#the rest of january is going to be kind of a light month for us between master chef and then magift ruggie | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

apprenticestanheight · 2 years ago

Text

THE FIVE DAYS OF SMUTMAS QUEUE: DAY TWO

Work Shirts - Lawrence Gordon x gn! reader

All right!! This is day two of my silly little christmas celebration, and of course I had to do what I've been procrastinating since basically the start of this account--write a Lawrence reader insert piece!

I love him wholeheartedly despite my lack of fics for him so this has definitely been a long time coming, and this one, much like yesterdays fic, stems from a thought I had—though with this thought, @mrkheartffmans and I went a lil feral together through the reblogs of the original post and thus, the fic concept came to light!

This is also a few years post trap because I was like "yeah working somewhere for a decade is cool but what about a decade and a half??" also—my mentality was that having it set a few years post-trap would be easier to write?? I don't know how true that actually is but it was my thought process lol.

This fic is for audiences of 18+, so minors, do not interact!

Fic type- this is mostly--almost entirely--smut. There's also angst if you squint because yeah, angst was bound to be present somewhere lol

Warnings- unprotected sex (reader is on BC), and as per usual, the reader is GN for all intents and purposes (petnames included), but I went with AFAB anatomy as that's the anatomy that I know best.

Lawrence wishes he could act like the surprise on the faces of his coworkers when he mentioned having the last two weeks of December off came as a surprise to him, but he can't and he kind of hates that.

Of course people are bound to be a little surprised by it. In the decade and a half that he's worked at Angels of Mercy, the only incident where he took any sizeable amount of time off was while he was recovering from the bathroom trap and could hardly stand, let alone walk like he used to.

But, in the three years since the bathroom trap and aside from that month long period where he allowed himself to recover before going back to work, he'd not taken a single day away. Being at work, seeing to patients and talking to people—even just going to work and filling out miscellaneous paperwork while he sat in the isolation of his office—kept his mind busy and his hands busier.

He came home from work every night and saw you, which just made his entire day as it were. You'd order food or make something quick and just spend your time lounging on the couch, occasionally get a little flirty, and laugh when Lawrences hands started wandering how they used to in the days of your masters degree and his days of medical school.

But, because of a backlog of PTO and the fact that he'd been overworking himself almost to the bone with the onslaught of people needing medical care during the last three months of the year, Lawrence decided to book the 14th through to the 2nd of January off so that he could get some rest and worry about housework so that you didn't have to worry at all, where you normally split the housework fifty-fifty.

Lawrence knew that your marketing job got really, really stressful during the last month of the year. People always unearthed different versions of themselves come the holidays, and all he wanted was for you to come home from your workday and not have to worry about menial things like a messy bathroom counter, week-old leftovers in need of throwing away or dishes not yet moved from the dishwasher to the cupboards.

He gets called into work for an emergency on the 21st, and after running to grab groceries during the afternoon on the 22nd, he's delighted to find what he does waiting for him in the bed you share.

You're typically home from work at around seven, sometimes eight thirty on particularly busy days, and when Lawrence arrives home, it's half past eight.

He goes into your bedroom, having indeed hoped to see you there or at least get a call about work running late with the promise of more details upon your arrival at home as he enters your shared bedroom, but what he sees is so much better than anything he could've hoped for.

You're sitting on the bed, back pressed against the head board, focused on whatever romance book you'd plucked from a charity bookstore on your way home, but it's not what you're reading that Lawrence really takes note of.

No, it's not the book at all, though he does note that the title makes it seem like something from either the regency or the victorian era. It's what you're wearing.

You're wearing the shirt he wore to work the previous day, buttons undone with the cufflinks you'd gifted him for christmas the year his residency ended still holding the sleeves of the shirt together, the duvet covering your legs and hips, which makes Lawrence assume you've stolen a pair of his sweatpants in addition to the shirt.

He knocks, lightly, on the side of the door, and you startle, looking up to the source of the knock and relaxing the minute you see his face.

"You startled me," you say, grinning and closing your book over your thumb so as not to lose your place. "I remember you told me you'd be getting groceries around when I would get home, so I stole one of your shirts and settled in. Figured we could order Thai food or something to that effect, have a late dinner and relax."

Lawrence runs his tongue over his lips, notices the keen way with which you watch him do it.

"Yeah," he grins, further enters the room. "That sounds lovely. I grabbed the last of the necessary ingredients for dinner Christmas Day so that you wouldn't have to worry—I know that work has been something of a mess for you lately and I want to make sure you have the opportunity to relax when you come home."

He approaches the bed, watches you place the book you'd been reading open on your nightstand beneath the lamp.

"I don't deserve you," you laugh.

You've been dating since you were starting up with your masters a year after getting your bachelors degree when you were twenty-three and Lawrence was two years into medical school at twenty-four.

You've been married since you were twenty-five and twenty-six, and seventeen years down the line, you both knew that marrying each other was the best possible thing either of you could've done with regard to the romantic part of your lives, and while you were married you ended up doing the best possible things for your respective careers so it worked in both of your favors regardless.

You were Lawrences rock, especially so in the aftermath of the bathroom trap, and he was yours and would be such forevermore.

"You're right," he says, moving away from the bed to grab a pair of sweatpants. "You deserve more, but I do strive to be what you deserve day in and day out."

"Don't say that," you chide. "You're perfect, Lawrence. I wouldn't've married you had I thought otherwise, I promise."

He can feel your gaze on him as he slips out of the khaki pants he wears, deciding to go commando and put a pair of light gray sweatpants on for comfort. He changes out of the black button up he'd chosen to wear, pulls a baggy dark blue Henley over his torso and climbs into bed beside you, pressing kiss after kiss down the line of your jaw and across your neck.

"How stressful has work been?" He asks, tone genuine but also slightly seductive.

"Oh, so stressful," you laugh, knowing exactly what he's doing and the fact that seeing you in one of his shirts and just one of his shirts has spurred that on by a mile. "I think if I have to hear one more coworker complaining about last minute shopping during the last few days before Christmas Eve or even on Christmas Eve in and of itself, I will start causing heads to roll. December is the worst time to be in the offices because everyone stops caring about year-end quotas and making sure things are good going into next year and starts caring about whatever gossip is being spread around. It's dreadful, Lawrence."

He pauses, looking at you with genuine sympathy in his gaze. "I'm sorry—I feel gross. I didn't mean to attempt to proposition you for sex like that. I really do want to hear about your day and I'm sorry it's been so terrible, my love. Are you going to book time off?"

You grin. Lawrence is ever-so considerate, always apologizing and stepping back if he's done something in a way that he doesn't appreciate midway through.

"You're going to be stuck with me from tomorrow through to the second," you say. "And—for the record, I didn't hate it. I like it when you proposition me for sex with kisses because your kisses are quite honestly one of the best parts of being married to you. Plus, I have had a stressful month and I won't lie and say that my current outfitting was just for comfort. Sure, bare ass on satin sheets is an amazing feeling, but I was hoping that I'd get the reaction I did, admittedly."

Lawrence tilts his head inquisitively. "You're not—you're—I thought you'd taken a pair of my sweatpants," he grins, moves a hand to your thigh. Sure enough, it's bare. "Oh, Christmas must've come early."

You laugh. "You fuckin' wish," you say, ignoring the goosebumps that Lawrences touch brings on.

You unbutton the few buttons done up on the shirt, press your back against the headboard.

"Stressful month, yeah baby?" Lawrence is almost beaming as his hand moves from your thigh to your stomach, lazily perusing up your chest.

You clench your jaw, squeeze your arms against your sides because you are not going to give in to your handsome husband and his illustrious whims just with a few touches and some whispered sentiments.

"So stressful, Lawrence," you nod. "So, so stressful."

"Do you need a way to destress?" His thumb and first finger locate your nipple, and you exhale a breathy moan, quiet and already wanting to give in to his whims. "If you do, I think I could be of assistance."

"Lawrence," you moan, quiet and needy. "Oh, fuck, Lawrence."

Lawrence moves his hand away from you for a second, only to take off his shirt and the sweatpants he wears before he's back to kissing your neck and letting his hands roam across your chest.

A few minutes of much the same passes by, Lawrences kisses lining your neck and jawline and face and your ethereal lips while he rolls your nipples between his fingers. His hand dips to your folds for just a few minutes, taking your slick onto his fingers and laughing against your shoulder.

"You're so wet for me already," he says. "Fuck, you're perfect."

"Wanna ride you," you're almost stunned at how evenly the words fall from your lips but not at all stunned when Lawrence agrees.

He pulls you onto his lap, lets you grind against his half-hard cock until it's fully hard and you're begging to feel him inside of you and moans when you bottom out, gaze watching you intently as his hands settle on your hips.

"Lawrence," you whisper. "Fuck."

A smile spreads onto Lawrences face before he can stop it, and when you start riding him, he presses his back against the headboard, one hand on your hip while the other lightly holds your chin so as to keep your gaze on his.

You get lost in how good it feels within the space of a minute, maybe two—Lawrence's cock is long and thick, and even if riding it takes some adjusting occasionally, it still becomes very enjoyable very quickly.

"You're so wonderful for me, Y/N," he says. "Oh, this never gets old."

He's loving how you feel around him, clenching occasionally and moaning after a particularly deep thrust that hits your g-spot, and you're just—it's just perfect.

And then, Lawrence gets an idea. He moves the hand that's cupping your face to your wrist, which is attached to the hand that you use to grope relentlessly at yourself, rolling your nipples between your thumb and first finger, sometimes moving to rub your clit.

"The cufflinks, baby," he says. "Don't touch yourself, mm? Use those for me."

He watches you press the cold silver cufflink against one of your nipples, moans as you clench around him at the sensation of the cold meeting your warm skin. You moan in turn, pressing the metal against your nipples and moaning his name.

He moves a hand back to your chin, placing his first and middle finger against your bottom lip. You take the hint immediately and bring his fingers into your mouth, grinding down onto him as you do.

"You're so good for me, pet," he says, moving the hand that rests on your hip to your clit. He starts rubbing it with practiced expertise, knowing the way you like it best after nearly two decades of marriage. "Oh, this is amazing. You can steal my work shirts whenever you want, okay? Especially the ones with the cufflinks. You're amazing."

You moan at the praise, pressing the cufflinks against yourself further, loving the way that the metal feels against your sensitive nipples.

He takes his fingers out of your mouth and goes back to holding your chin so as to keep your gaze on his, wanting to watch you orgasm.

You come completely undone when Lawrence speeds up his ministrations on your clit just enough to make you want more, and Lawrence watches.

You thrust your way through the aftershocks, at which point Lawrence releases into you and lets your chin free from his light grip, kissing you and offering praise as he does.

He pulls you off of him and gets a bath set up, helping you into it while giving you more praise and pressing kisses along the back of your neck and shoulder blades because the orgasm had left you both completely and totally breathless.

You bathe in light conversation, once again talking about your days but focusing on the more positive parts, and Lawrence lets you steal a Henley from the days of medical school. You pull a pair of boxers on and curl up in bed next to him, falling asleep only seconds before Lawrence does.

#lawrence gordon #lawrence gordon x reader #saw 2004 #saw franchise

64 notes · View notes

toasttt11 · 1 year ago

Text

better

January 24, 2024

Connie has been going insane the past few weeks, luckily she was aloud to finally do some type of exercise so she got to use the bike but no one would aloud her on the ice or even let her have her hockey sticks.

Nick had took all of her hockey sticks that were in her apartment when he found she was using her stick in her apartment and no matter how much she used her puppy eyes he would not budge.

Luke had the team lock the shooting room that Connie use to be in for hours everyday and no one is allowed to unlock it for her and again no matter how much she used her puppy eyes on her coach he didn’t budge either.

The doctors still won’t approve of her getting in the ice to practice at all, the only thing she was approved was being able to slowly skate around but with no stick only skating very slowly.

Connie was losing her mind. This was the longest she has gone her whole life of not playing hockey, even when she had broke her arm she still played hockey but just with her other arm.

Connie absolutely hated how much nothing felt right any longer as she could no longer find any peace without being on the ice.

Connie was sadly on her couch watching a show, she has watched more TV in the last few months than she has ever.

Connie grunted hearing a knock not in the mood for any visitors as she has been in a terrible mood after her doctor appointment and they didn’t approve for her to get her stick back or even start practicing.

Connie’s eyes soften slighty seeing Alex but still she was in a bad mood.

“Hi.” Alex softly spoke to her feeling bad seeing how upset she has been lately.

Connie nodded shorty raising an eyebrow at Alex.

“Put your shoes on.” Alex told her grabbing her favorite pair of sneakers by the front door and holding them out to her, Connie crossed her arms giving him a look, “Please bubbles.” Alex softly pleaded with pleading eyes making her soften slightly and reluctantly take the shoes out of his hand and slip them on.

“Come on.” Alex gently guided her out of her apartment closing the door behind them, his hand gently rested on her lower back as they walked through her apartment building and to the parking garage to Alex’s car.

Alex opened the passenger door letting Connie get in before he walked around hopping into the drivers seat and starting the car.

Connie didn’t say a word as she looked out the window the entire Alex drove them. She wouldn’t admit it now but it was nice getting some fresh air.

Alex pulled them into the personnel parking lot and watched Connie as she realized where they were.

Alex hopped out of his car and opened the door for Connie to get out, his hand rested on her back as he walked them into the blackhawks arena, it was extremely silent and only a few lights on that are always on.

Alex led them to the shooting room and shot Connie a mischievous grin pulling out a key and opening the door that Connie has not been allowed to step foot in for few weeks.

“Go on.” Alex softly encouraged seeing her looking longingly at her hockey sticks that were standing against the wall.

Alex knows how much Connie has been miserable not allowed to do anything hockey related and he knows she isn’t allowed to play because they are worried she would push it but he will watch and let her hit a few pucks knowing it will make her feel better.

Connie slowly walked over her hands shaky as she slowly reached out and grabbed onto her stick, Connie let out small sigh holding her hockey stick once again.

Alex tossed a few pucks on the floor and gesturing for her to hit them, he smiled watching her hit her first puck in weeks and the relief on her face as she stick handled with a puck once again.

 Connie’s eyes watered at the incredibly kind gesture from Alex, “Thank you.” Connie couldn’t even put it into words how much she appreciated Alex letting her play anything hockey.

“Of course bubbles.” Alex smiled seeing how happy she looked and the sparkle that was back in her bright green eyes again. He would do anything for her to be happy.

21 notes · View notes

amor-immortalem · 1 year ago

Text

Welcome Home

A/N: I’ve been working on this since NB season 2 ended in January :/ I think I’ve finally got it to where I’m happy with it. And just before new lessons drop no less

・・・〆・・・

“Hold on tight!”

The ride back to her own timeline is rough and bumpy. Her landing? Not so great. Arella crash lands into the bushes just beside the House of Lamentation’s front doors. Who would have thought being launched out of a rift in space-time could hurt so much?

‘Things could have been worse, though…’ She thinks to herself as she sits up and climbs out of the now destroyed bush, ‘Where did Solomon-?!’

A soft, pain-filled groan from the direction Arella’d just come from catches her attention and suddenly the human realizes the reason she’s not more hurt save for a few bumps, cuts, and bruises is due to the fact that Solomon took the brunt of their horrific landing.

“Oh my god, did you break that fall?!” Arella scrambles to help her fellow sorcerer out of the wrecked foliage. “You idiot, you may be immortal but you’re not unkillable! Are you okay?”

“Never better!” Solomon’s response is breathless and strained as he holds his arms wrapped around his sides, “It’s only a few broken ribs- nothing a simple healing spell won’t mend.”

“You’re so full of shite your eyes are brown. How badly are you hurt?” She’s not amused by the way the silver-haired man tries to downplay his injuries.

“I think… I punctured a lung too but what kind of teacher would I have been if I let my adorable apprentice receive far worse injuries than I?” he finally admits. “I’ll take care of it as soon as I get my bearings.” and that’s enough for Arella to cast a healing spell or her own.

“Oh, that’s nonsense.” The freckled human grumbles as she shoves her hands in the space between his arms and torso.

“Hear me, spirit of light. In name of the sorcerer Arella, I command you: mend and reverse the damage done to the man in front of me.”

A warm golden glow emanates from her palms as her magic does its job. Solomon’s breathing turns less strained and labored as the glow dissipates, and he lets out a long sigh of relief.

“Thanks for that.” he smiles as he rises from what’s left of the bush, offering his hand to Arella which she takes.

With quick spell, Solomon is able to reverse the damage they caused with their fall and the pair of humans has all of two seconds before they find themselves nearly tackled back into the foliage as a pair of arm crushes them against their owner’s chest.

“Y…You’re back!” Asmo’s voice quivers with unshed tears as he pulls back. “Both of you… do you have any idea how worried I was- how worried the rest of us were?! You idiots! Where’ve you been!?”

“It’s a long story.” Arella smiles as her own tears start to well up in her eyes. “But I’m home… finally.”

・・・〆・・・

Just one simple text calls nearly the rest of the brothers home. There are many questions, many tears shed from the relief at seeing their pact master but one of them is still missing.

“Do we have any idea where Mammon is?” Arella asks as she bounces Cyrus on her hip- she’d been purposely waiting until everyone had arrived before she recounted the events of the last year to the group of demons.

There’s a look of concern splayed across their features that doesn’t sit well with Arella.

“Did… something happen to Mammon while we were gone?” Solomon asks as he sips from the teacup in his hand.

“Once we realized you were missing,” Satan starts, choosing his words to explain the situation carefully, “Mammon went on a rampage looking for you.”

“When he couldn’t find you anywhere here in the Devildom,” Lucifer adds, “he left for the human world in hopes of finding you there. He was going to take Cyrus with him, but I was able to convince him that was a bad idea.”

“That was six months ago,” Beel frowns. “No one’s heard from him since.”

The revelation leaves Arella quiet with concern. Guilt for not acting sooner when it came to reforming her pacts begins to eat at her as she thinks about how sick with worry her favorite demon must be consumed with.

“I’ll go look for him,” she declares boldly, “but first I owe the rest of you an explanation for the past year.”

・・・〆・・・

“It’s clear she’s not in this realm, Mammon.” Milli sits across the table from him as they eat breakfast. “At the rate you’re going, you’ll drive yourself insane over one small human life- not very befitting of such a powerful demon.”

“I know, Mill,” Mammon sighs tiredly as he runs a hand through his shaggy white hair, “I know, but I can’t give up on Arella. She’s out there somewhere, in trouble, and if the situation was reversed, I know she wouldn’t give up on me.”

“For all you know, she could be dead- you said you felt your connection through your pact waning, didn’t you?” The witch frowns as her daughter toddles up to her and climbs into her mother’s lap to snuggle. “I just don’t want to see you come out of this with a broken heart.”

“She’s not dead.” His blue and gold eyes bore holes in the table- refusing to believe in that possibility. “Yeah, it’s true that the strength of our pact was weakened at the start of all this, but in the last few weeks, it’s been gettin’ stronger and stronger. It won’t be much longer now- I can feel it.”

Milli only sighs as she gives her long-time friend a disbelieving look. “At least go home and take a break. I can’t imagine you have many funds left to keep up your little search I’m sure your little one misses you as well.”

The Avatar of Greed nods. Going home would give him time to recoup as well- let him touch base with his brothers and see if they’d managed to find anything more out in his absence.

“You’re right… I am almost out of grimm so I have to go home whether I want to or not. It’s just… I feel horrible goin’ home having made literally no progress. Everyone’s countin’ on me to bring ‘er back.”

“Then they’ll just have to be disappointed- you’re only one demon.” The witch huffs. “You can only do so much especially when you had literally nothing to go on.”

The solemn mood is interrupted abruptly as a bolt of golden light strikes the center of the kitchen floor, startling everyone in the house as Milli’s young daughter starts to cry. When the smoke clears, it reveals Thirteen, who looks more than a little frazzled.

“Thirteen?” The white-haired demon asks.

“No time to explain,” the reaper says as she takes a hold of Mammon’s hand. Before he can even get a word out, they teleport away.

・・・〆・・・

The brothers all sit in silence as Arella recounts the crazy year she’d just had. How she was forced to reestablish their pacts, the way their sins began to control their behaviour, the trip down to Cocytus to save Lucifer, how she’d even got to watch the planning and development of RAD and briefly attend its opening ceremony, and how alien everything all felt in the moment.

Now that she’s listening to herself speak, she realizes how truly terrified she was that she might never return home.

“But who would even do something like that?” Belphegor frowns, “And why take you back to that timeframe specifically?”

“They called themselves ‘Nightbringer’. Arella responds, staring down at her messages- specifically at the unlisted number that sent her the text that started this nonsense- as she allowed her adoptive son to play with her fingers. “I’ve still got no clue as to who they even are, but they seemed to know the eight of us well enough…��

“The father of demons?” Lucifer has a puzzled expression on his face. “What would a being as old as that want with you?”

“I don’t know…” she sighs, “but I’ve got the nagging feeling we’re far from done with them yet…”

・・・〆・・・

“Thirteen what is goin’ on.” Mammon’s lost track of the amount of times he’s nearly tripped over his own two feet as the reaper pulls him along after her.

“It’s Arella.” Her response is blunt. “She’s back. An hour ago, she and that shitty sorcerer just appeared out of nowhere right in front of the House of Lamentation.”

Those words freeze the demon in his tracks. Arella. His human. She was back. Was she safe? Hurt? Where the hell has she been that not even a tracking spell could find her? And why the hell was she with Solomon of all people?

Deciding not to waste any more time, the demon books it for the House of Lamentation leaving Thirteen in his dust. It takes him no time to get home, throwing the door open as he kicks off his boots. When he sees her, his breath catches in his throat.

His presence is given away when Cyrus looks back and excitedly calls for him.

“Mammon…” Arella smiles, her voice sounds so relieved as she crosses the room, wrapping her free arm around his neck.

Mammon returns the embrace, arms winding around his human and son tightly as he buries his face in her hair. He can’t believe it- all that time spent searching in vain only for her to reappear out of nowhere. A sense of happiness, of relief, washes over him in tidal waves.

“Where the hell have you been?” His voice breaks as he tries miserably to hold back his tears. “I was so fucking worried about you.”

“I know I’m sorry.” Arella says as she presses her forehead to his, “We’ll talk about it later, okay?”

Her thumb moves to brush away the falling tears from his cheeks as Mammon nods, opting just to rest his head in the crook of her neck where her scent is strongest instead- it always was grounding for him.

Things are further interrupted when Thirteen finally manages to catch up, barging into the House of Lamentation like she owns the place.

She joins Mammon in crushing Arella with a tight hug- one that never lessens even as she starts laying into Solomon about having disappeared for so long with her favorite human.

・・・〆・・・

Hours later, after everyone has gone to bed for the night, Arella and Mammon are still awake. The demon is restless and tense, body not seeming to know how to relax anymore and it leaves the human in much the same shape.

“Mammon, Love, come here.” Her voice is soft as she holds her arms out for him. “You’ll never get to sleep if you’re up pacing like that all night.”

“Sorry, Treasure.” Mammon sighs as he runs a hand through his hair before complying with her request. “I’m just- I don’t mean to keep ya up.”

“I know you don’t, dear. I just wish I could help you relax more- nothing seems to be working.” She runs her hands through his mop of snowy hair, “Seems like you’re in dire need of a haircut too. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you keep it this long.”

“Is it? I hadn’t really noticed…”

“It is…” she hums, “I could probably tie it back in a small ponytail if I really wanted to.”

“Where did you go? I couldn’t find ya, Thirteen couldn’t find ya- We thought you were…”

“The past…” she answers softly, “Back to just a little bit after you all had fallen… I couldn’t let anyone know about my predicament- Solomon told me it might cause problems in the present if anyone were to know. I had to masquerade as a demon for a period of time before Diavolo eventually found me out with his lie detecting ability. It was so… weird and heartbreaking in a way. I knew who you all were, but you didn’t have a clue who I was… I felt like I was reliving my first year as an exchange student…”

Silence falls over them like a weighted blanket as Arella keeps carding her fingers through Mammon’s hair.

“Why didn’t you come back sooner?”

“I wanted to- believe me, I did- but the power of my pacts had diminished to practically nothing- not even my stay commands had as much of a kick to them at that point. I was forced to reforge everything if I wanted to return to this time. It was hard. The hardest part was not being able to seek you out when I needed comfort. I had to keep reminding myself that you weren’t my version of you. That no matter how much it may feel like my version of you, you were a different demon from the one I love.”

By this point, the human had tears tumbling down her cheeks. Over the past year, she’d been compartmentalizing all of her fear and anxiety that came with the prospect of being stuck in the past and she’d never taken the time to actually confront and deal with those emotions. Now that she was home though…

“I just…” a sob quakes her voice, “There were so many nights where I just wanted you to hold me, tell me it would all be okay in the end but…”

Mammon just tightens his hold on her, maneuvering Arella down so she’s on his level as he allows her to cry it out.

The rest of their night is spent wrapped up in their blankets with kisses and cuddles aplenty. The rest of their reunion and all the struggles that may come in its wake can wait for another day. For now, the pair just simply bask in each other’s company, just grateful to have each other once more.

・・・〆・・・

End

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me swd #obey me! shall we date?#obey me fanfic #obey me mammon #obey me lucifer #obey me beel #obey me asmo #obey me belphie

21 notes · View notes

likesdoodling · 1 year ago

Text

It has been a while since I started digital art,

Quite a while.

So here is a 'progress over the last two years' since I gained access to a drawing tablet.

This is my first ever digitally illustrated piece- compared to my latest one-

So, a little bit different.

I do think my art took quite a jump around June 2022, when I took a break from my Steve comic strip, (for obvious reasons- it was about Technoblade's polar bear so...) and decided to try practicing gesture drawing to see if it helped my general anatomy knowledge. This is before,

And this next one is after.

The most obvious change here is that I switched to using thinner lines. There is a gap of about two months between these.

This was when I realised that you could improve art by practicing it (mind-blowing I know), and then started to do just that. Some other notable jumps forward would be when I discovered the airbrush-

Well, discovered a new method of shading with it anyway.

Then after that I had a few pictures that I actually still like, despite them being pretty old at this point, the one below is actually from September of 2022-

I mean, the hands are a bit iffy, but the rest looks alright. This was when I was going through a bit of a melanie martinez phase-

This next one was from January of 2023, I'd only just gotten into bungou stray dogs via some random memes on pinterest about this weird brown haired guy who had lots of bandages and who had this running gag with wanting to die- I actually looked him up at one point, but that didn't really explain much. The main one that I remember was 'life is short, so make it shorter, shorter than chuuya~'

Which at the time was just kind of confusing,

Then I watched the show and it made perfect sense.

I'd discovered ascendance of a bookworm in like, 2021, but I hadn't really been doing fanart of it since I was mainly doing dsmp related stuff and I kind of assumed nobody would know what on earth I was referencing. Turns out tumblr has a lot more bookworm fans than I orignally anticipated. Instagram still has no clue. I think maybe one person out of my followers on instagram knows what I'm on about-

Then we've got these two which I am still proud of btw-

The first one is from a dystopian/time travel fanfic called viridian.

The second one was after I learned about rim lighting. It was inspired by a song actually, 'crash' by noevaii. (and yes I found that song from a sad-ist animatic, it was cool) The character isn't anyone in particular. They're both from February 2023.

Then there's probably my most liked picture on instagram, (not tumblr, since tumblr knows about bsd and bookworm, but y'know. This was even sadder than I originally intended since the last half of my comic strip was finished AFTER everything happened)

Then the final conclusion of my Steve comic strip in May of 2023.

I don't think my art really changed much in between those, but eh.

Then I switched to doing a bunch of ascendance of a bookworm stuff to see what would happen and turns out there are way more fellow fans out there than I anticipated-

Then I guess my next breakthrough in tumblr popularity, (even if it might not have been a breakthrough in art skills necessarily) was when things went DOWN in the bsd fandom with chapter 109 and I did probably one of my most liked tumblr posts I have ever done-

If you want to see the rest of that, feel free to scroll down on my tumblr page, the original's like eight pages long-

This was before anyone knew what was going to happen btw.

I still think it's hilarious that I put in chuuya having contacts. My reasoning being, they're on a film set,

It was a pretty interesting exercise in shading in monochrome.

Then I started a 30 day art challenge in October that I didn't get past day six of, but it was still pretty fun. This is the best one of those-

After that I spent most of my time studying for the jlpt n5, so I didn't really do that much art related stuff,

This is one of the two non-commission related pictures that I finished over the two months after I kind of gave up on the art challenge. This one's from November,

Then I finally finished an art commission I'd been working on for the three months prior, as well as studying. Here is an example of the type of pictures I was doing for that,

Then I was occupied with christmas and birthday presents for my siblings, both my little sisters are into ascendance of a bookworm- (completely my fault I am proud to say) so I was able to do stuff related to that, here's a couple of snippets, but you guys don't get the colour version hehe

And one of them has also read the entire fma manga just like I have so-

Anyway, it's been quite a progression since I resolved to master digital art in 2021.

I reckon I've come a fair way since then. I mean. My art skills in general are way better than they used to be. The last two or three years have been pretty interesting.

Also-

Just had to include this one, I'm gonna do a more detailed version but still-

I think it's funny so I'm posting it here. Even if it's not really related to art progression-

31 notes · View notes

fonulyn · 2 years ago

Text

so since I've now posted all of my @yearoftheotpevent fics, I figured I'd make one compilation post of them. here's my year of nivannedy!

January: good to be prepared

Leon gets stuck in a snow storm when his car breaks down, and a handsome stranger saves him from the roadside. Of course they hit it off, but only later they realize they actually do know of each other.

February: 'cause you know the love we have is always gonna be

Finally Piers and Leon get married, surrounded by their loved ones, in their very own home. It's been a long road, they've deserved their happy ending.

March: at the shore of the unknown

The end of the world comes quietly, almost secretly, despite them fighting it all these years. But even if the world is ending, Leon and Piers find each other, and their story is only beginning.

April: I crave therefore I am

Piers has been half in love with Leon for as long as he can remember, but no matter how much he's pining, he's not going to be the kind of a dick who tries to come between Leon's current relationship. Except that relationship is not exactly as real as he's been lead to believe.

May: as long as you'll have me

Leon gets infected on a mission, and although there is a known cure, the cure fucking sucks. At least, after Leon alarms him with a few incoherent texts, Piers is there to help him through the worst of it.

June: you're a dream

Piers has been dreaming of his soulmate ever since he was eleven years old, and not even the continuous stream of monsters can keep him from finding whoever that is. Of course, nothing in life can ever be that simple.

July: that heaven in your eyes

Piers and Leon have some honeymoon fun by the lake. It's exactly what they wanted.

August: light in the darkest place

Leon and Piers grew up together, and when at twenty-one they both got a job at the RPD they thought it was a giant stroke of luck. They had no idea their first day was going to be one hell of a long day.

September: all the tears and the fears and the lies and the cries of the past

Krauser kidnaps Leon on Wesker’s orders to use as bait. Things get messy.

October: before I even knew your name

Leon gets an accidental text sent into the wrong number and it ends up changing his life for the better. They might both suck at flirting, especially through text, but that doesn't matter when inexplicably they're still into each other.

November: right from the start

Leon gets some unexpected backup on his rogue mission in the Eastern Slav Republic. Later, he might just have to thank Chris for sending Piers in. Especially as he learns he and Piers work together well in more ways than one.

December: a merry little christmas (make the yuletide gay)

Piers and Leon and their first holidays as a married couple in their own home. Of course with a visit from the Redfields.

I am both incredibly content that I managed to write something for all of the months (even though two of these fics are still technically unfinished, for the Damnation au I haven't posted the last chapter and for the RE2 au I still need to write the rest of it) and really really happy with how they turned out :3

#nivannedy #me and my fics #my fics #my nivannedy fics #i'm gonna make another compilation #of ALL the fic i wrote this year #but i figured these deserved their own post :3

20 notes · View notes

elementary-my-dear-daddy · 5 months ago

Text

Resolutions

Chapter Four: Learning the Ropes

Pairing: Analoceitmus

Content: Orgasm Denial, Cock Cages, Chastity, Dom/sub, Hardcore Dominance and Submission, Boot Worship, No-Touch, Bondage, Sensory Deprivation, Watersports, Omorashi, Piss Play, Degradation, Humiliation, CBT, Gags, Handcuffs, Sounding, DubCon

Summary: Janus and Remus request Logan's presence in their bedroom.

Read the previous chapter here on AO3!

January 7th, 6:21 PM

Logan was beginning to adjust to this new routine. When at home, his doms usually had him strip down. He’d be ordered about, fetching objects or cleaning and other tasks to keep him busy. They told him that staying occupied would keep his mind off any desperation he felt, but even that was difficult when he got off on being told what to do. He realized how much he looked forward to his showers too, after realizing that would likely be his only alleviation from his cage for the next few months at least.

It was a bit odd readjusting to how intimacy between them worked. Janus and Virgil would be sitting with him on the couch, lightly swapping kisses and gentle touches. When their embrace turned to making out and sucking on each other’s neck, he was ordered to go to their bedroom and wait until he was retrieved to come back down. He was able to put two and two together when Janus summoned him back downstairs with hickeys littered over his skin and his shirt untucked. One morning, Remus and him woke up spooning, with Remus’ morning wood poking into his thigh. He was asked then to prepare him breakfast while he dealt with it himself.

A week in, and he was already close to begging for mercy.

However, that evening, Janus and Remus had asked him to join them in the bedroom, much to his surprise. He expected that a chore of some kind needed to be done, but was a bit perplexed when he noticed the ropes, lube, and other various sex-adjacent supplies sitting on the bed, not to mention their tripod was set up off to the side.

“Did you need me for something?” He asked, obviously looking past his lovers and at the tools resting behind them.

“Yep! On the bed!” Remus commanded with little explanation, Logan cautiously approaching and sitting without disturbing anything on it.

“Sitting up by the headboard, hands behind you.” Janus added, allowing him to get into the position before grabbing the cord of rope and moving to restrain him. He was no stranger to the feeling, but being touched in such a way after a week of complete avoidance had him needy in moments.

“We wanna see you all tied up and stuff, but can’t have you getting off to us, so we’re just gonna do a bit of sense deprivation, ok?” Remus asked, petting his chin as Janus fastened his hands to the headboard.

“Green.” Logan nearly keened, desperate to just be involved somehow.

“Good! But first you’re gonna do your little video diary so we can look back at this and get off to it.” Remus turned Logan’s head towards the tripod set up on the side, the blinking light indicating that it was already rolling.

“Oh..um, this is day seven of my denial. My dominants are restraining me before they have sex together.”

“And why are we doing this?” Janus prompted, tightening the ropes so there wasn’t any slack and pulling a whimper from Logan.

“Because you want to see me restrained, but I’m not allowed to participate or view.”

“Mhm, because you’re our little denial slut.” Remus hummed.

Logan bucked his hips at that, desperate from just the humiliation.

“Hey hey hey, none of that.” Remus forced his hips to be still against the bed, “Now c’mon, wanna hear you say it before we gag you.”

“Huh?”

“I want you to admit that you’re a little denial slut who likes being teased and ignored.”

“I-” Logan felt himself salivating as he went to respond. This was overwhelming in a way that made him dizzy with pleasure.

“Go on. That’s an order.”

He swallowed the spit in his mouth, “I’m a denial slut…who likes being teased and ignored.”

“Aww look at him. He’s leaking!” Remus barely acknowledged his words in favor of pointing at the thick line of precome leaking from his cock cage. He was impossibly horny from this kind of treatment and it showed.

“Pity.” Janus grimaced, “Maybe we should look into getting him a cage with a sound built in?”

That’s when his glasses were taken off and a blindfold was slipped over his eyes. His vision went pitch black and he went to comment on what Janus had said when a thick strip of leather was put over his mouth and buckled tightly around his head, causing him to make a muffled sound of surprise.

“Show us your safe sign?” Janus urged, letting out a satisfied hum when he obeyed, “Good. Normally we’d use your ball gag but I think having something in your mouth is a reward that you don’t deserve quite yet.”

Logan whined from behind the gag. He ached, not even for touch but just to be able to see his dominants, to beg and whimper for them.

“Alright Lo-Lo, we’re gonna slip on some headphones too so you aren’t getting off to my moans from Jannie’s thick cock ramming into me over and over.”

“I think he’s getting off on our words, here, let's put these on before he-” Before Logan could hear the rest of his sentence, a pair of plush noise canceling headphones were slipped over his ears, playing deafening white noise to block out any sound.

Just like that, he was completely cut off from the scene at hand.

It wasn’t completely foolproof, but that was part of the plan. Logan could still feel the weight on the bed shifting as the two presumably took off their clothes. He could imagine his partners stripping, Remus tossing off his clothes in a hurry while Janus undressed with care, taking the time to fold his garments before stepping towards the bed.

He felt the mattress dip and whined at the fact he wasn’t able to reach out and touch whoever it was. He would just have to sit there and wait until they both got off while he was teased by their motions.

Janus and Remus fell to the bed sharing a passionate kiss. They ground against each other for a moment before Janus settled into a kneeling position over Remus.

“How do you want it? Me fucking you from behind so we can both get off to him?”

“I need that right now.” Remus said, flipping himself over and pushing his hips into the air. He took a look at Logan, bound and helpless, and reached to stroke himself while Janus lubed up a few fingers and pushed them into his ass.

“Look at him, still leaking through his cage.” Janus cooed while he stretched the other out.

“We should get him one of those sound-cage-things, oh fuck jan that feels good!” Remus groaned, “I heard they have ones that are hollow in the center so he can still piss but can’t leak pre.”

“Wanna look at some after this together?”

“You know it!”

Logan felt their more jostled movements and imagined them settling into a rhythm. He yearned for their touch and praise, but knew he wouldn’t receive any. His arms strained against the rope tying him to the headboard, but Janus tied them down expertly, and there would be no chance of escaping them without help.

Remus let out a quiet groan as Janus entered him, causing the other to make a soft noise, “It’s just you and me, you can be louder than that if you want.”

This earned a much louder moan the second time he slid into his lover, paired with a smile plastered on his face.

Both Remus and Janus gazed at Logan’s restrained form with hungry glares. The way he looked so incredibly desperate caused Janus to drive into Remus with deep thrusts that shook the bed every time he moved. Remus, in turn, continued jerking himself off to the sight and feelings of his lovers.

They ravished each other, with Janus fully sheathing himself with every thrust and finding the proper angle to hit Remus’ prostate. He hissed at the sensation of Remus clenching around him, who let out hungry groans in return.

“So good, mm… you both look divine.”

“Right there Jan, “ Remus panted, “I love how fucking pathetic we can make him~!”

“I know-” Janus moaned, feeling his own climax approaching fast, “Fuck! Let’s fucking come and make him clean it up!”

Logan resigned himself to his fate after a short time. He’d sit there feeling his boyfriends taking in the sight of him for their own pleasure. Being used as live porn to meet their needs for as long as they wanted. He felt the speed of what he pictured was Janus thrusting into Remus until they were toppling over the edge together. The steady shaking slowed to a halt as the two of them finished.

It wasn’t long before the headphones and blindfold were slipped off and his glasses were put back on, his senses being restored. Janus and Remus had gotten dressed, but the evidence of their affair was plain to see. Both of them had wild sex hair, with sweat still glistening on Janus’ brow as proof of his exertion. The most obvious of it being the streaks of come staining the sheets in front of him. It was inches from hitting him.

The rope was undone by Janus, who took the time to massage his fingers into the skin where it caused marks. Logan was thankful for the touch, which had been more intimate than most of the chaste kisses and night-time spooning he received.

Remus sat in front of him, tracing his fingers over the gag before speaking, “I’m gonna take this off, but when I do, I don’t want to hear anything but how grateful you are that we let you be in the same room as us while we fucked. Got it?”

Logan nodded, and the strap was undone. He drew in a steady breath before speaking.

“Thank you.” He sighed, containing his pleas for now.

“For what?”

“For tying me up and depriving me while you and Master fucked. Thank you, Sire.” He sounded completely ready to break.

“Hey, hey we’ve got you.” Remus assured him, kissing his temple and helping Janus ease him into curling up in his lap.

Janus took to petting his hair and soothingly rubbing his side, “You did very well during that Logan. We’re so proud.”

They fussed over him with gentle praise and affection, trying their best to calm him down. After a while, they all seemed to return to their more normal states of mind.

“That was okay?” Janus asked, looking to Logan for a response.

“Yes, I liked feeling so helpless.” He admitted, “And like you were using me to get off.”

“Aw, we were, baby.” Remus smiled, petting his hair.

“Would you like to earn a chance to do that again?” Janus asked, Logan affirming with a nod, “Okay. Remus and I are going to do some research on things. We want you to get the sheets washed, dried, and put back on the bed, and when you are done we’ll see about another scene.”

“Yes, Master.” Logan responded, moving up from his place on the bed.

Remus and Janus got up and left Logan to attend to his task, settling down together in their office. Janus pulled up a few sites on his laptop for them to browse.

“So, a sounding cage?”

#jamming out #not safe for sanders #nsfs logan #fics #resolutions #nsfs analoceitmus

6 notes · View notes

aquadestinyswriting · 1 year ago

Text

The Origins of Selene's Name

Ok, so here's something completely different. This isn't necessarily a worldbuilding post or a specific story, so much as it is an explanation as to where Selene got her name. Thanks absolutely must go to @druidx for helping me with the folk tale at the end of this little explanation.

Tags: @druidx, @sparrow-orion-writes, @ashirisu, @blind-the-winds, @philosophika, @the-down-upside-finch

OK, so, I wrote about Selene's birth family a long while back and realised that Sel's name does not fit the naming conventions of the rest of her family. Of course I came up with Selene years before this part of her backstory, but I wanted to explore a more in-universe explanation.

Selene was born in the equivalent of early January, on the night of a full moon on a crisp and clear night. Her mother, Rosalie, recalled a word her grandmother had used to refer to the kind of moon present in the sky that night, and decided it would make for a suitable name for her newly born daughter should she survive the 4-5 months until her Name Day.

Selene, when she was a little girl, did ask her mother where the name came from, and Rosalie explained that her grandmother had said the name at one point and made mention of an old fairy-tale passed down through the generations that had been mostly forgotten. While the full story was no longer remembered, parts of it were, and Selene was told it was to do with the moon, mid-winter and this name. Skip forward a few more years, and Selene is talking with Yastromo after her arrival at his tower near the Darkwood. Yastromo notes how unusual Selene's name is in comparison to the rest of her family, and Selene tells him what her mother had told her. Yastromo, as much older and very learned man, realised that the fairy-tale passed down through Selene's family, was the same as an old folk tale from a tribe of nomads that had once lived in the area that the little town of Toreguarde now occupied. While the old wizard could not be certain that Selene's family had any connection to this nomadic tribe, he did decide to regale Selene with the full tale, which has been transcribed for your pleasure below:

A long time ago there was a fair young girl with skin as white as freshly fallen snow and hair as silver as the stars. She lived a simple life with her mother and father in a little house on the edge of the forest. One harsh winter night, the girl's mother got sick and the wise man of the nearby camp told her father that the only thing that would cure her was the heart of a pure white rabbit. The girl's father asked the girl if she would go out and look for this rabbit so he could cut out its heart to cure her mother. So, off the girl goes into the woods in search of a pure white rabbit. The girl spends a whole day searching the woods, but does not find a pure white rabbit. When the sun sank below the ground to go to sleep, the girl started to get very tired and hungry and curled up underneath a tree to rest. When she awoke, the night was lit by the soft, silver light of a full moon, and sitting at her feet, cleaning it's little pink nose, was a rabbit with fur of purest white. The girl slowly brought out her knife from her boot, knowing that the only way to save her mother was to kill the creature. But a pang of pity stayed her hand at the last moment. The rabbit looked up, twitched it's nose at her. The girl started to cry, for she loved her mother and did not wish her to die. But neither did she want to kill an animal so innocent and pure. The rabbit sat up and smiled at her, "Little girl, why do you cry so?" it asked. The girl explained her predicament, that she needed the heart of the rabbit to save her ailing mother, but that she did not want the rabbit to die either. The rabbit cocked its head to one side and looked up at the moon. So full and bright was it that it reflected perfectly in the rabbit's eyes. "You are a good and gentle child. If you promise to return home and never again return to this forest, then I shall speak with Selune to see that your mother's life is spared." it said. The girl looked at the rabbit in confusion, "Selune?" she asked. The rabbit nodded, it's ears flopping. "Yes, my mother. She lives upon the moon, you see, and watches all of Titan's children through the night." the rabbit explained. The girl thought for a moment, then nodded, "I promise never to return to your forest and disturb your rest, so long as my mother survives this sickness." she agreed. The rabbit thumped its foot upon the biggest root of the tree, then turned tail and hopped away. When the girl returned home without the rabbit, her father was furious. He took off his belt to beat her, but was stopped when his wife came through the door and asked why he was shouting so. While she was still tired and pale, the mother was in no danger of passing that night. The girl hugged her mother, then ran to the window and smiled up at the moon that gleamed in the night sky. She then told her mother and father of the promises she and the white rabbit had exchanged, and never again did the girl or her family ever return to the forest.

When Selene heard the tale, it resonated with her so much that, once she turned 16 years old, she officially began using the surname Frigidwake rather than the one she had been given by her birth family. The idea of promises kept also resonated, hard, and Selene has a personal oath to never break a promise she's made if she can help it at all. It also means that she can take sincere promises made by others extremely seriously, especially if they're made by friends or those she considers family.

#aquadestinyswriting #titan fighting fantasy #selene frigidwake #tales of the librarian #folk tale #writing meta

7 notes · View notes

love-kurdt · 1 year ago

Text

This is Me Trying (Mike's Version) (byler): 2

word count: 10,471

warnings for this chapter: maaaajooorrrr depression!!! brief sexual content, homophobia, underage drinking, panic attacks, driving under the influence, near-death experiences, suicidal ideation. this is semi-autobiographical so pls be kind <3

in short: if you are emotionally or mentally vulnerable, please dni.

My eyes danced across the ceiling of Carter’s bedroom where, surprisingly, no one had come in and tried to kick me out. I detested popcorn ceilings. They were so… textured. Texture should not belong on ceilings. Maybe it was a good thing that things didn’t end up going any further with Carter, because then, I would’ve been staring up at a goddamn popcorn ceiling while Will Byers’ doppelgänger had his way with me.

I laid on my back with my skinny legs hanging off the edge of the bed, and folded my hands together over my stomach as I got lost in the travesty that was the popcorn ceiling. I tried to imagine that the endless expanse of polystyrene was actually just extremely puffy clouds, a bowl of cooked white rice, or freshly fallen snow that had recently been compacted together by a winter boot. My eyes trailed to the junction between the ceiling and the wall, which was adorned with a string of multicolored lights. I liked those kinds of lights, even if they kind of reminded me of the ones Joyce used to communicate with Will in the Upside Down. Over the years, slowly but surely, one of Vecna’s various torture mechanisms became simply Christmas lights again.

Fuck, Christmas break was coming up soon. I needed to get Nancy and Holly gifts before making the trek back to Hawkins. I hoped I'd have enough room in my car for everything, since I wouldn’t be returning after break. The realization hit me out of nowhere; since I no longer had a school to attend, I'd never have an academic “break” ever again. The last one I'd participated in was Thanksgiving, and I'd wanted to have one last memory of my parents being proud of me before I became the full-fledged failure of the family. It was evident, from the way Dad had made multiple homophobic remarks aimed directly at me from across the dinner table, that I'd already failed. I chose to keep my mouth shut about potentially dropping out, at the risk of making things even worse. Now that my college career was officially over, though, “Christmas break” would be just “Christmas” from here on out.

I wondered if Will would be back in town for Hanukkah. I hoped so. The holiday season would be different this year. I would get the fuck over myself and leave the house. I would repair my purposefully neglected friendships. And I'd finally get the chance to see Will again, face to face. Though chances were slim, maybe Will would hear me out. Maybe Will’s hatred for me had faded a little bit. I still couldn’t quite comprehend the complexity of what exactly happened within the past year, and how what I'd already assumed to be pretty damn bad became even worse, considering how well the new year started off.

As soon as I had arrived back at my dorm in January, I diligently thumbtacked the post-it detailing Will’s phone number on the wall above my headboard. I wasn’t normally someone who believed in karma, omens, manifestation, or any of that hippie crap (because I was obviously a realist and a pessimist by nature), but I truly believed that seeing Joyce at Melvald’s was fate in its finest form. Forgetting my school supplies (along with my reluctance to just go back home and grab what I needed from my room) resulted in essentially coming out to Will’s mother. And that was one step closer to getting Will back. Now, all I had to do was call that number.

The post-it stayed on my wall for three months. Elvis hadn’t mentioned or questioned it; we weren’t official, anyway, so I was free to see whoever I wanted. Except I didn’t just want to see Will. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Will. If only I could pick up the goddamn phone.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to call; I wanted nothing more than to hear Will’s voice enveloped in grainy audio. I longed for the day I'd get to say Will’s name out loud instead of just writing it. But I was waiting for the right time to do it. I couldn’t call in the morning, because Will had insisted for years that, in the words of his stepfather, “Mornings are for coffee and contemplation,” and refused to be disturbed before 9am. I couldn’t call in the afternoon, because Will would most definitely be in class, or at work if he had a job, or hanging out somewhere with his new friends, and I didn’t want to impose upon that. And I couldn’t call in the evening, because what if the conversation went south? I didn’t want Will to go to sleep angry or upset, especially at me.

In reality, no time was a good time. I knew that confrontation was inexorable, and whether it came across as offensive or not was dependent upon how the conversation began. I, ever the strategist, prepared myself for a multitude of scenarios, from worst to best case; it turned out that predicting all possible outcomes during a supernatural war would help me immensely in this process. Ultimately, I chose to pick up the phone and call Will on the least problematic occasion I could think of: the date was March 22nd, 1990– also known as Will’s 19th birthday.

I had parked myself in the middle of my mattress, sitting criss cross on top of my navy blue comforter. I'd pulled my phone, monstrous, pale yellow, and with a spiral cord, off of my bedside table and into my lap. It wasn’t the most comfortable of positions to be in, and my back was slightly killing me (hunching over a notebook for hours on end all day probably didn’t help either), but it was the optimal setup for either an hours-long phone call or for slamming the handset back in place and hanging up as soon as the other end of the line picked up. But I knew I wouldn’t ever hang up. Never on Will.

I drew my eyes up the headboard of my bed and onto the wall until they met the post-it, in all its glory. I inhaled so hard I thought my lungs would spontaneously combust from the pressure in my chest. I feared my heart would stop the second the dial tone emerged from within the earpiece. I knew I had to do this now, or I never would. I'd already procrastinated doing this for too long. I gulped, my finger hovering over the rotary dial, and tried my luck.

The ringback tone went through once, twice, and–

One of the Christmas lights in the otherwise dark room flickered, causing my body to snap up to attention. I rose to defend myself from any monsters in my vicinity, ready to fight the– woah, I stood up way too fast. I was, apparently, still quite intoxicated. I sat back down on the bed, eyes still glued to the string of bright, colorful lights lining the perimeter of Charlie’s… Christopher’s room? Whatever. It started with C. After a few minutes of engaging in a staring contest with a fucking lightbulb, I let my shoulders go lax. Tension that I hadn’t realized had built up released from my neck as I rested my head on my palms. I wasn’t in danger, not anymore. Well, at least, not in the paranormal realm of things. The only monster I'd have to fight was myself.

More specifically, the raging… situation that had yet to go down in my obscenely tight shorts. Cadence had done a number on me, even though it only lasted for approximately zero-point-five seconds. I shut my eyes tightly, not sure of what to do. I could wait longer, and run the risk of being caught with a very obvious boner by someone if they entered the room unannounced… or I could make a run for it and try not to be sidetracked by anyone I knew.

I opened the bedroom door a crack and peeked through, and thankfully, it didn’t look like the escape would be too arduous. I rushed out of the room, pushing through the multitude of bodies in search of the exit. The room was extremely hot, likely due to everyone’s combined body heat and the space heaters stationed in the corner of every room, which made it difficult to breathe. I hadn’t been much of a fan of the cold ever since Will and I got stuck in the Upside Down during the Vecnapocalypse. We’d ended up staying there for longer than initially anticipated; having almost kissed at one point, I freaked out and ran away, stupidly tripping on a vine and causing an entire side-battle in the Upside Down, nearly ruining the Party’s chance to defeat Vecna. So, no, I wasn’t much of a fan of the cold, but right now, I needed to escape the sensation of molten lava that crept up and slowly wrapped around my throat. My eyes caught a glimpse of the front door, and relief flooded through my veins.

But that feeling was short lived, because a vine curled around my wrist before I could take another step. I whipped around to see that the vine was actually a hand, and noticed that I vaguely recognized the hand’s owner, who was a girl from my Quantitative Literacy class. “Hey, Mike!” she smiled. She had black hair, light brown eyes, and a septum piercing. She looked badass. Bitchin’, as El would say. However, her bright teal eyeshadow, even in the dark, served as both a boner killer and the source for my impending migraine. So it was a blessing and a curse, really.

I tried to remember the girl’s name, but didn’t want to disappoint her when I'd admitted to not knowing it, so I uttered a painfully generic, “Hey! How are you doing’? Good to see you!” and gave her a rather light, impersonal hug. She appeared to be satisfied enough with my greeting. She pulled me down by my shoulder so she could talk in my ear without everyone hearing over the music.

“My friend over there saw you earlier and was wondering if you were single,” she said, pointing over to a group of two guys and two girls who were all huddled on the sectional couch. I raised a quizzical eyebrow. This conversation could go one of two ways. I hoped I wouldn’t have to make it awkward, but then again, I knew I probably wouldn’t ever see her again after that night. So that made me feel a little better in that respect.

“Oh,” I hesitated. “Uh… which one?”

“Shoot, I should have led with that!” she laughed. I laughed along, but my voice felt hollow. Luckily, she didn’t pick up on it. “The one with the blue hair! Her name is Chelsea.”

I looked over at the group, and made eye contact with the girl with the blue hair. I watched as she blushed and looked away. She was shy. She looked sweet. Damn it, Mike, now you’re gonna break yet another heart. What is wrong with you? Why can’t you just be normal?

“She’s pretty interested, you know,” the Girl With No Name said, unknowingly twisting the knife that rested permanently in my stomach. The lava curling around my throat became even hotter, burning through my skin.

“Yeah, totally, uh… that’s so cool!” I remarked passively. And yeah, it was cool, in theory… but hopelessly incompatible in practice. I glanced at the door, then back at the girl before telling her, “I hate to break it to you, but I’m straight as a circle.”

“Wait, what?”

“I’m gay, like, really gay.” I blurted, probably loud enough for the entire room to hear. I heard someone whistle, and a few others cheered me on, but I wanted to burst into flames. The girl stared at me, stunned at my sudden outburst, seemingly at a loss for words. I felt myself choking on air. I needed to get out of there, and quickly.

“Okaygottagoseeya!” I forced out in a single breath, not leaving any time for a response from anyone before I bolted through the crowd and out the door, successfully fleeing the scene. Grass met the soles of my Chuck Taylors as I continued to run across the campus quad, my breathing quick, ragged, and uneven. The frigid December weather did nothing to soothe the burning sensation throughout my body, which by now felt like it was burning from the inside out. My feet loudly slapped the pavement below me, and I was proud that I hadn’t slowed down or stopped yet. If one good thing were to come out of my time at the University of Indianapolis, it was my improved stamina from all the sex. Well, that’s fucking sad… and kind of hilarious, I thought.

I sprinted a few blocks, not caring to look for any oncoming cars. If I got hit, cool. Awesome. I'd thank the driver as I bled out in the street. But no one came to take me out of my misery. So I kept running, and running, and running. My long legs screamed as my practically nonexistent muscles struggled to carry me. The prickly, thin air I breathed in through my mouth reminded me of the sensation when I'd chewed a piece of mint gum and drank water right after. It was so fucking cold, but I was so fucking hot. Like, there was sweat dripping down my face. Or were those tears? Was I seriously fucking crying again?

Up until last year, I had never been the type of person to openly cry. I wasn’t raised to share my feelings or emotions. That was part of the reason as to why I had been so uncomfortable with the prospect of going to therapy. I never opened up to anyone, because I hated the feeling of defenselessness, and even more so despised the idea of being seen as weak. I prided myself on being the “fearless leader” of the Party. For fuck’s sake, I'd been the one to stare Vecna down as I thrust a sword straight into his heart. I'd proven my strength as a leader time and time again. But what would happen when Mike Wheeler let his guard down?

It turned out that I didn’t have to let my guard down; Will broke it for me. Will’s departure broke the dam of emotional repression that I had worked so hard for years to maintain. I suddenly became unable to stop myself from crying. I'd always silently envied Will for being able to express his emotions so freely, but now that I could do so as well, albeit uncontrollably, I didn’t envy Will at all. I wasn’t sure how Will had done it for all those years; the migraines, the exhaustion, the dehydration… It was awful. And I felt even worse when I recalled all the times when I was the reason for making Will cry.

I had also gotten accustomed to panic attacks. I had my first one on the day Will left. My mom came into my room to check on me. I’d looked up at her with scared, red-rimmed eyes, and my shoulders violently shook as I hyperventilated. My mom swiftly jumped into action, meeting me where I was at, grounding me, and helping me come back to earth. She’d held me in her arms as I sobbed, comforted me, and didn’t pry. But… she knew. I could never express enough gratitude towards my mom for what she did for me that day. Little did I know, though, that it only got worse from there. The second one happened after The Phone Call™, which led to my initial downward spiral. The third one happened in Warren Blakeley’s car after I'd been drugged and assaulted at that one party. And the fourth one… ‘twas a-brewin’.

I found my car despite my impaired vision, nearly ripped the driver’s side door off its hinges with how roughly I opened it, and slammed it shut behind me. I collapsed my entire body weight against the steering wheel before letting out the loudest, most guttural scream that I hadn’t even been aware I was capable of. I reached my hands up into my scalp, pulling fistfuls of hair with my hands as my surroundings melted away. I genuinely felt like I was going to die. Everything I'd said, done, and experienced within the past year and a half had been slowly building up inside me, and this was me finally cracking under the pressure.

Dear Will, I hate you. Dear Will, you broke me. Dear Will, I crave you. Dear Will, why? Why, why, why– Dear Will, fuck you. Dear Will, go to hell. Dear Will, I’m sorry. Dear Will, I miss you. Dear Will, I love you. Dear Will—

I turned my keys in the ignition, and the engine came roaring to life. I lifted my head up to the rear view mirror, rubbed my eyes a few times, and took a look at my reflection. The person staring back at me looked absolutely horrendous. I looked as if I hadn’t fully slept through the night since 1983. And that wasn’t far from the truth; I could count on a single hand how many a good night’s sleep I'd had since the day Will was first taken by the demogorgon, and all of those times, Will was there, by my side.

I shifted gears and turned my headlights on, pulling out of my spot and drifting out into the street. I knew what I was doing was a bad idea. Driving drunk was, first of all, illegal, and secondly, dangerous to not just myself, but to others. But I couldn’t give less of a shit; I'd figured out what I needed to do. I slowed down to a stop at the red light of the intersection where I'd have to take a left to go home.

“When you’re… different, sometimes you feel like a mistake. But you make [me] feel like [I’m] not a mistake at all. Like [I’m] better for being different. And that gives [me] the courage to fight on. If [I] was mean to you, or [I] seemed like [I] was pushing you away, it’s because [I’m] scared of losing you, like you’re scared of losing [me]. And if [I] was going to lose you, I think [I’d] rather just get it over with quick. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.”

The light turned green, but I didn’t turn left. I tapped my fingertips against the center console, drove straight ahead, past the light, and turned on my right hand signal.

I swerved onto I-65.

“Hello?” a familiar voice answered. I felt my breath hitch. His voice was deeper than I remembered. It was like he’d gone through a second puberty, if that were even possible.

“Will! Hi!” I exclaimed, sounding far too enthusiastic for my own good. I waited for a reply, but could only hear Will breathing on the other end of the line. I went to speak again, but Will beat me to the punch.

“… Mike?” Will said my name in a tone that I could only label as nostalgic dread. Oh god, I shouldn’t have called him. I shouldn’t have called him, but I did, and Will was on the phone, and had just said my name for the first time in a year.

I reclined onto my comforter so I was lying on my back with my knees bent, wrapping the cord around my finger a few times as I spoke. “Yeah, um… I was just calling to wish you a happy birthday, and to tell you that I miss you.” Well, that was vague, Wheeler. You can do better than– “And love you. So much.” …that. Fuck. Too far.

I heard Will gasp, then try to cover it up by clearing his throat a few times before responding. “How’d you get my number?”

Friends don’t lie, so I told him. “Your mom gave it to me over Christmas break.”

Will exhaled. I’d always savored that sound, and would have been content if that was the last sound I'd ever hear. But… that specific exhale didn’t convey contentment; this one was laced with light exasperation. “She shouldn’t have done that.”

I begged to differ. She most definitely should have done that, and I would be eternally grateful that she did. In the eleventh hour, where all hope appeared to have been lost in the most abysmal Christmas break to ever exist, Joyce Byers saved my life. She’d given me a reason to keep on going.

“And you probably shouldn’t call me again.”

The color drained out of my face. My stomach churned with anxiety that seemed to exponentially increase by the second, and I suddenly felt the urge to throw up. This was the worst case scenario, but I didn’t think much of it. It was only a hypothetical, it wasn’t supposed to actually happen! Will was pushing me away. Again. But why?

“What have I ever done to you, Will?” I heard myself ask, my voice small. I felt like a kid again. At the end of the day, I was still a kid. I’d had to grow up too fast, a powerful disquiet having annihilated a majority of my childhood. I’d been so uncertain of where I’d end up after the war was over. And the one time I was sure of myself, sure of my feelings, and sure that Will Byers was my heart, I–

“Enough. You’ve done enough,” Will’s voice, followed by the sound of the dial tone made my blood run cold. I set the handset back into its cradle, and continued to lay there on my twin-sized mattress, the rest of my body completely frozen. I felt my facial features involuntarily crumpling in upon themselves as the grief consumed me.

This had to be a nightmare. This couldn’t be real. I rarely prayed; I only did in life-threatening situations, where the probable end result was dying. But right now, I prayed the hardest I’d ever prayed in my entire life. Please, God, help me wake up. Jesus, Allah, Yahweh, whoever the hell you are, if you even exist at all… if this is real life, please kill me. I can’t live like this. After a minute or so, I opened my eyes. Nothing. I huffed a quiet laugh to myself; it was so typical of me to place responsibility on others, let alone God, to deal with my problems. I'd have to face this alone. I was always alone. And I fucking hated it.

I hated that I would never have Will in the way I wanted him, no, the way I needed him. I hated that I could never seem to get the closure that I believed I deserved. I hated that Will wouldn’t just be honest with me! You’ve done enough. What the fuck did “enough” even mean? Had I done something else? Did I do something other than that one time in August? Something during my first semester, or over Christmas break, that I couldn’t remember due to my steadily consistent, months-long intoxication? I couldn’t think of a single thing, which made me even angrier.

I wished I could just… fall out of love with Will, or something. Maybe I could fall out of love with him. What was the worst that could happen if I picked up the handset again, and dialed the number written on that cursed post-it? What if I said to Will, “Actually, I don’t love you. That was just me being crazy”? Crazy together, that’s what would happen. I'd be reminded of the young boy who recognized his more-than-platonic love for Will; a version of myself that I could never get back; a boy who would call me out for lying to both Will and myself, because friends don’t lie. It wouldn’t be a lie to say that Will had hurt me badly enough to justify a grudge. At least I thought so. Then again, I hated grudges, and the person I became when I held them. Scratch that, I hated the person I'd become, period. I didn’t recognize myself anymore.

I'd started at the University of Indianapolis entirely heartbroken, but on the other hand, I'd finally discovered my identity as a young gay man. I met some new people, and fucked a lot more of them. But parties have to end sometime. I would lay in bed, covered in the sweat and cum of a random guy asleep next to me, and would get weirdly emotional when my mind would, as always, drift to Will. I’d sometimes close my eyes and pretend the guy was Will, and I'd fall for my own brain’s tricks, if only for a minute. After that minute was up, and I'd remember that Will hated my guts… I would drink. A lot. I was the life of the party… with a side of alcoholism. My temper got worse, my fuse got shorter, and my overall outlook on life became so cynical that I sometimes even contemplated dying, and not the kind of dying involving bones snapping and eyes exploding. But I'd never followed through with anything in my entire life, so I knew I wouldn’t be able to kill myself even if I wanted to.

The tears that previously poured out of my eyes like waterfalls had dried up, their presence remaining evident in the stiffness on the surface of my cheeks. I hiccuped, the sharp intake of air causing me to develop a cramp under my ribcage. I grimaced in pain, sitting up and lowering my feet to the linoleum floor. I shuffled to my wardrobe and opened it, sifting through some oversized sweatshirts, a windbreaker, and Will’s godforsaken yellow sweater before I found what I was looking for. It was over. This was it. I'd had my chance, and I lost Will for the third time in my life. I picked up the bottle of whiskey, unscrewed the cap, and raised it to my lips. Fuck Will Byers. Fuck everything.

The sun had traveled up and down across the horizon a few times following The Phone Call™ when I'd startled awake to a shrill ringing in my ears. I checked my alarm clock to see the time, and I rolled my eyes. I extended my arm out to grab the phone without having to move the rest of my body. “Bitch, I swear to God, you better be either pregnant or broken up with by Nathan, because it is two o’clock in the goddamn–”

“Mike. It’s El.”

I sat up then, my eyes wide with conviction. “El? Jeez, I’m so sorry for that incredibly blunt greeting. My friend Alex tends to call me around this time with all her latest life crises, so… I just kind of assumed.”

El hummed in understanding. “It’s okay. Let’s hope your friend Alex doesn’t actually get pregnant or broken up with, though.”

“Yeah, that would not be good,” I agreed with a laugh, leaning back onto my pillows and staring at the ceiling. I'd missed the sound of El Hopper’s voice. It had been way too long. “So, uh, what’s up?”

“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me,” El replied, and my reminiscing came to a full stop. Of course Will had called El. They were siblings who told each other everything. Even back when they were kids, especially after Joyce and Hopper finally got married, Will and El were joined at the hip.

“What happened?” she asked me, and I scoffed, lifting my free hand to run it through my hair, regretting it immediately when my fingers got caught in one of the many knots, since I hadn’t washed my hair in nearly a week.

“Wouldn’t it be counterproductive for you to hear the same story twice?”

“I want to hear it from your perspective,” El told me, and I clenched my jaw.

“Okay. Fine. Where do I start?”

“From the beginning would be great.”

So I told her. I started at the beginning, all the way back to when Will and El had just moved back to Hawkins in April of 1986. I told her about how Will and I hadn’t spoken for the whole six months that he’d been in California. I told her about how I had, in fact, written letters to Will; I'd just never sent them. I told her about the distance that Will carefully maintained between the two of them throughout the entire duration of the Vecnapocalypse, up until when we’d almost kissed in the Upside Down. I told her about how Will–

“And then a few days ago I called him to wish him a happy birthday and… El, I genuinely think he hates me. He hung up on me and… I don’t know. I don’t fucking know. I can't undo the past, and I can't get him out of my head.”

El remained silent for a few seconds, and I feared that our call might have been disconnected and I'd been talking to no one. But then, I heard the faint sound of El breathing, so I continued, “If any of this gets back to Will–”

“Why do you think I called you, Mike?” El cut me off, and I sat there in silence, unable to reply. “I called because I care, and because I want the best for both you and Will. Not just Will. I think you did the right thing letting him know you’re still there if he wants you to be.” Well that was… unexpected. And really kind, considering that this was the first time we’d spoken since she moved to Nashville. I truly had no idea why El still gave a shit about me after everything. I'd been a shitty boyfriend and a shitty friend, and these reasons alone were appropriate grounds to cut me out of her life. But El stuck around.

“Oh,” I whispered. “Thanks.”

“I just…” she trailed off. Oh no. What now?

“Just what?” I pressed, and I heard El sigh. Greeeaaaaat.

“I just think you shouldn’t have called so soon.”

“So soon?” I repeated, horrified. “El, it’s been seven months since I last spoke to him! When do you think should I have done it?” Should I have waited until we were out of school for the summer? Should I have waited until we were both out of college? Should I have waited until Will had forgotten about me?

“You should have let him call you,” El said to me, her voice strangely calm. “Or not called him on his birthday of all days. I don’t know, I’m just throwing ideas out there.” Yeah, no shit. I reached over to my bedside table again to pick up the bottle of whiskey, which still had about half left, and took a gigantic gulp, instantly regretting it when it scorched my esophagus.

“I don’t see how the fuck this is helping, Eleven,” I spluttered, wiping my mouth roughly with my sweatshirt sleeve. Sometimes, I wished El’s powers extended beyond telekinesis and telepathy, and, like, contained the key solution to all of my problems. That would be ideal. But no, she had to be all vague and mysterious and just throw ideas out there.

“Okay, well, if you want to be that way, then fine,” El’s tone turned cold. “I highly recommend you consider hashing it out in person.” She had no idea what she was talking about. The Will she had spoken to must have been a figment of her imagination, because Will had made it abundantly clear that he wanted absolutely nothing to do with me. As far as I was concerned, I'd never see Will again. But then El spoke once more. “I hope you and Will can eventually get your heads out of your asses and admit that you still love each other.”

With that, the line clicked, and I was alone with my thoughts. Or rather, one lone phrase, as the rest of my mind faded to nothingness: You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. You still love each other. Those words played on a loop in my mind as I finished off my bottle of whiskey. From that moment on, “sobriety” and “Mike Wheeler'' would not appear in the same sentence, not until—

Woaaaahhhh! Livin’ on a prayer!!! The key change of the Bon Jovi song woke me back up with a start. This had already happened a few times, but thankfully, the loud rock music on Will’s mixtape would startle me awake each time I nodded off behind the wheel.

I concluded that I couldn’t blink anymore. Though my eyes were incredibly dry, due to lukewarm air blasting through the vents and directly hitting my corneas, blinking would cause my heart rate to lower and the rest of the world to move in slow motion. If only for a few seconds of my life, I'd trade out the mental torment, the anger, and the loneliness for tranquility, quiet, and warmth… then my eyelids would droop closed.

I pressed my foot a little harder on the gas pedal, trying not to get distracted by the corn fields that seemed to sway to the music with me. Hopefully I would get my third wind sooner than later (my second one was fleeting, and died out as soon as it began). The sun was coming up, which was definitely going to help keep me awake. The song ended, followed by a few seconds of suspended quiet between songs before a familiar guitar riff met my ears.

“Oh, fuuuuck me. Goddamnit,” I indignantly announced to the universe, gripping my fingers tighter on the steering wheel. The voice of Joe Strummer began to shout alongside the wailing electric guitar. Now, I was very awake. My mind became a film reel, playing back memories I thought I'd blocked out a long time ago.

Darling you’ve got to let me know / Should I stay or should I go?

Once everyone had been debriefed on what was happening in Hawkins, Will and Jonathan immediately went to work on making customized mixtapes for everyone. I sat on my father’s La-Z-Boy in the living room and watched in awe as the brothers put their minds together and churned out each tape as if it were second nature. I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of Will’s extensive musical knowledge, for one, as well as the strong sibling bond they shared. Having grown up surrounded by sisters, I often felt like the odd one out. My parents shamelessly and openly favored my sisters over me, which further excluded me, whether it was intentional or not, on their part. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like if they ever found out I was gay. That would be a disaster.

If you say that you are mine / I’ll be here till the end of time.

While Will and Jonathan were out getting more cassettes, I got a hold of and sifted through everyone’s handwritten lists. I had no idea Dustin enjoyed metal music so much; most of his list consisted of songs by Black Sabbath and Metallica. It wasn’t much of a surprise to me, considering how much of an impact Eddie Munson had made on the two of them. I still couldn’t believe he was gone. Part of me refused to accept it. Eddie could still be alive. He was just in the Upside Down somewhere. We could still save him. There was still time. There had to be time. My subconscious must have known I'd needed a distraction from the subject of Eddie— not dying— yes, dying, because I found Will’s list. To me, this list was a small glimpse into Will’s mind, so I decided to memorize it. I'd do anything to get closer to Will, even if it meant racking my brain in the process.

“You like my mix?” Will’s deep vocal timbre demanded my attention, and I swiveled my upper body around to see Will leaning over my shoulder, his hands planted on either side of me on the back edge of the chair. When did he get back home? That didn’t matter, because Will’s arms looked amazing in my blue and yellow striped shirt, stretching the short sleeves in all the right places. Was that a vein on his bicep? I gulped loudly, becoming flustered at our very close proximity. God, I needed to get ahold of myself. Pining over my best friend like this was not—

“I can make you a copy if you want,” Will said, and my eyes lit up in surprise. Will would really do that for me? I realized then that I hadn’t said any actual words during this entire interaction, and borderline blushed at the thought of Will rendering me speechless, but I needed to talk. Now.

“Really?” I asked, and Will nodded. “That would be amazing! Thank you!”

“Of course. I’ll have that ready for you in about an hour,” Will smiled, pulling out of my space, but not removing his hand from the recliner. I took this moment to shift in my spot to face Will, placing my hand atop my friend’s before he could walk away. Will turned back in my direction, eyes frantic yet welcoming.

“You’ve always had the best music taste of the Party. I’ve missed it,” I had a sentimental streak, what could I say?

“You have?” Will squeaked out, seeming surprised at my confession.

“Uh, of course! Why wouldn’t I have missed it?” I asked, and Will shrugged.

“I dunno, just… you’ve always liked synth pop stuff more than punk rock. Like, your first song on your list is ‘Smalltown Boy’ by Bronski Beat… which I’m not entirely shocked by? But I always thought you liked that kind of stuff over my taste.”

“Well, you thought wrong, Byers, because your music has always been my favorite to listen to,” I quipped, my voice infected by my ever-growing grin. “You taste top tier.”

Wait, did I just… What did I just say? I said, quote, “You taste top tier.” As in Will Byers, as a person… tasted top tier. What if… My mind meandered into treacherous territory as I wondered what Will tasted like– NO! Not now! I was just about ready to pass away right then and there. I could just imagine my headstone; Here Lies Michael James Wheeler. Cause of Death: Inability to Formulate a Fucking Sentence.

“Oh, do I, now?” Will raised an eyebrow, a smirk lifting a corner of his gorgeous mouth. I nearly fell off the chair. Could my egregious mistake have given me a little bit of leverage in the flirtation department? Will seemed to think so.

I played it off casually with a simple, “Yeah.”

“Cool,” Will remarked, placing his other hand over both of ours, sandwiching my hand between Will’s palms. So Will liked being (accidentally) flirted with. Note to self, I thought, fuck up more often.

I smiled so big that my mouth nearly fell off my face. “Cool.”

So you gotta let me know / Should I stay or should I go?

It was the summer of 1989, and all was well. Hawkins was no longer nationally renowned as an extra-terrestrial hybrid between earth and hell, but simply as a small town in the middle of nowhere, Indiana. It was the summer of 1989, and I was lying on the basement couch with my legs hanging off the edge. My eyes were closed, and I wore my headphones which were attached to my Walkman, playing Will’s mixtape on repeat, just as I had from the second it fell into my hands back in 1986. I felt the thumps of the opening and closing of the basement door, followed by light footsteps treading down the stairs. I cracked a singular eye open, but opened them both fully when I registered that it was Will who was entering my space.

“Mike, we’ve gotta talk.”

It's always tease, tease, tease / You're happy when I'm on my knees

“Okay, what’s up? Are you–” I sat up, pulling my headphones fully off my head and resting them around my neck. Then I saw the look on Will’s face. He looked livid.

One day it's fine, and next it's black / So if you want me off your back / Well, come on and let me know / Should I stay, or should I go?

“What the fuck are these?” Will spat. My eyes widened at what Will held in his hands. How did he–

“SHOULD I STAY OR SHOULD I GO NOW!!!” I cried out, cranking the window down with my free hand and letting the wind rush through my long, black hair. My sobs broke into a maniacal, rueful laugh as my hair violently whipped into my eyes. I lifted my left hand and extended it out the driver’s side window, feeling my fingers being forced apart and back together by the rippling sea of oxygen and carbon. Rock bottom felt like the top of the world.

“IF I GO THERE WILL BE TROUB-ALLLLLLL,” I yelled through the thick strands, spluttering a bit as some pieces made their way into my mouth. I tugged them away, but to no avail, as the wind obviously had a mind of its own, but I continued on with my tirade of near-incoherent screeching, face full of loose curls. “AMIFF I SHTAY ISHWILLBEE DUBALLLL!”

The road took a slight bend, and I obliged to the demands of the pavement. The sun was bright enough that it burned into my retinas. I pushed my hair out of my face once more to view the scenery, only to be met with a pair of bright yellow headlights belonging to a tractor trailer. Only now did I perceive the loud noise of the truck’s horn; my car radio had been blocking it out. I also noticed that I was in the opposite lane, and about to collide head-on with the trailer if I didn’t move fast enough,

With enough adrenaline to fuel a thousand demodogs, I swerved to the right and dodged the truck with only seconds to spare. I took a moment to process the fact that I could have died. I knew my hands held the steering wheel, and my foot was still on the gas, but the rest of me was thoroughly detached from reality. “Should I Stay or Should I Go” blared on through the speakers, but I could only feel the vibrations rumbling from the floor of the car. I could have died, but I didn’t. But I felt my heart stop, and it felt simultaneously comforting and cataclysmic..

I knew that I couldn’t continue on, not like this. As if the road could read my mind, a small lookout area appeared within my vicinity, and I took this as a sign to pull over onto the shoulder to regroup. I parked my car, turned the music down, and clasped my hands in my lap, waiting a few more seconds before turning the car off, unbuckling my seatbelt and opening the door.

The actual sun had begun to rise. The air was crisp, and the wind chill slightly nudged it into even colder temperatures, sending a shiver down my spine. I hastily cowered back into the lingering warmth of the vehicle, searching the passenger side for… there it was. I pulled a crimson colored University of Indianapolis sweatshirt from behind me and shoved it over my shoulders, zipping it up. I did a double take at what the block-style letters spelled out, rolling my eyes and laughing bitterly to myself at the sheer irony. I continued to laugh as I opened the car door once more, heading towards the lookout.

I stood at the top of a steep cliff, guarded by a rusty guard rail that looked like it would fall apart with the next gust of wind that hit it. The trees below me were bare, their branches contorting every which way, slicing the air around them like an army of spears. Beyond the line of trees I could see the miles-wide stretch of farmland, and the miniscule house that sat on the corner of the property, chimney smoking. In an atmosphere as peaceful as this one, I stood idly at the edge of the lookout, thinking about how this would be a beautiful place to die. If I were to lift just one leg over the rail…

Mike, don't do it! I don't need my baby teeth, twelve year old Dustin’s voice echoed from the back burner of my mind. Seriously, don't do it, man! Of course my thoughts traveled back to that time at the quarry. How could I ever forget? Even as a child, I'd been completely wrecked without Will. If this memory proved anything, it proved that history repeats itself.

Dentist's office opens in five, young Troy’s voice began, and I glanced down. This time, I wouldn’t be able to turn back. Four… This time, El wouldn’t be able to save me. Three… This time, no one would be there to grieve for me. Two…

“What are you doing, Mike? Is this a joke?”

“No, Will, I’m in love with you.”

“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”

“But I did mean it!!!” I screamed into the silence, startling a flock of birds below. I lifted my hands up to my face, covering my bloodshot eyes. I heaved out a low growl, raising my voice until it hit the top of my range, cracking with an agonizing shriek. “I meant all of it! I love you! I always have! Fuck, Will, why couldn’t you just see that?!”

I let out a quiet sob, but no tears followed; I'd cried the rest of them out over the course of the past few hours. My throat felt like it had been rubbed with coarse sandpaper. I took a step back from the ledge and kicked a few of the rocks at my feet, watching them fall. I decided I didn’t want to die that day; not by alcohol poisoning, not by tractor trailer wreck, and not by jumping off a cliff. The only way I could die was if I did all I possibly could to get Will back. I turned my back on the trees, briskly walking back to my car.

I’m gonna make sure you, William Jacob Byers, know that I meant every single word.

About half an hour later, I walked into the convenience mart of a gas station. My hangover headache was beginning to form, and my intermittent yawning had become more and more frequent, so I figured some coffee would solve both of those problems. I stopped at the entrance, looking down at the stack of newspapers to my right. I recalled myself making a mental note back at the frat party to check my horoscope, so I leaned down to pick one up, searching for Aries when I found the page.

December 15th, 1990: Do expect some appreciation for the efforts you've put into recent days, dear Aries. However, do not get your hopes too high, because your actions may not lean towards gratification if you expect too much.

Well, Chicago Sun Times, it’s a little late for that, I thought, tossing the paper back onto the pile and walking to the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water, and then to the coffee station. I filled a cup and dumped about seven packets worth of sugar into it before capping it off and heading to the register.

The clerk behind the counter, an older man, looked like he'd been having the best goddamn morning of his life. He beamed from ear to ear, and I could feel the positivity radiating off of this man from a mile away. When I got closer, I noticed a singular studded earring on his right earlobe.

“Hi, how’s it going?” The man smiled at me, crows feet forming in the outer corners of his eyes. I tried to mirror the expression, but failed miserably.

“It’s going,” I sighed, setting the water and coffee down on the counter and watching the clerk type in the prices on the register.

“Looks like it. You look rough, kid,” the man sympathized, pulling the money I slid onto the counter towards him and counting the bills. I shifted from foot to foot, anxiously waiting for the cashier to hand me my change so I could get out of there.

“Wanna talk about it?” he quirked an eyebrow, and I stopped my fidgeting. I looked up at the clerk, took a deep breath, and–

“Yeah. God, you don’t know the half of it. So I’m gay, right? And, like, that’s cool. And I’m in love with this friend of mine who I’ve known since kindergarten. He’s… he was my best friend. For years. And we went through this major thing that nearly killed us, but somehow it didn’t, and that was great, because then I was able to tell him how I felt. Right? Wrong. So, like, he moved to fucking Chicago without any kind of warning, or maybe, I don’t know, a Hey Mike, you hurt me because you said or did A, B, and C, and this is why I’m leaving. Something that could represent ‘the end’ to me. Because I’m not that great at picking up on when to quit beating a dead whore– horse. Horse. Jesus. I’m not beating any whores, I promise. But anyway, I went to U of Indy, and that was fan-fucking-tastic, because I was finally okay with who I am. I’m pretty good at the gay thing, and other guys seemed to really dick– uh, dig that. And by that, I mean, well… you can put two and two together, right? Right. Okay. So, even when I was with all these guys, I always thought about Will. All the time. He’s a part of me, you know? I couldn’t imagine life without him. So when I called him up on his birthday in March, which was about seven months into the not-talking-to-each-other thing, which I never signed up for in the first place, he basically told me to fuck off and never speak to him again. And then I realized I had to live without him, so I kind of spiraled, and now I can’t fucking sleep without drinking, and I can’t function without some form of physical touch from another man, but I’m never fucking fulfilled because it’s not Will who’s doing the physical touch, and I fucking love him, and I need him more than he needs me, and now I’m fucking driving to Chicago to find him and… Oh my god, I literally just poured my heart out to a stranger. I’m still kind of loopy. I’m so sorry.”

“That you did. I’m happy to listen, though,” the cashier merely chuckled, waving his hand in friendly dismissal. “You’ve really been put through the wringer, kiddo.”

“Well… thank you,” I softly smiled as I took my change from the counter, and shoved it into my pocket before turning around in preparation to leave.

“Best of luck in your travels! Go get your man!” the clerk called after me, and I laughed as the glass door slowly fell shut behind me.

Pulling onto the campus of the American Academy of Art was not something I had expected to be on my Sunday agenda, but here I was, pulling into a visitor parking spot next to the Admissions office building. I got out of my car, slamming the door, and smoothing my jeans over my thighs, feeling slightly self conscious about how they’d been crumpled up in a ball in my back seat after my most recent midnight excursion with Wyatt Bowman. Although, if I were being honest, anything was better than those denim cutoffs. Especially considering the mission I was currently on. Speaking of.

At first glance, this was not a traditional campus. There was not a single quad to be seen. There were no outdated buildings or directories, let alone any form of indication of a college campus, aside from the little rectangular flags with the school’s logo that hung from every other lamppost lining the sidewalks. All of the academic buildings were dispersed amidst other buildings belonging to different businesses and companies within a specific limit of blocks, which would make it much more difficult for me to figure out where the hell Will could even be within this organized chaos. I figured it would make the most sense to head into the Admissions office building first, so I could at least get a map.

The interior of the building was bright, with students’ art framed along the walls. I walked over to the nearest painting in the room, pausing to admire the work. There was a Monet-inspired landscape closest to the door, and a cubist portrayal of a still life stationed beside it. I could see why Will chose this school. They cultivated the talents of their students and turned them into true artists. Nothing could have prepared me for the next piece that caught my eye.

It was me. Fuck, it was me; large in scale, vibrant, and full of life. I held my breath and stared back at the incredibly detailed, realistic portrait. I knew I didn’t need to look at the label that was tacked to the bottom of the painting to know whose work it was, but I couldn’t help myself. My eyes dragged downward and nearly passed away when I read the title: William Byers (b. 1971), “The Heart” (1989). Oil on Canvas. My chest swelled with pride, but quickly deflated at the looming, deafening voice in my head that routinely reminded me of what I'd lost. But that’s where everything stopped making sense.

The label stated that Will had painted “The Heart” in 1989, the same year that Will left me without turning back. He’d begun attending the American Academy of Art in September of that same year, leaving only three and a half or so months of the semester to complete the painting. So why would Will, after he completely erased me out of his life, still refer to me as the heart? And which heart was Will referring to? His own, or the one he’d shattered? I hadn’t realized I'd zoned out, so when a middle aged lady appeared next to me, I nearly leapt out of my skin. Her outfit, a floor length dress paired with a shawl, made her look quite ominous out of the corner of my eye.

“This is one of my favorites,” the woman stated.

“Yeah… mine, too,” I hummed, unmoving.

“Have we met?” she began, but didn’t give me a chance to reply. “Perhaps you’re one of my lecture students, I can never quite put a name to a face. But I must say, you look quite familiar,” she told me, turning back to the painting with her arms crossed over her chest, deep in thought.

“Probably because I’m the guy in the painting, heh.”

“Oh gosh, silly me!” the woman exclaimed, flushing red as she put a palm to her forehead. “I didn’t even make the connection! So I assume you’re close with the artist, then?”

“Yeah, I know…” I began, then cut myself off with a grimace. “Knew him.”

“How nice!” Luckily, she didn’t pick up on my vacant expression. Instead, she continued on, “If you’d like, I can connect you with some students if you’re interested in touring the school.”

“Uh, no thank you, ma’am, that’s alright. I was just wondering if I could have a map if there’s one available?” I asked, and she nodded, turning on her heel to open a drawer of the front desk.

“Of course! And no need to call me ma’am, Miriam works just fine.”

“Well, thank you very much, Miriam,” I smiled at her as she handed me two pieces of color-coded, glossy paper; a campus map, and a map of Chicago.

“You’re very welcome, Mike. And when you see him, tell Will that I ordered those brushes he needed.” I didn’t recall ever telling her my name, or mentioning Will in our short conversation, but I became hyper aware of the fact that Miriam likely knew something I didn’t. Will had evidently told her about me. Apparently it wasn’t too slanderous, though, so I felt cautiously optimistic.

“Um… I… okay,” I rushed out, backing out the door as politely as I possibly could. “Thanks! Bye!” As soon as I was out of the Admissions office building, I ran down the street. I was so close to finding Will. Now, all I had to do was find the dorms.

I looked down at the map in my hands, then up, trying to find the building number, then back down again to confirm if I was even on the right street. The map said the boys’ dorms should be there, but all I could see was a brick wall in front of me. I was just about to rip all my hair out before I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I turned to see two girls looking up at me, concern etched on their faces. One of the girls wore a ski hat over her blonde hair, paired with a pink windbreaker, while the other girl donned a sherpa denim jacket and a beanie that still allowed her to show off her impressively long box braids that cascaded down to her hips.

“Hey man, are you okay?” Sherpa Girl asked. My gaze traveled down to notice our intertwined hands and I blinked, looking back at the two girls and nodding. At least I was amongst friends. I gripped onto the map in my hands for dear life, hoping they’d just leave me be so I could be disorientated in peace.

“Yeah, fine. I’m fine,” I shook my head, forcing out a smile. “Thank you though.”

That didn’t seem to cut it for Sherpa Girl, because she shared a knowing look with Windbreaker Girl. “Do you think he looks fine, babe?” she looked up at me with narrowed eyes. “I don’t think he looks fine.”

“No,” Windbreaker replied to her girlfriend, “He most definitely does not. Also, he shook his head ‘no’ while saying he was fine, so… busted.”

“Okay, what of it?” I waved my hands around in the air in frustration, pacing in a small circle before returning to face the two girls. “I’m just walking around this… very complicated campus.”

Windbreaker let out a giggle at that, leaning into Sherpa’s shoulder to muffle her laughter, which melted my heart a little bit.

“You’re obviously lost, dude,” Sherpa pressed. “At least tell us what you’re looking for, maybe we can help you.”

I let out an exhale of defeat, awkwardly shoving my hands in my sweatshirt pockets. “Any chance you know of a guy named Will Byers?”

Sherpa’s worryful expression shifted as she exclaimed, “Oh yeah, Will? He’s the cleric in our D&D club!” My brain short-circuited at the weight that sentence held.

“…He still plays D&D?”

That was when Windbreaker Girl’s eyes widened in recognition. “Wait… are you Mike?” I felt like I was being charged with a crime, but I nodded anyway. “Thee Mike? As in Mike Wheeler?” she asked again, and I couldn’t refrain from feeling a bit embarrassed by the implication that her vocal inflections gave off.

“Unfortunately,” I muttered, but was completely caught off guard when Sherpa did a little jump in place, her face splitting into a wide grin. Wait a minute. They didn’t despise me? I was so confused.

“No. No, this is great!” Sherpa elaborated, letting go of Windbreaker’s hand in order to reach into her purse. Huh? “I’ll give you his address.” Oh.

“He lives off campus with our friend Kate, but she’s usually at work all day on Sundays,” Windbreaker explained while Sherpa found a fancy, expensive-looking art pen and scribbled the address onto a grocery receipt. She handed it to me. I read it, then had to read it one more time to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. 7 Maple Street, Chicago, IL.

I gulped loudly, peeling my eyes away from the piece of receipt paper. I nodded in thanks, as no words seemed to come out of my mouth when I attempted to speak.

“My name’s Ivy, by the way, and this is my girl Hannah,” Sherpa– Ivy– said, wrapping an arm around Windbreaker– Hannah’s shoulders, pulling her into her side as they walked past and away from me. “Tell Will we said ‘you’re welcome’!” I heard her call back to me. I wouldn’t even try to decode what the fuck that meant.

I eventually found my car after wandering around aimlessly for a few more minutes than I'd have liked to admit, and landed in the driver’s seat with a thud. I pulled the map of Chicago out of my pocket and dug in my middle console for a pen, locating Maple Street in seconds. It was about a fifteen minute drive away. Okay. I could do this.

As I drove, I thought about what to say. How could I even begin to explain why I was there, on Will’s doorstep? How could I justify my batshit insane motive? I got drunk for a year and moaned out your name while hooking up with a guy named Carter? I was driving under the influence and decided to come to Chicago instead of going home? I almost killed myself on multiple occasions on the way here, but made it out alive just to tell you that I love you? I groaned. I didn’t want to be a stuttering mess, so I figured I'd at least try to plan out my… speech. But I had never really been much of a planner in respect to my social life. Give me a few monsters, and I'd be golden. But my crumbling social life was far from an apocalypse, and Will was no monster. I'd just have to wing it.

Will’s house was pretty. It was a small Cape Cod style, yellow with blue shutters. It had a small plot of grass in front, with a few stairs leading up to the doorway. The doorway that I stood in, lifting my knuckles to the door.

I knocked.

previous part • next part

homepage

#byler #byler fanfic #byler fic #byler tumblr #mike wheeler #will byers #will x mike #mike x will #stranger things #stranger things fic #thisismetrying1 #thisismetrying2

17 notes · View notes

fcble · 2 years ago

Text

DOUBLE A-SIDE: a single where both sides are designated the A-side, with no designated B-side; that is, both sides are prospective hit songs and neither side will be promoted over the other.

In which Andrew has some difficult conversations. FEATURING: Andrew Han, Yoon Mingeun, Park Intak, Kang Haksu WORD COUNT: 4.1k NOTES: Two shorter pieces with similar themes that are not exactly completely related to/reliant on one another. Can be read together or independently! Also not proofread please lmk if you find typos or something doesn't make sense.

[ A-SIDE — MAY 10, 2023 ]

Andrew steps into Intak's studio, announcing himself not with a knock or a greeting, but merely his presence. He sees a flash of movement as Intak minimizes one of his windows.

Haksu and Mingeun trail behind him reluctantly. Andrew pulls Mingeun the rest of the way into the room and shuts the door behind all three of them.

"No one is leaving this room until we write our anniversary song," he announces.

"What if I have to piss?" Mingeun asks.

"Intak?" Andrew asks. It's almost telepathic to see Intak reach into the bowels of his desk and retrieve a plastic soda bottle. He spins in his chair and tosses it to Mingeun, who catches it, looking stunned. Andrew knows he has an almost addiction to Mountain Dew, and the bottles pile up until they spill over onto the floor.

"What if I have to shit?" Mingeun asks next.

"I don't think Andrew-hyung will keep you from using the bathroom," Haksu says. He steps around Andrew to take a seat in the worn loveseat, the only other chair in the room. He leans forward to look at Intak's screen. "Are you working?"

"Yes," Intak answers shortly.

"I asked Jaeseop to get us food if he doesn't hear from us in a few hours," Andrew says. He sits next to Haksu, dropping the bag containing his laptop on the ground, in front of Intak's electric keyboard. Its identical counterpart sits right next door in his own studio. He can't help the way his hands move automatically, picking out the beginning of Fur Elise.

“What kind of food?” Haksu asks, clearly skeptical of Andrew’s quite literal taste. “Pizza Hut, again?”

“Olive Garden,” Andrew answers cheerfully as he plays. He doesn't rise to Haksu's obvious bait—he's used to it. And he might have a point. They do eat a lot of Pizza Hut.

He turns his attention to Intak. “What are we starting with?”

“Nothing.” Intak says.

Andrew stops playing. “I was really hoping you were going to say something other than that.” He thought he could rely on Intak to have something, anything. Taein asked them months ago, in January, to start working on what would be their fifth anniversary song later in the year. Andrew had agreed, and then gone back to putting the finishing touches on his album. It was always Intak’s responsibility to produce concept-fitting songs that Taein actually liked. Andrew has no idea how to work in the gayageum and the taepyeongso and the piri and whatever else Intak uses.

Intak shrugs. “You could do it.”

“I couldn’t.” It’s a deep-seated conviction. Andrew can’t do whatever Intak does, because he doesn’t have that same knowledge of history and culture and Korea itself that seems to be inherently built into his group members. He’s reminded, embarrassingly enough, of when he heard their debut song for the first time, and asked after the vaguely string sounds in the instrumental. In Andrew’s head, string instruments were cellos and violas and violins and double basses, and maybe, and a more radical day, harps and lyres. Not Asian zithers.

“Don’t you think it’s time you tried?” Mingeun, this time. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, the room having run out of seats.

The room feels stuffy all of a sudden. Andrew has tried. Every sample Intak’s given him sounds shitty and stereotypical in his hands, like a soundtrack straight from a film scene where the characters step into a Chinatown somewhere and the lighting dims and the screen clouds with smoke. When Intak writes music with the same sample, it becomes uplifting, a celebration of a heritage and a culture yearning to burst forth in an increasingly anglicized world. Andrew envies him.

Haksu nudges Andrew with his foot. “You should.”

Andrew is frozen, unable to respond. Haksu is right. He should. But now, he feels like there’s too much at stake. His album did well—it’s their best-selling one yet—and that means he has a reputation to uphold. They have expectations for him now. They think he’s smart and talented and worthy. Andrew knows the limits of his own abilities. They don’t include writing a usual Fable title track. There’s a reason his album sounds the way it does—that’s what he knows, what he’s confident in. It’s a breath of fresh air next to the sameness of the rest of their discography. That’s his job. Not the traditional sound that defines almost all of their songs.

He pretends everything is fine. "Are you sure you don't have anything?" he asks Intak. "We don't have a lot of time."

Intak begins to scan through the files on his computer. "Because we spent so much time on your album," he grumbles. "I have demos Taein-nim rejected."

"Let's fix one of those," Andrew says decisively. Mingeun looks like he wants to argue. Or maybe that's how he always looks, because he always wants to argue.

They start with the longest ones first. Intak turns on his speakers and presses play on a three and a half minute audio file—Andrew can see the exact time if he squints.

“I remember this,” Haksu says, ten seconds into the song. As far as Andrew can tell, it’s Intak’s usual conglomeration of sounds. An unknown, echoing instrument skips in and out of the main melody. The bass is minimal, but consistent. It sounds almost interchangeable with the majority of their discography. “It’s from a long time ago. Our second mini album?”

Intak nods. “I tried again for our third. Taein-nim said no again.”

Andrew takes extensive mental notes on each subsequent song. The glacial pace of the second one, probably meant to be a ballad. The bass-driven third one, traditional instrumental lost in the 808s. The one with the beat drop that sounds like it switches to a completely different song. One with Haksu singing nonsensical demo lyrics that he doesn’t remember. Another slower-paced one, driven by a string instrumental. A rock song.

“Taein-nim said I should give that one to Neon Nights,” Intak says.

Andrew shoots Mingeun a quizzical glance. Mingeun shakes his head. “She likes doing everything by herself,” he says in English, referring to Hwajung, the band’s main producer. The change in language surprises Andrew. They’ve all worked together before, on Andrew’s album, and then on a Neon Nights one.

Andrew sighs. “Who doesn’t know?” he asks, also in English, because Hwajung is also Mingeun's girlfriend.

“Who do you think?” Mingeun says. “He’d get mad at me.”

It’s Haksu. Andrew knows that even if Haksu won’t say anything out loud, he’s thinking certain thoughts. Celibacy and pre-marital sex and they’re idols and all of that.

He can't be mad at that. Mingeun and Hwajung are pretty good at keeping it on the down low, pretending they barely know one another at work. If Andrew hadn't seen them sit so close to one another they were basically sitting in the same seat while they worked on his album, he'd be no wiser than Haksu.

Haksu folds his arms over his chest. “You’re doing it again. Stop talking about me.”

"Learn English," Mingeun says, speaking Korean again. Haksu learning English would be of no detriment to them, Andrew knows. They'd fall back on broken, rusty, grammatically incorrect French, in which they can barely understand each other, because Mingeun speaks Canada's archaic French with an unintelligible accent.

Haksu grimaces. "That's Westernized," he says, as if he doesn't partake in a predominantly Western religion while dressed in Western clothes, about to eat Olive Garden in a few hours.

“The music,” Intak interrupts, and they go back to listening to shorter and shorter segments. Some of them are pieces. A chorus. A verse. Half of each. One is Intak humming a few bars. He clicks out of that one quickly.

“I wanna hear it,” Haksu says. His request is ignored.

A few minutes later, Intak finally runs out of demos.

“Taein-nim rejected all of those?” Mingeun asks.

“I doubt he listened to all of them completely,” Intak says, “but yes.”

In Andrew’s ears, most of them have blended together. He’s grateful to hear Haksu say, “I like the orchestral one that goes like”—he hums a bit of the song—because it gives Andrew a chance to step in and say, “I thought that one was the best too.”

He does think it was one of the better ones, but mostly because it was nearly complete. His best guess for its rejection is because it's not nearly as upbeat as some of Intak's other compositions. Andrew figures it should be fine for an anniversary piece. It's better that way—something slower and steadier that demonstrates their growth as people and artists.

He starts thinking of lyrics. Something provocative and dramatic. Intak’s demo lyrics are all about a nostalgic, wintry longing that brings to mind comparisons to Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” Andrew is thinking about something in the opposite direction, something bigger, something brighter. Love is like a volcano?

“I want to keep the idea of the lyrics,” Haksu says, breaking Andrew’s reverie.

“It’s our anniversary,” Andrew says, nearly rendered speechless from Haksu’s words. “If the melody is melancholy, the lyrics should be happier.”

“No one says shit like ‘melancholy,’” Mingeun says. “Let’s keep going with Intak-hyung’s idea.” At some point during their listening party when Andrew wasn’t paying attention, he migrated from the wall to the floor next to Intak’s desk.

Sometimes Andrew despises democracy. They weren’t always democratic. Not in the days when it was just him and Intak, because then it was Intak making most of the decisions. Andrew never wanted to intrude or overstep. He has the confidence to do so now, but he knows this is an argument he won’t win.

So he relents easily, says “Fine,” and pulls out his laptop. Mingeun looks surprised at his lack of disagreement. He really enjoys arguments, Andrew thinks.

He plays audio engineer, because he still disagrees with the idea and theme of the song. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches the three of them gather around Haksu’s notebook to develop Intak’s fledgling ideas. He sits back in his seat, losing himself the layers of the song. He listens to the song forward and back. He turns on and off each one individually, and then two or three at a time. He pictures the way the vocals will layer on top and underneath. He thinks about asking Haksu to sing one of his new lines, just so he can experiment with it. He tries not to imbue it with his own style—an extra synth here and there, a secondary melody in a minor key, one too many layers of vocals.

His flow state is interrupted by the chime of a new text message. It’s Jaeseop, texting exactly three hours after Andrew told him he was heading to work.

bringing ur food (๑>◡<;๑), he reads. Below is a selfie of Jaeseop holding a plastic bag, the sky bright blue behind him.

“Andrew,” Intak says loudly, and Andrew looks up, surprised that his name came from Intak and not Mingeun.

Andrew tugs his headphones off and watches Intak rip a page out of Haksu’s notebook. “Do the demo with this.”

“Me? Why can’t Haksu do it?”

Mingeun snatches the page from Intak’s hand. “I’ll do it if he doesn’t want to.”

“Andrew’s doing it because he’s going to arrange it,” Intak says. Mingeun reluctantly hands the paper over to Andrew. “He’s the one who wants to stay in this room until the song is done.”

“I said that for all of us,” Andrew says.

They’re interrupted by Jaeseop’s arrival. He seems cheerful as he sets down the bags on the little space remaining on Intak’s desk. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he asks, “Is it going well?”

For some reason, the onus is on Andrew to answer. He feels the weight of their gazes: Jaeseop is expectant, Haksu is skeptical, Intak is steady and bored, and Mingeun’s is his usual scowl.

“It’s going very well,” he says.

Haksu gives him a reproachful glance and says, “He’s underselling us. We could finish the song today, as long as Taein-nim approves of it.”

Jaeseop brightens. “Sounds good! I can’t wait to hear it.” He sounds like he genuinely can’t wait to hear their song.

He leaves just as quickly as he arrived. The door is barely shut behind him when Haksu stands up and announces, “I’m going to church. Mingeun is coming with me.”

“I didn’t agree to that,” Mingeun complains.

“It’s Wednesday,” Andrew says at the same time.

Haksu looks at both of them like they’re stupid. “So? I worked on the song. I did my part. There’s nothing else for me to do.”

“He’s right,” Intak says. He crosses his arms and gives Andrew a look that very obviously says he shouldn’t argue. So Andrew folds without saying anything.

To his surprise, Mingeun picks himself off the floor. “Thanks for the food, hyung,” he says, grabbing one of the bags on Intak’s desk.

The speed at which people work when they want to leave will never cease to surprise Andrew. He doesn’t think this is hard work as much as Haksu does. He could stay here for days or weeks, immersed in the music, so long as Jaeseop keeps providing him with food.

As Mingeun and Haksu leave, he hears Haksu grumble under his breath about Americans and fast food and forks.

“Chopsticks are from China,” Andrew overhears Mingeun say before the door swings shut.

In the quiet, Intak says, "I'll start working on the b-sides."

This comes as a surprise. "I thought we were releasing an anniversary song, not an anniversary album."

Intak looks like he was caught off guard as well. "I could have sworn Taein-nim said that to both of us."

Andrew is slighted. Why wouldn't he be, when he wasn't given these same guidelines? He's the one who's shaped and guided their sound outside of all the traditional title tracks. Fable can pull off other concepts, because Andrew pushed them in those directions, even if it was only one song per album.

“Do you think Taein thinks of your music differently than mine?" he asks.

Intak takes a minute to think about it. Andrew can practically see the gears turning in his head.

"No," he says, and Andrew wonders why it took him so long to come to that conclusion.

“He must,” Andrew insists. He refuses to let the topic drop. “I didn’t get to write our debut song.”

“I didn’t ‘get to’ write it either. I wrote it because I could write a good song."

“I can write good songs.”

“Yeah. I don’t disagree.”

Talking to him is like talking to a brick wall. Intak is smart, but there's always a disconnect between what he thinks and what he says. Andrew has to pry every response out of him, like he's pulling teeth.

Intak methodically unpacks the remaining takeout bag and takes a bite of his carbonara. “This sounds like it's really important to you,” he says with his mouth full. “Can we talk about it later?”

“No. I thought I passed the audition and debuted in Fable to be a songwriter."

"I thought you passed your audition because you speak four languages."

Andrew shrugs, because he did say that, even though it's not quite true. Everyone lies on their resumes. He said that because he thought it would impress Taein, and it did. “Something should have changed by now.”

"You. You’re the one that should change," Intak says as he stabs his pasta with vitriol.

He has changed. He’s older now, and wiser, as generic and contrived as that sounds, with a better understanding of his place in the world. He isn’t that same person who auditioned so many years ago with an unplaced confidence that he could survive and thrive in the cutthroat music industry. He’s accepted Fable’s middle class, second tier status, and he finds he doesn’t mind as much as he thought he would.

"I have."

Intak takes a long look at him and says, "Not enough."

Then, as if to signal that conversation is over, he puts his head down on his desk. "Record the fucking song, Andrew," he says, voice muffled.

They never write any b-sides.

[ B-SIDE — JUNE 3, 2023 ]

Andrew isn’t one to lose his temper. So he surprises even himself when he stands up and walks out of the room. Jaeseop is still talking. He pauses in the middle of his sentence.

“Where are you going?” His voice is muffled by the door and walls.

“Out,” Andrew answers from the other side of the door. “I’ve heard enough.”

He has heard enough. All Jaeseop had to say was that their album was delayed again. It could have been a text message.

He hikes up all three flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator. At the top, he leans his body weight into opening the door to the rooftop. It creaks open reluctantly, hinges squealing in discordant protest. Then he has to do the same thing to close it.

He takes a seat on one of the two stone benches, overlooking the city around him. There isn’t much to see. The sun is setting, and the glow of the copywriting sign becomes more visible with each passing minute. The other, taller, buildings cast long dark shadows and block out any possibility of Andrew seeing farther than across the street.

He sits there for a minute, thinking and trying to cool down. He’s unfamiliar with anger when it comes from within. Frustration and futility, sure, but anger is a different beast. That’s Mingeun’s forte.

The door protests again, inching open. Andrew stares. Another thirty seconds pass before Mingeun steps outside. Speak of the devil—or think of him—and he shall appear.

Mingeun leaves the door ajar. He takes a silent seat next to Andrew.

“Do you need something?” Andrew asks. He can feel his anger creep into his words.

Mingeun crosses his arms. “I need a reason to talk to you?” he asks. “You seemed upset when you left. Is that enough?”

“I was,” Andrew concedes. Mingeun could still have an ulterior motive. Jaeseop always sends the youngest members to do his bidding, like some villain with his henchmen.

“I didn’t think you’d notice,” he continues.

Mingeun rolls his eyes. “I can fucking see.”

He sounds upset. It shouldn’t be a surprise. He’s always upset about one thing or another. And why wouldn’t he be upset about this?

“I thought we were more important to Taein,” Andrew says, dropping the honorifics on purpose. “More important than a survival show trainee.”

Mingeun shrugs. “He could have something on Taein, like Haksu did.”

He matches Andrew’s use of honorifics. They both know the easiest way to get through to their CEO is to wear him down with astronomical persistence. A bit of bribery and blackmail never hurts either. Andrew can’t imagine what other secrets Taein might be protecting, especially after Haksu’s extravaganza. He thinks they’ve all learned their lessons since then: Taein should break fewer laws, Haksu shouldn’t stake his career on a few secrets, and the rest of them should sleep with one eye open around him regardless.

“Didn’t you watch the show?” Andrew asks. Mingeun watches every kpop survival show he can get his hands on. Where he finds all the time to do that remains a mystery.

“I did,” Mingeun says. “I didn’t care for him. What kid thinks he can cover Taemin in his audition? He only got as far as he did because his parents are famous. There’s nothing he could have done on his own for Taein to take notice of him.”

Andrew lets him go on his tirade. He’s feeling better. Even though he’s now left to face the reality of his delayed album. It should be their album, but he has a hard time thinking of it that way. He puts a part of himself into each and every one of his songs and albums. Granted, he has one album to his name, but he thinks his point stands. And even if his music is never as good as he wants it to be, as he thinks it should be, that shouldn’t stop them from releasing and promoting it. Intak releases, for lack of a better word, shit, on every EP since their debut. Andrew has never been offered that same opportunity.

“You’re not listening to me,” Mingeun says.

Andrew snaps out of it. “I am.” He’s not. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Fine.” Mingeun drums the fingers of his right hand against his thigh. “What do you want to talk about?”

This Mingeun makes Andrew uncomfortable. If it weren’t for his restless motions, he’d think it was a different person sitting next to him. He’s never this receptive or attentive or willing to talk.

“I don’t know.” Now Andrew is the one who doesn’t want to talk. The role reversal freaks him out a little. At the same time, he can’t pass up this chance to have a decent conversation with Mingeun.

Then it comes to him. “My stage name. I’m sick of it. I don’t think I ever liked it.”

“Okay,” Mingeun says simply.

Andrew expects more from him. He thought they were going to talk.

“Does it bother you that much? Am I supposed to feel bad for you?”

He should have known not to bring this up with Mingeun. It’s a touchy subject. Mingeun sounds more like himself now.

“It does.” Andrew wants to say more, but Mingeun isn’t done yet.

“I never liked your name either. It’s so presumptuous. Out of all the characters, you picked those two?” He looks disgusted. “That’s the reasoning parents use when they choose names for their children. You did it for yourself.”

Andrew fires back. “My parents never gave me a Korean name and they were never going to give me one. I didn’t have another choice. You should know that.”

They’ve known each other for years. That’s supposed to be common knowledge. How can Mingeun not know?

The smallest remaining rational part of Andrew’s brain knows it’s because Mingeun fills his head with so many other things. He’s got his near-encyclopedic archive of kpop groups and songs and dances. It should be easy to see why personal information would hemorrhage from his brain. Does Mingeun know their birthdays? He doubts it.

Mingeun rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but it didn’t have to be that one.”

What else could it have been? Andrew was never given any examples or suggestions. Just the thinly veiled threat that if he wanted to make it in Korea, he needed a Korean name. Mingeun should understand that.

“You always make everything about yourself. You never ask about me. Mingeun, how was your day? Mingeun, are you having fun on Shooting Stars? Mingeun, why does Taein hate you more than everyone else?”

“Taein doesn’t—” Andrew starts.

“Yes, he does.”

They lapse into silence, because Andrew knows, somewhere deep down, that as much as he thinks Taein dislikes him, Mingeun’s situation is worse. It isn’t a competition, but Mingeun’s always had it worse. He just chose not to see it.

When Andrew thinks Mingeun has cooled down, he says, “Tell me about your name.”

“Oh.” The surprise in his voice is evident from a single syllable. He gets over it quickly. “'Min' is the generational character. You know, the dollimja."

Andrew does not know, but he nods along and pretends like he does. Mingeun looks him in the eye and says, "You don't know."

He doesn't have it in him to argue.

"It means quick and clever," Mingeun continues, tracing the Hanja character on his thigh. Andrew recognizes it in pieces: the character for mother, radical 66. “The ‘geun’ character is the one for diligence.”

He writes this one with his finger too: 勤, speeding through the horizontal lines and finishing with a sloppy rendition of the strength radical.

“It’s nice,” Andrew says, because it really is a nice name.

“Better than yours,” Mingeun says in a way that’s clearly meant to provoke. Andrew doesn’t rise to the bait.

“Doesn’t seem like a high bar,” he says, and when Mingeun laughs at that, he feels like he’s crossed some impassable reach and brought the two of them a small step closer.

In the days that follow, Andrew drops his stage name informally. Most of the group calls him Andrew anyway. There's no special announcement. Daewoong calls him Yejun three times and Andrew doesn't respond three times, and after that, he gets the point too. Taein asks him about it, and Andrew spins a tale of authenticity and identity his boss clearly doesn’t give a shit about. But Taein doesn’t push further, and he’s left feeling more like himself than he has in years.

#╰ to be written in ink is to be immortal — [ writing. ]#ficnetfairy #fictional idol oc #fictional idol community #idolverse #idol oc #kpop oc

11 notes · View notes

honted · 10 months ago

Note

I hope it’s okay I send an ask asking more detail about what’s happening with your eyes and what kind of treatment your getting. I really hope things work out as your treatment goes on 🫂 I’m a visually impaired person and I also suffer from extreme light sensitivity; my eyes get worse every year, considerably so.

If you don’t mind bending my ear, I’d love to hear more about what you’re going through. Struggling with vision is extremely frightening.

(And if not that’s totally okay!!! I understand not wanting to talk to a stranger too deeply about something so personal!!!)

of course 💕 a mixture of genetics and chemotherapy have caused me to develop a limbal stem cell deficiency in my corneas. that means they're scarring faster than they're healing and those scars are stacking on top of each other, causing my corneas to be rough and irregular.

your corneas get little micro scratches just by virtue of having eyes in a world full of particulates. and having hands.

putting the rest under a read more because it turns out i had a lot to say ↓

your problem may be something similar. my suggestion would be to see a opthalmologist, stop wearing soft contacts if you can, and go hard on artificial tears. preservative free if you're using them more than 3 times a day.

i do not think you'll need to do everything i talk about below if yours is taking years. mine deteriorated like they did within a few months. i had 3 different glasses prescriptions from november to june and then my eyes stopped being able to focus with glasses at all. this isn't to say your experience isn't just completely awful to have to go through, moreso that you have hope 🤲

for the past month or so i've been using 2 different kinds of preservative free eye drops (Systane Ultra PF and Refresh Celluvisc gel, which require me to buy boxes of single use vials for both) 4 times a day each (8 times a day total), but in these last 2 weeks i've been on gel eye drops 3-4 times a day + antibiotic drops 4 times a day + antibiotic ointment at night.

my next steps are to move on to an eye drop brand called miebo, which can be bought OTC in Europe but only just got FDA-approved here in the US and requires a prescription. and is like $760 without insurance. after that, they want me to look into scleral hard contacts which will both improve my vision and create a pocket of fluid over my corneas. these require getting fitted and the soonest they could get me in was late january they also cost like $1000~ per lense and i have 2 eyes but whatevor 🙈

#cancer tag #ive proofread this like 10 times and im still not sure its comprehensible

4 notes · View notes

theofficersacademy · 1 year ago

Text

Leo Farina Sara Rafal Poe Tharja Alcryst Lucina Edward Knoll Ares Seliph Ewan Erk

WEEK ONE: The First Place You Ever Knew TASK DURATION: Until noon EST on Friday, January 5. From Jan. 5 - Jan. 7 : ████████ ███ TEAM TAG: #AOtau2024

Guided by a pastor of the church to a remote niche of the countryside blessedly untouched by the rampage of recent months, you prepare yourselves with one last breath, exchanging a final look with those around you — faces that will keep you afloat for the trial ahead. Those who have delved into dreams before know that their dangers are volatile and cannot be predicted. There is no telling what lies ahead, or whether you will come out of it the same person you go in. After all, in a continent where you cannot seem to die, death becomes the least frightening of possibilities.

Nevertheless, you're all here for a reason, aren't you? Each and every one of you. Dauntless warriors. Sceptered kings. Future leaders. Keystones of fate. Not one of you is the type to see a treacherous unknown and turn away. You are the brave few. The brave, happy few.

　　　　　◜　　　　　Rock a bye baby, in a tree top,　　　　　◝ 　　　　　　　　When the wind blows, the cradle will rock, 　　　　　　　　When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, 　　　　　　　　　　　　And down comes baby,

　　　　　　　　　　　　And down comes baby . . . 　　　　　◟　　　　　　　 Cradle and all.　　　　　　　　　◞

THE PARADISE PLAYROOM.　ares, poe, rafal, ewan

what you know

you've woken up in an enclosed space with three others of the team you stepped through the tear with. none of the rest of the team seems to be anywhere nearby, with no indication of where they might be or whether they made it in | ref ref ref

the space is a suite of 3 connected rooms — one is a bedroom, with 3 beds equidistant along the far wall. one is empty except for a veritable mountain of decorated crates stacked halfway up to the several-dozen-meter-high ceiling in one corner. and the biggest is some kind of lounge or toy storage room; a messy half-stocked shelf spans the far wall in front of two large sofas

speaking of large, all the objects are larger than life. the boxes in the box room are almost as big as a person. the bed mattresses are at eye level and seem to be made for giants. and the sofas too require climbing to get up onto. the toy rocking horse is bigger than an actual horse

an individual sits on the chair in the toy storage room. you've gathered that her name is kleio, but any other questions or remarks are met with good-natured non-answers like one would give to a babbling child, reinforced with an imperative to clean your room. she doesn't seem to have interest in saying anything else until that's done, and emphasizes that you don't want this place to still be messy "when mother comes by later"

poe finds herself feeling incredibly unwell, and her condition will deteriorate rapidly. something may happen if poe uses magic . . .

what to do

move boxes! mother wants them arranged evenly and neatly against the walls, not piled high and haphazardly in one corner

— 1 box moved per post. each full rank in heavy armor grants an additional +1 box moved per post, half-ranks rounded down — for each box moved, roll a D4 　　　･　if 3, the box flips over atop carrier, trapping them inside. if wielding axe, carrier may free self. if wielding fire, carrier may free self, but self-inflicts 2 damage. otherwise, a teammate may choose to spend their next post to free them 　　　･　if 4, ping rai — rolls 3 and 4 boxes only count toward total after any obstacles are overcome

put away your toys!

— roll D6 per post. mounted units may roll an additional D6 per post, and do not require an additional person / post to move a medium toy 　　　･　1-3 : small toy, worth 1 point each 　　　･　4-5 : medium toy, worth 3 points each. requires 2 people / posts to move. roll D2 ( if 2, medium toy escapes. DC11 to catch. use of rescue, light rune, bind, stun, subdue, etc. will autocatch. ping rai to make a case for other creative inventory ideas ) 　　　･　6 : large toy, worth 9 points each. requires whole team to move. if other teammates are in another thread, they can be considered " in the scene " for the post and any interaction may be hashed out in-channel. each muse must roll a D4. ( 1-3 : success. 4 : some part of large toy is damaged ). if all muses succeed, large toy awards 12 points instead

THE SIBYLLINE STUDIES.　sara, leo, farina, tharja, edward

what you know

you've woken up in an enclosed space with four others of the team you stepped through the tear with. none of the rest of the team seems to be anywhere nearby, with no indication of where they might be or whether they made it in | ref ref ref ref

the space is truly sprawling — in fact, its dizzying to look at it all too long. shelves run straight into corners, doors open to walls, corridors end into a shelf. there are paths and open spaces to navigate more clearly, but good luck. the stacks also go monstrously high, and it looks like there might be at least 3 levels? anyone who can fly definitely has an easier time here

those with dark magic find themselves able to levitate

looking around, you've noticed several conspicuous gaps on certain shelves — conspicuous because they're leaking some sort of strange odorless miasma, each one a different color: pink, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet, brown, black, and white

edward finds himself feeling incredibly unwell, and his condition will deteroriate rapidly. something may happen if edward uses magic

what to do

find the missing books! around the enormous study, there are books lying around or misplaced in other sections that bear matching colors to the miasma. return them to their proper places

— roll D15 per post. use the list below to determine what you find. units wielding dark magic gain 2 reroll chances — once 5 books have been found, the remaining books will take up 2 numbers each: its own and the closest available number — but wait! it looks like the books aren't quite so ordinary themselves. retrieving each one inflicts a status on the one who picks it up, lasting...? — books : 　　　･　1 : red book ( -1 str & mag ) 　　　･　2 : yellow book ( -1 def & res ) 　　　･　3 : blue book ( -2 dex ) 　　　･　4 : black book ( -2 speed ) 　　　･　5 : white book ( -2 avo ) 　　　･　6 - 10 : nothing 　　　･　11 : pink book ( +1 str & mag ) 　　　･　12 : orange book ( +1 def & res ) 　　　･　13 : green book ( +2 dex ) 　　　･　14 : violet book ( +2 speed ) 　　　･　15 : brown book ( +2 avo )

map the study!

— 1 section mapped per post. flying units and units wielding dark magic gain +1 section mapped per post — every 4 sections mapped, roll a D3 　　　･　1 : ping rai 　　　･　2 : you find one of the missing books! roll D#Remainder to determine which one using the list above. best hand it over to whoever's looking for them 　　　･　3 : the library shifts. subtract 2 mapped sections

THE CAVERNOUS CELLARS.　seliph, lucina, alcryst, erk, knoll

what you know

the space seems to defy logic, with walls and floors and structures sticking out at odd angles without pattern. if that and the giant, unpredictable gaps, bridges, and chasms didn't already make it difficult to navigate, it's very dark in most areas too. torch might work well here if you have it, or something similar perhaps?

next to where you first found yourselves, there's some sort of large, pale stacked casement with four compartments. it looks like it once held things. in fact, pinned to one of the edges are a few sheets of paper clipped together detailing an itinerary of four objects. there's a note written in big, bold lettering at the bottom of the top sheet: IF ANY ARE MISSING, RETRIEVE IMMEDIATELY. INTEGRITY OF HOUSE IS AT STAKE. MIND EACH περιέργεια'S INDIVIDUAL TEMPERAMENT. well.

on top of that, all your equipment seems to be missing. who knows where it could have landed in any part of this bizarre labyrinth

alcryst finds himself feeling incredibly unwell, and his condition will deteroriate rapidly. something may happen if alcryst uses magic

what to do

retrieve the missing περιέργεια! ( and maybe figure out a way to say that word amongst yourselves )

— roll D3 per post. if 3, encounter one uncaptured περιέργεια by chance. roll D#Remainder to determine which one. employing the appropriate " appearance condition " knowledge will cause the corresponding περιέργεια to appear without requiring a roll — roll D2 for each post without terrain resistance or a light source. if 2, lose 0.5HP — every 2 posts not spent attempting a capture, gain 1 knowledge. roll D9 to determine which of the information detailed below is gained — if attempting capture, roll D20. DC16 to capture. add +4 to roll for each relevant knowledge used or minded in-character during the attempt — each failed attempt subtracts -1 from the next capture roll attempted on that περιέργεια — please be mindful of metagaming and be aware of what you know vs. what your muse knows

περιέργεια information :

･　the teller's pig : a beautifully crafted, seemingly handpainted porcelain coin-holder often used by children to begin learning finances, shaped like a pig. a small paper is fastened to one of its legs like a price tag, reading - 7432 　　　･　will appear when called by name, though still needs to be caught 　　　･　flees from sources of light 　　　･　instructed way to catch it is to put exactly 7432's worth of coin inside it

･　kaleidescopia : a spool of neverending thread in impossible shades 　　　･　will appear when there is an "eye of the needle" for it to thread itself through. anything in the shape of a closed circle. alternatively, tends to linger in doorways for the same reason 　　　･　flees from sword/lance/axe wielders 　　　･　instructed way to catch it is to present it with a color it can never possess

･　infinity-way mirror: a gothic-style wall mirror that doesn't reflect, but rather depicts what is on the other side of the wall it's hung on 　　　･　appears in rooms with exactly six corners, no more or less, and one entryway 　　　･　flees when anything moves directly in front of its glass 　　　･　instructed way to catch it is to position another living being on the other side of the wall its hung on so that it depicts them, then shatter the glass. the depicted individual may suffer, however...

recover your team's missing equipment!

— roll D14 per post. use the list below to determine what you recover — if tyrfing or exalted falchion are found, ping rai before proceeding — roll D2 for each post without terrain resistance or a light source. if 2, lose 0.5HP — any recovered equipment may be used as long as the holder possesses the required skill rank, except personal weapons — equipment : 　　　･　1 : tyrfing ( hexblade ) 　　　･　2 : speed ring 　　　･　3 : exalted falchion ( aether ) 　　　･　4 : speed ring 　　　･　5 : prayer ring 　　　･　6 : killer bow ( heavy draw ) 　　　･　7 : nevermeltice 　　　･　8 : fire 　　　･　9 : bolganone 　　　･　10 : heal 　　　･　11 : unreason 　　　･　12 : banshee 　　　･　13 : bohr 　　　･　14 : miasma

IMPORTANT PLAYER NOTES. Please read!

As listed at the top, you will have until noon EST on Friday to thread your assigned tasks, at which point something will occur . . . 　

If a thread is dedicated to a task, please note this in the title post of the thread. 　

Aside from the weekend here, Apollyon Ouranos will mostly be driven by the players unless otherwise stated. You will have tasks to complete throughout the week, with the final degree of success determined by the post-based mechanics detailed above. However, you are not limited in the content of your post. Ex. " 1 box moved per post " is simply a metric for the mechanic, and does not mean you have to literally write your muse moving a box over and over, unless you want to. Creativity in the interpretation of roll results is likewise welcome. 　

Reaching 0 HP this week does not result in death, and should instead be treated as a knock-out or getting too injured to keep fighting. If there are any enemies encountered, they are ( probably ) not trying to kill you. It can still definitely be treated as serious, but should not be assumed to mean death. 　

Team Tau's Google Doc is linked here, and pinned in your team channel. Due to the nature of this event, logging and recording your thread's events and results is mandatory, much like combat docs during Arena. Each thread should have at least one person willing to do this, and this will be checked at the end of each week. It is similarly highly encouraged to keep abreast of what is going on with others in the team as well in order to get the fullest picture of the event story. 　

Though there is currently no time limit rule, keep in mind that this is an event where mechanical progression directly correlates with activity. Shorter posts are encouraged to maintain momentum. Members are encouraged to shift post order, skip, etc. amongst themselves to their good judgment. If needed, Mod Rai reserves the right to make sure threads are moving at a reasonable pace. 　

Perhaps most importantly, aim for activity and building meaningful interactions over winning your objective. Even if your team does poorly ic at their objective, as long as you played according to your character and were engaged in what was happening, that's all that matters. Certain story events may change depending on ic results, and your characters' choices and actions will influence things even if it may not be immediately obvious. But ic failure will still progress the story, and possibly in a more compelling way than a success. Try to avoid focusing on " playing the game right ". 　

If you have any questions or are uncertain how to proceed at any point, ping Mod Rai.

#TOAApollyonOuranos2024 #AOtau2024

5 notes · View notes