#and its one of the first to have a plot like this

[nanamiskentos]

LAY DOWN THE LAW — 五条悟 GOJO SATORU

PLOT 𐙚 Gojo Satoru is the city's hottest attorney and your maddeningly smug boss. Ten years of will-they-won’t-they office tension come to a head when a late night at the firm finally pushes you both over the edge, right onto his desk, and then some. You might be the secretary, but tonight? You’re the one running the court, with your hand shafted around a very big . . . gavel.

FEATURING Gojo Satoru x Reader

CW 𐙚 afab!reader, MDNI, Workplace AU, Boss x Secretary, Suits!AU, Lawyer!Gojo, power plays, possessive language, desk séx, couch séx, semi-public, oràl (f), cowgírl, swítch!Gojo, líght restraínts, praisé kínk, bíting/màrking, mànhandling, unprotected séx, GOJO IS A YEARNER

WC 𐙚 5.1k

NOTE 𐙚 one of my friends started watching suits for the first time and it got me thinking of the good old days...

The firm's office was quiet. Eerily so. The sterile kind of silence that only settled after sunset, when the junior associates had scurried off and the city skyline outside blurred into a sea of flickering lights and taxi horns.

Nights like this always felt heavier somehow, thick in your chest like an aching, hungry fog. Not because of the overtime, hell, you practically lived in this building and wore your stellar competence like a badge of honour, but because after hours meant only one thing.

You were alone. With him.

Satoru Gojo.

Senior partner. The best closer in the city, a hotshot lawyer snug in designer suits. A certified dream and nightmare wrapped into one tall, toned package.

And the worst part? You didn't even mind craving his presence, like a moth to a sparkling, blue flame.

Your gaze always lingered past the edge of your desk when Gojo strolled by in the mornings, leaving you with that casual wink as though gravity bent around him, and you just happened to be in its pull. His stupidly expensive Armani suits, his smug, whiny quips and that sharp-fanged grin that made you want to slap and straddle him in the same breath.

Which is exactly why your heart stuttered when the intercom crackled to life, and his voice slid through, smooth as a neat pour of whiskey, "Doll, can you come in here for a second?"

You knew the drill. Some last-minute filing. A deposition draft he suddenly had to review. Gojo would pour you a crystal glass of scotch, pretend to talk business, and shiver when you leaned in far too close behind his oaken desk, eyes lingering on the swan-curve of your neck.

And like always, you would pretend not to notice, pressing your thighs together to relieve the wayward tension he wrought in you.

But tonight? You were in no mood to play the pretty secretary as diligently as you had been for the past few years. You grit the tips of your heels into the soft carpet to heave open the heavy glass door to his office, not bothering to knock.

Gojo glances up from a stack of clean paper, leaning back in his pristine chair with the ease of a man who brought in millions upon millions of dollars in merger deals each year for the firm. His navy tie was loosened, top button of his starch-white shirt undone.

White hair tousled as though he had run a frustrated hand through it one too many times, and judging by the way his blue eyes greedily dragged up your frame and snagged on your collarbone, you were the reason.

"Late night?" You ask, tone clipped as you watch how the city lights spilled through the high-rise windows behind him, painting him in gold, and blue, and deep, dangerous shadow.

"Thought you could help me with something," Gojo tosses a crisp folder your way, and your nails snag into the thin cardboard without blinking, "Couple of items that needed sorting."

"You couldn't have done this tomorrow? This is just copy-room administration."

Gojo tilts his head, lashes pale as snow, and unfairly long, "You were still here," he shrugs with a casual indifference that doesn't match the tension gnawing at his jaw, "Figured I'd make use of your talents."

The bob of his Adam's apple clearly gave away the flimsy excuse, for Gojo Satoru has always been hungry for the sight of you, even when he was pretending otherwise.

Tonight, though, that smug smile and velvet tone hits different, like a match dragged too slowly across the box, and your jaw clenches.

Gojo had always hovered right there, just shy of indecent in the silent hours of the night. Just enough innuendo to make your thighs clench, but never enough to tip over.

Like he got off dragging the two of you to the edge, and then walking away.

No more.

You step forward, scuffing your heel into the soft weave of the floor, and slapping the folder flat on his desk, "You always do this."

Gojo blinks, jewel-blue eyes owlish and flicking innocently, "Do what?"

"Treat me like I'm yours. Flirt with me. Buy me expensive shit, –" You lean in, meeting the defensive scowl in his eyes, "You took me shopping privately for a Hermès bag this morning, apparently just because."

You know Gojo Satoru enough to recognise the twitch in his expression, the flicker of something real and not cloaked in his endless bravado.

You refuse to let up, "So tell me, Gojo. Are you ever actually going to do something about it?"

"I thought you were seeing that investment banker from the 46th floor," Gojo mutters, jaw tight as his eyes tear themselves away from you, the swell of your chest with considerable effort.

Ah. Nanami Kento.

That fling was brief, for while you liked your men strong, you didn't quite like them silent.

No hard feelings, of course.

"That ended six months ago," you say coolly, "And when I first told you about him, you didn't speak to me for a week. What was that about?"

Silence. You can't hear anything else but the hard, pounding beat of your pulse, and the faint hum of electricity running in the background, keeping parts of the office lit.

Gojo stands, not abruptly nor angrily. Just deliberately, like a man who already made up his mind long ago.

You inch back automatically, the edge of the desk pressing against the small of your back, below the crux of your spine. Gojo follows, close, too close. Heat radiates off your boss like static, and his scent, mint and cedar, curls in your lungs.

A large hand cups your jaw, and his touch isn't rough. Gojo uses just enough pressure to make you tilt your chin up to meet those storm-blue eyes. Darker now, dilated and devouring.

"Say the word," Gojo murmurs, voice thick with something you could even mistake as longing, "And I'll show you that I'm yours right here."

Your throat bobs, a hot flush beginning to kiss the tips of your ears, "What? Here, Gojo, –" You're hissing, even though you knew the building was entirely empty, and it was well past midnight.

Gojo's index finger is pressed to your lips, "You want me to be an honest man?" A wicked but almost bashful smile ghosting over the mouth of the most confident and self-assured man that you know, "Fine. I want to kiss you."

You don't give him the chance to ask again.

Grabbing the finely tailored lapels of his suit, and pulling the attorney down into you, kissing him hard. Tasting mint, coffee and the ghost of lemon candy on his tongue as his hand slams back against the desk, and you can swear he whimpers.

Gojo chases after you like a man starved. The press of his lips both hot and urgent, his clever tongue teasing until you groan, biting his lower lip hard enough to taste the tell-tale tang of iron.

That earns you another sound from deep in his throat, something that sounds almost grateful, and he pulls you closer. Looping a strong around your waist, already tugging at the hem of your top.

You think that the only downside of having Gojo Satoru like this, is the human need to pull back for oxygen.

But he seems almost magnetically drawn to you, eyes lingering on the glossy sheen coating your mouth, his breath shallow as he heaves a sharp breath, "Always wanted to know what you would taste like."

"Oh, yeah? Got your answer?"

"Well, one part of my answer," Gojo's large hands are running along the silky seam of your stockings, and you involuntarily shiver as you push against the firm planes of his chest, snaking your manicured hand lower.

"You're already hard."

Gojo gives you a faintly embarrassed, dull look, but it's true enough. There's a rock solid tent in his dark slacks, aching for friction against your thigh, as he murmurs against your jaw, "What, you think if I put my hands up your skirt, you're not gonna' be wet?"

What use is there in denying cold, hard facts?

Gojo's hands run down to your waist, spinning you around so fast that your palms slam against the hard surface of his desk for balance.

The wood is cold beneath your skin, spotless and severe, and each pen on his desk is lined up with military precision, not a page out of place.

For now.

You can feel the white-haired man behind you, his body heat pressing into your back as he leans over, pink lips brushing the delicate shell of your ear, "This desk's seen a lot of action," he murmurs, "But nothin' like this."

Your heart is thudding as soft, suckled marks are bruised gently into your neck, "You ever bend a client over it?"

"No," Gojo scoffs, dragging his hands up your sides once more, slow and reverent as though he wants to commit your form to memory, "Only ever thought about my favourite secretary."

You're gasping, lips slack, as he kicks your legs slightly apart at the knee, and then, fuck — his fingers are sliding up your inner thigh. Bold, skilled and confident.

When he find the wet heat, slick and searing between your legs, Gojo groans against your neck, "God, you really are mine, huh?"

"Check the paperwork, then, S-Satoru," You're hissing, trying to stay snide, even as your hips hungrily rock into his touch. Ensuring that you grind your dripping, plump folds against his fingers, coating his knuckles with your arousal.

"Oh, I will," Gojo purrs, "In fact –"

Gojo keeps a solid arm snug around you, holding you up as his other hand reaches for something on the desk, and before you can question what on earth he's doing now, you hear the rustle of paper.

He's got your file, that faded résumé that you had dropped in his lap when you had first demanded he hire you. You twist your head to blearily glare at him just as he flips it open.

"You had excellent references," Gojo muses, as though he's reading aloud to a jury. Meanwhile, two long fingers are filthily sliding into you, slow and deep, curling just right in pursuit for a sweet spot, "Punctual. Detail-oriented. Loyal. Mhm, tight too. Didn't see that in the résumé."

"S-Satoru," You choke out, nails already curling half-crescents into the polished wood. His palm now roughly angled so you can drag your throbbing cunt over his hand, and still catch enough friction to soothe your aching clit.

"Ah-ah," The white-haired man clicks his tongue, hooking his middle finger so a fresh wave of slick clings to the fine dusting of pale, white hair on his hand, "That's Gojo during business hours."

"It's past m-midnight."

"Heh, you're right," Gojo snickers, battering his fingers against that roughened, sweet spot, "In that case, call me whatever ya' want, doll."

You arch into his tender touch, breath hitcing as his fingers fuck you with the kind of steady rhythm that says he's had this moment planned, fantasised and rehearsed.

His other hand warmly slips under your top, pushing the fabric side just enough to tug your bra down, and palm your breast, thumb brushing your pebbled nipple as you whimper.

"You like this?" Gojo asks, the liquid-smooth tone of his voice now tinged with a hungry rasp, and his lips continue to delicately press kisses over the nape of your neck, "Letting your boss finger you over his quarterly earnings report?"

You try to respond, but your pleas come out more as a garbled moan, stifled as he probes his fingers against the elastic walls of your cunt.

Gojo grins, "Didn't catch that, sweet girl. You're gonna' have to say it like you mean it."

"F-fuck, yes, yes," you gasp, back arching as your thighs strain with the most delicious ache, "Want more, p-please."

Gojo stills, not all the way, just enough to make you squirm, hips rolling helplessly into the hand that no longer moves, breath catching in your throat as the heat and rhythm disappear.

His touch lingers, taunting, maddening, and you whine before you can stop yourself, the sound slipping past your lips like a plea you didn’t mean to give him.

He huffs a quiet laugh, the kind that curls down your spine like smoke, "More?" he echoes, faux-innocent and infuriating, his voice that same low, slick tone he uses when convincing clients to sign over the promise of ten million dollars, "You think I just give it away, doll?"

Your response is instant, breathy and heated, punctuated by the steady drip of your slick against his desk, "I earned it, didn't I?"

And that, that does something to Gojo. You feel the change. Like a muscle coiled too tight finally snapping loose.

It's in the way his warm grip tightens on your hips, the way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years, the guttural sound he lets out as he drops to his knees with a heavy thud, slacks creased, like a man possessed.

In one fluid motion, your translucent, sopping panties are around your ankles, torn down so fast the elastic snaps, and Gojo's murmuring a kiss of apology against your thigh, and his broad hands are dragging your thighs apart like he's carving out space for worship.

"Consider this your bonus," Gojo murmurs, voice dark with promise, ruined at the mere sight of your glossy, winking pussy, and then his mouth is on you.

Your gasp punches out of you like it's been yanked from the base of your spine. His tongue is hot and wet and obscene, sliding through your folds with the kind of deliberate slowness that makes you tremble. He licks you like he's determined to learn you, like he's done the theory, read the case notes, and now it's time for oral arguments.

And God, he's good at it. Gojo is really good at it.

He flicks his tongue over your swollen clit with practiced ease, teasing little circles that send white-hot pulses of pleasure through your gut. Every time your hips buck, he anchors you tighter, one arm locking around your thigh while the other drags you closer by the small of your back, forcing you to stay still and take it so perfectly for him.

"You're so w-wet," Gojo groans into your cunt, lips slick and voice reverent, like he’s drunk off the taste of your sweet pussy, "What's the matter, baby? Can't focus when someone's actually giving you what you need?"

Your fingers scramble for purchase on the desk’s edge as he sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue rolling against it with maddening rhythm. Your eyes flutter, head tipping back, your entire body buzzing with pleasure.

Your knees nearly buckle when he hums, hums, as though he's tasting vintage wine.

When Gojo pulls back at last, his mouth is shining, and he looks positively wrecked in the best way. Flushed cheeks, jaw damp, pupils blown wide. The front of his suit is creased, rumpled beyond salvation. His deep-blue tie's hanging off one shoulder. And his blinding grin is nothing short of smug.

"Gonna' bend you over this desk now,” Gojo says casually, like he's scheduling a client call, "Heels on. Hands flat. Keep your voice down unless you want HR to catch the encore on security footage."

You barely hear the rest of the sentence, you're already moving, limbs moving on instinct, spine arching as you brace yourself against the desk.

And you don’t even realise you're obeying until your palms hit the polished wood and you feel the weight of Gojo behind you again, hot and solid and absolutely unrelenting.

And when he finally pushes into you, all thick, hot, and utterly unforgiving inches upon inches, it knocks the breath straight from your lungs.

There's no teasing now, no soft wind-up or slow drag. Just the blunt, overwhelming stretch of his fat mushroom-tip probing and filling you in one deliberate thrust that has your back arching and your mouth falling open in a wordless moan.

You gasp, the sound stuttering against your forearm as you brace yourself on the desk, eyes squeezing shut from the sheer intensity of it.

Gojo's big. Oh, he knows it's big, and he fucks like he's trying to remind you of it with every single stroke. Ensuring that you never forget the sticky slap! of his thighs tacking against your own, dribbling with arousal and the prelude to his seed.

The white-haired man's hands clamp down on your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there with a bruising grip as he snaps his hips into yours, relentless and smooth, like he’s been waiting years for this.

The desk jerks with every thrust, drawers rattling. Loose pages scatter to the floor. Gojo's gilded nameplate goes flying with a clatter, landing somewhere near your pricey heels, and the coffee mug you brought him earlier tips over, soaking a stack of contracts you'd spent the whole afternoon organising.

Neither of you care.

"Fuck," Gojo groans, whiny voice fraying at the edges, rough and low and needy, "Look at you. Taking it so f-fucking well. Like this pretty pussy was made to be bent over my desk."

You let out a strangled moan, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick wood surface, the edge biting into your hips with every push forward. Your legs are trembling, heels still on, body taut with sensation, overstimulated already and aching for more. And you try to speak, to respond, but the words break apart in your dry throat, "Y-you are so –"

"Charming?" Gojo grits out, breath hot against the back of your neck as he leans forward to press his chest to your spine, one hand leaving your hip to curl around your throat, not tight, just enough to tilt your head up, "Devastatingly handsome? Ridiculously good at fillin' you up? You're gonna' have to be more specific, doll."

You let out something between a sob and a laugh, even as your eyes roll back at the next thrust. And Gojo's voice lowers to a murmur, but there's nothing soft in it, just heat, possession, a hint of desperation bleeding through the snark, "C'mon, baby. Say it. Say you're mine. Please."

You manage it on a gasp, voice wrecked, pleasure-drenched, "I'm —f-fuck, I'm yours."

That does it. Gojo groans like you just handed him a verdict in his favor, like your words scratched some raw, aching itch inside him that nothing else could reach, "Y-yeah, you are,” he growls, "All f-fucking mine."

He fucks you harder after that, messy, frantic, a little feral. One hand back on your hip, the other dragging down your back to press between your shoulder blades, holding you down, keeping you right there as he takes you like a man who’s been dreaming about this for far too long.

You can feel every solid, veined inch of him. The way he stretches you open, the obscene slick sounds between your thighs, the way his cock hits deep and perfect on every roll of his hips. His pace is devastating, measured and punishing and so fucking good it sends white sparks bursting behind your eyelids.

You must be drooling into the desk, heat curling in your belly, orgasm building again, fast and dangerous and unstoppable. And behind you, Gojo's voice breaks on a groan as he mutters against your ear, "You gonna' come for me again, pretty girl? Wanna feel you s-squeeze me while I fill you up. You gonna' let me, yeah?"

Your answer is a breathless, wrecked moan, because yes, fuck, yes —

And that’s all he needs. You barely manage to stay standing.

Your legs are jelly, trembling under the weight of overstimulation and everything he's just done to you, your thighs slick with him, your blouse clinging to sweat-damp skin, buttons half-torn and collar askew. Your breath comes in short, uneven pants, chest heaving against the edge of the desk like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

Gojo's still behind you, spurting cock slowly being dragged out of your puffy, twitching folds, not touching, but there, looming, panting, shirt untucked, white hair wild and matted with sweat. He looks ruined. Flushed. Like he’s just sprinted all sixty floors of the high-rise with you on his mind.

And then Gojo sees it.

The faint red imprint of his hand blooming across your hip. The angry mark his Prada belt buckle left above the curve of your ass. The glimmer of your slick smeared across his cock, still hard, twitching against his abdomen, and soaking into the fine dusting of white hair crawling over his groin, glistening like proof of what he just did to you.

Gojo's pupils dilate, and whatever blue was left in his eyes vanishes beneath the darker, more reverent hunger, "Mine," he murmurs, half to himself, voice hushed and hoarse, like he has to say it out loud to believe you're real, "You're mine."

You twist to look at him, wobbly on your heels but a faint ghost of a smile paints your lips all the same, "Yeah, Satoru?" you say, voice still a little wrecked, "Then sit down."

Gojo blinks, stunned for just a second, the most in-demand lawyer in the city whipped into flushed silence from the command. But you just jut your chin toward the couch, charcoal-grey leather, sleek and smooth.

"I said sit."

There's a pause. A flicker of something wild in Gojo's incredulous expression, like he wants to fight it. But then his lips part into a grin that borders on worshipping, like he's never been bossed around in his life and is so damn into it, "Yes, ma'am."

Gojo drops onto the couch, milky and muscular thighs spread wide, weeping cock hard and glistening and flushed an angry red from base to tip. White-haired head lolling back against the cushions as he exhales like a man undone. His tie is half-off, collar loose, suit beyond salvation.

You straddle him before he can get cocky again, knees pressed into the cushions, ruined skirt hitched around your waist, heat still pulsing between your legs as you slide over his broad lap. Gojo's hands fly to your hips automatically, gripping tight, like his body's already memorised every inch of your skin like a precious canvas already.

"I'm still ya' boss, you know," Gojo says, looking up at you through those sinfully pale lashes, trying for cocky and failing, it comes out breathless and wanting.

You roll your hips down slowly, grinding against Gojo's lap, until the head of his spurting cock slips against your entrance, snagging against your walls, and his head thunks back with a guttural groan and a raspy, "Fuck."

"Don't think so, 'Toru," you murmur, voice low, syrupy, and you can feel his cock twitch against your inner thigh, jumping at the abbreviated name, "Right now? I wanna' be in charge."

That does it. Whatever minuscule control Gojo had snaps.

He grips the plush flesh of your ass, and yanks you down as he thrusts up into you, burying himself to the hilt in one sharp, perfect stroke that leaves you gasping and mewling at the tip of his cock swabbing deeply within you.

It's so utterly messy and wet, and filthy, your bodies crashing together with the raw sound of sex, of urgency, of months, no, years of restraint finally shattered.

Gojo's hungry mouth finds your neck, open and greedy, licking and biting like he wants to leave a roadmap behind, a pattern he wants to follow forevermore. You gasp, manicured nails clawing down his chest, raking through the remnants of his tailored dress shirt.

"You like that?" You're whining, voice catching as your hips start to rock once more, adjusted to the sheer girth of him, pace steady and punishing, "Getting m-marked?"

"Fuck, yeah," Gojo groans, snapping his hips up so hard your breath stutters, and a steady plap! plap! plap! echoes in the empty office. "Want you to w-wreck me, doll. Wan' the whole d-damn firm to see I belong to you."

You're certainly not gentle when you kiss him again. You slam your mouth to his, teeth and tongue and something that tastes like vengeance and victory. He kisses back like he's still starving, like he hasn't eaten in weeks and you're his last meal, what he's been craving the most.

Somehow, somewhere in the chaos, his silky tie ends up wrapped loosely around your wrists, a makeshift restraint anchoring your hand to the back of his neck, keeping you steady as you bounce in Gojo's lap, feeling him sway the thick bulge of his cock in and out of you. You can feel the thrum of his pulse there, frantic and wild, syncing with yours.

"I dream about this, you know?" Gojo mutters against your mouth, nibbling on your glossy lower lip. "Y-you. Riding me and using m-me. Fuck, I wake up hard just thinking about your voice."

Your pussy must be drooling all over his lap, and your walls tighten around him and Gojo chokes, his blue eyes rolling back for a second as his chest flushes a pale shade of strawberry red.

"Then wake u-up, 'Toru," you whisper, lips brushing his jaw, gently nipping at the soft skin, "And t-take it."

And Gojo does. He thrusts his cock up into you, hard and deep, pace brutal and beautiful all at once. His hands are everywhere, gripping your hips, palming your breasts, fingers sliding down your spine to hold you in place while he slams into you with the rhythm of a man unhinged.

Gojo's mouth latches onto your collarbone, biting down hard enough to bruise, and when you do the same to his shoulder, he whines, "More," he begs, "Give me more. F-fucking ruin me. Leave your teeth in me, I'm yours."

His hand slips between your bodies, calloused thumb rubbing tight, fast circles over your clit as you ride him, and the pleasure builds fast, white-hot and sharp, until you're shaking with it, your moans dissolving into ragged gasps.

"Gojo, –" you breathe, barely above a strangled whisper as his cock carves out loud squelches and leaves you both boneless and breathless. Jewel-blue eyes snap up to yours like you’re divine.

"That's it," Gojo growls, lower lip slack as he watches the sticky, gluey strands of your arousal cling to his thighs, "C-come for me. Come allll over my cock n' be a good girl and fall apart, my girl."

And you do.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, sudden and seismic, your whole body spasming, thighs locking around him as you cry out his name. Gojo watches, utterly spellbound, as you unravel, sweat-slick and stunning and trembling on his lap.

"F-fuck, fuck, sweetheart," Gojo gasps, hips stuttering, and soft strands of white hair falling over his eyes, "Holy shit, gonna come, fuck, I'm c-coming, –"

He spills inside you with a ragged moan, all thick, pearly seed and the rhythmic pulse of his cock's release as he thrusts deep, clinging to you like he never wants to let go. The aftershocks roll through both of you, sticky and breathless and all-consuming.

You collapse against his chest, both of you panting like you’ve run a marathon. Gojo's arms wrap around your back immediately, hands splayed across your spine, holding you like something sacred.

"Don't you dare quit on me," Gojo murmurs, voice hoarse and broken, "Swear to god, if you hand in your resignation, I'll follow you into retirement and eat you out every morning like it’s my full-time job. We can get a nice, shiny penthouse and, –"

You snort, still dazed, chin tucked into his shoulder, enveloped by the sheer, searing exertion rolling off him, intertwined with his signature, smoky scent, "You're insane."

"What?" Gojo breathes, that indignant tone creeping back up into his voice, as he trails long fingers up and down your back with slow, reverent strokes, "I'd make a hot trophy wife."

[kynimdraws]

The significance of Honmun for Korean Spiritualism in KPOP DEMON HUNTERS

Previously, I wrote how this movie did an homage to the history of Korean music/pop when they were narrating the history of the demon hunters here. In this post I wanted to talk about an important plot element from this movie, the 혼문 (honmoon). For the record this term is NOT an actual thing in Korean spiritualism/shamanism/folklore, but it definitely was made with some aspects of that in mind.

FYI: Some stuff I might propose is pure speculation based on my own knowledge of Korean culture, and not something anyone in the KDH crew has said officially, so take it with a grain of salt. If there is any official interviews/info that do come out later down the line, the post will be updated. Also possible mild movie spoilers

First the word 혼문 itself is significant. It seems to be a mix of two different words: 영혼 (yeonghon) which is the word for soul/spirit, and 문 (moon) which is commonly the word for door (sometimes can be used to mean gate). So the literal meaning of honmoon is the "Soul door/gate." And it works, because the hunters sing to emotionally connect with their audience's/fans' souls, creating a mystical barrier to shut out the demons.

Using the 무당 (mudang) trio to demonstrate the early instances of making this honmoon with the hunters, as mentioned in my prev post, is not just coincidence. Mudang were important figures in Korean shamanism (Muism) and performed various rituals/rites for all kinds of people, many serving as spiritual guardians in their villages/community. The rites are called 굿 (gut) and the purpose of them range widely (there are also regional differences).

A common theme with the gut is that these are never PERMANENT. A good example is the 도당굿 (Dodang-gut), usually an annual/semiannual rite to ensure a village or a community continues to maintain its well-being and prosperity. This is no different from how each generation of demon hunters must perform to maintain the honmoon, otherwise their purpose would have been fulfilled by the first generation and ended there.

Speaking of how there are multiple generations of demon hunters, even that seems to be covered in the movie too. A woman can be a mudang via two ways: inheriting the business by bloodline aka 강신무 (Kangshinmu), or being initiated into it aka 세습무 (Seseummu). In the current generation of demon hunters we see today, Rumi is a reference to the Kangshinmu (her mother was the prev demon hunter) while Zoey and Mira are referring to Seseummu (recruited/trained by Celine). But the mudang today don't really differentiate themselves by what type they are so its a fun little detail.

Going back to the honmoon, the movie seems to have a general set of colors to represent the honmoon's condition. By default it's blue, gold at the height of its power/function, and purple/red when weakened. I am not sure if the colors have much significance other than simple association (i.e. weakness is depicted in purple/reds since Gwi-ma and the demon underworld is that color) outside of gold, which associated with high status (but that's not just a Korea thing tbh). The one thing that is neat is at the end of the movie, the coveted "gold" color that Rumi and the girls wanted to achieve to reinforce the honmoon is not present at all. It is a wholly different iridescent color.

This too is significant since their performances, which are like big musical gut to help their world from demons, is breaking away from the usual tradition of hiding their insecurities and identities for duty. Hilariously enough muism thrive on building new traditions too. Mudang and muism are not like other organized religion in that there is no central leadership or clergy, and there is a lot of different variations on how a gut is performed. So a dodang-gut performed in the Chosun era would not be the same as a dodang-gut that is performed Korean village today, which would still have their own regional differences.

So whether on purpose or not, Kpop Demon Hunters really feel like a homage to not just kpop but aspects of Korean culture that is not as well liked or known. Hope you enjoyed this post and let me know what else you might want, or point out any errors in my writing!

[where-does-the-heart-lie]

I hope y’all like my OC’s!! I picked them cuz at least one of them is related to Fossils (duh duh duhhh)

For those who dont have an account on the artfight but are still interested in my oc’s, I’ve provided the description that i gave them on their pages under the cut off :)

There came once two siblings, as the moon still and sun brighter, but all stars must die and in her eyes-- too soon. But children, they were, and with her plea to a deity, the young sister of the dead boy came; bring my sun back to me, for I cannot live without that warmth upon my skin and heart. I want my brother back, and I will do whatever you need. The deity told the girl of the illness that ransacked and ravaged that land in a prior 200 years to her present, something that should have never effected the youth of now, yet it came for him ever still. A residue of a war they never were to be apart of, or intended rather, for there now came yet another casualty. Oh what could the girl do, she wailed, and the deity took those tears to heart. In the anguish of those fallen tears, came her wish fulfilled-- The Spirit of Health was born. Even as this spirit, the girl could do little to nothing, her aid not helping this illness that crept and crawled upon his very bone, like vine upon a trellis. So, with another bout of pleas, she came to the god, who listened, and for a second time, granted that same wish in a different form-- The Spirit of Death was born. That too failed, even able to bend his life into the route she wanted, the river still flowed the same. That limbo she stuck him in, it was no life, so she, for a third and final try, lamented to the deity, who took a final pity upon them, for there could be no other aid to offer. The girl had a familiar, a grand bird of mighty wing, with the property to carry on through death, to bounce back and perch once more to her being. The girl and her savior plotted, creating a plan to be fulfilled before the first arrow came flying over the castle walls. To use the host, her own beast, as a conduit for the ceaseless, hungering rot that revenged her brother.  Feed it pieces, subject and inflict, a loveless pet in deed. That solution could not utterly cure. In 20 years time, her familiar's body would expel the illness and produce that desired ichor, however she would not be with the bird long enough for that desire to come and pass. A thankless act, that deities work,  for soon there came a plot upon them. The girl and her waxing sun, not they but a HE, a masculine force far beyond their doing. Her failure of courtship, an ex lover perhaps, he came all the same; it came time to hatch a plot. To usurp a kingdom, to kill a being far beyond the flesh and human bone, to end a deity that once held itself upon the little girl, now woman's heart; it came time to end all of that rot, and pain. A bird flies, a woman weeps, and the suggestions of a ruin stand still now.�� There came no aid for that diety, no wishes granted, who was to listen to their plea but the ever roaring silence of an unwavering throne. Oh sun, oh moon, oh stars above, bear witness to blessings each. To find that cure, that fluttering hope— where is thy bird now, oh sister of mine. 🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺🌺 Doc is a No Bullshit doctor who has the ability to heal all non-magical illnesses and wounds. She travels to find a cure to her brother's illness and her bird, whichever comes first for now. She took a graft of his skin when she left, she keeps it alive with her powers, and its her most treasured possession.

💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

Busk is an inventive musician who possesses the ability to control the dead. He really doesn't utilize his abilities all that much though and chooses instead to spend his time playing music, inventing instruments (of the musical or mass destruction varieties, and doing drugs. Often in sequence of each other. He used to have a pet cow that passed away and now he wears her skull on his head in connection to her. He does not dare to reanimate her body because that wouldn't be her, that would just be him controlling her remains.

[twilightofthesandwiches]

Right from the start, Deltarune has established itself as a “Game Where Choices Don’t Matter”. Only having one ending has been core to its narrative and theming since day one. But it’s important to remember that it’s a concept that Deltarune has explored through several different ways, with two broad ‘main’ angles.

First there is the obvious way. That “Your Choices Don’t Matter” feels restrictive, oppressive, foreboding. The railroading that makes everything ‘safe’ in a way that feels just slightly insincere, the idea that making a real change in this world is impossible, the Darkners doomed to their Purpose to 'serve' the Lightners, the Prophecy that cannot be changed.

It's about the feeling of powerlessness, a lack of control. It's kinda creepy even when you're forced into a 'good ending' (like the Card Castle Darkners joining Castle Town even if you've been nothing but an absolute menace to them), but especially so if you're marching towards some inevitable and terrible fate.

But on the other hand of that spectrum, there is the matter of Player Agency versus Character Agency. Sometimes in Deltarune, your Choices Don't Matter not because the Choice was taken away from you by some Great Unseen Force - but because you, the Player, are the Great Unseen Force and the characters are asserting their Agency against you.

The general point here is that the Player's Choice often stands at odds with the narrative agency of the characters. Ralsei is the most accommodating member of the main cast and the one most likely to ask Kris (or rather the Player) what to do, and… he's also unhealthily selfless doormat who literally does not believe he's allowed to have opinions of his own and is the most fatalistic about the Prophecy. The biggest example of actual Player Choice in the game so far is the Weird Route, which requires tearing away the agency of both Noelle and Kris until they are tools for the Player.

Kris themself is also a factor in this. Being Literally Possessed means that they're really the perfect example of lacking in freedom and lacking in choices… And when they are asserting their own Agency, it's usually by taking away a 'Choice' from the Player. They often try and rebel, resist or wise-ass their way out of doing or saying something that they don't truly want to say or do.

And their most important moments are, of course, the ones they do of their own will.

It is all 'railroading' from an out-of-universe perspective because it is just the Game stopping you from doing things that will cause the narrative of the story to diverge too much, but within the fiction that the game created, it is a bold act of free will.

The characters' relationships and arcs are 'set on a path' and unchanging because they are dependent on the characters' personalities and experiences and their choices, and there's very little the Player can do to override that. Like, being discouraging towards Ralsei's character arc in Chapter 4 is a huge dick move on the part of the Player, but I doubt it will actually stop him from his path to growth. Because with Susie's support (and Kris' attempt to also support him despite our Choices)

his development is not in our hands.

Basically the one time the Player can meaningfully affect another character's arc and relationship… is Noelle in the Weird Route. And again, this is portrayed as a very dark act of manipulation that robs her and Kris of their genuine choices and will.

And nowhere is this concept more clear than with Susie. The most rebellious character in the entire cast, the one most likely to chafe against the railroady nature of the world and the inevitability of the Prophecy and also against the Player. A lot of the plot in this game has been the same, regardless of our choices, regardless of the Weird Route… because Susie's will and choices has been such an overwhelming leading force in the narrative, that the Player can do very little to change it.

We know Deltarune only has one ending, but I don't think that means we are doomed to get whatever terrible fate has been promised in the Prophecy. I think maybe there's only one ending because there's hardly any Choice a Player can make that will slow down Susie's unbreakable, unwavering, unchangeable fate-defying spirit, we will not be able to Choose to hinder her sheer Determination to break the Prophecy and give herself and all of her friends a happy ending. Susie herself is the real inevitability in Deltarune.

At least, that's the best we can hope for.

[followingthebutterflies7]

Still With You

Spencer Agnew x Ghost!Reader

Word count: 9.5k

Summary: After dying on the land that now hosts the Smosh office, you haunt the space quietly. That is until Spencer Agnew arrives and slowly, unknowingly, becomes the one person you can't help but love... even from the other side.

Warnings: Themes of death and grief, brief medical emergency, and supernatural elements.

--------------------------------------------------------

You’ve been dead for so long that time no longer makes sense.

Seasons drift like smoke through your memories, fading and reappearing in strange ways. Your name had long since faded from records, your story from memory. The world outside had changed shapes and colors, but the walls of this building have always remembered you.

You are bound to them. Not cursed. Not angry. Just… tethered.

You’re tethered to the Smosh office, though it wasn’t Smosh when you were alive. Back then, it was something quieter. A small plot of land, tenderly taken care of by an elderly man. Then the land was sold, and built on top was a studio. It was small, private, a dusty dream filled with morning light and handwritten notes. Now, a giant building lived on top of the land with its noise and laughter and ringing phones. And yet, somehow, it still feels like home.

You don’t remember how you died. Only that one day, you stopped. Breathing. Moving. Speaking. But you stayed on this mortal plane.

So you would watch. You watched the world rotate through the windows. You watched the building change hands, colors, seasons. 

In the beginning that was all you could do. Watch as new people came and went, carrying mugs and laptops and bits of their lives into the space that once held yours. You didn’t mind them. You didn’t feel much, really, just vague flickers of memory, like the echo of warmth in a long-abandoned blanket.

Then he walked in.

Spencer Agnew.

You noticed him the moment he stepped into the room. He didn’t move like the others, he didn’t demand attention. He didn’t take up space loudly. He wasn’t always making jokes or trying to be heard. He was quieter. Softer. His eyes were thoughtful, quiet in a way you understood. Something about him stirred something in you.

And so you began to watch him.

At first, it was simple. You’d hover near the ceiling when he stayed late, watching the soft blue light from his laptop paint shadows under his eyes as he worked in silence. He always looked a little tired. A little lonely. You recognized the shape of it in him.

One night, he left a mug on the counter of the kitchen, too focused on finishing editing a video to know he missed the sink entirely. It was stained, forgotten, probably destined to be left there for days.

You stared at it. You’d never moved something on purpose before. But you wanted to.

You reached for it, focusing everything you were on the smooth ceramic. It took all your strength. But slowly, slowly, it slid across the counter and settled right next to the sink.

He didn’t notice the next day. But it didn’t matter.

You felt a rush. A flicker of something that hadn’t stirred in decades: purpose.

So you did more. You began to help, just little things, gestures so small he might think he was imagining them.

You straightened a stack of papers that had scattered across his desk, organizing them subtly. You gently nudged his chair back under the table after he left, knowing he would’ve tripped on it when he came back. You tucked his forgotten hoodie, soft and crumpled, onto the arm of the couch for him to find later.

When no one was watching, you’d float close and tidy the notes on his whiteboard, straightening them and placing the schedules in chronological order. Turning off his monitor when he forgot. Plugging in his phone before it was about to die.

It took a lot of your ghostly energy, so your little things to help happened sporadically and would go unnoticed. You told yourself it didn’t matter whether he noticed or not. That doing it for him was enough.

But when he paused one day, just paused, and glanced around the break room after finding his favorite snack already laying out on top of the counter? You felt like sunlight cracked through your chest.

He didn’t say anything. But he smiled. Soft. Confused.

It made you want to do more.

Weeks passed.

You figured out how to move light things without exhausting yourself. You got better at it, more subtle and more careful. You learned the hum of his routine: when he came in, when he needed quiet, when he needed comfort. You adjusted the thermostat on cold days. Nudged his chair into the beam of sunlight in the late afternoon.

You noticed he liked Mountain Dew Kickstart, but with all his late nights he would keep forgetting to buy more. So you pushed the last can to the front of the mini fridge. He drank it the next day and murmured, “Huh. Thought I was out.”

You nearly burst.

You had never been able to help someone like this before, not even when you were alive. And now? Now you were part of his life in little ways. Hidden ways.

And it made you happy.

Eventually, you got bolder.

You pushed his keyboard back when he started dozing off at his desk. You lowered the lights when he had a headache. You turned on a calming playlist, some lo-fi and soft piano, when he seemed overwhelmed.

You started caring. Not in some abstract, ghostly way.

You tried to take care of him. Because it was the only way you could. You worried about him. About how late he stayed, about the knots in his shoulders, about how often he put others first and forgot himself entirely.

You wondered if he was lonely.

Because you were.

But you didn’t feel so alone anymore when he was here.

And sometimes, just sometimes, you let yourself think: Maybe I’m not just helping him. Maybe he’s helping me too.

Months passed.

Spencer paused more, noticing the little things you did for him around the office. No one noticed but him. And even then, he never said anything. But he saw.

The way his hoodie never ended up on the floor, even when it was completely hanging off the back of his chair. The way his spilled pens on his desk always found their way back to their cup. The way the room was always just a little more comfortable than it had been a moment before.

He started to pause longer. Smile wider.

Spencer came into work one morning to find his desk completely clean and organized. He had swore he left a mess the night before, having  an extremely long day of meetings and editing. He thought he hadn't bothered to clean, just wanting to go to bed and whispering under this breath that he would deal with it in the morning on his way out the door. 

He now stared at his spotless desk, tilted his head and muttered, “Weird.”

But he wasn’t scared.

He was curious.

That night, you sat by his desk long after he left. You hovered just above the surface, fingers ghosting over the place where his hand had been.

You ached. Not painfully. Not tragically. But in that quiet, hollow way you ached for something just out of reach.

-------------

The moment it changed forever was so simple.

Spencer was in the kitchen by the microwave, heating something up. Leftovers, maybe, you weren’t sure. You were just happy he remembered to eat. He looked tired. His hair was a mess, one shoelace undone, wearing that old sweatshirt he loved so much it was practically unraveling.

He turned toward the sink. The plate and fork he needed was already there, clean and waiting.

He hesitated.

Looked around.

No one else was in the office.

He stood there for a second, his brow furrowed. And then, so softly, like it might break something-

“…Thanks.”

Just one word.

But it shattered through you like thunder.

He didn’t even know what he was thanking. Maybe he thought it was a coincidence. Maybe he was humoring himself. But it didn’t matter.

Because he said it.

He felt you.

And you, a ghost lost to time and memory, smiled for the first time in years.

You weren’t just echoes anymore.

You were real.

To him.

After he says thank you, you don’t move for a long time.

You hover in the corner of the kitchen, soaking in the sound of his voice. You play it back in your head again and again. How he said it without sarcasm, without fear. Just softly. Like it came from somewhere quiet and sincere.

Like he meant it.

For months, you’d done things in secret. Left no proof, no trail. You’d given yourself a hundred small joys watching him smile at the results without ever asking why.

But now? Now he knows someone is here.

And you want more.

That thought terrifies you.

You don’t know if it’s allowed, ghosts wanting more. Longing for something beyond flickering lights, clean dishes, and folded sweatshirts. But it’s too late. The want is already there, blooming like ivy in the corners of your soul.

You start to leave signs. Small, gentle things. A tiny paper heart on his desk made from the corner of a Post-it note. A thumbprint in the dust that spells a crooked hi.

You think he’ll laugh. Maybe roll his eyes. Pretend it’s someone messing with him.

But he doesn’t.

He pauses. He stares. His lips curve, but not in mockery. In awe.

“Okay,” he murmurs one night. “So you’re real.”

Your breath, if you could take one, would catch.

You’ve never felt so seen.

You get braver after that.

You leave little notes. Tiny, careful things. Never too much, never enough to frighten him. A single word here. A short phrase there.

Rest.

Eat something.

You’re doing great.

He starts talking back.

Not every day. But when the office is empty, and the lights are low, and the moonlight spills through the only two windows in the office, you hear his voice.

“You’ve got good timing.”

“Are you watching over me?”

One night, he leans against the doorway, cradling a tea you left him, and says, “You’re the best coworker I’ve ever had.”

You laugh. Not out loud. But the kind that ripples through your whole being like a warm wind.

Because you are more than a ghost now. You are company. You are comfort. You are someone.

The next note you leave him next takes all your energy. You pour everything into it, into forming the words on a sheet of printer paper you drag slowly into place. Just a simple sentence in your old, looping script:

I see you too.

It sits on his keyboard when he arrives the next day.

He freezes when he sees it. You watch the color drain from his face. He picks up the note like it might vanish. His thumb traces the edge of the paper. For a moment, you think he might cry.

Then, softly, reverently, he whispers, “I believe you’re real.”

You want to reach for him. To touch his hand. To tell him that you’ve never felt more real than you do right now, standing unseen beside him in this strange little office that somehow became your shared home.

He folds the note gently and presses it to his chest.

You stay with him the rest of the night.

Not just in spirit. In feeling. In presence. In love.

Because that’s what this is now, isn’t it?

It’s love.

It’s gentle, impossible, bittersweet love. And you would stay in these walls a thousand years more if it means being near him.

-------------

You don’t remember what death felt like. But you’re starting to wonder if it felt like this-

The moment Spencer falls.

He’s alone again, editing late. You’ve settled in your usual corner, watching the glow of the screen cast soft halos over his tired face. You’re learning to read his expressions; the little lines of stress, the way his eyes dim when he’s too tired, the way his fingers pause when he forgets he hasn’t eaten.

But this time… his hand falters.

One second he’s typing, half-lidded with exhaustion, a sandwich uneaten beside him. The next, his hand seizes up. His posture wavers. You see it before he even knows something’s wrong. That subtle drop in energy. The sharp breath. The way his fingers fumble over the keys.

You float forward, immediate and desperate.

He breathes sharply and leans forward, gripping the edge of the desk. A sound escapes his throat, tight and strained.

“Spencer,” you whisper, though you know he can’t hear you.

He tries to stand from his chair. Doesn’t make it.

His knees buckle. He crumples.

You scream. No one hears. You reach for him out of instinct, but your hand passes through his arm as he collapses hard onto the carpet.

Spencer slams against the floor, his head missing the edge of the desk by inches.

You’re at his side in an instant, panic coursing through every particle of you. You can’t touch him, can’t feel his skin or press your hands against his chest or scream into the void loud enough to make anyone hear.

He’s not okay.

He’s not okay.

His breath is shallow. Quick and weak. His face, flushed minutes ago, is now pale and clammy.

You hover over him, trembling. Your edges begin to blur.

You don’t know what’s happening, only that it’s urgent. Only that if someone doesn’t come, you’ll lose him.

You can’t lose him.

You just got him.

You scan the room wildly. There has to be something. Some way to reach someone.

His phone’s too far. You can’t move anything heavy. You can’t scream loud enough for the walls to echo.

But then-

His laptop.

Open.

Slack window still up.

Angela’s name glows green in the corner.

Your energy is limited, condensed and fleeting, but desperation changes things. You hover above the trackpad and pull yourself together into a single point of energy.

This isn’t like pushing a chair or flickering a light. This is control. This is direct.

You’ve never tried anything like this before.

But love has made you bold.

The mouse jerks once. Unnatural. But it moves.

You almost lose yourself.

Then again.

Your vision flickers. The edges of your world tremble. 

You focus. Channel everything you are.

Click.

Message box open.

You slam yourself into the keys.

come now

spencer need help

please

It looks garbled. The grammar is wrong. The punctuation disappears midway. But it’s enough.

You hit enter.

You see Angela type back almost instantly.

who is this???

is this a joke?

what’s happening??

Your response is rushed. Broken.

help now

office

please

And then the light beside her name disappears.

She’s gone.

Running.

You collapse next to Spencer’s body, your energy flickering dangerously. You feel your connection to the room beginning to slip. That took everything you had, and you were fading. 

But Spencer’s breathing.

Barely.

Enough.

You whisper to him, though your voice has no weight.

“You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

The paramedics arrive five minutes later.

Angela bursts into the office first, crying and frantic, stumbling when she sees him on the floor. Shayne is with her, shouting directions and keeping her out of the way. The ambulance’s lights reflect in the windows, painting red streaks across your vision.

Angela is sobbing. “I don’t even know who sent it,” she says to Shayne, shaking her head. 

They watch with you as paramedics lift Spencer gently, strapping him onto the gurney. Words are called out that you don’t understand. Vitals. Stabilization. Glucose levels. Dehydration. Stress.

“Geez,” someone mutters. “If we’d been just two minutes later-”

But you don’t let them finish the sentence.

Because he wasn’t two minutes too late.

You saved him.

You did.

Even when you shouldn’t have been able to. Even when death told you there was nothing more to do.

You reached across the veil. And he’s alive.

He’s alive.

You don’t have a body to cry with. No hands to wipe your face. No breath to shudder out in relief. But when they roll him past the reception desk, you follow, your essence weak and fading.

You stay in the doorway, unable to go any further but wishing you could. You watch until the ambulance turns the corner and disappears into the dark.

And then you collapse onto the floor, drained of everything you are, but relief warms you like sunlight through a dusty window.

Because he’s not gone.

Because he’ll come back.

Because Spencer is alive. 

-------------

Three days pass before Spencer returns to the office. 

He moves slower than before. He’s quiet. Each step is measured, careful. There’s still a faint shadow under his eyes, and his shoulders slump like they’re bearing the weight of something heavier than just recovery. But he’s here.

Breathing.

The air changes the moment he walks in.

Everyone gathers quickly, Shanye, Angela, Amanda, the crew from the bullpen. They welcome him back like sunlight breaking after a storm. There are jokes, half-hearted attempts at teasing, but they’re coated in a layer of concern that no one hides particularly well.

“I swear,” Shayne mutters, “when Angela called me, I thought- man, I thought we were gonna lose you.”

Angela wraps him in a hug a little too tight, eyes wet. “You scared the hell out of me.”

And then come the questions.

“How did you get a message out?” “Did you call her somehow?” “Was it a scheduled message or something?” “Did you crawl to the computer or…?”

Spencer just blinks. Tries to remember. 

He frowns faintly, brow furrowed.

“I… don’t know,” he says honestly. “I barely remember. I just… I swear someone was there.”

His voice goes soft. Almost reverent.

He glances upward, looks down the hallway, and his eyes land directly on your corner.

The one near the old filing cabinet. The place you always hovered, where the sunlight painted quiet gold against the wall. The place he’d instinctively grown to glance toward when he needed peace.

And this time, he smiles.

Something in him settles.

When the others finally drift away, back to work and editing and noise, Spencer slips into his chair. 

You’re already there. Waiting.Hovering in the corner of the room like you never left, watching with bated silence, terrified that maybe this will be the time he moves on. That the memory of that night, the miracle, has blurred like a dream.

But he turns his chair.

Not toward his screen. Not toward the door. Toward you. Right into that golden patch of afternoon light.

And he smiles again. Soft. Certain.

“I know it was you,” he says.

Not a question. A statement. A fact. 

You blink the fairy lights above him. Just once. A slow, gentle pulse.

It’s the only way you know how to say: Yes.

Later that evening, when the office empties and dusk begins to settle into the corners, Spencer doesn’t touch his laptop. He just sits. Not editing. Not working. Just... being.

The lights are low. The room hums with the last warmth of the day. A soft breeze rustles a sheet of paper on his desk. You stay nearby, coiled in the silence. 

“I don’t know how you did it,” he murmurs into the quiet. “But I’m still here.”

He reaches forward slowly. His hand, still pale with recovery, hesitates over the desk before he lays it palm-up against the wood.

“If you can… if you’re listening,” he says,  “can you touch me?”

You don’t move at first. You're afraid.

But then you float closer. Closer still.

You hover just above his hand.

You know it won’t be like skin on skin. It never will be. But maybe, if you try hard enough. You gather everything you are;  memories of sunlight on your skin, the warmth of a summer laugh, the feeling of his breath as he sleeps on the couch beneath you.

And you lower your hand.

The tips of your fingers brush his palm.

He gasps.

His breath stutters, sharp in the quiet.

“I felt that,” he whispers, stunned.

His fingers curl slightly, like he’s trying to hold the feeling in place. It’s not solid, but it’s there. Like static. Like the whisper of wind across skin. Like the warmth that lingers after someone’s hand has already let go.

He looks up and straight at you. Right through you.

But his gaze is clearer now. Sharper. Like he almost sees the shape of you.

“I don’t care what you are. Ghost, spirit, angel- I don’t care.”

His voice cracks at the edges.

“You saved my life.”

And in that moment, you want to cry. You want to scream. You want to fold yourself into him and say everything you’ve held in silence. That you watched over him. That you listened to every word. That he brought you back to life in all the ways that mattered.

But you can’t say it.

So instead, you reach again. You let your hand hover just over his chest, where his heartbeat flutters beneath the fabric.

And he places his own hand there.

They pass through each other, flesh and air. But you swear, in that moment, the space between you shimmers. It’s not a pulse. Not exactly.

It’s a promise.

You’re not alone.

Not anymore.

And neither is he.

-------------

Spencer starts leaving the lights on when he leaves the office. 

Just in case you want to see. Just in case you get lonely.

He knows it’s silly. There’s no switch in the afterlife. No bulbs to warm a ghost’s hands. But still, he can’t bring himself to leave you in the dark. Not after everything.

He brings two mugs of tea from the kitchen now. One filled with his favorite, and the other one with what he always imagines you’d choose. He sets yours down gently across from his laptop before settling in with his own. And even though he knows you can’t drink it, he still waits a beat before sipping, like he's toasting you in some invisible ritual.

It’s simple. Soft. Like he’s sharing something special with you.

He talks more now. Quiet, half-hushed confessions between midnight edits and the blue glow of his monitor. It starts with little things. Just how his day was. What he saw when he went out. How he's trying to cook more, write more, be more.

“I used to be scared of being alone,” he says one night, absentmindedly. “Not scared-scared. Just… aware of it. Too aware.”

He glances toward your corner, the one you always linger in and where the light hits gold across the carpet. And for the first time, he smiles at it without sadness.

“But I don’t feel alone anymore.”

Your energy shimmers, soft and warm, and the fairy lights in your corner flicker just slightly in response. The room sighs around him. You stay close.

You always do. 

After a month of your quiet cohabitation, your shared silence, your rituals and rhythms, Spencer begins to research.

Not obsessively.  Not out of fear.

But gently. Curiously.

Like he’s learning the language of someone he’s falling in love with.

You hover over his shoulder as he scrolls through pages titled things like residual hauntings and spiritual anchors. He takes notes on post-its in his quick, looping scrawl. He scribbles questions into a spiral-bound notebook:

Why this building? 

Why me? 

Why now? 

Sometimes he types into the search bar and deletes the words before finishing. Sometimes the questions are too big, or too honest.

You ache to answer his questions. But you’re still bound to silence.

So you respond in the ways you know.

You flip his notebook to a page he skipped. You nudge his pen toward symbols he's overlooked. And one night, you spell the word DREAMS across his keyboard with old magnetic letters from the whiteboard wall.

He sees it.

Stops.

And whispers, “Okay.”

He dreams of you for the first time a week later.

He’s asleep at his desk again. Hishead tucked into the crook of his elbow, soft breaths shifting the papers beneath him. You hover close, heart aching with a love that has no voice.

And then-

You slip in like fog through a crack in the window.

The dream isn’t the office. Not exactly.

It’s an in-between version of it. An echo of what it used to be. Before the paint. Before the furniture. The air is gold and slow, drifting with dust like snowfall. The windows are tall and cracked. The floorboards creak under memory.

You’re already there. Standing in the warmest patch of sun.

Then Spencer appears.

Lighter. Softer. Dressed in one of those worn hoodies you always fold for him. His hair curls at his temples. He looks around-

And he sees you. 

Really sees you.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak.

He just smiles. A smile so full of wonder and warmth, it nearly breaks you.

Like you’re not just a ghost.

Like you’re a miracle.

You raise your hand.

And this time, in this dream, it connects.

He doesn’t hesitate. He laces his fingers through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Hi,” he says, softly.

You try to say it back. But the dream is already slipping. You feel it pulling. Fading. You hold on as tightly as you can, but the light stretches and bends. Your feet lift.

His voice chases you into the dark. “Don’t go.”

The next day, Spencer stares at his mug for a long time. 

He doesn’t speak at first. Just runs a thumb around the rim, lost in thought. Then, so quietly you almost miss it-

“I saw you.”

Your energy brushes over his shoulder like wind through leaves.

“I felt you,” he says, eyes glassy with wonder. “In the dream. That was real, right? That was you.”

You answer the only way you can. You reach for the blinds and tilt them ever so slightly. Let the sunlight fall across his desk the way it had in the dream. The warmth touches his hands.

He nods. “Okay. Okay, good. I’m not losing it.”

He places both hands flat on the desk, grounding himself in something that isn't quite the real world anymore.

“You’re trying to reach me,” he says. “And I want to help you back.”

Over the next few days Spencer starts meditating. 

He lights candles. Reads dog-eared library books about crossing veils and tethering souls. He whispers to you in languages older than cities. Draws quiet circles in chalk he wipes away before anyone else arrives.

You watch it all with quiet awe.

He’s not afraid. Not even a little. And when he opens a fresh notebook and titles it Ways to Communicate, you nudge it open to the first blank page before he can.

That night, he asks gently into the silence:

“What’s your name?”

You hesitate.

It’s been so long. 

But you remember the shape of it in your mouth. The rhythm of it on paper. The way it used to sound when someone called for you in another life.

You gather your energy. Press your fingertip into the condensation on the window. And slowly, you write it.

Your name. 

Old. Beautiful. Yours.

Spencer repeats your name under his breath. Like it’s sacred. Then again, softer:

“It suits you.”

Days pass like this.

Nights blur into mornings. He finds little ways to talk to you. You leave answers in signs and shadows. He answers with notes, whispers, the way he leaves half a sandwich on the desk just in case.

You start appearing in his dreams more often, and each time is a little longer, a little brighter. You never speak. But your hands always  find his. And it feels like everything.

In one dream, he brushes your cheek with his thumb.

You cry. You didn’t know you still could. 

He leans forward.

His lips almost meet yours.

But he wakes up before you can feel it.

You do too. 

Both of you left aching with the same unspoken question.

What are we becoming?

One afternoon, he stays late just to read. Not scripts. Not edits. Just a thin book with silver foil lettering titled Crossing. The subtitle reads: When Spirits Choose to Stay. 

You curl beside him on the couch, your energy sinking into the cushions like warmth into fabric. He doesn’t look at you, but he speaks.

“I don’t think you’re stuck,” he says. “I think you chose this.”

He sets the book aside and looks at the place where you always sit.

“You stayed for me.”

You don’t answer with light or movement. You don’t need to.

He hears it in the stillness.

He blinks once, slowly. Then smiles.

“I want to stay for you, too.”

He reaches out, fingers brushing the space beside him.

“Will you keep meeting me in dreams?” he asks. “Until we figure this out?”

You press your hand to the couch cushion next to his. It dips, just slightly. Enough for him to feel. 

He exhales like it’s the first full breath he’s taken in years. And when he lays down, resting his head on the pillow you quietly fluffed behind him, his hand falls into the space where yours would be.

And when he drifts off, you go with him.

Hand in hand.

Step by step.

Somewhere between.

-------------

Spencer buys a candle shaped like a heart.

Not a soft, cutesy heart. A real one, grooved and raw, sculpted in red wax with ridges like veins, chambers twisted into shape. It’s grotesque and honest. Anatomical. Human. 

When it arrives in a cardboard box stuffed with black crinkle paper, it feels more like an offering than a purchase. A typed card inside reads:

To bind what has already been bound. To reach what already reaches back. Burn with intention. Burn with belief.

You hover beside him as he opens it, watching the way his hands hold it like it might shatter.

That night, Spencer sets it in the center of the conference table after everyone else has left. No cameras. No lights but the overhead glow and the soft flicker of flame. No audience.

Just him. 

And you.

Faint music hums from a speaker somewhere in the room, low, lilting, familiar. A song you once drifted to in his dreams. Something sad and warm.

“You don’t have to do this,” you whisper, knowing he can’t hear but hoping he feels the thought anyway.

He lights the candle. The flame curls up like a sigh.

Then he closes his eyes.

“I don’t want to just feel you in dreams,” he says, voice low and trembling. “I want to hear your voice. I want to see your face. I want to know you.”

He takes a deep breath. His hands tremble.

“I don’t care how long it lasts. One hour. One minute. I just want to give you something back.”

Your energy wraps around him, warm and shimmering.

You can feel it. The magic hums like a heartbeat.

The veil is thinning.

And then the world begins to unravel.

Color stretches at the edges of your vision. Light blooms. The walls of the office blur and twist like smoke. You feel your essence folding inward, being woven together. Condensing. Sharpening. And then-

Your knees buckle.

You hit the floor.

You hit the floor.

You feel the floor.

You feel the scratch of the rug beneath your palms. The pulse of the candlelight is warm against your cheek. The weight of the air in your lungs. Breathless, dizzy, real.

You hear the hum of the fluorescent lights above, the creak of the old table, the sound of-

“Hey- hey!”

Spencer’s voice. Closer than you’ve ever heard it.

You lift your head. Slowly. Disoriented.

And there he is. Looking right at you. 

Not through you. Not at your shimmer. At you.

His eyes go wide. His mouth parts, breath caught in his throat. He drops to his knees beside you like gravity has yanked him down.

“You’re real,” he whispers, the words crack as they leave him.

You blink. Try to move. Your fingers twitch, shaky and slow. You try to speak.

Your lips form the word.  “You…”

Spencer reaches out, but stops. His hands hover just shy of your shoulders, as if afraid you’ll vanish the second he touches you.

“You brought me back?” you whisper.

He nods. Shaky. “Can I-?”

You nod before he even finishes the question.

And when his hands land on your arms, warm, solid, grounding, you both gasp at the contact.

It’s like touching something holy.

It’s not perfect. There’s a faint shimmer around your form. You feel fragile, like blown glass or like spun sugar. But you’re here.

He pulls you into a hug before he can think better of it. And for the first time since you died, you feel held.

You fold into him. Arms curling around his back. Your face presses into his neck, and you breathe him in. He smells like citrus shampoo and the worn sweatshirt you always fold. And something else.

Home.

His arms tighten around you like if he holds you hard enough, you won’t slip away.

“I don’t know how long this will last,” he murmurs into your hair, voice thick with disbelief. 

“I know,” you whisper. 

“I’m not going to waste a second of it.”

He helps you to the couch, half-guiding, half-carrying you as your legs remember how to be real. The world feels too big. Too solid. Too beautiful. You sink into the cushions together. He doesn’t let go of your hand once.

“Tell me something about you,” he says. “Anything.”

You hesitate. You have so many lifetimes stored up. You think back to your first one, when you were actually alive. 

“I used to write poems,” you say. “Bad ones.”

He laughs like you just told him his favorite secret.

“Tell me more.”

So you do. 

You tell him about the building, about what it was before. The windows before they were replaced. The peeling wallpaper in the hallway, long painted over now. The way you used to dance barefoot on the floorboards when no one was watching, long before they were covered by concrete.

He listens with the kind of reverence people usually reserve for prayers.

And then it’s your turn.

You ask him questions. What he wanted to be when he was a kid. (A cartoonist.) What his favorite sound is. (The clink of ice in a glass.) What he thinks about when he’s editing at 3AM. 

“…Mostly you,” he says, almost shy.

Your heart stutters.

“Me?”

Spencer nods and leans closer. His thumb traces the inside of your wrist.

“Always you.”

Your body feels like it’s glowing. You don’t know how to carry this kind of love- not with hands so newly real. Not with a body made from borrowed time. But you try.

You try to hold it all.

The candle’s flame starts to flicker.

You feel the shift. A tug at your edges. A soft unraveling. 

Your vision fades around the borders. Your fingers blur. You’re slipping again.

“It’s ending,” you whisper, your voice barely holding.

Spencer shakes his head. “No. Not yet.”

You try not to cry. But tears spill anyway.

You look at him. At this beautiful, quiet boy who spoke to empty rooms and trusted there was something listening.

“I don’t want to go back to being a shadow,” you admit. “Not after this.”

“You won’t.” He grips your hands tighter. His forehead presses to yours. “I’m going to find another way. I swear it. This- this is only the beginning.”

But you both know.

The candle’s flame gutters low. 

Your fingers begin to pass through his again. The grief in his eyes is sharp. Bare.

But just before you vanish completely-

He kisses you.

A trembling, desperate, perfect kiss.

And you kiss him back.

And then you’re gone.

The office is still. Dim. The candle extinguishes with a soft hiss.

Spencer doesn’t move for a long time. He sits in the dark, hand pressed to his lips.

And slowly, softly, he smiles.

“She was warm,” he whispers.

Then he leans back, eyes closed, and lets the last curl of smoke wrap around him like your arms once did. He doesn’t cry. Not because he’s not broken, but because he isn’t afraid.

You came to him.

You held him.

You let him hold you back.

And that means something has changed.

-------------

Spencer doesn’t treat the office like an office anymore.

He moves through it like it’s sacred ground. Like every scuff on the floor and groove in the desk might hold part of you. His footsteps are softer. His routines are slower. Reverent.

He starts whispering your name when he walks in. Not every time,  but when it feels right. When the weight in his chest swells a little too much. When the air smells like dust and lilacs, like the dream where you laughed in the sun.

Sometimes, he doesn’t say anything at all. He just looks toward the corner where you always hover and nod. A quiet “I know you’re here.”

He leaves space for you everywhere. Extra room on the couch. A second chair pulled up to the desk. A mug waiting across from his, cooling slowly but lovingly untouched. Not out of hope now. Out of habit.

And you?

You haunt him. But not the way ghosts are supposed to. You don’t slam doors or rattle pipes. You don’t chill the air.

You haunt him gently.

You fog the mirror in the bathroom with your name when he brushes his teeth after late-night shoots. You flicker the hallway light twice when he’s spiraling in edits. You press your energy into the couch cushions beside him so they dip under your invisible weight, just enough for him to feel you there. 

And sometimes, when he’s half-asleep, half-lost in thought, he reaches out. His hand finds the spot where your thigh would be. He leaves it there, steady, like he's grounding himself in your presence.

You stay as long as you can.

The haunting grows stronger.

Not louder. Not scarier.

Closer.

It’s not about a ghost and a boy anymore. It’s something else. Something in-between.

Spencer dreams of you more often now, and each dream is clearer than the last. Sometimes you speak. Sometimes you don’t need to. The two of you understand each other in ways that don’t require words.

In one dream, you lie on his chest, your head tucked beneath his chin, both of you just listening.

“This is the sound I missed the most,” you whisper, your hand spread over his heart.

He kisses the crown of your head and says, “Then I’ll keep it beating for you.”

He always wakes up with his hand on his chest, right where you rested yours, like your ghost left a handprint behind.

Then, one night, Spencer does something new.

He brings a small book to the office. Leather-bound. Gold-trimmed pages. He sits at the desk and opens it carefully. On the first page, he writes in careful, deliberate ink: 

Things I Know About You

He flips to the next page and writes:

You don’t like cold floors.You always nudge my chair toward the sunlight in the afternoons.You fold my hoodies the way my mom used to.You smell like lilacs when you’re close.You laugh without sound, but the air warms when you do. You saved me.You stayed.

You hover over his shoulder, reading each line. And if your ghost-heart could beat, it would pound. You ache with a kind of love you didn’t know you could still feel, something that belongs not to memory or grief, but now.

You leave him a message that night, etched softly into the condensation of his water glass:

I will never leave you.

He sees it. Reads it. Smiles. He presses his palm to the glass, like he’s pressing it to you. And you stay there, with him, through the night.

From then on, the haunting becomes something shared.

You start to appear in photos. Only in the corners. Only when Spencer’s in frame. A shimmer of light. A shadow that doesn’t belong. 

Once, Angela looks at a selfie and frowns. “Weird blur behind you.”

Spencer grins. “She’s camera shy.”

He never explains. But he doesn’t hide you either.

And you? You start to leave more of yourself behind. Not notes, not objects.

Moments.

A chair rocking gently when he’s anxious. The exact song he needs playing the moment he touches his phone. A soft breeze across his neck when he says something kind.

It’s not control. It’s companionship.

You are no longer the ghost of a girl who died here. You are the presence of someone who stayed. And Spencer treats you as such.

One night, when the office is hushed and full of moonlight, Spencer speaks into the quiet.

“I think we’re tethered together now,” he says. He looks at the corner where you float. “Not cursed. Not stuck. Just… chosen.”

You brush your energy over the back of his neck in response.

He shivers. Smiles.

“Do you want more?” he asks.

You pause.

Because it’s not about being seen anymore. It’s about being known.

And yes, you do.

You want more.

More dreams. More kisses that almost happen. More haunting that feels like coming home. You want to be part of his life in every way you still can.

So that night, when he finally sleeps deep and safe, you drift through the office.

You press yourself into its bones.

The floorboards. The drywall. The wires and frames and vents and baseboards. The lights. The doors. The couch that cradled your borrowed body. Spencer’s desk that holds your name.

You whisper into every inch of it:

Let me stay. Let me stay. Let me stay.

In the middle of the night, Spencer wakes up with a jolt. His heart is pounding. His skin prickles. He blinks in the dark.

You’re not in the dream anymore. You’re in the room.

The lights aren’t on.

But he sees you.

A shimmer of form. A girl in a soft shadow. You’re curled into the chair by the door, legs tucked under you and your chin resting on your knees. 

You’re sitting the same way you used to sit when you were alive.

He stares.

You tilt your head.

And smile.

“Hi,” you whisper.

The word is faint. Barely there. Just a shape in the air.

But real.

Real enough to shatter something in him.

He crosses the room without thinking. Sinks to the floor at your feet like it’s a prayer.

“I missed your voice,” he says, hoarse.

You reach out. 

Your hand doesn’t pass through him this time.

It lands gently in his hair. Fingers threading through the soft curls. 

He leans into your touch like it’s instinct. Like he always knew what your hand would feel like. You don’t know how long it will last. Minutes. Seconds.

But it is lasting.

“You’re really haunting me now, huh?” he says, voice low.

You laugh, quiet and light and human.

“Yes,” you say. “And I always will.”

-------------

You try not to count the days.

The ones where Spencer touches your name in the condensation and murmurs good morning. The ones where he reads aloud from books just so you don’t feel alone. The ones where he falls asleep on the couch and your form curls up beside him, half-dream, half-memory, full heart.

But they start to blur.

And lately... they start to ache.

Not because anything is wrong. But because nothing ever really changes.

He lives in motion. And you are stillness wrapped in light.

It’s getting harder to pretend you don’t notice.

At first, it’s the little things.

He laughs less when he’s alone. He comes in a few minutes later. Leaves a few minutes earlier. Sometimes he stares at his phone for a long time before setting it down and whispering, “Later.”

It’s not distance. Not disinterest.

It’s life.

He’s alive. Still tethered to a thousand possibilities. He has improv shows, dinner plans, the occasional weekend trip to see his parents. Sometimes you watch the calendar notifications pop up on his screen, and you feel your energy pull thin.

He still comes back to the office. Still reaches for you. Still lights a candle on the desk and opens the notebook of Things I Know About You.

But you feel it.

The shift.

Time is moving.

And not for you.

Spencer tries.

Good heavens, he tries.

If anything, he leans in harder. Like he can hold time still by sheer devotion.

He starts consulting with mediums, quietly. Secretly. Not the showy kind. He finds the ones with old eyes and softer words, who talk about energy lines and rituals that respect what already exists.

You watch as he carries home books with brittle pages and ribbon bookmarks. He draws runes in chalk under the conference table. Reads aloud words older than the building itself. Always asking permission. Always looking to build, not break.

You ache as he reads aloud:

To anchor a spirit: bury an object of theirs beneath a shared threshold. To hold them here: offer them a part of your blood. To tie yourself in place: give your body to the space as they did.

And none of it works.

Your form flickers brighter when he tries. You feel the pull. But it never holds. Not for long. You never stay. 

And you know why.

Because you didn’t die for him.

And he won’t die for you.

Not yet. Not for a long, long time.

One night, Spencer curls up on the couch. His hoodie is too big. His eyes are red. He looks younger and older all at once. He tucks his knees to his chest, face turned toward your corner.

“I don’t want to live in a world where you’re just… gone again,” he whispers.

You’re already beside him. You always are. Your form rests in the cushions, curled up like memory. You press your hand to his, soft and fading.

“I’m not gone,” you whisper.

He hears it. 

Barely. 

Like a song softly flowing through a wall. A hum against his ear.

But his chest shakes. He covers your hand with his, knowing where it is without seeing it. 

“I don’t know how to let go of something I never really got to hold,” he says.

You press a kiss to his temple. Your lips don’t land. Not really. 

But he closes his eyes like they do.

-------------

The realization comes one soft afternoon in early spring.

The window’s cracked open. A breeze rolls through, warm and sweet. Spencer’s desk is scattered with papers. He’s humming, absently, tunelessly, as he looks over something.

You hover nearby. You smile.

Until you see what he’s reading.

A job listing.

Head Writer - East Coast. Full Time. Relocation required.

You hover closer. Your energy dips cold for a second. 

It’s not jealousy.

It’s knowing.

He will leave.

Not because he doesn’t love you.

Because he’s alive.

And the living are meant to go.

To grow.

To move.

To live.

You remember the sensation of it. You loved it, once. That sense of possibility. Of forward motion.

But your motion ended long ago.

You’re tethered here.

To these walls. To these floorboards. To the past. To this place.

No to him. 

And Spencer-

He belongs to the world beyond it.

That night, you don’t show up. Not really.

You dim your energy. Stay hidden in the beams and corners. Drift like smoke through the rooms he isn’t in. You can’t bring yourself to look at him.

It hurts.

Not like dying.

Worse.

Because this time, you know exactly what you’re about to lose.

You know the smell of him. The sound of his laugh. The warmth of his voice when he says your name like it’s always belonged to him.

And you know he won’t stay.

Because he shouldn’t.

Spencer notices. Of course he does.

He walks in alone. The air is heavy, too quiet.

“Hey…” he calls gently. “You here?”

Nothing moves.

No light flickers. No gentle wind. He pauses. Sets down his bag. Runs a hand through his hair.

“Are you mad at me?”

Still silence. He sits at the edge of his desk, blinking at the glass.

“I saw the job listing had moved,” he murmurs. “That’s what this is, right?”

Still, you say nothing. Not yet.

“I haven’t applied,” he says quickly. “I don’t know if I will. I- I don’t know anything right now except that every time I think about leaving, my throat closes up like I’m walking away from something I can’t ever get back.”

You flicker, weak.

Then, you gather yourself. You solidify, just enough to show yourself in the glass reflection of the cabinet behind him.

He turns toward you instantly, relief cracking through his face.

“There you are.”

You drift closer.

“I’m not mad,” you whisper.

He swallows hard. “Then why are you hiding?”

You hesitate. Then say it.

“Because I know how this ends.”

His face crumples. “Don’t.”

You reach for his hand. Press yours into it. The contact is faint. But real.

“You’re going to grow up,” you say. “You’re going to fall in love again. You’re going to leave this job, this building. You should.”

His voice is hoarse. “Not if it means leaving you.”

“You will. You’ll have to.”

You look at him with everything you have left.

“But that doesn’t mean you didn’t love me.”

His breath breaks in his chest.

He grips your hand tighter, even as it flickers, even as your form starts to thin at the edges. You’re not dying. Not again. You’re just fading.

It’s time.

You stay with him for one last hour.

You sit together, side by side on the couch, your hand barely touching his, your presence flickering warm in his lap. He talks. You listen.

He tells you the things he never had time to say. That he liked you from the first time his chair tucked itself in. That your laugh in his dreams made his heart ache. That every time he drank tea, he pretended it was a date.

You smile through the blur of your form.

You tell him things, too. That you loved the sound of his typing. That you memorized the smell of his sweatshirts. That you will never haunt anyone else, not the way you haunted him.

That you don’t regret a single second of your forever if it meant spending part of it with him.

When it’s time, you press your lips to his cheek one last time.

It lands.

It lands.

He gasps.

“Don’t forget me,” you say, even though you know he never will.

“Never,” he swears.

Your hand brushes his cheek. Your form shimmers in the glow of the dying desk lamp. You smile.

And then, like a final breath-

You’re gone.

Months pass.

The office changes. New shows. New desks. People come and go.

But Spencer never lets anyone take down the string of fairy lights you once flickered on for him.

He doesn’t talk about you often. But sometimes, just sometimes, he stops in the hallway and smiles at nothing.

And once, years later, when he brings someone new to visit, they swear they feel a warm breeze down their back. A faint whisper of laughter when they’re alone in the kitchen.

He doesn’t explain it. Just sets down two mugs of tea on the counter.

And says, softly:

“She’s still with us.”

-------------

Time passed.

As it always does.

Spencer lived a full, beautiful life.

He stayed at Smosh for years, longer than most expected. He created, laughed, grew. He made people smile even on the worst days. But he was never quite the same after you. Not in a broken way. In a changed way.

Then, he moved on; writing, performing, traveling, and living. He kept your memory quiet but never forgotten. You became the unseen rhythm of his life. A haunting, yes, but the gentle kind. A part of the melody that never played loudly but was always there, humming beneath the louder notes.

Spencer kept your memory quiet. Sacred. He never tried to replace you.

He loved again, yes, because you would’ve wanted him to. And he let himself be happy. He married. He raised a family. He said goodbye to people he loved, and found laughter again in their echoes. He was the kind of man who gave the world more than he ever asked for in return.

But even after all those years, every candle he lit, every quiet moment he sat alone with tea, it was always you he thought of.

And when the world finally grew quiet, when his hair was silver and his breath came slower, when his fingers trembled slightly as he wrote one last note in a shaky hand, he said your name aloud for the last time.

To no one.

To you.

“I’ll see you soon,” he whispered.

And then, with the kind of peace most people never get to earn, he let go.

The other side isn’t what he expected.

There are no gates. No trumpets. No crowds. No blinding light.

It’s quiet. Warm.

He finds himself in a hallway, lit by sunlight he can’t find the source of. Painted the same soft white as a memory. The air smells like lilacs and library pages. There’s music, but it’s distant and soft, like someone humming a lullaby in the next room. The floor feels cool and smooth beneath his feet, but somehow still familiar.

He walks.

No hurry. No fear.

Every step feels like coming home.

And then-

There you are.

Sitting on a wide window ledge, barefoot, legs swinging just a little, your chin resting on your knees. There’s light in your hair and starlight in your eyes. You look exactly the same and completely new, like a memory rewritten in clearer ink.

You’re just as he remembers.

But brighter. Realer.

You look up.

And you smile.

And it hits him in the chest like music. Like a favorite song he forgot he knew.

“You’re late,” you tease, your voice like sunlight on old wood, like the last soft breeze of summer.

Spencer chokes out a laugh. It breaks halfway through and turns into a sound closer to a sob. “I took the long way,” he says.

He moves toward you.

So do you.

And then you're in his arms.

For the first time in this life, or the last, or all the ones in between, fully and completely. There’s no flicker. No strain. No time limit. Just warm, solid, and perfect. Your hands on his back, his lips at your temple, the full weight of him folded around you like you were always meant to fit.

He buries his face in your neck, breath hitching.

“I missed you,” he says, voice thick.

You hold him tighter. “I never stopped waiting.”

There are no clocks here. No meetings. No deadlines. 

Just the two of you.

You and Spencer walk through fields made of light, curled up under trees that hum with memory, fall asleep on cloudless hills and wake to laughter that doesn’t need a punchline.

You talk for hours. Or maybe years. Time bends in soft, lovely ways here.

Spencer tells you everything. The people he loved. The places he saw. The books. The friends. The way he sometimes smelled lilacs for no reason. How often he looked up at a flickering light and smiled.

You cry a little. He holds you through it.

You tell him about the in-between. The quiet. The waiting. The way you watched his life bloom, even when you couldn’t be a part of it. The way you never stopped loving him, not even for a second.

He presses his forehead to yours.

“I never forgot you,” he whispers.

“You never had to,” you say. “I was always with you.”

Sometimes, you both visit that old office. Not as ghosts. As dreamers.

It’s always golden there, soft with late-afternoon sun. The couch has a permanent dip where Spencer always sat. The lights twinkle gently above, even though there’s no electricity. The two mugs are clean. The air smells like old memories and vanilla tea.

You sit together on the floor sometimes, shoulder to shoulder, just listening to the echoes of laughter through the walls.

No one’s afraid here. No one fades. No one has to let go. 

You’re not a ghost anymore. You’re not a haunting. 

You’re just you.

And Spencer, kind, complicated, loyal Spencer, is finally yours in full.

-------------

You once believed that death was the end of your story. That your chapter had closed while everyone else’s continued.

But then Spencer walked into your orbit with starlight in his eyes and made you believe in beginnings again. And suddenly, everything opened.

And now?

Now you have all of forever.

To kiss him without fading.

To hold him without breaking.

To sit beside him in the quiet, no longer waiting for the clock to run out.

To tell him, as many times as you want, that loving him was the best thing you ever did.

And the best part of eternity?

Was waiting just long enough for Spencer Agnew to walk through that door.

And you finally, finally, stay.

[deansbestfriend]

meet the parents 𐙚 dean winchester

dean winchester x gn!reader

tags and warnings: season1!dean, comedy - fluff , dean finally admits his feelings, sitcom plot if you add a laugh track. FIRST KISS! YAY!

summary: after lying to your parents that you’re still in school and not hunting alongside sam and dean, you finally bite the bullet and stop by, along with dean after he insists. during dinner, dean makes a shocking announcement.

The car rumbled to a stop in front of the modest two story house, its porch light glowing faintly in the gathering dusk. By the time he put the car in park, Dean’s voice broke the silence.

“Remind me why I’m playing house with you again?” He peered over at you, one arm on the door, there was a smirk on his face. It was both charming and infuriating to you.

“Because— you insisted.” You start, “Something about ‘watching the show’ and ‘laughing at my expense.’”

Dean laughed, “Right, right. You’re cute when you’re concerned.”

You roll your eyes, shoving the passenger door of the impala open to be met with the brisk summer air. Before he could follow your path you turn, your eyes meeting his.

“Leave the gun in the car, Dean.”

He froze halfway out of the vehicle, with a look on his face that screamed incredulity. “C’mon—really?”

“Yes! Really!” You fold your arms in disbelief. “This is my parent’s house and I would like them not to know I’m riding around with a cool gun-wielding, monster hunter.” You kept your voice at an aggressive whisper as if you could be heard.

Dean scoffed—but there was a flicker of something in his expression. Maybe amusement, maybe begrudging respect. With a dramatic sigh, he slid back into the car, tucking the gun underneath the drivers seat.

“Happy now?” He asked joining your side as the two of you made your way to the ominous looking front door. “So you think I’m cool?” He smirked looking over at you.

“Shut up,” you mutter, a smile on your face before you finally knock against the door.

By the time you had finished your first knock the door flung open. Your mother lurching herself forward into your arms. “Oh my goodness!” Her voice rang. “It’s so good to see you, it’s been ages!” Then her eyes landed on Dean. Her eye brows lifting. “And who’s this?”

Crap, you hadn’t thought about that. After all you didn’t even know who he was to you. “This is Dean, he’s—uh,”

“The boyfriend.” Dean cut in smoothly, his hand out to shake hers before you could protest or stammer on any further.

Your mom’s face split into a smile, “Well isn’t that lovely! Come in, both of you, your dad’s just finishing up in the kitchen.” She ushered you both in.

You shot a glare at Dean, he winked at you, entirely too pleased with himself.

The plan wasn’t to stay for dinner. It was suppose to be a quick in and out, a “hello” and a “goodbye” then back on the road. But here the four of you sat.

Dean to your left, your mother and father across the table. Plates of food in front of all of you.

“So, Dean.” Your dad hadn’t said much until now. “What do you do for a living?”

You nearly choked on the water you sipped.

“Security work.” He said, leaning back in his chair with practiced ease. “Family business, private gigs—keeps me busy, lots of traveling.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. You didn’t know whether to keep yourself from laughing or to calm your nerves. You couldn’t tell if your parents bought his lie either—their expressions unreadable.

“Oh, wonderful. I feel safer already.” Your mother teased. “So, how did you two meet then?”

Dean leaned forward, “Funny story actually,”

“School!” You blurted out, cutting him off. “We met at school.”

Deans lips twitched, you knew he was biting back a grin. He let you have that one, though, much to your relief.

The evening carried on, smoother than you expected. Despite your initial nerves, Dean kept up the facade with an experts ease.

But maybe with too much ease, you thought, as now desert was being passed around the table.

Just as everyone settled, Dean cleared his throat. “I just wanna say,” he began, glancing around the table till his eyes found yours. “You’ve got a helluva’ kid here.”

Your cheeks burned, you were mortified in what was next to come, but you hoped he was done. You met his eyes and figured out he was not.

“Brave, smart, more guts than anyone I’ve ever met. You should be proud.” Neither of your eyes left one another, the fear of what he would say next subsided—you actually wanted him to continue.

Your heart raced, “And I think I’m fallin’ in love with ‘em.” He finished.

His expression was soft, caring. He wanted to reach out for you, but he resisted.

“Thank you for having me.” He broke away from your locked eyes, your parents were in awe of his speech—captivated by it even.

There were only a few more bumps in the road during desert. But it was nothing you or Dean couldn’t maneuver around. The read on your parents was still a plain one—until the end of the night.

Your mother stopped you at the door, giving you both hugs. Encasing you in her arms, and giving Dean a side embrace for extra measure before sending him out the door.

“He’s different.” She says to you.

“Different in a good way?” You worried she saw through his act.

“The best kind of different.” She gives you a peck against your cheek before sending you on your way as well.

You practically skip out the door. Dean stood waiting for you outside the impala, leaned against its cool metal.

By the time you cover the distance, he welcomes you into his arms, snaking his hands around your waist and your arms connect behind his neck.

“Thank you for doing this.” You say.

“Anything for you.” He replies, his eyes locked onto yours—his voice low and full of meaning.

“Did you mean all of that? That you said in there?” You asked, now realizing that the two of you had never embraced this long—or even looked at each other in this way before.

“That’s the only thing I didn’t lie about.” He smirked, “and my name.” Which prompted a chuckle from him.

Before you could respond, he craned his neck forward. Your lips pressing into his for the first time. He took the lead, and you fell in sync with the way his lips moved.

You felt as if you were melting into his arms, leaving you two meshed together, becoming one. You felt his hands move lower, past your hips. His firm hands groping you in the process that connected the two of you.

His tongue glided between your lips, acquainting itself with your own. You even heard yourself whimper underneath his lips, the muffled sound making him hungry for more.

But, the echo of someone clearing their throat broke you apart. Your father stood in the doorway of your childhood home shaking his head from left to right.

You made a face that read, “I’m so sorry.”

Dean on the other hand gave a polite wave, with a smile as if nothing happened. He opened the passenger door for you to retreat inside. Flustered but amused.

[murderbot-moodboard]

Whew! Murderbot Episode 8. What a ride! As has become tradition, below the cut are assorted thoughts about the episode, which I typed up during my second watch. I've since consolidated them for clarity, if not brevity—fair warning that this is definitely a long post. I've divided the episode into sections and added headers to hopefully help with readability.

In/Around the Hopper:

- The Sanctuary Moon opener was interesting, because we finally see one of the infamous examples in media of a bot going rogue and killing everyone. But in this instance, it seems like NavBot 7 could be responding to some kind of betrayal, so it may not be completely unwarranted. I'm curious whether the bot will actually kill Officer Hordööp-Sklanch or not, and whether that's something we'll find out later.

- In the first scene with Murderbot, Mensah is showing outer signs that she's having another panic attack, and we get to see how she manages it when she's not in a situation where she feels she can just openly panic. Interestingly, Murderbot doesn't comment on it this time. Ratthi, sadly, has apparently learned nothing from his dismal track record with weapons. I do like that they incorporated the drone plot element from the first book by saying SecUnit was having its surveillance cameras send data to its transponder.

- GrayCris has at least three more SecUnits of "the kind that kicked SecUnit’s ass." (Wow, don't beat around the bush, Pin-Lee.) Ratthi's right, Pin-Lee is good at... whatever they did to identify the GrayCris logo. Also, it's interesting that all the stuff GrayCris is attributing to PresAux was stuff that Murderbot did independently. Murderbot and the rest of PresAux remember the fight very differently, but at least PresAux listened to Murderbot's reality checking. And I laughed out loud that Murderbot is already telling Ratthi to stay in the hopper!

In the Habitat:

- I thought it was interesting that when Murderbot checks the habitat, the shot comes to focus for a moment on LeeBeeBee's blood on the wall. Maybe as a reminder of what's at stake, and how GrayCris has tried to fuck them over so far? Or of the violence Murderbot has already committed?

- Let's do surgery! I'm not a medical expert and I'm going to ignore the question of how realistic any of this is in favor of its impact on the plot. It's cool to see all of PresAux present to support Gurathin and help Bharadwaj however they can. Bharadwaj continues to be badass throughout this whole scene. This seems to be her own time to step up and fill the role she's needed for, even when it's not something she's necessarily an expert at. (She is much better at this than at combat-style stone throwing.) Ratthi is also attempting to step up and be comforting, but although his efforts are endearing and well meant, um, that's about it, lol.

- And we get right into the angst with Gurathin refusing painkillers despite the rest of the team's protests. When Mensah won't listen he calls her Dr. Mensah, which is I think the first time he's called her that when speaking to her (iirc the rest of the time it's either "Mensah" or "Ayda"). “This is how it started.” That makes so much sense, especially considering how callous the Corporation Rim is about human safety and mental health. It's so easy to imagine Gurathin getting injured and receiving pain killers, then continuing to crave the relief/escape they bring from a completely shitty daily life and a lack of emotional support.

- Gurathin and Murderbot had the same thought at the same time! I really love how the show is playing up the parallels between them. I'm hoping we get some kind of payoff for it by the end, but we'll see. Also love that apparently Mensah has Murderbot figured out well enough to suspect it didn't “do this before” but rather got its idea from a TV show. 😂 The question is, where did Gurathin get the idea from? Or did he come up with it all on his own?

- “It wasn't so long ago you plugged into me.” “Let's hope you still remember after this is over.” Murderbot woke up and chose violence to threaten Gurathin like Gurathin threatened it when he was the one with the power. Now that the balance has shifted, Murderbot isn't being cruel to him, but it is being a petty little shit, and I love that for it tbh

- Omigosh this is amazing!!! They're mind melding through the augments!!!!! Mind-sharing is my absolute favorite scifi trope, and it's a big part of why I enjoy Murderbot Diaries fanfic that has Murderbot and other characters connecting through the feed and interacting with each other's systems. The fact that they're not only introducing it as a plot point this early in the larger TMBD storyline, but also visualizing it and having Murderbot describe it for us, makes me absolutely feral with excitement for what they might do with it in the future!

- Mensah holding Gurathin's hand. That is all. 🥹

- Murderbot seems to be pulling out its MedCenter Argala surgeon persona again. “By the way I wasn't doing this to be nice. It was just preferable to hearing Gurathin scream.” Suuuure, Murderbot, keep telling yourself that. Then it says going into Gurathin's data after Gurathin went into its data “was only fair.” Methinks it doth protest too much and might actually feel a little guilty about it.

- We're actually getting to see what it's like to interface with an augmented human mind!!!!! And apparently getting a glimpse of a visual memory and Gurathin's thoughts, it seems like. Gurathin loves the others “as one loves their own children” but he loves Mensah “as an equal; as my better.” Someone on the New Tideland server suggested that this could mean Gurathin thinks the others are all naive and Mensah is the only one who understands things the way Gurathin does. There was also discussion of whether he was even referring to the rest of PresAux or not. I don't have any answers but I'm hoping we'll find out more at some point.

- Holy shit, Murderbot, don't get lost in Gurathin's mind and start blabbing all his secrets! 😂 And then it pulls out the surgeon persona again. Also interesting that Gurathin thought he might've said something, maybe not only because these are his thoughts, but also because of how their minds are connected through the link?

- Was Gurathin working his way into Murderbot's systems the whole time? Damn. Love, love, love the handling of this scene. And Murderbot can't handle how disappointed they look, especially Mensah—it's after she turns away from it that it puts up its helmet and walks out. It's really come to care about being liked and accepted by PresAux and respected by Mensah. Feeling like it's lost that really, really hurts. (Relatable.)

After Murderbot Walks Out

- Bharadwaj seems like she may be rethinking her view of Murderbot. At least, she's admitted she would be dead without it. She seems to have reached a place where she can hold both that truth and the truth of how she felt about LeeBeeBee's death.

- Mensah's decision to change the subject seems to be partly a tactical decision, but her brief outburst at Ratthi shows that it's partly because she's having her own emotions, and she knows they don't have time for that right now. But then a few moments later, she puts her hand comfortingly on Ratthi's arm, as if in apology for her anger and acknowledging the emotions he's feeling. Also I like how all of PresAux is being insightful and figuring stuff out together in this scene. They're not supersoldiers, but they are intelligent people who work well together.

- “There was no governor module forcing me to protect them.” “I was screwed too. There was no way off this planet without my clients. It was pretty clear that I revolted them.” It's good to have these reminders of Murderbot's perspective. It still can't trust anyone except itself will look out for it or prioritize its survival. Love that we got to see it watching its favorite episodes to self soothe. "Murderbot and Its Selfish, Ungrateful Hippie Clients" sounds like a crack in the fourth wall to me, lol.

- I laughed about the throuple conversation going completely different than planned. 😂 I'll be interested to see whether Pin-Lee and Ratthi end up in a relationship separate from Arada and Pin-Lee's relationship, which would still be a legitimate poly arrangement. It's good to see that they're finally trying to be more honest about their feelings; that will make a big difference in whether they can potentially find an arrangement that works for all of them.

- Okay, re: the ending, obviously it's supposed to sound like Murderbot is thinking of betraying Preservation Aux. But I think the wording is key here—“I could write my own story: The Rogue SecUnit Who Betrayed Its Clients.” I think Murderbot's plan is going to have something to do with teaming up with PresAux to make it look to GrayCris like Murderbot turned on PresAux in some way (which could look similar to or completely different from the events that happen in the book).

- Also, the ending was quite funny to me. Murderbot, you gotta work on your entrances. And alas, Gurathin's hopes of never seeing it again are dashed, lol.

***

All right! If you made it to the end, you are an amazing person and I hope you're having a great day! You've been scrolling for a while, so you might consider drinking some water and stretching at this point. (Or don't, totally up to you.) Either way, thanks for coming with me on this exploration of Murderbot. With two episodes left, I think the best is yet to come.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Non-Linear Storytelling

Non-linear Narrative - a narrative technique in which the storyline is told out of chronological order.

That can take many forms by using:

flashforwards

flashbacks

dream sequences

foreshadowing

Non-linear plotlines can mimic the recall of human memory, or weave in fantastical elements like time travel or clairvoyance.

Advantages of Using a Non-Linear Narrative

Non-linearity as a narrative structure might be a challenge to pull off—the order in which everything is presented must still be logical, if not chronological—but when done well, it allows a more nuanced, masterful story to emerge.

Intrigue. By disorienting the reader, a nonlinear structure creates a puzzle that requires more engagement with the individual pieces of the story. Cause and effect cease to be predictable or immediately visible, allowing the reader to curate their own logic. When a novel opens with a murder, the series of events that follow carry greater weight and add to the anticipation of the final (known) outcome. When the reader knows more about a character’s fate than they do, opportunities also arise for moments of irony, be they tragic or comic.

Worldbuilding. Not only can you use a non-linear structure to incorporate different time periods into your story, taking a momentarily different point of view can give the reader more insight into other aspects of the setting—think subplots unfolding on the other side of the world that will eventually become meaningful, or perhaps historical events that come to bear on the lives of your characters.

Depth of character. The more the reader learns of your main character’s backstory, the better they understand the choices they make throughout the narrative. Instead of simply telling the reader your character is an orphan, send them back to the moment they became one. Those experiences stay with the reader as they continue through the story.

Flow. Nonlinear storytelling moves your narrative form into something closer to art. While humans might be instinctually drawn to the neatness of chronological order, they are enchanted by the complex. Interchanging the main plot with a non-linear plot allows you to capture more of what it means to be human, and then some: giving shape to all the connections that bind a group a people together, though they themselves remain blind to it.

Examples of Non-Linear Narrative

Non-linear storytelling goes as far back as the 5th century, with flashbacks peppering the timeline of the Indian epic, the Mahabharata, which tells of two clashing groups of cousins. Homer’s Iliad used a technique called in medias res, where the story starts at its mid-point.

The non-linear is still going strong in the 21st century: here are a few new and noteworthy examples.

Virginia Woolf’s To The Lighthouse follows a family’s visit to the Isle of Skye over a ten-year period. Featuring no dialogue and almost no action, the novel unfolds in thoughts, observations, and childhood memories reflected against the present moment.

In William Faulkner’s The Sound and The Fury, the narrative is pieced together by separate members of a fractured aristocratic family. Each section jumps forward and back in time, covering the events whose ripples have led to the present fate of the family.

Kurt Vonnegut, whose book Slaughterhouse-Five utilizes flashback and time travel to illustrate the life of American soldier Billy Pilgrim.

Science-fiction writer Ted Chiang’s first-person short story, Story of Your Life (which was later made into the film Arrival) examines the existence of free will in the face of the inevitable. Told from the point of view of a Louise, a linguist who learns an alien language that allows her to view her future and comprehend time in a nonlinear way, the story opens with the birth of her daughter; the reader only learns later that she knew the child would die young and still chose to fulfill that destiny.

In Audrey Niffenegger’s The Time Traveler's Wife, protagonist Henry De Tamble lives with a genetic disorder that forces him to sporadically travel through time with no warning. He falls in love with an artist (who lives an ordinary life on a standard linear timeline) and continues to jump in and out of moments in his own life, sometimes with dangerous consequences.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[kirietown]

Star Burster | Part VII

Pairing: clark kent x f!reader

Summary: what does it mean to be a man?

Content: toxic masculinity (sorry ily pa kent but im doing it for the plot),

18+

[chapter six]

Word Count: 2.8K

When Clark was four years old he single handedly lifted his father’s tractor to seek out a stray cat that was hiding underneath it. Martha Kent witnessed the entire ordeal and realized that perhaps motherhood wasn’t what she had expected. Regardless, she held only warmth in her heart after having witnessed the event. A miracle, her miracle boy, a gift she felt after years of troubles with infertility. Unfortunately, gossip around town centred around Martha's womb, and yet she never let herself succumb to the relentless harassment and she knew deep down she was one of many women at the centre of bodily speculation. It was easy for her to take Clark on, and claim him as her own, because he was her miracle, and every child despite their differences was a gift. When Jonathan Kent was told the news later on that evening, the farmer only sighed and rubbed his thumb over his eyes. Jonathan loved his boy, more than anything, but unfortunately his principles as a southern man did not often align with loving a son like Clark.

Clark’s childhood from when the Kents had found him in that spaceship had been a series of miracles and mistakes. It was hard to tell which was which at times. For example, a miracle was his ability to lift up various furniture to assist his mother in cleaning the house. A mistake was to use his powers at all in the presence of Jonathan Kent.

Now Jonathan Kent was a wary man; he considered his past unimportant and didn’t dwell on things that made him feel weak or bad. He’d seen a lot, unfortunately, and despite the fact he’d never met a boy quite like his own, he’d met his fair share of folks who were different. It never ended up pretty for them despite how bad he wanted to protect them. He remembered holding his breath the first time he held Clark, the feeling of baby soft skin and hair in his arms. He remembered shutting his eyes and picturing that the wreckage of the space craft would disappear; it never did. He avoided its presence whenever he thought back to the memory of first finding Clark, he avoided thinking about hauling the craft into his truck and locking it in an old unused shed. Sometimes, when Jonathan had bad thoughts, wicked thoughts, he'd go to that shed and stand before the space craft. He'd think real hard about those thoughts, maybe even cuss a little before turning around, locking the door and never dwelling on it again. A good man never cussed in front of his wife, a good man never dropped to his knees and sobbed over his fears for his son either, not in front of his family at least. But in that shed was a rocket that wasn't supposed to see the light of day, and buried with it were the worries of Jonathan Kent that weren't supposed to exist. Jonathan was a strong man, and strong men didn't feel.

Sure, Clark was strong, and sometimes he had a habit of walking without his feet touching the ground. But Jonathan had decided that the only miracle about Clark should be the fact that they’d found him after having prayed for a child for many years.

Clark was a kind kid, it was easy to knock some sense into him, Jonathan found. A stern talking to every once in a while was enough to get him to act straight. He shared his anxiety about lynch mobs, the government and other sources that would steal him away and hurt him if they knew he was from somewhere far far away. Clark listened eagerly, like a little sponge— a human sponge when it came to Jonathan’s words.

Clark was especially interested in Jonathan’s opinions on masculinity. The concept interested Clark; he wanted to know how to act, when to act and what to do, and who better than his father? Jonathan made his thoughts very clear on the matter because a man should always know when to back down.

“Don’t ever let anger take over, ya hear?”

”Learn to let things go,” he’d always say.

Jonathan was quite passive, and he made it his goal; or better yet, his duty to instil this ideology into Clark. Jonathan loved his son, he really did, but he’d be lying if he said the things he could do didn’t give him the heebie jeebies.

“Be kind or they’ll never accept you,” he’d say often. These words had echoed through Clark’s skull his entire elementary school years. It had really been sealed in when Clark had accidentally pushed a boy so hard he nearly flew; luckily the child was only a bit scrapped up and hardly had the attention span to care about the physics involved in the incident.

Jonathan had told Clark that evening that violent men were monsters. When Clark looked into the mirror that night he realized that if he focused real close he could start to see his own anatomy. Was he a monster? How could he be when he still had a beating heart? When he asked his father about it the next day, he only responded that people shouldn't be able to see their own organs.

It was after that incident that Clark began to avoid roughhousing with other boys. This unfortunately limited his friends as most boys in Smallville were quite taken by wrestling and boxing. The girls were at that young age where they wanted nothing to do with any boys, well, except one.

You were always nice to Clark, if not a bit bossy. You got along well with one another when it came to chatting about childish nonsense and playing games. Although Clark was a few years your senior, he still joined in your tea parties and spoke to your stuffed bears and referred to them by the names you’d given them. The two of you were close in those early years as your families often visited one another. They gossiped often, the two of you wouldn't understand until much later that they had made a bit of a deal when it came to your futures. Clark and yourself were wrapped up together whether you liked it or not, really. It was quite traditional, maybe even a little outdated for the time, but Jonathan Kent felt the idea of marriage was exactly what Clark needed to keep being human.

"All a man needs to do is provide, Clark," he'd say.

"What if I wanna help people?"

Your favourite thing had to be the fact that Clark had a habit of lifting you into the air whenever you came near. It was fun for the both of you as due to his height despite his young age it made you feel like you could fly. As for Clark, he just loved the way butterflies would flutter in his tummy whenever you laughed.

Your mother had remarked to his parents that “Clark sure is strong.” Martha chuckled awkwardly, but Jonathan stared at the two of you in fixed silence. His jaw tense as he was seemingly disturbed. He flinched subtilely every time Clark touched you after that, the same way a parent would flinch if a wild dog got too close to a baby. He shook his thoughts, Clark wasn’t a dog, Clark was a person.

Sometimes Jonathan Kent felt unsure, and it only made him feel guiltier.

In the coming days after, Clark had stopped lifting you and at first you were curious but you quickly moved on as children do. You had noted that Jonathan Kent seemed more involved when the two of you played though you were unsure why, nor did you mind, considering the man was nice. However, in his presence it felt as though Clark was suddenly guarded as though he wasn’t a reckless kid no more.

When had Clark grown into a man? You weren’t sure.

It was around when Clark turned thirteen and he burned a hole into the roof that Jonathan Kent sat him down and told him he wasn’t just from somewhere far away, but rather he wasn't from this planet. He told him also that because he wasn’t from this planet, that made him something else, and if he wanted to continue living on this planet happily he’d have to be somebody else. Clark started to wear baggier clothes that day, an attempt at hiding the muscles that were seemingly developing abnormally for a boy his age.

“A true man, a real man, is willing to make himself uncomfortable so that everyone can feel safe. Don’t you want others to feel safe, Clark?”

By the time Clark had matured into his body and was practically his own man, his father’s ideology had been drilled into him. A man had to be kind, a man had to know when to lose a fight, and that any good man had to suppress his strength. After all, everyone respected Jonathan Kent, so who was Clark to question him?

It all came to a head the night of a dance the local community centre had hosted for all the youngsters in town. It was a joyous occasion because despite the youth of the attendants, many of them had been working odd jobs since they could walk or talk. It was a good way to let loose, and an even more notorious way to find a match.

Clark lingered around the drink table which was a far enough distance from the band. His hearing had been especially sensitive these days, and any sudden noise left him cringing. He didn’t mind though, he didn’t mind being uncomfortable as long as he could keep his eye on you. You were dancing along to the music with a few of the other girls, a bright smile on your face as you spun around in circles with them. Despite his stature, Clark didn’t feel out of place as many of the other boys stuck to the sidelines during this particular song as it was more so for the ladies.

It wasn’t until the music played a more classier tune that you finally acknowledged him. A coy smile graced your lips as you beckoned him over. It took him everything in his power to act normal and not trip over himself. He was a bit clumsy now that he wore an old pair of glasses that were meant to obscure his vision a bit. His father had said his eyes were too unnaturally blue and the glasses would keep people from paying attention to them. The consequence was they blurred his surroundings and turned him into a bit of a klutz.

Luckily he made it over to you safely and managed to offer his hand in order to lead you into a dance. It felt natural to move in sync with you, and he’d never been this close to you in some years. You’d left behind the play fights in childhood and instead took up various crafts whilst Clark worked on his father’s farm. Despite the distance between the two of you, he felt as though no time had passed.

“I heard my ma and pa talking,” you said. “That they’re gonna pair us up.” A blush crept on Clark’s cheeks at the thought though thankfully you didn’t seem to acknowledge his eagerness at the thought. However, Clark never could get a good read on you. You always said things matter of factly, your own feelings were never given away. Were you eager too?

“H-how d-does that m-make you feel?” He asked, cursing himself for stuttering his way through the question. The stutter was a more recent development since puberty, and manifested often in your presence. It didn't help that his father had been training him to speak softer, citing that for a big man like Clark it was easy to seem aggressive. Clark didn't want to seem aggressive, that was the last thing he wanted to be. If softening himself made everyone-- especially you, more comfortable then that was fine. Men weren't supposed to feel comfortable, that was what he was taught.

Clark never learnt your answer that night, as you'd been cut off by another voice.

"Hope you don't mind if I cut in, buddy," spoke a familiar brutish man who made it his habit to trail around you. He wasn't a scary man per se, in fact both Clark and you knew him and his family fairly well. At that moment however, his hand was on Clark's shoulder, firm as if in warning. You looked at Clark as if waiting for a response, likely one similar to one of those romance books you had been starting to read. Clark kept track of those, he wasn't necessarily a fan of the genre but he liked to know what you liked.

Unfortunately, Clark wasn't like any of those book characters. He didn't tell the man to buzz off, nor did he deck him for thinking he could cut in and try to swoop you off your feet. Instead, Clark said:

"I- I don't see why not," his hands moved from you, leaving a sense of coldness behind. "Just have a dance with him," he whispered to you then, as though sensing your hesitation. You looked at him, really looked at him in that moment before you turned away and allowed the other man to lead you away in a dance.

Clark didn't know why his fingers felt so stiff, Clark didn't know why the look on your face made him want to tear his own heart out. But what Clark did know was that he was feeling discomfort, and that discomfort was what being a man was all about.

But did Clark really want to be a man?

He didn't stay that long after that. He found himself feeling the need to vomit as he watched you dance with that man, and by the time your dance with him ended, he barely had a chance to try to speak to you because another man had appeared and grasped your hand.

Within seconds Clark found himself in front of the shed he knew his father liked to yell and cry in when he thought no one could hear. Clark didn't have the guts to tell him he could hear everything. He opened the shed easily, apologising under his breath when he felt the lock break under the might of his hands. It was dim inside with barely any moonlight trickling in and yet Clark could see everything clearly as he removed the tarp from atop the space shuttle and watched it come to life.

He watched stunned as the ship reacted to his touch as though it had been waiting for this. It projected images that lit up the shed and casted stunning imagery of generations of people, seemingly of various genders, with some sort of foreign writing next to the images. They were as different as they were similar, all of them seemingly great warriors or scientists, conquerors or engineers. Clark noted their matching dark hair and bright blue eyes alongside a symbol, a mysterious crest dawned on all their chests in the shape of what he could only recognise as an S. Its true meaning was lost to him, and yet he seemed to understand that what was presented to him was a different form of pride entirely from the one he was raised with. These people stood tall, stood proud as though they had nothing to be ashamed of.

The following day he begged Martha to sew together fabrics from the ship to make a suit for him, and so she did. Jonathan did not say a word, at least not until he saw his son finally dressed in the material, standing in their living room, seemingly out of place with the traditional furnishing and decor.

"Clark," he said. His son turned to look at him, towering over the man who once was able to hold him in one hand. "I want you to promise me this," he continued.

"Anything, pa," Clark replied.

"I want you to promise me no matter what you won't tell no one 'bout this side of you," he said. "I've done what I can as your father, but please Clark. You have to promise me." He practically begged him, and Clark felt his breath hitch as he had never seen his father so intentionally vulnerable before.

"I promise," he said, and he meant it.

"Swear to me, Clark, swear or I just may die."

"I swear."

[mattlvr03]

Couch Chaos and a Sleepy Girlfriend

The camera clicked on with its familiar beep. The Sturniolo triplets—Nick, Chris, and Matt—were squished together on their infamous beige couch, each with an energy drink and chaos in their eyes.

"Welcome back to the couch!" Nick shouted, gesturing wildly as Chris tossed a bag of gummy worms into the air and tried (unsuccessfully) to catch one in his mouth.

Matt tried to hide his grin, settling into his usual corner. "Guys. Guys. Let’s not yell—"

"Oh, now you're the volume police?" Chris said, throwing a gummy worm at Matt’s face. "Just because your girlfriend is taking a nap doesn’t mean we’re gonna film this like it's a meditation podcast."

Matt rolled his eyes but smiled. "She's literally right down the hall, and she had the worst migraine last night. Just—keep it chill for once."

"You're filming a YouTube video with Nick and me," Chris said. "There is no chill."

They started the video anyway—some chaotic storytime about the time they got locked out of their own car in a Target parking lot. As expected, Nick screamed when he got to the part about almost flagging down a security guard who turned out to be a mannequin.

Chris was cackling. "BRO, he was waving at a mannequin! A plastic man!"

Matt couldn't help laughing, but as soon as he did, they heard it.

A soft shuffle.

Then, a half-asleep voice from the hallway:

"Matt?"

All three of them froze like raccoons caught in headlights.

She appeared in the doorway, hair messy, wrapped in one of Matt’s hoodies, looking both confused and mildly annoyed. “Why does it sound like a zoo in here?”

Nick was the first to crack. “Oh my God—she’s risen. Like a grumpy little nap ghost.”

“I’m not grumpy,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes. “I just had a dream that someone was yelling about mannequins and now I realize it wasn’t a dream.”

Chris pointed at her dramatically. “She’s in the storytime now!”

Matt quickly stood up and wrapped an arm around her, steering her toward the couch. “I told them to keep it down.”

She plopped onto his lap without protest, still half-asleep. “You also told me this couch was ‘soundproof adjacent.’”

“That was a lie,” Chris said helpfully.

Nick leaned into the camera. “Plot twist: this storytime is now about how we woke up Matt’s girlfriend by being our authentic selves.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “She’s gonna sue all of us.”

“You say that like we have money,” Nick said.

She chuckled sleepily, cuddling into Matt’s chest. “I want to be mad. But this is the softest couch in the world, and you guys are kind of funny when I’m not asleep.”

“See?” Chris grinned. “She gets it.”

Matt kissed the top of her head and looked into the camera. “Welcome back to the channel. Today’s video is sponsored by caffeine, bad decisions, and a very forgiving girlfriend.”

The camera cut off mid-laugh.

A/N: somewhat of an “in the dark” continuation

@mattspillowprincess 🤓

[urautismdiagnosis-wistie]

STRANDED ON AN ISLAND KWAZII TRAUMA POST its rlly long lmk if I should split it up

No I will not provide context to how he got there at the moment,but I will let you know he was stranded for approximately 2 years from 12 to 14 (specific numbers may change) for the sake of plot while I am basing the island off of thr ogasawara islands of Japan, the island hes on is alot more isolated, smaller, and unpopulated by people 👍

Trigger warnings: a child dealing with survival issues like hunger and sickness, raw meat, wild animal corpse, mentions of intense psychological distress, small wild animals dying

They're not all gonna be in chronological order btw ✨

◇◇THE BEGINING ◇◇

so the lil shrimp wakes up on a rocky shore with a busted life boat. The suns hot, there's a bird picking at him to see if he's dead, and luckily there's a lot of resources like rations, a medicine kit, and survival guides that all survived. He'll need those

Lil dudes in shock, doesn't rlly understand what's going on, just that he's on an island that seems decently sized, but definitely not large enough for any real settlement, and that hes really glad his grandad taught him about surviving on an island. Yay family tradition ig

He spends a bit of time recovering his strength, he hadn't exactly been in great shape from even before he crashed, and follows the birds for maybe a natural water source and some kindness,the sense of horrific dread be damned.

Okay cool, so hes like stranded stranded and apparently not only did the stormy weather send his little life boat to some island that apparently NO ONE EVEN SAILS NEAR (the birds happily informed him, because they love their home thank u very much) but there seems to not be a single flowing stream or anything of the sort on the entire island :)

Water rations cant last forever, and while cats CAN actually drink salt water to survive, that's only in smaller amounts... :/ they'll get sick if they have too much... so needless to say he got quite ill for some time, luckily the first (and worst) time it happened he had rations...

This actually takes place on a smaller island near Japan, so its rather mountainous and any clean water resources on a small island would have to be a natural spring. Because of the islands isolation and little above ground water resources... They're often vulnerable to droughts and etc... fun for kwazii ain't it!

Needless to say the search for fresh water was... an endeavor. One where he did get sick from drinking unfresh water unfortunately, but he did manage to find a small spring so yay kwazii! It wasn't even too far from the lil high up cave (wall hole) he managed to claim for himself!

He did manage to figure out a fishing system (there's non sapient/sentient animals in my au) using what tools he had even though it was pretty difficult. He uh, may have gotten sick from scavenging a few times. Yk, poisonous berries n whatnot. Luckily cats can rely more on meat and less on vegetation and still be ok. That includes raw meat (still tastes BAD) in a pinch so lucky kwazii huh?

Here's a lil sketch I made of his lil cave <3 ill probably finish and color it at a later date 030

Anyways, after kwazii manages to somewhat stabilize his whole survival situation, he decided to try and yk. Escape. But uh...

Well kwazii definitely knew how all manner of ships and boats worked! But... having all the construction skills and physical strength at age 12 or 13? Esp in HIS situation? Mmnnnnahhh not happening

Not to mention he was basically just using whatever wreckage from the life boat he could repair and whstever he could get from the island

He did know where he was for the most part due to the stars and some general knowledge on where he was from before he shipwrecked. But...

Well needless to say there was a series of failed attempts. Kwazii always seemed to end up right where he started, maybe even more behind than before. Totally didn't lose more and more hope each and every time hahahah! On onenasty instance where he hit some rocks was lucky there were some friendly dolphins nearby or he wouldn't have made it to shore. They became friends afterwards, so kwazii wasn't horribly alone. After all who needs people interaction when you have wild animals :) especially in your developmental teen years!

TIME FOR RANDOM TIDBITS OF ANGST 🗣

So :) wild animals! Not always very friendly! Anyways there were alot of invasive rats and hogs on the island... and well... let's just say in my au hogs and pigs have developed to be more... predatory to fill in the gap left from certain wild animals not being wild....

black rats are an invasive species especially in the ogasawara Islands. They damage the ecosystem by predating on sea birds,snails, and insects, as well as destroying native vegetation.

In my au well.. they aren't the most intelligent animals buuuuuuuuutt.... they all know a cat is a cat. Anyways unrelated but you'll NEVER GUESS who not only kept getting their food stashes eaten, supplies damaged, and even CHASED by a lil swarm of rats every so often! Also they carry disease. Fun times!

Feral pigs of ogasawara irl mostly damage biodiversity through destroying native plants by destroying them and spreading nonnative plants. Also attacks from them to humans have been "on the rise" so...

Anyways! Guess who gets routinely chased by wild territorial boars!!! Hahaha isn't it great that even when you climbed a tree the boar still kept bashing and shaking the tree and refusing to leave for a whilleeeee. Hahahaha really fun.

◇◇◇KWAZII EATS SOMETHING DEAD AND RAW HERE

Also one time kwazii was so exhausted and tired of random rats attacking and trying to bite him or getting into his supplies- hes exhausted and miserable and constantly alert and- well instincts kick in and he swipes at the thing so hard it immediately dies on impact

This was a bit earlier on, and kwaziis food supply was especially... low. So there he was. This 12 year old in the blistering heat, exhausted and starving and at his wits end... staring at the bloody corpse of a particularly large twitching rat. The rats can only manage 2- maybe 3- words at most. yk " FOOD!!!" "MINE!!" And maybe a slur. Not very... intelligent or aware.

So maybe kwazii zoned out when he smelled the flesh. So maybe when he zoned back in he was hunched over a desecrated small corpse with the taste of disgusting nasty rat overwhelming his tongue, mouth,throat, and nose. Maybe he screamed and maybe he cried. Maybe he couldn't handle seeing mangled flesh. It was too soon, something too familiar-◇◇◇

Oh also the

◇◇◇snake thing◇◇◇ (tw snake death?)

Sooooo, let's just say that well , maybe our lil guy had been yk. Out and about, trying to tie some rope and vine for his make-shift sail boat.

Let's also say that there may have been a habu viper, not native to the ogasawara islands (where kwazii is) but the ryukyu islands. They can be very bold and aggressive, often territorial. They also lay their eggs in the summer. (Which is very rare for pit vipers, since most give live birth)

Long story short someone went to grab a rope without looking, accidentally grabbed a snake that attacked him, nearly avoided being bitten by a venomous viper by stabbing it through thr SKULl with a dagger,and then cried about it for hours and held a little snake funeral for the snake that tried to hurt him

He also may have found the snakes eggs, and feeling wretched about his crime (leaving them all alone in the world without their mama 🥺😓) ,he decided to attempt to protect and raise the baby snakes to try to make up for it. Even though he felt guilty about killing the mom snake..

Of course he did know that snakes don't form bonds, but he just wanted to take care of them. They did sorta just slither away right after hatching, instincts telling em to go hunt n whatever, but he did protect them from being eaten and help one that was stuck in its shell. Even hummed them lullabies he remembered. They did thank him when they hatched btw

..............

Thats all the specific little incidents I want to share right now lol but bro is WAY too casual about being stranded on an island istg 😭😭😭

Lmk yalls thoughts 💅

Tags for people who were interested when I asked if yall wanted this >v<

@askkwazii @hannahstales @murkywaterzz @brownyanyk @sc6rl3t @lydiabop

[thecomfywriter]

good morning plebeians!

first of all, let's start with a weather broadcast. today is a rainy/cloudy day. it's gonna rain until mid-afternoon, and then sundry skies for the rest of the evening.

BUT GET THIS--HEAT WAVE IS OVER.

SLAYYYYY

i need to acc stop saying slay. my roommate during uni is the reason why i started, i'm pretty sure. she said slay a lot, and at a certain point, i started saying it back. i love when people rub off on you like that tho. i know i've rubbed off on a lot of people when i was younger, but i don't think i've touched someone's soul like that recently.

ANYWAYS, WHY AM I BEING SENTIMENTAL????

okay, in other news, eoj word count is 22k. i didn't finish the 1.5, but i did finish the 1 chapter, so imma try and go for another one today. mwah, i love the AK case, this is genuinely so hype.

real talk tho... DO I SEEM LIKE A SADIST TO YOU GUYS??? BECAUSE WHY ARE ALL MY WRITEBLR MUTUALS (except leah and smihi mwah mwah <3) SAYING I AM????

I'M NOT.

i dont ENJOY the tragic endings my characters receive. but its the natural conclusions to their stories, a lot of the time. i can't have the lc arc as a plot arc and NOT have the character end up with lifelong ptsd and long-term therapy? sure, they'll be happier at the end, but it just doesn't feel right to me to say "happily ever after..." no matter how badly i want to.

same thing with the war arc. i can't have a whole WAR ARC, and then not have some of the soldier come out with critical injuries, psychological damage, ruined cities, and deaths. it sucks, and i don't enjoy it, but i can't VOID that.

anyways, i know they're kidding lmao its not that serious, but i still wanted to yamble about why i make the choices i make, so womp womp.

anyhow, writing time!

happy writing!

[bewitched-hours]

Hi again, its me your one of ur fans of writing from you, sorry for being inactive this week bc of school, but i am here once again to request another polyship bc on matching skins, so can i please request a...

Yandere! Paycheck! Nyan and Tac Nayn x Depressed! Reader

Fluff abd some Angst for the reader's depression, Oneshot.

Plot: Where the reader is living a normal life while being sad and dull as if their colors were drained away by the reality. But as they went on about their life, Elliot and Chance both finds them interesting and stalk them as they felt bad that they did not felt happy or joy.

one day, they both decided to kidnap them and hanging out with them in space and even becoming a cat too (idk if thats how it works)

Anyways Ty and thats it

You don't need to apologize for anything, dw <3 /platonic But also- cat cat cat cat cat cat cat cat- (You always have the loveliest ideas for these two I swear) Content warning though(for once); I'm projecting my own experiences with depression in this and also mixing in what I've seen and heard of from friends so this might hit a little deeper than I intended to...

Reader get's She/They~

Life is just... Ugh...

You felt like everything became so... Dull...

You used to be such a cheerful and bright kid but reality just seemed to not tolerate that...

Now you were stuck dealing with a life you didn't even feel was worth living. Although you at least had some meds to help you start your days somewhat more colourful.

It wasn't much and you usually felt drained again pretty fast but you also didn't want to go back to therapy. Your insurance was already difficult to deal with the first time around.

You were alone. And by god did it feel awful.

No matter what you did, you were cold and felt yourself spiralling.

Even in the rare moments where you actually got yourself to cook for a night were usually spent telling yourself not to be self-destructive and focus at the task at hand while you had insults swirling in the back of your mind at every step.

You just couldn't do it right, you always make mistakes, why can't you just do it correctly?

You just wanted to escape...

And you almost would've gone for the easiest solution if you hadn't had your own otherworldly stalkers to swoop in to be your saviours.

You were oblivious to it but they've been watching your every move for a while, studying you and making secret visits to comfort you in your sleep.

Sure, it was strange when you stopped shivering in your sleep and sometimes would be half-awake when you suddenly felt warmth against your body but their appearances were so strange and illogical that you couldn't fathom it being real so you'd just go back to sleep mere seconds later.

They loved you.

They loved those rare moments when you smiled because a cat on the street was affectionate with you.

They loved when you came across their presents in your day-to-day life and couldn't figure out who they were from.

They loved watching you dance as you listen to music to drown out the voices in the back of your mind.

They loved how peaceful you looked when you slept.

They loved hearing those cute little noises you'd make when you spotted them but convinced yourself to just go back to sleep.

You were loved... And they'd be damned if they had to hide it any longer.

Waking up in the dark wasn't unusual so your groggy mind decided to ignore it until... You realized that you weren't in bed.

Actually, it wasn't even that dark. You just had a blindfold on for some reason and the surface beneath you was too comfortable to belong to your cold and dusty mattress.

You quickly sat up in confusion, pulling off the blindfold to reveal you were in a giant room. Once your eyes had adjusted to the darkness that was present, you realized it looked like it came from some sort of sci-fi movie but it was decorates with colours and objects that all spoke to your interests and brought you happiness.

It was a little creepy but you couldn't get yourself to scream. You had a strange mask over your mouth and nose that was surprisingly plush and even allowed you to breath better. You never thought you'd smell such clean air in your life.

Although, you couldn't take it off... No matter how hard you pulled...

Looking down to see what you were laying on, you found that it was a giant heart-shaped bed with pink silk sheets and half-transparent red curtains around it. More points to the creepy meter but you weren't chained up or anything so whoever kidnapped you clearly didn't think this through.

... But they did...

You shortly got up and decided to try the door, noticing it didn't have a handle and matched the sci-fi aesthetic. It honestly looked like it could be a sliding door or something but no matter which way you tried to pull, it didn't budge.

All it did was make a buzzing sound emit from a small keypad next to it. It didn't have any buttons though. Only a screen that said 'Voice recognition required'.

Great... You were still trapped but at least you could explore for a bit.

Let's see... No windows, lots of pictures and paintings, a LOT of plushies that looked like cats- How did they even know you liked cats so much??? You thought you hid it pretty well...

But not even a clock was in sight. You wondered if anyone even noticed you were gone... Maybe they did but they didn't care-

"Awake already~?" A smug voice ripped you from your thoughts as you turned towards the door. You didn't even hear it open...

Surprisingly, those sights of when you woke up and saw those cat faces were real after all... Because now one of them was walking towards you.

A strange cat-like being with a waffle body and a fedora, followed by another with a poptart body and a colourful visor... Were you going insane?

Your shock must've shown as the latter let out a gentle giggle. "You must be pretty confused but it'll all make sense soon! So please don't struggle and be good for us." He had such genuine adoration in his eyes that momentarily distracted you from your situation as you wondered if there was actual love being offered to you.

"You're so cute~ But we know not to rush things, don't worry. We'll take good care of you while you adjust and let those pesky memories fade. Then we can start making new, happier ones so you don't need to worry anymore~" The darker one was almost cooing, cupping your face when he got close enough and seeming a little surprised when all you do is flinch before allowing the gesture.

The more colourful of the two seemed happy at your lack of resistance. "You're so adorable already! I wonder how long you've been starved for attention but don't worry, you'll be spoiled plenty as long as you're good and listen to us!"

Why weren't you resisting? Were you that tired of your old life? Were you so starved for affection? Were you catching feelings for these creatures already even though all they had done so far is be gentle and praise you?

Whatever the reason, they allowed you to roam outside right away because you were behaving already.

And you saw why they weren't worried about you running...

You were in space. Literally.

You could see the stars and even Saturn in the distance as you approached the giant windows with fascination.

"We made sure the ship accommodated your body by sticking with earth's gravitational force for a start and slowly decreasing while your body changes and adjusts." The colourful one, who you learned was called Elliot, spoke in joy.

You didn't have the energy to question him but what did he mean by that? And how come your mouth felt so stretched out? was your tongue always this rough?

Your memories were already hazy, you must've been here for a while...

And it only got worse as time went on. Your bones would shift and melt in your body at a painful rate and you were often forced to take some strange pain killers that seemed to make it feel only uncomfortable but no longer painful.

Then, your skin would melt into itself and start growing fur. But at that point the pain was unbearable enough that Chance and Elliot allowed you to be put into an artificial coma until the procedure was done.

Once you awoke again, you could feel your brain struggling to remember much. All that was clear was your room and the guys who were taking care of you. Elliot and Chance, wasn't it?

When you had asked them, they mentioned your transformation was apparently a success and you were their mate.

Although confused, they explained the concept and you were oddly happy to agree. You even purred and pressed yourself up against them in a big hug, trying to leave your scent on them. That had them both flustered beyond belief.

Although... Leaving a brownie scent on a poptart and a waffle cat might have consequences if there's more of your kind...

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

[aihoshiino]

That Ai and Miyako post made me remember how back when chp 154 drop, some people were claiming that hikaai devalued Ai’s bond with her kids. Like????? Insane line of thinking.

I'm actually sort of in two minds. I defo don't agree that Ai's relationship with Hikaru devalues the one she has with the twins because. well, they're very different relationships above and beyond anything else. But I do think that this sounds like maybe a poor articulation of a critique that I do otherwise agree with - that the specific way Ai talks about her feelings for Kamiki in 154 is inconsistent with the Ai of volume 1 and, if taken at face value, does weaken what is otherwise an extremely efficient self-contained arc in relation to her feelings about the twins and how that guides her to her cathartic confession of love with her final words.

Akasaka falls into this bad habit in the latter half of OnK of like… I guess the most concise way to sum it up would be flanderization but of a relationship dynamic as opposed to a single character (tho I guess you could argue it's flanderization of both characters in relation to their dynamic, but that's picking nits). I've talked about this before in relation to Gorou and Sarina but tbh you can kind of see it all over late stage OnK when you know to start looking for it - where Aka tries to sell the emotional depth of a relationship by massively roiding up the intensity of it to near soap opera levels and rather than making it more interesting, it just ends up flattening out what already WAS interesting because the nuance gets lost in all the noise. GRSR are the worst victims of this mostly because the series relies SO heavily on getting you invested in that relationship that a lot of its beats flop all the harder if you aren't but HikaAi get some of it too.

Some of this comes down to the fact that we just don't really know a ton about how the HikaAi relationship really played out. I've talked about this in more detail before but the long and the short of it is that the 154 DVD is basically the one and only time we get Ai's actual perspective on the relationship and a lot of the stuff she says here is just, like… weirdly overly effusive in ways that don't one hundred percent line up with how she expresses herself in volume 1. And to an extent I give Akasaka a pass on that because he obvs didn't have the exact details of the HikaAi dynamic in mind when writing volume 1. But this does really feel like him falling into that trap of roiding up an emotional beat to the point where the nuance is lost. The DVDs are already such an awkward plot point bc they're so transparently utilitarian and there's never really a good in-story justification for Ai choosing to make them, but it especially doesn't help that the way she talks on the DVD is so obviously written to be the most hurtful and impactful thing possible to Hikaru.

And I think for the most part it does broadly work - the main issue is that depending on how you read some of what she says, it sort of retroactively centers Hikaru in her decisionmaking regarding the twins in a way that I think does kind of cheapen her immediate connection to the twins and her decision to selfishly pursue her own happiness if you take it at face value. It's not necessarily impossible to thread the emotional logic if you make the attempt but I dislike that I have to in the first place and I wish we'd gotten more insight into what caused the shift in her mindset between when the DVDs were made and when she called Hikaru.

The actual real problem is like. Literally this one part:

It would be one thing if this was being voiced as a genuine question that Ai was struggling with but her big happy smile and the way she immediately undermines it a moment later makes it clear this is a rhetorical question and that she is essentially saying without directly saying that she did love Kamiki and she knows it.

And like... that makes no sense, right??

Ai being able to so confidently and assuredly say that her "I can't love you" to Hikaru was a lie speaks to a level of understanding and security in her feelings that does not at all line up with the Ai of volume 1. The whole point of her conflict there - hell, of Ai's arc is general - is that Ai has been so starved of genuine human connection that she doesn't even recognise feelings of love in herself even as she experiences them. Her emotional palette has been so forcibly muted that she's effectively gone colourblind.

That's why she so scared of expressing her love to Aqua and Ruby - she literally has no idea what it feels like because she has no frame of reference. She assumes that it would be a lie if she said it specifically because she's never been able to speak a truthful "I love you" before.

So it's not that Ai having loved Hikaru undermines her love for the twins or anything - it's that Ai being so certain and at ease with the fact that she did, at this point in time. I do think that ultimately undermines vol1's conclusion for her purely because it's inconsistent and there's no attempt in the story to sew these inconsistencies up. Like I said, it feels like a symptom of Akasaka wanting to produce the maximally emotionally effective beat and either not realising or not caring that it didn't make sense for the arc he was writing.

To be clear, I do still love 154! It's still one of my favourite chapters in the series and I think it's overall very effective and definitely a better conclusion to the revenge & Hikaru as the antagonist than wtfever Aka decided to do with 160 onwards. It just has its issues like basically everything else in this manga past a point.

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

Animorphs #14: The Unknown thoughts (pt. 2):

This one is so frustratingly inane when compared to the rest of the series, and especially when compared to Cassie's other books. Don't get me wrong, I love the kids bonding and having light adventures, but that can be cut through with more high-stakes plot stuff too. Even #9 has the intense termite sequence in between the light skunk adventures.

"The government... watch me. They're listening right now!" (p. 19). Maaaan, remember back in the good old days when the U.S. government listening to all your conversations was the stuff of science fiction? Gen Z: I swear this isn't just nostalgia; there really was a time before the Patriot Act and this book reflects it.

How right is Helen about everything she says? She clocks a yeerk craft for being what it is, implies that she can tell Rachel and Cassie know more about yeerks than they're letting on, and is correct that "Horse attempts phone call" is more than just a 30-years-too-early TikTok. Is there life on Mars, in this universe?

"'How about we get down to business before someone interrupts us?' Jake suggested. "'Okay, Dad,' Marco said" (p. 26) I should start a count for the number of times Jake is Doomed to Parenthood by the Narrative. No wonder his (shitty) catchphrase is "I'm not anyone's dad."

I also like how Crazy Helen is an object lesson in what happens when people try to tell the world about aliens. Rachel brought up the idea of bringing Jara and Ket to the media last book, and Marco shot it down — from how everyone treats Crazy Helen, we can tell why.

Also: I know I'm not the first person to say this, but... the more you read about UFOs, the less you believe in aliens and the more you realize the U.S. really do be testing All The Weapons on its own soil. Roswell? U.S. military craft. Area 51? U.S. military craft. D.C. UFOs? U.S. military craft. Phoenix Lights? U.S. military craft. 1976 Tehran incident? Teeechnically unexplained, but I sure as hell have a theory. TBH, I would've loved more of that angle on the secrets of Zone 91, less of the andalite port-a-potty.

Animorphs books can be read here | Book Club schedule is here

[thinkblotted]

Building a Better Star (aka, the Star Essay)

I like Star. I’m getting that shit out of the way right here at the beginning, just in case. I like Star, I like what she is, I think she deserves better writing. 

Also - these are my takes. These takes may not be your takes. We can have different takes.

Okay? Okay. Let’s go. 

For the purposes of this analysis and suggestion, I’m only going to be going off of movie canon Star, rather than book canon Star, because while they’re basically the same, there are a few background elements in the book that expand  on Star’s internal thoughts and relationships with the boys that you could only get from exposition in the book, and that’s not as available a source as the movie, so. 

Since I’m either posting this on tumblr for the four people who will read it, or filming myself talking about this like a normal person with normal hobbies, I won’t explain who canonically she is because that’s unnecessary for this audience of me and a discord server, but rather who she is as a character as presented.

The thing about The Lost Boys is that it exists as a double edged sword of characterization for all its characters. They’re all incredibly simple, and in that white space that’s left behind where deeper characterization would be put in other movies, here there’s just a void, leaving the audience to fill in the gaps however they see fit with whatever they can glean from the surrounding world. 

The vampires are the prime example of this - of all the characters, they get the least amount of dialogue and have the most void to fill in who they are as characters. Star is the runner up, having more character, but the same amount of void in her backstory. 

So who is Star? 

Star is The Girl of the group, a trope wherein you have a group of characters who make up the core of your main cast and usually they’re all male, with one or occasionally two exceptions being girls - if it’s two, one will be the ‘nerdy’ or otherwise ‘not strictly desirable by main male cast’ role, and the other will be The Girl, who is almost always the love interest of the main male, who, even though she’s more of a main character then the secondary girl, typically does less than them. As presented, Star fits this trope easily, as well as filling out the subtropes that it consists of. 

She’s soft-spoken, pretty, demure, stays out of most of the fights in the story, offers the protagonist advice but never tells him directly how to face the conflict of the story, offers support but never directly physically supports the protagonist. She’s an inciting incident all to herself, but never actually drives the plot forward except to be a shining prize on the mountaintop of the narrative that the protagonist must climb in order to claim. 

After being in the Lost Boys fandom for about two and a half-ish years now, there are some take-aways specific to Star that the fandom tends to play on the most. 

And I want to add in here, I do not have a problem with these traits being assigned to her. Star, like the rest of the cast, is a very malleable character. The void around her is just as vast as the other vampires, and this is fandom - we play with blorbos from our media like dolls. This entire thing is purely based on what I personally would like to see Star become, and since I’m a freak, I don’t just write fanfic, I also do this. Apparently. So take everything I’m saying with a giant grain of salt.

The traits that I most see attributed to Star are:

-She’s a shrinking violet, either unwilling or unable to interact directly with the conflict of the story

-She’s being held against her will to the point that leaving in any capacity is not only not an option, but would lead to physical harm/possibly death if she tried (ie, she’s an abused captive) 

-She cannot be held responsible for any bad decisions she’s made in the past or makes in the current story, or any bad turns the plot takes 

The first assertion is held up pretty well by the canon of the movie, and most of the fandom also agrees that it would have been nice if the movie actually did make Star a little less soft. There have been several outcries for Star to ‘vamp out’ like the Boys did, to at the very least give her a scary vampire face! Her tiny confrontation with Max at the end of the movie would have been a perfect space for that, but unfortunately, the movie has 80s-itis and being the female love interest and a victim in the plot, Star isn’t allowed to be aggressive in such a blatant manner. 

Star also hangs back whenever the Boys have presence on the screen. She’s never in the forefront, sharing the space, she’s in the background, watching them, only observing. The one time she directly contradicts them, ‘Leave him alone’ she’s told straight up to ‘chill out, girl’, and she doesn’t continue the conflict. When she does decide to try and be more forward with Michael, directly affecting things, she waits until there is no other persons of consequence around in order to do so. 

The second assertion of her being held against her will is a little trickier to pin down as a trait, but evidence of this is implied with how she contributes to the narrative - mainly, in asking Michael directly to save Laddie and her from the Boys, or at the very least, the situation she’s in. Though, it should be noted, that Star never makes a direct statement of what that situation is. She hedges that it’s being being driven to kill to sate the vampiric nature, but when taking scenes like David simply saying her name to get her to come to him, being told indirectly to back off when the Boys are hazing Michael, and backing away in a fearful manner when Michael is drinking the blood wine into consideration, there’s the darker notion that she’s being abused in other ways. 

Because the movie is meant to be a lighter flick, full of scary-yet-alluring vampire punk boys and over the top monster-hunting gore, billing it as a ‘horror-comedy’ excludes any deeper exploration or more explicit on-screen showing of verbal, emotional, or physical harm that Star may be experiencing. Doing so would take away from the fantastical and darkly whimsical nature of the story, grounding it too much, and making the Boys, though they be villains, into villains we wouldn’t love to hate.

Thus, the darker implications of what Star might be facing behind the scenes, when Michael isn’t around and before he came along, is left to the audience’s interpretation, as well as any ability Star has to struggle against them. The fandom frequently interprets as none, thanks to the plot of the movie being what it is. 

The third major assertion that the fandom tends to adopt is that Star is largely if not completely irresponsible for the missteps of other characters and for her own predicament. 

This given trait is the most difficult to back up with evidence directly from the canon as it relies heavily on filling in the blank spaces of Star and the other character’s backstories. Star is not responsible for Michael spotting her in the crowd at the concert or deciding to follow after her. Star technically didn’t tell Michael to accept David’s goading to race. Star told Michael she both didn’t know how to help him, and couldn’t explain it. Star is not responsible for Michael’s induction into the Boy’s gang because, well, she told him what he was drinking was blood. Star never directly acts to drive the plot forward until the beginning of the third act when she does admit to Michael that she needs his help, thus, cannot be held responsible even in part to Michael’s involvement. 

Lack or acceptance of Star’s responsibility for her own inability to leave the Boys is even harder to pin down, as we have no movie canon for what her life was like before meeting the Boys. The implication from the world around them is that Star is a runaway kid like many of the people seen in the opening sweep of Santa Carla, likely from a crappy home and was taken in by the Boys but soon got in over her head, but this is never directly confirmed. 

The idea that Star made a bad choice, and was not just manipulated and coerced after the ‘honeymoon’ period with the Boys is somewhat controversial as it paints Star in a less favorable light. She isn’t an innocent victim, but rather someone who made a bad call and refuses to acknowledge her own agency in that decision, instead placing any and all blame on the Boys. 

‘But what if she’s tried that already?’ Unfortunately, that lies entirely in the realm of off-screen possibilities that are not support by any canon. Star in the movie is never shown or implied to have tried escaping before, and in the book she merely has internal monologues about wanting to leave, not that she’s ever attempted it. 

Giving Star any one of these traits on their own isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Star is very much helpless in this situation - she’s in a den of immortal man-eating monsters while only being barely half of one herself, and refusing to take the option that would grant her more physical power to assert control in the situation, because the act required would be a shattering of her moral compass. Regardless of her involvement in how she got here, she deserves to be able to leave and make better choices. 

But giving Star all of these traits at once with nothing else to her flattens her completely. It does her, in my opinion, an incredible amount of injustice to absolve her of any kind of responsibility in her own problems and then rob her of any bravery to take a risk and change it herself.

And that’s not a good character. 

In order to build a better Star, we need to first accept a truth that might be a slightly hard pill to swallow: 

A good Star is not necessarily a protagonist. 

At least, not in the same way that Michael or Sam can be. Michael and Sam are protagonists in that they’re the heroes of the story. They face the main conflict head on and drive the plot forward with their actions, and are who we’re rooting for to win. We see them and their actions as ‘good’. They are absolved by the framing of blame in what is done to them. (Michael in getting in over his head with the Boys by ignoring the reservations and loose warnings of others, and Sam of murder with the fact that the Boys are man-eating monsters bent on getting back at them when one of their own is killed.)

If you make Star a protagonist in the same way, with her needing to be framed as ‘good’ in the story, but only keeping the character traits previously listed, then she’s a boring character. She becomes only nebulously ‘good’ just by virtue of not technically having done anything that could be considered ‘bad.’ Being counted as a heroine only by default. 

And that sucks. That puts her simultaneously on a pedestal where she can do no wrong, but is an empty shell that’s there to smile or cry and do nothing else. 

Often, when talking about female protagonists, antagonists, anti-heros and characters with grey morality or amorality, the added layer of them being women forces ten times the scrutiny on not just how they’re built as a character, but on their creators and why they’re choosing to build the character in the way they are. Any mistakes plot-pushing decisions made by the character aren’t as likely to be accepted as just the character acting in the story, but get traced back to the author. The audience constantly asks the question, ‘if it was a male character, would there be consequences for this act, or are you treating this character special because they’re a woman?’ 

In this case, it’s ‘Michael also fucks up, and yet is treated as a victim, deserving of sympathy and being saved by his brother rather than having to fight all on his own. Their situations are the same. Why not Star? The only difference between them is gender.’ 

This essay is not about whether or not Star is deserving of being saved, nor is it saying that she deserves being trapped in the situation that she’s in. But much like how Star reminds Michael that she did indeed tell him that it was blood in the bottle and he scoffed at her, Star deserves not to be a lifeless doll being acted upon, and a good female character deserves to not be a pretty, perfect Barbie doll that does no wrong and always looks pretty. 

So with the knowledge that a better Star cannot be purely a protagonist, how do we lower her from the boring pedestal? 

My suggestion: by inverting her three main traits

The first: If she’s billed as meek and demure and soft, then make her more aggressive and vulgar 

The second: If she seems to be kept at silent gunpoint, then give her more freedom to act

The third: Make her at least partly responsible for her own situation, regardless of whether or not she thinks she is 

The first revised trait is the most important in my opinion to building a better Star, as it will help direct and reinforce the second two. 

A large part of Star’s lack of presence in the movie is quite literally, a lack of physical presence. Star seems to hate even being near the vampires, and depending on what kind of story you wish to show her in, it could make sense. But chances are, if she’s given the shrinking violet trait, she’s been given the other two as well, and that makes a bad Star. She must be allowed to speak, and more than that - she must be allowed to show emotion. 

Let Star be angry. Let her be hurt in a way that’s not beautiful and languorous, a wilting agony of suffering in silence. And I’ll say it: Let Star say the Fuck word. As silly and simple as it may seem, such a small detail can transform a character. Star deserves to be as rough-edged and imperfect in her words and attitude as any of the rest of the Boys, possibly more if she’s in a situation that she hates! If she had the bravery to run away from home, then she should be afforded the bravery to be more than a pretty, silent, pure woman who doesn’t know what a cigarette is. 

The second revised trait is going to be the most fluid in interpretation because it relies the most on the author or artist or fan’s personal interpretation of what the relationship between Star and the Boys is really like. 

In the movie, Star seems to move with the Boys. She’s usually near them enough that they can keep an eye on her, as we see with David watching Star talking to Michael before the beach race. The only times we see Star distance herself physically is right after the bonfire, where she comes to the Emerson cabin to convince Michael to save her, or when she and Michael have sex. The first time, she seems desperate, like she may not have much time, and the second, she’s been left there on her own while the Boys go out and cavort, likely with the implication that she should stay where they can find her when they get back. 

Again, this is the trait that can be toyed with the most, but a good way to combat the feeling that she’s being held against her will is to give the notion that there are parts of being around the vampires that she likes. There are tiny hints of this in the movie, and the book expands on this. In the movie, there’s a moment during the race where Star seems to be enjoying herself while riding with David - at the very least, she’s enjoying the speed and thrill, if not the person she’s with. In the book, Star and Paul have the best relationship of any of the boys, with Paul trying to cheer her up and promising a ‘happily ever after’. To keep it from feeling like a full captive situation, give Star a reason to feel a bit conflicted over the pack. She’s there in the first place, after all. 

The third revised trait is going to be the most controversial, as it’s a hard thing to admit when people in real life do it. 

Admitting that sometimes, the problems we find ourselves dealing with, are our own fault. We make a bad call, we make a poorly informed decision or decide in the heat of the moment. Sometimes, we are lied to, but the lie is flimsy and we chose to swallow it because it’s what we wanted to hear at the time. I like to ask authors writing villains this - what’s worse and more compelling; a villain who lies, or a villain who tells the protagonist a truth they don’t want to hear? 

And, as backwards as it sounds, making Star partially responsible for her situation is giving her more agency in her story. It gives her a reasonable character flaw that she has to confront and defeat. 

Here is where I’m going to throw in an interesting observation about a specific scene that I think helps lend itself to this particular revised trait: the scene where she asks Michael for help directly. In canon, the scene goes about like this - Star comes to the cabin, Michael tells her that he knows about the vampires, and when he expresses that he thinks it’s basically done for him, Star tells him that it’s not, he’s not fully gone, and that she needs his help to save all three of them. Now, there’s something really, really interesting to me about this scene: Star is NOT a reliable narrator during it. At all. 

To say that she’s lying outright about everything would be untrue, but when you examine it, you realize that she’s being untruthful all the same. When Michael gets upset, accusing her of not caring about him because in his eyes she let this happen, she says that she DOES care about him, using physical touch to reinforce this. When she’s soundly rejected, by Michel slapping her hand away and demanding to know why she REALLY came, she very reluctantly tells him that she was hoping he’d help them. It’s her last answer, the last thing she wanted to say. Obviously hoping that the emotions would be enough to persuade him, rather than just saying that she needed help outright, which would be easier to say no to. 

Secondly, the WHY. Star states that Michael was ‘supposed to be her first, because it’s what David wanted’. When watching the scene, the delivery, the body language, and given the full context of the plot and how we’ve seen Star behave? We can only come to the conclusion that Star. Doesn’t. Know. That. 

Max’s ultimate goal is to get Lucy, and to get Lucy, he needs Michael and Sam to be on board, or at least BE vampires. Killing one of her children would hardly serve that goal. Given the ending fight, Max doesn’t give a dead rat’s ass about Star. And Star? She doesn’t even know Max exists. David telling Star to kill Michael to turn her into a vampire is not only pointless, but going expressly against Max’s wishes. We don’t know how much of Max’s plan David and the Boys know about, or given their personalities and implied relationship with him, even care about, but defying him in this instance doesn’t seem like the smartest thing to do. 

Not to mention - Star does like Michael. She hugs him at the end, she does give him a warning about the blood, albeit a weak one. She does attempt to fight Max in the end, even if she fails. As for her thoughts on David, those are more complicated. Whether the relationship is real, coerced, that she’s simply a pawn being used to tug Michael around or whether she and David did like each other at one time, is unknown, but it is clear that Star knows that David is interested in Michael, and doesn’t like it. So it would then be logical to assume, given this, that Star would assume, based on what she knows and has been able to observe, that she’d pain David in a worse light. Insinuating that it’s HIM who’s pulling the string, assuming what he wants and what his intentions are, even if she DOESN’T. KNOW. 

All this to conclude: Star is an unreliable narrator taking actions based on her own flawed assumptions. Which means she’s going to make mistakes, and miscalculate her position. She’s going to cast herself in a certain light, and like anyone, maybe not want to admit when that light is suddenly not a reflection of her best. 

So, how do I conclude this. 

Star is an interesting character, and I do enjoy her. If you managed to sit through this to get to here, and if there’s anything to take away from this, it’s that I enjoy Star and I want her to be a better…her. She deserves to cuss and spit, she deserves to be angry and sad at her predicament, she deserves to be loved as a whole person and not some untouchable angel. Let her fight. Let her bite. Let her bleed for her freedom and personhood.

Most importantly, if you allow the Boys room to be more than they are presented as on screen, then you can afford to give that to Star. 

Thank you for reading, if you did. 

@misslavenderlady (I almost forgot!)