#if only they lived in the same timeline..

[just-sg]

Oh they've absolutely killed people. It's canon (or may have been retconned but used to be; I didn't get into Nightbringer far enough to be sure; incidentally if any questions here are answered by it feel free to tell me lol) that their very first day at RAD they got into a fight and killed a bunch of guys. This is told as a silly nostalgic story they laugh about. It's hard to imagine Lilith was the only casualty of the Great Celestial War. There were many wars before they ever got ousted from heaven, and when MC met Leviathan in the past in OG season 3, he had become depressed because he'd built his identity so much around being a military leader as an angel that in times of peace he felt useless. There's so much.

But death barely counts as horror imo. Immortals play by different rules than humans; that's fair enough I guess. Animals do too. In real life, animals slaughter each other frequently, and it's upsetting for some humans, but it's just nature. Immortals do it with more thought and intention, and that makes it scarier, but it's still like... There's a simplicity to it, you know? It's definitive. Clean, almost.

If you wanna get deeper into the horror, there are all kinds of other avenues to explore, too.

For example: what then? When humans die, they go to heaven or hell. They manifest as ghosts with imperfect communication and far less identity than they used to have, or as entities that cannot be perceived by living demons/etc, even the most powerful of them, doomed to watch without being able to interact in any way. What happens when demons or angels or other immortals die? We KNOW it can't just be that they disappear, because erasing Lilith fully from existence was what Father wanted to do to her, as a specific punishment for her crimes. That was a step up from what would normally happen. So what DOES normally happen?

IIRC Mammon had a line in early OG that suggested he'd reconstitute after like a million years, but if that's true, even if the time given was exaggerated, what's it like in the meantime? How would it feel to wake up one day and so much time has passed that everyone you love is a totally different person than last you saw them?

In a kind of adjacent vein, there's the horror of Solomon's immortality, the idea of living thousands of years but still having a human brain that physically does not have the capacity for memories spanning nearly that far. We talk about the angst of MC's mortality but even achieving immortality doesn't look good for a human either.

And there's horror potential in MC's mortality in another way. It's not just watching them age. It's watching them change. Angels and demons change over time, too; they do so a lot faster with MC's influence, but they're beings that exist on cosmic time. Left to themselves, they change much much much slower. But for humans, "To love someone is to attend a thousand funerals of the person they used to be (and a thousand births of the person they're becoming)." There can be beauty in that, but after decades, do you think any of them ever get overwhelmed? Do you think MC ever gets afraid their immortal loved ones won't mesh with the person they're turning into? Do you think they ever get scared the person they're turning into won't be able to maintain the same feelings for the others they have now? Does it ever bother them that they're going to keep rapidly changing their whole life, and their friends and family and lover(s) won't change nearly as much with them?

Not to mention all the horrifying things that just casually exist in the Devildom. Diseases that change your whole personality. So many magics and poisons with different effects. Pocket dimensions and portals to other worlds that blip open just for a moment.

Don't get me started on how Barbatos can see across infinite timelines and has also just canonically erased all other timelines to force a convergence and destroyed every version of this world we'd never seen and also the versions of the characters we first met and came to love and no one talks about it because everyone was too busy being mad at Belphie lashing out in grief to even think about it.

Yeah death is far from the scariest thing you could play with.

I think the horror potential of Obey Me is sooo overlooked.

Like sir, you're living with seven of the strongest demons in Hell. And yeah, it's easy to forget that sometimes but the stuff you can do with it?

For example, a lot of people forget that Leviathan is literally the Grand Admiral of Hell's Navy. He's been to wars and he has most definitely killed people. Every brother—one way or the other—has killed people. And the potential it has is so high it drives me insane when people don't even think about it.

Yes, the game is light hearted but come on, you live with demons, the stuff they've done (and still do) can and will be morally wrong, and God, do I love it.

The brothers are still big shots in Devildom. Right under Diavolo himself. I like to imagine that a lot of demons are scared of them. You can't look me in the eyes and tell me that a lowly demon can have an argument with Satan, for example, and not get their head blown off. Death doesn't really mean much, especially when it's a low ranked demon they could find a million of in the span of minutes. The brothers are old asf and they've seen the wars in Devildom, too. They most likely fought in them.

Now you may have the argument of "But Mammon constantly gets kicked out of casinos, he gets beaten blah blah" and to that I say; He's Mammon. No matter how pathetic he may seem he's still the second eldest. And if you ask me, one of the most emotionally intelligent and mature ones among the brothers. The reason why Mammon is so often walked over is because he doesn't show his strenght. He has the emotional capability and general strenght to not lose his cool even if he's getting insulted by a low-life who he could obliterate in a second.

But back on track, as I was saying, I believe that all of the brothers have killed people, justified or not, and I just need more fics where they're horrifying demons. Batshit insane. A flick of the wrist and blood's everywhere. The angst you could pull off with it makes my mouth water. Like, just imagine accidentally witnessing one of the brothers killing someone and act like it's nothing. THE POTENTIALLL OH LOOOORDDDDDDD

[xoey101]

☾𖤓 ; roommate!caleb finds your thirst tweets about him

a/n: inspired by an audio i listened to recently!

it’s a lazy saturday morning, and caleb is sprawled out on the living room sofa, essentially doomscrolling.

he finds himself engrossed in tinkering videos and the like when he comes across a random post that takes him by surprise.

“having a hot roommate is so hard, like just make me scream your name alr lol”

he cocks an eyebrow, finding amusement in the outlandish comment. actually, he’s surprised that a post like this even made it to his timeline to begin with.

who posts something like that where everyone can see it? he mutters to himself, deciding to investigate the account further.

eyes widening more and more after each scroll, caleb realizes that this person has more than a little crush on their roommate—they have an obsession.

his head nearly spins as he continues to read the countless filthy pleas.

“would fuck him til the foundation of the house cracks”

“can’t he just use those big hands to make me squirt instead of lifting weights??”

“he doesn’t even know that i can only get off while thinking of him, what a shame”

as he scrolls, he conjures images of what this girl might look like, finally giving in and checking the media tab. he’s not greeted with any face pictures, but a certain mirror selfie catches his attention.

isn’t that pips’ favorite dress?

he glances towards your room suspiciously before inspecting the photo further.

his hands shake as he realizes that the little purse slung over the girl’s shoulder has the same exact set of keychains he gave you for your birthday one year.

staring blankly at the screen, he hopes that looking at other pictures of this girl will prove his suspicions wrong, hopes that he’s just being crazy. but, it becomes extremely apparent with every snapshot he views that this is your account. hell, there’s even a picture of tara, if he wasn’t already convinced.

as soon as it clicks to him that you took your time to write out all these filthy things about him, that you typed these words with your own fingers, he feels himself harden immediately.

“pips, c’mere. i came across a funny account,” he calls out for you, throwing his voice towards your room.

seconds later, he hears you shuffling around, and eventually the patter of your footsteps echo in the hallway.

leaning on the couch behind him, you giggle in anticipation. “lemme see!”

he holds the phone up so that you can see over his shoulder. “look, this girl’s entire account is just thirsts over her roommate. interesting, isn’t it? she even has clothes like yours.”

your heart sinks to your stomach, and you feel your blood rush to your face.

“what the fuck, caleb? you’re such an ass.” you stop leaning on the couch immediately, already retreating to your room as your cheeks burn hotter than fire.

“pips. get back here.” his voice is firm, like he’s giving you a warning. you turn back towards him slowly.

“why’d you call me out here just to embarrass me?” you feel your resolve wearing down by the second, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “i’m sorry, okay, if that’s what you wanted to h—”

“it’s okay,” he blurts out. you stare at him blankly. “i mean, i’m not mad or anything.” his tone softens a bit.

“i’ve been… thinking the same stuff, y’know. for a while now.”

you almost stumble. trying to maintain your composure, your brows furrow as your mind races. as well as you know caleb, it almost seems like he’s playing a cruel joke on you.

“that’s not funny,” you sigh, circling your thumbs into your temples as you turn towards your door again.

he reaches out for you, grasping your wrist before you can walk away. “i’m serious.” he sounds more urgent than before, like he’s desperate for you to believe him. his eyes bore through you, begging you to take his words at face value.

still holding your wrist firmly, he searches your expression for some sort of indicator, some sign that you’ve felt the same way he has.

“tell me,” he whispers. “say all the fucked up things you wrote about me to my face.”

you shy away from him, gluing your eyes to the floor as your arousal and shame mix together messily. “caleb, knock it off….” you whisper with your heart practically beating in your throat.

“i can do all the things you wrote about, pips,” he offers, a coy smile spreading across his face.

and that’s all it takes for you to envelope him in a wet, sloppy, animalistic kiss. shoulders lowering in relief, caleb kisses you back, matching your fervor and franticness as the two of you hold on to each other for dear life.

he pulls away, gasping for air as he mind reels from the sheer lust of the kiss.

“i’ve decided,” he pants out before latching his lips onto the juncture of your neck.

“we’ll act out every single thing that you wrote about me.”

“and more.”

a/n again: this was gonna be a full length smut but i’m lazy lmao, if anyone wants a pt. 2 lmk :D

⟢ zoey’s masterlist !

[summer-oil]

𝗗𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗠𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗘𝗫𝗖𝗘𝗦𝗦, 𝗗𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗠𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗬𝗢𝗨 ; (𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗔𝗬)

SYNOPSIS: What awaits you in the Dreamscape is your quiet place of rest: a patisserie dyed moon-blue in the Moment of Midnight. Promised solitude just as illusory as the pastries on display, because you can’t seem to escape a certain fair-faced Halovian.

WORD COUNT: 8.3k

CONTENTS: sunday/reader, f!reader (referred to as young lady, miss— no she/her pronouns used), patisserie au (cousin of café aus), set in canon and fragmented across the timeline (the first four parts take place before 2.7, the fifth and final during it), fluff and banter, soft yan implications if you squint (coughs)(SUNDAY IS JUST WEIRD.), sunday-typical themes of dreams vs reality, reader is overworked and probably nearing a spiral, robin haunts the narrative in form of a keycharm, the yearning is there but buried under the boundaries of reader pov. sunday goes by ”wonweek” (since reader does not realize who he is. lol.) but he’s very much still sunday he’s just being annoying.

A/N: IT’S FINALLY DONE . this is a long overdue comm for my most beloved and cherished sunday fucker ( @stellamancer ) 🙂‍↕️ it was supposed to be 3k but it ran away from me completely … still, i’m satisfied with what it turned into!! i tried my best to do chicken wing boy justice, so i hope any sunday enjoyers who read this are pleased with the end result!! :’3🫶 ALSO big big thank u to my guardian fawn ( @coyotecrumb ) for proofreading and helping me with the editing process … i love u always …… anyway please picture me slamming into sunday at the speed of the astral express because wowww is he stressful to write LMAO. stupid gap moe loser

At the end of the boundary-line between dreams and reality stands a small, quaint patisserie— its doors always unlocked, opening wide when you tug at the handle.

"Welcome back!" sings the interior. "What can I get for you today?"

It rings out from behind the counter when the bell chime fades, when the door behind you closes. The same girl as always, her hands folded neatly on top of the marble; sleeves cuffed up to her elbows, a blue apron tied around her waist and embroidered with what look to be doves, pure white and fluttering across the fabric. She's smiling, like she’s happy to see you. You see it through the dim lighting, the entire lounge painted blue by the moon through the windows.

The air smells sweet. Buttery. Something like burnt caramel and rose jam, threading through the room.

You inhale, then exhale. 

In the glamour of the Dreamscape, people hunger for all sorts of things. Luxury, adventure, shimmering bottles of soulglad— anything that gives the impression of living life to the fullest. The fresh wave of tourists are all off on such ventures, you'd assume. Fine dining, day drinking, sightseeing… gambling, of course. You check most of them into the Reverie yourself, help them with their bags, answer any questions they might have. Most of them are easy. Most of them are in the manual.

Some of them— like, are there any spots we should know about? Any hidden gems?—

Well.

Questions like that, you tend to leave unanswered. 

Because there's only one true hidden gem worth mentioning, tucked away in The Moment of Midnight: where tourists are least likely to linger, where trouble stirs itself to sleep. Only one spot not yet trampled by rowdy dreamers, or sponsored by too-expensive brands. Bérylune, reads the sign, though you won't see it until you've ventured through a narrow alleyway and stopped in front of a bright-blue door, flickering street lamps on either side. There it stands, solitary. Like a secret just for you.

No way are you letting anyone in on it.

"Um, let me think." You shift your weight, absently, reaching up to fiddle with the straps of your handbag. The girl behind the counter hums. 

"Of course! Please, take your time."

Your eyes glide left, to the faint shimmer of the glass display— what you've been dreaming of all evening. What you dream of at the end of every tireless workday. Where you inevitably end up once you've exhausted yourself on your late-night strolls around the Dreamscape, wandering aimlessly, no different from your usual rounds at the hotel. No room ever goes unbooked, so there's no point to sitting down and feigning relaxation.

The least you deserve is to treat yourself. 

(It's not like you hate your job. You'd say you're lucky, all things considered: a hefty paycheck, golden lights wherever your gaze takes you, the superficial glimmer of casinos and streetlights lying at the center of what Penacony is. The extraordinary is routine. That, in itself, has become a kind of comfort. It's better than your old life. Less monotone. The city is always alight, so there's no need for counting stars. 

And there's the Dreamscape, of course. Always close at hand, the hazy bliss in front of you.)

Pastries sparkle from beneath the glass, the sight of them enough to make your mouth water. Soft, pillowy slices of spongecake, slathered in honey, squished between fruit tarts weighty with strawberries. Ruby-red, summer-ripe. Your hungry eyes flit from side to side. The bell chime rings out behind you, but you scarcely hear it over the piano playing from behind the counter, soft compositions from an old-school radio— you don't know who the composer is, but you recognize the song. It never builds up to any crescendo, blissfully empty of weight, of intensity. 

The room has begun to smell more and more like roasted coffee. An espresso machine purring to life. You think of mystery, of something illusionary. When you look down at your hands they're painted moon-blue. 

(For you, this is heaven. The crème de la crème of what the Dreamscape has to offer. Not the Golden Hour, not any casino— but this. 

And it's all yours.)

"I'll have the macaron set, please."

(… Mostly yours.)

Your gaze drifts to where the Halovian is standing, smoothing a steady hand down the fabric of his suit. His locks are next, rivers of silver running in between his thumb and forefinger, barely-ruffled by the breeze outside.

The lady behind the counter gives him a smile. To the untrained eye it's the same as ever, but you've worked in customer service all your life; you're well aware of what's real and fake, what expression says Please be normal, it's been a long day as it is, or I'm so happy to see you again. Seriously. It gleams brighter, much brighter, than the one she'd graced you with. A bashful flicker that has you wanting to sigh. 

… Not that you blame her. He is handsome.

"Of course, sir. Will that be for here, or to-go?"

"To-go, for tonight. Have you been well?"

"Yes!" She shoots up, in the process of bending down to bring the pastries out from the display. "Ah, um. Yes, I have! And you?"

A quiet hum. He isn't looking at her, you notice. Rather, the golden cuts of his eyes are stuck on the glass, on what's gleaming behind it. Not the macarons he ordered, but a golden pudding tart. "I've been well," he says. "Thank you."

Then he's quiet. His voice is nice to listen to, like a late-night talk show host in the prime of his career, pleasant white noise to tune out the world with. Suited for lullabies and ghost stories. Your eyes follow him, vacantly, the way his fingers tug down his sleeve to check his watch, the brittle flutter of his wings when he exhales, pairs of silky-looking feathers twitching against his neck. One of them is pierced, though you can't see it from this angle. 

This isn't your first encounter with the stranger. He's usually here around the same time you are, when the moon in reality would have showed its pearly-blue teeth; either gazing at the display when you enter, or sitting by a table in the corner with his lips against the rim of a porcelain cup. It's unusual for you to beat him to it; maybe work kept him late? 

… Yeah, probably not. He's too pretty to be anything but a flashy tourist. A secret idol, maybe?

You humour yourself with the thought.

His pupils flicker, suddenly, golden ripples across the surface of his eyes. You're zoned out, watching them, only now noticing that he's angled his face away from the counter— the sharp lines of his jaw pointing in your direction.

When you realize he's catching your stare, his lips have already parted.

"Ah, pardon me," he says, silky-smooth, eyes curling into slits. Smiling cordially. "Were you about to order?" 

Stupidly, you blink at him. After a moment, your gaze snaps back to the sheet of glass in front of you. "No, don't worry," your smile is barely-there, though you make an attempt— you never know who's important when it comes to Penacony. Never know when you might be speaking to an idol on vacation, or a CEO with the influence to get you fired. Best to be on the safe side. "I was still deciding, so…"

He waits for you to finish. When you don't, keen eyes of gold leave your face.

"I see."

Silence settles in the space between you. You don't dare look at him again, busying yourself with your choice of pastry, eyes flitting restlessly between them. Should you go for something syrupy sweet, or minty and refreshing..? He's facing forward, but the weight of his gaze is still searing your skin, the butt of a cigarette against your brittle cheek. 

It's heavy. It leaves an impression. 

(Because you've seen him, yes— but you've never caught his eye. Not for more than a moment, a quick glance or absent nod.

This is the first time you've spoken.)

When his voice calls out again, you've settled on a sizable fruit tart. Speckled with blackberries, the crust a nice golden brown, eyes focused on it when that bedtime story cadence echoes on your left. "I'd like them packaged, if that's alright." He tugs gently at the bottom of his glove, adjusting it with nimble fingers. "They're a gift."

Gift. 

The word makes your mind halt, for a moment. Something in the way he wraps his tongue around it. Soft, albeit briefly.

The poor girl behind the counter must have heard it too. Because she's wilted by the time you've raised your gaze, hanging her head a little lower than before, hiding barely concealed disappointment behind a tight-curved smile. 

"… Of course," she chirps, weakly. "One moment."

She places the macarons inside a small, rectangular box, lining them up one by one inside it; green, pink, ochre, repeated twice, a row of sparkling gemstones, only sliced into halves. Then she's closing it, wrapping her fingers around a silky blue ribbon to thread it around the front and back. 

"Thank you for waiting," she slides it across the counter.

The Halovian hums, accepting it with careful hands. He pays, swiftly, brandishing a black card. Yep, definitely not a working class comrade. His halo gleams in the dim light, thrumming faintly when it catches onto its golden edge. Like church bells tolling on a far-away planet. "Thank you," he says, quietly. "Have a good night."

When he turns to leave, his gaze overlaps with yours. No longer than a second, a glimmer of sun-soaked copper— he reaches for the handle of the door, and the moment turns to vapour. Midnight air courses in as he slips through the gap, chills the base of your ankles, the tips of your fingers. A soft jingle, and he's gone. 

His back disappears into the night, his shadow painted cornflower blue. You see it through the window.

(You wonder where he's going.)

"Excuse me, miss." A stale smile, and a downcast voice. "Would you like to order?"

You snap your head back into place. "Y-yes, please."

The fruit tart tastes as good as you expected it to. You eat it there, at a table in the corner— it's not like you could bring it back to reality, even if you wanted to eat it in the comfort of your quarters— sinking your teeth into the crust, feeling it crumble into pieces around them. The blackberries burst with juice, melting together with the cream, thick notes of vanilla and chestnut. You lick your lips with a happy hum. 

Too good to be true, though you guess that's the point.

When you return to reality, the taste won't linger on your lips. Your body won't feel satiated. You know this, but you still keep coming back— to a badly-placed patisserie, in the least popular Moment of the Dreamscape— gorging on pastries made from dreams and stardust. As if just the illusion is enough to keep you full. As if you could keep going, and going, plucking every star from the illusionary sky. 

It's a foolish thought.

(You suppose that's why you're here, anyway. The reason you can't pull yourself away from the Reverie, or the Dreamscape. In a way, you're perfect for each other.

Glamour, and delicacies, and questionable men.

… Truly, the essence of what Penacony has to offer.)

The next time you step inside, the patisserie is empty. No Halovian gentleman by the counter, nor by the tables, no silky-soft voice threading through the air. 

Again, you beat him to it. 

"Welcome back!" Smiles the clerk, her lips glossy and pink. The shade makes you think of cherry balm. With sluggish steps, you walk up to the counter, expression practically trampled in comparison to hers. You muster a weary upward tilt of your lips, a half-hearted nod— you don't have it in you to do anything more. The guests were just awful, today. Lips drawing into a thin line, flimsy excuse of a smile slipping off them, your gaze glides over to the glass-layered display.

A better you would be in bed by now. Watching a soap opera, waiting for your order of real food to arrive. But you're not better— you're just you— and if you don't get your hands on a treat within the next five minutes you think your brain will just burst. The lady behind the counter is humming to herself, the song unfamiliar. 

"I'd like… a croissant," you order, tentative. "With chocolate filling, please."

She nods. "Any drinks, or will that be all?"

Your lips part, before slowly falling shut again. Something warm doesn't sound so bad right now, actually… "I'll take a cup of hot chocolate, too."

"Great! One second…"

You exhale faintly, blinking twice. Watching with unfocused eyes as she presses the tips of her fingers against the small screen in front of her. Beep. Beep— the noise just barely cutting through your muddled senses, your hazy peripheral. 

"Aaand there you are!" She gestures towards the card reader, lacing her fingers together. "I'll get started on your order— will you be eating here?"

"… No." You shake your head, reaching for your pocket. "I'll take it to-go, plea—"

…

Your fingers spread out. One, after the other, like spindly limbs extending. Searching. 

But no, there's nothing. 

For a moment, all you can do is stand frozen in place. Eyes wide with disbelief— the beginnings of denial. Your fingers, still twitching idly in the pocket of your pants, stop smoothing over old receipts and loose change and lip balm— they turn as still as you. Seconds pass, no more than five, before a heaving sigh breaks past your lips.

Your wallet isn't there. 

Clinging onto what remains of your sanity, your hand slips out your pocket, right into the next. But, again, nothing. You're sure it's not in your purse, because you didn't bring it with you, and you remember holding your wallet no more than half an hour ago— unless you're mistaken? It's no good, your brain is already too subdued for second guessing. When you raise your gaze the clerk is looking at you, blinking like she's confused. The scent of cocoa seeps through the air, her hands busy with the milk pitcher, and for once you wish the service wasn't so fast. 

"… I'm sorry," you say, as clearly as you can manage— which is barely above a whisper, really. Your head hurts. You kind of want to cry. Being the responsible adult you are, you attempt to hold it in. "I… think I dropped my wallet."

"Oh no!" Her lips fall into a frown, but she seems hesitant on what to say next. "I'm sorry to hear that…"

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. You repeat it to yourself. It's just a croissant. Except, of course, it really isn't— it was supposed to be your well-deserved after-work treat, and you needed it today more than ever. The illusionary comfort only the Dreamscape can provide.

"Sorry," you repeat, breath pitifully stuck in the back of your throat. Ready to turn on your heel, and walk back into reality, your nails leaving crescents on your inner palms. It's subconscious— you barely feel the ache. "I'll… come back tomorrow."

"No need."

… A voice, feather-soft, calls out from behind you. 

When you turn your head towards its source, two golden eyes stare back at you. A certain Halovian, parting his lips.

"I'll pay for it. Just add it to my order." He pays no mind to your bewildered expression, speaking candidly. How did you not hear him coming in? "A croissant for me as well, please. Savoury."

The familiar stranger walks up to the counter, not even sparing you a glance. If you didn't know better, you'd think he was referring to another customer with no wallet to their name. You're the only ones here, though. He says something to the clerk, something you don't catch, because you're too busy staring at his face like he just dropped down from the sky— crashed through the roof like a bird with burning feathers. 

(Or an angel, maybe. An angel with just the right amount of wings, and a halo made of thorny gold. An angel with eyes like charred sunflower fields.

… Your mind is left entranced.)

"Oh, um. Alright! Will that be to-go, or…?"

"No, that's alright." He takes out his card. "We're eating here."

Only when it moves towards the card reader, does your brain finally catch up to what your eyes are seeing. Without thinking, you grasp onto his arm.

"W-wait, you don't have to!" Your fingers curl around the linen of his sleeve, the protest stumbling out your lips. Your mind is too jumbled up to realize what you're doing— you can't feel the heat of his skin, or the thumping of his pulse, but his eyes coil into slits where they meet yours. "Seriously, I'd hate to bother—"

"Oh, it's no bother." 

He smiles, suddenly; stale, his earrings swaying when he tilts his head to face you. Hand gentle when it comes to lay over yours. His gloved fingers feel silky against your own, untangling them casually, before he smooths the flat of his palm down the fabric you creased. 

"I'd be happy to," he says. 

"… But,"

Without further pause, he slides his card against the card reader. A decisive beep. Paying for your order, seamlessly, the smile on his lips never slipping off his face; from this narrow distance you think you'd be able to see the weariness in his eyes, but it isn't there. Neatly tucked away, maybe. Or is he just a night owl?

You purse your lips, unsure what else to do. The clinking of plates fills the air.

"… Thank you," you settle on. A quiet breath.

"You're welcome." His reply is instant. "Though I suggest you pay more attention in the future. A lost wallet is no laughing matter."

… He's right, but something about the way he says it doesn't sit right with you. You decide to stay silent, until the plates have been served, until you're seated at a table in the corner right across from him. Two croissants in front of you, yours streaked and stuffed with chocolate, coated in a layer of powdered sugar, like snow on a mountaintop— a halved strawberry sitting neatly on top of it— his filled with lettuce, ham, and thinly sliced cheese. He watches you take a tentative bite, the crumbs sticking to your fingers, before reaching for his knife and fork. 

"The Dreamscape is a safe place, relatively speaking." He continues, taking nimble bites between the words. "But that doesn't mean there are no souls who would take advantage over a young lady's naivety. It doesn't hurt to take precautions."

"… You mean, you think somebody stole it?"

An absent hum. "Not exactly." He's smiling, again, though it's hard to tell when the lights overhead intermingle with the shadows from the window to your right. His face is candle-lit, flickering faintly. "What I mean is— you should keep important things close to your person. For an adult, that's only natural, wouldn't you agree?"

(… He's making fun of you.)

"… It isn't like me," you explain, cringing at how defensive it sounds. As if sulking, you sink your teeth into the sugary croissant. "I'm not that scatterbrained."

The Halovian tilts his head, ever so slightly. 

"… Good," he places his cutlery back on the table. Then: "Here you are."

You watch as he brings your wallet out of his pocket. Sets it down in front of you, the leather smudged with a light layer of dust— though the rubber charm you clipped onto it remains unsoiled, her smile devoid of flecks. 

Baffled, you stare at it.

Then up at him. 

"It was lying just outside," he tells you, voice like a news anchor mentioning the weather. Too casual, you think. He brings a pure white handkerchief to the curve of his lips. "—You have good taste. That collection was my favorite of last spring's."

In the moment, you decidedly ignore his knowledge on idol merchandise. The bewilderment still coursing through your veins takes priority, your voice dumb-struck when you ask— 

"You had it all along?" A mortified pause. "Why didn't you give it to me earlier?"

"All actions should have consequences." He answers, simply. "Even something as idle as embarrassment has a strong effect on the mind… I'm sure you'll be more wary in the future."

You blink. Once, then twice.

The Halovian's expression remains carefully concealed. You see no notes of humour, nor of ill intent. Condescension, maybe, in the smooth line of his lips. The way he's looking at you. It's vague enough that you wouldn't notice if he wasn't saying something so…

… Socially obscene?

"I'm an adult," you finally bite, too exhausted to play at sounding cordial. Your brow twitches, restless with irritation. "… I don't need a stranger to gentle parent me, thank you."

…

Are you being rude? Sure. But you're tired, you've had an awful day, and— frankly, you don't have it in you to entertain whatever mind games he just admitted to using on you, even if he turned out to be the CEO of the Reverie himself. He's weird. Weirdo. Waste of a pretty face. The thoughts enter your mind, but don't turn into words.

… After all, you're still taking bites of the croissant that he bought you. The damage is done. 

(You settle on silent, petty scrutiny— he's for sure the type to put a tracker on his girlfriend's phone. The motel stalker type.)

Finally, he speaks. "Pardon me," he smiles, a narrow line. "It wasn't my intention to offend you."

Through a mouthful of powdered sugar and chocolate, you offer him a dubious look. He seems to notice it. "That was only half the reason," he explains, clicking his pointer finger on the edge of the table. Rhythmic thumps, in tune with the composition playing from the counter. "To be honest, I'm not too fond of sweets. But seeing you enjoy them so openly is… refreshing." A beat. "In a sense."

… Is that supposed to be a compliment?

Moreover— how long has he been watching you? The thought lingers on your mind, for no more than a moment. You let it go when he speaks.

"What I mean is— I've been hoping to converse with you." The tapping stops, abruptly. He goes silent— a look in his eyes like he isn't really there, a faceless stare boring into you. "… This was a golden opportunity."

His voice is all honey and silver, but you aren't sure what to make of it. When his eyes flit away from yours, briefly, his halo remains unmoving. Overseeing. His pupils flickering like a pair of injured sparrows. There's a gap in the way that he's acting, you think.

Everything about the way he carries himself suggests social awareness, so—

… what's with this awkward tension? 

(It's like he's a sheltered princess. Like someone locked him up in a tower, and told him how to speak to others— let him practice in front of mirrors, dance with marionette dolls. That kind of feeling. Like he's looking through you, rather than at you— like his mouth is being guided by a silent, invisible hand, lips tugged apart to make space for their words. But then, who is the dragon? The evil stepmother?

… Maybe he really is an idol. That would be the more grounded option. An out of touch celebrity vacationing on Penacony, unused to the mysteries of social boundaries. It would explain his knowledge in Robin merchandise, at least…)

Your stare must unnerve him. Or maybe he gets tired of waiting for a response. Either way, he lets out something like a chuckle; it shatters your thoughts. "Ah, forgive me… It’s unlike me to speak so brazenly. I've overstepped."

With graceful poise, he digs his fork into the nearly-finished croissant. Lifts the final piece towards his mouth, without so much as angling his jaw down. Silent, measured chewing, the seconds between his words filled with nothing but the white noise of the ticking clock behind him. It sits on the wall, hands counting down until sunrise, though it means nothing in the Moment of Midnight. Still hours away.

Like a snake slithering back into its nest, he stands up as soon as he's swallowed— swiping the tip of his tongue across the seam of his lips. The chair is pushed back into place, before he graces you with another easy-curved smile. 

"Please, don't let me ruin your meal."

"Um— wait." Just as he's about to leave, you stop him. "What's your name?"

When he turns his head, his eyes catch the moon-stream from the window. Gold turns to silver in the white streak of light. The Halovian parts his lips, but no noise makes it past them— he seems to reconsider whatever he was going to say. 

A quiet hum, at the juncture of his throat.

"… Wonweek."

"Ah… thank you, Wonweek." You probably shouldn't be thanking him, but it slips out before you can stop yourself. You're more preoccupied with other thoughts— such as, you don't know any idols with that stage name, so either he's lying or the work-stress is having a positive effect on your imagination— "For the food. And… for picking up my wallet."

He surveys you, for a moment. Doesn't say a word. Pupils coiling into thoughtful slits.

Silver locks sway, when he turns around. 

"It was my pleasure." 

… And then he's leaving. 

(The barely-there afternotes of his cologne linger on the seat across from you, stitched into the polyester: deep, mellow amber.)

This time, Wonweek is already there when you open the door.

With the Charmony Festival just around the corner, it's a miracle you can still move your legs. All day— all week— nothing but guests, checking in from every corner of the galaxy. It's so hectic you've been demoted to carrier, lunging around suitcases twice your size while the senior staff tends to the visitors. There's a numbing ache in your limbs, all the way to the base of your joints. Splintered out across your nerves.

Yet you make your usual rounds. The dried blue tones of the midnight sky sweep across your cheeks, as you rouse the bell chime into life— and he's there.

A brief flicker of gold, and a subtle smile, his eyes catching yours when they glide across the lounge. The air is thick with black tea, steam drifting from the silver-lined rim of his porcelain cup, the pure white speckled with bluebirds. His lashes flutter shut when he takes a sip. As always, the radio plays soft piano.

"Welcome back! What can I get for you, today?"

The lady behind the counter offers you the same smile as ever. She painted her nails, you notice— blue, but a touch lighter than the shade of her apron. Like the evening sky of a particularly hot summer. You wrap your tongue around a quiet hum, eyes moving to the glass display. Squinting at the pastries under it.

… Honestly, you aren't sure.

"Having trouble deciding?" Wonweek chimes in, when you've been standing in place for a moment too long. There's a cordial smile on his lips, a cheery note to his voice; like he's in a good mood. He abandons his spot to come stand beside you.

"… A little," you admit. "I guess I'm not sure what I'm in the mood for?"

A soft, affirming noise. 

"Would you like me to decide for you?" 

When you raise your head, his eyes are gleaming. Shimmering gold, flickering playfully, though his smile is nothing but composed, his gloved hands folded behind his back as he awaits your response. You're silent, for a breath. 

"… Sure," you then exhale, spur of the moment. "Why not?"

That seems to please him. At least, if his satisfied hum is anything to go by. Wonweek faces forward, the bridge of his nose falling into your peripheral.

"Let's see…" A thoughtful pause. "What would you say to a parfait?"

Your eyes follow the trail left by his steady gaze, stopping where it ends: on a tall glass filled with layers of custard and meringue, crushed berries and cookie crumbs, topped with dollops of cream and thick slices of fruit. The sight makes your mouth water. You're sure that he notices. That he can somehow tell. 

Not wanting to give him the satisfaction, you simply reach for your wallet, making sure your voice reaches his ears when you ask: "Do you want anything?"

He blinks. 

"… To pay you back," you explain, glancing at him cautiously. Hoping you'll sound even mildly assertive, through the fog around your after-work brain. "For last time."

"Ah." Another flutter of his lashes. "There's no need."

Your brows furrow in frustration. A moment's pause, until you're trying again, taking out your card while eyeing the display. Surely, there has to be something he'd want…? "It's only fair… I mean, you paid for mine, right?"

"Really, there's no need."

You turn towards him fully, lips catching on a sigh. "I want to."

"You aren't going to." 

…

His smile is close-knit. Eyes curled into threatening crescents.

"You're too kind," he says, voice deceptively cheery. His eyes are sharp when he opens them, daggers gleaming in the dark of night. "But, really, I insist."

Any further protests die out on your tongue.

Wonweek ends up buying a lightly toasted sandwich, to go with his darjeeling tea. You recognize the scent when you've seated yourself across from him, led along by his not-so-subtle social cues, like a puppet on a string. Needless to say, he paid for it himself. You get the feeling he'd have done the same with your parfait, had you given him an opening— if only just to get back at you for suggesting otherwise.

Are all Halovians control freaks, you wonder? Or is it just him?

”Are you enjoying the Dreamscape?” He asks, sinking his teeth into the sourdough. Chew, and swallow. He licks his parting lips. ”Is it to your liking?

You lean back in your seat, mellow warmth seeping through your fingers when they curl around the handle of your cup. Rich espresso, a roasted fragrance. ”I am," you tell him, honestly. "I wasn’t sure about the pastries… but they taste just as good as in reality.”

”Of course.” He smiles, something unusual in his expression. ”They need to.”

…

You watch him silently, through lidded eyes. He's looking down at your plate, making an expression you can't put your finger on— then back up at you, seamlessly, his face falling back into something vaguely insincere. 

Controlled.

"Are you enjoying it?"

(His smile curves up. It makes you think of a plant uprooted, tugged from its tender soil— on the cusp of being ripe enough to pluck.

It makes you think, for whatever reason, that you really shouldn't have asked.)

"I am." He answers, easily. "A dream that never ends… don't you think that's wonderful?"

"I guess so."

"Oh? Do you disagree?"

"Well, I…" You clear your throat. "Honestly, I think it's a little scary, sometimes."

He casts you a questioning look. 

"Like… I want to stay here forever." You stir your spoon in circles, watching the espresso swirl, a night-black vortex. "There are people who start to feel that way." 

"Is that so awful?"

Quiet. Stale, like the wrong edge of a scalpel. 

The silence that settles when his words have left his tongue is strained, a bowl about to break in the heat of a bubbling furnace. In your mind, you play out the noise it'd make— clatter, and crack, shattering on the floor and breaking into porcelain pieces— your lips trying in vain to wrap themselves around an apology.

For what, though? 

(You can tell from his tense brow you've upset him, but how?)

The seconds tick on, with the counting of the clock on the wall, a slow, steady mantra. As if to escape the unsettling atmosphere, you direct your gaze towards the tall glass in front of you. Wonweek chooses that moment to speak. 

"… Reality breaks them." His voice bears more than sterness: it bleeds. Tears the silence into overripe halves. When you bite into your parfait you taste peach, streams of sticky nectar in between your teeth. "If the Dreamscape can offer those lost souls some relief, it can be nothing but a good thing."

Chew, and swallow. He isn't meeting your eyes anymore.

"I… see your point."

Seawaves of blue filter in through the window, dripping down the contours of his face. From his cheeks, to his jaw, the shadow between his nose and lips— the glow of a silverfish's squirming body. It disappears when the moon slips beneath a cluster of clouds, his expression obscured. "I've seen you at the Reverie," Wonweek exhales a breath, his voice strung tight, lips falling into a straight-laced line. It softens when they part, near imperceptible. "… You always look so tired."

He meets your gaze when it snaps up. Captures it, and holds it, his own eyes not once wavering.

(Before anything else— before your mind can catch up to the strangeness of those words— you think to yourself that he looks a little sad.)

"It's only when you're here… that you seem to be content." His fingers curl around the handle of the cup, and bring it to his moving lips, steam clouding his cupid's bow. An earthy scent, something like rain on an autumn morning. Wetting asphalt. ”In that sense, I thought you and I might be similar. Or, rather— I thought you'd sympathize with the Dreamscape as a whole. The respite it brings."

The three-eyed halo crowning him bears down on you, unblinking; his wings swaying in tune with his voice, a booming kind of quiet, like it's urging you to listen. You wish you could, but your mind is too occupied to truly understand what he's getting at. You can only think, blearily, through the white noise of your weary mind—

That you have never seen him before. 

You're sure you haven't, because as strange as he's proved himself to be— he's annoyingly handsome. You'd remember his eyes, if nothing else. The twitches of his lithe fingertips, the subtle sense of self-perceivement in his voice.

(You've never seen Wonweek at the Reverie.)

"… You're struggling, too?" you ask, tentative. Wonweek simply smiles.

"I used to." His voice is non-concealing. "Things are better, now."

He sets the cup down with a quiet clink. You watch him, silently, even as you realize he doesn't plan on elaborating. His smile is familiar. It's like the one you see in mirrors, when you tell yourself the future is larger than this. In mirrors, reflected in marble countertops, on nights that never seem to end. 

"If reality brings you nothing but suffering, then there's no need to open your eyes anymore... I've been wanting to tell you that."

You hear the leaving in his voice before he stands up, palms flat on the table when he rises to his full height. His plate is empty, save for a neatly sorted pile of breadcrumbs— he pushes his chair back and threads through his feathers, an absent sweep of his hand.

”I hope I'm not overstepping.” he adds, carefully. "Please, do take it to heart."

"… Okay."

One last smile, before he walks out the door. As always, you follow— with your eyes, as much as you are able, before the bell chime fades and takes him with it. You're left with a lacking, troubled feeling, but there aren't enough untangled threads in your mind to make space for it. You eat the remainder of your parfait in silence. 

Behind you, faintly, resounds the ticking of a clock. 

The next time you enter the patisserie, Wonweek is nowhere to be seen.

You sit by the window until the sun breaks through the clouds: until it would have, if it wasn't locked behind a never-ending midnight. A sugar-coated orange lining tearing the sky in half. Weeping dawn across its blue cheeks. There is no sight of him, even then— not of silver locks of hair, not of halos or of wings. 

He doesn't come in the day after. Or the day after that. Days bleed into weeks. Strawberry shortcakes, lemon meringue, coffee with too much or too little creamer.

You sit by a table in the corner, and wait for a man that never walks through the door.

(At some point, you stop expecting him to.)

Sunday stops by the window. Inhales a breath.

You're there. As always. 

(What should make him feel relief leaves him with trepidation.)

Silently, he gazes into the interior of the patisserie; the lounge is dim-lit, but he sees you, curled in on yourself by a table in the corner like a baby bird in a too-big nest. He clutches onto the image, for a moment. Considers leaving once or twice. Mr. Yang is waiting— he's on borrowed time, well past owing favours. It would be easier to simply cut this loss.

His steps towards the door are silent. 

The midnight moon gleams just as blue as always, spilling cobalt all over the paved streets, the alleyway that led him here. His own shadow half-transparent. It's more beautiful than he remembers, though perhaps he should attribute that to his own disinterest— The Hour of Midnight never struck him as especially precious. No morning dawn, no golden light, no sound except that of distant partygoers. The glow of the moon seemed somber, if anything. 

(He never quite understood why this was where you'd found your peace.)

For a moment his fingers simply linger by the handle, the chill of the wood dulled by the fabric of his gloves. His hand curls around it with tentative thought. 

When the door slides open, his eyes instinctually close.

Darkness. It lays itself over his vision, a thick blanket wrung around the sockets of his eyes— Sunday waits for the chime of the bell overhead.

It answers, dutifully. The sound of glass clinking against itself, shattering quietly. When he steps inside, soft piano: Satie's Gymnopédie No.1. 

The door falls shut behind him. He spares no glance towards the woman by the counter, much too preoccupied with the pair of eyes across the room. You've raised your gaze, the silver spoon between your fingers shining with the blue from the window behind you. The air smells of fruit, honeyed and ripe. 

Sunday moves.

You're blinking up at him, dumb-struck, when he stops by your table. Watches your lashes flutter, feels his wings twitch with an emotion he doesn't want to name— something that ties a knot inside his abdomen, inside his chest. 

It makes it difficult to speak. 

(He likes that about you, that blissfully empty gaze. Likes the way it conceals nothing.)

Seamlessly, he takes the seat across from you. Doesn't smile, but his voice is light when he says: "Good evening." A quiet inhale. "How have you been?"

Silence lingers in the wake of his words. It does not unnerve him; he is nothing if not patient. Nothing but a content overseer. Content to watch your fingertips twitch, when you let the spoon you're grasping fall onto the plate, a quiet clink of metal on ceramic. It looks as if you've barely grazed the fruit tart.

You look well, he thinks. There are shadows under your eyes, but they're not quite as dark as he remembers them being. Not the absent, worrying smudges he saw in the CCTV— your eyes themselves look somehow clearer.

He wonders what caused it.

(He knows it's not him. Wishes it did not grate at him, in that shameful, ugly corner of his mind, still not cleansed of petulant pettiness—)

When your lips part he follows the drag of your cupid's bow. Your voice an arrow piercing through the air. 

"Hi," you say, uncertainly. "It's… been a while."

"It has."

…

Sunday's eyes do not stray, even when your own begin to waver. "How have you been?" He repeats, after a moment's pause.

"Uh, good. Just fine." You tilt your head, softly. "And you?"

An exhale leaves him, amused. Part of him wishes he could give you an honest answer, but— well, how is he to summarize it? I fell from the sky. I had an epiphany, of sorts— no, that's misleading. I think I died, for a moment. Just enough to gasp for air.

How should he relay it to you?

"… I've been well, all things considered," he feeds you a vague half-truth, a small smile tugging at his bottom lip. "I was hoping I'd see you again." 

That makes you look at him strangely. Your lips twitching open, and then falling shut, enough to have his hands wandering; fingers tugging restlessly at the smooth silk of his glove, the thin material stretching to accommodate his absent graze. Sunday hums, lightly.

"I'm leaving Penacony." He straightens his back, speaking clearly, the words filling his lungs with air that smells of honeydew. Of possibilities. "I’m well-aware it doesn't concern you. We're just strangers, after all… but I wanted to say a proper goodbye."

He's just tying up loose ends. That's all. 

(He doesn't have it in him to hope for anything else.)

"… Why?" Your voice is pure, innocently curious. "If you don't mind me asking…"

"It's a long story. I'm certain I'd bore you."

You hum, tentative— reaching for your spoon. It scoops up sliced kiwi, foamy cream, brings a piece up to your parting lips.

"… Well, the Dreamscape has been crazy lately," you say after swallowing, your tongue dipping out to catch the fruit juice dribbling down your bottom lip. He follows it, absently. "I heard Sunday was exiled from the Oak Family, or something?"

An upward twitch of his lips.

With the heel of his palm, Sunday hurries to obscure it— masks it with an idle cough, though he's certain that it doesn't come off as very convincing. You go silent, like you're confused. The look in your eye is what tips him over.

A melodious chuckle breaks past his lips. Light and clear, a home-bound ocean breeze; when he speaks it's all but muffled, caught between his fingertips.

"You are… so out of the loop."

"… Huh?"

He shakes his head lightly, silver strands swaying, ghosting the skin of his forehead. Extends a hand across the table, his inner palm facing up. "Sunday," he says, eyes gleaming mirthfully. "My name is Sunday."

He can practically see the gears of your mind turn, click sluggishly into place, a series of mismatched blinks. Hopelessly endearing.

"… Not that Sunday, right?"

His smile only curls further. "I wonder."

"Are you? There's no way." You're starting to look panicked, eyes wide with disbelief. It shouldn't make him so amused, the visible embarrassment upon your features, he shouldn't be enjoying it as much as he is. 

(Inwardly, he berates himself. Right now, he really is no better than Wonweek, is he?)

"I hope you can forgive me," he half-croons, dove-like, a weak attempt at stifling the joy in his expression. "I suppose I enjoyed teasing you. I was sure you'd catch on quicker, but I underestimated you."

You look mortified. It's almost, almost enough to pull another chuckle from his breast.

(No better than Wonweek, he repeats, quelling the urge.)

"… Actually," you say, after the silence has properly settled— your expression far less like you want to burrow your head into sand, sweeping a hand across the silence gathering dust between you, "I'm leaving Penacony, too."

That makes him still. "Oh?"

You nod. ”I quit my job this morning," your fingers trace the edge of the ceramic plate. "And without my job, I don't have a place to stay… so I'm going somewhere else. Not sure where, but, you know."

He hums, affirmative.

"I just had to get one last pastry." There's a smile on your face, albeit flimsy; he could probably tug it off with just a swipe of his thumb across the seam of your lips. His fingers twitch with the desire, but he kills it just as quickly. "I haven't been here in a while, actually. Not since the Charmony Festival fiasco… I got really busy, and you weren't here— well, it's not like that was why, you know, but still. I haven’t had one of these in a while.”

The trail of your wandering digits changes course. You break off a piece of the pastry at its center, crumbling dough between your index finger and thumb. A weary sigh escapes your lungs. 

Saddened, he thinks.

"Tarts taste sweeter in reality... I think I forgot."

Sunday watches you in silence.

"… Yes," he exhales, after a moment's pause. "you're probably right."

The composition from the counter changes, Satie's replaced by the tender strokes of a violin, sweet and light, filling the empty space of silence; Ashokan Farewell. His eyelids flutter closed, curtains of half-translucent moonlight drawing shut across his face.

"You know," he hears himself speak, after a moment, "I think I'll follow your example."

When he stands up you follow, impulsively, first with your eyes and then with your body— knees audibly knocking against the leg of your chair when you attempt to rise the first time. He smiles at the gesture, his expression serene. 

The glass display shimmers from afar, beckoning. 

… Ever since he had those pudding tarts, he hasn't been able to stop thinking about it.

Sunday waltzes up to the counter, brandishing a gentle smile. "I'll have one crème brûlée, please." You come to a stand-still beside him. "And one for my companion, as well." 

A tingling heat, where your gaze sears into his neck. He meets it from the corner of his eye, a playful cadence to his voice when he asks, "Unless you're already full? Or, would you like something else?"

A moment passes. 

"… Crème brûlée is fine," you hum.

Sunday exhales. "In that case, we'll—"

"But I'm paying."

You side-step him with grace, tugging your wallet open. When you angle your face to meet his expression, there's something pleased about the way your lips are curved; he thinks of Robin, a gentle cat's grin, the look she'd give him whenever she'd foot the bill in secret. 

It makes him chuckle, despite himself.

"Are you usually this stubborn?" he asks, eyes gleaming gold. 

"Not really," you shrug. "I just don't like owing people favours."

He can sympathize with that. 

Still, he pauses. Restrains the urge to be equally as stubborn; a struggle, it turns out, but he stays his hand. Tries not to listen to the voice in his head, familiar nagging, Don't let anyone do what you could do just as well yourself— a hand on the back of his neck. Even worse, the faded lull of his mother's voice, smaller, whispered. Somehow, it bears more weight.

(Oh my, are those for me? My little angel is such a gentleman.)

He swallows, imperceptively.

"… Are you sure?" he inquires. Your reply is instant.

"Yep."

Deadpan. You're weary of waiting, it seems.

Sunday sighs, his smile indulgent. Head lowered in a show of defeat. "… Alright," he concedes. "In that case, thank you."

”You’re welcome.”

"Next time," he continues, sharply, "will be on me, however." 

The words linger in the air. 

For a moment, he regrets them; almost certain that you've been put off. He's already pushing his luck, he's well aware of that, tongue twitching with a change of topic— willing it to be seamless, but it weighs down on the muscle like lead, iron searing hotly, a path from roof to throat.

You don't say a word. 

Only still, briefly. Stiffen in place. You spare him a glance before your head flips forward, fishing the debit card out of your wallet, that Robin keycharm still dangling from its corner like a wind chime in the breeze. Her smile strikes him as mischievous. 

"Mm," it's a shallow hum, more breath than word. "That's fine, then."

Sunday blinks. Has to swallow the affection crawling up his throat in pollinated flurries, an itch that reaches all the way back to the root of his ribcage. Leaves his feathers to twitch, no more than a wingspan's worth of fluttering, pinpricks of excitement spreading through his spine— an electric sensation he cannot put a finger on. 

All he knows is that it makes his lips bloom. His hand comes up to cover it.

(Yes, that's right, he thinks. In the vast expanse of the cosmos— in some corner of the universe, wherever that may be— your paths will surely cross again. You'll find another patisserie. One with better lighting, where he can look at you properly from across the table: where he will not be able to hide the smile behind his fingers.)

The lady behind the counter looks bashful, watching the two of you in sheepish silence, as if unsure whether it's alright to chime in or not. Sunday should feel apologetic, but he scarcely notices her presence until she clears her throat. 

"… Will that be for here, or to-go?" 

The words break you out of your reverie. You sputter out a confirmation, visibly embarrassed, card nearly slipping through the gaps between your fingers in your rush to slide it against the card reader— and Sunday truly cannot help himself. His smile curls upwards, like a bird taking flight, a sunflower twisting its stalk towards the clear-blue sky. It breaks through the clouds, carelessly.

Outside the window, the crescent moon mirrors his expression. 

[ilovebabygirls]

CHO HYUN-JU IS THE TYPE TO... . girlfriend headcanons

pairing — cho hyun-ju × female reader | mention of cho hyun-ju × park yong-sik (platonic) | jang guem-ja mentioned

tags — sfw | second person point of you | no use of [your name] | post/no games timeline | gay people with a happy ending

warnings — proofread | english is not my first language!! | use of lowercases intended | mention of homophobia & transphobia | hyun-ju's insecurities | south korea's laws on same-sex marriage | need for self-defence | mention of the military | mention of top surgery for gender affirming care (chest feminisation) | mention of a hypothetical ex partner with anger issues

word count — 1k

last updated — 28/07/2025

requested by me

latest work — kang dae-ho is the type to... . boyfriend headcanons

HYUN-JU is the type to pre-plan her outfit for the next day and model it for you to get an honest opinion (you think she looks gorgeous in anything).

HYUN-JU is the type to use you as a mannequin to improve her makeup skills. she wants to eventually work in the cosmetic industry, most likely as a makeup artist. after all, her girlfriend is the most suitable test subject at hand.

HYUN-JU is the type to teach you some self-defence techniques. she does not trust anyone outside of her close circle. as much as she loves her friend yong-sik, she knows he would not be able to protect you if needed. she understands she cannot always be by your side; so, better safe than sorry, right? during these sparring sessions in your living room (baby proofed), you mostly end up pinned under her, always leading to a make-out session.

HYUN-JU is the type to buy matching lingerie sets (usually long silk pink dresses for her) for the two of you.

HYUN-JU is the type to run you a warm bubble bath after a long day with rose petals, vanilla-scented candles around the bathroom, and soft jazz music in the background. she eventually joins you, hugging you from behind, whispering sweet words in your ear as she caresses your skin.

HYUN-JU is the type to pick indoor dates over going to restaurants in seoul. she is extremely self-conscious (although you remind her almost every day how stunning she is; that woman is a walking supermodel), and therefore, she prefers the privacy of your own home. dates are usually a homemade dinner cooked by the woman herself with the help of her sous-chef, of course (cutting vegetables and tasting the food), followed by cuddling in front of a romcom, skincare in bed and doing each other's nails.

HYUN-JU is the type to be the first to confess her feelings on a date night. you met on a dating app and went out as friends only (per her request, although she was already very much infatuated with you). after your first hangout, you thought the two of you were in a relationship but taking things slow. imagine your surprise when she confessed her undying love for you and officially asked you to be her girlfriend.

"we weren't together yet?" you bluntly asked, eyebrows furrowed as you halted in your tracks. she fumbled over her words.

HYUN-JU is the type to prioritise your relationship over anything else. your relationship is the exact representation of the question 'who would you choose in a room full of people?'. she does not have a biological family anymore. her father disowned her and keeps denying her existence. her mother blindly trusts her husband's judgments, but has attempted to reach out through letters (hyun-ju has kept all the letters in a drawer next to the bed, never answering any). you gave her a sense of belonging when everyone had abandoned her, accepting her true self before she had even undergone top surgery.

HYUN-JU is the type to wake up at dawn and take it as an opportunity to prepare breakfast in bed for you. due to her long and intense military training, she is particularly organised: she takes showers at a specific time, has a detailed morning routine she has never modified in years (as previously mentioned, she prepares her clothes the day before), gets to bed at the same time every night, and all the dates she had planned were neatly scheduled.

HYUN-JU is the type to exclusively drink black coffee in the morning and iced americanos when ordering at a coffee shop. her taste buds are destroyed, and yet she can perfectly cook for you, whether it is preparing a caffeinated beverage or a healthy meal.

HYUN-JU is the type to slow dance with you in the living room late at night.

HYUN-JU is amazing at communicating. if your previous partner had anger issues, she is the polar opposite. hyun-ju is calm, collected, rational, and knows when she is wrong. this woman never makes you feel guilty by flipping the situation around and always takes accountability for her actions. she never gets angry when you open up about something that has been bothering you, or frustrated over small things. voices are never raised between the two of you, and bitter words that will be regretted later are never thrown; therefore, arguments are quick to die down. she never gets defensive and will apologise. in the future, her mistakes will not be repeated. she constantly improves herself to be the girlfriend you deserve.

"i am so sorry, babe. it won't happen again, i promise," she declared, kissing your temple.

HYUN-JU is a sweet and soft-spoken woman; however, her voice will drop a few octaves the moment anyone attacks your relationship. when people are transphobic, she never truly reacts. your girlfriend claims she is used to the stares and rude comments (which is heartbreaking). moreover, she believes violence is unnecessary and would only make the situation worse. when you become the target of those same rude remarks, a switch flips in her brain. she is unafraid of getting her hands dirty to defend your honour and has punched a man in the past.

HYUN-JU is the type to call you her wife once you two are in an established relationship. it naturally came to her. she found a soulmate in you. you are her safe space; the one she sees herself getting old and wrinkly with. the one who accepts her no matter what. the one with whom she will travel the world and eventually move to thailand. the one who makes her feel comfortable in her own skin since the beginning. unfortunately, same sex marriage is yet to be recognised under the law in south korea; why not make her own rules? you are her wife. she is your wife.

geum-ja is already making a cake for the ceremony in her backyard after hyun-ju told her she wanted to propose.

[starcurtain]

I believe the "trading off with the titan" aspect ended when Khaslana began the eternal recurrence, so there's no technical need for the Chrysos Heirs to become demigods in any of the 33,550,336 cycles, as there's never going to be a new Era Nova for them to become the next titans. In the first cycle of the recurrence, Khaslana confirms that other than Tribbie, no one else in Cycle 1 became a demigod, and everyone died as mortals, so I think it would be hard for them all to have lived and died by the specific terms of their prophecies, particularly since they only receive the prophecies when they become demigods. For one example, Anaxa couldn't have had the same death at all, given that Cerces would never have possessed him.

(Side note, but also, while I think it makes sense that our Chrysos Heirs might have been in a trade-off sequence with the titans we know [Gnaeus, Calypso, etc.], the impression I actually got is that neither Irontomb or Lygus had much care or attention for individual existences, so I'm just not sure I'd go so far as to say that the previously successful heir-to-titan swaps were between the heirs we know and the titans we know [then vice versa]. Like, Lygus telling Phainon and Cyrene that their batch of Chrysos Heirs were an especially great group of electrical signals kind of gave me the impression that the heirs that came before were their own people, with the system just refining the overall "model" for what each Chrysos Heir/primum mobile should perform like until it hit "perfection" with Cycle 0's batch, if that makes sense? At least I just don't personally get the impression that Phainon, Cyrene, Cipher etc. specifically existed as the same individuals we know in previous iterations before Cycle 0, although Castorice does complicate this... But her entire role in the story is "Don't think too hard" because who was Thanatos before Polyxia if they've always been trading off but weren't always twins? 🤔 Basically, I get the impression the "primum mobile" and the simulated paths existed, but that each group of heirs probably had their own names, personalities, etc., separate from the heirs we came to know in Cycle 0, who were the "final" perfected iterations, if that makes sense. I don't want to mentally deal with what it would mean for the game to reveal that on top of 33 million eternal cycles, the same exact group of heirs had also done millions of other cycles too! lol)

Ultimately, it seems odd to me that the system would be able to "course correct" to ensure that all the Chrysos Heirs were born in the same way, given that Khaslana would have been fiddling with the entire simulation, creating massive changes in the flow of simulated history. For example, if Khaslana went with Seliose to recover Aquila's coreflame (or even just went and killed Aquila after it had already merged with Seliose), why would Hyacine ever even need to be born as the Chrysos Heir of Sky? If Khaslana killed Oronyx before the Chrysos War ever ended and took the coreflame from them directly, would Cyrene ever have received Oronyx prophecies as a child to get herself labeled as a future priestess of time? If all of the coreflames were collected before year 41XX, wouldn't the timeline just end before the younger heirs were born anyway? 🤔

Since Khaslana's loops weren't planned by the system, I think it would be odd for the system to manage to maneuver around everything he was doing to still successfully produce the exact same Chrysos Heirs at the exact same points in time, right? Like, what if he just went and annihilated all of Kremnos a thousand years before Mydei was born? Would the system still insist on having Mydei be born, even if not a single Kremnoan still existed and Nikador was already long dead?

Maybe I'm being too practical, but I feel like doing something as significant as completely altering the history of the Chrysos War through helping Cerydra win should probably have resulted in major changes to the flow of Amphoreus's history that presumably would also have impacted whether later heirs were ever born or whether there even was a "Flame-Chase Journey" in those first few cycles... (But then again, perhaps that's applying too much logic to a video game lol.)

Overall, the entire scenario with the Flame-Chase Journey in the cycles is kind of a "don't think too hard," because if even a single coreflame was missing, then the Flame-Chase Journey wouldn't be considered complete, so if Khaslana wanted to achieve his mission in the most practical way possible, at the start of every single one of the 33 million cycles, he could have just taken the least defended coreflame, then waited until the heirs gathered all the others and simply snatched them from the Vortex in one go. The whole "Flame Reaver couldn't enter the Vortex" thing ended up being completely false (the Vortex was supposedly protected by Phagousa's power, but Khaslana already had the coreflame of Ocean, so why would he be blocked?). There's literally no reason why Khaslana wouldn't have just ensured the heirs couldn't fully complete the journey, then wait until they did the rest of the work for him. The whole "fight your friends to steal coreflames" thing is very much a "We want our Phainon angst and by god, we will have it--logic be damned!"

I think the same sort of logic applies to Flame Reaver getting coreflames from the demigods. If you attempt to apply any practicality to it at all, it genuinely stops making sense. There's a readable from back in 3.1, I think, that describes Flame Reaver literally popping out, asking an NPC what day it is, going "Oops, wrong day" and disappearing again... Because he was specifically planning to attack places where the Chrysos Heirs would be on a certain day instead just going to grab the coreflames that were sitting there undefended, like Aquila and Oronyx? If the goal was to simply stop the Flame-Chase Journey by grabbing all the coreflames, why would Flame Reaver ever wait until Kremnos successfully split Nikador's soul into five pieces, thereby requiring literal time travel to get the coreflame? Why not just kill Nikador before that happened, in every single cycle?

Ostensibly, in 3.1-3.3, the original reason implied that Flame Reaver couldn't just kill the titans and take their coreflames directly because if there wasn't someone filling the role of that divinity, then that "principle" was supposed to stop working in the world. Butttt... considering they said Hysilens was dead but Phagousa's power was still working all the way back in what was it 3.2(?), and that Khaslana in Cycle 1 "sealed away the coreflames" in himself without taking on their divinity, that whole lore reason went out the window really fast lol.

Overall, my impression was that initially Khaslana tried to make sweeping changes to the world by grabbing the coreflames at entirely different points in Amphoreus's history. However, this probably proved to be very chaotic, since it would produce timelines where he would have no idea what would happen in the future, no longer being able to use his experience in Cycle 0 to guess how events would unfold.

At some point, around the four millionth cycle, he realized he'd need the Phainon of each cycle to carry on the quest due to the strain of the coreflames, and so it became necessary for the path to no longer deviate in any major way--the Phainon of the each cycle would need to be the last person in the Vortex in order to defeat Flame Reaver, take on all the coreflames, and take on the memories. So every single action would then have to be dedicated to driving Phainon to that point and making him think Flame Reaver was his enemy--such as killing Cyrene/attacking Aedes Elysiae, attacking the demigods/Chrysos Heirs directly instead of taking the coreflames, etc. So I would guess, at that point, that Khaslana basically abandoned the mission of "collect the coreflames directly" and shifted to "become the villain so that Phainon's Flame-Chase Journey plays out exactly as it must," including doing nonsensical things like fighting Mydei in Castrum Kremnos during 3.2 even though there was no coreflame supposedly there for him to take anymore lol.

As for the heirs having the coreflames in 3.4... I honestly think it's a "don't think too hard" moment lol. I think the devs were really committed to the vision of Khaslana having to kill all his allies over and over so that they could twist the angst knife, whether it actually makes sense for that to happen in every lifetime or not. Maybe, maybeeee we could stretch our disbelief and say that the coreflames with corresponding demigods aren't actually housed in the Vortex as a single "location" but that placing the coreflame into the Vortex is the method by which the Chrysos Heirs initiate their titan's trial, and that once they successfully complete the titan's trial and become the demigod, the "divinity" is stored within them simultaneously, so killing them becomes nearly equivalent to killing the titan, and the coreflame, as that condensed "divinity," can be manifested from their corpses? Maybe we can be generous like that??? Otherwise, yes, it makes absolutely no sense that by the 108,00th-whatever cycle, Khaslana was fighting and killing Mydei every single time to get his coreflame... which should have been in the Vortex if he was the demigod of Strife...

And you're absolutely right about the most interesting thing being the notes about Phainon literally hacking Irontomb's system to try to infiltrate the Scepter's core systems, which the patch never bothers to show us in any visual manner. This is another major failing of 3.4, I think--that all of Khaslana's attempts to attack the system outside of the simulation happen only in the log notes, leaving us with no visuals of him attempting to compile the Black Tide, no visuals of him attacking the Scepter's systems itself--we get nothing of that at all, then we just get thrust into the animated short where he's already made it past Irontomb's firewall to reach out and attack Nanook... Holy jump, Batman.

This is definitely contributing to the problem where people think Khaslana's only role in the plot was the loops themselves, and not that he's literally been collecting coreflames for a reason, allowing him to slowly gain enough power to actively hack Irontomb's systems, which was his actual goal right from the start... but they didn't put it in the patch itself, so the people who didn't read the extras didn't even notice it...

HSR's storytelling methods do exhaust me sometimes lol.

Detangling Mydei's Backstories Backstory?

My last post, casting doubt on 3.2's revelation that Mydei's immortality is deliberate on his part, led to some interesting discussion in the comments that definitely reinforced my earlier thoughts that the inconsistencies in Mydei's backstory are too numerous to be accidental. Star Rail is not known for its flawless continuity (Robin and Sunday's backstory, I'm looking at you lol), but usually the inconsistencies are not so overt, and repeated so many times, that they become central to the entire plot of a character.

So I wanted to refine my earlier theory a bit: I'm cautiously optimistic that there are enough signs that the inconsistencies in Mydei's backstory are deliberate, and that the Mydei of the current cycle in Amphoreus is actively experiencing an entanglement between two different timelines, without (yet) consciously recognizing the incompatibility of his own "memories."

When we work from the standpoint that the events of Mydei's backstory can be separated into two distinct timelines, the inconsistencies vanish:

The "Sea of Souls" Timeline

This is the most prominent timeline, and the one that appears most accurate for "our" Mydei. In this timeline, Mydei was thrown into the Sea of Souls as a tiny infant and spent the first nine years of his life there. This is confirmed both in the flashback we're provided early in 3.1, as well as in Mydei's voicelines and character stories.

After nine years, he crawled out of the sea (possibly motivated by witnessing Tribbie's "star" in the sky). On the same day (or very near it), he met with a band of Kremnoan exiles.

Whether this was a larger group already, constituting a small "detachment" army of exiles, or just started with the five exiled friends and Mydei then grew into a small army by picking up other exiles over time, is still unclear. However, at this point, Mydei makes no mention of returning to Kremnos and instead goes straight from "leaving the sea" to "living ten years in exile:"

This is the key point of inconsistency between the two "halves" of Mydei's story--either he lived in Kremnos or he didn't. We can handwave here and say "Yes, he returned to Kremnos with his friends and they just hid their identities, leaving Kremnos years later in a self-imposed exile," but the story gives us absolutely no indication that this realistically could have happened. Mydei never once mentions hiding his identity, changing his appearance, or living a double life in the city, and never explains how he would have had access to the inner city of Kremnos ("as befitting a crown prince") and the royal library, yet still go totally unnoticed by his father or anyone loyal to Eurypon, including Krateros. (There's also no explanation at all for why he would have wanted to return to a city ruled by someone who tried to murder him and where he would have had to live life under a fake identity just to get by, but you know...)

Instead, the game does give us several pieces of information indicating that the five Kremnoan exiles did not return to Kremnos after meeting Mydei:

First, Mydei's character stories confirm that Mydei deliberately hid his name while traveling in exile across Amphoreus, indicating that he knew he would be recognized by Eurypon/Eurypon's loyalists if he didn't hide his identity. This awareness suggests it is extremely unlikely that Mydei could have returned to Kremnos without being identified:

This also suggests that, at this point in this timeline, no one in Castrum Kremnos knew for sure that Mydeimos had survived being thrown into the Sea of Souls and returned. This is further confirmed by a memory fragment where Krateros says there has been a "rumor" that the leader of the exiled Kremnoan army is one who "defied death." Krateros alone makes the assumption that this could be Mydei and decides to defect to aid him:

This memory suggests two things clearly: Mydei was not living in Kremnos at the time Krateros defected, and the exile of all of Mydei's friends must have taken place before they met Mydei, years in the past, as there is no way an entire small army could have been exiled from Kremnos, with Mydei in toe, and not at all attract Krateros's attention until after they were gone.

The idea that Mydei never returned to Kremnos is further enforced by Eurypon, who did not recognize Mydei when he confronted him, to the point that he didn't believe Mydei was even Kremnoan. This suggests that Eurypon not only didn't know Mydei's true identity--he'd never seen him before at all, making it extremely unlikely that Mydei was walking around Castrum Kremnos, talking to Chryseus Leo, and reading in the royal library all under some false identity for years. Eurypon certainly wouldn't have been capable of exiling someone he'd never seen before from Kremnos, in any case!

Therefore, we can assume the series of events in this timeline is pretty straightforward: Mydei entered the Sea of Souls as a baby, came out nine years later, went straight into a life of exile with his five friends, amassed power and support for ten years, and then returned to seek vengeance on his father.

The only remaining question in this timeline becomes "When did Mydei join up with Okhema?"

I think, in this timeline, it makes the most sense for Mydei to have only joined up with Okhema after killing his father. In 3.1, Mydei confirms to Phainon that all his friends died before he was able to kill his father, and that none of them ever made it to Okhema:

Therefore, the final order of events for the more prominent timeline is:

Dumped into the sea as an infant, nine years in the Sea of Souls

Ten years in exile with his friends amassing strength and support

Returns to Kremnos, kills his father, and the last of his friends dies that day

Then he defects to Okhema, leading any of the Kremnoans willing to follow him there.

By itself, this story makes perfect sense. If this was all the information we'd been given, there wouldn't have been any gaps.

Unfortunately, we also have a whole other set of information that massively conflicts with these events, which can only really be explained two ways: Either Hoyo messed up (again) and really dropped the consistency ball when it comes to writing Mydei's backstory... Or there's an entire separate timeline going on. Personally, I'm leaning toward the latter, because there are just too many seemingly deliberate fingers in the story pointing toward the inconsistencies for them to feel entirely unintentional to me.

Therefore, I propose that Mydei's memories are actually getting infiltrated by a second, entirely different timeline:

The "Gorgo Lives" Timeline

From 3.0 all the way to 3.2, we're given numerous pieces of information that point to a wholly different order to the events of Mydei's life, contrasting the story that Mydei tells Phainon in the Garden. At first, these events seem scattered and nonsensical, contradicting the "main" timeline in too many ways to be anything but errors... But when taken as a whole, we can build a second coherent timeline out of these events if we make one assumption: There is a timeline where Gorgo lived longer.

In the second timeline which is intruding on Mydei's memories, there appears to be one key point of divergence: Gorgo did not die dueling Eurypon. Either she never challenged him to the duel, or (more likely) she was never successfully poisoned, and therefore it's possible she won the duel, allowing her to rescue Mydei from the sea.

Working from that possibility, a second complete timeline emerges:

Mydei was thrown into the Sea of Souls as an infant but did not drift there for nine years. Instead, he was rescued and brought back to Kremnos, where he was allowed to grow up in the inner city, with access to both Chryseus Leo, who served as his teacher, and access to the royal library, which he is proud enough of to call "his" library. He is able to lead Phainon and the Trailblazer around Castrum Kremnos even in its ruined state because he grew up there, spending enough time there to know the city like the back of his hand:

This is where we can slot in the inconsistent memories Mydei has of Gorgo:

(By the way, although Mydei writes this scene off as a dream, you can actually hear Oronyx's whisper play in the black screen seconds before this "dream" occurs...)

But okay, let's say this is just a wishful dream. Maybe this scene never happened. If all we got of Gorgo supposedly raising Mydei was this moment in 3.1, I might agree that it was just a dream (other than there being no reason to play Oronyx's sound effect there, but you know). However, in 3.2 they then hit us with this:

That's multiple moments now pointing to a timeline where Gorgo raised Mydei. Once is handwave-able--twice? That's deliberate.

In this secondary timeline, Mydei appears to have grown up as Kremnos's beloved crown prince, being warmly embraced by his people (at least until Kremnos fell into calamity). Apparently his days consisted of eating pomegranates, training for combat, playing with Kremnos's kids, and hanging out with his five friends. We see snippets of this idyllic life (along with his five friends appearing to be roughly the same age as him--something that likely wouldn't be true in the "main" timeline, by the way) on Mydei's long march back into Castrum Kremnos:

I know some people took this to be Mydei hallucinating or just wishfully imagining a life where he was able to be happy with his friends, possibly even some metaphorical "encountering the souls of the departed in a paradise," but I don't think this is true. Every single time Mydei phases in and out of this "hallucination," the visual effect and the sound effect of Oronyx are distinctly played--the exact same sound and visuals that play when Trailblazer activates Oronyx's prayer to jump between timelines.

Mydei himself doesn't seem to quite understand what is happening to him in this moment, as you can hear him stumble and pant as he repeatedly goes through flashes of Oronyx's power. You can listen to comparison video clips on the prior post I made about Mydei's backstory.

Furthermore, if we work from the assumption that these moments actually represent a rupture between timelines, then the rest of the inconsistencies can finally be cleared up:

In 3.0, Mydei says that his choice to leave Castrum Kremnos was not a forced exile but a "self-imposed" one:

And this aligns with what he stated in the Garden of Life to Phainon, that he and his friends "left Castrum Kremnos" to go into this self-imposed exile, rather than having never returned to Kremnos from the sea:

Furthermore, this also aligns with the angry NPCs in the past version of Castrum Kremnos that Trailblazer and Castorice travel back to:

Remember that this version of Castrum Kremnos was supposed to be occurring while Eurypon was still alive, so there is absolutely no way this line makes sense in the same universe where Eurypon didn't even know Mydei had survived. There isn't any way, in "our" timeline, that Mydei could have been both the "crown prince" of Kremnos for these NPCs and completely unknown to his father, the king.

These NPCs, furthermore, directly accuse Mydei of "deserting Kremnos," suggesting that Mydei was living in Castrum Kremnos as their prince, and then abandoned them to join Aglaea in Okhema, getting himself and everyone who went with him labelled as "traitors to Kremnos" in the process. None of this makes sense in the context of a timeline where no one in Kremnos knew he had even survived.

Instead, all of these elements point to a different sequence of events:

Gorgo lived, likely winning her duel and thereby (likely) giving her the right to save Mydei from the Sea of Souls and bring him back to Kremnos. He was raised by his mother as the beloved crown prince of Kremnos. Then, years later, as his father and Nikador both descended into full madness, Mydei and the Kremnoan detachment defected.

But what would have triggered this sudden need to defect after years of leading Kremnos as a well-liked prince?

The flashback between Mydei and Eurypon actually suggests a possible reason:

Apparently, at some point, in some timeline, Mydei knew about Eurypon's plan to break Nikador's divinity into separate parts and seal him away, harnessing the power of their titan for himself.

Yet the Mydei of 3.0 seems to have no idea about any of this, never able to give any explanation for how Nikador has degraded so much nor why Nikador is seemingly unkillable. Castorice, Mem, and the Trailblazer have to come up with the idea to go back in time to the past Kremnos by themselves, because Mydei never makes any mention of there ever having been a plot to break up and seal away Nikador's divinity, even when they walk past the very blades that did the sealing.

Finally, there's one last piece of conflicting information: While talking to Phainon in the Garden of Life, Mydei states that all of his friends died before the detachment could ever join up with Okhema and that all of their deaths occurred by the time he went to kill his father. But this conflicts with the NPCs above, who state that Mydei had already defected to Okhema and joined the Flame Chase Journey as a Chrysos Heir while his father was still alive.

This inconsistency is further reinforced by a memory fragment with Krateros, who confirms that Mydei had joined up with Okhema already before killing his father:

Putting all of this together, the complete series of events for this second timeline becomes:

Infant Mydei is quickly rescued from the Sea of Souls, is instead raised by his mother, and grows up as the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos with his five friends.

At some point, years later, he discovers Eurypon's plot to break up and imprison Nikador's divinity, and he and his friends and supporters defect from Kremnos as a result.

Either they go straight to Okhema (I'm inclined to say that "ten years of wandering" doesn't fit, chronologically speaking, into this secondary timeline) or they do wander a bit, but ultimately, Mydei reaches Okhema and aligns with Aglaea before killing his father.

After aligning the Kremnoan Detachment with Okhema, Mydei returns to Castrum Kremnos to kill his father, possibly to halt Eurypon's evil plan to harness Nikador's power.

At some point in this timeline, presumably before Mydei returns to kill his father, Gorgo likely still dies (possibly killed by Eurypon and/or Nikador), which explains why the Gorgo in the Sea of Souls seems to be the one convinced that she raised Mydei.

And this is just pure personal speculation, because there isn't enough evidence to really confirm it, but I almost feel like we can even pinpoint how/when the whole decision to defect to Okhema took place. At the end of Mydei's flashbacks to the "peaceful" Kremnos, Peucesta says that Mydei has been away from Kremnos for a while.

Leonnius assumes that Mydei was away on some apparently extended training trip, but this moment specifically ends with Gorgo welcoming Mydei home and asking him one very important question:

Obviously these lines are doing double duty, symbolically welcoming the present Mydei back to the ruins of Castrum Kremnos and asking him whether he's finally ready to take on his role as the "Guardian of Amphoreus." But as the wiki notes, this takes place in a flashback to the past, and for the "Mydei of the past" (aka the Mydei of the alternate timeline), this could very well have been Mydei disappearing from Kremnos to make contact with Aglaea in Okhema, and Gorgo questioning him about his decision to commit himself to the Flame Chase Journey, leading up to an ultimate and permanent defection from Kremnos. (This is just speculation though, trying to tie the last few loose ends together.)

Anyway, when taken from this perspective, that there are two separate backstories here, one from a world where Gorgo lived and the more prominent one where she died, we can sort all the seeming inconsistencies in Mydei's backstory into two surprisingly tidy and complete timelines.

I haven't yet found anything in any Mydei scene that doesn't fit one of these two scenarios, so I'm starting to definitely feel optimistic here that this writing was intentional, and that the "contradictory" backstory we're seeing for Mydei isn't "the worst continuity Star Rail has served up to date," but instead an actual deliberate choice to present us with a character whose memories are a hodge-podge of two divergent timelines, snippets of one timeline constantly erupting and "filling in the blanks" of the other.

I think this would be a fascinating way to lead up to the idea that Amphoreus's world isn't real, that it's a cobbled together story or set of memories that someone is barely holding together, and that it's constantly cyclical in nature, with events repeating with slight variations across times. The idea that Mydei is actually experiencing two different sets of memories crushed together into a tangled jumble and that he's only just now starting to become aware of the discrepancies would be such an excellent way to reinforce the "unreality" of Amphoreus's plot as a whole.

I really hope this is the direction that they take the story... Or at least that I won't one day be looking at all my Mydei posts and sadly thinking to myself that I put a lot more thought into the character's backstory than his own writers did, RIPPPPP. 😂😂😂

Cope with me, people!

[callmelyc]

Au where Lance goes missing before the final battle on earth so Keith, team vld, and some garrison ppl set out to find him only to get thrown into an alternate timeline where the Galra win.

When Lance goes missing it's in the quiet. There's no grandeur, no shouting, no lion left to cry for him. And those left to search for him are thrown into a whirlwind in his wake.

The universe they're thrown into is one where the Galra win.

Not only do they win But Earth is gone, obliterated Into space dust just like Altea had been long ago. Alongside it went Voltron, each lion and it's pilot hidden on Earth until they could fight back against the newest galran threat.

The only survivor is Lance, who had been captured in an infiltration mission and used to track Voltron down.

The whole point was to see what new horrors the Galra were creating and instead it led to lance losing everything. A sacrifice to save Pidge led to his homes demise and lance had been forced to watch.

This lance looks at Keith and his team with hollowed eyes and horror. Its the first time in years he's seen another human, the first since the day he'd lost all hope that he's seen the paladins of Voltron.

Lotor makes sure these out of place humans aren't seen by the empire as they learn this Lance isnt theirs, would never be, can't be.

This lance is a war prize. A symbol of what was conquered.

Originally taken to get a lead on Voltrons whereabouts (they'd been hiding with new cloaking, evading too well until one slipup led to a capture) then kept as a reminder to those who defy the empire.

And lotor, having a soft spot for lance, offers to help these humans back to their timeline where they stand a chance at anything but this. Anything but the empire taking over *everything* and everyone.

Keith looks out tall floor to ceiling windows in a room bathed in galran purple to see zarkons face plastered everywhere, on everything.

Sentries lining streets

Soldiers at every corner

"Why help us when we could be another timeline conquered?" Keith asks,he doesn't trust this would never trust lotor after what theirs had done.

Yet, this lotor looks so assured, so calm when he responds "my sweetness should not see his love die again"

Keith looks at him "sweetness....?"

Lotor hums "yes, Lance is the empires darling creature. The emperors conquest, our sweetest concubine. Though I give him any comfort I am able. Saving you lot shall be another."

Lotor walks to stand by Lance, alt lance, and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder "He may be a prize to the empire but I have grown fond of him, protective even. I can grant him this much, after everything."

Keith bristles, feels the others beside him do the same. He's immediately on edge at that

This isn't right, none of this is. Keith knows his face is just as stricken when Lance quietly says "Don't save me, don't waste your time."

Despite those blue eyes holding a familiar hue, Keith can't help but feel they're that of a stranger as he looks into them. The lance here is so sad, so very empty. All the fire in those eyes Keith knew was gone, all the love, all the hope. Crushed into dust along with his home

This lance steps forward still, stands chest to chest with him and says "I have nothing left to live for here, it's gone. Earth, my family, Voltron....you."

This lance cups his face to rub gently circles into his skin with hands far too cold "we never got the chance in this life so promise me you'll go find *your* lance and tell him how you feel, ok?"

Keith gasps, soft and delicate "how did you-"

"Don't give up on him either, don't let him walk away from this you hear me? My Keith and I, we waited...and I watched him die. please don't be like us."

This lance wasn't his. This lance *wasn't his*.....but, it could be if they didn't make it back.

Keith steps back, let's those cold hands fall from his face, let's the small smile that doesn't reach blue eyes fall with it "what do we need to do to get home?"

This Lance turns to Lotor with an understanding passing between them "we can help but time is limited."

"Then it's best we get started. We have a universe to protect."

~•~

Lance ends up being the one to help open a portal for them. Markings lighting up his skin in unatural ways, quintessence sparking through his veins. He's far less human looking like this than Keith wanted him to be. Like this, Lance is proof of the things he's gone through. Unnatural, experimented on like a toy.

He smiles at Keith still Small and sad as he works his alchemy thrrough spacetime to send them home. Keith's heart aches at the knowledge this Lance lost it all inclusing his humanity.

"Go to him." Lance whispers, the portal stabilizing at his fingertips

keith let's the other go first, makes sure no one is left behind as he turns to Lance one final time hoping to give him a semblance of peace. A morsel of something to hold onto

"I love you" he says soft and reverent leaving no room for question or doubt. "I love you" just so this Lance can hear it once from his lips, in his voice, and because it's true

Every lance, every universe, Keith will love him. *Does* love him and he desperately needs this Lance to know that. Needs him to understand.

And lance does, lets tears run down his cheeks, a smile lighting his face "I know, now go tell him too."

So Keith does just that missing the words fall from lances lips as the portal closes

"I love you too."

~•~

As for Keith's actual timeline?

Keith and co back in their timeline find their lance and win the war

The universe here is free but Keith can't help but think about all the other lance had gone through

So he does as promised

He confessed

He doesn't let his lance suffer for even a moment

Doesn't let his lance question any love or care in the world he could give him

And Keith prays to the stars at night that the other lance can find some semblance of happiness somehow

Even if just for a moment

I'm thinking alt lance gets a bittersweet end Lotor helps him find a way to die (whatever the experiments were altered his ability to, he isn't immortal but it's difficult to die) so he can finally be free and join his loved ones in another life

Lotor guards his room as he goes so lance can have a semblance of peace

For once he isn't looking at his captors

He isn't doing anything but seeing familiar faces flash through his memories

He's just Lance McClain

Not a trophy or an object

Just a boy from Cuba

And he's finally going home

[calamitycons]

Deltarant

Thanks for enabling me guys lol!

TL;DR: Deltarune is very messy and unfocused, and this negatively impacted my perception not only of Chapters 3 and 4, but the previous chapters as well. The things I'm most interested in are the things the game scolds me for doing, and this is the same major criticism I had with Undertale. Also, the characters are way too shallow in really weird ways.

EDIT: grammar and spelling checks, I wrote this really fast lmao

Chapter 3 is not a third part in a story, it's Chapter 2: Again.

In Chapter 2, we got what was essentially The Noelle Show, an entire world dedicated to reflecting Noelle's childhood, her personality, her struggles, and ultimately overcoming them through the power of narrative. It's a fun and wacky scenario that is difficult to take seriously because of the lighthearted tone, but what we get about Noelle is substantial information because we knew literally nothing about her beforehand. Chapter 3 is supposed to be The Kris Show, I think. It's supposed to reflect how Kris fell into escapist media to avoid dealing with the messy divorce their parents had, with the not-so-hidden stuff about the creepypasta video game echoing the "relationship" Kris has with the Soul. In that respect, it works just fine. But it also gets fucking annoying as hell, because…

I don't like the characters.

Tenna is a piece of shit. I don't like him, and I resent him for being essentially Spamton 2. Spamton worked for me because he was a very raw and unfiltered look at the kind of desperation and more frightening aspects of mental illness that a lot of people live with. The uglier parts, the scarier parts, the more unsettling and unhealthy elements of his illness were frankly and baldly presented and him being a spambot was an excellent decision because he essentially personified what it would be like to run into a human spam bot. Tenna doesn't have that. Tenna is just a show host who wants attention to try and stop the other people from doing the Plot, which is apparently going to get dark and unsettling really soon. But he's so manipulative, he rubs me wrong because he reminds me of real-life slippery manipulators and abusers I've interacted with before. I don't like him, I don't want to spare him, but I know that if I don't spare him then the fandom will eat me alive because if you dare to do anything other than The One Bestest Most Correct Timeline, you're a bad person. I also don't appreciate the aesthetic and thematic similarities between Spamton and Tenna because after two years, I expected something NEW. But I guess if this was the Kris Show, then it wasn't in the cards for Tenna to be anything other than a reflection of Kris in a similar way? But speaking of Kris…

The stuff I'm interested in doing is stuff the game actively scolds me for doing.

I will never understand why this is a theme in the Undertale-Deltarune body of work, because a game requires so much effort and work on the part of the developers for it to function. Why do you keep going to so much trouble to include something to explicitly make the player feel like an asshole for doing? Why are you spending so much time telling us what we're doing is evil when you could have very easily not included that point? The double bind criticism I had of the Genocide Route in Undertale continues to be a problem in Deltarune but this time it's even worse, because I'm sorry, but you really are taking too long. It has been literal years. You have been saying the same thing to us for a total of 10 years now, ever since Undertale came out in 2015. It's tiring to continually be told by this one game series that the only acceptable way to play it is shallowly, that I am punished for being interested in the deeper secrets and spooky elements that THE DEVS INCLUDED. Like jeez dude, I'm SORRY that I like being challenged in a challenging dodge-mechanic video game! I'm SORRY that I like the horror elements of your story that you wrote and took dev time and manpower to include, because I think you also believe it is cool. After all, we both love OFF. But the big thing that makes OFF's entire everything different from Undertale's Genocide Route and Deltarune's Spooky Shit is that OFF, while jokingly claiming to be "a nice game for cute children," was always an unsettlingly surreal and atmospheric game filled with things that were, well, off.

What is Deltarune about?

Look man, one of my favorite genres is "The Magic School Bus Slowly Becoming Dune" (as coined by WoolieVS), but while Deltarune wants to be that, it isn't really accomplishing it. The spooky stuff I'm interested in, the sweaty gamer stuff, the epic feats of skill and epic gamer moments I want to do, are not what the game wants me to do. So what DOES Deltarune want me to do? Undertale and Deltarune want you to think it's a narrative bullet-hell game about humans and monsters, and while Undertale had a clear ultimate theme of "don't kill, and don't be killed," Deltarune… uhhhh… Is Deltarune a story about human and monster kids learning about themselves and growing into better people through exploring the Dark World that manifests from their will, so that they can explore the world manifest by their own psyche? Like Susie going through the card-and-boardgame world to learn to be kind by interacting with a tiny child? Like Noelle learning to stand up for herself after exploring a world tyrannized by an overbearing and obnoxious maternal figure? Like Kris… uhhhh… What is Delatrune ABOUT? Is it about the spooky scary skeleton in the closet behind the code who has a little person saying shit in hidden docs that crazy people have to dig around to find? All the stuff about the Eggs and the Shadow Crystals seems to be leading us to finally seeing that motherfucking Skeledoc I've been dying to see for a literal decade at this point, but after so long waiting we still have yet to speak to him or understand him. Is Gaster the Egg Man? Is he the voice who made our vessel at the start of the game? Is he both? Is he neither? Will this EVER be resolved? And how does it interact with Undertale?

Deltarune has a lot of shit that I wasn't interested in.

The shmoopy lesbians

are fine, they can have their fun and are allowed to exist, I'm happy for them. I'm not interested in it though, because I don't think anything in their relationship is particularly engaging. They're just two kids who like each other, but nothing about their relationship actually seems to drive them to grow or change in any way. I don't know why they aren't already dating, they clearly like each other and should be together so that we can get past this part of the story already because they have BEEN shmoopy lesbians with no relationship movement for real-world years.

The Darkners in Dark Town

are bit parts. It's genuinely disappointing to me that Lancer has become so inconsequential to the entire plot after all his importance in reflecting Susie and who she was. The other Darkners have proven that, even if they initially have thematic resonance or importance to a character such as Queen to Noelle or Lancer to Susie, after the chapter is over it is time to put them the fuck away because they don't matter anymore. Lanino and Elnina are the most shallow possible interpretation of how a couple breaks up, but it doesn't matter because they go away as soon as their role in the plot is done. It's a very annoying feeling of discarding what is no longer useful, or "using things up," which the game also hates US for doing but I guess it's okay when the game does it because???????? It also particularly makes Chapter 1 feel like a waste of time, because Chatper 4's Gerson ALSO worked hard to push Susie to grow up and improve as a person, and honestly I'm coming to find her less interesting as a result because she has lost a lot of her initial edge and depth to ultimately become Kris's Fellow Weirdo.

Susie and Kris are often written as basically the same character

but there are two instances of them. There is nothing that Susie would do in any situation that Kris would not, or would do differently. If Susie were the one possessed by a Soul, I bet she would do a lot of the exact same things Kris is doing. If Kris were the bully and Susie the bullied, I think they would have the same reactions and behaviors. They SHOULDN'T be the same character. They have so many differences in their backstories, their species, their abilities, their interests. But their BEHAVIOR is exactly the same, and that is a fundamental writing weakness. I genuinely don't even know how this happened, but after hours of playtime and years of waiting, the only thing I can genuinely say that Kris would be willing to do but Susie wouldn't, is the Dark World Puzzles. Their moment-to-moment decisions are indistinguishable, and that's a huge problem for me.

Oh god I've written 1500 words

I think I got most of my problems out of my system so I'll stop here, but that's the majority of the issues I've had with Deltarune. Thank you for reading all of that if you did, holy shit.

[dingodad]

roxy and john/june is interesting to me as a friendship but i just don't see how anything romantic really adds to the dynamic. like them both being the only ones from the pre retcon timeline is fun but i don't think they should kiss about it.

then again with that said my interest immediately goes up if we're talking about june so maybe i'm just too yuribrained. idk i think we should maybe hunt and eat anyone trying to make june a heterosexual boy in this day and age just on the whole

maybe I'm a bad person for this like call me a fake #femslashfiend but I have never been able to get into roxygen even on the merits of girlmoding john 😭 I get that john has shit going on that contributed to the failure of her marriage and sorting out her gender shit would make her a more ready and willing person to live in that relationship but roxy has a lot of agency here too and I think her problems relating to john are a lot more complex than just what john happened to be identifying as at the time. I don't think "we sorted out our stuff, now it's time to try the exact same relationship as before" is the true gilded path for either of these soul searchers... but ofc this is just me being more invested in the current story than any shipping hypotheticals more generally

I do think the fact that even transing their genders roxy and john are destined to be hetslop is probably a sign that they are simply not to be........

[ailithnight]

Danny is probably so completely bewildered, and will likely only get more so when Dick shows up. How easily these people are letting, no, inviting him into their lives. When he was just planning to help Jason home and then be out of their hair.

Someone better get a picture of Jason and Danny together. An album even. Equal parts "Lookit the adorableness!" and future sibling blackmail/teasing material.

Huh. I see Bruce, Dick, Alfred; but not a word about Tim. Which, I guess makes sense now that I think about it. I suppose, depending on the exact timeline, this would be either before or very early into Tim's Robin stint. Certainly before he's been pulled into the family proper.

Even if Tim is Robining right now, I guess there's no way to mention him without 1. Bringing up the nightlife. And 2. Admitting there is a new kid running around in the same colors Jason died in.

Yeah, maybe not a conversation to have mere hours after spontaneous resurrection and in front of a veritable stranger.

Graves Ch 3, Part 2

masterpost, please no editing or concrit. the word salad is strong today

“This is where you live?” Danny asks, face practically pressed against the tinted car window to get a look at the Manor.

Jason hums. The sound is almost soothing. His throat still feels raw from screaming. And, well, being… dead, he guesses. That fact is just there, looming like a shadow that Jason can’t quite grasp yet. Like, he knows he died, but he can’t connect that to where he is right then: alive and in Gotham.

“Wayne Manor,” Alfie answers for him. “It has been in the family some generations now.”

“Alfie rules it,” Jason says, hiding his smile against Bruce’s stupid nightgown.

“Well,” Aflie replies with a pleased sniff, “someone has to see that it is kept in good care. Lord knows I’ve almost given up saying the same for the Masters of the house.”

“Alfred,” Bruce says, the man’s name a gentle warning.

Jason frowns. “Dad?”

Bruce presses a gentle kiss to the top of Jason’s head. “It’s fine, chum.”

“Hardly,” Alfred scoffs.

Bruce sighs.

Danny tries to make himself a small as possible.

“Losing you… it broke my heart.” Bruce pulls the words quietly out into the open. “I’ve handled it badly. Dick has too. We’ve handled each other badly. Alfred was rightfully at his limits with it all.”

Jason’s heart skips a beat. “…Dick? Does he…?”

“I called him at the clinic,” Bruce answers. “He’s on his way.”

Jason sags in relief against Bruce’s side. It was hardly anything but he’s already exhausted. Being dead was tiring. Or maybe it was the revival part? Whatever.

The Manor gates squeal open and it sounds like coming home. Jason closes his eyes for the rest of the drive down the stupidly long driveway. The only reason he opens him when he’s pulled out of the car is to make sure that Danny is staying close. He needs Danny to stay close. Jason can’t grasp the why of it, but he knows that he needs that.

Besides, if Danny doesn’t stay close he’s so getting lost in the Manor. It’s just too damn big.

He stubbornly drags Danny down onto the couch with him when he’s settled into the living room. Jason figured he deserved to get something out of dying other than a shitty mom, and right then what he wanted was cuddles. Luckily, once Bruce and Alfred step out of the room, Danny relaxes enough to let himself snuggled into a proper little spoon.

“Won’t hurt you,” Jason mumbles into Danny’s ear, making the other boy jolt a little.

“What?”

“Bruce and Alfie, they won’t,” Jason struggles to explain. Words slip through his mind before he can spit them out, but he thinks maybe he gets it across.

“I know,” Danny lies. “I just don’t trust rich dudes.”

“Smart,” Jason says through a yawn. He tucks Danny’s head a little more under his chin. “Don’t too, but Bruce… is good. Stubborn, stoic, stupid, but good.”

“Yeah, but you’re his kid.”

“Just… street rat. Still good. Still won’t… didn… didn’t hurt.” Jason yawns again. The words are slipping away quicker but he needs to explain. “Just street rat before his kid. Annoying street rat too. Stole his tires.”

“You stole Bruce Wayne’s tires?!”

Jason laughed into Danny’s unruly hair. If only Jason could explain who’s tires he really stole. That would really shock Danny. But that would be bad, even if it was just Danny.

“Getting the idea that maybe you’re stubborn and stupid too,” Danny grumbles.

Jason just hushes him. It was time for a little bit of a nap, at least until dinner. Or Dick. Whichever D came first.

[snailslimestuff]

Timebomb comic for the people!!! Probably out of character leave me alone.

Fire?

[stealingpotatoes]

heres a crappy venn (??) diagram explaining the dynamics in the tl4j time travel au bc it's easier than trying to write a full plot

[uncharted-constellations]

~What i couldve been~

I was just gonna do the adult timeline zelda but im so enchanted by the idea of these two versions of the same character. People always talk about how link would be changed but never zelda.

[syluss-karaoke-teacher]

I agree with your points, and want to expand on the "the LIs are perfect boys" point further, because that is what bothers me the most personally. This a bit long, so I'm not expecting many to wade through it, and also sorry for piggybacking off your post ❤️

The LIs are decidedly not perfect. They all have their own weaknesses, which are at their core very realistic despite being dressed up in sci-fi/fantasy circumstances. Their lives have been moulded by so much trauma, both remembered and not, and it would be unrealistic for them to NOT be flawed in some ways. And I know people recognize those traumas and rightfully sympathise/emphatise with them. How could we not when we witness all of it first hand?

Thing is, MC too is traumatised. Firstly she was fucking TORTURED FROM EARLY CHILDHOOD in this timeline. Secondly, her not remembering her past lives with the LIs is not only a source of angst for the boys, but a major plotpoint that provides absolutely crucial context for the LIs actions.

Just think about her first encounter with Sylus from her canon POV: she goes onto a highly dangerous mission because she sees no other choice if she wants to discover the truth. She is drugged, kidnapped, threatened with violence, then her kidnapper is poofed out of existence by the leader of the biggest criminal organisation in the area. A man so powerful regular weapons do not harm him. Hell, he *makes her shoot him through the heart* while his Aether core messes with her head. Oh, and he imprisons her for days. He is the first LI with whom her Resonance doesn't work because she is so scared and disgusted by him, and in that time and place I'd say rightly so! Is it absolutely heartbreaking now that we the players know their past? Yes! Does it make the situation any less traumatic for her? No!

Or how about Rafayel stalking her for years? I personally can't wait for the moment when that is revealed to her in the present timeline. I absolutely understand his desperation, the way he must have racked his brain trying to come up with a reason to approach her. And I do think if MC finds out about it after/if she learns about their past, she too will understand. But that doesn't make it okay in the slightest. And don't even get me started on Caleb! In fact all of them are guilty of stalking her, except maybe Zayne, and I can't quite believe how many people in the fandom just gloss over that. It's completely fine to like red flag/dark romances, but I don't think it needs to be said that stalking is not healthy behavior in any circumstances.

MC is flawed, yes. Especially in the earlier cards she can be rude or too blunt, and even I think she takes her mistrust of Sylus a bit too far sometimes. She is also rash and sometimes childish. But if we are able to forgive the LIs flaws because of their trauma and their past, can recognize that they ultimately just want the best for MC, then surely we can give her the same courtesy?

Throughout all of her lives she has been shown to be kind, courteous and dutiful. The Sorceress doesn't succumb to blind rage and revenge, The Castellan and The Queen continue to serve their people to the end. She shows people who have wronged her way more patience and understanding than I ever could. And in the current timeline she became a Hunter precisely to overcome her own fears, despite her congenital heart disease. That takes some serious character!

Throughout the current timeline she slowly but surely works together with the LIs to built trust in the relationships, to finetune the specific dynamics she has with all of them, like becoming more attentive with Rafayel, more trusting with Sylus, more assertive and confident with Xavier. Especially in Feverish Attempts and now the new Promise 4* I was actively cheering for her when she got mad at Xavier for hiding things from her. She is strong, mentally and physically, and wants to care for the boys as they care for her. I could never fault her for that, and honestly it's sad if people read all of the story available to them and STILL come out of this thinking that she sucks as a character or doesn't deserve the LIs.

If you made it this far, thank you and sorry for the rant 😆

it’s totally fine that you don’t want mc haters to interact with your blog! I love her too…But I’m confused as to why you called the interaction toxic. If you and I were reading the same post, same comments, I mostly got the vibe that people were conversing civilly and bringing up points that were valid. Certain parts of MC just bother them and I think it’s a lot better to have that kind of conversation criticizing a game you play rather than the hostility I’ve seen against non-mc writers sometimes (not that you are one).

I agree it was a really negative post, but it wasn’t bad. People seemed to have found each others’ similar interests and decided to stay away from blogs they disagree with like your new warning.

I also hope we can have a non-toxic community but that includes being able to discuss these kinds of things without trying to shame anyone. Again, not that you are (By the way if we’re not talking about the same post then please just take me as a random observer giving their two cents! Don’t mind me! Thanks)

hello, welcome! i apologise if this is the first impression i made. i usually keep such opinions to myself because the fandom has enough discourses as it is, and i thought i didn't want to contribute more to the disagreements.

i think we were indeed reading the same post. i found it while i was searching for sylus x reader tag, and unfortunately it popped up first to the latest category.

there were many points of which i disagreed. it was a negative post that made me frown, and if you know the hate train that's been happening on the female characters of love and deepspace, at some point it gets tiring to see.

mc is you, you are mc. i understand if people think of her as a different entity (that's totally okay!), but at the same time you are the one who created her, and in creative spaces such as tumblr and ao3, you are also the one to appoint her with a personality type.

the game itself is a sci-fi fantasy romance otome game, it is not meant to be realistic. these men utter your name in the game (assuming you put your name/nickname in the player placeholder). by default, they are yours and you are theirs.

we get to become hunters, sorceresses, dragonesses, brides to the sea god, queens, princesses, metaloenergetic humans (i just made this word up idk), or have weird powers that attract trouble and causes us to get exiled by village nobodies.

the thing i absolutely found weird is how the men (xavier, rafayel, zayne, sylus, caleb) were praised above and beyond. how mc is called a mary sue for having them love her but no, the male characters are absolutely perfect in every single way. this is not specifically about the post either, it's how the fandom treats it's female characters and find nothing wrong about the reasons they give to hate a: character-insert who is meant to be the embodiment of yourself, your aunt-in-law, and even your coworker and best friend.

now the most common excuses of all: she doesn't treat the love interests right. she is not complex. she is too complex. she is a celestial being. she doesn't have a personality. she has too much personality.

on another note: i don't have anything against non-mc readers, i read them myself and i enjoy them as much as the next person. the only thing i don't like is how misogynistic terms such as pick-me comes out from girlies that i never expected to come.

so i guess the post was never meant for me, because i love the stories and how we were inserted into them. as for the "people were conversing civilly" i will let the comments of said post speak for themselves. "These good boys deserve so much better than a pretty-faced void."

i will not proceed any further, you are free to ask again if you want! i will of course reply as fast as i am able to. that was mainly for the exclusive non-mc consumers who view mc as a whole different entity and believe the love interests won't choose them and villainise the mc because of it.

i hope i didn't come off too strong. as a mc fan, and as someone who just hates disliking female characters (i have been in too many fanwars over sakura haruno, katara, korra, elena gilbert, bella swan, you name it), it got me bothered.

i'm sorry.

[slymanner]

hurt my heart why dontcha.

[ritmanispunk]

Deleting my dating apps because I want to find love in the old fashioned way (joining my idol crush's company to work on my game and realizing after he drugged me with lsd and made me choose between jumping off his balcony or watching him jump that my reality is like a game where I can restart when I die and go back in time to make different choices but all the timelines end up with either one of us dead or in jail and there's no possible good ending for us no matter what choice I make)

[fortune-maiden]

Thinking about Shao Yuanyuan and her wildcard potential and it hit me today... just how much does she know? Does she live in a time loop similar to Lu Guang or does she hop in and out of the past like Cheng Xiaoshi? Does she know that Cheng Xiaoshi also has a death node?

It suddenly occurred to me to that the Shao Yuanyuan we likely saw during the fire in Ep 4, was either a time leaping SYY from the future or at least one who had information from her future self to know to be in Bridon at this point in time and also a Shao Yuanyuan who might have just realized Cheng Xiaoshi had awakened his own powers.

Given her meeting with Cheng Xiaoshi in Ep 6 where she acts like Cheng Xiaoshi should be aware of how this all works, I suspect that it's because the version of Shao Yuanyuan from Ep 4 arranged this meeting because she encountered Cheng Xiaoshi during the fire and thus knew he would show up in Bridon and go searching for them through Wang Qing. She needed to set up that meeting so she could tell Cheng Xiaoshi face to face not to pursue her anymore (and make things more complicated).

I also think that was her second attempt at doing so - the first being to go back years earlier to tell the Qiao family not to let him go to Bridon. But the future refused to change so she found another opportunity to try again.

And based on Lu Guang's comments it sounds like she would have also failed again in the original timeline. It's not clear how her conversation with CXS went last time (if there was one) but at the very least she might not have had time to make CXS promise not to chase after her anymore, and that would have likely sealed his fate. If anything, a sudden interrupted meeting like that might have even encouraged him further.

And this is all coming from a Shao Yuanyuan from an unknown point in the future...

Anyway this is a lot of words to say where in time is Shao Yuanyuan?

And what the heck does the timeline look like from her perspective?