, which falls in between this mess on the timeline. this is a work of a whole month, but it's also a work of two years: a whole central plot, planned and done. title's from this song! give it a listen once you get trought the bigger picture, maybe, for catharsis purposes. stay safe! remember you deserve to be safe, always!

November 12, 2018.

Hanjae had vowed not to cry anymore when he got this job – in the same vehement way he had promised at twelve that he would no longer make a sound if he wailed after school, face buried under piles and piles of unfinished homework, to medium success, just the right amount of it to call it success.

He could still tear up once in a while, if things got though, and that was it; a clause added after his first exhausting week as a trainee. The number escalated to once every two business days after he was shoved to debut on LOOPiN, out of all the upcoming boy groups there were.

There was a story taunting the New Wave Music corridors back then. Someone did something unspeakable to someone else, and it caused an expulsion, followed by the immediate need for a new rapper, a new dancer. And there was Hanjae; a BBC trainee for three months, far removed from the Boy Of The Week gossip, who couldn’t exactly sing but had great enunciation, and had been dancing before he was even walking…

He cried now, openly, defeated. It had been an awful day for LOOPiN 2on1.

Their short lived promotions had played out like a sunset: a big golden start – so much press, so much momentum, so many views on the ‘Baby Don’t Stop’ dance practice video, where he and Haruki were using plain shirts and even plainer jeans – quickly diluting into the darkest of times – the controversies, LOOPiN first ones, and exclusively about them.

A resurrected Facebook photo of Hanjae on his graduation with a bandage around his hand, matched with the lingering traces of his poorly removed tattoo there painted him as a school delinquent; Haruki’s drop out stories reintroduced him as the big drunken failure of KArts’s international program.

They were going to stop going to music shows, the company had decided that day, and Sangwon told them on the drive back that they had just done their last one. They had gone up on stage as a duo for the last last time.

With a strong sniff, Hanjae unburied his face from in between his knees and looked at his hand, at the faint shape of a badly drawn rose on his skin. His dad had been adamant about getting it out the moment he took a look at it, still involved in protective plastic. He used the little money off his college safe to arrange a laser session that Hanjae skipped. A year later, Hanjae managed to schedule another one with the partial sponsor of MBN, the company he was stuck on before BBC. He had to do it in a shady place, at a bigger cost: bad skin scarring.

His mom had been relieved to see it fade even more nonetheless, up until the black tattoo turned into something that almost looked like a peculiar and old scar, if you didn’t give it a second glance; and no one was ever giving Hanjae a second glance.

“Let that be a lesson,” she told him, nose turned up and away from him. “Don’t jump head on into things again, Lee Hanjae. That’s no way to live. Watch yourself, watch your company. You’re not a kid anymore. Do you have no goals? Do you want nothing for yourself? Are you that selfish? Can’t you think, for once, about something that isn’t–”

Haruki was the one who found him, sitting on the floor, small and tense against the laundry machine, waiting for everyone’s clothes to be cleaned – the member’s, Sangwon’s, the cleaning auntie's aprons she had forgotten on top of the dinner table last week. Cleaning was always his scapegoat way of attending to something, even if very small.

Maybe if the company decided to drop him, he thought, Hanjae could still be around as the dorm’s janitor.

“So you’re not from Seoul,” Haruki said, leaning against the door frame with an air of mischief around him, something light on his step despite it all.

It was a statement, not an ask, because he knew this. It was one of the few trivia points they had exchanged during pauses on music shows or water breaks in between choreography practice – ‘What’s your age? What’s your blood type? How many siblings? Oh, none? You’re so lucky, Hanjae, so lucky. All siblings are demons. You aren’t missing a thing.’

Hanjae didn’t even startle; Haruki often popped up at places like that, picking up conversations from days, weeks ago like they were merely put on pause.

Without uttering a word and barely looking up, he still nodded his head no.

Haruki nodded back, a pacifying smile showing up on his face, said, “Cool. Great. How about I show you a place?”

‘The place’, he informed Hanjae, was not all that nice, or clean, and he really shouldn’t wear nice shoes or nice clothes tonight, but at least it wasn’t far, at least they had permission.

“Who’s permission?” Hanjae asked, taking the pile of clothes to the dryer, smoothing wrinkles off them just for something to do.

Haruki waved manager Choi’s front keys in his hand, and Sangwon’s horrendous keychains clanked against each other: a green pine tree and a colorful ball. “The one that matters. What do you say, uh? You’re in? Can I count you in?”

He could count Hanjae in.

[...]

They stopped by a convenience store on the way, some couple of blocks down the dorm, and by then night had already conquered all of Seoul. Inside, the middle aged lady behind the counter rushed to give Haruki a hug, a paper bag and a discount.

“He’s a street cat I found,” she leaned in to explain when she caught Hanjae anxiously looking at him going straight to the back of the store, near the freezers, near the alcohol, with the ease of someone who could do so with his eyes shut. “He’s a good foreign friend.”

“I’m not!” Haruki shouted back, but he was grinning. “Are you not watching the news?”

The noona playfully rolled her eyes, joked back, “What news? You’re not on the news!”

She hushed Hanjae to go catch up with him with an enerved wave, told him to take a look around. “It’s on the house,” she winked. “You’re both so skinny, and you must be working hard, so just take something tasty and leave quickly.”

Trailing a couple feet behind Haruki on the aisle, Hanjae picked up a package of noodles and a modest four-set of Terra cans to accompany his endless Heineken bottles, light green on light green. While Hanjae bagged everything with caution, Haruki slipped a red won note on the balcony when the owner stopped paying attention to them, and off they went again.

Haruki made them walk ten more minutes to the left, and the left, the left again, coming to an abrupt stop in front of an abandoned lot, pure dirt and weeds, the sort that seemed to have turned into an open dump for the neighborhood. It looked no different or less disgusting than the million of others around less central Jungnang; it didn’t look like it could be a spot.

Yet Haruki kept braving straight through the grass without stopping, guiding Hanjae behind him to only step where he was stepping, to keep his eyes glued to the floor and watch out for broken glass. He settled when they were deep into the lot, mere feet away from a big hill. There was a clean view of an uneven street if you looked down, he said, filled with houses that were almost all pretty. Hanjae chose to just trust Haruki’s word on that; he couldn’t dare to come close enough to the drop to peek and see.

Haruki standed the bag of drinks for him to hold, and Hanjae had to do so with both hands. From a spot behind them, he pushed two retriable chairs out of a bulk set against a moldy tree, the metal in them corrupted by rust on the edges, and set them up, sat down, tapped at the other seat with his foot in invitation.

Hanjae took a long and anxious moment to comply. Under him, the chair dangled sideways even if he stayed very, very still.

With the convenience bag back in his domain, Haruki cracked three beers open, and handed Hanjae one, kept the other two: one in each hand, a Heineken and a Terra.

“Never had this one. I heard they’re the same thing,” he said, taking a sip from each and frowning, analyzing them. Hanjae stayed quiet.

He had only drank with his dad and uncles one time, at last year’s Chuseok, and hadn’t been much of a fan of anything. Still, he took a sip of beer.

Haruki at least had grace enough to let him swallow and contain a grimace before asking, with a strange edge to it, “So are you? A bully. A problem child. Part of a gang.”

“No,” Hanjae said, too quickly, too eager. He cleared his throat. “I’m really not, hyung, no.”

“How did it get there, then?” Haruki's look was razor sharp on Hanjae’s once tattooed hand, hard enough to make him freeze. “And why did you remove it? Just to be a trainee?”

Hanjae opened his mouth, but only to take a shaky breath in, swallow a bit more of bitter alcohol. In front of his fleeting eyes, Haruki eased just as quickly as he had hardened.

“Hanjae, we’re teammates now,” he told him. “I showed you my good spot. You can’t give me one word sentences anymore. You can’t lie.”

Hanjae considered this, and considered him from the corner of his eyes. Haruki was the LOOPiN member that Hanjae had come to know best, mostly because they didn’t have a choice, but still, he made an effort, he talked to him; he didn’t let Hanjae fall adrift. And he could have easily turned into an island: from the moment he had been transferred to New Wave, he had been an outsider, a last minute solution to a problem no one would explain to him – who left? Why? Was he worse than them? Was he better?

“You’re better,” Haruki had said, when Hanjae brought it up, late at night while they had dinner alone, in the practice room, sweating and panting – a week until their debut happened. He was the only one who had bothered to tell him so. He sounded like he meant it, too. Hanjae remembers catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror over his shoulder, hair bright brown and unfamiliar, thinking even for a fleeting moment: I’m doing enough.

It was fair for him to be the first to know – the first for Hanjae to disappoint.

“I got it removed before,” he heard himself say. It was a secret, so it came out like one: whispered, slow. “Before I wanted to train. I got it with friends– my dance crew friends. It was our logo, or at least, it was going to be, one day. But I… I did a bad thing, and it stopped making sense. It didn’t fit. I didn’t fit, so. It had to go.”

The vagueness did nothing but pique Haruki’s interest. He seated more properly, then less properly; ended up putting his feet on the seat of the chair, slouching with his head supported on his knee, the exact body language of, ‘Tell me, tell me, tell me.’

“My friend– my best friend, from childhood, our team captain. He used to have a girlfriend. A girl from our class, a dancer too, someone he had been in love with forever. Later she became part of the group, and we got close, we turned into friends, and then not. Not quite that. They broke up and one hour later we got together, on the same day. We got caught. It was a mess. Everyone thought it was a shitty thing to do, that it was cheating, cheating on everyone. But I just wanted her to be my girlfriend, back then– Back then, I wanted a girlfriend more than I wanted anything...”

Hanjae felt it coming, again: the desire to recoil a bit more on himself in shame. How pathetic he had been, then; how miserable, how sad, how lonely.

He took a timid peek to the side, ready to see an irk of dismay on Haruki’s face, some justified disgust, and was surprised to not see any of that. Haruki had grown passionate and invested in the whole story, something new in his eyes, a third bottle halfway drained in his hand.

He moved his chin up, as if saying, ‘Go on’, but Hanjae couldn’t. He drained the rest of the beer.

Haruki clicked his tongue like that wouldn’t do. He shoved his chair a few inches closer so he could grab at Hanjae's arm and said, all at once, “We can not– Hanjae, look, listen, we can not be blamed for all the things, the crazy things we do when love…!” He didn't finish the sentence, just amended it into another one: “You were a teenager, you both were, and very, very brave. Very brave to tell her and date her and keep dating her even if. They were just– bad friends. Just bad friends.”

They weren’t bad friends, Hanjae knew; they weren’t the ones in the wrong. But it hurted to say it out loud, to admit what he knew was still true: how easily he burned bridges for attention, for affection, so he never did. He just knew – looked at his reflection on surfaces and knew.

He rolled and rolled the tap of the Terra until it fell off, into the can. “Did you really quit college, hyung?” Was what he asked the wind.

Haruki shifted on his seat; Hanjae could only tell because of the way it creaked. “More like college quit me,” he said, with a sad huff of air that might have been a laugh, and dropped Hanjae’s arm, drank from his bottle too.

Sadness fell over them like a veil from then on. The Terras ended and Haruki didn’t mind sharing all the other stuff he had, and the longer it went on the less shy Hanjae felt about asking. At some point Haruki said, “I guess we really fucked up, uh – with 2on1,” and Hanjae, whipping a foam mustache off his face, “Minwoo’s not talking to me,” and Haruki, almost falling over with laugher, “Oh, my, I bet not! Ha. I bet not…”, and turned reticent, fell quiet.

His eyes, Hanjae had noticed, kept darting to a spot ahead in between conversation, beyond the drop of the hill, dazed. He violently shook his head sideways everytime he caught himself drifting too far away, and ran a hand over his face, rubbing at it in a way that made Hanjae look at him in worry.

Haruki found it hilarious each time. “What is it,” he eventually said, slower than normal, harder to understand, “With you, your face?”

He got up from his chair, a sudden move that sent it falling to the floor, a loud squeak, and walked even closer.

In front of Hanjae, right in front of him, he leaned forward until he got both his hands on his face, and said, pushing the corners of his mouth up, “The mood is so– Bad! So bad! Smile! Big smile! C’mon, give me a big smile!”

There had been dirt on Haruki’s hand, and Hanjae could vaguely taste it, with how close to his lips he was pressing. He still wore his inner braces back then; he kept cutting his tongue on the same spot, never healing, never telling, and he could feel the inside of his cheeks pressing onto that sharp place, about to be pierced through.

For a moment, they stayed quiet, looking at each other head on. Hanjae was not smiling. His heart had picked up a quick pace inside his chest, was drumming – Haruki was so close, and he was so beautiful, a true magazine type beauty, all symmetry, and Hanjae knew this, but not with this much conviction, not with so much emotion.

“Ah, you know what? I like you. I decided. I do like you, now…” Haruki said, and then he grinned, bringing his face even nearer. He took a breath and Hanjae felt it on his own nose, and didn’t know what to do about it; his mind, for a moment, went static. “Nothing will happen to you, friend. I promise it. ‘Will not let it.”

Hanjae’s held breath was a painful thing to let out of his chest. “Was something– Was something going to…?”

Haruki huffed a laugh and gave his cheeks two playful taps, said, with a new found determination, “Handsome guy. Do not get sad. I will fix this for you,” and let Hanjae’s face go.

He straightened his back up and swayed slightly to the side, running a hand over his hair, fixing his bangs back into place. Haruki told him, “Late. No booze. Night over”, and extended that same hand for Hanjae to take – Hanjae who still felt like his face had gone numb, blood rushing to it.

He took the hand, and they made their way back to the dorm that way, hanging close; Like magnets, Hanjae remembers thinking, idly, and then not idly at all. Haruki’s hands were leaving behind a pressure everywhere they touched, a heat that Hanjae couldn’t shake off – he just couldn’t shake it off.

Later, when Hanjae layed in bed, sheet drawn over his entire body, he could still feel it. When he woke up the morning after, nauseated but still in the group, still safe, he could still feel it.

If he closes his eyes now, right now, he can still feel it – the sad sort of burn of a premonition misread.

January 13, 2022.

Los Angeles is sunny in a way Haegon would love to see and pretend to hate – a saddening thought Hanjae had since they landed, and that comes back to haunt him while he looks at the city passing by on the van’s window, sidewalks all golden.

Haegon’s not a loud person in his eyes, but his absence is a loud thing, pouring the life out of everyone, mostly because of the way it had been forced on them.

It had been a horrifying way to open the year: having to come forward right on the first day of 2022 to the press, headlining Haegon’s mugging and the accident, his follow up hiatus and excuse out of their ‘We Do’ promotions in the USA. And then there was having to deal with Haegon in private, angry and disappointed, not wanting to take his pain medicine, shoving his room’s door in everyone's faces, dismissing every checkup attempt with an annoyed, “It’s just a minor concussion, what the Hell! I’m not fucking dying! Get the fuck off me, I’m fine, get off, just fuck off already to the States without me! Go on! Just– just leave me already!”

They’re driving out of some media company studio around the center of Los Angeles, where they filmed two twenty minute videos in a roll, more embarrassing games than actual interviews, and Hanjae has already spent all of his ability to mend English words together.

It could have been more fun, one of their staff said, but they had to pass on the puppy interview format because of Taesong’s allergies, and Jiahang’s been dead set on pretending to be sad about it during the entire ride back to the hotel; crocodile tears and all.

Hanjae has to deal with him from the last seat on the far opposite side of the van, resting his fried blonde head against his shoulder, sighing loudly, because Dylan is also not here to amuse him – he took a bus home to Santa Monica and will stay home until they leave in two days time.

Hanjae doesn’t like provoking Taesong, doesn’t like to spoil Jiahang, but that means very little in the grand escape of the group, that goes about poking fun of Taeng like it’s a sport, that’s stuck in a position where they really can’t say no to J.J, who owns company shares; he shoots the meek figure of Taesong an apologetic look as Jiahang’s act carries on, trying to tell him: ‘I’m not a part of this, I just don’t know how to stop it.’

Thankfully, the hotel isn’t that far away, and it’s a quick torture – up until things takes a turn for the worse.

As they park and start to step out, Beomseok’s long arm blocks the door before he and Jiahang can put a single leg outside of the car.

“Stop,” he tells J.J, harsh enough to make Hanjae stumble a step back. Beomseok points a finger right at Jiahang’s face, and inch from touching his nose, says, “Stop being a fucking problem. Stop.”

It makes Jiahang livid, turns his ears bright red. He takes long stomps to the elevator, and Hanjae has to jog to keep up with him – Jiahang really has the longest legs Hanjae has ever seen on a person.

“He’s got such a stick up his ass!” He keeps on saying, barging into the room they’re both sharing with Dylan and Zhiming – angrily tossing his bag into his ‘cheap dollar store bed with the cheap dollar store sheets’ that made him go into a very similar rant last night. “He thinks he’s the only one who cares about Gon, the only one who can bother. He’s so wrong. I’m fucking worried too! I’m calling him too! I miss him! I’m more of a friend to him than that weirdo is. He’s so weird. He thinks he owns Haegon and everyone and everything, just because he’s older, just because he trained for like, one billion years! Like it’s my fault Starship thought he was too ugly to join NO.MERCY!”

“You were being annoying, Jiahang,” O.z deadpans from the corner he’s tucked in, without looking up from his manhwa.

Jiahang grunts louder. “Yeah, that was the point. Taesong knows I’m just joking around! Everyone knows!”

Zhiming lowers the comic from his face, flipping a page. His eyes have deep dark circles behind his thick glasses, marks that never go away. “Unnecessary.”

Jiahang rolls his eyes, putting his hair up on an ugly bun. He turns his back to Zhiming’s bed and mouths at Hanjae, mocking, ‘Unnecessary’.

Hanjae shrugs at him, and that annoys J.J too. He angrily puts on a movie on the tiny TV, gets a hold of his bed’s pillow and wraps himself around it, mumbling something under his breath still. The tags on the streaming app read comedy, musical. He chews on a poor nail while humming along the first song, and Hanjae tries to humor him with a tiny, “Is that Ariana Grande sunbaenim?”

It doesn’t work. Jiahang shoves his face into his pillow and says, miserable and muffled, “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t hang around with you, you’re so lame. I miss Dylan so much.”

“He invited you to go with him,” Hanjae says, helplessly. “You said you didn’t want to.”

“Of course I didn’t want to! I would have to sleep on the floor. In a bag, on the floor. And I don’t think his grandma would like me – I don’t think anyone in his family would like me,” he turns his face around, off the pillow. Hanjae can hear clearly when he says, “He needs time alone with them. For the anxieties.”

“The anxieties?” Hanjae asks him, very slowly.

Jiahang presses his mouth shut tight, straights himself up again. He undoes his ponytail, tosses his long, long hair from one side to the other, behind his ears.

He takes a quick look at Zhiming, and Hanjae does too, and they go by uncaught; O.z’s got his big headphones in now, eyes glued to his comic book.

Jiahang is still careful to whisper, “The rest of you don’t get what it's like, when you’re away from your home every day, when you know all the people you’re going to see aren’t all the ones you know – when you got family that’s like, old, and you know that time’s passing. You’re losing days with them. It gets scary, after a while. Dylan’s grandad will be 82 this year, hyung – that’s a terrifying number, that’s a maybe. That’s the anxiety. Mine, his– Zhiming’s, too. Foreign member anxiety.”

Hanjae nods, sharp. Jiahang makes a face at him, brighter – smiles, says like a tease, “Not Haruki’s, though. Haruki doesn’t miss Japan at all, if that’s what you’re wondering. He’s not anxious about that.”

Hanjae blinks. Opens his mouth, closes it, blinks again. “I wasn’t going to ask–” 

“Sure thing. Suuuuure,” J.J says slyly, and goes back to watching TV, and Hanjae does too. Gulps, keeps looking at the movie, tries to pay attention.

Jiahang put on korean subtitles for him, yet he keeps talking – explaining everything. It’s a nice enough movie, he says. Good songs, nice enough movie.

They’re reaching the end of it, seeing every main character gather in a protest around town, when Haruki barges into their room.

“Are any of you not gonna rot inside this hotel?” He asks, loudly, quickly. “Is anyone going to do anything? Catch some sun?”

“Hanjae’s supposed to be going out,” Zhiming tells him. He’s also watching the movie now, has Jiahang by his side, explaining to him what he missed.

“Oh?” Haruki says, and looks around the room, eyes a little clouded, until they land on Hanjae. He smiles, and it stretches across his face quick and big, like he’s actually glad to see him, like the effect is instantaneous. Hanjae can’t for the life of him look at it head on. “Perfect. That’s just perfect, I’m going with you, Hanhan, just wait for me to get changed!”

“Okay,” Hanjae says, and hops off the bed too quickly, sits back down. “I– Waiting.”

Immediately after Haruki leaves Jiahang gives him a long look over Zhiming’s shoulder, and Hanjae pretends not to see it.

“You’re too easy,” he says, with a disapproving nod of his head, and Hanjae pretends he doesn’t hear it, pretends it doesn’t sting.

It’s humiliating, being reminded that people know – that they look at him and know, and he’s reminded of it constantly.

“Hanjae’s sad, sad bisexual awakening,” was how Jiahang put it, sing-a-song in the studio, while making this very single they’re promoting now. “Worse, worse than Minwoo’s– Is that a verse? Can we put that on a song, on the album?”

Minwoo said, for the two of them, “Fuck you.”

And there that one time, the one he remembers clearly, when Seo CEO said he wanted to sit down to watch them practicing ‘Love Me Right’ before the big release, and Taesong pushed Hanjae aside, told him, “Hanjae, you– if you need to check the choreo, please look at the instruction video. Don’t look at Haruki like that, there’s no need to look like you–”

There had to be a separation, he realized; he had to get it under control.

So Hanjae made friends with the people Haruki seemed to not stand, which sometimes meant everyone, but mostly meant J.J and Beomseok – two extremes of very opposite lines. He’s built a line of separation, wrapped himself up in Haruki repellent, and he tries to live by it.

It’s a frail line, a shitty line, and it comes crashing down all the time, with the little moments; single minutes where things feel kind between them, different. A bottle of water and a perfectly folded towel passed to him backstage, a group conversation where Haruki eventually says, like clockwork, “And you, Hanjae? What do you think?”; no one else says that. There’s this lingering nearness coming from him, like there's always something Haruki wants to say or do but can’t, something he wants to check.

It makes Hanjae wonder – makes him come back to that one friendly night, hang on to it. The way Haruki had been so near, his exact tone of voice when he said that he liked him, considered him a friend, thought he was handsome, was going to fix whatever was wrong.

[...]

“So what are we doing?” Haruki asks when they step onto the sidewalk.

“Just filming my Loop Log,” Hanjae responds. “Deadline’s tonight.”

“Shit, that,” Haruki groans, taking his cap off to push hair out of his eyes, putting it on again. “I forgot all about that. ‘Haven’t filmed mine either. ‘Think I lost my camera.”

“I can help you look,” Hanjae offers. “When we get home.”

“Well, thank you,” Haruki says, and steps closer, slides an arm over Hanjae’s shoulder, tells him, “For now, I guess we’ll just have to stick tight. LOOPiN 2on1, reunited in L.A…!”

At Hanjae’s timid request, Chihoon made him a list of what he should get to ‘live his best tourist life’, what the fans might want to see him try: pancakes, bacon and eggs, ice cream, anything in the menu that looks like it could have come off a cartoon, any ‘house specials’.

They go into the nearest place listed with the camera on hand, and have to explain with their Frankenstein English that they want to make a vlog, can they make a vlog? They can, a waiter says, but only in a specific area; they get taken there.

Hanjae orders the house special, and it's a crazy looking Banana Split. Haruki settles for waffles, and they decide to start filming when the food arrives.

Any chance of small talk between them goes fully stall when Hanjae asks, right at their waiter steps away, as the opening topic: “Have you talked to Haegon?”

Haruki’s dangling hand on the table stills. He smiles weird, notices it looks weird, drops it: “Ah, no. No…” and goes silent, makes Hanjae go silent too.

The food comes, they start filming. Hanjae’s meticulously trying to extract a tiny piece of strawberry from a block of ice cream, all while only looking through the camera’s lens, when Haruki’s phone jumps to life, ringing.

He takes it out of his pocket, places it screen flat on the table without looking at the receiver once, mutes it with one hand, adds a mountain of maple syrup to his food with the other.

“Not important,” Haruki reassures Hanjae when he catches him looking at the buzzing phone, an inch away from falling off the edge. He forks the food and stands his hand across the table, says, with his Idol voice, “Wanna try?”

It’s good sweet food, all of it. The camera goes back and forth between them, hand to hand. Haruki makes him pretend they’re shooting a commercial, at some point, makes him do a different pose with every bite, and Hanjae tries to not lose control of his face with all the wooing, all the praise.

It’s fanservice, and Haruki’s good at it. It makes for good content. Everything: good.

Outside, bill paid, they take shelter from the sun and check the recording; thirty raw minutes of footage.

“Hanjae,” Haruki says, looking up after skimming the video, solemn. Hanjae leans a bit forward, eyes a little wide.“The Log will turn out very boring if this is all we do.”

It is, indeed, not the best vlog Hanjae’s ever made. Not that he’s ever been any good at them, or at anything on the media side of the job outside of music covers or choreography making. He’s seen the views on his solo variety content, Sangwon walked him through them all last month, said: nothing special.

They barely talked in 30 minutes – Hanjae didn't initiate a single conversation with him.

Quickly, Haruki’s eyes narrow as he scans the area around them, and Hanjae tries to keep up. He looks for a long moment at the barracks of food, at a man selling balloons, and finally lands far ahead, on a group of kids running on the sand. The leading one trips on air and falls face first on the ground, immediately wails, and they let out matching startled, horrified laughs.

Haruki jogs until he’s in front of him, and turns to walk backwards, closer to where the sidewalk gives into the beach.

“You wanna do that?” He arches a perfect eyebrow. “Run around on the beach with me. Like we’re in a movie.”

Hanjae steps on a stone, lands his other feet on the ground wrong. “I– No.”

“No? Well, I’m doing it! It’s what the vlog’s missing! Trust me, if we do this, it’ll fix everything,” he says, and before Hanjae can even think of what to reply, turns around and starts running on the sand, straight ahead.

Haruki’s already bent over near the ocean when Hanjae catches up with him, folding his jeans until they stop at his knees, barefoot. He insists: “Let’s go, let’s do it, you’re already here, it’s going to be fun, the fans will like it, let’s do it, let’s do it!”

With a resigned sigh, Hanjae unties his sneakers.

Haruki approaches a family nearby and asks for a beach chair, gets a yes. They place the camera cautiously on it, set it with a big zoom ahead. Haruki leaves his phone there, too, with a careless toss, and Hanjae can hear it announcing another call as he steps away, trailing exactly behind him – footprint over footprint, back near the ocean and then on the ocean.

“I thought– Hyung, I thought we were going to just walk,” Hanjae says, stopping. The salt water is a chill foam around his foot.

“Yeah,” Haruki flashes him a smile over his shoulder. He’s about to be knees deep, is taking his Hawaiian shirt off, Hanjae realizes now, with a flush. “We’re walking. Into the water.”

Hanjae catches the shirt when he throws it over his shoulder, looks at it, up at him. He takes a step closer. “Manager Choi’s– Haruki, he’s going to complain!”

“Fuck him!” Haruki tells him with a laugh. He says, with meaning: “Fuck him, fuck New Wave, let them complain, I’m going for a dive and no one can stop me!”

And then he dives, swims, disappears under the water for a long moment. Hanjae stays planted where he is, at a loss of words. When Haruki reemerges, pushing a curtain off black hair off his eyes, and walks back splashing water at him. By the time they’re side by side again, it looks like Hanjae took a dive, too.

“Are you…” He starts to say, eyeing Haruki worryingly, but then the family from before calls back to them, says they’re leaving, they need the chair back, and Haruki claps him on the shoulder, smiles widely, races him to reach them.

“Look,” Haruki says when they’re checking the footage, back on the sidewalk, showing Hanjae a clip: the two of them, a little blurry, walking. “We even got your good smile.”

“My good smile?” Hanjae echoes.

“Not to imply you have a bad one, because you don’t have a bad one,” Haruki says, and bumps their shoulders together. He has just put his shirt back on, is wearing it unbuttoned. “You just have one that’s relaxed, easy. A rare one.”

“Hm,” Hanjae responds, looking away, rolling a rock under his feet.

The walk back to the hotel is calm, windy. The sky’s cotton candy pink and it all looks like a movie, Hanjae thinks. He looks down, and their hands are loose, hanging close, like it would be in a movie.

The end credits roll when they get in the hotel’s lobby, and find Sangwon there – just right there. He catches sight of them immediately, like an alert dog; a quick jump off his seat, a stall near.

He seems to consider them like an equation, frowning: he takes in their wet hair, the wet clothes, the leftover traces of sand, solves it, fumes.

“Do you have any idea,” he says, and he’s struggling to look at the two of them, to not just gawk at Haruki – to not bare his teeth to Haruki only. “Any idea, you two, of how irresponsible this whole stunt was? You’re out on a foreign land. You know no one – no one. When I– The company, if the company calls, you pick your phone. It’s how it works. Pick your phone, immediately.”

Hanjae checks his own phone, a quick glance: no calls.

“Choi-nim,” he says, not looking directly at him, because he lost the ability over the years. Sangwon’s gaze now makes him incredibly anxious. He takes the camera out of where its hanging around his neck, stands it. “I notified– On the calendar, I added– We were just filming–”

“No need to explain, Hanjae,” Haruki interrupts, and puts a hand on Hanjae’s shoulder, steps in front of him, puts himself between him and Sangwon. “Go up. You did nothing wrong. It’s okay. Hyung’s going to solve this with the manager.” He turns straight to Choi-nim and bows, so pristine, so polite: “I take full responsibility for today. It was all me. I’m really sorry if I caused you stress.”

Sangwon considers him for a long moment, taking in the bend of his elbows, like he’s trying to measure his sincerity – there’s almost none of it, Hanjae can tell. He sighs, and then he adjusts his shirt, picks at the cufflinks of his uniform, breaths – his nostrils taking over his entire face.

“You’re dismissed,” Sangwon tells Hanjae, icely, with a corner of the eye glance.

“Sir, I–”

“Dismissed.”

“Go on,” Haruki encourages him, giving Hanjae’s shoulder a firm tap. And then he runs a hand over Hanjae’s hair, messes it up until his wet bangs are glued to his forehead, which he’s never done before; not with him, not with anyone, as far as Hanjae’s aware.

Hesitantly, Hanjae steps away, goes to take the elevator. He keeps looking at them over his shoulder, watching them trail away with growing uneasiness. Haruki keeps looking back at him until he can’t: Sangwon gets the door of the hotel open, shoves him by the shoulder out.

Up in his hotel room, Hanjae showers for a long time. There’s sand on a spot on his elbow where Haruki gave him a tap, and it takes him a while to notice.

He comes off the shower and goes straight to laying down. Zhiming, who had been awake when he came in, is also in his bed now, fully still.

He turns over once, and then again, goes back on his side. “Zhiming hyung?” Hanjae whispers. “You’re awake?”

When Zhiming finally responds, it’s with a minimal grunt, a tiny quick of his socked foot. “What.”

“Do you,” Hanjae chews on the words, “Do you think I have a good smile?”

A pause, a loud sigh. “You’re an Idol. You should hope so.”

“Okay. Okay, so what about– What about me do you think, what looks bad?”

Slowly, very slowly, Zhiming raises his upper body on his elbows. His air is a mess, recently dyed from gray to black too quickly. Without his glasses, he’s forced to squint at Hanjae, even this close, with their beds separated by a very narrow space.

“What the fuck are you even talking about?”

Hanjae takes in a sharp breath, and nods – puts a hand over his eyes, nods again. Stupid, so stupid.

“Nothing,” He says. “Nothing, just– Forget it. I’m sorry, just– Sorry.”

Zhiming goes back to laying down with a loud ‘oof’. He says, a crude whisper, “Don’t go out alone with him if it’ll make you come back like that.”

And with that Hanjae decides he must sleep, immediately, and end this day already.

It was just a day, he tells himself, rubbing at the scarred spot on his hand; a flower in eternal bloom, once. Just one good day. Drop it, forget it, erase it.

February 15, 2022.

“C’mon, you guys, c’moooon! On a scale of one to ten–”

“Na Seungsoo,” Minwoo’s voice rings out like a warning; an elastic pulled far above its limit, about to snap back into place, hard. “Shut your goddamn mouth.”

“She’s right there,” Haegon adds, equally as ultraged. “Are you dumb? Do you want to die?”

“Light up, you two. We’re just talking hypotheticals. I’m not actually gonna fuck our mananger,” Seungsoo says, crossing his arms, raising his chin high – his posture the embodiment of a practical joke about to take action. “That would be desperate and unprofessional, and I am none of these things.”

“You’re extremely unprofessional,” Jiahang laughs at him, a little mean – all his laughs have something a little mean about them, Hanjae can’t help but notice, when Seungsoo’s involved. “And extremely desperate. You just fucked our sound assistant. We no longer have a sound assistant, because you fucked her.”

“So did Jimin!”

“A fluke,” Zhiming defends himself. “Not happening again.”

“It’s never a fluke with you, Seungsoo. You’re such a man whore. A man whore for staff. Even Sangwon could have pulled you when he was around if he had a pair of tits,” Haegon notes, and Seungsoo gasps, mutters, scandalized, ‘You bastard!’, raises a fist up as if he’s going to hit him, and everyone’s laughing. Hanjae contributes with a grimace. “You’re that gross, you’re really that disgusting, all it would take–”

Behind them, Dylan begins to violently choke on a bite out of his granola bar, hard enough for the whole photo studio to freeze.

Taesong stands up immediately to check on him, and so does Jungwha, their three day old manager, Choi Sangwon’s definitive substitute and the topic of Seungsoo’s most recent infatuation: she rushes forward to aid alongside an assistant, a cup of water materialized out of thin air on her hand, like a trained lifeguard.

It’s too early for any of them to get a good read on her, but Hanjae has working eyes, so he will admit Junghwa is good looking in a mature sort of way, a bit above the ‘K-Pop staff adequate’. She’s not far from Seungsoo’s type, given the fact that he pretty much doesn’t have one. Hanjae has seen him flirt with Seo CEO’s third ex-wife, the second ex-wife, all of Minwoo’s half sisters and, in a disastrous attempt, Dylan’s mom. ("She's just so young, Chihoon! I thought she was your cousin!"

"I don't have a single cousin and you know that! You went for my mom, you animal, the least you can do is own it!")

“Holy shit, Chihoon,” Seungsoo says, tapping him on the back with one hand, fanning him with the other. “You’re alright?”

“My bad– False alarm, guys, my bad–!”, Dylan mutters, still coughing, watery eyes quick in their attempt to scan the room for something, someone.

Hanjae follows their frantic trail until they land on the quiet figure of Haruki by the coffee machine, his back to them, shoulders rigid and on display – wearing the same suit outfit Hanjae has been put on, his in a shade more close to purple than blue.

It fits Haruki splendidly, as must things do.

“Alright, boys, hey, boys!” Jungwha calls out when Dylan’s lungs go back to normal, clapping her hands one loud time. “Break’s over! It’s the real deal, now! So let’s try to have a good day at work today! Fighting!”

They’re set to scatter in trios and duos, the old unit formations, except for Haegon, who’s still on hiatus, still has stitches all over the crown of his head. He only made it because Haruki insisted, and he’s always insisting, lately: “How can we do well without our cheerleader,” he told Haegon in the morning, “Our cute, adorable cheerleader, my very favorite little brother–!”

“Hi,” Hanjae mutters, tapping Haruki gently in the shoulder. Haruki jumps, catching his breath, and Hanjae drops his hand, shoves it behind his own back. “Ah, sorry, if I– I was just going to say we should–”

But Haruki is turning and splinting in front of him before all the words are out, growing out of earshot, out of hold, entering a hallway on the left.

Hanjae, embarrassed, follows.

They’re supposed to go to room 4, but Haruki walks right past it. Hanjae calls back to him from the door, says, “Hyung, that’s not the–”, and then his voice falters, dies out.

Haruki’s already quick pace has grown even quicker, and he’s now running towards the door at the end of the corridor, the one with a red sign written ‘TERRACE’ over it – really running, to the point his body almost slams against the metal when he stops. The door handle makes a loud noise as he tries to push it open, can’t make it, tries again, harder – manages to step out with a strong shove. Hanjae goes after him, frowning, worried.

Outside, the terrace is a gray space, almost the same tone as the sky – rain’s a strong promise on the horizon, a reasonable fear.

Haruki’s standing right at the center. He tries to take in a big and loud gulp of air, can’t, makes a choking sound, lets out a hiss. Hanjae can feel the acute panic coming off him like electricity, gluing itself to his very own skin. He reminds himself to breathe.

Haruki stands an arm out and that’s the distance between them, that’s the nearest he’ll let Hanjae get.

“What’s– What’s happening, what’s wrong, what–?”

“Just,” he’s trembling bad. “Leave, I need– Leave.”

“Now?” Hanjae asks, and he’s making himself bite down on the trail of: ‘But the shoot’, ‘But the gig’, ‘But the job’ so hard, he’s actually got his teeth sinking on his lip.

Haruki nods, sharp and final, and Hanjae feels himself nodding back, frenetic. “Okay, stay– stay here, okay, you’ll leave– we’re leaving, just stay here.”

Hanjae walks back into the building with his head very low, tries to not walk too quickly to bring attention to himself, feels like he’s falling; feels like the whole world is looking at him. He holds his breath while sneaking back into the room they’re using as a closet, picks his and Haruki’s things like a thief: pushing everything into their bags without folding, eyes anxiously looking behind his back, flinching at every outside noise coming through the door.

Haruki’s phone is the last thing he grabs. He only becomes aware of it because it starts ringing. He looks at the screen, a quick run of his eyes. The contact name reads: ‘Don’t Answer Don’t Answer Don’t Answer.’

On the roof, Haruki’s sitting on the floor, resting his forehead against the wall. The back half of an air conditioner hangs close to him, and the leftover water pools near his feet, turning the hem of his pants dark.

They put on the yellow raincoats, plastic hood all the way up, and make a clumsy escape out the studio; Hanjae babbles something at the receptionist about there being equipment in the van, and the woman gives them a distracted ‘go ahead’ nod, an empty courtesy smile.

They walk without a plan, enter on the first bus that stops close: Haruki on the lead, completely reticent, Hanjae only following. There’s still a trail of glitter going down his neck, shiny with sweat, red from stress, Hanjae notices when they sit down. He’s still crying, still whipping at his runny nose with the expensive fabric of his shirt.

Hanjae looks down at his own clothes, the suit vest with no shirt under, a design piece New Wave doesn’t own – he’s wearing eyeliner, a strong smokey eye. They look expensive, and to an outsider, probably peculiar, weird. They don’t even have masks on…

Maybe, Hanjae hopes, trying to hold on to any trail of optimism possible, they could pass as very dedicated cover dancers, maybe–

The sound of Hanjae’s phone ringing makes them both jump in their seats. Haruki comes out of his state of anxious inertia to put a hand on his knee, pressing on it to get his attention. He says, through his teeth, “Do not– Hanjae, do not.”

Hanjae lets the phone ring out. He looks at the receiver: Uhm Junghwa (Manager).

Haruki’s peeking at it too. “Off,” he says, and it’s off.

It’s raining when they step out of the bus. They get maybe five feet down the sidewalk when a phone rings again – this time, Haruki’s. He comes to a sudden halt, and Hanjae bumps into his back and gets a close view of how, in an act of blind rage, he throws it hard on the floor.

“Fuck!” Haruki says, and steps on it once, twice, cracks the screen then the whole device in half. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Hanjae looks at him, wide eyed, mouth hanging open, and watches him pace around, a tense moment, until he loses all steam, goes sit by the closest wall.

Haruki stays for a long time there, one hand gripping the fence, the other pressing over his face, being rained on. Cautiously, Hanjae slides his raincoat off, squats down, close to him, and stands it over both their heads. Rain drips directly into his shoulder, makes a cold path down his neck.

“I hope your–,” a hiccup, a sniff, a faint and unconvincing attempt from Haruki of laughing them both off, “your fantasy’s still– still up.”

“My…?”

“Can you not,” Haruki says, a hiss, “Not look.”

Hanjae complies, doesn’t look. Behind them, a car runs close to the sidewalk, splashes a wave of rainwater on their backs.

“Sasaeng?” Hanjae tries, “Is it a sasaeng, or…”

Haruki lets out a bitter snort. “Imja,” he says, and it makes more sense that he means ‘owner’ rather than ‘marriage partner’; Hanjae can’t hear anything else, can’t connect anything else to something he knows and decode it.

His throat has gone dry, sandy. He clears it, and still, his voice comes off clipped. “Your…? Ah. Ah, I didn’t know– Didn’t know you have someone you were–”

“You know him,” Haruki says. “For years. You– you’ve known him. He gave you your job– Made your job happen.”

It takes a long moment for it to click, for the shape of manager Choi to come to Hanjae’s mind. Haruki’s looking at him like he’s expecting Hanjae to do something horrible: mouth set for a fight, eyes so red they look like they’ve been painted over.

“Hyung,” Hanjae breathes. His voice is an even quieter thing, afraid. “Do you mean– Are you being serious?”

“Am I! Am I serious?!”

He’s up again, quick – Hanjae loses his equilibrium and falls back on the street. Haruki doesn’t wait for him to get up to resume stomping.

It takes two street turns for Hanjae to understand they’re detouring from the dorms.

They sit on another bus stop bench, hop on another bus. A quiet and tense drive, this one. Haruki’s no longer crying, just grinding his teeth.

They go to the front gates of a tiny building, their final destination, and Haruki tells the security guard an apartment number, wais to be buzzed in. He does soon, and Hanjae, yet to be told to leave, goes up with him on the stairs.

Delilah gets the door he bangs on, and Hanjae’s stuck blinking at the sight of her, who shouldn’t still be in Korea. Haruki barges into her place like a hurricane: shoes still on, pushing her a little back, closer to the wall.

They both stare at the spot he occupied on the corridor a second ago, a held breath.

She recovers much quicker than he does. Deh tucks a long lock of her caramel hair behind her ear, greets him with an awkward, “Hanjae, hi. Hi...”, and Hanjae gets overwhelmed by too many things at once; how glad he is to see her, the shame of how they had parted. Her sad face when she told everyone she couldn’t stand to work with them anymore.

“You’re back.”

“I am! I am back!” Deh says. “How could I not! Europe’s too gray for me. The food’s too bad, and...” She sucks air through her teeth, takes an anxious look behind her, back inside. “... And all that.”

Hanjae shakes his head, agrees – agrees to all that even though he has no idea what all that is. There’s a pool of spit on his mouth, and he has to concentrate on gulping it down, has to try more than once.

“Hanjae, baby, look– I’ll send him on his way later. Maybe tonight. Or tomorrow morning. Just…” She trials off. “Please don’t tell the others we met, okay? I don’t want Seungsoo looking for me or asking around. I don’t want to see him again, ever.”

Fair, Hanjae thinks. After everything, fair.

Deh flashes him a final grim before closing the door, still awkward, and it doesn’t last. She drops it for a split second, fully drops it, looks instead concerned, anxious.

Hanjae waits a moment, then moves before he knows it. He presses his ear against the shut door, closes his eyes and hopes to catch anything. A creek of wood. A vacuum cleaner being turned off. The sound of someone channel surfing. Deh saying what might be, “Haruki, what do you want me to do? I can’t know, love. I can’t know if you don’t tell me.”

Another sound drowns everything, nearer. Someone from the apartment on the left starts to unlock their door, it’s about to walk out, and it leaves Hanjae panicking, it makes him jog all the way out of the building, nonstop.

He makes the inverse way back home, alone. His own phone is a hot thing in his back pocket. When he gets to the dorm, Chihoon is the first person he bumps into, planted right beside the shoe rack. Hanjae’s seen him in this set of clothes, short shorts and a knockoff Pokemon shirt, more than he’s seen his own dad’s face these last few years.

Dylan grabs at Hanjae when he notices it’s him, pushes him back out quickly. He puts a finger in front of his mouth – quiet.

“I’ve given you some cover,” he whispers. They’re circling the house, Hanjae realizes, going to the backyard. “Said you were not feeling well. It won’t fly with Minwoo or Taesong, so think of something. And you're not gonna get paid this month, because of the clothes. Neither of you will.” He looks around, eyes sharp in a way Hanjae didn’t think they could be. “Where is he?”

“Deh’s,” Hanjae blurts out, and remembers he promised not to speak of her, grows meek.

He’s tired, deep in the bones tired, from all the walking, all the running. The socks inside his sneakers are still wet, his fingers have gone cold.

“Good,” Dylan says, remarkably unsurprised. “That’s good enough.”

There’s a moment of silence between them. In Hanjae’s head, a pinned image every time he blinks: Haruki’s eyes, red like a bruise.

“Chihoon hyung, I think– I think there’s something wrong with–”

Dylan’s grip on his arm is steady, but no longer comforting when he says, “Hanjae, listen, yes. Yes. Something’s wrong. Too many things–” He shakes his head, clicks his tongue once, and again. “No need for you to worry about it, because there’s nothing you can really do, okay? It’s been too long, now. The time for anyone to really do anything, over.”

He looks like he doesn’t want to be saying it, like all those words taste bitter, bad.

“So just keep being nice,” Dylan concludes, and his voice breaks at the end. “Be nice with him right now, alright? And patient, and normal, just like always, and…”

Dylan doesn’t say what else. He looks down, and Hanjae follows. Near their feet, a trail of black nicotine ash and tiny bits of paper; someone’s worry, someone’s wait.Kind, maybe, Hanjae concludes on his own. Maybe kind was what he was going to say.

March 12th & a Bit Of 13th, 2022.

Sunyoung immediately strikes Hanjae as someone who’s never held a small house party before, and it’s a bit painful to see her try.

She greets them at the door, a little overdressed: Chanel earrings, Chanel bag. “Is that everyone?”, she asks, craning her neck to peek behind them, and when they mumble ‘yes’ she visibly withers.

Taesong steps in front of them to give her a gift – a flower vase so yellow Zhiming had to look away from it, rubbing at his eyes.

She stares at it for a minute, frowns hard, then composes herself, says, “Ah! Thank you so much, oppa! This is so– Yeah, thanks! But you didn’t have to! Gon, baby! I said they didn’t have to!”

“I told you they don’t listen to me,” Haegon mutters. There’s a dark cloud over his face and Sunyoung seems to not mind it. She squeezes his arm when he passes her by, smiles at him prettily. 

She checks the corridor one more time, and for a moment Hanjae thinks she looks sad; that she looks angry.

The party is a housewarming party for the brand new double storey apartment in Nine One Hannam she’s sharing with her BombShell leader Yoorim, who strongly opposed herself to throwing anything. Hanjae catches a glimpse of her looking displeased and bothered behind the kitchen aisle, and bows his head a little – she rolls her eyes, turns her back on him, disappears behind a small group of people.

Beomseok refused to come, decided to take the afternoon to go grocery shopping, the night to visit family he can’t take Haegon to see; the side that calls him a parasite. It had been a clear jab, right at Haegon’s face. Even Minwoo thought it was insensitive, and his response to the invite had been nothing but a disgusted face that spelled out ‘no’.

Hanjae watches him move through the living room, greeting some people. Haegon’s been here yesterday, and the day before that, and if Hanjae’s not cautious, he’ll stay over despite their early shooting tomorrow.

“That old man put you on babysitting duty, eh, Hanhan?” Seungsoo leans in to whisper to him, somehow with a drink in hand – white wine. The smell of his cologne is already stuck to the collar of Hanjae’s bottom up by osmosis.

“He’s just concerned. It makes sense to be concerned.”

On their first day back from L.A, Haegon had announced over dinner that he now had a girlfriend: they met last week, and had been dating for three days. The situation had driven Beomseok crazy. Haegon asked if him if wanted to meet her every day for two weeks straight, and he said: no. He eventually got around to meet her and said with even more conviction: no, break up, now.

It’s an age gap, even if very small, but she’s about five years his industry senior, he told Hanjae. And Sunyoung’s from YG Entertainment, the face of too many brands. She’s going to eat him alive, spit him out, leave him heartbroken and Beomseok is going to have to deal with it, and he doesn’t want to have to deal with it.

“She can just like him. People can just like him,” Taesong tried to intervene, high pitched, and Beomseok cutted him off right away, said, “No. No, there’s something– Be serious, Taesong. No.”

The front door dings again, and it takes a long minute for Haegon to untangle his arms from Sunyoung’s waist and let her go get it. Hanjae watches her walk across the house, a firm walk of a supermodel, of someone important, and gets embarrassed with how bad he is at this, how obvious.

Another glimpse her way, and the person with their two feet planted on the ‘welcome home’ carpet is Haruki. He also said he wouldn’t come but gave no excuse, yet: here, dressed nicely. He’s got the same convenience store from years ago under one arm, the one from a memory.

They talk, talk, talk, and he still won’t leave the entrance. Haruki makes her laugh, the most genuine thing Hanjae’s seen Sunyoung do all night. He sees her look at him, look around, then lean closer again: point upstairs and give Haruki a thumbs up as he finally makes his way in, into the stairs and out of sight.

Sunyoung’s back on the couch, to Haegon, and Hanjae makes himself look. They’re fine, they appear very fine, holding hands, he doesn’t have to watch them all night, there’s no need to watch them at all, and–

Hanjae goes up the stairs, which he knows it’s technically off limits. He tries to not let his eyes wander to the photos on the walls, the books on the shelves tucked next to an award behind protective glass, a big shiny plaque framed above it.

There’s only one door with light peeking through, right at the end of the corridor. He taps at it three times, and waits. Another three taps, slightly stronger.

“Occupied,” a voice says from the inside – a tone he knows. “All night.”

Hanjae can’t think of what to say: can’t think of anything at all, for a second. He gives the door another hopeful tap, waits more, and he lets out a sigh of relief when it creeks open. He goes in, closes it quietly behind him, and looks down.

The room’s a bathroom, straight out of a home decoration magazine, all black and white. Haruki seems to be setting up an improv bar on the floor, in the big space between the bathtub and the sink. There’s a bottle of something Hanjae can’t read, blue and half empty, tucked in between his legs like a treasure.

“Ah, you,” he waves at Hanjae’s vague direction, not looking up. “Hello, you. I’m just– Don’t mind the mess. Someone made me something once. ‘Trying to put it together.”

Hanjae hums. He can’t make his hand ease its grip on the doorknob.

It’s been weeks since they abandoned the shoot, and since then Haruki’s been avoiding him constantly. Looks at him from across rooms and seems pained, constantly, and Hanjae hasn’t had the heart to come near.

“What is happening?” Haruki asks, suddenly, and tries to land a smile. He blinks a lot and then not enough looking up at Hanjae. “Down. Down there.”

“Nothing much.”

“How is he?”

“Haegon?” Hanjae asks, and Haruki nods at him loosely, mouths the name without making a sound: ‘Haegon’. “He– Uh, he seems alright.”

“Great couple, yes or no? For our maknae, is she great?”

“I– I don’t know.”

Disappointment flashes vividly through Haruki’s face, and it lands on a sad shagrin. “You don’t know,” he says, to himself, and goes back to emptying his bag with a slouch to his shoulders.

‘Be normal’, Dylan had said that day, his only instructions: ‘Be nice.’

Hanjae lets go of the door and goes to sit in front of him, legs crossed like his are. “What’s it supposed to taste like? The drink.”

There’s no humor in Haruki when he says, “Acid.”

He offers a thermo bottle to Hanjae filled with the failed replica. Hanjae takes a tiny sip and can’t swallow it, feels like his tongue is on fire, and it makes Haruki huff a laugh. “More disgusting than that.”

He makes more combinations that demand more tasting, and Hanjae at times struggles, at times doesn’t – Haruki empties a Soju bottle and refills it with Somaek, calls it ‘Hanjae’s palette cleanser’. He also makes Hanjae go downstairs to grab things they don’t have: more cups, ice and fruit juice, if Sunyoung has any, which she does – too many options.

Hanjae comes back from the trip and sets all his findings at Haruki’s feet, then feels weird about it, exposed about it, and pushes some of it closer to himself.

The bottle opener, they notice a minute later, has disappeared. Hanjae thinks he took it with him to the kitchen and abandoned it on the counter. Worry not, Haruki says; worry not!, because he knows how to open them with his front teeth. It’s a hidden skill, a secret talent.

Haruki asks him to hold a bottle close to his face so he can prove it, and Hanjae does so, but it’s a frail grip, not good. Haruki puts a hand over his to make it steadier, makes it worse. Another hand, a shove closer until their knees are touching. Hanjae adds his free hand into the pile, the lonely hand, and Haruki looks straight at him – looks like he’s saying, ‘Bet?’

It takes a second, really. A pop and the lid comes off in the company of an enormous foam eruption. Haruki gets both his hands away, does a smiley flourish: ‘ta-da!’

“But you shook it! Too much, you–!’ He laughs, and can’t stop laughing. Hanjae’s still holding the bottle and tries to hand it to him, but Haruki shakes his head ‘no’. “For you. It is for you.”

It’s bland beer, he takes notice when he drinks it, but somehow it tastes sweeter.

From the corner of his eyes he catches a glimpse of metal in a corner, and it’s Haruki’s new phone, exiled.

Hanjae is surprised to hear himself ask him, “Are the calls– the calls still coming? The ones from–”

“Always,” Haruki responds, eerily nonchalant. “Always will.”

“It’s not over, then? You still–”

“It is. It is over. It is over the way it can be over.”

“What wouldhe,” Hanjae closes his eyes, reiterates, “If it’s over, what would he still want with you?”

“What do you think,” Haruki asks, staring fixedly at the alcohol going from one bottle to the other. A bit of it it’s running straight to the floor. “What do you think people want with me?”

It’s said– weird. Something in his uncaring tone makes a lump of sadness form in Hanjae’s throat.

“Hyung, you know that, if you everneed to talk to anyone about anything. Me and the guys, we all– We all listen. We would listen.”

“Anything?” Haruki pretends to be impressed. “Big. That is big.”

“Seriously. I’m being serious.”

Haruki looks up at him. Even more alcohol spills to the floor.

“Okay. Okay, anything. Anything…” he hums, dropping the bottles, mimicking being in thought with an obnoxious pout. His mouth is now a purple dot, and his eyes a shiny brown daze...

Hanjae often catches himself wondering if he just knows. If he looks into a mirror and just knows that he’s beautiful in a way that looks hand drawn, that looks meticulously planned: a subject of equal envy and admiration. If Sangwon ever told him that, and if so, how many times, had it come close to enough, had he used the right words to say it, did Haruki believe him when he said it, or if he didn’t – what did it make him feel? What exactly did he make him feel?

Hanjae always thought he was so mean, so bitter. He can’t remember ever hearing him say anything nice to anyone about anything.

Hanjae’s staring, he’s realized, and his eyes hurt. He makes them look down to where Haruki’s got a firm hold around the slim of a bottleneck, tapping a weird rhythm into it, impossible to decipher. He has long fingers with hard skin on them, which isn’t something you would expect. He used to paint, used to do calligraphy; used to go to a prestigious arts academy during high school, all boys.

Hanjae’s still starring, and he’s too close to drunk to properly command himself to stop. He hears Haruki huffs an unheard laugh, suddenly, short and maybe frustrated, maybe not that, and Hanjae’s head snaps up to his face to meet it.

He’s being stared at, too – is being analyzed, too.

“I thought of something. Something I want to say, a thing,” Haruki announces. The grin on his face suddenly looks very, very sharp, like there’s something tugging the corners of his mouth up. “I will whisper to you. On your ear. ‘Gimme your ear and I will tell.”

And with that he comes forward, a sudden and ungracious movement, and doesn’t stop when they’re front to front, an inch apart. He climbs Hanjae up – actually climbs him up, his legs around the middle of his body, cageing him in.

Haruki grims again and it’s lazily, in slow motion. He puts a hand on Hanjae’s chin, tips it high, says, “Not your ear.”

He turns his head to the side. His nose rovers near Hanjae’s head, and Hanjae tries to escape it in reflex, but they’re all too slow, drowned in alcohol.

Into his ear, lips touching skin, Haruki says, “I know you like me. For a very long time. Since that one time. Ever since we went out, we got drunk, that one time.”

“Sorry,” Hanjae mutters, hushed.

“‘Sorry’,” Haruki laughs again, like that’s the funniest word there is, like it’s the meanest. It rings so loud, it has an echo. “Now you sorry?”

Hanjae sinks more into the floor, almost laying down, and Haruki follows, saying, “Are you going away? This close? I am this close, and you going away?”

They’re kissing before Hanjae fully processes how, and it’s a weird kiss at a weird angle; Haruki won’t bend his body all the way down, and Hanjae has to keep craning his neck to meet him midway, his elbows pressing against the tiles, hurting.

He feels a hand slide up his shirt almost immediately, and Hanjae understands, with drunken horror, that he’s being undressed – quickly.

“Ah, wait–” He says, and then can’t get out anything else: Haruki shoved a thumb inside his mouth, in between his teeth, as he goes for the spot where Hanjae’s shoulder and neck meet.

“You smell like home here,” he says, a goosebump. He buries his face there, opens his mouth above it, bites and sucks hard enough to make Hanjae jump  – for him to know it’ll leave a pinkish mark, evidence–

It’s exactly then and there that someone bursts in through the door, says a curse loudly, startles the two of them slightly apart, knocks the air out of their lungs.

“Close your eyes! I need to pee right now, right now, close your eyes!”

It’s a tall woman, this one – Hanjae sees her quick rush to the toilet and closes his eyes tight shut.

“If any of you try to act funny and take a single peek, I’ll fucking castrate you both– Hey! Hey, you, back on the floor, don’t come near, I’m fucking serious, I’ll kill you, you fucking–!”

The door clicks shut, and it takes Hanjae a moment to take in the lack of heat above and around him, to correlate the two: Haruki’s gone, walked out, left him.

From the side, he hears an instrident, “Can you at least cover your fucking boner, dude?!”

Hanjae rolls to his side, facing the opposite wall to where the toilet is; he pushes his knuckles into his shut eyes, for good measure. He waits for the girl to finish peeing, and tries not to have an anxiety attack or a heart attack or a nerve attack about everything that happened in the last ten minutes: Haruki on top of him, Haruki no longer on top of him, having to hear a stranger peeing.

“I’m done,” she announces, and he turns back to the same position as before.

There’s little dots of light in his vision, dancing. The girl’s using the sink now, and she has a blonde bob, so blonde and so short. It follows the shape of her mouth and up, even shorter at the back.

“Not a word from you, ever,” she warns, drying her hands on her skirt, pushing it down more, back in place. She gives him a pointed glare that makes Hanjae look down at the state he’s in, at his busted open shirt, a single button in the middle holding it all together. “Not a word from me. Now get the fuck out, please. People need to use the bathroom.”

And she gets going too, without closing the door all the way. The hum of the party downstairs carries over.

Hanjae inhales, looking at the bright ceiling light. His fingers have gone pruney where they were holding him.

[…]

Eventually Hanjae has to get out of the suite, and do a walk of shame back to the housewarming party. He takes down with him all the glass and cups he can manage, not a lot of them, goes straight to the kitchen sink, and begins to wash them, it’s done with them, goes for all of Sunyoung and Yoorim’s dishes.

Around him, the kitchen has emptied out – on the front the living room, mostly emptied out, too, except for little clicks. He spots J.J right in the center of the one installed in the couch, gesticulating enthusiastically, telling someone some story until they make eye contact. He stops, excuses himself, rushes near.

Up close, Jiahang looks at him, up and down, bug eyed, and Hanjae understands he didn’t do a good job of piecing himself back together.

He got a glimpse of his face in the mirror before walking out: lips glossy, bangs far apart and sticking up, somehow, not all the buttons of his shirt tucked in the right cases.

“Hanjae, oh my God. Dylan, Dylan, look!” He calls out, and Hanjae sees Chihoon appear on his left, face slightly dazed. “Oh my God, Dylan! Hanjae!”

“You fucking animal!” Seungsoo, coming out of nowhere, slaps him on the chest hard. “Who? Who who who who?”

They’re all too close, too soon, and Hanjae can’t look anyone in the eyes for too long– he just can’t.

He catches a glimpse of Blonde Bob Piss Girl in a corner, looking bored, on her phone, and stares at her for a moment too long. Everyone follows, looks at her too, and his bandmates erupt into enthusiastic ‘Eeeeeeh!’s. Someone, proprably Seungsoo still, raises his soupy arm up so he can be given high fives, and Hanjae doesn’t know what to do – to let the lie linger or to kill it. What can he even say? What can he say if not that–

Hanjae finds himself grabbing Dylan’s sleeve and tugging at it, leaving behind a damp. He feels like a little kid that broke something, suddenly – overwhelmingly so. “Where ‘d Haruki go?”

“Dude, I didn’t see him. You sure?” Chihoon asks, and Hanjae’s not; he’s not sure.

“Whaaaaat? Haruki came? Haruki’s here?”

“Great. Another one to hunt down. We’re never gonna leave this fucking place in time,” Jiahang whines. “Yoorim noona’s going to delete my number.”

Hanjae asks all of them at once, “We’re leaving?”

“Yeah, you didn’t hear? Sunyoung and Haegon ditched,” Seungsoo says, and Hanjae’s stomach drops. “It’s her house and they ditched, disappeared, poof! Yoorim’s pissed, told everyone to leave. And Taeng’s freaking out! Someone broke his little vase, someone spilled something on him. I think he’s gonna snap. We need to get that freak home.”

“Shit.”

“Yes, Hanjae,” Seungsoo laughs. “Old man was right, after all… Shit.”

[...]

They do a small search around the apartment, the balcony, and conclude: no Haruki anywhere, so they group everyone they have to leave, go wait to be picked up on the sidewalk in front of the Nine One Hannam gates.

“You just dreamed him up, Hanhan! Wouldn’t be the first time,” Seungsoo jokes. It’s a bad joke. O.z shoves him in the chest hard about it, tells him, “Quiet.”

Hanjae looks straight ahead, not at them. In front of him J.J keeps bouncing on the wheel of his feet, saying, ‘I’m going in the front, I’m passenger seat, forget it, it’s me me me me,’ even though no one’s putting up a fight about it.

Minwoo pulls up soon enough on the curve in one of the two black company vans, and downs the window just to give them all an open scowl, then a frown. “I’m only seeing seven of you.”

J.J circles the car to get to the front door, struggles a little to get it open. “Hyung, you’re not gonna believe.”

“I don’t wanna hear it, Jiahang.”

“Shut up, you do. You really really really really do. You were–,” and then he becomes aware of the slouched figure of Hanjae trailing behind him, turns and frowns. “What did I just say!”

“No, I’m…” Hanjae looks at Minwoo looking at him, one eyebrow raised, says, “Sorry.”

Minwoo pinches at his nose, hard. “Just get in the goddamn car, Hanjae, Jesus Christ.”

Hanjae thinks, out of everyone who has a driver’s license, Minwoo drives the shittiest. He needs glasses, he never wears them, he grumbles curses at every slow driver and every rush driver and every driver, in general.

On the way home, he stops the van only once, by popular demand. Taesong steps out to vomit, and spends the rest of the ride jittery about it, cracking his knuckles even when they make no sound.

“We’re so fucked,” Chihoon says when they park inside the dorm’s garage, rubbing his eyes. “It’s 3AM. We’re so fucked.”

While everyone rushes to their rooms to piece pajamas together and form a long row to shower, Hanjae’s elbow to elbow with Dylan, going up the stairs to the second floor as quietly as they can.

He and Haruki have, by far, the best room in the whole house: spacious, with a nice window. It used to be Haruki and Sangwon’s up until he got fired – some excuse about rooming with the manager to learn Korean quicker, about making sure Haruki wouldn’t sneak beer into his room. It makes Hanjae sick now, seeing it, standing so close to it.

Dylan tries the handle once, and the door doesn’t budge, only makes a stubborn click – locked.

Hanjae dries his hand on his jeans, still wet, somehow, asks him, “Is he– He’s in there? Or…?”

Chihoon rests his head against the mahogany and sort of sighs, sort of laughs. “Yeah, definitely home. He’s the only one with the key to lock me out. Classic. Just classic.”

“Get my bed,” Hanjae says – implores. “Use mine, you can– mine, I’ll couch.”

“You’ll couch?” Chihoon looks at him with the trembling smile of someone who’s about to laugh. It falls off his face quickly when he takes in the guilt Hanjae knows he’s wearing openly on his face.

“Hyung, I–” It’s out of his mouth before Hanjae even knows it. “Tonight, something – Something has happened, and I think, think I should– say.”

Dylan’s giving him an analytical once over, and he stops at his moving hands, on his marked neck, looks at the door again – locked. 

“Hanjae,” he says his name like it’s an insult, and for a moment Hanjae feels like it really is – his name, an insult.

He crumbles. “I’m sorry, so, so sorry, we just– I didn’t mean to– It was just, just a kiss, I think, and I– I–”

“You kissed him?! ‘You think’? What does that mean? What do you mean ‘you think’?!”

Hanjae looks around and then down, behind him. “Dylan…” he manages, airy, and doesn’t know what he wants the rest of the phrase to be, where he’s trying to take it.

Chihoon’s mouth hangs open, a painful disbelief, and then slowly shuts.

“You know what,” he says harshly, but not angrily – he sounds more disappointed than anything, more tired than anything. “I don’t want to know. Not now. I’ll know, just– Not now. But fucking Hell, Hanjae, you. You just had to, didn’t you? You saw an opportunity and you just had to.”

Hanjae’s breath catches. Dylan is a figure in his eyes, growing blurry.

“I’m taking your bed,” he announces. ”Eveytime he kicks me out from this day on, I’m sleeping on your bed.”

He storms off, his bare feet on the floor a sound until it isn’t anymore.

Hanjae knocks on the door, a small tap. Nothing.

He thinks of saying it again: sorry. But no one’s around to hear it, no one’s around to accept it. There’s no point.

[vladdyissues]

I'm not asking for details, spoilers, or anything of the sort, but do you already know how Familiar is going to end? In your head, have you established or pictured the finale?

I know things can change before you even get there. I myself often have no clue how things will end when I start up a fic. (Actually, idk what's more difficult—how to start or how to finish? 😆) But I've been curious about this... particularly with your fic. There's so many wonderful and interesting things that go on as the story unravels; I can't imagine a conclusion to it all.

I don't want it to end! 😭 All good things...

I know things can change before you even get there. I myself often have no clue how things will end when I start up a fic.

Same, Puff. I only intended Familiar to be three chapters at first. Then five. Then ten... oops. I never meant for/expected it to turn into this big thing, but here we are 🥴

But to answer your question: yes, I do have an ending firmly in mind. The climax is still a bit nebulous, but I expect it'll start to solidify once I get closer to it. I've got the whole rest of the story mapped out; timeline, notes, some rough scenes, lots of emoji bullet lists. I'm even saving a bunch of scraps that are basically "deleted/alternate scenes" because I can't bear to throw old ideas away lol.

I don't want it to end!

I feel that. For me, finishing is always the biggest challenge. When I write purely for the vibes instead of plot, or to serve as some kind of emotional outlet, it can lead to a lot of unfinished WIPs—or at least "unfinished" in the sense that they accomplished their purpose for me but leave my readers hanging on the edge of a figurative cliff. (I'm sure that says something about me psychologically haha.) Vibefic is best saved for oneshots and ficlets, at least in my case. But Familiar has turned out to be the most ambitious and plot-intense story I've yet written, and I'm determined to see all the mysteries revealed and puzzles solved!

I must confess though, I'm pacing myself since I'm enjoying writing this story so much ���� I'm sure some of you want to kill me for taking this slow burn to the extreme, but I promise/hope it'll be worth it.

[reblog-house]

EDIT august 3rd: I NO LONGER BELIEVE IN THIS THEORY. It got disproven by many videos and I don't wanna spread misinformation. However, this vid did inspire me to see Mike as a helper through FNAF 1 and 2. Now, I'm more of a fan of the theory about there being Two protagonists: Mike for the shifts, and Cassidy (not CC), as playing the videogames. GiBi explores it in a video and it's very interesting. Give it a watch. But anyway, I'm keeping this post for archival purposes, even if I no longer believe in it.

Here it goes:

Saw a video that completely changed my outlook on this stupid FNAF lore. CC is named Cassidy, there's only one ghost in Golden Freddy, and Cassidy isn't The One Your Should Not Have Killed. Michael is. MICHAEL. And my mind was blown holy SHITTTT. I literally cannot interact with fanon anymore because I like this so much and feel it makes so much sense. Michael as TOYSNHK makes much more sense than a random spirit... Why would a random spirit be more vengeful towards William than any of the other MCI victims, and more vengeful than Michael, the son who dedicated his entire undeath to finding his father and making him pay. He fits the bill better and-

I should just. Link to the video.

There we go.

I don't agree with all the points (such as SL's placement in the timeline, after the first game, and how that affects Michael's relationship with his father), but the Cassidy thing and MICHAEL. BEING. TOYSNHK. BROKE MY MIND. The first one, I was like "no, but CC is Evan. GF has two souls. I like that theory", but they tackled it so well it convinced me.

And the TOYSNHK thing... It Just Makes Sense. William indirectly killed Michael, sending him to free his sister knowing fully well what could happen to him and ready to let him die to bring her back. And (something I couldn't have ever thought of myself), he repossessed his own body. It wasn't the Remnant of Ennard (the video explains it), but himself, unknowingly tying himself back to this world to deal with a Very Unfinished Business, which he then dedícates himself to.

And afterwards, he makes William live through everything he had to go through, all those years. Again, and again, and again, and again. He was the One William should Not have killed if he wanted to be left in peace, because out of anyone else, Michael reanimated himself just to deal with him, and now, feels the need to make him pay even in the world beyond.

Old Man Consequences is Henry telling Michael to take a break and free himself too, because he's just torturing himself by not letting go and allowing William to get tortured by his own demons. Until Michael is ready to leave and move on Old Man Consequences, Henry, will wait for him, patiently.

I just. I love that. I really really love that. Fuck.

((I also really love how they explained what had happened to Henry. God that's smart.))

Anyway.

Call me a TOYSNHK Michael truther now.

[ritens]

[wf] Past The Door 1. The Entrance

[previous work]

[next] - 2.4k words

The place is a dormizone on the Zariman.

Lane has mixed feelings about his new home.

He felt like a nuisance to Kyn and Luke in their camp and desired to try and figure things out on his own for a change. The couple was kind to offer the drifter a potential place to crash in since they weren't going to use it and Lane took it with no questions asked.

This ship as a whole was meant to stay a distant memory. At first he settled in well, but then bits and pieces of Lane's past kept coming back to him and instead of getting any real rest, Lane’s curiosity caused him to wander the place like a ghost plagued by unfinished business. He hopes that confronting his past, even if it’s from another timeline, could help in coping with the dread the place has instilled. If not, he’ll likely work towards getting his own landing craft and find somewhere else to stick around. But he won’t go down without a fight.

In the first week the drifter actively honed his ability to shapeshift between bodies while searching for his old classrooms and the old dormizone which he shared with his cousin Ria before the tragedy struck. Someone had rummaged through the place like a hurricane but that’s no surprise. The entire ship is a mess.

He also felt a little faint when he found Melica's blind spots where his ruthless classmate Kyn had cornered him on occasion. While absent-mindedly rubbing the scar on his upper left arm Lane had to remind himself that this is not his timeline, not his history. He can't hold anything against the Kyn whom he knows now.

Now, in the third week he's back to exploring the empty floors again. He has the gym in mind this time. It seems like a good idea to start exercising, to become more competent in using both his shapes. So far he's only been using the warframe form to avoid feeling hungry and sick which isn't a very noble purpose.

In the second week he explored a few floors that were swarming with enemies and did his part pushing them back.

The drifter avoids interacting with The Holdfasts but isn't opposed to helping them keep the corpse of a ship afloat. There's something extra eerie about the group and he'd rather not know why. But since he has a dormizone here, it feels fair to earn his keep now and then. An occasional void flood isn’t that difficult to take care of.

Lane wanders through the still abandoned Lunaro court and chuckles to himself. This game isn't beloved even now with tenno returning to the Zariman. It was fun to shoot around the ball with a few close friends but he never liked participating in the games that had a more competitive purpose. He's glad he is not alone with this sentiment.

Past the Lunaro court the drifter enters the main stadium with his eyes set on the running track. He should start with a simple warm up. Lane lifts up his hands and watches the steel flesh take over. Not a moment later it covers his entire body and he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He cracks his neck, stretches his legs and hops on the spot for a bit as if to get rid of air bubbles in a freshly filled mould. And then he goes for a run, mentally counting each lap that he makes.

He crosses the finish line ten times before he gets bored and moves on to setting up an obstacle course to further practise his mobility, test his senses.

That doesn't last long either. He doesn't get tired. But he gets bored. And maybe just a smidge lonely.

"I should get a kavat." Lane mumbles as he shapeshifts back to his human body and goes to fetch a suspicious water bottle left at the start of the running track. Shouldn't be poisonous.

He takes a swig.

Before he takes another, he stops. A whistling echo of a sound? Not quite singing, not quite wailing. Lane drops the bottle and follows the sound without a second thought.

It takes him through an overgrown section of the floor to an elevator. He moves a couple chairs and desks out of the way and then notices a strange light shining through a crack in the elevator door. Maybe it's been barricaded on purpose. A long time ago too, judging by the cobwebs and dust covering the objects he just moved. Lane changes form to warframe just in case before breaking the elevator door open.

The light is but a wispy thing. It shoots upward through the ceiling of the elevator. Lane pauses for a moment.

Lane looks at his hands, then at the ceiling of the elevator. "Could I???"

"If my memory serves me right… Some kind of maintenance room should be up there." He thinks out loud.

Only personnel used this elevator. It’s otherwise inoperable. Which means he has to figure out a way to get up. Melica seems to think he's still a child so convincing the cephalon is not an option. And he's not confident enough to go ask the Holdfasts about it.

The warframe bullet-jumps at the ceiling, crashing into it, causing a dent in the architecture and giving a headache to himself. He remains stubborn though and immediately tries again, this time latching onto the ceiling and punching it for a bit before dropping back down.

"Aghhh. I'm coming back for you!!" He shakes his fist at the damage he's caused.

Lane then forces the door shut and moves the furniture back into place. This is his secret to uncover.

The warframe turns around and is about to leave when he remembers that he actually has weapons with him. Wandering the Zariman without at least a handgun would be unwise. He facepalms, and draws the Kuva Ogris he had strapped to his back. Nepenthe. It's a gift from Luke and though he's done some notable damage to himself with it, Lane finds it to be a fun weapon to use. But apparently not meaningful enough to remember to use it when he needs it.

Again he throws aside all the furniture and pushes the door open. This time he blasts a hole into the ceiling with the Ogris without any trouble. When the smoke from the blast dissipates, through the newly made hole Lane notices the light staring down at him.

He closes the door again and jumps up towards the siren song.

It does turn out to be a maintenance location just like Lane predicted it would be. Among cleaning supplies, there are food items thrown about and a makeshift bed in a corner. And then there's also the clothed skeleton of someone Lane's size. The Warframe freezes on the spot at the sight. So it's true. Nobody has come here yet. He will have to collect the body and give it a proper send off once he's done exploring this floor.

Shaken up, Lane tries to focus on pursuing the light that's eagerly taking him in the direction of the strange song. His destination ends up being in just the next room.

Then the strange light flies into a… portal?

It doesn't look much different from the rifts he himself is capable of creating. But he also remembers Goere coming into the Colosseum to get him through the exact kind of portal. Could this have something to do with her?

The warframe carefully approaches the glowing portal. It's impossible to see what's on the other side so he sticks his hand in first to test the waters. He doesn't feel much, but notices that his arm is changing back into a human one against his own will. But as soon as Lane attempts to bring his arm back, the portal swallows him whole and closes behind him with a shrill howl.

And in a twisted kind of deja vu Lane is falling from the sky again with his heart hammering in his chest. There's some kind of arena below him and he is unable to divert his eyes from it.

Then he hits the dusty ground with a thud and a groan. He is outside the arena in front of a statue of a pompous child donning a ridiculous helmet and stomach plate.

The drifter stands up and quickly brushes the sandy dust off of himself. Then he tries to shift back into warframe form but his body isn't responding to him like it used to. The energy is still there but it's muted and dull.

Past the gate he sees a masked man sitting at the edge of the arena below. Lane approaches him to ask about what this place is, and the man goes off about how he is the warden overseeing some criminal that's being held down below. Okay, perhaps it's different then. Maybe it's deserved.

"Fuck." He curses. A couple of children stare at him with eyes wide open and Lane immediately pretends like it wasn't him talking. He looks around comically as if searching for the foul-mouthed culprit and stalks off toward the entrance of the arena.

There were no strange singing children in his Colosseum. This must be someone else's hell.

Lane declines the man's offer to go and fight the criminal and instead turns around to walk back outside. Going for a stroll seems to be a better way to figure out the place.

He goes to the edge of the island and watches the strange boats flying from one floating island to another.

Then he follows the dirt road around the central architecture and eventually ends up in an underground tunnel which then leads him into the arena itself.

Lane sighs. Searching for an exit is beginning to look hopeless. His curiosity got the best of him this time. He sits down on the stairs leading down to the jail cells and rubs his tired eyes. He needs to think over his options now, figure out how to restart life again.

As if on cue, the sky changes colour to a deep blue and grey in almost an instant. It begins to rain. The drifter grimaces in disapproval. He was about to rest his legs for a bit but is instead forced to get back up and retreat to the underground tunnel.

He gets up but the clang of metal stops him from going. Lane glances over to the jail cells. The prisoner is staring right at him through the bars. A warframe? Lane then gets down and approaches the man serving his time.

"Kullervo, huh?" The drifter addresses the warframe. There is no reply so Lane continues staring.

The warframe is filthy, severely beaten and bruised. It’s unclear what the original colour was. The back of his head is caved in, and there are dents in his body where metallic adornments should have been. His clothes are mere rags peppered with holes - holes from which a dozen knives are protruding.

"Does it hurt? The knives. Can't you remove them?" He asks but, of course, receives no answer.

The drifter shrugs. He then looks at the fancy descriptive slab next to the cell and begins reading about the crimes the inmate has committed. When he's done with the first, he moves on to the next until he's read all seven of them. By the end of it Lane's face has turned sour as though he's eaten a lemon. He un-clenches his jaw and goes back to look at Kullervo once more.

"I'm sorry. I don't know the customs of this world. But something seems to be amiss here." Lane says. At that, the prisoner turns away from the drifter and sits down in the pile of straw laid out for him.

Lane briefly glances at the still gloomy sky before getting closer to the wall next to the jail cell's bars to avoid getting rained on too much. He slides to the ground in a squat and sighs as heavy as a kubrow who’s got no clue what rent is.

He was barely starting to understand the operator's timeline, and now he's tossed into an entirely new one and has to start anew again. But this time he doubts there'll be someone like Kyn to pick him up and show him what is what. It's terrifying, maddeningly frustrating.

"I was stuck in a place too once. An unlikely friend pulled me out. I can still barely believe it. But since then nothing has felt the same anymore and I almost miss being stuck in the loop." Lane monologues "There's only so many mistakes you can make in a place with no past or future. It's comforting in a way."

The drifter hears the warframe behind him change position.

"Why?" A dull raspy voice chokes out a word. Lane turns to look at Kullervo who is now sitting with his clawed fingers wrapped around the metal bars, facing the drifter.

"I don't know." The drifter half-shrugs.

Kullervo notices the other man absentmindedly fiddle with the scar around his neck and places a hand on his own slit throat.

Lane continues to look for an answer out loud. "I guess I'm scared. Scared of having no control. Scared of messing things up beyond repair."

Then like a lightning bolt a rift portal suddenly cracks open on the stairs to the exit of the arena, singing its siren song once more. Lane jolts up to his feet and just about bolts towards it but forces himself to stop and say some kind of a goodbye to the inmate. It's the polite thing to do.

"I, um, hope you get out someday. If that's what you want. Goodbye."

The warframe lets go of the metal bars and steps backwards. He watches the drifter run to the portal and disappear into nothingness. It's not too unusual for people to come and stare at the inmate without physically engaging him but none had attempted harmless small talk before. The strange little man may be full of nonsense but Kullervo has to admit to himself that this one has to be one of the more curious days serving his sentence. He will have something fresh to cling to during the more monotone hours of wasting away in his cell.

[next]

[constantlymisspelled]

Current Project List - 2023

The Works in Progress:

Full spread sheet of every Clone Trooper Ever an where they sit in the GAR

Status: Incomplete

No Order 66 AU

Status: Incomplete

Kesett Week 2023

Status: Incomplete

Lost Property Box

Status: Incomplete

Down Comes the Rain

Status: Incomplete

A Younger Star

Status: Incomplete

Mandalorian Armour Colour Guide

Status: Incomplete

The Supercommando Codex Draft

Status: Incomplete

Timeline of Mandalorian History

Status: Incomplete

The Ones Stuck in Draft Phase:

Cal nerfs Palpatine (it's an oopsie) in a universe where Sheev kept the war going, for a long time.

Taung had their own magic, and it causes problems on purpose.

Manda'lor the Conqueror stared too hard at the sun and now they're stuck in the future with some strange people.

A Padawan from the distant past gets a ghost master from the future.

Obi Wan Kenobi is a joke the Force is playing on everyone at this point.

Stanger Things Star Wars AU. Cal's playlist accidentally saves lives, and Boba just wants his dad back.

High Fantasy Star Wars, including the Isles of Tatooine, and the Empire of the Mandalorians. And some Dai Bendu.

High Fantasy Stranger Things, that includes Eddie the Necromancer Bard, and Estefan, the frustrated Knight who has to deal with him.

Book of Boba Fett Review and Rewrite as an explicit, gory, crime family mafia series starring everyone you've ever heard of.

Star Wars Batman Au (yeah, you read that right)

The Galactic Empire became a bunch of Empires and Sheev is deeply upset by how hard it is to kill a few bloody Mandalorians

Jaster accidentally declares war on slavery and collapses the Republic. In his defense, it was held up by sticky tape, spit, and the sheer will of some well-meaning Jedi.

[Keeping myself accountable by allowing people to bully me over unfinished work. It's the only way to fly! Ill add some links to this when I'm done. One day. One day, it will all be done.]