#wc; 786

[spiritsdiary]

— PRAISE with QIMIR/THE STRANGER

wc: 786 | content: p in v smut, i was again reasonably tipsy while writing this

❛❛good.” he breathes the word into the skin of your shoulder, watching intently as you work.

you wonder if he does it on purpose; if he’s feigning complete obliviousness to how suggestive he sounds. like right now— saying good like that when all you’ve done is properly mix a poison the way he taught you. maybe it’s because you’re a quick study when your reward is him.

when you first met qimir, you thought he was just like every other apothecary owner you utilized when necessary: clumsy, generally oblivious, a drunk who saw nothing wrong with being intoxicated before noon. to your defense, he played the part very well. it was only when you mentioned that you’d be extending your stay for a while and could use some work that you started to see the cracks in his facade.

spending so much time with him gave you a glimpse into his true persona— something darker, yes, but instead of scaring you off, it drew you in. you had a feeling that there was more to him underneath his baggy clothes and perpetually messy hair, but you never thought that all you’d have to do was let him teach you his trade in order to find out what more was.

“good,” he says again now as you insert the stopper into the vial of poison. “that’s perfect.”

you chew on your lip as you think about the last time he said that to you. “anything else you need from me?”

he hums, fiddling with the material of your sleeve at your wrist. “stay while i close up?”

you never understand how he’s able to get you to do what he wants so easily until you’re in bed with him.

his arms are so much more built than you’d imagined, his whole body really, and the first time he used that hidden strength to get you exactly where he wanted you, the words “thank you” genuinely slipped past your lips. you told yourself you were thanking the maker.

you do a lot of thanking the maker these days.

he moves differently in bed than he does in all other aspects of his life. here, he’s fluid, powerful, commanding. and he spares no detail.

“yes, yesyesyes,” he moans out when you sink down on him, his hands gripping your hips tight enough to leave bruises, slowly beginning to guide you back and forth. “just like this. you know how to do it.”

your hands are gripping his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him while he clutches at your back, and your hips seem to move with a will of their own. you don’t care if it exhausts you. if his pleasure is at your own expense.

“there you go, pretty girl,” he says, voice deep with desire, passion, for you. “let me see how good you are.”

you lean forward and press your lips to his, let him pry you open with his tongue, pull depraved sounds from your mouth. his hips cant up into yours as you do everything he taught you, everything that you know makes him feel good.

it makes you feel good too, knowing you’ve earned every gasp and moan and touch he gives you. he’s a different animal when it’s just the two of you, and you love knowing that you’re the only one that can bring it out of him.

“qimir,” you whine into his mouth, right when he hits that spot inside of you that has you seeing white. “good?”

you need to hear him say it. he needs to tell you.

“so good. so warm, so tight, so beautiful, fuck—” his hand is between your legs, thumb brushing you with practiced ease. “always my good girl.”

“only me?” you can’t think properly, not when it feels this good, this right to be so close to him, skin to skin, mouth to mouth, soul to soul with the way he reads your mind.

he nods, pushes your hair back from your face.

“only ever you.” he says it with such a passionate intensity, his dark eyes searching yours.

it sets you aflame, has you crying out mere moments later, collapsing into him as he gives you everything he has to give.

there’s something darker inside of him. a deep, yearning darkness prowling under his skin, simmering in his bones. you can practically feel it as you slide a hand over his chest, his pounding heart. like it’s calling to you.

“you always do so good for me,” he’s whispering into your hair, letting you press yourself against him. “sometimes i think i dreamt you up.”

you smile, kissing his neck just to make him shiver.

maybe there’s something darker inside of you too.

m.list

© spiritsdiary 2024. do not repost without permission.

[cinematicreid]

office hours

the one where reader is stressed about her exam and Spencer makes her take a break.

wc 786

tags + the rundown: fem!reader, uni!reader, prof!spencer, fluff!, she is a grad student, boyfriend!spencer, we love him!, pet names, i think that’s all

a/n: in case you need a kinktober break! this is not me hiding from the fact that i’m too nervous to post smut! not at all! feedback always welcome, say hi to me, hugs and kisses always.

~

“You’re distracting me,” you chide, not bothering to look up from your laptop.

“Sorry.”

Spencer isn’t sorry.

He continues to gently blow air on your forehead from across the table as he watches you poorly attempt to focus on studying.

The two of you are holed up in one of the campus library study rooms, which Spencer reserves every other Friday evening to hold office hours for his students.

You rarely join him, given his knack for being a distraction. But it was a slow day, he’d said, and your grad school exam was on Monday.

The problem? Your study guide is nearly twelve pages long and your boyfriend is blowing air at you from across the table.

“I’m going to fail,” you groan, pressing your fingers to your temples.

“You won’t fail,” he says gently, returning to the stack of essays he’s grading.

“Spencer, it’s like I haven’t attended a single class for the past three months. This study guide is stupid.”

“But you have attended class. Every single class. You’re overwhelming yourself by trying to review everything at once.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling a headache start to drum in the back of your head.

“And you’ve been staring at your screen for hours without a break. It’s going to give you a headache.”

Damn him.

“Maybe I’m not smart enough for a master’s.”

Spencer hums, unimpressed. You don’t mean it, you both know that.

He sets his pen down, reaches beneath the table and scoops your legs up to rest on his lap.

“You need to take a break, honey,” he begins, running his hands up and down your outstretched calves.

You lower your head to the table, exhausted and defeated.

“I don’t want to take a break, I want to get through this study guide.”

“You’ll have all weekend to study. I’ll help you.”

“But we’re busy this weekend. We need to go grocery shopping, and there’s laundry—why do we own so many clothes? And the closet’s a mess—”

You’re almost too caught up in your ramblings to notice Spencer slowly pulling your laptop toward himself, your calves abandoned. Your head shoots up, and you slam your hands on top of his, glaring at him.

“Do not, Spencer.”

He sighs.

“The closet’s been a mess for weeks. You can’t stress-clean to avoid your test.”

“Says you.”

That earns you a reprimanding look and a poke to your leg.

“And, you do realize that half the things you’re suddenly worried about I can handle, right?”

You stare at your wonderful, slightly-annoying boyfriend.

“You never get the bread I like when you grocery shop.”

He laughs so deep that you can feel his stomach bouncing from where your feet are resting.

“Okay, I’ll make sure to get the bread you like. The point is you don’t need to be pushing yourself like this. It’ll only make your exam go poorly.”

His convincing almost works, until you recall your syllabus. This exam is worth nearly a quarter of your grade.

Spencer watches the train of thought play out on your face, sighing at the chewing you’ve begun on your lip.

You want to cry.

“Angel.”

You ignore him, eyes trained on the table. He nudges your leg with his foot.

“My darling, darling girl.”

Still nothing.

“Baby.”

You finally glance up at him, begging the tears that are prickling the corners of your eyes to retreat.

“Yes?” you manage to whisper.

“Five minutes. Go take a walk outside for at least five minutes.”

“But—“

He gently, firmly, says your name, and you know it’s no use arguing.

“We’ve been in this room for almost three hours. Please.”

He stands, letting your legs fall to the floor and finally closing your laptop, moving it to his side of the table.

He makes his way to you, brushing a single, stray tear from your cheek and pressing a kiss to your forehead as you stand to leave.

“Fine. But because I want to, not because you’re making me.”

He accepts the last of your whining with a soft laugh.

“Of course.”

Spencer is right, because of course he’s right. The evening air immediately eases the tension in your shoulders, and five minutes quickly turn into twenty. By the time you make your way back, Spencer and his car are waiting outside the library.

“Office hours are over. Do you feel better?”

He gets out of the driver’s seat to open your door. You give him a smile and a nod, a grateful kiss on his arm as you settle in.

“I’m glad, baby. Dinner?”

“Yes, please. You’ve had me locked in that room for three hours, I’m starving.”

He laughs, closing the door behind you.

[staranghae]

the perfect way to spend christmas

summary. jihoon really wants his first christmas with you to be perfect

pairing. loverboy! l.jh x fem! reader genre. new relationship, fluff, crack warnings. seokmin being seokmin, jihoon threatens them but its lighthearted(?) wc. 786 a/n. my first work on here after a while for @k-films advent calender event. also, my first (and possibly only) work where profanity isn't a warning lmao. anygays, enjoy down bad loverboy jihoon <3 mwah mwah merry christmas and happy new years. p.s: check out the masterlist for the event here!

the last thing soonyoung expects to see when he enters his shared apartment with jihoon are christmas decorations.

jihoon putting up a plant smack dab in the middle of the kitchen, to be exact.

"when i told you to decorate for the party, i didn't expect you to go all out like this!", soonyoung exclaims, while placing the bags of food and alcohol on the counter.

"well, this is my first christmas after getting with y/n so it's only appropriate i go all out, especially since we're hosting."

jihoon replies, almost shyly, as he continues taping the mystery plant to the ceiling.

soonyoung merely laughs at his friend. in all honesty, he was somewhat of a cupid in getting the two of you to go out with each other, owing to his balbbermouth tendencies when drunk, exposing jihoon's long term crush on you.

"well. make sure you don't end up putting any mistletoes in there lest seokmin tries to make out with you."

"again." soonyoung adds after a beat.

jihoon's face scrunches up at the thought. they really did not need a repeat of the great disaster '22. he's about to retort when the doorbell rings, signalling the first guest had arrived.

soonyoung gets the door as jihoon cleans up in the kitchen. he can tell by the chaos happening in the doorway that seokmin and seungkwan were the first two to arrive.

he finishes up and goes to greet them. seokmin immediately tackles him into a hug which he reciprocates while the other two tease him about how he broke seokmin's heart by going out with you.

amidst the teasing, the doorbell rings a second time and jihoon finds himself hoping that's it's you behind the door.

the door opens to reveal mingyu and minghao and jihoon is almost disappointed when he catches sight of you behind mingyu's broad frame.

he doesn't even stop to consider the consequences when he shoves walks past mingyu to, quite literally, engulf you in a hug. he only registers what he's done when he hears the hooting and cheering of the members behind him and sees the shell shocked face of seungcheol who had walked up right behind you and mingyu.

he retreats from the hug, embarassed. meanwhile, you were left with a lingering warmth that had gone as fast as it had come.

"well, at least someone exists here who can make the lee jihoon himself lose control." jokes seungcheol as he enters the apartment.

"we'll give you guys some privacy for now," says minghao, leaving the two of you in the doorway, red faced and flustered.

jihoon breaks the ice first,

"i'm sorry, i shouldn't have-"

"it's fine, hoon. really. it was actually kinda cute."

"of all the things you could've called me, cute?!" jihoon feigns offense. you giggle at his antics and jihoon swears he could die right now. he notices the bag in your hands and gives you a questioning look.

"cupcakes, for the party." you clarify.

jihoon thanks every being in the universe for giving him the oppurtunity to say what he did,

"let's go to the kitchen and open them, they smell delicious."

you nod excitedly and walk towards the kitchen as jihoon follows.

unbeknownst to you, he silently threatens to do unspeakable things to his friends if they so much so as looked at the two of you while you were in the kitchen

you hum to yourself as you start to open the box of cupcakes when jihoon walks up behind you. you're about to tease him about being oh so obsessed with you when he utters a single word while pointing upwards

"mistletoe"

you look up at the ceiling and sure enough, a dainty little mistletoe is taped to the surface, albeit a little haphazardly. you look back at jihoon. your eyes flit between the mistletoe and jihoon's face.

jihoon can see the gears turning in your head about the possibilities of one of his idiot friends walking in.

"relax, none of them are coming anywhere near us, i assure you."

the tone he uses leaves no room for any buts or what ifs. so you don't ask any and instead opt to kiss him as hard as you can.

he stumbles back a little because of the impact but gains his footing fast enough to wrap his arms around your waist to kiss you back with the same fervor, if not harder.

the two of you end up so lost in each other, you don't even hear the other three holding seokmin down as he yells "me next".

'what a perfect way to spend his first christmas with the woman of his dreams' is last coherent thought that flashes through jihoon's mind before he loses himself in you again.

[aewon]

GIVE UP HEAVEN

park sunghoon x fmr genre: fluff warnings: kissing wc: 786

Sunghoon doesn’t know what it is. What it is about you that makes his heart tighten in his chest whenever he thinks about you. What it is that makes him sweat whenever you’re near. What it is that makes him think you’re an angel that’s fallen directly from heaven.

He can’t explain it, but he doesn’t need to. All he knows is that you make him feel good, great even.

When you laugh at one of his jokes, funny or not, he feels like that gif of bugs bunny with heart eyes.

When you touch him, it lights a fire under his skin.

So why are you still just a friend? Why hasn’t he gotten the courage to confess yet? 

His friends keep telling him you like him back, that neither of you are subtle. But something is holding him back. 

The fear of rejection? The fear that it was all made up and in his head? 

Whatever. Fear be damned. He needs to know what it’s like to feel your lips on his. To hold you, to feel your touch in ways more than just passing.

He needs it. He craves it. 

When he finds himself on your doorstep at 12 in the morning, he thinks he’s gone crazy.

Perhaps this was part of a plan, one he didn’t even know about. 

You had mentioned earlier in school how your parents were out of town.

So, he knows he doesn’t have any angry parents to deal with.

When the door opens, you stand there in all your glory. Wearing a baby pink pajama set with matching slippers, your hair braided, and a look of everlasting confusion on your beautiful face.

“Sunghoon? What are you doing here?”

“The real question is, why did you open the door so easily? What if I was a serial killer?”

You can’t help but chuckle, “I looked in the peephole silly.”

Oh. Duh. Now he feels just a wee bit stupid. 

“Anyway, I’m here for you.”

Your smile doesn’t falter, warm and inviting, “What about me?”

He takes his hand out from behind him, a singular, thornless rose in it. He was very careful to make sure it was safe for you to hold. 

“Here,” he says, holding it out to you.

You don’t hesitate to take it, bringing it up to your nose to smell.

“It’s beautiful, Sunghoon, but what’s it for?”

He clears his throat, the monologue he practiced in front of his mirror and in the car fresh in his mind.

“I like you, Y/N. So much, it… it almost makes my heart hurt how much I like you. I like, or rather love, everything about you. I love your smile and your laugh. You laugh at my jokes even when no one else does.” 

He takes a deep breath before continuing. “ I love your personality. It matches so well with mine. I love how kind and caring you are. I love how your nose scrunches when you concentrate on something, and how you sometimes stare into space. I love your eyes, your nose, your lips. I think about them all the time. I think about what it would be like to hold you. To kiss you. You drive me crazy, in the best way.”

He knows he’s twiddling his thumbs like a loser, holding his hands clasped together in front of him, not brave enough to look at you.

“I know you may not feel the same, and that’s okay. But I had to tell you before I literally imploded.”

He finishes his monologue, breathing almost heavy and finally looks up at you.

Sunghoon’s eyes widen as he observes the tears rolling down your cheeks.

Without warning, you step forward, pulling him close to you by his loose t-shirt, and pressing your lips against his.

Sunghoon doesn’t remember the last time he kissed someone, but that doesn’t mean he forgot how to.

He responds immediately, hands coming up to rest on your waist.

Your lips move in sync with his. It’s passionate in a way he’s never felt with anyone else.

You pull away first, and it takes everything in him not to chase your lips.

“I’m sorry for making you wait. It must’ve been agonizing. Sunghoon, no one has ever made me feel the way you do. The way I drive you crazy, you do the same to me. I’ve never wanted someone so badly.”

Is this real? Should he pinch himself?

“Really?”

“Really.” You nod. “You’re mine now, Park Sunghoon. And I’m never letting you go.”

His smile reaches his eyes and you peck his lips once more. 

“Stay with me tonight?” You ask.

He nods, vigorously, “You don’t even have to ask.”

AEWON 2024

HAPPY SUNGHOON DAY!!

[puck-luck]

Can I request #14 of hearts with Mr jack Hughes 🤭 also congrats on 1k!!! 🤩🤩🤩 🫂🫂🫂

final blurb!!! nevr forget this szn of blurbs, see y'all again if/when i hit 10k!

warnings: intox kink, no actual sex, making out, basically being horny bc you're under the influence, taking a trip to eddyville (smoking weed w your bf), slight dirty talk, grinding

wc: 786

You don’t get to get high with your boyfriend often. In fact, it’s usually a once-a-summer thing. Tonight is your one night where you can get absolutely greened out with no repercussions, although you’re really hoping for a chill high rather than a green-out. 

You took the gummies about an hour ago, so they’ve definitely kicked in. You realized they kicked in when you’d registered that you’d been running your fingers through the fringe border of a throw pillow for an entire episode of The Office, which had seemed like the perfect background show for this evening. 

Jack is staring at the TV, though, fully focused on the show. His tongue is poking at the corner of his mouth and his eyes are blank and bright blue. His thumb moves across your ankle– your legs are thrown over his lap. 

The couch is comfortable and your eyes burn a little bit with how dry they are, so you close them. You watch some kaleidoscopic shapes behind your eyelids for a minute, then you open your eyes again, missing Jack. 

His cheeks are round and pink and there’s a tiny sprinkling of facial hair on his jawline. He couldn’t be bothered to shave today, which is fine with you. His bottom lip shines with saliva since he’d licked over it with his wandering tongue. His eyebrows look strong and dark and you have to push yourself up because you really want to feel the hair under your fingertips.

Jack doesn’t tear his attention away from the TV until you’re solidly on his lap, face directly in his eyeline. His eyes really are bright blue and glassy, the white surrounding the blue tinged with pink. If anyone made eye contact with either of you right now, they’d certainly know what you’d been indulging in today.

His mouth curls with a smile, gaze absently tracing over your features. “Pretty,” he says.

You shuffle closer to him, feeling his body solidly beneath yours. His warmth emanates up and fills the space between your legs, which you suddenly realize is craving him. Your head grows foggy with want for Jack, foggier than it was from the weed alone, and you start to wiggle on his lap.

Jack furrows his brow and plants his hands on your behind, halting your movements. “You’re gonna make me hard if you keep doing that,” he says, frowning. 

“Uh-huh,” you reply with a nod. The nodding feels mechanical and it’s hard to stop, so you keep nodding cheerfully. “I want you to be hard.”

Jack’s lips quirk up. His eyes flicker down to your mouth. “Are you horny, baby?” He teases. “High and horny just from sitting on my lap?”

You smile at him, thinking you’re getting your way. You drag one of his hands up to your chest and encourage him to palm your tits.

Jack gets lost in the feeling of that for a minute. His eyes go to watch his own touch, blues growing dark and unfocused. His tongue pokes between his lips like he wants to mouth at your breasts.

His eyes focus again with a shake of his head. “We can’t,” Jack groans. “We didn’t talk about it before.”

Chivalry? You demand to yourself, feeling let down. At a time like this? Give in, Jack.

Outwardly, you whine and deflate on his lap. “Jack,” you complain. You can feel his cock underneath your cunt, pressing through his sweatpants and yours. He’s only about half-hard, so you know he’s got interest in fucking you, but there’s still the sting of him turning you down when you want him to make you come.

“I know,” Jack soothes you, looking regretful as he removes his hand from your chest and returns it to your hip. “I want to. But we can’t– as soon as we’re both sober, we can do every little dirty thing you could ever dream of.”

“But I want it now,” you drone, cupping Jack’s face and frowning at him.

“God, you’re sexy when you’re asking me for it,” Jack says like he’s cursing. He pulls you closer. “As soon as we’re both sober, we can talk about doing this next time. I bet you’d feel so nice around my cock when you’re all needy like this.” He kisses your neck, which is so unfair. If he won’t go any further, then he should stop teasing you like this.

You pull him away from your skin and overexaggerate a glare, which makes Jack giggle. He finds your lips and kisses you deeply, tracing his tongue over the seam of your mouth.

Even if you can’t fuck, at least Jack will lazily make out with you for the rest of the night.

[bradleysass]

sleep - @black-brothers-microfic - wc: 786

James wakes with a start, the kind that jolts you up from a dream you can’t quite remember but leaves your heart racing. He blinks against the quiet dark, reaching for his glasses on the nightstand, and that’s when he notices it again— Regulus’ side of the bed is cold.

Not just cool-from-recently-vacated. Cold like he hadn’t been there at all.

It’s the third time this week.

James pads barefoot into the living room, wrapped in the oversized Gryffindor hoodie Regulus likes to pretend he hates. There, curled in an armchair, knees pulled to his chest like he’s folded himself inward, is Regulus. A single book rests open on the armrest, untouched.

“You’re not reading,” James murmurs.

Regulus doesn’t look up. “Was,” he says. “You woke up.”

“You weren’t in bed.”

A pause. Then, “Couldn’t sleep.”

“You never sleep.”

James walks over and settles on the rug in front of the armchair, cross-legged, like they’re teenagers at a sleepover. “That’s not true,” Regulus says quietly, and it’s a weak deflection, so James lets it hang between them.

Instead, he leans his head on Regulus’ knee. “You know, it’s a bit rude to keep letting me fall asleep thinking I’ve got you beside me, only to wake up and find you’ve disappeared like a ghost.”

Regulus exhales. “I didn’t mean to. I just… didn’t want to wake you.”

“You never wake me.”

Regulus doesn’t answer. His fingers twitch near the book like he’s thinking about picking it back up just to have something to do.

James watches him, eyes soft. “Is it nightmares?” he asks gently.

“No,” Regulus says. Too quickly.

“Too quiet? Too loud?”

Regulus shakes his head.

“Too many thoughts?”

Regulus opens his mouth. Closes it. Shrugs.

That’s when James decides to talk to Sirius.

Sirius is in the kitchen the next morning, spooning instant coffee into a chipped Black family crest mug he’s ironically adopted as his favorite.

James slips in beside him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Sirius says. “Where’s Sleeping Beauty?”

“Hasn’t slept,” James says.

Sirius stills.

James lowers his voice. “Pads, he never sleeps. Or if he does, it’s barely an hour. And I only know because sometimes I’m up at five and he’s already awake. Not waking up—already awake. Sitting somewhere. Reading. Thinking.”

Sirius doesn’t say anything.

James hesitates, then asks the question that’s been sitting on his chest. “Was it… always like that? When you were kids?”

Sirius sighs, leans his elbows on the counter. “I didn’t notice it when we were little. Or maybe I didn’t want to. I was always too busy making noise, making trouble, being loud enough to drown out the silence in that house. But Reg…”

He shakes his head. “He learned early how to be small. How to take up as little space as possible. Our parents taught him that. He’d sit in his room for hours, pretending he didn’t exist, just so he wouldn’t get yelled at. He got real good at it, too.”

James swallows. “So he just… stayed quiet. Stayed still.”

Sirius nods. “After I ran away, he wrote me letters. I didn’t answer most of them. But the ones I did get… he never mentioned sleeping, but he always talked about the night. He’d tell me what the moon looked like, or which stars were brightest. Stuff like that. As if he was spending every night staring at the ceiling.”

James closes his eyes.

Sirius puts a hand on his shoulder. “He’s not broken, you know. Just… scarred in weird ways. Like some part of him doesn’t think he’s allowed to rest.”

James nods, grateful.

That night, James doesn’t fall asleep right away. He fakes it—lets his breathing even out, waits until Regulus slips out from under the covers like a whisper.

Then he gets up and finds him again, this time on the couch with a cup of tea going cold.

James doesn’t say anything at first. He just sits beside him and pulls Regulus into his side, arms wrapped around his waist.

Regulus doesn’t resist. He never does.

“You don’t have to be quiet here,” James whispers. “You don’t have to be small.”

Regulus’ eyes flick up. “I’m not—”

“You don’t have to make yourself invisible to be loved.”

Regulus stiffens.

James cups the back of his neck, thumb brushing behind his ear. “Sirius told me a little. About when you were kids. About how you used to count stars instead of sleeping.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Regulus mutters, defensive.

“I know. I believe you.” James leans in, forehead resting against Regulus’. “But you were alone.”

Silence.

Then Regulus, in the smallest voice James has ever heard: “I didn’t want to be.”

James kisses his temple. “You’re not anymore.”

[honghwalvr]

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 Epilogue

m.list atz.list

genre: fan fiction, smut, friends-ish to lovers

wC: 786

- synopsis: Working as the daycare instructor was the most boring job you've ever had. Worse than being a cashier at a store almost no one goes to.

But when Mr. Kim first came to drop his kid off? Holy shit, things got interesting.

And the best part? He was single.

He, in your perspective, was a certified DILF.

pairings: dilf & producer ! hongjoong x young daycare worker ! reader

- warnings: swearing, drinking, dilfs, age gap

Prologue

"Yes, of course, Mr. Choi," you said to the last parent, Choi Yeonjun, who picked up his kid and informed you of a new allergy his son had.

Waving him off until you were out of sight, you sighed and walked back into the daycare with that sullen face of yours.

"Bored again?" your friend, Jeon Soyeon, asked.

"Outta my mind. The most exciting thing that's happened to me all my life was getting accepted to do this job." you mumbled, playing with the straw from your coffee.

"Let's go out tonight," Seoyeon's eyes light up yet dim once she sees you shake your head.

"Can't. I have to pay my rent and can't unless I take my shift at that fancy restaurant tonight. Which means," you grabbed your stuff and stood, "I gotta go. I'll see you tomorrow, Soso!" You hugged Soyeon and made your way outside.

You walked to the bus stop and waited there patiently, ignoring anybody who attempted to have conversation with you by making sure your airpods were visible.

It wasn't until some guy forcefully ripped one out of your ear that you turned around, absolutely furious.

"What the fuck, dude?!" you shouted, snatching the device back.

"I'm trying to talk to you! Goddamn, fucking slut!" the older man shouted.

"Excuse me?" you said. The hell crawled up his ass tonight?

"I said," the man grunted, coming closer till his hand touched your breast.

Absolutely appalled, you pushed him backwards with a disgusted expression.

"Don't touch me." you said firmly, feeling slightly disgusted with yourself.

How could you let him touch you like that?

"D-did you just push me?" he asked, anger filling his voice.

Just as you were about to start running away from the man, who seemed to be firing up to touch you once more, you heard the man shout in pain.

You turned around only to find another older, but definitely younger than the man who groped you, man squatting over the handsy one.

"Repeat after me," he said to the man on the floor, "'I will not touch women or men without consent'." The old man repeated it and the other one smiled, tapping the olders cheek.

"Good job. Now get out of here before I call someone." The man said, turning to watch the other run away.

"Miss!" he shouted, standing. "You dropped your wallet, dear." He handed it to you with a smile.

"I'm sorry for pervs like him. Not all men act like that."

"Thank you," you whispered, still a little shocked.

This guy sounded to be about in his late thirties to early forties.

His looks? He easily could pass as a 24 year old.

Maybe he was.

"I understand if you aren't completely comfortable or convinced I'm good because I am older." He said, a chuckle escaping his perfect lips.

He was older than you? Really?

"You're older?" you asked instinctively, slapping a hand to your mouth instantly.

"I'm sorry, I-"

"No, it's okay. But yeah, I can tell you're in your early twenties. I'm 36." he explained, shocking you.

You're 23 and he's 36 yet he looks like he's just 2 years older than you.

You thought him to be 25 at max.

Never 36.

"Wow."

"I know, right? I'm old!" He laughed.

"No! Not like that! I'm saying I just thought you were a lot younger.." you mumbled, looking down at your shoes.

"Really? How young?" he asked, interested.

"I thought you were at max 25."

"No way. Thank you so much!" he laughed again, you joining this time.

"Of course. I hope the fact I've been informal hasn't disrespected you at all." you rush in, forgetting that he was an elder.

"Nah, don't sweat it. I'm not huge on the whole "formalities" thing. I have 7 other shit heads i'm with daily and they don't respect them often anyways."

"7 kids?!" you asked, astounded.

"No, god no! Friends. One of the 7 is my hyung but that's it." he smiled, turning his head to face the incoming bus.

"I actually don't need to take the bus. I just stayed to make sure that guy wouldn't come back and try again. You have a nice night, though." He chuckled before walking off.

You got in the bus and sat in the furthest seat, needing to distance yourself from everyone to properly think.

That guy was hot. Hotter than any other 36 year old you've ever seen.

You knew you weren't gonna see him again but, there was a sliver of hope that kept you up all night.

The hope being that he has a kid to bring in to your daycare.

And I guess the universe was listening.

[homestylehughes]

coffee girl

part 1: the big spill

pairings: luke hughes x fem!reader

summray: on her way to an interview at the prudential Center, someone crashes into y/n someone causing her coffee to go everywhere, and that someone happens to be luke hughes.

wc: 786

warnings: slight angst? cussing, slight fluff. flustered and nervous reader and luke. nothing too crazy yet. OH cliffhanger..kindaa

au: hi everyone!! i'm back with another luke fic but most importantly i'm starting my FIRST ever series woooooohoooooooo. im super excited and nervous to write but i can't WAIT. anyways! i hope you guys enjoy the first part of this series. like and reblog if you'd like. thank you so much for all of the love on my other works, i'm so grateful.

happy reading <3

I'm late. Very late. I'm rushing. No, I'm sprinting. 

I'm late to the most important interview of my life, all because I wanted coffee. 

I shout out a quick “thank you!” to Bastria and sprint out the door. I have 5 minutes to get there. I think to myself I can get there on time. I can do this. 

Quickly running across the crosstalk, I can see the Prudential Center. Almost there, almost there. Shit, 3 minutes to spare. I pick up my speed, if that's even possible at this point. I can feel my neck beginning to sweat as I take each step.

As I turn to the arena, I feel a chest suddenly crash into mine, instantly feeling the cold liquid; my coffee runs down the front of me. 

I pull back from the stranger with a shriek. Looking down at my white shirt that's now covered in brown. My eyes began to water. This can not be happening to me. 

“Oh my gosh, shit I'm so sorry” I heard the stranger say, not being able to pull my head up to meet his eyes, if I did, he’d see mine filled with tears. 

I pull my wrist to my face to check the time, I'm 3 minutes late. Late. Now I'm crying, big hot tears are hitting my cheeks before I have the chance to stop them. 

“Hey hey don't cry, i'll get you a new shirt. Let me help you clean up” the stranger speaks again. 

I tilt my head up to finally look at the stranger and I can't believe my eyes. Luke Hughes. you're actually fucking kidding me. His eyes are locked with mine, I'm trying to search for words to say but I can't seem to find any. 

“H-here take my hoodie” Luke says as he pulls his hoodie off his body. Holding it out for me to grab it, taking the hoodie in my hands whispering a small “thank you” in his direction.

“you’re welcome” he says as he clears his throat, “again I'm really sorry” Luke speaks again. “It's okay” I sigh back, my eyes meeting him again, “ thank you for this, I have to go” I quickly say to him as I turn on my heel, I can feel more tears on my waterline threatening to spill. 

As I make my way away from him, rushing to find a bathroom. I hear someone shout “HEY” behind me, I turn around briefly, to see Luke still standing there “I NEVER GOT YOUR NAME, I'M LUKE” he shouts at me. “Y/N” I yell back, as I turn back around not waiting for his response.

 Im quickly rushing into the bathroom, taking in my disheveled state. Tearing off my shirt and throwing it in my bag as I put Luke's hoodie on, his scent filling my nose, he smells good I think to myself. I pull myself out of my trance quickly. Grabbing a paper towel and bringing it under my eyes and wiping away mascara that's fallen on my face. Fixing my hair, licking my lips deciding this is good enough. 

Glancing at my watch, to see that I'm now 10 minutes late. Shit. I began to run through the center, taking the stairs instead of the elevator, my chest and legs burning each step I took. 

Finally getting to the place where I'm set to have my interview. I slowly walk into the room, hoping my devils hoodie gives me brownie points and distracts them from the fact that I'm over 10 minutes late to my interview. 

  “Y/n! there you are! I was starting to think you wouldn't show!” “I'm Micheal but you can call me Mike,” Mike says to me as he holds his hand out to me, I quickly grab into a shake. “I'm super sorry I'm late” I say quickly, “I had a… coffee accident” I chuckle out. If you only know who ran into me, Mike, I say to myself. 

“Its okay, no worries! You're here now and that's all that matters!” he says back to me, i smile back at him. 

“Lets sit, and get this interview rolling” he says while pulling out a chair for me to sit in, quickly taking a seat placing my bag on the floor beside me. 

“Yes, let's get started!” I replied back, “oh nice Devils hoodie! I meant to tell you that when you walked in” he says to me. “Thank you!” I say as I look down at the hoodie. Thanking Luke in my head for bumping into me. 

“Okay let's get started, '' Mike says. Nodding my head quickly in response, i really hope I get this job, I say to myself. 

[vinylfoxbooks]

25 Days of Jegumas | Day 1 | Day 20 December 21 - Mistletoe Kiss | @noblehouseofgay | wc: 786

“What’s that, mummy?” Luna asks, pointing at the little plant that one of the characters in the movie is hanging up. The camera focuses on it for a while. 

Lily smiles at the little girl, “It’s called mistletoe. There’s a thing that really big kids and adults do where when two people walk under it at the same time, they have to kiss.”

“Kiss? But isn’t that something only mummies and daddies do?” 

James laughs gently, ruffling Luna’s hair, “No, it’s not. Sometimes friends can kiss, sometimes people can kiss and then never kiss again, sometimes they find the only person they’ll kiss for the rest of their lives, and that’s what your mums and me and Reg have.”

“So anyone can kiss.”

“As long as they both clearly want to, of course they can.” James smiles.

Pandora nods, “And kisses can be anywhere you want it to be, like…” she leans down at kisses her daughter’s forehead, “the head or…” she turns to where Harry is curled up in Lily’s side and pecks his forehead, “the forehead or…” she pulls Regulus, who’s legs she’s leaning against, down to her so she can kiss his cheek, “the cheek or…” she grabs next at James’ hand, bringing it to kiss their knuckles, “the hand or even…” finally, she pulls Lily in for a brief kiss, “The lips. As long as you both want to.” 

“Have you kissed under the miss-toe?” Harry asks, furrowing his brows when he can’t quite figure out how to pronounce the word. 

James nods, “We have.”

It’s one of James’ favourite memories of Regulus, something that happened before they even got together -- though it did play a hand in their relationship just a month and a half later. During a Christmas party that the Potters were having and that James had convicned Sirius to convince Regulus to attend, there had been mistletoe put around a couple different areas of the house. Leading into the ktichen, leading to the stairwell, hanging off the doorway of one of the less busy hallways. There was even one out on the porch in the backyard. 

James had helped their parents put it up and didn’t really care to get caught under any of the sprigs, so they had been carefully avoiding them. Regulus had done the same. But it was in a minor lapse of judgement where James found Regulus outside, just the two of them since there was some sort of event happening inside, and they had gotten so distracted talking to him becaue Regulus was actually talking back and it was the best thing James had ever experienced in their life. Yeah, they had exchanged a couple cards for holidays but there wasn’t anything between them, and they almost never talked. 

But here they were, standing outside alone and talking and laughing and Regulus looked so fucking good in the light from the moon and the Christmas lights strung around the patio. And then Regulus was looking up and his eyes were widening, making James snap their gaze up aswell, knowing just what they were going to find. 

Almost immediately, while still refusing to look away from the mistletoe hung perfectly between them, they laughed, “Well, look at that… I forgot that was out here.” Then they looked down to see the shorter, “We don’t- no one is out here to pressure us into kissing or anything, we don’t have to do it if we don’t want-” but they were cut off by Regulus surging forward, fisting the collar of their shirt, and pulling them into him. James went easily, arms going to wrap around his waist immediately.

When they finally pulled away, Regulus just sneered at James, “You need to learn to shut the fuck up sometimes, James.” Then he turned on his heels and headed back inside, leaving a very confused James behind in the cold. James later learned that Regulus walked away because he freaked himself out and thought that he had messed. Apparently he had gone to hide away in an upstairs bathroom for twenty minutes before Sirius found him. 

But James isn’t going to go into those details with their son or step-daughter, so they just leave it at that and let the kids turn to ask Lily and Pandora if they’ve ever kissed under the mistletoe before pressing them for more information on the tradition. Regulus’ hand finds James’, as though he was going through the same memory that they just were -- and it’s likely that he was, what with the fond look they find on his face when they turn to him. James squeezes his hand and focuses back on what Pandora is saying to the two kids.

Day 22

[sunarinzz]

my manager

Akaashi Keiji x reader

synopsis: you were his, and he was yours, until one day he wasn’t.

genre: lovers>exes

warnings: falling out of love, secret relationship, breakups NOT PROOF READ

wc: 786

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

You noticed your boyfriend, Akaashi Keiji growing more distant, but you couldn’t understand why, well at least up until now. It started when Ayumi, a second year from Akaashi’s class was introduced as the volleyball team’s newest manager. Naturally the boys were ecstatic and immediately took a liking to her, even Akaashi.

Ayumi was quick to break through his shell, she was one of the few people who he allowed to see the real him, the side of him that was reserved for only a select few and over time, Akaashi found himself looking at her the way he used to look at you.

When he would see her smile, his heart would melt in the same way it did when he would see you smile. Without you even knowing, Akaashi fell out of love with you, and fell for someone new.

After he realized he wasn’t in love with you anymore, all he felt was guilt. He began to distant himself from you and the two of you began to grow apart. It’d be a lie if you said that you didn’t notice the way Akaashi looked at Ayumi, his eyes were filled with love and admiration. Though it hurt, you knew you had to let him go.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

“I’m sorry (Name), this wasn’t supposed to happen— I didn’t mean for this to happen” The two of you stood outside of the gym. Their game was going to start soon but this conversation couldn’t wait, you couldn’t wait. You needed to talk about this now.

“Don’t be sorry, Keiji. It’s not your fault, Ayumi is an amazing girl.” you spoke, your words gentle as you brought your eyes to meet his, a bitter smile adorning your features as the two of you gaze into his eyes.

“So are you” As you looked into his eyes and though you could tell his words were truthful, the spark that was once there was gone. Without thinking he brings his hand up to your cheek to cup it.

“Can I… Can I kiss you one last time..?” He asked, he knew he shouldn’t have but he wanted to feel your warmth against him one last time before he let you go.

“I’m sorry… I can’t let you do that, It wouldn’t be fair to Ayumi” You said as you pulled away from him.

“Akaashi?” You might as well have drawn a dagger through his heart at that. It ached to hear his last name coming from your mouth, since the beginning he was always Keiji, your Keiji, never Akaashi.

“Yeah..?”

“Thank you for being by my side, I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.” You said turning to him, loosely snaking your arms around him as you hugged him for the last time and without hesitation he hugged you back, cherishing your final embrace.

“Of course… Thank you too, (Name). You’ve always been there for me when I needed you most.” He said resting his chin on top of your head, just like he used to. The two of you stayed like that for a minute until you pulled away.

“I’m letting you go now, Akaashi” You said as you removed your arms from around him and took a step back.

“So this is it? This is where we call it quits?” He said as the same bitter smile you had adorned his features as well.

“Yeah, it is”

“You’ll— you’ll watch me right?” He asked as he stopped in his tracks.

“Of course I will, I’m still your manager after all.” you said, giving him a smile and a thumbs up.

“Right, my manager.” He said with a bitter smile, sounding like he was trying to convince himself that that’s all you were now, his manager.

As you made your way up the stairs to the bleachers all you could think about was Ayumi. Even though you wanted to blame her, you couldn’t. It wasn’t her fault that she was able to melt Akaashi the way you wished you could’ve. It’s not like she knew a you were dating anyway, no one did (well besides Bokuto). When you took your seat beside her she greeted you with a smile, the same smile that made your Keiji become hers.

After what seemed like a thousand years, the whistle finally blew signaling the start of the game. You and Akaashi used to do to this thing where when the first whistle would blow, he’d look up at you for good luck. But this time, he looked up at Ayumi. That’s how you knew your chapter came to an end. Akaashi used to find comfort in you, he used to think of you as his good luck charm, but you’re not any of that anymore. Now, you’re just his manager, and thats all you’ll ever be.

Fin~

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

a/n: I’m back from the dead

[sparklefics]

Fire Escapades (2)

Teenagers/40s!Bucky & Reader

Summary: Teenagers in love who are very serious about their feelings.

A/N: Finally I felt inspired to write again :) Reading part 1 is a must here. :P

Fluffy feels ahead! <3 🥰

WC:786

[Masterlist]

“James Buchanan Barnes, get out here right this second!!”

“Oh no. She Buchanan-ed me, she knows you’re here.” Bucky groans. 

“You don’t know that for sure.” You say as you untangle yourself from his arms. You suggest going back to your fire escape. 

Bucky agrees with you and once you’re out of his room he opens the door and his mama bursts through like a nervous wreck. 

“Jamie! Oh honey!”

“Ma, what’s wrong?”

“Mrs. Y/L/N just got back from work and her girl’s gone!”

“Gone, what do you mean gone?” Bucky hated lying to his mom but for you he’d do just about anything. 

You managed to get back into your room seeing as the window was now unlocked and wide open. Quickly you get rid of Bucky’s blue sweater and walk out of your room nonchalantly. 

“Oh Winnie I just don’t know what to do—”

“Mom? Mrs. Barnes– Bucky? What’s going on?”

Your mom runs over and hugs you then pinches your arm. “Where were you, young lady?!”

“I was just in my room, mom.”

“I swear if you were with that Hodge guy, Y/N I already told you I don’t like him. You’re not to see him again.” Your mom threatened while Bucky stood there barely suppressing a smile. “Why can’t you get a nice boy like Barnes. Winnie’s son is a nice young man, appropriate.”

If only your mom knew how inappropriate you two already had been last night. 

“Well, actually I–” Bucky tried to interrupt but you cut him off. 

“Shut it, Barnes!”

“Y/N! Don’t be rude.” Your mom scolded you and turned back to Bucky’s mom. “Winnie, darling can you stop by for tea after lunch?”

“It’d be my pleasure.” 

___________________________

While Winnie and your mom have tea…

You sit on the fire escape again, this time Bucky joins you. The excuse for him being there was sharing your English literature book Bucky had ‘misplaced’ his. So you sat there pressed up against Bucky, your head gently resting on his shoulder and his left arm wrapped around your waist. 

“I’m afraid he won’t come back, my father,” you took a deep breath as you confessed your deepest fears to Bucky. “I’m afraid he’s going to die in this war, Buck. I can’t–” you let your sobs escape. Bucky holds you as you slowly stop crying, giving you forehead kisses and squeezing your hand.

He gently squeezed your hand again to get your attention. “Darlin, I know that I should wait for him for this but I’ll ask your momma if I have to. I’ll ask her today for her blessing. I want to marry you, take care of you–even your mamma. God forbid your father doesn’t make it back, I want you to feel safe and taken care of.”

“Buck, that’s sweet but aren’t we too young?”

“My dad married my ma when they were just fifteen. We’re almost eighteen. I don’t see the difference.” Bucky pressed his lips to your forehead. “Would you want to? I’m sorry I didn’t really ask. Would you like to marry me?” 

Bucky stares down at you with his big blue shiny eyes, full of affection for you. You couldn’t say no even if you wanted to. “James, it would be a dream come true. Yes. I would love to marry you.” 

Bucky takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. “I need a minute to talk with our mothers. I’ll be right back.”

Bucky untangles himself from you and turns back to sneak into your house through your bedroom window, only to find his mom, your mom and your dad staring back at him. 

“Umm, Sir I can explain.” Bucky starts as he tumbles through the open window.

“Sir?” You turn around, “Dad?!” you screech. 

You scramble to get into your room but as soon as you do, your dad pulls you into his arms. And all you can do is cry happy tears. “You’re back!”

He buries his face in your hair and hums happily. “I am darling. I’m home.” He smiles down at you and squeezes your cheeks and drops a kiss to your forehead. Your dad makes eye contact with Bucky, who stands by behind you. “You have our blessing, son.” 

“You…approve? But- but we’ve only just met.” Bucky stammers like an idiot.

“I heard– we all did, we heard what you said to my little girl. I know enough, James Buchanan Barnes, y/n would ramble on and on about you on the letters I got from home.” 

“Dad!” You groaned and buried your face into his chest. “You’re embarrassing me.”

Bucky extended his hand to your father, “Please, sir, call me Bucky.” 

[slowd1ving]

✦ III. OH, HOW TRAGIC IS HE

'It was an accident.  “I’m sorry. Ah, shit—” Something wet splashed your cheek, followed by a fumbling hand that tried to brush it away but only succeeded in smearing the thin liquid across your face awkwardly. “Don’t— fuck, I’ll stay with you, alright?”  Fingers wrapped around your own, flesh against bone. Pulsing life alongside a silent end.  The last thing on your lips was an apology, in the form of a salty tear dripping from above.' • . * cursed prince ratio + alchemist m reader rough design for minoan fashion ratio here warnings: video game violence, death? kind of? tyranny (are we surprised), male-coded reader (or at least the in-game avatar is) wc: 11.9k

LAMENT OF OUROBOROS MASTERLIST

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

‘If man’s hour were to come, no one could escape it: not the brave, nor the cowardly. In the case of the city-state of Metis—referred to by romantics as the ‘Eroded Kingdom’—its collapse was widely regarded as inevitable. Frankly, as al-Ghazali pointed out in his ‘Fall of Empires’, Metis was inherently doomed to fail from its intrinsic characteristics: military hubris (relying on the susceptible and corrupt polemarch Aetos in the final decade of the kingdom’s existence); economic failure (due to the recessions Aha created and failed to mitigate); the subsequent loss of capital, and perhaps, most poignantly, its alienation of alchemists and increasingly alarming anti-heretical laws which provoked regional rebellions that soon spiralled into the so-called ‘Scholar’s March’ of 786 of the Attican Calendar, or year 352 of the Amber Age¹. 

Who could’ve predicted that the citizens could grow so united in the face of such tyranny? For years the Metisians had endured the brutal taxation, the reforms in education, and the yokes of the cult-like Elation—the catalyst could only be the mass executions and disappearances that occurred the year prior the March. Of course, scholars like Ignis the Argumentative would insist it was the sudden disappearance of capable officials that set the cataclysm into motion—but further examination by other contemporaries reproached this interpretation as there was no real policy difference between the lawmakers in terms of addressing both long- and short-term triggers that led to the fall of Old Metis, as Antiquus the Elder points out in his ‘Treatises of the Archipelago’². 

Now, a millennium later, New Metis continues to repeat its historical mistakes from a bygone age—continuing legislation to heavily restrict and outright ban certain schools of thought. For most of the New Metis citizens, this isn’t an issue; but this begs the question, when will it be a problem? Tyranny has not been redefined—it’s still hiding in New Metis today, under the smiling masks of your politicians! Wake up, New Metis!’ 

— Inana, P. (1433 2AA). Civilisation: Modeling Metis as a continuation of a failed empire. Journal Politik, 47 (3), 101-110

. 　⁺ ✦ 

Like all days, the pills were particularly hard to swallow. Chalky, bitter—a tepid medley of medicine that neither made you more energetic nor erased the hangover of the liquor still remaining in your system. It was an unfortunate cocktail: vitamins and painkillers tossed from a drugstore shelf with no regard for its expiry date but rather the price and time you were running out of. 

It was a tepid day, that day was. Humid streams of vapour clung to the asphalt as you stumbled out of the store with a plastic, rustling bag slung onto your wrist hurriedly—reusable coffee cup grasped tight in one hand, the dose of tablets clutched painstakingly in the other. It felt like a rush to work, and perhaps it was; this day was like all others, in hindsight. For others, the routine mundanity of your life might’ve been hellish; for you, however, the brimstone and fire had long faded into a tired cliché, where all the impact of your suffering trickled into a steady background hum. 

There was a sort of beauty in the aches and pains of your life—not in the pretentious way, not in the nihilistic way—but rather in the sense that one might feel a brow raise at the sight of a pattern embroidered delicately into cloth. If you were to give a less quixotic analogy, it would be the satisfaction of a computer programme doing its job: lines upon lines of code melding seamlessly into a never ending loop with no errors. 

Yes. Comfort came in the shape of these grey roads, these monochromatic buildings, and the stink of pollution on your way to your monotonous job. Comfort came in the ritualistic bread (drugstore painkillers) and wine (bitter, cheap coffee) that you partook in each morning after Friday. Comfort came in the perfunctory, solid thump of sole against pavement; the cat you’d passed by for the past month; and the worn earbuds that were slowly reaching the limits with their tinny quality and exposed wire. 

It was a painful life. It was a painless life. 

Tragedy seeped in through the sterile nitrile of your gloves. Tragedy ghosted its fingers over your polyester lab coat, and tapped on the clear plastic of your goggles. Tragedy weaved through the tired yawns as you spun on your stool and waited for the centrifuge to settle to a halt. Maybe if you crossed your fingers enough, the seconds would pass by quicker, and maybe there’d be something decent in the cafeteria. Well. It was never worth the money, but then again, there was nothing to save for. No occasions to buy nice clothes for. No particular want or need for holidays. 

No one to treat, either, not even the nice old lady in the apartment next to yours. Not anymore, at least. 

You sighed, and the matter in the Petri dish sighed with you. 

And thus, a sense of purpose continued eluding you—but so did any profound pain. This was ordinary, as an achromatic existence like this didn’t stand out in the grand machine, and you didn’t think it ever would. That was fine. That was expected. In fact, it was downright comforting that you wouldn’t particularly matter in the long run. 

(Is it truly an anodyne, like you make it seem? Where is the solace, when your teeth worry at your lips as you gaze at human connexion?)

You lied. You lied, but who would persecute you for your sin, when the sin was merely doubt about your reality?

Like all other days, it began with a healthy dosage of denial, and perhaps that is what led to the events that transpired. 

. 　⁺ ✦ 

In retrospect, it was practically expected that your tired life would beget yet another tired cliché. 

There was something completely unoriginal in the series of misfortunes that befell the proletariat salaryman (read: you). In novels, movies, and the occasional game, the most ordinary of souls stumbled across a situation that chose them. For once, someone in their weary lives had need of them; not as a pushover, nor a lackey, but someone courageous and brave who became a hero. Forums and comments oft scorned these overused plotlines—and you agreed, of course—but it was an interesting premise to think about. 

“There’s a survivor on the third floor—”

Still, no matter how intriguing the promise of escape from the mundane was, it was pointless. It wouldn’t happen. 

“Hey— can you get up? Blink if you can hear me, alright? 

The accident in the lab was almost poetic. Of course, when a protagonist encountered an explosion in their place of work, there was always an accompanying montage that indicated something was wrong. Whether it be the change in key in the background chords, or a close up of cracking machinery, the audience got some sort of closure as to why. Was it fate? Was it the cruel machinations of man? Was it just an unfortunate accident?

“We need oxygen here—he’s going into shock! Help—you—get a gurney immediately!”

But actually, there was none of that fanfare for you. Just a sluggish warmth that crawled from your limbs and back into your heart, from limbs far too cold to move. No, not cold. You simply couldn’t feel them—much like when a body part suddenly fell asleep on you. 

If you scrunched your face a bit, you could smell the acrid wisps of rubble: paint chips and stone all congealing into an antiquated scent. You couldn’t exactly see, but maybe that was for the better. 

“What’s happen—” Your tongue felt leaden in your mouth: heavy and contorted as you awkwardly sounded out your question. An explosion? A gas leak? A mine that somehow went off? There was something wet dribbling from your mouth; tasting like white hot iron, seeping past your aching lips. A hero would know. A hero would have that information playing out panel by panel while they bled out, farewells and anguish for their loved ones already melding into the fabric of existence. 

Ow. 

“Shh, don’t talk, okay? We’ll get you out of here, alright?” There weren’t any reassurances for your state. No ‘you’ll be okay’, no ‘stay with me, alright?’. You weren’t stupid. You weren’t, but it was in that moment when you wished you were—dropping out before doing your degree and doctorate, keeping far from the lab, and holding on to your life with blissful ignorance on your side. 

You opened your mouth. 

“No, you don’t need to say anything, alright?” The voice was kind, you noted drowsily. If not a little clumsy, swaddling you in a foil blanket like some overgrown child. Well. You couldn’t see it, and neither could you feel its texture, but you could feel your limbs lolling this way and that way at the movements—like some grotesque, decommissioned marionette. 

At least it didn’t hurt.  

“Thank you,” you whispered. There was nothing outrageous about your last words. Like the rest of your life, the syllables were as ordinary as they came. A quiet beginning. A quiet end. There was nobody to say goodbye to, nobody to wait for past the veil. 

It was an accident. 

“I’m sorry. Ah, shit—” Something wet splashed your cheek, followed by a fumbling hand that tried to brush it away but only succeeded in smearing the thin liquid across your face awkwardly. “Don’t— fuck, I���ll stay with you, alright?” 

Fingers wrapped around your own, flesh against bone. Pulsing life alongside a silent end. 

The last thing on your lips was an apology, in the form of a salty tear dripping from above. 

. 　⁺ ✦

“Hey, wake up.”

Death came in the gentle touch of a rolling breeze; riding on its coattails was the disembodied laughter of a child, alongside the kiss of three words that stirred your sleep-crusted lashes. Death seeped into the loamy scent of petrichor: soaked past the balmy fragrance of wildflowers and grass, against the clean soap of freshly-laundered linen. Death trailed its sepulchral fingers past the damp ground cradling your slumbering body—rustling and tugging at the jewel-toned robe draping your limbs that rose and fell with your chest. 

“How peaceful,” you murmured, and the mouthfeel of the words was as crisp as water straight from a burbling brook. Copper no longer defiled your lips, and neither did the burning heat of your dying syllables. Rather, cool air replaced the oily blood that slid across your tongue mere moments ago. 

Had you trespassed the veil warding life from death?

Peeking at the haze hanging over your head, something had clearly gone wrong with your passage to the afterlife. No, was it even an afterlife? Clumsily, like a foal stumbling on its hooves for the first time, you sat up shakily—to find your limbs sprightly and healthy, with none of the gelid quality you’d felt before you woke up. In fact, your head was clearer than ever: not a hint of any throbbing in your temples.

Even the very breeze felt different: fuller, yet decidedly more empty. 

In hindsight, it was likely shock that delayed your registration of the very obvious problem at hand. Rolling, verdant fields aside, the firmament stretching from horizon to horizon shone bright with two heavenly bodies. Were you seeing double?

“Two suns,” you muttered, squinting at the brilliant sky. Brilliant, though it wasn’t blue like you’d expected—but a more melancholy array of hues, even with the twin bodies illuminating the vast canvas. Two suns, an unfamiliar sky, and alien constellations littering it. “Where the fuck am I?”

Great. Wonderful. A new headache had presented itself, because clearly you were no longer on Earth—which now begged the question, where were you?

Or, more poignantly, who were you? 

The first law of thermodynamics proposed energy was neither created nor destroyed, simply transferred from one form to another. In turn, perhaps it was less surprising that you’d reawakened in another form—rather, the puzzling element was how this new vessel came to be. Its movements were familiar, its shape and flow of limbs, too, was an exact replica of your Earthbound form, but far less bone-weary than you had been. 

You died. This you accepted. 

You… reawoke. Passed on? Ended up in a coma? Got stuck in limbo? That was something far more difficult to fathom: flung into a world far removed from your own, it was hard to suppress the epistemic needs of a human. 

Would it have been easier, being reborn into this otherworldly place, without any memories of before your death? Was it… normal, continuing existence like this? Were there any precedents? 

What the hell was going on?

It was perhaps on a whim that you finally looked down, gazing at the lush field and your vivid clothes. Staring at the garb that adorned you, you neither recognised the cut of the material nor the rich dye that stained it—but you supposed that was par for the course when not even the sky looked familiar to you. That was expected. 

The translucent, almost glass-like window that popped up over in your line of vision was decidedly not. Immediately, your focus snapped from the delicate embroidery right on to the rolling script appearing; a series of whorls and lines that somehow resonated with your tired brain. 

“Rida mis vizenia,” you murmured as the syllables made themselves known to you, something you didn’t even need to translate manually. Your breath caught in your throat when the mechanical pronunciation loosened your fumbling tongue—like speaking your mother tongue after decades of disuse. 

You squinted at the block of text, alongside the tiny mannequin depicting what you wore. 

[Robes of Ambiguity (◼◼◼◼◼ Robes): a style of clothing popular among New Metis officials wishing to keep their exact station unknown. Neither this colourful palette nor this traditional embroidery belongs to any particular rank nor department, ◼◼ning those wishing to stay obscure typically favour these well-made garments; ◼◼◼◼◼◼   ◼◼ ◼◼◼. There’s more to the wearer than meets the eye, you know? ◼◼◼◼ limited to those of high rank, thus regular civilians also enjoy wearing these for more special occasions.]

What was this, a game? An exasperated groan left your mouth at the new possibility—furious due to that, but also the lack of any helpful information given by these garments. No clue about your identity, only that these clothes were from New Metis. New Metis. There was nothing—no sudden recognition, no extra-heavy thump of your heart, and certainly not any memories from this new body that could point you in any direction. 

The only thing that was truly helpful was the appearance of this floating, rectangular entity: two valuable clues had sprung from it, after all.

One: this interface could be the light that would guide you, providing its information was reliable. Game or not, it could very well be that this apparent saviour was some sick ploy, for whatever reason. It was a welcome sight regardless; you’d seen it countless times in various media, whether it be in novels or video games. 

Still, you eyed the screen sceptically. Who was behind it, anyway?

Two: it appeared there was still information you weren’t privy to, judging by the error marks against the azure window. Or maybe this information was never intended for you in the first place; the screen blurred and glitched like it couldn’t wait to escape your view. Like cotton candy, its shape dissolved and formed just as capriciously in the rolling breeze: melting and undulating with virtual strands of data. 

[Name: ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼, working currently as ◼◼◼◼◼◼. One of unknown origin, fluent in common tongue, honey tongue, and the ancient tongue of thought.]

“That’s it?” you muttered incredulously. That was your face displayed on the pixelated screen, your name that kept ebbing and flowing from existence like an evasive childhood song. Even the damn clothing you donned had a more detailed log of information—and the important part was erased from existence. 

It was the latter part that intrigued you most, unknown occupation aside. Common tongue. It felt right when describing the syllables leaving your mouth, even if you hadn’t realised you’d been talking to yourself in it for the past however many minutes. 

With a long-winded sigh, you unfocused your gaze and it seemed the window sighed with relief too: fading out with nary a blip. If this was a game, clearly you weren’t the protagonist; no cutscene greeted you, not even an introduction to the error-laden system it seemed to have anomalously assigned you. 

Honey tongue. 

Tongue of thought. 

They were important enough to mention, important enough that they were present in your profile without regard for anything else. But in a way, the lack of expectations was nice. A simple blank resumé, waiting to develop into a ‘you’. ‘You’ weren’t assuming someone else’s identity. ‘You’ were freshly dumped anew, without the ties to burden you to an overused plot and allegiance. 

But that wasn’t a tangent to mull over at the moment. There were far more pressing matters to contend with. 

Think. You were in the vast open country, with neither food, water, nor a map. Neither horizon boasted any traces of civilisation, which made your situation slightly more dire. No landmarks. No forests. No creatures either, but the abundance of flora called for pollination, right? Unless, of course, the rules of biology and physics have all been messed up… what’s the gravitational field strength on this planet…. is this even the same universe as Earth… does this follow video game mechanics or is it its own world… what does an atom look like….

Needless to say, the post-rebirth clarity hit you hard. 

“Useless,” you muttered in common tongue—turned to a long string of foreign-yet-familiar profanity as you tried to switch back to your mother tongue. It was only after a tense concentration that the word ‘fuck’ breached your stumbling lips; though, by the reverence and relief in your voice, nobody would ever think you were letting loose imprecations in this serene landscape. 

But that begged the question: to what were you saying useless to?

As it turned out, the hand rummaging through the luxurious fabric draped across you came back barren—utterly empty as you stared at the flesh, haggard. 

There was no map, and you could forget about a compass. 

There was no sustenance. 

There wasn’t even a fly to pitifully leave your vacuous pocket. 

Instead, the pulling and tugging of these sumptuous clothes revealed elaborate lines inking your roughened skin—colours melded into labyrinthine formulae you instinctively understood. Somehow, the intricate tattoos that wove against your dermis and shimmered expectantly—just like the window that faded in and out of view capriciously—resembled the long strings of formulae you’d derived and memorised for your degree and doctorate, to the point where blood dribbled from your nose each night. Metallic letters, meaningless without the painstaking effort behind them. 

But…

Your brows furrowed. Inked upon your arms and torso, and likely extending to your very legs, were shifting chromatic designs that visually could not be the same formulae you knew. That was what anyone from Earth would say, but something in your gut told you to decipher and understand these complex designs on you—like the most delicate of embroideries on a magnificent tapestry, your body was covered in the most exquisite of patterns. 

On your wrist, the characters grew incandescent as you clumsily sounded out the tongue of thought. This was neither the familiar shape of Earth languages, nor was it the common tongue you’d grown accustomed to—but something far more ancient, something far more unconstrained. It was guttural, it was refined: it was everything in between and outside of it as you mouthed the patterns on you aloud. 

“◼◼◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼.” Equivalent exchange, you finally read out—and something rose within as collateral. It was neither your soul nor your life, but a warm, pulsing energy: enough to make you drowsy with its absence. 

A prayer fluttered in the wind, just like the slow blink of your lashes as they fought to keep awake—heavy as they were from the price offered for your request. 

“Want… answers,” you slurred, unintelligible to all but the concentric circles forming beneath you and seeping into your flesh. “Humans.”

And the world whispered back, hearing your supplication. 

. 　⁺ ✦

It was with a dazed (though quite refreshed, you had to say) sort of stupor that you woke to the sound of light footsteps. Senses that had somehow been honed to a fine, sharp point now served you well as you stirred at the slightest tremors in the ground. In fact, the smallest of changes in air flow had already put you on high alert—but something was telling you to wait it out. 

People. 

Your plea had altered a predestined course. 

[Name: ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼, working currently as an a◼che◼◼. One of unknown origin, fluent in common tongue, honey tongue, and the ancient tongue of thought.]

A◼che◼◼.

Change was good. Change would free you from stagnancy, even if you weren’t aware of its shift. 

. 　⁺ ✦

She gave a sweeping bow: complete with the elegant curl of her hand and not a strand of fiery hair out of place. It was perfect in all its points—though you didn’t quite know why it registered as such. A perfunctory standard greeting… complete with, but not limited to, the hand gesture that typically denotes merchants or nomadic ones… The thoughts whirled incoherently alongside the fragmented cerulean window that intermittently, though no information of the woman before you appeared. 

“Himeko, of house Murata, greets thee.” She spoke with the polite dialect of common tongue—the specific intonation in her words carried a query in return for her civility: who are you? Why are you here? Behind her was a sizable procession of wagons—or at least, what you thought were wagons. Their elegant shape was utterly unlike any of the crude wooden ones you’d seen; rather, colourful cars of various forms were interlinked. Almost like a train, if a train was pulled by beasts the size of a small hut: complete with a steely carapace and long, floppy ears that were scarily like a rabbit’s. 

You swallowed. No longer could Earth be considered your point of reference. 

This was not Earth. This was not Earth, so you gave the most basic of bows back—a hand placed gently on your chest sincerely, eyes fluttering closed—and hoped she didn’t take affront. This was not Earth, thus you didn’t quite know whether the abrupt guffaw she gave at your awkward greeting was positive or not. This was not Earth, therefore her continued introduction of being a caravan master meant little to you. Navigator and caravan master of the Blazing Trail, she’d summarised, though you were distracted by the glitching window that appeared promptly in the moment she spoke. 

[Himeko Mura◼◼a. Navigator and caravan master of the Blazing Trail, a renowned nomadic force known for its astute inter- and intra-continental diplomacy. Its ◼◼◼ makes it almost like a private army, though none can ◼◼ hire it. ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼ she is utterly astute and a brilliant engineer.]

It was a name you didn’t recognise. Maybe if you looked through your games library on your old laptop, or pulled up each and every novel you’d read, maybe there’d be something similar—but at the moment, none of the information resembled anything you knew. 

The caravan master was kind, if not a little eccentric. Her kindness came in the form of a seat round the elegant burner—the two suns had long since winked past the horizon, after all, and in their place shone a lonely moon. 

It’s warm, you thought.

Her kindness also came in the round shape of a bowl of stew: handed unceremoniously into your fumbling hands by a hare-like creature who seemed all too accustomed to Miss Himeko bringing along strange things with her. The stares you received were curious, but not hostile—though one dark-haired man with frigid irises seemed to gaze at you as if saying ‘another one?’. And as unreliable as your system was, there were no introductions afforded to the other few nomads. 

“Could you tell me about New Metis?” The meat was salty and gamey as you chewed and swallowed, accompanied by the flatbread that needed no ingredients save coarse flour and a clear liquid that was likely this planet’s form of water. In fact, the bread’s unexpected soft texture distracted you enough that you almost didn’t see Miss Himeko’s eyes pause right on your clothes. 

Her blood-hued lips opened and closed, quite incredulously at that. From the cut of clearly Metisian garb, to the Metisian style of greeting, would you not have been the better authority than a nomad who flitted from place to place?

“Don’t get me wrong,” you continued in a more informal dialect, as did she after she invited you to sit with her round the small, contained fire. It flickered green in the engraved metal bowl, then a blazing azure. “I woke up and couldn’t remember anything, except my name and the name New Metis.” 

Without an ounce of shame, it was far better to simply confess your shortcomings, rather than masquerade as something you were not. 

“Better off than me,” the girl with cotton candy-pink hair sighed in solidarity. The tips of your fingers burned at the sudden acknowledgement—unused to any attention on you for prolonged lengths of time. “I didn’t remember anything after I awoke and Himeko found me, not even my name. I got called March 7th after the day I was dislodged from ice—funny how life works, huh?”

Does she make a habit of picking up amnesiacs or something? The fire crackled with your silent query. But before that, there was something in the girl’s words that gave you pause: lodged glaringly in her very name. 

March 7th. March 7th. Spoken with the common tongue accent, but undeniably the same system of dates as Earth—why? Unless this place shared ties to your former planet, it was nigh impossible for the calendar to be the exact same. 

Unless this really is a game. That would make more sense if this world was a creation of your past one; if small details were to match up with what you knew from Earth, then the evidence would no doubt point to this world being present in Earthen media. 

Nonetheless, you couldn’t take this place lightly, even if it wasn’t real. After all, there were books that took place on Earth—and that alone didn’t make the planet fictional. 

Nothing was out of the question anymore. 

“March 7th?” you muttered, half to yourself, half-probing. “What does the calendar currently look like?”

The cost of figuring out whether Earth played a part in the formation of this place was a mere question and a few scraps of your dignity. 

“Worldwide, the Amber Calendar is currently used—twelve months, three hundred and sixty five and a quarter days,” the man with those frigid eyes answered in a clipped, but not unfriendly tone. It was as if he was used to patiently explaining information to people, over and over—and for that he immediately became more useful than the stupid system windows. 

Thank you, March 8th, you replied, silently. 

“Split into twelve months? January, February and so forth?” you probed. The month names felt awkward to insert into the smooth flow of the common tongue, but there were no looks of confusion thrown your way. Well, shit. 

“Yes, that’s correct,” he affirmed quietly—gaze turning slightly less guarded in the face of what appeared to be an idiot.  “Are you sure you don’t remember anything?”

Three hundred and sixty five days and a quarter. What an oddly specific number to assign, even arbitrarily. It seemed the developers had unconsciously used Earth as a point of reference, once more. Or maybe this world used the same metric to assign ‘years’, with the exact same length of time it took to orbit the binary pair in the sky. In that case, it would truly be an amazing coincidence, would it not, that the angular frequency of orbit and the distance travelled by this new planet was exactly the same?

“How long is a day?” It was your final question, one so earnest he had to scrap the thought of you purposefully asking stupid questions. In actuality, the passion in your voice was a very final verification. 

“Twenty-four hours, with an hour being sixty minutes and a minute being sixty seconds.” Prompt and curt, in that melodious voice.  

“Thank you.” And there was a smile on your face this time, so mellow and warm that he couldn’t help but duck his head back to his bowl at your sincerity. “Looks like I won’t have to relearn as much as I thought.”

“Ah— right,” he murmured, but the crack in his voice went unnoticed by all but his dinner. That, and the countless stars dotting the ever-changing sky. 

“But New Metis still eludes me,” you sighed, dipping the spoon back into the broth. The utensil was weirder than the ones on earth—deeper and more cone-like in the centre, like a miniature ladle. It made savouring the complex flavours far easier; both piquante broth and the salty game were eagerly wolfed down by your hungry mouth.

“We’re pretty close to it now, actually, only around ten ro away.” The set of Himeko’s mouth was thoughtful as she unstoppered the carafe at her side, taking a large swig from it. Then, from an ornate tube hanging from her belt, she slid out a scroll of what appeared to be expensive parchment—revealing an intricate map of what appeared to be the side of a continent alongside a large archipelago. “New Metis is located—here, on that central island—and past the straits, the mountains on the continent signal the Borderlands. Well, it would be more accurate to say that these islands are all technically part of Metis—but the capital, New Metis, is located on the central one specifically. We’re currently on the northern isles.”

“I see.” You used the remaining carb to mop up the last of the stew in your bowl, scooping up what appeared to be aromatics—onion-equivalents, maybe?—and the last of the umami broth. “I think I’ll get more answers if I go there myself. Is there anything I should be wary of while I’m there?”

Ding! Something chimed, but you paid it no heed.

“Well, if you’re not a scholar, then regulations are a bit more lax. Uh, new legislation was passed quite recently, but it’s mostly just caution for nomads and merchants. If you’re completely new to the city—that is, if your memories of New Metis are completely gone, then the anti-heretical laws are pretty tough,” the man with inky curls rambled, causing your eyes to snap from Miss Himeko to his face in slight incredulity at his sudden talkativeness.

Ding! Ding!

“Anti-heretical?” you questioned, already feeling a headache form at the sudden onslaught of religion. “Could you expand on that?” 

Ding!

“Ah, yes,” he cleared his throat, setting his bowl down by his side with an awkward clunk. “Um, strictly speaking, they’re colloquially dubbed anti-heresy—since the legislation condemns it based on more fraudulent grounds than religious, but everyone who’s ever stepped foot in New Metis—”

Ding! You subconsciously swatted the window away as you stared right at him. 

“Dan Heng, get to the point before he falls asleep,” March 7th interrupted: looking at the man completely askance, as if asking ‘can you believe this guy?’. 

“Uh, sorry,” he said sheepishly, with a self-conscious smile. Dan Heng. Dan Heng. The name was no more familiar than any other, but it was pleasant to sound out. “They’ve banned most magical arts in the city and the wider span of islands for several centuries now, actually—”

Ding!

Irritatedly, you glanced at your hand, only to find an updated profile shining against the back of your wrist. What—you squinted, feeling a tad bit more sleepy, before the rolling script faded into focus. 

“—Heng, don’t just say magical arts without explaining what those entail.”

[Name: ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼, working currently as an a◼che◼◼. One of unknown origin, fluent in common tongue, honey tongue, and the ancient tongue of thought.]

But… the section in the middle was glitching particularly furiously, as though it were urgently trying to tell you something. You furrowed your brow. What? 

Ding!

“Stuff like subverting from typical paths and orthodox elements—instead gaining power through sorcery, witchcraft and—”

Ding! Ding!

[Name: ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼, working currently as an alchemist. One of unknown origin, fluent in common tongue, honey tongue, and the ancient tongue of thought.]

“—alchemy.” 

You paused. You stared. The headache you’d been anticipating finally had its advent. 

(Equivalent exchange.) 

“I don’t think you’ll have anything to worry about,” March 7th smiled reassuringly, but her beaming face felt more like a threat. “Do you remember what your job was?”

“I’m a sculptor,” you deadpanned, working your jaw. It was said on a whim, but who knew the wavering between an art or a chemistry doctorate would finally come in handy today? 

Ding!

[Name: ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼, working currently as an alchemist. One of unknown origin, fluent in common tongue, honey tongue, and the ancient tongue of thought. Although practising alchemists typically require various apparatuses to perform transmutation and practise the law of equivalent exchange, ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼ is a bit unique in that his body is the medium for the price instead—rather than formulae in common tongue on paper, the tattoos he’s earned in the tongue of thought are far more effective. After all, he is the only alchemist to have survived the life ‘price’.]

What… did that mean?

“Life price,” you murmured in concentration. Was that related to your death? Not only that, the sudden influx of knowledge made you dizzy. It seemed you’d go undetected as an alchemist for the foreseeable future, but what were the limits? 

“Sorry, did you say something?” Himeko glanced to her left, but you only shook your head in defeat. 

Was that what you did earlier? Summoned help by offering your energy as collateral? Was it also your life that you were offering in exchange? More importantly, what did it mean by life price? Did your meaningless death coalesce into boundless regrets? 

Your heart throbbed. 

“Here.” An elegant silver chalice nudged the delicate patterns on the back of your hands, and you startled—all with what you could only assume was a very stupid expression on your face. Dan Heng looked equally taken aback, fumbling a hurried apology on his lips in his lilting common tongue (“Ack, sorry—you just looked out of it so I thought you needed something to slake your thirst.”). A crescent smile formed briefly on your face as you stared at his honest face; far less world-weary than yours, far more eager. You accepted the goblet, running your fingers across its intricate engravings. 

“Thank you,” you replied warmly, taking a sip of the sweet liquid within—some saccharine nectar that had a similar tartness to cherry. “It’s delicious.”

His fingers touched yours as he settled on your other side by the flames. He’s shivering slightly, you noted—a slight trembling that was out of character on this warm night. Well, you washed down the observation with drink thoughtfully, you always did run on the hotter side. 

To business—you instead prioritised, which was to figure out what game you’d landed in exactly. 

“Um,” you turned to Dan Heng as you munched on the fresh fruit set out, juice dripping down your fingers. Its flesh was orange and tender, seeping sweet across your skin as you tore into its fragrant body. Yum. Licking your fingers clean, it was perhaps for the best that you didn’t witness the rosy flush that spread across his face. After all, you were preoccupied with the equations that now heated the inside of your mouth—squiggling formulae now taking root on your tongue, all warm and fuzzy. “Have there been any heroes lately?”

“Hmm?” he started, fingers fidgeting against his own, well-crafted robes. “You’d… uh… need to be more specific than that.”

“People we look up to? People who’ve contributed to developing their nations? People who’ve made leaps and progressions in their industries?” Himeko interjected, and the three questions made you realise that this wasn’t a two-dimensional pixelated world, but a real one. Numbskull, you criticised yourself—of course something as ambiguous as ‘hero’ was wholly open to interpretation. 

“Like…” you paused. How the fuck would you describe it? A protagonist? Someone who saved the world? This looked like an open-world RPG, so maybe— “...a travelling hero who took care of threats to the world? Alongside companions? Defeated evil entities? Was extremely well-known globally?”

Your questions were as unsure as Himeko’s face was. 

“That’s not my expertise,” she answered hesitantly. “There are quite a few who fit the description, but perhaps you’re thinking of Akivili, the late founder of the Blazing Trail?” 

Akivili. That name didn’t ring a bell either, but it couldn’t hurt to probe. “When… was the Blazing Trail established?”

“Ah… about a millennium ago,” she replied, somewhat abashed. Your brows furrowed—of course, transmigrating into a game didn’t necessarily mean you’d get into the same timeline as the hero, but a thousand years… 

“Any prophesied heroes?” you questioned desperately.

“Hold on,” Dan Heng murmured beside you thoughtfully—tapping his fingers against his knee. “There’s a more recent one that makes more sense.”

“How recent is recent?” you deadpanned. 

“Three hundred years ago, this time,” he furrowed his brows. Okay, but there was still hope if this still wasn’t the protagonist. “This ‘hero’ got rid of the Stellarons, the countless seeds of destruction from which spawned countless monsters, with his companions. Then, after his glory, he abruptly disappeared.”

It sounded like a classic conclusion—a hero returning back to their homeworld after the game reached its end. Of course, had you not died back on Earth, maybe you would have despaired more; this protagonist might’ve held the key to allowing you to go back home. But as it stood, his existence would only serve to inform you exactly where you were stuck. 

“And this hero’s name?” you prompted. A slight foreboding trickled down your spine as you waited. 

“Odysseus.”

Odysseus. Odysseus. Odysseus. It sounded unpleasantly familiar, not just because it was the name of a classical hero, but also—

“What’s the name of this planet, again?” You prayed it wasn’t so. With a head bowed in supplication, and fingers ardently crossed, you were the picture of devout want. 

“Ouroboros,” he concluded, and it was then that a tear slipped down your face. 

. 　⁺ ✦

Lament of Ouroboros. As the title suggested, the indie, open-world RPG narrated the woes of the planet and the hero come to save it—a format popular among most, if not all, adventure-themed video games. It was on a whim you downloaded it: clicking on the surprisingly well-drawn icon and quickly skimming the synopsis to escape your boring life for a bit. On forums it was well-known enough to be frequently discussed, but it didn’t have the widespread recognition to garner severe criticisms. 

With a large mug of tea and an abandoned pack of sweets, you’d booted up that game one August afternoon—worn keys clacking smoothly against your fingers as you tapped out your name. It was a nice interface, you acknowledged while erasing all traces of ‘Odysseus’. The graphics may have been the standard open world fields, but there was something charming about the two cheery suns and pretty backdrop of the sky. 

Your mouse selected the specialisation generator randomly, though you hadn’t paid attention enough to the animation apart from noting what appeared to be a sword, then a staff at one frame in particular. A warrior, and a mage, you observed in slight interest, but ultimately it didn’t matter what it picked. 

Although, neither warrior nor mage appeared as your final selection: rather, a pair of ornate scales floated into view from the tranquil lake. 

{Alchemist (S-Class) (hidden).]

“Cool,” you’d said at the time, clicking past the opening animation and into the story. Your brief fascination was just that—brief. The story was somewhat engaging, yet the plotline was saturated with tropes you’d seen time and time again in various games. A protagonist chosen to save the world, a home to return to, and companions that were pushy at best, and completely irritating at worst. 

Maybe if you hadn’t played through and seen countless media like this, the plotline might’ve been more engaging—but for your tired, exhausted mind, this clichéd game was not unlike your clichéd, boring life. 

It took the span of one afternoon for you to promptly delete Lament from your laptop, staring at the dregs of your tea in defeat. In any case, only the hero’s name and the actual title was retained in your disinterested memory: no lore, no plotline apart from what you could easily piece together based on context, and absolutely zero clue of the ending of the story. 

“Are you alright?” March 7th’s shoulder bumped yours on the large landbeast. The carapace was surprisingly comfortable to ride on, if you ignored the large tusks coming from that furry thing’s mouth, and the perpetual death stare in its red eyes. “I know it’s hard waking up and not knowing anything.”

“Yeah,” you replied quietly, resisting the urge to bash your head in. “It is hard.”

Seriously, what the hell did you do to reincarnate into this shitty RPG?

. 　⁺ ✦

“Do you think he’s grateful for the new opportunity?” In HER deft palms, the distaff continued to spin as the maiden began the conversation. Everything started with HER—the youngest, the most rash, but also the most creative. As it were, the threads SHE spun were of highest quality; mixed with the most tragic emotions and the most joyful, but humans would never appreciate the work SHE did for them. “His life was rather miserable, was it not?”

“He should be,” the matron scorned. HER own fingers unravelled the spool, pressing HER rod to measure adequate life spans fairly—for SHE was nothing if not just. “He’ll never grasp just how much probability we had to sacrifice to tamper with his string of fate.”

“You know mortals. They’re never grateful, Lachesis.” The hag’s shears didn’t hesitate to cut the string where marked—HER blinded eyes needed not to see in order to precisely locate where the matron had allotted an end. After all, THEIR habits were known to each other from the very beginning of time, when the universe was still in its cradle. 

“I was against this from the start, you hear?” Lachesis complained. SHE was the most cynical out of the three, or as SHE liked to describe: the most pragmatic. 

“Yes, yes, yet you were the one who opened up communications to find a suitable vessel for his rebirth,” the maiden scoffed. HER words were callous and sharp, but they parsed directly into the heart of the matter: the Moirai were far more soft-hearted than they appeared,

“If I hadn’t, then I would’ve missed the opportunity for Atropos to owe me a favour,” Lachesis returned, turning back to HER ruler. Those who knew HER saw the abashedness in her bowed head and clenched fists. 

“Ha. As if you weren’t also rooting for the prince still entrapped in stone,” Atropos cackled. HER gnarled hands were the only ones that paused in their duties as SHE wheezed with laughter; even as tears ran down HER wrinkled cheeks. 

“He’s paid too much already. Who else will settle the balance of fate if not us?” Lachesis rationalised, waving HER rod against the cosmos in frustration. “I do not pity mortals.”

THEY were quiet, for once. Only the sound of thread against thread, the whish of a rod, and the snip of scissors seeped into the silence. 

“This one too. He has also paid the life-price. He is entitled to lesser sacrifices to fulfil his whims,” the youngest commented for the final time, for Clotho enjoyed making the balance too. Both the beginning and end were HERS for this conversation. 

The three watched on.

. 　⁺ ✦

In accordance with your propensity to live a quiet life, there were three things you came to accept: one, it was impossible to get your old life back, not just because of your death, but Odysseus and his irritating cast were long gone; two, venturing into the city of New Metis for anything prolonged was probably the stupidest move you could do, even if your status as an alchemist wasn’t obvious at all; and three, to live a new quiet life as a sculptor, your new priority was finding a place to live. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” the caravan master worried, golden eyes surveying you up and down. Her arms crossed over her loose white robes, sharpened nails tapping right against her skin—a dead giveaway for her thoughts that clearly questioned your capacity to fend for yourself. Honestly, you couldn’t blame her; finding someone fast asleep in the middle of nowhere was sure to cast doubt into their capability to stay safe. “There’s always open spots if you wish to travel with us.”

A quiet life. Awkwardly, you scratched the side of your neck, and the chromatic patterns on your fingers pressed warmly into your flesh. A quiet life, unlike the suffering of your past one. There was no debt to pay off this time, no shitty apartment nor landlord, and nothing to tie you to one place any longer. A quiet life, more idealistic and stable than the previous one. It was far past time to take a rest—in a peaceful paradise that you’d create.

A truly serene life. Were you to tread on the fiery path they did, you would not find the future you wanted. This you deduced not from the unreliable system, but the careful observations you’d made over the past day. 

A quiet beginning, and a quiet end. You’d accept that. Thus, you bade the woman who’d rescued you a sincere goodbye filled with well wishes. 

“Stay safe.” It was Dan Heng who spoke to you last, pressing a talisman with his cool fingers against your own, heated palm. The spherical, intricately carved bauble resembled glassy jade—a soft green just like his robes. Corded through the middle was a length of twine that formed a loop, one that you slid over your head. Coldly, it lay against the dip of your chest, peeking out from your exquisite garb and shining right against the almost-incandescent equations etched into your body. 

The immediate acceptance of his gift made him flush—as did the evident trust you held in him. “I— this contains around ten minae, or about a thousand drachma. Breaking it down further, it’s around six-thousand obols, enough to get you board and food in New Metis for around two months if you’re frugal. Here—”

His thumb pressed into a specific etching on the jade: a snake that appeared to wriggle somewhat in invitation as you stared at it. Just like that, a shadow around a handspan wide appeared in front of you, then vanished just as quickly when he pressed it once more. This close, you couldn’t help but stare wonderingly at his face as he explained how to reach in and grab the exact sum of Metisian currency, how six obols were one drachma, a hundred drachma were one mina, six hundred minae were one talent, how a loaf of bread cost only one obol and so forth. He smelled faintly of mint. 

“—and that’s how it works. You can store other objects in there as well. If you get in trouble or change your mind, go to the local bank and let them guide you to the designated vault when you show them this key; there’s a way to contact us from there…” he rambled, trailing off when you clasped his hand in yours. 

“Thank you.” Perfunctorily, you performed the appropriate gesture of profound gratefulness—a kiss on a merchant’s index knuckle for his generosity—and watched his composed face melt into a stupid little smile. 

A wolf whistle pierced the air from where a certain pink-haired nomad sat. “The rich young master’s got moves!” she cackled gleefully, and you laughed for the first time in months: so bright it was hard to imagine it came from you. 

Your own face donned a drowsy grin—offering energy as a collateral once more. There were no flowers by the docks, after all, thus the bloom in your hands seemed to have been conjured from thin air. “One last thanks, Dan Heng.” 

Thus, there was only one thing you left behind on the isle of Thasos: a flower, pinned against a robe fluttering wildly in the salty breeze. 

. 　⁺ ✦

New Metis was cold, in the same way your parents were cold—one buried and frigid, the other gone with only debts left behind. 

Objectively, the city was stunning. Ancient architecture entwined itself with more modern innovation, blending into captivating citadels that held the essence of the past and the painstaking strides towards the future. Everywhere you looked, massive structures housed scholars and extensive collections of books, while the public buildings and amphitheatres were bursting with symposia and teeming discussions. 

This really is the scholar capital, you thought. Though, as you bit into the soft sesame ring you’d purchased at the toss of an obol, it seemed… stagnant. In comparison to the warm bread in your mouth, the metropolis could not be considered friendly. 

“No wonder, if what Dan Heng said was true.” You licked the remainder of the sesame from your lips, washing them down with an orange-like sort of juice that had the rich sweetness of honey and the sharpness of carbonation. If the city truly was as restrictive as claimed, there was little surprise as to why the scholars and every other citizen seemed a bit standoffish. Though, you couldn’t deny that the students that you observed in their element seemed to be in the throes of joy (and pain) as they buried themselves in their work and studying—the quality of teaching in Metis clearly was a cut above the rest, even with the restrictions in place. “Corruption really is everywhere, huh.”

In the places of reading, the students crammed on tables with books piled as tall as them reminded you sorely of your own days of youth. Your degrees were displayed proudly in your tiny apartment, alongside a small plaque you’d bought on a whim that simply read doctor’s office. 

The sudden thought made your heart ache. Where were those certificates now? 

There was nobody you were close enough to, nobody to carefully place your belongings into a cardboard box—then stow it away in some corner of their hearts. Nobody would miss you, not even your estranged mother. 

With a sombre expression, you thumbed through the tomes on the dark shelves. Synthetic methods and reaction mechanisms. Industrial and environmental chemistry. Inorganic and organometallic molecules. How far was this a creation of another? How far had the humans here developed on their own, outside the limits of a game? 

Bitterly, you left the library and walked back out into the stifling streets: past the agora, past the bustling market stalls, past a scholar earnestly discussing philosophy with passersby. The streets were paved with achromatic stones that appeared to have centuries-worth of wear on them, yet still seemed as pristine as if they’d just been laid yesterday—thus your shoes remained clean and unscuffed, though your heart certainly wasn’t. 

You… couldn’t stay in this city. Even if you put up a front and became an artisan, even if you assimilated into New Metis with your local clothing and perfectly accented common tongue, even if you decided to take back your chemistry certification in this world too, the sheer crowds and constant reminders that this was not Earth made you sick to your stomach. 

Bile spilled over your tongue and tainted the honey-sweet remainders of your drink. 

More accurately, it was the stares you garnered with the intricate formulae marking your skin. Though you wore their garb and spoke their dialect with native fluency, there was something clearly ‘other’ about you—enough that you didn’t even bother checking into a hotel, but asked around for an estate agent instead. Master of houses, etched carefully into the marble-like stone, was a welcome sight in comparison to the looks you’d received throughout the day. They weren’t overtly hostile. They weren’t, but the inherently elitist atmosphere and cold you’d felt in this arid climate answered for you. 

Would you like to see the rooms in the synoikia near the plaza? A firm diagonal slant of your hand signalled no: the quick, but also local way of traders and merchants communicating in busy environments. How about a townhouse? In the end, you flatly asked the housemaster if there were any remote houses for sale—to which a hologram from a recording stone showed a house nestled right in the Borderlands, surrounded by forests with mountains cradling the structure. House was too modest; the architecture, like all the buildings here, was practically a work of art in itself. 

Tense location at the Borderlands… remote location… universities located on the central island and concentrated in New Metis… 

You suppressed the devilish smile on your face as you smelled a bargain. It was a triad of real estate woes: poor location, low demand, and even more poor location. 

“Four hundred drachma is the asking price,” he offered with a tentative smile—less than half the market price for a box apartment in the metropolis. After even more haggling (in between maintaining a look of disinterest), the property was sold with twelve percent shaved off the already-bargain. 

Score for the penny-pinchers.

In the end, you made one final purchase from New Metis. Two technically, bought for only one drachma and one obol. 

The first was a set of chisels and a hammer. The second was a small wooden piece of wood. It was not a plank, nor an offcut, but had the perfect size for a plaque. A new doctor’s office, to carve in with painstaking effort and calloused hands. 

It was crude, and somewhat ugly—etched first in English, then below in the curling script of the common tongue (which was wholly unsuitable for this type of woodwork)—but looking at it made your bleeding heart ache slightly less. 

After all, it was your last piece of Earth. 

. 　⁺ ✦

Retrospectively, it would’ve been wiser to spend several nights in the city and send necessities to your new home by courier. More pragmatic, if you would—easing into your life in a new world rather than jumping headlong into it. But unfortunately, it seemed you’d become more lax as you crossed the boundaries between lives: electing instead to take the high-speed rail right across the sea and into the Borderlands, with nothing but the clothes on your back, a money dimension pocket, and a crudely made plaque. And your hammer and chisels, naturally, as well as some Metisian street food that vanished far too quickly. 

In fact, it was downright foolish to come to the Borderlands on your first day. Even the conductor stared at you in disbelief—though your clothing and your accent was purposefully as Metisian as they came—so you got the gist that it was even more fucking stupid to go as a complete newcomer. 

Borderlands, remnants of monsters from the Stellarons, highly volatile region, most travellers typically make the journey in groups, you nodded as you pieced together the rough state of the area whilst watching the sea and land speed by. Was it recklessness that endowed you with the guts to arm yourself with only a map and your wits? Were you perhaps… turning into an imbecile?

Actually, it was neither. The combination of brimming energy (from the street foods you gorged yourself on) and the updated character profile had ignited a chilling sort of passion for experimentation that was hard to extinguish, even as you crossed into this life. 

[Name: ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼, working currently as an alchemist. One of unknown origin, fluent in common tongue, honey tongue, and the ancient tongue of thought. Although practising alchemists typically require various apparatuses to perform transmutation and practise the law of equivalent exchange, ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼ is a bit unique in that his body is the medium for the price instead—rather than formulae in common tongue on paper, the tattoos he’s earned in the tongue of thought are far more effective. After all, he is the only alchemist to have survived the life ‘price’. The law of equivalent exchange for ◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼ specifically calls for energy, in return granting a ‘wish’. The larger the desire, the more energy will be depleted; but the most efficient ‘wishes’ involve transmuting one type of energy into another. Of course, a longer incantation—a more accurate incantation—will make the conversion less burdensome as well.]

So, quite literally, as long as you stayed fed and watered, you could transfer that chemical energy into explosive kinetic energy, or imbue weapons with heat or charge with the right ‘equation’. The Borderlands were yours for lab rat exploitation, essentially. 

But the question remained—what were the limits?

And more importantly, how were the limits of these ‘wishes’ enforced?

You didn’t actually have to wait all that long to test out your abilities as an alchemist, though perhaps not in the way you’d expected. The journey to the house—with its own garden and goddamn pillars and stunning architecture—was far more uneventful than you’d anticipated (read: hoped), thus in a last ditch attempt, you decided to take matters into your own hands. 

It really wasn’t on a whim, though. Seeing the sparse rooms, as well as a profound lack of a bed to sleep on—the binary suns had begun their slumber too, after all—it was perhaps pragmatic rather than foolish that you built up the long chant in the tongue of thought. More accurate, more accurate, you sweated, tracing the length of the equations up your arms and on your chest by using the small looking-glass attached to your belt. 

“◼◼◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼,” you finished the incantation, feeling warmth seep from your limbs as the payment. “Refurbish.”

It wasn’t the wisest move, not at all. But who could blame you, when the materialised gauzy fabrics against stone walls, as well as the jewel-hued rugs, looked so darn nice? 

Well, before you collapsed, of course—with a dopey grin on your face nonetheless. Those two things were all you could appreciate before you got totally knocked out. 

Thus, the limits were deduced to be large-scale summonings, enforced by a good night's sleep—noted cheerfully by the alchemist who peeled his face off a brand new ornate rug in the morning, rather than the bed he’d sacrificed his consciousness for. 

. 　⁺ ✦

When you unstuck yourself off the fastidiously complex rug (skin imprinted with its thread patterns, since you slept corpse-like in a single position), you almost didn’t recognise the once sparse house. To be more accurate, the intricate tapestries and glitzy trinkets, vases and decorations were familiar to what you pictured; but placed in conjunction with the stone walls, delicately carved pillars, and spacious, airy rooms took them to a completely new level. 

The wish was thorough, you had to admit. With your feel pattering against the almost-glassy, colourful tiles, you took in the area where you woke up: the kitchen. Dried bundles of herbs hung from copper-hued rafters, perfuming the air with aromatic fragrances and balsamic scents. Past sage cupboards were conjured utensils that gleamed with a disused sort of enthusiasm that made your brows raise. I didn’t even think of these, you noted, flinging open the cupboards by the elegant cooker to reveal stacks upon stacks of charming ceramics and everything else you might possibly need to exist in the kitchen. Even the icebox, a large storeroom imbued with enchantments above its doorway (the Metisian equivalent of a modern refrigerator) was packed with meats and vegetables that looked visually dissimilar to Earth’s, but were somehow familiar to your mind. 

It raised a question—if you ate food you conjured, would it not just be an endless loop of energy?

More importantly, would you even need the money still stored in the jade bead around your neck?

On the other side of the open-plan ground floor was the living area, strewn with various oddities and memorabilia. Two bookshelves stood proudly in a rich walnut colour, creaking under the weight of various books you’d skimmed in those reading-places back in the city. There were also titles you’d never come across before, but were sure to read on the plushy couches strewn with soft, patterned blankets and jewel-toned cushions. It was cosier than anything you might’ve desired, especially with the dim amber lamps perched on the dark-stained low table and the vibrant, low-hanging mosaic ceiling lights that looked like delicate baubles dropping from the heavens. 

You ignored the stairs that spiralled to the top floor—to where there were a few rooms still detailed on the floor plan—since they were likely to contain the same levels of decoration both the kitchen and salon had. Rather, you tiptoed through the sunny corridor leading to the eastern part of the sprawling home: gauzy, rich-hued curtains brushing lightly past your skin. There, past the stunning mahogany door was a bright, vast studio—complete with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the extensive gardens and the distant mountains, as well as all the tools you could possibly need for sculpting, alongside the hammer and chisels you’d purchased just yesterday. 

For a while you simply stared at the scenic landscape—nothing you’d ever seen on Earth, not when every day consisted of grey asphalt and ash-coloured buildings. There was a damn pond in your backyard, with a delicately wrought table and chair set at the edge. Had you imagined this too?

In any case, it was in a slight daze that you finally checked out the rooms upstairs; two guest rooms with large beds, desks and wardrobes; a large bathroom with picturesque views of the distant horizon and forests, as well as a massive tub; and finally, your room. 

How did you know it was your room? 

It looked lived in. Just like downstairs, a massive bookshelf lined the wall adjacent to the large windows: gauzy curtains fluttered over the tomes and let in the cool, fresh breeze. A large rug decorated the panels on the floor and slipped beneath your bed: a massive, round thing that looked like a jewel-bright, appetising cloud to simply dive into. And past the bed, an imposing armoire was stuffed to its seams in outfits both similar to the ones you were wearing (intricate, soft garments with detailed embroidery and vibrant palettes) as well as simpler, yet extraordinarily well-crafted, garments. 

In essence, you were set for life. This space was an ideal, permanent vacation home: even if it were in no-man’s territory, with monsters sullying its landscape. You intended to sequester yourself until you died once more—with a book laid on your chest, a mug of tea still on the table, and a fat bee bumbling past as you closed your eyes in peaceful, eternal slumber. That was the ignorant bliss you would afford yourself: the you who got a break in this idyllic game after you passed on. 

Perhaps this form of living would’ve been considered lamentable back on Earth. You, with the laurels of being a doctor in your profession, now spent the afternoon languidly draped over a soft couch simply reading. There were no samples to analyse, no reports to check, no research to work on. In fact, it was only a week later that you finally ventured out the sprawling gardens and into the forests. It wasn’t to check out the academic fruits of the bustling metropolis, nor was it to analyse the chemical makeup of the soil and flora—the most you’d done for that was conjuring some compost to make your new vegetable garden more acidic. 

No, setting out into the forest was more to idly take inspiration from these pulchritudinous sights, and maybe fight a few monsters to learn how real combat worked in this open-world, combat-based RPG. 

Maybe you’d get lucky and find some clay to practise sculpting before you found stone to work on. It was a forgiving medium, after all—soft and supple under your hands, rather than cold and flawless. Any mistakes could be worked away, any blunders would fade in the face of the cool, wet earth, and if you polished your rusty skills, you could make it into a job—it was a solid cover to disguise your use of alchemy. 

As the grass with no apparent paths was trodden on (for the first time in perhaps decades), the loamy scent of petrichor and foliage quickly filled your senses; it was so tranquil, in fact, that your hold on your metal pail grew more absent-minded as you swept a large stick this way and that to brush longer plants aside. If you unfurled the slightly-outdated map you’d paid a sesame ring for, there was… a river nearby, right? 

You squinted at the parchment, still unheeding of the warnings you’d received about this forest. With a full belly and over twelve hours of sleep, there was a dormant energy that was somewhat overshadowed by a bumbling drowsiness: only dispelling when you heard the sound of running water. 

Clay—your eyes lit up like beacons, and the formulae on your body seemed to glow as you rolled the sleeves of your loose cream shirt up, as well as the soft material of your navy trousers. It was casual, to the point of being somewhat scandalous—nothing like the classy drapes of fabric that constituted every day in New Metis.

Well, you thought with a smug sort of vehemence. This is the Borderlands. Thus, there was an unseemly sort of flippancy to your gait as you trod in the direction of what you hoped was the river, pail and stick in hand as your shield and sword. 

It was, perhaps, far too easy to find the softer clay deposits on the bank of the river; prying into the earth above to reveal the slick medium beneath and depositing it into your bucket. In fact, life had been going so smoothly in the past few days that you were lulled into a sense of false security. 

Had you forgotten how your life was prior to your death?

You’d gotten complacent as you dusted yourself off—shirt and pants plastered with a gorgeous mauve, though you paid it little mind. It would be hell to clean out, unless you simply dubbed these the ‘work clothes’. In any case, your biggest worry currently was the staining of your conjured clothes—a far cry from the life and death you’d experienced. 

It couldn’t simply be attributed to accustomising yourself to mundanity—no, maybe you were a bit of a reckless idiot as you strolled along the banks, sunning yourself with the binary stars in the heavens. There was not a care in the world as you closed your eyes to the Borderlands in favour of merely existing. Listening to the clear sounds of water cascading over riverstones. Feeling the clean breeze wash over your bare forearms and wet legs. Tasting the powdery, thick scent of clay after practically burying your face in it as you dug the mauve medium up. 

But like all good things, they eventually had to end. 

You weren’t foolish enough to keep turning a blind eye when you sensed danger. 

The leaves stirred. The waters vacillated—equilibrium was no longer an option. The forest, like a stricken pulse, seemed to constrict around you; the very wind took shallow breaths against your skin. 

Please, the Borderlands seemed to whisper. Get out while you can. 

Your stick tapped a rhythm against the soft mud—partly passively sinking, partly actively getting dragged into what was quickly becoming quicksand. 

For a brief moment, everything stilled—before you heard rapidly approaching footsteps coming right your way. Mentally, you began the long chant… tongue of thought for strengthening…. equation for charge… Coulomb’s law…. 

From the water too, came a sudden rush of volume flung to the skies—though the fleeting steps reached you first. A flash of blond. Your eyes met widened, almost-neon coloured irises. The stench of blood, too, filled the banks—before he crashed right into you, barrelling you against the rough bark of a tree whilst desperately clasping a hand over your mouth. 

“Niedra; ćhiho tu, albo ka arakhel,” he breathed, panic so thick in each syllable that you could only stare. It wasn’t the common tongue, but you instinctively got the message from his hushed cadence. No, wait. 

Don’t panic, the words had ghosted over your dampened flesh. Quiet, or it’ll find us. 

In a language so smooth that it sounded like song, like an intricate tapestry woven from gossamer, he’d conveyed to you panic, fear, and a camaraderie so primal that this partnership was instinctual. 

“Don’t speak, and hold your breath,” he then urgently translated into common tongue, when you merely looked at him, unblinking. “The Borderlands are very dangerous.”

The sudden switch allowed you to figure out why exactly you could parse together the clear meaning in his silvery syllables. 

“Xatarav,” you murmured. ‘I understand’, for it was not in a language you didn’t know. The language that had not seen use—the tongue of honey—had finally encountered one of its own. 

But the surprise in his face—the questions imbibed on insatiable lips—went unnoticed by you, for ‘it’ had finally found you. 

Water splashed against the tree where the two of you were pressed against—soaking into the bark, and seeping cold into the fabric of your shirt. You couldn’t see ‘it’ from your position, but you could see the behemoth reflected in those captivating eyes—towering in his sclera as the leviathan uncoiled from the depths of the now-raging river. It shook its mane out—webbed tendrils fanning out angrily as it swung its massive head this way and that. 

A frigid sort of fear washed over you, leeching any sort of warmth that had remained in your limbs. 

Well over forty-metres high, it was only its poor eyesight that prevented it from slithering round this tree and snapping the two of you up in its deadly snapping jaws—reminding you acutely of the thrumming iron that pumped deep in your veins, and just how easy it was to spill. 

You were painfully aware of the fact your only emergency ally was covered in gashes and wounds, bleeding into the already-purple mess of your clothes. His breathing was unsteady and his pulse was arrhythmic, but his eyes bore into yours with an intensity that seemed to ask ‘what will you do?’.

Would you run? Would you sling his arm over your shoulders and somehow evade the lightning-quick serpent? Would you leave him behind? 

Your grip tightened around the stick—interrupted equations leaving it with a slight prickly sensation, rather than the full extent of charge. He noticed the muscles of your arm clench in response to your urgent grasp, and he frantically slanted his hand diagonally in an abject ‘no’.

“Na ka umire,” you muttered, making sure he understood exactly what you were saying in his mother tongue. ‘I won’t die.’

And you wouldn’t. 

Not today, not tomorrow. 

You wouldn’t die in vain a second time. 

. 　⁺ ✦

[haikyu-mp4]

♥︎ date tech

back to masterlist

✪ marks my favourite for that character

Aone Takanobu

So sweet wc 786 – gn!reader, the Flyer Series

Plant lover ✪ wc 1369 – f!reader, strangers>friends>lovers

Snap – drabble

Stable foundation wc 644 – f!reader, Parenting event

High school sweethearts wc 686 – f!reader, Gossip Event

Hard work and dedication wc 942 – gn!reader, a blast from the past event

Futakuchi Kenji

Work husband ✪ wc 521 – gn!reader, now hiring! event

One thing wc 715 – f!reader, 1D x Haikyu event

The Kingsman of electricians wc 405 – gn!reader

Long-term commitment wc 1024 – f!reader, anything for you event, brother!aone

Husband material wc 783 – gn!reader, a blast from the past event

Koganegawa Kanji

In need of a manicure wc 2086 – gn!reader, friends>lovers

[helplessautomaton]

hi can I do 1 and 4 with ranpo for the event? :3

1 (“you know i wasn't lying when i said i'd kill for you”) + 4 (“i'm so glad you feel the same cause i refuse to leave you”)

hi! thank you^^, sorry if i did this too fast i got excited

-WC 786 // valentines event tws: gore mentioned at the end

It's valentine's day, you used to really enjoy everything about it. Enjoying the love of other people, their infatuated expressions. The candy and flowers that were sometimes extended towards you. You really used to love it, maybe because that time of freedom wasnt long lost. Being a normal person experienced normal things, you were no different. You found a friend in a case that happened to the place you worked at, his name was Ranpo.

Quickly falling in love with his charm, this led to hanging more. One thing you learned was that Ranpo was possessive at times, it was subtle at first then became more clear. Still, everything is better in bliss when it contains some type of ignorance. It wasn't February when Ranpo confessed to you, happily smiling. A surprised but nervous look on your face as you accepted him. "I'd known you'd say yes, afterall no one can resist the best detective in the world!"

It was cute, but really, you should've known what was to come. "I'm so glad, you feel the same cause I'm never leaving you." 

Despite the childlike tone that was sung with his words, there was something threatening lying under. Yet, it was brushed off, it's fine, it's still in the crush stages.

The dates after the initial confession, everything seemed alright. You never saw the glares when someone was getting too friendly. Never hearing the threats being sent to the people you cared about. Not at any time being bothered by staying inside just with Ranpo for longer and longer. You didn't take Ranpo's warnings seriously, just assuming he was jealous and overprotective. His sweet coated words were the usual ones, yet sometimes it would feel off. "I hope you know i would kill someone for you, especially if they got too close" 

It never seemed like he was joking but you tried to soften up on that thinking. Afterall, he didn't seem like the type who would actually kill someone.

However, it seems, you got a little too close to someone and clearly Ranpo didn't take it lightly. It was a close friend of yours, they asked you to hang out and you took that opportunity when Ranpo was at work. Everything was going alright, you two were catching up, just chatting. They asked what you were gonna do for valentine's since it was a week away. You thought in silence, unsure of what exactly you wanted to do. You gave a lazy answer, it was probably gonna be a simple date. Eventually after an hour your phone started to ring, it was your boyfriend. You answered gingerly, not thinking much of it. 

"Where are you right now?" 

Ranpo's question was more so out of curiosity but his tone was a little firm. You answered back saying with a friend, the other line went silent for a few seconds before Ranpo started whining. The call ended shortly after and you'll figure it'd be best to leave. You bid your friend goodbye and got ready to go home. Still, something in your gut was telling you something tonight wasn't going to end well.

A day before the holiday, you got news of your friends passing, a cold murder. You were in panic with Ranpo trying to calm you down the best he could. Yet, you really only felt a little better, Ranpo's comforting felt wrong. There was only so much you could do and feel, while your boyfriend refused to let you go out.  He clung to your chest, his grip never softened just continued to hug you aggressively to prevent you from leaving. Your phone was discarded somewhere, so you couldn't even find out more about what happened. At the end of the night you were sobbing on the floor while Ranpo held you.

The next morning, it was Valentine's day. You were hoping to enjoy it. Spend it well with Ranpo, with lovestruck eyes. You got up, eyes tired and hung heavily. Attempting to cheer up after Ranpo made a comment, afterall he was taking you out somewhere special for today. You two got ready and left early, wearing a soft smile while Ranpo grinned with a lollipop in his mouth. After being attached to the hip for so long, you got to the café. Finally Ranpo slid you a heart shaped box, alongside a deep red rose.

You carefully opened it while Ranpo started to speak with a smile, "you know I wasn't lying when I said I'd kill for you" 

Eyes widening, you dropped the box clumsily in disturbance to what you saw. It was little bits of your friend, both eyes, some of their skin, a fingernail or two, alongside their heart.

[saidencii]

back to december; remus lupin

in which you and remus parted after sirius’ arrest and never spoke to each other again. until now.

remus lupin x reader

wc: 786

warnings: none

a/n: short and sad, my first oneshot :’) take this as me being in my feels after btd tv.

It had been twelve years since that fateful night.

Eleven Christmases without a word from Remus Lupin.

You sat in your lowly, run-down cottage, drinking cold tea from a stained cup that used to be ornate. The sun rose, almost reluctantly behind the gray clouds outside. You didn’t know how many more of these lonely December nights you could bear, when they used to be full of laughter and love.

A tap sounded at your window as your old, graying owl appeared. He held a letter in his beak. You opened it, revealing a familiar, scrawling script that made your heart drop.

“Dear Y/N,

I know you are already aware of who I am. It’s been twelve years since I saw you or even attempted to reach you. We didn’t even get to say goodbye.

I’d like to visit you again, you know, but I don’t know where you live now. If you do want to meet me, find me at Hogsmeade this Saturday at three in the afternoon. But if the chain is on your door, I understand.

Send me an owl back. Yours already knows where I live.

xx Remus”

You realized he wanted to meet you on Christmas eve. You wrote a hurried response, pondering whether to send the letter. This could be a trap, a trick by the newly escaped Sirius. Ultimately, you decide to send it back.

•••

It was Saturday, one in the afternoon. You walked along the snow-covered cobblestone paths of Hogsmeade, the bitter cold biting into your skin even through thick gloves. As you ascended the gentle hill, you stopped in your tracks as you saw the familiar face standing in front of you.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Y/N.” Remus said, his tone unreadable. You walked closer to him, analyzing his face. It had changed. There were a few new gashes, a new lengthy scar. But the hazel eyes remained the same. “Should we get inside? It’s cold.”

You nodded, wrapping your scarf tighter around your neck as you enter the Three Broomsticks. The amount of people celebrating Christmas was… a relief, really.

“I… I understand it’s been long. But I wanted to see if you were well,” he said, fidgeting with the buttons on the bottom of his tattered brown coat. “Have you been working?”

“Yes,” you admitted, a slight shame entering your voice. “But I’ve never been able to keep a job. You?”

“I used to work Muggle jobs for a long while but I couldn’t keep them because of… you know. But Dumbledore offered me a teaching position at Hogwarts.”

You felt a pang of happiness for him, but the ache was there as well. Nothing would make up for the time you lost. And he was far away, like always. It would be hard to reach him.

“What job?”

“Defense Against The Dark Arts professor.”

You nodded slowly, understanding. Remus had always been better at that. He’d been better at you than everything, and you were willing to accept that.

“You deserve it, Professor Lupin,” you said, smiling.

A cryptic silence filled the air as you wait for his response. The tranquility broke as soon as he spoke. “Thank you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for ever doubting you.”

“It’s alright. I trusted Sirius… and you didn’t. It was my fault for trusting the wrong person. I’m sorry, too.”

But you didn’t feel like it was over.

“I hope you and I can stay friends,” he said, a slight smile crossing his face. “It’s something that’s weighed on my conscience for a long time.”

“Friends. We’re friends.”

He hesitated before he spoke his next words. “Did I mention I’m teaching James and Lily’s son?”

Your lips parted in shock. You didn’t realize that much time had passed. He was already in his third year, if your memory didn’t fail you. “Harry? How is he?”

“He’s a bright child. Stubborn, but that’s expected from someone that has James Potter’s genes.” You two smiled as you recounted the best memories of your old friend. You missed him dearly.

“Remus, send me owls. Tell me when you’re hurting because someone should at least know.”

“I must admit, I miss having a small horde of unusual animals accompany me through those nights.”

The afternoon dragged on as you made small talk about your lives in the twelve lost years. Nothing could reignite the spark. Nothing he said made your heart skip a beat like it used to. Maybe that was just it. Gone.

As you stepped out of the place, you knew it was goodbye. It was a farewell to your forgotten feelings. You waved at him, forcing a smile.

Eventually, you found yourself hoping to go back to that December, wanting to change his mind.

[jjmyeonz]

06 - Forced proximity bullshit

wc: 786 words

(not proof-read)

First day back, and you have to wait another two hours before you can go home since your sister's volleyball practice ends at 5pm. You were inside your mom’s classroom, scrolling through your phone whilst you waited for your sister’s practice session to end. Your attention then lifted away as you noticed Sunghoon and Leana walking in.

“Why are you still in school?” You asked with a raised brow, while directing towards the tall boy. He sighed dramatically and shook his head. “My car is getting repaired, and neither of my parents can pick me up so now I have to come home with Leana and her parents ‘cause we’re neighbours.” he explained with a shrug, taking a seat in the tiny chair that was clearly meant for kindergarteners.

“Got it.” you nodded, turning your head to look at Leana. “How do you even put up with this rat?” the comment received a gasp from the boy, pretending to be hurt. “I genuinely do not know.” she laughed, as you guys continued to tease Sunghoon.

Sunghoon rolled eyes playfully before speaking, “I need something to chew on, let's go to the snack bar.” he suggested, and got a nod from the two of you. The snack bar was something you’ve always appreciated about your school, it was open for the students and teacher even after dismissals.

As you three walked out into the hallway, you noticed Heeseung walking by with a basketball in one hand while the other carried his phone. He was heading towards the basketball court outside, you only knew that since it was the only thing he did while waiting for his parents since you often see him there while walking the track with Leana. 

Sunghoon also seemed to notice the boy, and called out for him. “Heeseung!” the boy looked up from the screen to where you guys stood, making a brief eye contact with you before his gaze shifted towards Sunghoon. You had forgotten how close Sunghoon was to the tall red head as you noticed the way his lips curled into a smile, shoving his phone inside his pocket to dab up the boy you stood next to.

The four of you walked to the snack bar, buying a few things before following the two boys out to the basketball court. You took sips from your drink, sitting down on the bench next to Leana and watched the other two play. “I’m so fucking drained.” you mumbled out, thoughts trailing to the events that had happened that day.

She laughed and shook her head. “You say that everyday yn, when are you not drained?” the girl snickered, and you only shrugged your shoulders. “Shhhh, let me live. I genuinely can’t wait for school to end.” you sighed, taking another sip of the drink. “We literally just started last month.” Leana pointed out, not being able to contain her laugh. “Oh! Are you joining Model UN this year?” she asked you, looking over with a raised brow. “As an admin?” you confirmed, earning a nod from her. “Probably, I need them extra curricular hours man”

“Expected,” she teased, making you roll your eyes playfully. “Hey so… can I ask about you and Heeseung?” you paused mid sip, head turning towards her once more. “Why is everyone asking that?” you pointed out. “I mean, you guys are weird. I’ve seen you guys interact, but then you act like you don’t know each other. Is this some kind of forced proximity bullshit?” the brunette jokes, making you laugh with her. “I don’t know, there’s nothing to talk about. We’re like polar opposites.”

“But you guys are also similar. You have a younger sister, dads that teaches some science subject and a mom that teaches kindergarteners.” her words made you think about it. Sure, they have that in common, but it wasn’t about them personally and more so family. “Meh, that’s just our families being copy and pasted.” you shrugged off.

“Other than that, we have nothing in common. Nothing.”

You eventually moved past that conversation, looking forward towards the boys. Your eyes met Heeseung’s ones briefly once more, looking away immediately. You think about it more, maybe it was weird to others with the way you and Heeseung acted. Especially the ones who have seen their occasional banters or the look they give each other while doing so.

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sypnosis: No one really knows what it’s like to be a teachers kid. The topic is rarely ever brought up, there are things that you might not have known about being a child of a teacher and that is what yn and heeseung are. teachers kids.

The first year yn had transferred into the school, heeseung was this scrawny kid that hasn’t hit puberty yet. He was short, immature and all she saw him as was just the son of her parent’s friends. Yet the following year, over a single summer… heeseung grew a foot taller than he was before. Puberty. Everyone’s best friends or enemies.

a/n: written chapter almost killed me. I forgot to draft in on a google doc so when i tried checking for word count i pressed delete instead of copy 🥰

taglist: @sol3chu, @starry-eyed-bimbo,