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wistfulcynic · 4 years

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Love Blooms

Summary: Princess Emma and Lieutenant Killian Jones have been together for three years. They’re deeply in love and an engagement is imminent. There’s only one problem: His brother doesn’t know about them, and Killian isn’t sure how to tell him. So when Liam finds out by accident, all that’s left is for Emma and Killian to fill him in on the story of how they met.

This is that story.

(a prequel--and sequel--to Error 404: “Little” Brother Not Found)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @mariakov81!!! My lovely, brilliantly talented Masha, you are a pure delight. Your gif responses make me laugh and your art makes me cry. Your enthusiasm and love of fic is so inspiring and your encouragement is one of the reasons I’m still writing. I love you lots. 😘

You mentioned that you’d like to read a meet-cute, so I hope this one pleases you. Have a FANTASTIC day ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Rating: G Words: 4.3k Tags: Lieutenant Duckling, Modern Lieutenant Duckling, Modern Royalty AU, Brothers Jones, College AU, Meet-Cute

On AO3

Love Blooms:

It should have worked, really. As risky plans go, it was a pretty solid one. It should absolutely have worked.

Princess Emma was easily recognisable, of course. As the only royal child and heir to the throne she’d been photographed extensively all her life, and those photos disseminated throughout the kingdom. But they were always taken in controlled situations, with her hair carefully styled and her clothing precisely engineered to invoke a very specific image. Her parents made absolutely certain of that.

After the attempted coup by the queen’s stepmother on the day of the princess’s birth, the king and queen had taken decisive action to protect their only child and to ensure that no one but trusted personnel had access to her. On the rare occasions when she left the expansive palace grounds, no paparazzi followed her and none of Misthaven’s citizens so much as snuck a sneaky pic with a cell phone. Emma was to have protection and privacy until she came of age and officially took on her royal duties. That was the deal her parents made with the press and the people, and they enforced it rigidly.

It should have worked. Emma’s most recognisable feature—her long, bright gold hair—was dyed a temporary dirty blonde (her mother nearly cried) and her green eyes shielded by large glasses. Most days she pulled her hair back in a ponytail and wore no makeup. She dressed in jeans and t-shirts, like any other college kid. It was a good plan. It should have worked.

She hadn’t reckoned on Killian Jones.

She’d known him for a few years, sort of. For several months of the summer she was sixteen while his brother served as a member of her personal guard, Killian had hovered around the edges of her world, thin and gawky and usually with his nose in a book. The one time they were introduced he’d gulped visibly and made an awkward bow, then got away as soon as he could. But not before he’d made an impression.

She wasn’t sure what it was about him that caught her eye—possibly the way he seemed to be trying so hard not to catch it, or the size and variety of the books she saw him reading, or the way he would smirk and roll his eyes whenever he heard something he thought inane (which happened fairly frequently; polite conversation at court was not exactly scintillating). Possibly it was just those eyes, the bright, clear blue of them and the intelligence and humour she was sure she detected in their depths. Whatever it was it made butterflies dance in her belly whenever she saw him, and though they exchanged no more than a dozen words in the months he was at court she couldn’t seem to get him out of her head.

“What does your brother do?” she’d asked Commander Jones one afternoon, as casually as she could.

“He’s starting at the university in the autumn,” the commander replied, pride audible in his voice. “Going to study physics and engineering.”

“Wow.” Emma wished she didn’t find that so impressive.

“He’s a smart lad,” said Commander Jones with a grin. “He’ll change the world, mark my words.”

Emma marked them, though she asked no further questions. It wouldn’t do to appear too interested.

That was August. By October Killian Jones was gone from her life and so was his brother, the elder Jones off to serve on Misthaven’s flagship and the younger of course, to the university. And that really should have been the end of it.

Her desire to go to university herself had nothing to do with Killian, it truly didn’t. She hadn’t forgotten he was there, exactly, but her determination to attend had far more to do with her status as heir to the throne and wishing to be as prepared as she possibly could be when she became queen.

“But your tutors have given you the best education you could have,” her mother pointed out. “You’ve studied the history and political structure of Misthaven and all its allies and enemies. You’ve read all our country’s great books and know the history of our art. You speak six languages. That’s far more knowledge than I had when I became queen. What else are you looking for?”

“I want a chance to get to know the people I’m going to be ruling,” said Emma. “That’s one thing you had that I don’t. I’ve spent my whole life in the palace, and I know you kept me here for my own safety but I’m nineteen now and I want to meet people. Real ones. Ones who don’t know I’m the princess.”

“Emma—”

“Just give me a year,” she pleaded. “Just a year to go to college and live like a normal student. I’ll wear a disguise and go by a different name, you can even plant guards around me if you must but please, please just let me do this.”

In the end her parents relented. Her mother, despite her tears at the new hair colour, had been unconvinced that the small changes Emma made to her appearance would be enough of a disguise, but Emma insisted they were plenty and her father backed her up.

“Do you know why no one figured out Clark Kent was Superman?” Emma asked, as King David nodded approvingly behind her. “It wasn’t because putting on glasses was such an intricate disguise. It’s because the idea of Superman working at a newspaper was so completely absurd. No one saw a superhero in an ordinary reporter and no one’s going to see the princess of the realm in an ordinary literature major. People see what they expect to see.”

And they had. All of them. All except Killian Jones.

She really hadn’t reckoned on him.

She settled in well to college life, though it was not the easiest transition going from her own suite of rooms in the palace to a tiny dorm shared with another student, a bright, chatty girl called Ruby. Ruby was easygoing and outgoing and always going. She loved to party and whenever she went out tried to coax Emma along as well, and though Emma really had gone to college with the intent to study, she reasoned that her main aim in being there was to get to know her people, and what better way to do that than at a party?

Which is how she found herself two weeks into her first semester standing in the living room of a run-down student house, sipping valiantly at some locally-brewed ale and trying to remember the names of all the people Ruby introduced her to, and trying to remember that when they said ‘Anna,’ they were talking to her.

She was chatting with a boy called Walsh who had a supercilious smile and, she soon realised, a very high opinion of himself, when her flagging attention was caught by shrieks of laughter coming from the other side of the room. She glanced over in search of their source then immediately looked again, blinking rapidly to keep her eyes from bugging out of her head.

There across the room, surrounded by a largish group of people—one of whom, Emma noted, was Ruby—stood Killian Jones. It was him, she was sure of it, sure that she would recognise him anywhere, but oh, the changes time had wrought on the boy she’d known. She wasn’t sure if he really was any taller but he looked it, standing straight with his shoulders squared. There was stubble on his jaw and hair on his chest, clearly displayed by the undone buttons of his henley, and his eyes—so much brighter when not hidden behind thick glasses—twinkled as he delivered a quip that had everyone around him exploding in fresh peals of mirth.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him, staring so hard she could see the exact moment he sensed her gaze and turned, his own eyes widening immediately in recognition. Of course he recognised her, Emma thought, he would; however older and cooler and hotter he might be now he was still the smartest boy she’d ever met and Superman’s disguise could not fool him.

He stared at her for the longest moment of her life and then he winked—the worst excuse for a wink she’d ever seen—and turned his attention back to his crowd. Emma breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t going to blow her cover.

She realised with a start that Walsh had kept on talking this whole time and she hadn’t heard a word he said. He seemed to realise that too, finally, and scowled at her.

“Hey,” he said. “Earth to Anna.”

“Sorry.” She offered a polite smile. “My mind wandered.”

“Well, wander it back over here,” he said. “I was telling you all about my Reddit subgroup I started, and you weren’t even listening.”

“Sorry,” she repeated. “Though actually, would you excuse me, I—”

“Are you kidding me?” he snapped, his scowl darkening. “I bring you a drink, come all the way over here to talk to you. All I ask in return is a little bit of attention and you can’t even give me that.”

“I—”

“I’m a nice guy, you know,” he continued, moving closer. “I’d treat you right. Don’t think I didn’t see who you were looking at just now. If you think those guys would treat you better than I—”

“Look, Welsh—” Emma interrupted, bristling at his presumption and his tone.

“It’s Walsh.”

“Yes, sorry, Walsh. Um, I don’t know what you think this is, but we only just met. We’ve been talking for ten minutes and it’s basically been you monologuing about Reddit the whole time. If you’re really looking to connect with people it might be better to ask them something about themselves instead of dominating the conversation.”

“Oh, right, because it’s all about you, isn’t it?”

“That’s not what I—”

“You’re not even that pretty, you know,” he sneered. “Glasses are really unattractive on a woman.”

Emma began to sputter with indignation. No one had ever spoken to her in such a way before and she was outraged to learn that there were men in her realm who felt that it was acceptable to insult women as long as they weren’t royalty, apparently. Walsh smirked as she struggled to find words vile enough to express her opinion of him, and then a deep voice spoke from just over her shoulder.

“Perhaps you’re the one who needs glasses, mate, if that’s what you really think.”

Emma didn’t even need the butterflies leaping up in her belly to know that the voice was Killian’s. Her heart began to pound in time to the butterflies’ dance as she turned to find him standing just behind her, glowering darkly at Walsh. “I’m certain the lady told you she’s not interested, so why don’t you bugger off back to whatever rock you crawled out from under?” he snarled.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” blustered Walsh.

“And yet I just did.”

“Who the hell do you think you are—”

“He’s my boyfriend.” Emma jumped in before the scene could escalate, blurting the first thing that popped into her head. Walsh gaped at her, so astounded that he failed to notice Killian’s own slack jaw and bugging eyes. Killian recovered quickly, however, and casually looped an arm around Emma’s shoulders.

“Aye,” he said. “I am.”

Emma slipped her own arm around his waist, leaning her head against his shoulder and doing her best not to faint. He was surprisingly sturdy and he smelled so good. She wanted to bury her nose in his neck and just breathe.

“So stop trying it on with my girlfriend and piss off,” he said, tightening his arm to tuck her more securely against his side while also managing to loom over Walsh through the sheer force of his personality, despite them being more or less of a height.

Walsh glared at Killian and then at Emma and then back to Killian again, and when neither of them budged he reached out and snatched the cup of ale from Emma’s hand.

“I’ll be taking that back, then,” he huffed, and marched away.

“Thank goodness,” said Emma. “It was not pleasant.”

“Dwarf ale,” remarked Killian. “Not for the faint of stomach.”

Emma chuckled and looked up at him, into those bright blue eyes that had never faded from her memory. He grinned back at her, a grin with an edge it hadn’t had three years ago, and she caught her breath.

“Killian—” she began, then his eyes went wide with horror and his ears flushed bright pink. He pulled his arm away so quickly she stumbled and stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck. “Bloody hell,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, Em—er, Your High—”

“Shhhh,” hissed Emma, grabbing his arm and pulling him into a quiet corner. “Careful or you’ll blow my cover. My name’s Anna now. Anna Swan.”

His tense expression relaxed and he raised an eyebrow. “Swan, hmm? Interesting choice.”

“Yeah, it’s a—well, it’s a story. Kind of a long one.”

He smiled, the eager, interested smile she remembered so well. “I have time. If you’d care to tell it?”

He got her a drink, a sweet, fizzy one this time laced with just a few drops from his cup of Glowerhaven rum. They stood close together in the darkened corner and he listened intently as she told him about her childhood fondness for the palace swans, their elegant beauty and terrible manners, and how she’d loved reading the tales of the Swan Princess and the fable of the Ugly Duckling, and how her father had taken to calling her his little duckling after she’d demanded he read her that story at bedtime for three months straight.

“So it just seemed appropriate,” she said with a shrug. “Meaningful, but also it doesn’t give anyone a clue as to who I am.”

“And it suits you,” said Killian. “Swan. Beautiful and fearsome, just like you.”

“I’m not fearsome!” she protested, scowling to cover the blush that heated her cheeks when he called her beautiful.

“Aren’t you?” he asked earnestly. “You terrify me.”

“I do? I don’t wish to.”

“I’m sure it’s unintentional,” he said softly. “And more to do with me being timid.”

“You’re not timid,” she scoffed.

“Much less so than I used to be. And yet—” he took her hand and held it to his chest, just above his pounding heart. “You see?”

Emma gulped and her mouth went dry. His chest was firm and the hair on it rough beneath the fabric of his shirt, his hand covering hers so warm.

“Mine’s the same, though,” she whispered, taking his other hand. With hers still on his chest she could feel his sharp inhale and his heart racing even faster when she laid his palm flat over her own frantic heartbeat.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Their eyes locked, his looking dazed and very dark, the colour high on his cheeks and his breaths audibly harsh.

She licked her lips and his eyes followed the movement, his fingers tightening around hers, his hand on her chest sliding up to curl around her neck. He leaned his head down and she tipped her chin up and their lips were barely a breath apart when a crash and a shriek sounded from the kitchen and they both jumped. Killian squeezed his eyes shut, swearing viciously under his breath as he released her hand and neck and stepped away.

“It sounds like things are winding down here,” he said gruffly. “When glassware starts to shatter, that’s your cue to leave. Bit of advice.”

Disappointment tasted bitter, Emma realised. Bitter and crushing and achy and she hated it. She never wished to feel it again. She nodded in response, unable to speak.

They stood silently for a minute, then Killian sighed. “So, um, may I see you home?” he asked, rubbing at his neck again.

She smiled despite herself. “We’re not at court, Killian.”

“Perhaps not, but I’d still like to walk you back.”

“Yeah.” Her smile came more easily with the next attempt. “I’d like that too.”

He kept his hands in his pockets as they walked the short distance to her dorm, but she was acutely aware of him and how near he was and the faint heat she could still feel from his body. When they reached her building he turned to her and smiled.

“Well, Swan, I hope it won’t be another three years until I see you again,” he said.

“It’s a small campus and I’m here until next summer, so I’d guess probably not.” Not if she had anything to say about it, she thought.

“You’re only staying for a year?” he asked.

“It’s all my parents would permit.”

“Ah. I’ve only this year remaining as well, actually, until I graduate.”

“Graduate? But—in three years?”

He shrugged. “I’ve worked hard.”

It was more than that, Emma knew. He was clever and ambitious and determined to make something of himself. To change the world, just as his brother had predicted. She didn’t know the precise circumstances of the Joneses’ life before they found refuge in Misthaven, but from the few hints Commander—now Captain—Jones had dropped they hadn’t had the easiest of beginnings. That they had already made such a success of themselves was deeply impressive, and Emma suspected they were only just getting started.

“Do you—have far to walk to get home?” she asked, a bit wistfully. It was late and she was tired but she didn’t want Killian to go. She wasn’t ready for their time together to end.

“Just to the other side of campus,” he replied. “I’m here on a military training scholarship so I live with the other cadets. When I graduate I’ll join the navy as a lieutenant.”

“Like your brother.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “Possibly even on his ship.”

“That would be amazing.”

“We think so.”

They were standing close again, in a shadowy recess just to the side of the door, and Emma’s heart was pounding, not again but more like still; it had barely rested since she’d laid eyes on Killian. He was looking at her with a gaze so intense she could swear she felt it caress her lips and gods she wanted him to kiss her. If only she had paid more attention to the gossip among the ladies at court, or even to Ruby’s chatter the past two weeks, then she might have at least some idea of how to make that happen. How exactly did one go about letting a man know one wished to be kissed without actually saying ‘please kiss me’? Maybe she should just say it? Or, as the princess, did she need to kiss him first? What was the protocol here? She was royalty damn it, she couldn’t do anything until she knew the protocol.

Instead she just stared at him, feeling hot and itchy and increasingly desperate until he swallowed hard and drew a deep breath, then stepped back. Again.

“Well. I imagine I’ll see you around, then, Swan.”

Don’t go, Emma’s body screamed, even as her mouth said “I hope so.”

He smiled and gave her a small nod, then headed off down the path away from her building, and from her. She watched him go, simmering with frustration. She should have just grabbed him, she thought, and protocol be damned. Grabbed him and kissed him, because damn it she was not going to be able to sleep tonight for wondering what that would feel like, and wishing she didn’t need to wonder.

With an irritated huff she went to the door, taking her keys from her pocket and sorting through them in search of the correct one. She’d just managed to locate it when a warm hand took her by the elbow and tugged her back into the privacy of the shadows.

“What the—” she exclaimed, and then Killian’s lips were on hers. The keys slipped from her fingers and fell unheeded to the ground as her knees went weak and she grasped at his shoulders for support. He walked her back until she was pressed against the wall, his arm firm around her waist and his fingers tangling in her hair as he kissed her, soft and slow and deep and gods.

Emma whimpered, clinging to him, yearning for things she couldn’t articulate. His hand flexed against her jaw at the sound and just for a moment he pulled her flush against him, insistent yet so gentle, like he wanted to consume her and also never let her go. Then, ever so softly, he broke the kiss.

“Go out with me,” he murmured, leaning his forehead against hers and stroking his thumb across her chin.

“Hmmmm?” Emma struggled to think through the spinning in her head and the frantic thrum of her blood. “Go where?”

He chuckled. “Let me take you out to dinner. Tomorrow.”

“Like—a date?”

“Aye, Swan, very much like a date. An actual date, in fact.”

She blushed at the gentle teasing but the butterflies in her belly were performing an elaborate pas-de-deux and she felt like she could fly along with them. “I’d like that,” she said.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. Um.” He cleared his throat and stood straight, though his hand remained on her cheek. “I’ll come by here to pick you up. About seven?”

She nodded. “I’m in room 3017. You can call me on the intercom from down here.”

“3017,” he repeated. He stepped back with a swagger in his hips this time, and bit his bottom lip in a way that made her want to drag him up to her room now, no date required.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, love,” he said, his voice dripping with promise, and she smiled.

“Tomorrow.”

“And that’s how it happened.” Emma concludes. “More wine, Captain Jones?” She smiles at Liam who’s gaping at her, slack-jawed. Slowly he inclines his head and pushes his wine glass slightly forward on the table. The three of them are sitting in the small dining area of Emma and Killian’s apartments at the palace, sharing dinner as they fill Liam in on the story of their relationship. As Emma refills his wine glass, Liam turns to Killian and punches him squarely in the shoulder.

“Oi!” Killian cries. “What was that for?”

“I can’t believe you just kissed her like that!” Liam exclaims. “What were you thinking?”

Killian shrugs. “I was thinking I wanted to kiss her.”

“You can’t just up and kiss the princess!” Liam sputters.

“That’s what I was trying to tell myself,” says Killian. “I walked away cursing who she was and reminding myself I had to treat her appropriately, and then I thought but why? If she’d been the normal girl she was pretending to be, I’d have kissed her at the party. So I turned back and, well, you heard the rest.”

“I’m glad he did, too,” says Emma. “It saved me the trouble of hunting him down and kissing him myself. Didn’t help me sleep that night though.” She shoots Killian a saucy look which he returns in kind.

“All right all right, bloody hell,” Liam grumbles. “Could you stop doing that, please?”

“Doing what?” asks Emma innocently.

“I’ve no idea what you mean, brother,” says Killian.

Liam groans and lets his head fall into his hands. “Where’s that wine?” he says.

When dinner is over Liam takes his leave, and Emma offers to walk with him as far as the door to the inner courtyard. They stroll slowly through the wide corridors and Liam waits, knowing she must have something she wishes to say.

“I’m glad you finally know about us.” Emma glances up at him with a rather apologetic smile. “Killian’s been wanting to tell you for ages. He couldn’t say anything at first of course, because no one outside my family and our closest advisers knew I was at the university, but since we began living together he’s felt awful keeping it from you.”

“I understand why he did, though,” Liam replies. “And I’m truly sorry he ever felt that he couldn’t confide in me.” They walk in silence for a few minutes. “Do, er—” he clears his throat. “Do your parents know?”

“They do.”

“And… how do they feel about it?”

“They’re delighted,” says Emma gently, and Liam feels the tension in his shoulders recede.

“Truly?”

“Truly. It was a bit tricky at first, but they adore Killian and they’re happy I’ve chosen someone who will be a true partner to me when I take the throne. They know how essential that is.”

They are approaching the doors to the courtyard, but Emma stops just inside them and turns to face him. “Liam,” she says. “May I call you that?”

“Of course.”

“Liam, I just want you to know that Killian—” Her voice breaks and she blinks rapidly, looking faintly embarrassed. “I—I just—I love him so much,” she chokes out as tears begin to trickle down her cheeks. “Oh, gods I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, lass.” Liam withdraws a crisp handkerchief from his uniform pocket and offers it to her.

“Thank you.” She takes the handkerchief and dabs at her eyes. “I’ve never found it easy to talk about my feelings,” she says once she’s calmer, “and the stronger they are the harder it is. But I need you to know that Killian’s heart is safe with me. As I know mine is with him.”

Liam nods, his chest too tight for the words he wishes he could say. He contents himself with a simple “Thank you.”

Emma smiles and gives him his handkerchief back, squeezing his hand as he takes it. “You’re welcome,” she says. “Brother.”

—

@ohmightydevviepuu @thisonesatellite @kmomof4 @stahlop @darkcolinodonorgasm @katie-dub @teamhook @donteattheappleshook @xhookswenchx @snidgetsafan

#cs fic #cs ff #captain swan #captain duckling #modern captain duckling #cs ff au #modern au #modern royalty #meet cute #college au #brothers jones #love blooms #profdanglaisstuff #mariakov81 #happy birthday masha

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ddaenggtan · 5 years

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forever rain | knj | m

Being dead isn't anything exciting. Just a lot of walking the same halls of the same apartment day after day after day. Things change when the new tennant arrives, though. Kim Namjoon isn't anything you could have expected; not the way he's so careful and gentle with his plants because he breaks so many other things, not the way his friends joke that he's psychic because you refuse to let him get in the face one time, and certainly not the way he comes home after literal months spent moving things away from table edges for him and announces that he knows he's being haunted and he has some questions for you. You didn't know ghosts could fall in love, but he makes you feel alive again, like you're standing in the rain while thunder crashes around you. You should've known nothing good would come of falling in love with someone living, though. You should've known that heartbreak was the only way this could end...that the rain doesn't last forever.

part of the Love Yourself Collab, please please please go check out the other fics. Everyone involved is so freaking talented and I have been vibrating out of my skin with how excited I’ve been to read all of these.

pairing | kim namjoon x reader (unspecified gender, even!)

word count | 18.8k | cross posted to ao3

genre/warnings | ghost!reader, slight fluff, hard angst, literally the most angst ever it gets fluffy for a bit but litERALLY this is an angst fic, major character death, unprotected sex (idk what the etiquette for ghost sex is but you should still wrap it before you tap it fam), depictions of terminal illness (v mild), mentions of blood (several, but not graphic), major character death, allusions to violence, namjoon is a klutz whats new, depictions of terminal illness, major character death, i added that tag three times pls dont read this if you aren’t comf with mcd bc i literally tagged it three times so y’all would definitely see it, also probably have some tissues ready bc i cried while writing it so

a/n | this is, to date, the saddest thing i have ever written in my entire fucking life. formal apologies to this joon bc oh my god you poor soul. i’m not kidding when i say you might cry, because i’m a big baby wuss and cried while writing the fucking outline when i first decided to write this for the collab so like......rip my own heart. i was really honored when i was approached about the LYA collab, bc like,,,,,mE? WHAT? and i was really nervous because i’ve never been part of any collabs in any fandom ever, and to have to do something like forever rain and mono as a whole justice, like,,,,,,, *screaming* y’know?? so i went on mono lockdown and just had the whole thing on repeat and was like “alright. what emotions does this make me feel.” and i eventually settled on the loneliness and isolation that he expresses, and feeling like no one understands what you’re going through, but that ultimately the album as a whole and forever rain give off this feeling of like. things get better, you’re not as alone as you feel, and you just gotta get through the bad stuff to find the good stuff. basically i just got really in my feels about it and was like ‘lets make myself cry ahahaha’ and,,,i dID i cried several times while planning and writing and editing bc im a Soft Bitch and don’t read much angst for that exact reason lmao. so buckle tf up y’all, this a helluva ride!!

Of all the things you'd heard about death, all the different possibilities that existed in the world, the one thing you hadn't been prepared for was the boredom. You hadn't been prepared for any of it, really, too surprised by your own demise to plan at all, but even if you'd been able to, you don't think that this is what you would've counted on. An eternity - or however long ghosts existed - of being stuck in the same studio apartment you'd lived in when you died. The same walls, the same floor, the same view out the only window of the alley beside the building. It's boring and lonely and boring.

You've found more creative ways to entertain yourself as time passes. First, you started by figuring out just what being a ghost meant. You can't really communicate with anyone, haven't figured out how to make sure everything you say is heard, but you can manipulate objects pretty easily these days. The most difficult thing is becoming fully corporeal - completely visible and able to interact with things at the same time. It's hard enough to be visible, and you aren't really sure what the point of it would be when it would just scare whoever's living in your apartment; that's the last thing you want to do, run them off when they're the best source of amusement you've found.

You won't lie, you were a little offended when the first tenants moved in after you. It was difficult to watch your things get packed up and moved out by your friends, hard to lose all of the little things you loved in your apartment, like the shitty bead curtain you'd gotten as a gag gift or the photo collage of all of your loved ones. It's frustrating to not know how they're all doing these days; the one time you got brave enough to fuck with a laptop to check on them, you nearly broke the thing, and you haven't tried since. Still, it seemed cathartic for them to clear out your apartment, and it was a bittersweet sight, but you tried to focus on the positive side of it.

And then the couple moved in.

Not only did they fuck like rabbits - which is something you're going to stay pissed about, because there's no satisfaction to be had by you anymore, and it's the one thing you can think of that would be endlessly entertaining - but the couple was also grossly obnoxious. They had zero respect for your apartment , or you, and while one could argue that they didn't actually know you were there, it still made the sting of losing your entire life that much worse. You spent you don't know how many nights hovering awkwardly in the bathroom while they fucked, would constantly wander in to see them going at it on the kitchen counter at ass o'clock in the morning, and once you came in to see them tossing actual literal eggs at the ceiling like the absolute fucking weirdos they were.

So, naturally, you got a little mad. How dare they treat your apartment like that? They had no respect, but they were going to learn it real quick if they were going to live there with you, whether they wanted to or not.

They didn't last long after the first night of slamming cabinets and squealing hinges, but the thrown picture frame of their family was the conclusive end to their stay.

There have been others, since then. They haven't all been terrible, not like that first couple, but most of them have been sub-par roommates, and if you decided early on that if the rest of your immortal life is going to be locked in one shitty apartment with the absolute worst view in the city - because no one wants to see the drunken hookups and potential body dumps that take place in that alley - then you're at least going to share said apartment with someone nice to exist with.

You release a heavy sigh, staring at where your hand disappears through the shower wall. You've taken to testing the boundaries of the apartment again; you already know what the result will be, learned in the first few hours that you're stuck here, but you can't help trying when you get really bored. You just got distracted fucking around with the pipes in the meantime, because you're literally too bored to even focus. It's part of why you miss the last tenants so much, because you weren't ever really bored with them around.

A single mother and her two kids, crammed into a much-too-small apartment because it was all they could afford, and they were the light of your un-life. One a budding teenager that wrote angsty poetry who loved your trick of making things float around, and one an adorable toddler who adored playing peekaboo with you and coloring, and a mom that was too busy to notice anything out of the ordinary. It was like having a family again, made you feel useful when you could pull the meat out of the freezer for her to make dinner with or scratch a quick 'do your homework' on a steamy bathroom mirror. It was fun and it made being dead that much more bearable.

You really should've known that letting the toddler draw the two of you would be a bad idea, especially since there were several artistic liberties taken. It's not your fault the kid thought you'd look cool with fangs and bloody holes instead of eyes and claws that reached the floor. It was art, it was supposed to be a little different from reality. Still, you can't blame her for seeing the picture of her kid and 'my new best friend' and immediately calling the landlord. And a priest.

So, perhaps you gave the apartment a bit of a reputation. Maybe it's been a couple of months since the mom moved out and took your two buds with her. There might be the possibility that you've been the slightest bit salty about losing your friends and you've been extra-ghost-y whenever someone comes by to view the place in an attempt to make yourself feel a little better. Can you really be blamed for that? You just want a decent damn roommate for your life after death, and if that means putting the potentials through a little bit of a test, then so be it. You only feel a little bit bad for the landlord.

The creak of the front door pulls you from your thoughts, and the echo of a voice makes you narrow your eyes. Your first instinct is to slam some windows to scare off whoever's in your apartment, but you repress the urge. You'd die of boredom if you could die again, and whoever this is could provide a few hours' entertainment at the least.

You pop your head through the bathroom wall to see what's going on, and wow , who let an actual giant into your apartment? Fucking with the pipes could definitely wait for this guy.

"I know it's last minute, yeah," He says into the phone that's held carefully between his cheek and shoulder. His arms are loaded down with boxes and he's angled away from you just enough that you can't see his face, but he's tall and broad and wearing what looks like the world's comfiest sweater, and you want to badly to wrap yourself up in him. "But you know Joon needs the help. Don't pretend you aren't constantly willing to put off your thesis, I know for a fact that you went out to look at stationery with Tae last week, and everyone knows that's the most boring thing on the planet."

He's quiet, listening to the soft crackle of a voice from the other end. You slide through the wall completely, hovering as close as you dare to try and hear what the other person is saying. Tall, Broad, and Comfy scoffs.

"He can stare at one sheet of paper for at least ten minutes, Yoongi. Do I need to remind you of the time he spent an entire fucking hour debating which set of holiday scrapbook to buy because, and I quote, 'this one has the really nice rose pattern on it that would look great with the invitations, but, oh, look at the pinstripes in this one!'" His voice morphs into what you guess is an approximation of whoever Tae is, and you laugh at the high-pitched, nasally tone.

Tall and Broad spins, eyes narrowing as he looks around the room, and fuck , he's literally gorgeous. You've never seen someone more attractive in your life or your death and it would probably knock the wind out of you if you actually had breath. Comfy McGorgeous turns back around and sets the stack of boxes in the corner, continuing his tirade about Tae and stationery while simultaneously trying to talk Yoongi into coming, you assume, to help Joon move. You don't know who any of these people are, but they're already proving to be the most entertaining bunch that's ever graced these walls.

The door to your apartment flies open, making both you and Boyfriend Material whip your head around.

"Christ, Jin, you couldn't hold the fucking door open for us?" Someone grunts. Beauty Von Softness - or, Jin, as you should probably refer to him - winces and strides over to do just that as two more guys stagger in with a couch suspended between them. The second they're in the door they drop it to the ground and flop onto it, panting and sweaty.

"Listen, I was busy trying to get our resident hermit out of his cave to help us carry some of this shit," Jin spits back. "And you all know what it's like getting him out and about."

"Did you tell him that there's pizza after we're done? Because I've found that food is the best motivator for him," the guy closest to the door says. His hair is soft-looking and long and you wish you could pet it.

The other guy, the one who cursed Jin out and has the softest pink hair you've ever seen, laughs. "Jeongguk, you always think the best motivator is food."

"Well, yeah, because it is."

"For you, maybe. Other people require actual rewards."

"But food is a reward," Jeongguk mutters into the fabric of the couch. Jin tsks and smacks As Yet Unnamed on the back of the head.

"You're lucky I hung up on him when you bombarded your way into this place, or he'd definitely not come help us," Jin says as he leans against the back of the couch.

Unnamed starts to say something else but is cut off by someone running straight into the end of the couch. They all shoot to their feet, spouting apologies as the three of them maneuver the couch into the apartment properly.

"Sorry, sorry, Jimin distracted us from properly finishing our job," Jeongguk says quickly. He looks to the stranger with a small apologetic smile, and you're pretty sure if it were humanly possible, there would be actual literal stars in his eyes.

"Oh, it's okay, Jeonggukkie. I should've been looking where I was going." New Challenger walks straight towards where you stand, and you realize seconds before it's too late that he is not aware there is a massive stack of boxes in his path. Instinctively, you shove them to the side with your foot. Tall And Oblivious sets his boxes down without any trouble, none the wiser about any of it, and the three near the couch are too busy bickering in hushed whispers to have noticed you doing anything.

The newcomer straightens and turns to look at them all with a bright smile, and you think you might actually see The Light in the way his cheeks dimple. If you thought the other three were beautiful - which they are, no doubt about that, you're seriously wondering why the hell a bunch of supermodels are moving stuff into your apartment - then this guy is easily an Actual Fucking God or something. His brown hair is soft and shiny, his smile is warmer than the sun, and you're fairly positive that for the first time since you died, you feel goosebumps along your arms.

"Seriously, Namjoon, we should've realized you'd be up soon. You stay, start unpacking while we go get the rest of the furniture." Jimin shoves Jeongguk out the door while he's speaking, ignoring the taller's complaints, and Jin just shakes his head at the sight.

"Yoongi'll be here soon, he's finishing up another draft of his thesis. Hobi and Tae are stopping to get the pizzas and then they'll be here, too." Jin's voice is calmer than it was Jimin and Jeongguk, more soothing, and it makes you curious. Not only because of the tone change, but because you know Hobi, he owns the building and is the one who rented you the apartment when you first moved in. One of your favorite things to do is scare him when he comes by to make sure everything’s ready for a viewing.

"What? No, I said I was gonna pay for pizzas!" Namjoon looks distinctly more upset about this than someone should over not having to pay for pizza, at least in your mind, and it only makes you more curious.

"Yeah, but you also just moved out of your old apartment because it was too expensive, and had like an hour to load everything into a truck, so you're gonna let their trust fund asses pay for pizzas. We're seven adult men, and Guk could eat an entire horse and still be hungry. I'm not letting you pay for that."

Silence hangs in the apartment for a while before Namjoon gives a soft thanks to Jin. They share a smile before Jin makes his way back out. You follow each step, shadowing him all the way to the door before you're stopped. You lean your entire body forward, struggling against the invisible barrier keeping you inside, and the force of it nearly slams you back into the wall when you sag in defeat.

You aren't sure why you try anymore, but you know yourself well enough to admit that you're not going to stop until you can at least make it to the hallway.

Whatever you expected Namjoon to be like as a roommate, however unknowing he is about the situation, you don't think you could've guessed what he's actually like.

Out of the seven boys you saw the day he moved in, he's the only one living there. Not a complete surprise, considering it's a studio apartment, but you remember when there were nine people living there at one point, and there was barely room for anyone to breathe even if it had been pretty consistently amusing. Still, for one person, he's got a ton of stuff, and it's a shock it all fits. His bed is massive and comfortable and the best place to lay during the day because it's shoved between the brick half-wall and the large windows that take up one wall. The area's supposed to be for a dining table, you think, but you'd had your bed there, too, and the familiarity is nice.

His couch is small and old but manages to fit five of them, and it's a pleasantly jarring difference from the coffee table that looks like - and might actually be - an old steamer trunk. The exposed brick wall you love holds his mounted TV, a feat that took Jeongguk and Yoongi a solid hour and a half because they kept stripping the screws, and it's got one of those 8-cubicle bookshelf things under it that stores a frankly obnoxious amount of books.

He's got mugs for days, an adorable if odd collection of figurines and mini-statues scattered around the apartment, a strange obsession with some reclaimed wood shelf he's got hanging above his bed, but the absolute highlight of it all is The Wall.

It took them three hours to get it installed and set up the way he wanted, between the placements and the thick wooden shelf they’re perched on with supports and a small safety bar along the edge to keep them from falling off, but along the entire windowed wall and partway after it turns the corner runs a long shelf absolutely covered in plants. There are some elsewhere, like the one he keeps hanging from the bathroom ceiling and the couple in the kitchen, but most are on The Wall. Each one is in its own special pot, each a unique color with a name painted carefully along it, and most of them look half-dead. They're all distinct and unique from each other and they all surely have different needs and ideal conditions, but you'd never guess because Namjoon is so wholly committed to them all. He takes time every day to water them and prune them if he needs to, he checks on them constantly. He even reinforced the safety bar for the ones that sit beside his bed, so there was less chance he'd accidentally knock them around while sleeping.

It's fascinating, watching him tend to them. He's so careful and gentle, with absolute precision in every moment. He cares for his plants the way some people would care for a pet or a child. He doesn’t believe any of them are past caring for, slowly nurses all of them back to health and frequently turns up with more he’s saved from some department store. The most endearing thing, though, you decide as you sit curled among the haphazard blankets of his bed and watch, is the talking. It's every day, for as long as it takes him to care for the plants, and it's the cutest thing in the world. He's talking to some succulent as you just stare at him, filling the comfortable silence of the apartment with his soft, soothing voice, and you wish he could hear you when you talk back to him.

"I know they mean well, but at some point, I've just gotta live my own life, y'know? I can't study something just because everyone expects me to, and I can't pursue some dream just because people think I'd be good at it. I've gotta do what's right for me, don't I?" His tone is positive and bright, a contrast to the gloomy sky that casts shadows across the apartment.

You float over, hovering beside him to look at the plant he's lovingly stroking with his thumb. It's in a pretty periwinkle pot, with the name 'Mang' painted in careful but shaky black handwriting. It's not your favorite - that's the one in the bathroom that hangs over its light blue bowl, a quickly scrawled 'Koya' on the bottom - but it seems to be one of Namjoon's personal favorites based on how often he talks to it specifically.

"I think it's nice you do things for yourself," You tell him. He doesn't react, unable to hear you, but it's nice to hear your own voice after so long. You slide one of the plants - Chim, in a small yellow bowl - to the side and away from his elbow, and he doesn't notice. "You know yourself better than they do. You should trust yourself."

He keeps mumbling to Mang, something about everyone following their own dreams and doing what they need over what people want or expect, when you lay your hand over his.

Thunder cracks through the sky and the first raindrops hits the window as your non-existent skin hits his, and it's the most real thing you've felt in a long time. It's as if the scent of ozone and electricity is in the apartment itself, crackling in your hair and filling your nose with the overpowering scent of the sweet summer rain. You can almost feel the water hit your skin, the way the wind whips at your hair, and it's so intoxicating that you almost miss the sharp inhale from the man beside you.

He's not looking at his plant when you look up, but instead at the window in front of the two of you. You glance at it, and for a fraction of a second, you can see yourself in the reflection. The glimpse has you jerking towards it before you can stop yourself, desperate to know if something has changed. You haven't seen your reflection since you died, not in the mirror or the window or the toaster, and maybe, just maybe, it means something's changed.

Your hand stops against the glass of the window as you reach forward. You can't feel the cool of it under your palm, but it's no less a barrier for you as it would be for Namjoon. Something in you breaks as you watch the raindrops race each other to the ground.

"Ah, I forgot the forecast called for rain today," he mutters, eyes focused on the lightning that streaks by. He doesn't react when your fist slams against the glass, nor when you let out the scream that's been building in you for however long it's been since you died. You're so close, not even a hair's breadth from feeling something new yet familiar for the first time in so long, and you can't. You're still stuck in these four walls, unable to even reach the air outside.

You just want to feel the rain again.

You move dejectedly away from the window, ignoring the way Namjoon shivers as you pass. The temperature in the apartment has dropped considerably, you think, between the storm and your own mood. You can't tell, really. You haven't felt warm or cold or hungry or anything since you died that isn't the oppressive loneliness of life after death.

A dry sob tears itself from your throat and you hurry to hide in the bathroom as Namjoon turns to look around him. He mumbles something you can't hear and after a few minutes, he returns to tending to his plants, leaving you to your tear-less cries in peace.

It becomes quickly apparent to you that Namjoon should really have a roommate, if only to save him from himself. It takes a few weeks for you to realize this, but luckily he seems to narrate his life as he goes through it - which is overwhelmingly adorable to you, and you refuse to acknowledge that - and that means that you hear it every time he goes, "Ah, Namjoon, be more careful next time," or "Oh, shoot, that's not, fuck, I gotta buy more eggs now." It's painful to watch, even for you, and at some point, you just couldn't take it anymore. No one else is around to help, but someone needs to you, and clearly the universe means for you to be that someone.

It's a full-time job, protecting him from himself. You've saved countless mugs, pushing them farther away from the edges of counters and tables, and been just in time to shove bowls or vases an inch over so that his elbows glide harmlessly past them. It's almost exhausting, if you could get tired you would, but it's worth it, you think, as you catch the bookshelf under the TV as it tilts. You slide it gently to the floor, glad that Namjoon is distracted by how close he came to losing a toe to notice.

Because that's the other thing about this tree of a man: he's the most oblivious person you've ever fucking seen. It doesn't matter what it is you do, whether it's bouncing his spray bottle of water so it doesn't break on the hard floor or shake the counters so that the knife he's about to drop on his fucking hand falls the other way, he doesn't see a single fucking thing. You'd think he was blind if he wasn't so attentive to the way his plants grow. He notices nothing and you're glad for it because you really aren't sure what he would do if he knew you were going around haunting him just to keep him alive. You just want to help, want to keep the soft smile he wears more often around for as long as possible.

You don't dare to look into why you want that, too afraid of what you might find there.

It's also just fun to watch him and his friends, relaxed and unreserved. You never had many friends when you were alive, just a small handful that you really truly loved and whom you miss every day. Watching these seven boys fills you with nostalgia and a strange sense of joy because they really are some of the funniest people you've ever been around.

Like now, with four of them sprawled on the couch while Jeongguk and Hoseok make themselves comfortable leaning against the bookshelf under the TV - which has been bolted to the wall since it almost broke Namjoon's foot - and Namjoon watches them all from his bed since it's the only other place to sit. There are beer bottles scattered around and decorating the half-wall that separates the bed from the room proper, everyone is varying levels of drunk, and you're curled up close to Namjoon, leaning against the wall so you can stop him from knocking over any of the bottles nearby because you know him too well at this point.

"I'm just saying, I don't understand why they made him so over-powered in the new movies, because he's supposed to be some kid from Brooklyn! Giving him the high-tech suit essentially strips him of the friendly neighborhood persona that he's always relied on!" Jeongguk has been ranting for a while about the newest release in the Spiderman franchise - apparently, he's part of the actual Avengers now, which is a shock to you since the last thing you heard before you died was that the franchise was canceled until further notice or something.

"And I'm saying that if they didn't give him the suit then it would've made no sense how he was able to do those things," Yoongi responds. You're pretty sure he's just arguing to be contrary at this point, because you remember him telling Namjoon the other day that he prefers DC over Marvel.

"Garfield's Spiderman could do those things," you mutter, "And he didn't have a fancy suit."

"Okay, then how do you explain Andrew Garfield's version being able to do that stuff? He doesn't need the suit, he never has!" You preen at the way Jeongguk echoes your thoughts. "I'm telling you, I don't care how good the relationship with Holland's Spidey and Iron Man is, by giving him the tech and the advancements they did, they've undermined everything that Spiderman is supposed to be about."

"Jeongguk come off it, everyone knows Garfield's Spidey was just all bad writing. I mean, what kind of person can do all that stuff, realistically? He's the one that really needed the Stark suit." Taehyung's voice is slurred and quiet, definitely as drunk as the rest of them.

"What-! No! I could do half of that without being bitten by a weird science spider!" Jin scoffs at Jeongguk's words.

"Yeah, sure, Guk. The same way you can do that bottlecap challenge."

"Bottle cap challenge, and yeah, I could!" The youngest stands and you don't bother to hide your grimace.

"This isn't going to end well, is it?" You ask. No one acknowledges you, too busy finding something Jeongguk can kick the cap off of as the boy readies himself. He's steady on his feet but his face is red and he can't seem to stop giggling.

"If I do this, you gotta call me SpiderGuk from now on, okay?" He says. No one agrees, but it doesn't stop him from laughing again and doing a couple of roundhouse kicks to warm up.

"Okay, okay, Joonie doesn't have any regular water bottles, but we found a screw-top beer in the fridge so ya gotta use that," Jimin says as he stumbles over with said bottle. Jeongguk just nods, an adorable focused expression on his face. Jimin holds the bottle in the air, and you can already tell his grip isn't tight enough to keep the bottle still when Jeongguk kicks it.

The next ten seconds happen in slow-motion. Jeongguk's leg flies out to kick but his drunken body isn't able to handle the sudden shift in balance, and he slips. His foot hits the bottle slightly too low, and it goes flying out of Jimin's weak grip into the air. Everyone in the room watches as it hurtles straight towards Namjoon's face, and you react out of habit and instinct, catching it in one hand before you even realize you've moved.

Everyone freezes, staring at where the bottle hovers in front of Namjoon's face. You're the only one able to see your fingers wrapped around it. A shock jolts through you at the realization of what you've done and you drop the bottle as if it burned you. Fuck, they were all going to freak, then Namjoon would move out and you'd be stuck alone once more. You should've just shoved him out of the way, what were you thinking, you're so fucking stupid-

"Dude," Hoseok mutters from where he's perched on the arm of the couch. "Holy shit, Joon, you're fucking telepathic."

Yoongi rolls his eyes and smacks his chest. "Telekinetic, you fucking-"

"Holy shit, you've got fucking superpowers!" Jeongguk squeaks. "Do it again!"

Namjoon isn't even able to get a word out before there's a book flying at his face, and you panic. You can't catch it, too rushed, but you manage to deflect it so it hits the bed with a soft thump instead of braining Namjoon straight in the nose.

"Woah, you really do have superpowers," Jimin whispers. He lobs a bottlecap at Namjoon, and you catch it in your palm before letting it drop onto the half-wall.

"I don't have...what the fuck you guys," Namjoon insists. His eyes are as wide as saucers behind the thick glasses he has on. He looks freaked out and you want nothing more than to hug him. Your hand reaches out of its own accord, halfway closing the distance to stroke his hair before you catch yourself.

"Hey, levitate your plants," Jin demands. Namjoon looks panicked as he glances at the wall of plants, and you heave a sigh. With any luck, they're so drunk that they'll remember this as a strange fever dream, but you can't just let them keep throwing things at him. You crawl over to the wall, avoiding Namjoon as you do, and grasp one of the plants tight. It's a white pot with red polka dots, a simple RJ on the side, and it's fucking heavy. You only get it a few inches off the shelf before you're forced to put it down.

"Oh my god, catch this!" Taehyung throws a coffee mug straight at Namjoon's head and you panic again. You catch it, and you've decided you're fucking sick of them throwing things at him, so you lob it back and dart across the room to bounce it safely to the counter before it can break.

Everyone in the room stares at the mug and then looks back at Namjoon, who hasn't moved from his spot on the bed.

"Oh my god, you're a superhero," Jeongguk whispers, awe in his eyes.

"That's fucked up," Yoongi mutters, wincing when Hoseok elbows him.

"Maybe we should get some sleep," Namjoon says quietly. The others look like they want to disagree with him, and you have no doubt they want to explore the newfound 'abilities' of their friend, but they still start gathering trash together before they head out.

Namjoon lays awake for a long time that night, glasses folded and sitting atop the half-wall beside you. He's oblivious to the way you watch him, too lost in thought to feel the weight of your stare or the chill in the air.

"I don't understand," He says after a while. "I really don't, but there's got to be a reason for it." He doesn't elaborate, merely turns over and evens his breathing out until he starts snoring, but you watch him for most of the night. He's fascinating, this human, and you wonder what makes him so different from the others you've met.

He apparently decides to experiment. You've known Namjoon is intelligent since he first moved in and you saw his collectible encyclopedias, but you hadn't realized just what it would be like in actuality.

It starts simple. He'll toss something in the air and let it clatter to the ground. Nothing big, just little things like pencils or bottlecaps, and not far, just enough that his eyes narrow as he apparently tries to use his telekinetic abilities to manipulate them.

It slowly graduates from there. Next comes the way he stares at something across the room, hyper-focused on whatever it is until you notice and move it around for him. It's a guessing game, sometimes, trying to figure out just what he wants to move or how he wants to move it, but each time you're successful, he smiles so brightly, dimples on full display. Who wouldn't want to make him smile like that?

It's hit or miss, sometimes. You're only so strong, and while you've had a lot of practice, you still get tired. You lifted his bookshelf almost a full inch before blacking out. Next thing you knew, a couple of days had passed and Namjoon was staring at a coffee mug. That was a significantly less fun day; between losing time and having to catch coffee mug after coffee mug, you were exhausted and a little shaken.

So when he stops staring at things for extended periods of time, when he starts to go back to reading and scrolling the internet and bingeing all the completed shows that Netflix and Amazon had to offer, you're grateful for it. He still occasionally tests it out; he's always subtle about it, choosing to stare quietly until you notice and make whatever it is float around for a minute. Once you wandered around looking for him - a feat in a studio apartment - and found him just sitting on the bathroom floor, staring at a shampoo bottle.

You'd like to say that you don't move things entirely because he wants you to. It's a good test of your abilities and how far you can push yourself until it becomes too much, and it's always nice to have actual evidence that you still exist - in some form, at least - in the world. The validation that comes from seeing him smile every time you lift a pencil or slide a coffee mug to the side, it's not for any reason but the satisfaction of knowing that you have some kind of existence. Some kind of impact on the world, even if you can't be seen and can't leave the apartment.

It's part of why you start moving things around yourself more often; you're hoping he just blames it on his overactive 'abilities' if he notices because you really aren't sure what he would think otherwise. But you also know for a fact that just seeing that you have some kind of sway over the world still - over the things inside this tiny apartment - makes you feel just that bit better about being dead.

Which is why it's such a fucking shock when the door to the apartment slams open one evening just for Namjoon to slam it closed again and announce into the air, "So I know you're haunting me, please don't try to deny it, I only want to talk to you."

You freeze where you are, halfway through the closet door from where you were reorganizing his clothes because they made no sense and you were bored. He's looking around the apartment, almost desperate in the way he's searching, and you can't bring yourself to move. It's obvious he can't see you, and you aren't even sure if he's being serious, but the way he huffs and clenches his jaw before moving into the kitchen tells you that he probably is.

You follow him, curious, and watch as he pulls a small package out of his bag and starts ripping it open. You float the remains of what looks like gift wrap over to the trashcan, because you know Namjoon will forget, before going back to watching him. He's only a little careful as he cracks something in his hands and then slaps it onto the fridge, and you peek around him to see that it's some kind of words or something. There’s a wide variety, with no clear theme to them, as well as at least one of each letter of the alphabet. It's then you remember the throwaway comment Yoongi made during that night - "You need, like, poetry stuff, like those magnets that go on the fridge that people write that deep shit with, y'know? I'm gonna buy you one," - and realize that he'd followed through on his vow.

"Alright," Namjoon says, leaning against his kitchen counter and staring at the magnets. "First and foremost, am I really being haunted or is this some kind of hallucination?" His gaze never falters, doesn’t ever drift from the magnetic words now spread across his fridge doors. It takes several minutes to build up the energy and the courage to move closer to the fridge.

You don't look at him as you move the words around, but you can hear the sharp intake of breath. That's likely all the confirmation that he needs, but still you clear a spot and let the words ' I am here ' sit where he can see them clearly. You wrinkle your nose, disliking how formal it sounds, but you have to make do, you suppose.

"Okay," Namjoon breathes. "Okay, prove it. My brain could work this into a hallucination. How do I know you're really a ghost?"

"Seriously?" You huff. "What the fuck am I supposed to do that wouldn't work into a hallucination, dude?"

He gets fidgety in the few minutes that you spend wondering how the fuck you're going to prove that you're a real actual ghost to someone who clearly doesn't believe in them. His foot taps at the floor and he scratches at his hand, which only makes you want to wrap your own hands around his until he stops, much like your best friend used to lay her legs across your lap to get you to stop shaking your knee.

The realization comes in a flash, and you're moving letters around before you can stop yourself.

Face book, Park Jihyo, best friend.

Namjoon stares at it for a long while before he brings his phone out of his pocket and begins to tap at the screen. You don't get too close; you've got a history with shorting out electronics, and you aren't sure you want to know what your best friend is up to without you there with her.

"Okay," Namjoon says. "Okay, I've never seen her before, so I don't think my brain could work her into a hallucination. Okay. Alright. I'm being haunted. This is fine."

"Calm down, I'm haunting the apartment, not you." He doesn't react to your words, as usual, but it still makes you feel the slightest bit better. He stares at his phone for a little longer, and the curiosity burns under your skin, but you resist. You know from experience that if you try to get too close, his phone will stop working. Just like TV, the stereo, the laptops, everything. You've had enough experience with that kind of thing to know what will happen.

"Okay, Casper," Namjoon huffs out after several minutes of waiting. He looks up and his eyes dart around the apartment, and you wonder if he's just nervous or if he's trying to spot you. "Where are you right now? Can you make yourself visible? I mean, I know you're a ghost, but it feels rude not talking to you to your face."

You huff a laugh but reach for a coffee cup. You know you can't just make yourself visible at will; you've only done it a couple of times, to your knowledge, and none of them have been on purpose. It's even more difficult to make yourself corporeal and physical, harder than just manipulating objects, but you did it once. Back when the single mom still lived here, when her toddler was falling and you had no way to cushion the fall except with your own body; you still aren't sure how it happened, but you remember being able to feel the floor against your back and the warmth of the baby on top of you for a split second before you were gone again. You won't forget that any time soon.

You float the mug towards where you stand, holding it in front of your face long enough that when you pull it away, Namjoon's eyes don't follow it. It's a strange feeling; you know he can't see you, can tell by the way his brow furrows and his eyes slide around the space, but it feels like he's looking straight at you. It feels like you're being seen for the first time since you died.

"So, where are you from, Casper?" His tone is forcibly conversational, as if he's trying his best to keep himself calm. You roll your eyes and move the magnets to show ' here ' and he nods. "You're not gonna try to possess me, or kill me, or run me off, are you? No offense or anything. I figure you would've already at this point, but...cover my bases."

No. Am nice. I think.

"You think? You don't know if you're a nice ghost?"

Does anyone truly know if they are nice? You frown, trying to figure out how to say what you want to say with the limited words available. I can only try. It's still not perfect; there's more that you want to say, more that you want to be heard, but this has to do for now.

"I can accept that. Alright. Just talking to a ghost in my kitchen. Okay. This is totally normal." He rubs a hand over his face, and you're a little impressed. Everyone else that's lived here has freaked when presented with the knowledge that you're a ghost. Namjoon looks very much like his world is exploding, but he doesn't have the same fear and apprehension in his eyes. He's certainly coping better than the single mom.

"Are you the only ghost? Here, I mean, are you the only ghost here?" He breathes a sigh of relief at your 'yes.’ "Can you see other ghosts? Do you know any other ghosts?" The 'don't know, no' that you move around on your fridge seems to unsettle him a little, but there's a curiosity burning behind it that makes your skin tingle.

Can't leave, is what you say next, cutting off whatever question he was about to ask.

"You can't leave at all? The building, or the apartment?"

The second.

"Wow. You're really stuck here?" He looks around the apartment as if seeing it for the first time and sucks in a breath. "What do you do all day?"

Watch. He cocks a brow. You are... You hesitate. The word you need isn't there, everything that comes to you is too poetic or corny for you to actually say, but the weight of his eyes is heavy on your hands. Fun is what you settle on, but it's not right either. 'Interesting' isn't there, nor is 'fascinating' or 'lovely,' and you don't want to scare him off by telling him that part of the reason you watch him so much is that he's so full of life that you feel less dead when he's around.

He laughs at your words though and shakes his head ever so slightly. "Alright, well, I'm gonna shower, so just, don't...watch that?" You squawk at the insinuation that you would, quickly rearranging the letters to spell ' privacy' and making a large angry face out of the rest of the words. He's already turned away, though, and it makes you angrier.

You don't want him thinking that you would peep at him. You already make sure that you're facing the windows when he finishes showering, you've been determined to not be creepy since the day he moved in, and to have him think otherwise is like a slap in the face. You slam the mug against the counter and he startles, turning to gape at it. You carry it to where your words and make-do emoji sit waiting for him to notice them.

"Okay," He says quickly. "Okay, privacy, yeah, got it. You respect my privacy. Appreciated."

"How fucking rude," You mutter as you set the mug back down. You don't adjust the magnets as he disappears into the bathroom. You want him to see them, want him to be reminded of the fact that being dead doesn't mean you don't have basic decency.

You can't get him to shut up now that he knows you're there. He still forgets sometimes, mostly when he's talking to his plants or narrating the way he carefully constructs some origami creation, but more often than not, he's talking to thin air. He spends a lot of time perched on his counter, watching you move magnets around his fridge through the thick lenses of his glasses before he spouts off some other question for you to answer.

He covers the basics first: how old you were when you died, when your birthday is, your favorite color, what you were studying in school, and of course your name, though he insists on calling you Casper. You aren't sure why but you also don't get a chance to question it, because he hits you with more and more questions every day. Sometimes you don't answer because you can't, too limited by the poetry magnets to be able to really converse; sometimes you just don't have the energy to move the magnets around, but those are days are rare. The only times you use the tired magnet are when you find your limbs too heavy to move, weighed down with the memories of what it meant to be alive.

Those are the bad days, but his questions make them just a little easier.

"How do you move around? Do you just float everywhere?" Walking, but different. No weight. Soft.

"How are you able to manipulate things in my world? Are they different from things in your world?" Focus. Takes time. Same.

"Do you sleep at all? Do ghosts dream?" No sleep. Just existing.

"You don't eat, do you? Should I be stocking up on snacks for you?" No. Save your sustenance. "What was the last thing you ate?" Don't remember. "Huh. I hope it was something good." Same.

"Were you ever in a relationship?" Once. A long time before. "Do you miss them?" Not anymore.

"What did you do while you were alive?" School. "Oh, really? Do you remember what you studied?" Boring. Important then, but it made me forget to live. Not important now. Namjoon goes quiet for a long moment after this one, staring out the window at something you can't see. He nods but doesn't ask any more questions, and he reads for the rest of the night.

It only takes a couple of weeks for both you and Namjoon to get tired of standing in his kitchen fucking around on the fridge. His legs get tired and he gets distracted by his thoughts, and you can barely keep up with the rapid-fire questions you get.

So Namjoon buys one of those cheap cookie sheets with the slightest lip at the edge and dumps the magnets on that. He leaves it on the coffee table, usually, there for you to pick up if he asks something but out of the way for when he stretches out to nap lazily in the afternoon sun.

You like the cookie sheet more than the fridge. He watches you as you work out your responses, can see the way you start to move one word before moving another instead; it makes it feel more like a conversation.

It becomes a favorite pass-time of Namjoon's, curling on the couch and putting some sort of music on in the background and just talking to you. A lot of nights his questions stop with a lingering silence from one or both of you; yours because you don't have the ability to share the words running rampant through your mind, and his for reasons still unknown to you. Still, you've missed it. You've missed talking to someone, being heard when you speak, having someone ask how you are at the end of the day.

It's the little things.

"You said you can't leave, right, Casper?" Namjoon's curled up on his couch, tucked into the arm with a blanket thrown over his lap, a mug of something warm in his hands to combat the chill of the season, and some R&B track playing lightly from his phone. You knock your fist against the cookie once - a sign for yes that you'd both agreed on. "So, are you just always here then? You don't go anywhere else?"

"Fuck, how do I explain this?" You mutter. You stare at the magnets in front of you for a long time before rearranging them. Not always. Tired sometimes, disappear.

"Disappear?" He reads. "What do you mean? You just, what, stop existing?"

Don't know, you respond. Only happens when tired. When used too much of me. He hums an acknowledgment, eyes focused on where the cookie sheet sits on the couch between you. You? What entertains you?

"Everything," he answers without hesitation. "I'm trying to work through my stack of books I want to read and finish all the shows I'm interested in, but the guys would have my head if I didn't get out and do things like a normal person."

That's where you leave to?

"Yeah." He sets his mug - now empty - on the coffee table and settles into the blankets. He looks cozy and soft and you would wrap yourself up with him if you could. "I take a lot of walks, and bike rides. I like to see the river, the trees, all the animals that live there. The beach is always fun, I get to see all the crabs and whatnot that wander in and out of the ocean."

"I wish I could go with you," you whisper.

Fun is what you spell on your sheet.

"I guess," he mutters. "It's enjoyable, at least. I'll bring you some souvenirs, or pictures next time."

You let the sheet settle on the couch as he turns the TV on, setting up a drama that he's on recently. He doesn't say anything else for a few hours, waits until the sound of rain hits the windows and stifles the apartment in an otherworldly haze.

"How long have you been dead?" His voice lingers in the air. You've been expecting these questions, and you're honestly impressed he's held them back for as long as he has. That angsty teen hadn't hesitated a single second to start asking you questions.

A while. Years. I think .

"Do you ever get tired of being a ghost?" There's something in his voice that you can't place, something that tells you this is more than just his usual morbid curiosity. Every part of your soul - whatever's left of it, anyway - is screaming at you to lie to him, to tell him that no, being a ghost is great. You've never wished he could hear you more than this moment, when all you want to is wrap your arms around him and ask him why he looks so much older than he is.

Sometimes, you tell him. It is lonely here, and boring. Fun to be unseen, but unable to do much more.

He nods like that makes all the sense in the world to him, and he brings the blanket up around his shoulders. "Do you ever miss your friends, or your family?"

Would you not? He huffs out an unamused chuckle, nodding again.

"Yeah," He says softly. "Yeah, I would. Do you want me to help you check on them? See what they're up to?" The single knock that echoes in the room is deafening to you, filled with a hope that you haven't felt in years. You've never let yourself think about them for long; if you did, you don't think you'd be able to come back from whatever that place is that you disappear to when things become Too Much.

Namjoon pulls his phone closer and starts fiddling with it. He doesn't hesitate when he types in your name, and you feel an emotional blush fill you when you see that he doesn't even have to finish typing for your profile to pop up. You glance at him, the way his brows are furrowed behind his glasses and his tongue pokes into his cheek just a little while he concentrates, and you wonder how many times he's looked at the pictures of you when you were alive. How many times has he scrolled through, reading the words people shared after you were gone, scrolling through the grief and loss to get to the words you posted yourself, the little snippets of your daily life that you would give anything to be able to relive?

"Do I still look like that?" You wonder aloud. As expected, he doesn't react, just continues tapping at his phone.

You two spend the rest of the night like that, each curled at opposite ends of the couch while Namjoon slowly looks up your friends and family and updates you on each of them. Jihyo got married, to someone she'd gone on a date with a few weeks before you passed, and she's apparently trying to start having kids; Your mother and father aren't very active, but they never were. They both share pictures of you when you were a baby each year on your birthday, and more recent photos of you on the anniversary. They have a dog now. It's cute. You wonder if it helps them cope with the loss.

Your other friends are doing well, too; most of them are still figuring out their lives, but it seems like all of them are settling in their skin and finding comfort in who they are. They're out there, navigating the world and doing things they enjoy, meeting new friends and making new memories.

You stand by the window for a long time, cookie sheet of magnetized words pressed against your chest as if you can feel the cool of the metal against your skin, and watch rain drip down the panes as you imagine what your life could have been.

You can always hear Namjoon before you see him. He whistles as he walks down the sidewalk, his small way of letting you know he's on his way back from wherever he's gone that day, and today isn't an exception. Relief sags through you and you move away from the windows, let your fingers trail against the ceramic of the newest succulent he'd bought, and head towards the kitchen. The kettle is turned on and heating a few moments later while you pull a mug down from your cabinet and set it carefully on the counter where Namjoon will see it.

It's a regular routine, for the two of you. He heads out, usually in the early morning after turning on some music or a show for you, and when he comes back, you make sure there's hot water for his tea or cocoa or whatever he feels like drinking that day. The sound of his whistling gets louder the closer he gets, a simple way to let you know he's safe and he's home. You glance through the cabinets and quickly make a note on the fridge that he needs to buy more of his special tea blend soon.

The lock turns and you smile, waiting patiently as Namjoon saunters into the apartment. He sets something down on the kitchen counter just as the kettle starts to scream, and you wait while he pours the water and gets it ready.

"The cherry blossoms bloomed," He says. You grin. "They look great. I got some really nice pictures while I was there, I'll show you tonight. I was thinking we could try to finish Voltron tonight if you want. We'll have to go back an episode though, I think I fell asleep during the last one." You knock once against the counter beside you, and he turns with a wide grin to glance at the spot where you stand.

It's ridiculous for your heart to speed up in your chest, for the hair on the back of your neck to rise, for breath to catch in your throat; you don't have a heartbeat, you don't have breath, you're a shadow of the person you used to be, and yet...

And yet, seeing his dimpled smile focused so naturally on where you are, as if it's just second-nature, is like a breath of fresh air after years underwater. It smells like flowers, like dirt and earth and a new beginning. It feels like you're alive again, and you don't want it to end, but too soon he's turning away to finish steeping the tea. Something lingers in the air for a moment after but it's gone too soon for you to place it.

You both settle on the couch, Namjoon tucking whatever he brought home with him under his arm, between his body and the arm of his ratty old couch. Your cookie sheet is in its place on the coffee table, unneeded at the moment. You can't help the glare that you give it; the things you would give to be able to just speak and be heard are endless.

It rattles a little and you look away.

Namjoon is quiet as the show plays. He doesn't react when you move to turn the oven on, but he does laugh quietly and thank you for it when he goes to put his dinner in. He eats and you don't bother him, though the way he keeps his little package hidden away makes curiosity burn through you. Eventually, once he's eaten and washed his dishes and laughed at the way you rubbed them dry before setting them carefully in their places, he settles back into his blankets and turns on the music he loves so much.

He's got a book balanced in his hands and your cookie sheet rests on the coffee table, and you both just sit like that for a long while, enjoying existing.

"You remember your life, right Casper?" You thump lazily against the wall in response, eyes drawn from where you watch the gloomy sky slowly get lighter with the dawn. He isn't looking at his book anymore; he probably hasn't been for a while, based on the way the pages have migrated around his thumb, too busy staring at the wall across from him. "Do you remember your death?"

You hesitate. You've tiptoed around the subject before. He's always been too afraid to ask directly, and it's too painful for you to offer it freely. You thump against the wall once more, and he nods like he already knew the answer.

"Are they very different?" His glasses are falling down his nose and your fingers itch to push them up. Instead, you reach for your cookie sheet. He makes a sound in the back of his throat when he sees it moving, reaching under him for his package. "I forgot, I got you this. Thought it might be easier."

He sets it down and you slide the contents out of the wrapping easily. Inside is a small dry-erase board, complete with markers and eraser, small things that should be easy for you to manipulate. You beam at him; he can't see it, but you think he might be able to feel it because he perks up and smiles a little.

"You don't have to answer," He adds. "I was just curious to know if being dead is really as different as everyone makes it out to be." You nod and thump once against the board before you uncap a marker and start writing.

It's a bizarre feeling, after so long. The muscles in your hand don't ache, no matter how much you write, and you can't feel the smooth surface of the board under your fingers or the weight of the marker in your palm, but it glides against it cleanly and leaves a thick black streak behind.

It takes you a minute to write everything out, get it worded how you want. Namjoon doesn't interrupt you, just watches the marker move against the board and smiles every time you go to erase something that isn't right. Eventually you show it to him.

There are similarities. I'm still me, I still enjoy TV and music and books. Things are duller now, like there's a filter over them, and it's harder to do things. Like when you're in water, or mud, like that. Resistance.

"Oh," Namjoon replies, "That's not what I expected. It makes sense though I guess." His hand moves against his chest, rubbing lightly as he looks over your words again. "Is there anything you actually like about being a ghost?"

"Well, being invisible is pretty cool," You say, writing the words as you do. "And it's actually really fun being able to walk through walls and stuff, even if I can't go anywhere outside of the apartment."

"I'm sorry you're stuck here," Namjoon says. You startle a little, looking up at him. You think he actually heard you for a split second, but his eyes are locked on where you're writing your words out on the dry erase board.

"Yeah, me too," You tell him. He stares at the board for a long moment, chewing nervously on his bottom lip as he does. "Ask what you want to ask, Joon," You write as you say it.

"How did you die?" He blurts. You sigh and he jumps a little, looking fully at where you sit. You're shocked; you know that sometimes little noises cross over, like when Jin heard you laughing, but it's still rare. You can't figure out how it works, but you want to.

You write for a long time, letters small so they fit on the board. The whole thing is crowded together, looks like one long string of letters instead of the story it is.

There's a lot of violence in this neighborhood. You probably know that by now. People are always getting robbed or mugged or something around here. Someone tried to break into my apartment by banging the door down. It didn't work, luckily, but I got really paranoid afterwards. One night I was cooking, and someone's door slammed really hard. I spilled the water I was boiling, slipped. Blacked out after a while, and when I came to, there were police everywhere. I guess I hit my head harder than I thought, because they carted me away, and I couldn’t follow.

"I'm sorry," Namjoon says softly. "You deserved more time."

Yeah. The universe had a different plan, I guess. He smiles at that, and it settles the anxiety thrumming under your skin. Wouldn't have met you, so I guess that's a bonus. He rolls his eyes at you but he laughs softly, so you consider it a win. You doodle on the board then, simple little designs that don't mean anything beyond being able to see your effect on the world.

Namjoon sucks in a breath beside you and you look up at him. He's always been good about looking towards where you are, doing his best to make eye contact with someone he can't see, but he still always tends to look through you.

Not this time.

This time, electricity sings through the air as your eyes meet his. You don't know how, but you know he can see you. His eyes roam over you, taking in the crumpled sweater you were wearing with the stain you like to think is pasta sauce on the arm, the hair you can't ever really tame, the way you sit cross-legged on his old thread-bare couch with a dry erase board in your hands.

Neither of you moves. He looks torn between fear and amazement, every emotion in between flitting quickly over his features, and you're terrified that if you move, whatever spell that's been cast will fade. It had been so long since you talked to anyone when Namjoon slammed those magnets on the fridge, and the conversation has been a reprieve, but to be seen for the first time in years...

It's invigorating.

Watching Namjoon just look at you is something you won't ever forget, not for as long as you exist in the world. He looks at you like he's memorizing every detail, every hair and wrinkle and pore, and just knowing that he can see you fills you with something new.

"Namjoon...?" You call hesitantly. His eyes fall on your lips.

"Again," He says. Your brows must furrow, maybe you frown, you don't know because it's been so long since you've needed to pay attention to your facial expressions, but he notices your confusion. "Will you say something again?"

Breath you don't have catches in your throat, wraps itself around a heart that doesn't beat, but you smile a little. "I'm glad I met you."

Namjoon smiles. It's big and blinding and knocks everything out of you except for that emotion that's been sitting in your chest since the first time you watched him talk to his plants. You lean forward, and you can tell the exact moment you disappear, because his smile falls and his eyes unfocus. A whimper leaves your throat, but he doesn't react, and that may be the most painful thing that's ever happened to you.

"Can I feel you?" His voice is hushed but the words reverberate in your head. His eyes dart around, looking for any glimpse of you, and your hand trembles as you reach out.

Goosebumps raise on his cheek where your hand touches him and his breath stops for a moment, but he smiles again and leans into the chill. You bring your other hand up to cup his other cheek, your dry erase board lying forgotten on the ground, and Namjoon's eyes flutter closed.

"I think I might love you," You say quietly just before you press your lips to his. He doesn't react to your words, but he lets out a soft sigh at your kiss. Thunder cracks through the apartment, a torrent of rain unleashed on the windows, but you don't move.

The two of you sit like that for hours, until he starts shivering and his nose turns red, like it does when he forgets his scarf on the cold days, and his breath puffs in the air. When you finally pull away from him, he smiles, and the blush on his cheeks has nothing to do with the cold air that makes up your form.

"Yeah," He says softly, voice nearly drowned out by the storm raging outside. "Yeah, I can feel you."

If you expected things to change much after that, you were wrong. At least a little. Namjoon still disappears to go on his walks, you still start the kettle the second his whistles drift up to the apartment. He still asks you a million questions, but they're more normal now. Your favorite music, color, what you wished you'd done with your life, if you've been able to corporealize again recently, what you wanted to watch that night.

"Come on, Casper," Namjoon groans. "I promise you can do it." You huff and he smiles, clearly having heard it. You're tempted to just disappear somewhere, rattle some pipes in the bathroom or the kitchen so he thinks you're in there and leaves you alone, but he smiles at you again and you're weak for that dimple.

You grip the watering can again, doing your best to lift it and manipulate it the way you need to. It's heavy, and something about the metal makes your skin itch, but the more you struggle the more you're able to pour the slightest bit of water where RJ - a giant plant that you don't even know the name of - sits in the corner of the room across from Namjoon's bed. It's the twentieth-something time you've tried this today, and you're ten seconds from just giving up completely, but you can tell this is important to Namjoon.

He's been talking all week, between the late nights where you lay over his blanket-wrapped form and the mornings where he ducks out with a soft goodbye. He's told you everything about his plants that you think he possibly could, teaching you about them and showing you how to care for them. It's interesting, you won't lie, and it's always fun to see him light up when you recall something he's told you, but you're exhausted and every part of you is shaky, and you're more than a little worried of what might happen if you push too far again.

Still, Joon hasn't looked great lately, like he might be getting the flu, and you want to be able to help him with all the things he does in the house. You've already started doing the dishes and folding laundry, since those were the two things he was the absolute worst at, but you feel like you should be doing more.

"Good job, baby, I'm proud of you!" You grunt and let the watering can fall back to the ground with a loud thump that almost definitely has the downstairs neighbors cursing Namjoon's name. "See, and now we're done for the day! C'mon, we can put on Sens8 and cuddle."

He's on the couch before you can stop him, wrapping himself in blankets except for one lone hand that sticks out, expectant. You roll your eyes and sit beside him, close enough that if you had a body you would be cuddling instead of just sitting awkwardly beside him.

You know that this is just going to make your hand all pink and gross, right?

He just smiles when the board flips around to reveal itself and wiggles his fingers. "It's worth it," He says. "I'd rather be pink and gross than never get to hold your hand at all."

You can't even feel my hand, Joon, there's literally no point to this. He huffs and wraps his hand around the marker in your hand, shivering at the chill that runs through him when he does. He grins and gestures down to where the tips of his fingers are already turning red.

"Clearly I can feel it, Casper."

You're glad he can't see you, that you don't have a heart that beats or blood that runs, because if you did, your face would no doubt be red. You have no doubts that Namjoon would tease you about it.

He's quiet as you both watch the show; he makes the odd comment here or there, but his mood seems to have calmed some. When he first got back from whatever place he visited that day, he'd been anxious and jumpy and entirely too on edge.

"Hey, Casper?" He asks quietly. You slide a hand against his cheek to let him know you're there, and he leans into the chill again. "What do you think about me?"

You don't move for several seconds, hand still poised around his cheek.

"Like, your feelings. What are they? Will you tell me?" You knock once on the wall behind the couch. Your hand stays poised over your board for long enough that Namjoon starts to get a little restless. Words refuse to come to you. Every time you start to think you have a way to describe to him what he means to you, they disappear as quick as fog on a summer's afternoon. Frustrated, you let the board fall to the couch and scrawl a quick 'hold on' so he knows you aren't just ignoring him.

It's been weeks since you've seen what you're looking for, your cookie sheet with the word magnets having been basically forgotten in lieu of the more personal and convenient dry-erase board, but right now you know that if words won't come to you, you'll have to go to them.

You finally find it, shoved under several encyclopedias and magazines, and the noise you make is so triumphant that even Namjoon hears it. You curl back up beside him, careful to make sure the blanket is wrapped tight around him, and make sure he can see the words as you move them. It still takes a long time, constantly changing and rearranging and stacking to make sure it conveys the things you need it to convey.

You are like music. A symphony of summer days and peach skies with soft rain. You are a storm in the moonlight. I'm not lonely when I have you pouring around me. You make me feel alive again.

Namjoon is silent for a long time, and you wonder if you've gone too far. It's more poetic than you'd like, too frilly and fancy and emotional than you usually are, but they're the only words you have.

After too long, he exhales. It's heavy and deep and it feels like he's trying to expel more than just air from his body.

"You make me feel alive, too," is all he says, whispered into the softness of his blanket in a voice too small for his long limbs. He shivers, and you hear him choke down a cough, and then he disappears into the bathroom for a long time. When he comes back out, he doesn't say anything, just slides into the mass of blankets on his bed and lays his arm out across the mattress. You spread out across from him, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he looks through you and out the window where the rain is letting up.

"Looks like the rainy season is gonna last longer than everyone thought." You slide your hands around one of his large ones and just hold them like that. His eyes sink closed and something like relief stands on his face for a moment before it's gone, swept away by the peace of sleep.

You wonder what it is that he sees when he looks out the window. If it's the plain brick wall and windows of the building next door, or something more.

You aren't sure you want to know.

Namjoon's flu only seems to get worse. He leaves early in the mornings, as if he thinks you might not notice the way he coughs into his scarf just because the sun hasn't risen fully yet. He stays gone most of the days, and even when he apologizes quietly during the twilight when he slinks back in to the sound of the kettle screeching on the stove and his tea already waiting to be steeped, he still doesn't stop.

You've taken to playing blues while he's gone, mostly the old school stuff, digging out the vintage record player he has buried in the closet and setting it up on the coffee table. It’s the only technology you can use without shorting it out. You don’t know why, but it makes you grateful the record collection Namjoon keeps tucked away inside the coffee table that you’ve learned is in fact an actual steamer trunk that he salvaged and restored himself.

The music fills the apartment, distracts you from the oppressive weight of his absence. He knows you wait at the window for him, you told him that back when the two of you were first getting to know each other.

You're so fragile, you had told him. He had laughed at you, quiet and fond, and waited for you to explain further. You're so full of life and breath and possibility, and the world is so big and so dangerous. I'm scared you won't come back.

"Of course I'm going to come back," he told you. You didn't even need to tell him that you're afraid of what being alone might do to you, now that you're so used to his presence. You're being heard again, sometimes even seen, and you don't know if you can go back to the stagnant depression of solitude. "I'll always come back to you."

That was the first time you thought you might love Namjoon. The feeling has only gotten stronger, and now that you wait at the window with your eyes focused on that tiny section of sidewalk you can see at the end of the alley, it threatens to consume you whole.

You wait at the window for hours. You know because you glance at the clock every minute and a half, mocking you with every tick as it hangs limply on the bathroom door. The sun sinks below the horizon, the moon rises to take its place, and they switch again while you wait. The dawn paints the sky in beautiful shades of pink and red and orange and the faintest purple, but you can't appreciate any of it, because you're too anxious.

He could be hurt. He could be gone, and you wouldn't ever know until his friends came to pack his things. He could have left, too; maybe he finally decided that living with a ghost was just too much for him and just ran. Maybe he figured out that you love him, that you would move heaven and earth if it meant he was safe forever if only you could leave this apartment, and it was too much for him.

What if he knows about how you lay beside him every night? How you tuck the blankets tighter around him, cover him in warmth and comfort before settling on top of them and closing your eyes and pretending that you can feel his arm draped over your waist and his breath on the back of your neck. What if he felt you, that night you wandered into the bathroom while he was showering to write on the steam-covered mirror that he needs to buy more eggs soon and got distracted by the way he looked stepping out of the shower? What if he knows your stomach flipped at the long limbs and the hidden muscles and the sheer size of him? What if he knows the real reason you were quiet that night, the way you kept replaying the moment in your mind and wishing you had a body so you could have just touched him, at least.

It's closer to noon than midnight when his whistle echoes up through the window.

"Hey, I'm home," He calls as he enters the empty apartment. You're upset, but you're more filled with relief than anything because at least he's safe and he's here now. He makes a beeline for where the kettle is just starting to whistle, already reaching for the honey and the tea you set out on the counter for him, and you do your best to calm the storm of emotions inside you.

Did you have fun, wherever you were? You ask him, floating the whiteboard in front of his face so he has to acknowledge it.

"Yeah, I did," he responds as he stirs his tea. "Jin invited everyone over for some end of summer thing. I didn't feel too great at the end of it, so I just spent the night there."

Don't party too hard, you might remember how to have fun, you joke. It falls a little flat based on the grim smile Namjoon gives you. Are they gonna come over here again anytime soon? I've missed scaring Hoseok.

He lets out a real laugh at that. "I don't know, maybe. My birthday's coming up, after Jeongguk's, so they could definitely be planning something. I'm heading over to Yoongi's later to help plan for Guk's party. I might stay there tonight, so try not to worry, Casper."

I'll try, you tell him. You both know you'll stand at the window every second he's gone, but you don't want to tell him why. You don't want to tell him that you love him through a dry erase board, or some fancy poetry magnets. It doesn't matter that you may as well have already said so by telling him that he makes you feel alive again; you haven't said the words to him, he hasn't seen 'I love you' in the messy scrawl that is your handwriting on some stupid board, and therefore he doesn't know.

You don't know if you want him to.

He stays gone that night, as he said he might, and reappears the next day to shower and change before he vanishes again. The next time he shows up, he takes a bag with him when he leaves, which only worsens your fears. He stays gone for three days this time, doesn't apologize when he turns up again and just mumbles a soft hello into the air before he makes tea and sags into his couch. He's asleep in seconds, and as much as you want to scream at him, you can't bring yourself to disrupt how peaceful he looks.

When he wakes, he takes a shower and ignores the ' can we talk ' you scrawled in the steam. He packs a bag of fresh clothes and doesn't say goodbye when he leaves, just disappears and leaves you standing at the window with the pail in your hand, caring for the plants he isn't. The slam of the door sounds like nails in a coffin and breaks what little was left of your soul.

He shows back up nearly a week later, and the relief at seeing him again is overridden by the sheer anger at being left in the first place. You don't start the kettle when you hear his whistle, the quiet and hoarse tune of a familiar song barely reaching the window, but there's plenty of noise when he enters.

The cabinet doors are quaking with your fury, the lights flicker and threaten to burst, and Namjoon just leans back against the door. He’s soaked from the storm thundering outside, even his jacket plastered to his skin, and he’s shivering slightly, but you can’t see anything past the rage.

"Where the fuck were you?" You demand; there's no point, it's not like he can hear you, but the way he sighs makes you feel like he can, so you continue anyway. "It's been almost a week, you didn't even think to stop by for ten seconds so I know you're okay? I thought you were dead somewhere, you could've been, like, shot, or something, I don't know, just bleeding out in some ditch, and I wouldn't know! And what about all the plants? I know how to take care of them, sure, but do you know how hard it is for me to do it?"

Namjoon sighs again, the breath catching in his throat and coming out in a cough, but you don't pay much attention to it.

"Why would you act like this, Namjoon? What did I do, is it because of the things I said? Do you not want me to feel like this about you? Because this a damn good way of making sure I don't, I assure you, so by all means, just keep disappearing and leave me alone with the plants you decided to rescue and save!"

His cough gets worse and he just shakes his head, covering his mouth and making his way towards the bathroom.

"If you want me to hate you, it's too fucking late, Joon!" The slam of the bathroom door punctuates your sentence, and you quiet at the sound of continued coughing. You knew his flu was getting worse, but it's never sounded like that. Even when you were alive, you knew that the wet sound that's muffled by the bathroom door isn't what a cough should sound like. The lock of the door clicks, and it shocks you into movement because he's never - never - locked you out of anywhere. He knows it wouldn't stop you, knows it as well as you know that you'd respect that boundary if he set it, and yet here he is, locking you out even as he coughs up what sounds like a lung in the other room.

You hesitate at the door, torn between respecting his boundaries and knowing what’s happening. You want him to trust you, always, and yet you find your hand disappearing through the door before you can stop it. You stand like that for a long moment, just listening to the sounds of his wracking coughs; the sound of a crash echoes through the apartment, though, and you’re through the door completely in the span of a heartbeat.

Nearly everything that had been on the counter is scattered on the ground, Namjoon himself gripping the sides of the toilet as if he would fall apart otherwise. A single glance tells you that the crash happened as he turned from the sink to the toilet, and if his jolting shoulders didn’t tell you why, the sounds of his retching would. That isn’t what fills you with dread though; the disorientation, the vomiting, all of it comes with being sick sometimes, but the red staining the bathroom sink?

That’s not normal, and you know with every part of you that it’s the reason he’s been gone so much.

The temperature in the apartment drops with the sun, but your arms surround Namjoon as best they can. Goosebumps break out on his arms, shivers run down his back, but you don’t move away from him; he doesn’t say anything, just sits there with his forehead pressed against the cool of the porcelain. He stands eventually, ignores the way he passes completely through your body to rinse the sink and brush his teeth.

You let him stay quiet until you’re both on his bed; you’re pressed up against his side and running your hands along his forearms, idly wondering if you would be able to feel his heartbeat if you were alive.

“It’s not...it’s not gonna get better,” He says eventually. “There’s not a cure, just some things to draw it out and give me a little bit longer even if they come with more pain. I go once a week to see if it’s gotten worse, check how much longer I have. It’s why Hobi let me move in here rent-free. He pays the bills, says it’s the least he can do. I wanted to be closer to him anyway, so that’s a bonus, I guess.”

“I’m so sorry, Joon,” you whisper. Your board lies forgotten, somewhere on the couch maybe, you aren’t sure and can’t be bothered to pull yourself away from him long enough to find it. You don’t need it right now, though; he knows what you mean by the way the cold presses against his bicep with your palm.

“I didn’t want you to know.” You’re not exactly surprised at that; you’d figured as much. You just don’t understand his reasoning. “I didn’t want you worrying about me, or anything like that, like the guys do. They always look at me and it’s all they can see. Like they’re already mourning me, even though I’m still here. I didn’t want to feel like that with you.”

“I know,” you say. You don’t, not really. Your own death was sudden, a shock to everyone you knew; you didn’t get the luxury of saying goodbye, didn’t have the burden of knowing you would be gone soon.

The two of you sit in silence for a while, until you can feel Namjoon’s chest quivering under your palm. When you look up, he looks at you, really and truly at you , and he has tears in his eyes.

“I don’t want to die, Casper,” He whispers. You suck in a breath because he can see you, and you don’t even know why, but you don’t want to lose this moment. “I don’t want to leave all of this behind. I don’t want to leave you.”

“It’ll be okay,” you say softly. His brow furrows and a tear slides down his cheek. “I promise you it will be okay, Namjoon. It gets easier, and people remember but they aren’t stuck forever. And I…” You falter, and it takes his eyes meeting yours to make you realize he can hear you. And there’s only one thing you’ve ever needed him to hear.

“I love you,” You tell him. “I love you, and I will never forget you.”

He surges forward, lips meeting yours in a rush of air. You moan at the feeling of him against you, realizing that for the first time since you died, you can feel something under your fingers. His skin is warm against your fingers, his lips soft against your own, and when he reaches up to cup your jaw with his hand, he doesn’t pass through your form. Instead his hand settles heavy against you, and he moves your head to lick into your mouth.

Tears that won’t fall prickle at the back of your eyes and you climb into his lap before he can stop you. He’s still crying so you wipe away the tears before they can fall, pressing soft kisses to his cheeks, his dimples, his nose, every bit you can reach. A question sits at the back of your mind, and you can see it lingering in his eyes, but neither of you asks it.

“You’re so cold.” His whisper is nearly lost amidst the thunder that shakes the apartment, but it makes you smile a little.

“Warm me up?”

His chest is still quivering with unspoken sobs, but he nods. “Always,” he tells you. “I’m always going to be here.” It doesn’t take long to pry him out of his clothes, takes even less time for him to sink into you. It feels just like it did when you were alive, only magnified; you can feel him hot and warm inside you, can feel the beat of his heart in the firm muscle under your hands. His moans are quiet and hoarse but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

He keeps one hand on your waist and the other on your neck, holding you close enough that he can kiss whenever he wants. “You’re beautiful,” He whispers. “The most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.” You just press another kiss to his chapped lips and let him dig his fingers in hard enough that it would bruise if it could. When he’s close to his peak, he stops thrusting, just sits inside you as he grinds your hips down to his, and presses his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” He tells you, lightning casting his shadow across the wall for a brief moment. “I love you, I do, I wish-”

“I know,” you tell him before he can continue. “I know, Namjoon, I know, and I do, too. I love you, too.” He comes a few seconds later, the warm seed soaking into his sheets because it has nowhere to go. His warmth disappears from under your hands and his arms fall to his lap when the only thing holding them up is gone. All you can hear is your quiet sobs mixed with his and the rain against the window, and for the first time since you came back, you really, truly, wish you had died. There’s no point in being a ghost when you can still feel your heart breaking in your chest.

“Casper, are you ever scared?”

It’s the middle of the afternoon. Namjoon is sprawled across the couch wrapped in blankets while Lucifer plays in the background and you doodle aimlessly on your board. You don’t need it as often now; you’ve gotten better at focusing your energy into being heard, though being corporeal still eludes you. You don’t know how you did it that night, but you’re grateful for it.

“Of what?” You ask, looking towards him. He’s not looking at you or watching the show, just staring at the ceiling. He focuses at your words, lifts himself up into a sitting position. A shiver runs through him when his legs move through you, and you settle a weightless hand against his knee out of habit.

“I don’t know,” He replies. “Just...whatever comes next. If there’s something that comes next. Being forgotten. Being stuck here forever.”

You aren’t stupid; you know why he’s asking. The question lingers in the air, colors all of your conversations now, but the truth is that neither of you has the strength to ask it and neither of you knows the answer.

“Sometimes,” You tell him. “Sometimes I wonder what Jihyo is doing, if she ever had a baby like she wanted to. I wonder if my parents are still alive, and what they say if they visit my grave, what they tell me now that I can’t respond to them.”

Namjoon nods like he’s already thought of that, and he probably has.

“Most of the time I try not to focus on it, though. It’s not helpful, it only upsets me, and I don’t…” You trail off, unsure of how to word your thoughts. “I don’t know what might happen if I only focus on the negative. I don’t know anything about what’s true about ghosts and what isn’t beyond that I exist now, and I can’t risk becoming something bad. So I try not to focus on it. It’s easier when you’re here.”

He grins and blows a kiss in your general direction, and you pretend not to notice the blood on his cracked lips. He’s quiet for the rest of the episode of half of another.

“Have you ever seen a light?”

“What?” He doesn’t seem to hear you, and you repeat your question on your board for him.

“A light,” He echoes. “Like, the light.Y’know, the light at the end of the tunnel, ‘don’t go into the light,’ that thing.”

You hesitate at that. You knew what he meant, what he actually wants to know here. He’s easier to read now than he was in the beginning.

You watch him as he watches the space where you sit, curled up beside him on his couch. He can’t see you, of course, but he can see where the board rests in your hands. His gaze is heavier than it was when he first moved in; his cheeks are hollower, skin more gaunt with a grey tint that’s only made worse by the constant rain. The sun is just starting to break through the clouds, a brief reprieve after weeks of the dreary stone-colored clouds. It casts shadows along the walls, reflects off something in the window across the alley, and backlights Namjoon beautifully, casts a halo of light around the brittle brown hair you love.

Once, you tell him. Just once.

“Why didn’t you go to it?”

There are so many things you could tell him, so many different ways to answer such a simple question, but you find yourself lingering on the one thing you know is the ultimate truth.

Because I love you.

September comes with even more rain and a bittersweet atmosphere. Jeongguk spends his birthday at Namjoon’s apartment and then comes back a little over a week later, surrounded by the other guys and carrying enough food to last a few months. You stay curled on the bed, one of the only safe places for you to not mess with anyone or anything. Your board is tucked into the blankets, ready to be used but hidden from view just in case. You watch as Namjoon sits on the couch, tucked between Taehyung and Yoongi with both of them leaning into him as much as possible, Yoongi’s hands wrapped in one of his and Tae’s head on his shoulder.

The other’s aren’t far, leaning against the back of the couch and on beanbags they’d brought with them, all laughing as Hoseok does his best to act out whatever he’d been given in charades. He’s not bad at it - you’ve guessed the last few he’s done - but he is utterly ridiculous in his mannerisms. You know why; it’s the same reason everyone kept smiling when Namjoon refused all of the food he was offered, why Seokjin would crack a terrible joke whenever it got too quiet for too long, why everyone is resolutely ignoring the growing pile of tissues on the table.

It keeps a smile on Namjoon’s face, though, and a laugh in his eyes, and you can’t ever be anything but grateful for that.

Hoseok stumbles, nearly falling and whirling his arms to catch himself before eventually falling anyway. You laugh along with the others, grinning at the way Hobi pouts and rubs at his hip. You’re focused on the way Joon laughs, the way it lights up his face and brightens the entire room, which is why you see it first.

The tickle at the back of his throat quickly becomes a cough, wet and wheezing and enough to make him throw the blankets from his lap and stumble to the bathroom.

You’re there before he is, helping him slide the door closed and locking it behind him as he bends over the toilet again. The six of them are quiet in the main room, speaking in hushed whispers that neither you nor Namjoon wants to hear. You turn the knob on the sink, wetting a towel while you drown out the sound of voices, and letting a hand run over Namjoon’s back.

“I’m okay,” he mutters. You ignore the way his voice shakes, the way his lips are redder than before, the way this happens more often than before. Instead, you just press the damp rag to his neck and watch his eyes close in relief. When he stands and flushes the evidence away, you already have his toothbrush ready and waiting, and you stay as close to him as you can until he takes a deep breath.

“I’m okay,” He repeats. “I’m okay. It’s my birthday, and I’m okay.”

He goes back out with a smile on his face and a laugh in his voice, teasing Hoseok about the way he fell and reenacting it, even. When he settles on the couch, he urges the others to continue the game. There’s a brief moment of hesitation before Jimin declares that he’s next and pulls something from the bowl on the table.

You know you aren’t the only one that notices the way Namjoon’s eyes linger on the six men around him, but you are the only one that notices the way they also linger on his steamer trunk, the shelf with his books, the TV, the record player, the scrapbook of his life that they all worked on and Taehyung pieced together over the months, the plants on the wall that he had cared for. He looks around his apartment as if he’s looking at it for the last time.

As if he’s already planning who’s going to get what.

He finally asks the question you both have been thinking about, nearly two months later. His breathing comes in ragged pants, his lips stay chapped, and he keeps several blankets around him at all times to try to hide the shaking of his body. Your soft sobs echo through the apartment constantly; while you reheat the tea he doesn’t drink for the millionth time, while you quietly water and prune the plants he’s saved from death the way you wish you could save him, while you sit curled around him as he sleeps, soothing his coughs with quiet whispers.

Night has just begun to fall, the rain of the day turning into a soft drizzle, and you stare at him blankly, unsure how to process what you’ve just heard.

“Do you think I’ll come back?” He asks again, slightly louder. As if you hadn’t heard his shaky voice the first time. It’s not the question that floors you. You’ve been expecting this for weeks, months even. You’ve wondered it yourself as you prepare tea and ignore the sounds of him vomiting blood in the bathroom, as he disappears to the hospital and returns with a worse prognosis than before, as you’ve adjusted to the idea that you are dead and he is dying and you cannot do anything to help him.

You never would have expected the hope that his words carry though.

“Why does it sound like you want to?” You ask. Your voice is clear in the air and you’re glad for it, because this isn’t something you want to talk about through your board.

“Because I do?” His response is delayed and sounds more like a question than a real answer.

“Why?!” You demand.

“Are you serious, Casper?” His brow is furrowed as he sits up and lets the blankets fall away to sit haphazardly off the couch.

“Are you? Joon, why would you want to come back?”

“You’re seriously asking me that question? Why would I not? I’ve got so much I still want to do, I never thought I’d get the chance to after I got the diagnosis and now I might be able to. Why wouldn’t I want that?”

“Because it doesn’t work like that! You don’t get to just wander the world and fuck around, Joon, you’re dead.”

“Yeah, but you can still read and write and everything. I’d have all the time in the world to read the books I want to read, watch the shows I want to watch, write the music and stories and lyrics that I want to write.”

“Yeah, so long as it all stays in this apartment!” The light in the room flickers slightly with the force of your irritation. “You can’t do anything that isn’t in this room, Namjoon, you can’t use any of the electronics, you can’t read a book unless it’s here, you can’t write music unless it’s on actual paper, you can’t do anything.”

“Yeah, and I could make that work. Why are you so upset about this? I thought you’d be happy.”

“Happy? You think I’d be happy that you’d be stuck in these four walls forever, too? Why would that make me happy?” Namjoon stands, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head.

“Because I’d be with you! We’d be together, forever! Do you not want to be with me?”

“Of course I want to be with you, Joon, but not at the cost of you being stuck here. I don’t want that for anyone, certainly not the man I love.”

“And what if that’s what I want? What if I want to spend the rest of time with you? I’m already spending the rest of my life with you, I’m in love with you, I don’t want to leave you.”

“And I don’t want you to go, but Joon, why would I want you stuck here, too? This isn’t something fun. This isn’t anything that I enjoy.”

“Oh, so you regret it all then?”

“I didn’t say that, I just don’t want you to be stuck in a shitty studio apartment for who knows how long when you can’t fucking do half of the things you love! You wouldn’t go on walks, Namjoon, you wouldn’t go with Guk and Jimin to the movies, you wouldn’t get visits from Hobi, you wouldn’t get to shop with Taehyung or Jin, you wouldn’t get to drag Yoongi away from his thesis or celebrate with them when he finishes it! It’s not like being alive, Namjoon, you’d be dead and alone and in hell!”

“Whatever,” He mutters, shoving his arms into his coat. “Why can’t you understand for one fucking second that it wouldn’t be like that with you? I’d rather be stuck here forever than have to die in some shitty apartment and not even be able to touch the person I love.”

“Why can’t you understand that it’s still death? You’d be dead, Joon, your friends would go to your funeral and disappear from your life, and you’d be stuck staring out that window at that shitty alley for the rest of time. You don’t get it, you don’t how terrible it is to be stuck here and watch life pass you by.”

“Then why the fuck are you still here?” He asks. The door slams behind him before you can answer him, and your scream shakes everything in the room. You just barely catch one of the plants in the kitchen, a brown-potted one with ‘Shooky’ scrawled in Yoongi’s familiar handwriting, before it crashes to the ground. You return it to its place gently and huff another frustrated groan.

You wish you could explain it better, but you know he wouldn’t get it even if you could. He doesn’t understand what it’s like to be trapped between four walls and unable to do anything without massive amounts of effort. And he won’t, not unless he experiences it himself.

You’ve already watched him wither away. You’ve watched him become thin and sallow and a shadow of the Namjoon who first moved in, and you don’t know what you would do if he came back. You wouldn’t be alone anymore, of course, and you’d have him here with you, but at what cost? Namjoon was built for cherry blossoms and sunshine and the riverside. He would hate being trapped here even more than you do.

Still, you could have been more understanding of his view. You can admit that even being stuck in a shitty apartment wasn’t so terrible when you had Namjoon there to make you laugh or watch TV or read to you. It may even get better if he turned into a ghost; maybe you could hold his hands in yours, could feel him wrap his arms around you, could press kisses to his skin again.

You move to the window and stand there waiting. It’s not good for him to be out, even if the rain had stopped a few days ago and the forecasters promised it was the end of the downpours. He was still weak, you’d be surprised he even went anywhere to begin with but you know he likes to walk to calm himself down.

You worry for what feels like hours. You can’t focus on anything, not the way the sun starts to set, not the sound of cars passing or the neighbor leaving. You’ve worked yourself into knots by the time you hear his whistle echo up through the streets, nearly lost in the sound of some argument in the alley below you. You catch a brief view of his coat and smile when you see that he’s got some half-dead plant tucked under an arm. There’s the briefest glimpse of what looks like a Ca scrawled onto it, and your heart jumps in your throat.

You make your way to the stove, turning the heat up slightly too high so that it’ll be ready when he comes in. The arguing outside gets louder but you pay it no mind, pulling the honey out and setting it next to his favorite mug. You’re reaching for the tea when you hear something else. It definitely sounds like Namjoon’s voice, but it’s not in the hall or at the door like usual. It’s raised, like he’s yelling at someone, like it was just a while ago when he was fighting with you. A crash startles you and before you can even reach the window to see what’s going on, there’s a deafening bang.

You slam your fist against the window, watch the red mix with dirt, and the kettle isn't that only thing that screams.

“I think that’s the last of it,” Jeongguk says. His voice is scratchy and quiet, but it’s deafening in the silence of the apartment.

“Yeah,” Hoseok replies. His eyes are rimmed with red and his hands shake as he slides the last mug into a box. “Thanks for the help, Guk. I don’t, um.” He sniffles. “I don’t think I could’ve done it myself, y’know?”

“I know,” Jeongguk agrees. They’re quiet again, adjusting the things they’ve boxed and avoiding finishing what they’re doing.

“Oh, can you get that?” You don’t have to look to know what Hoseok is talking about. Jeongguk grunts an affirmation and makes his way over. It’s a strange feeling, having someone pass through you again for the first time since. His hands fly into the air as he tries to lift, clearly not having expected it to weigh anything.

His reflection in the window frowns, and he tries again, tugging on the pot.

“I can’t get it,” He says. “Do you think he glued these things down or something?”

“No,” Hoseok replies as he wanders over as well. “He used to pick them up to re-pot them, remember? And the others came up with no problem.”

“Well it’s stuck or something, you try.”

Hobi takes Jeongguk’s place and pulls hard at the plot, but your grip doesn’t waver. He huffs and disappears. When he returns, he’s got a butter knife in one hand that he does his best to slip under the pot. He tries hard to pry it up, so hard that you almost want to give in. You don’t though.

The knife clatters to the floor with as much force as Hoseok can put behind it, a curse following quickly behind it.

“Fuck it,” Hoseok says. His voice is shaky and you know he’s near tears again. “Just fuck it.”

“But that was-”

“You can try if you want, Guk, but I just-” He chokes back a sob, shaking his head and moving to pick up the boxes he’d set down. “I just can’t, okay?” He disappears out the door in a hurry, and you wish you could follow after him.

Jeongguk looks down at the small plant, with its painted periwinkle pot and soft leaves. He runs a quivering finger over the leaf and sniffles. He doesn’t try to lift it again, just stands and lets his tear soak into the soil.

“I wish you could come back to us,” He whispers. “We thought...we expected more time. It’s not...it’s not really fair, y’know? So if you can hear me, if you can come back to us, please do. Please.”

He turns and leaves, the apartment door slamming behind him like the lid of a casket. Your grip on Mang loosens now that you know no one’s going to try to take it. You’d watched them pack everything else up; you’d let them take the steamer trunk full of records, the shelf full of books and movies, the collection of mugs, the soft blankets, the ratty couch, the rest of the plants he’d cared for so tenderly.

Piece by piece they had packed Namjoon up and walked him out of the apartment, but this was the one piece they couldn’t have. This was his favorite and none of them knew how to care for it like you did, and you had to. You owed it to him. He deserved to come back to at least one familiar thing, never mind that you woke up not even a day later and it’s now been weeks. If there was one thing you wanted him to see when he got back, it was his favorite of his plants.

The sun glares into your eyes from where it shines down on the city. It reflects off something in the window from across the alley, would be blinding if you actually had eyes. You pay it no mind, focused instead on the remains of the broken brown pot down in the alley, the way you’ve pieced them together in your head a thousand times just to trace the word Casper with your eyes. You can almost hear his voice saying it, even now.

You whip around, eyes darting through the empty space of the apartment as your hands tighten around Mang.

All that rests there is empty space, mocking in its loneliness. You remember when he moved in, remember how it felt to test the boundaries of the apartment and wish you were free. The want is still there, to leave and never think of it again, never think of him. You know better, though. You could never escape the memory of him, the way he laughed and smiled and spoke. You could never abandon Mang. Not when he said he’d always come back to you.

You turn back to the window, cursing the sunlight with every other breath. It fades, slowly, into the black of night, before returning again, and again, and again. Days pass, each one feeling like years. Hoseok doesn’t appear to show the apartment, no one comes to collect the small periwinkle pot between your palms, and the ghost of his laugh echoes around you.

The sun blinds you again. You don’t even know how long it’s been, just that you’ve yet to move. Light glints off whatever hangs in the window across the alley. That's when you see it, a vague reflection in the weathered glass of a dimple and a grin, and warmth surrounds you.

“I told you I’d always come back, Casper.”

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meretricula · 4 years

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I still have not watched The Untamed. Have some fic recs.

So, for context, I've never actually watched The Untamed or read The Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation but I have spent the past several weeks chewing my way through the Lan Wangji/Wei Wuxian tag on AO3 (with extensive filters, obviously, I'm not superhuman and I do still have a day job) and I finally got to the end, so: here are the ones I liked the best! I have zero first-hand canon knowledge, so I can recommend them secure in the knowledge that you really don't need to have watched or read canon in order to enjoy them. Have fun!

(For the sake of the experiment, I guess, here is what I think happens in this show: there is a Sunshine One (high French ponytail, mostly wears black) and a Grumpy One (very fancy hairpieces and a ribbon headband, always wears white or pale blue). They are both excruciatingly beautiful. They went to magic school together and the Sunshine One spent a lot of time pulling the Grumpy One's pigtails, but never clued into the fact that the Grumpy One is already very embarrassingly in love with him. Blah blah tragedy, blah blah war crimes, blah blah parting of the ways, Sunshine One adopts an orphan child, continuing tragedy & war crimes, then Sunshine One falls off a cliff while Grumpy One stares in very evocative horror. The .gifsets of this moment are very nice. Grumpy One finds Sunshine One's child, takes him home, and raises him as his own child. Timeskip to when their child is his teens, Sunshine One is resurrected in a different body, identity shenanigans, Grumpy One finally gets to be with the love of his life, there is plot but I don't really care about it, they live happily ever after. I'm supposed to start watching tomorrow so I will finally find out which of my inferences are correct!)

Two vids that I really enjoy and are mostly legible without knowing the show's visual shorthand: NFWMB and a love that won't keep still. Grumpy One's face is truly a work of art.

Some cute modern AUs that really don't demand anything from you in terms of background knowledge: The Simplest Way Forward (they're student musicians in the same orchestra who get green card married so that they can adopt the kid who gets ditched at Sunshine One's door), Window Shopping (they're quarantined in apartments opposite each other and Sunshine One's kid wants to see Grumpy One's pet rabbits), Unstrictly Ballroom (they are ballroom dancers but Sunshine One was unjustly banned from competition years ago and Grumpy One has finally found him working in a strip club; I know it sounds cheesy but it is AGONIZING), A Keen Rabbit Lover (they are both women and grad school students and pining disgustingly for each other when everything gets disrupted by Sunshine One VERY BADLY misinterpreting Grumpy One's drunken confession that she "likes rabbits"), your heartbeat, across the grass (Grumpy One is a soccer superstar and the kid Sunshine One babysits for wants to go to a game; I rec this with the caveat that if you know anything about professional soccer the bits about professional soccer are massively unrealistic), Year Of Night Call (they are extremely codependent trauma surgeons who share an on-call bed), And they were roommates... (they're both women and grad students and wind up living together after Sunshine's family throw her out), Out of the Bin and Into Your Heart (Sunshine comes up with a ridiculous fake-dating scheme to throw off their admirers at the Chinese cultural center; Grumpy plays along for reasons that are blatantly obvious to everyone except Sunshine), "Congratulations, Get Rich" (Sunshine tries to start a tradition of kissing at midnight on Chinese New Year so he'll have an excuse to kiss Grumpy), one good thing (Sunshine is a ghost haunting Grumpy's house and Grumpy just happens to come from a long family line of exorcists), Lifelong Confidant (Sunshine has a happy, normal life as a barista-slash-music-teacher and two roommates he loves, except for the tragic past he never talks about -- which is obviously about to make a dramatic reappearance in the person of Grumpy, one of the judges of a celebrity baking show his roommates watch), how to fall in love with a catfish: a guide by wei wuxian (disaster rat) (college RA and all-around human disaster Sunshine develops an improbable chat relationship with Grumpy, who he assumes is catfishing him by using a moderately famous actor's photos on Tinder but -- obviously -- actually is a moderately famous actor; I don't normally like college AUs but this one is solid and VERY funny); you've ruined my life (by not being mine) (Sunshine and Grumpy met at a summer study abroad program and start texting when they're back in the States but on opposite sides of the country; I also don't normally like high school AUs but this is ADORABLE, if you can stand an excruciatingly slow burn)

Actual canon fic that is pretty easy to follow: my age has never made me wise (Sunshine One wanders off without either of them declaring their feelings and proceeds to pine GROSSLY when he hears gossip that Grumpy One is planning a wedding), A Civil Combpaign (Sunshine One's nephew with whom he has a very tenuous relationship decides he wants to marry Sunshine & Grumpy's only child for "diplomatic reasons"; hilarity ensues; this requires probably the most background knowledge but you'll be able to figure out the relationships from context), Content Warning: Romance (Sunshine One is easily embarrassed by praise, so Grumpy ties him up and tells him how wonderful he is; you will never look at praise kink the same again), the hidden source is the watchful heart (after a year of wandering on his own after the end of the show, Sunshine finally comes home), seldom all they seem (mild canon divergence in which Grumpy and Sunshine are betrothed as children; definitely also read the sequel about Grumpy's beautiful kind-hearted fairy tale prince of a brother and the amoral scheming political mastermind who unfortunately adores him), The Absolutely True Story of the Yiling Patriarch: A Manifesto in Many Parts (their child gets together with his friends and publishes a very popular romance about them in an attempt to rehabilitate Sunshine's reputation, which is not unwelcome but is somewhat puzzling to Sunshine since he is not actually in a relationship with Grumpy), Linger in the Sun (Sunshine joins Grumpy on an educational school field trip investigating a series of hilarious curses, which becomes only slightly less hilarious when Sunshine and Grumpy are the latest victims), come home to my heart (it can have a little bodyswap. as a treat.), anyway, here's wuji (a delightfully over-the-top and melodramatic story about the next generation watching Grumpy and Sunshine eventually get their HEA, and falling in love along the way), hunters seeking solid ground (Sunshine, suffering from years of PTSD nightmares so bad that he may actually be dying of sleep deprivation, finally lets Grumpy give him what he needs and deserves; if you just want to read about someone Suffering, A Lot, so that someone who loves him can make it better, this is the fic and the catharsis is WORTH IT), Grand Pianos Crash Together (uncomplicated post-series get-together fic that's very charming and well done and features an unexpectedly hot first time), My Leaves Reach Ever for the Sun (canon divergence in which Sunshine comes up with a madcap crossdressing scheme in order to attend his nephew's christening and inevitably ropes Grumpy in; this story really needs a beta but there are such sweet and lovely moments in it that I keep coming back to reread it anyway), A Crying Shame (canon divergence in which Sunshine's child cries so much at Grumpy leaving them that he just gives up and stays)

Bonus fics which are not modern AUs but aren't really canon either: all your life you'll dream of this (vaguely canon universe but with some fairy tale elements, specifically Cinderella -- no, really! I swear it's good! Grumpy is Cinderella!), debt of a knife (Grumpy is a warlord who has just claimed Sunshine as his captive bride; the premise sounds kind of dubcon-y but all the sex is consensual), turn towards the sun (Kushiel's Dart AU in which Grumpy and Sunshine are BDSM study buddies)

#fic rec #the untamed

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tsuki-chibi · 5 years

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Passionfruit (November) Day 23: Warning

Read the whole fic on AO3: Passionfruit

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“Okay, how are we going to find out where Timebreaker went?” Nino asked.

“I bet people are posting to the Ladyblog,” Alya said, whipping her phone out. She opened up her browser and quickly navigated to the latest comment section, but disappointingly there was nothing. She thought for a split second and then smirked, making a new post that asked her readers share Timebreaker’s location. They wouldn’t fail her.

“Anything?” Ladybug asked.

“Not yet, but I’m sure there will be something soon,” Alya said, crossing her arms over her chest. It was really weird to look at Ladybug now that she knew who was lurking behind the mask.

Honestly, Alya felt kind of stupid for not having realized it before. The pigtails, the blue eyes, the freckles, the smile,the petite stature... and it wasn’t just that. Ladybug was clever and courageous and creative, all traits that Alya had come to admire in Marinette. Then there was all the missed classes, the weird and often lame excuses, the unexplained absences... it all made so much sense.

It also made sense to think that Marinette and Adrien were soulmates. Of course they were. There had been an unnatural closeness between the two of them from the day that Alya met them, but she’d never thought to question them about it too closely because she’d never known any differently. Now she realized that closeness stemmed from their bond. Clearly the two of them had it at least partway open.

The only thing that didn’t make sense was why Marinette hadn’t told her. Alya drummed her fingers on her arm, wondering if it would be rude to ask. It probably would be. But then again, who knew what would happen once Ladybug used her miraculous cure? If this was Alya’s only chance to know, she wanted to take it.

“While we’re waiting, can I talk to you for a moment?” Alya asked Ladybug.

“Alya,” Nino said, giving her a warning look.

Alya ignored him, staring intently at her best friend/the heroine of Paris, and finally Ladybug nodded. They moved away from Nino and Chloé, until Alya thought that they were at enough of a distance where they could speak privately. This wasn’t really a conversation they wanted anyone eavesdropping on.

“What do you want to know?” Ladybug said quietly.

“Honestly? I want to know why you didn’t tell me,” Alya said, unable to keep the hurt out of her voice.

Ladybug sighed. “Alya, I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell anyone.”

“You told Chloé,” Alya pointed out, which was perhaps the thing that hurt most of all. Marinette and Chloé weren’t friends by any stretch of the imagation. They tolerated each other because of Adrien, but that was about it as far as Alya could tell.

“No, I didn’t. Chloé found out Adrien was Chat Noir, and she put two and two together on her own. She knew we were soulmates,” Ladybug explained. “No one is supposed to know who we are. It’s too dangerous.”

“Then you told Chloé you were soulmates,” Alya pressed.

Again, Ladybug denied that. “Chloé was there when Adrien and I first met. She knew what Adrien’s words were and she heard me say them. She witnessed our bond forming. There was no way we could’ve convinced her that it was anything other than what it was. Believe me, if I thought there was even a chance I could have, I would’ve.”

Alya frowned. “But... why did you keep it a secret?”

“I just told you no one is supposed to know our identities,” Ladybug said, exasperated.

“No! I meant about you and Adrien being soulmates. The day we met, you lied to me and said you hadn’t met your soulmate yet. And you were there when Nino and I got our bond, and -”

“Alya!” Ladybug broke in sharply. “Look, it’s nothing personal, okay? Adrien and I decided to keep our bond a secret for several reasons. It had nothing to do with you. I couldn’t tell you the day we met because it’s not just my secret to share, and we didn’t know if we could trust you.”

“But now I’m your best friend!” Alya exclaimed. “Doesn’t that mean anything?”

Ladybug sighed. “Of course it does. But we’ve only known each other for a few months,” she said, her voice gentling. “And there are parts of my life that are bigger than you.”

That stung more than Alya wanted to admit. Quietly, she said, “So you were never going to tell me? Ever?”

“I don’t know,” Ladybug admitted. “Probably, one day, when Adrien and I had the chance to talk about it. Keeping a secret about a bond... it’s hard. Pretending that I don’t know the things going through Adrien’s head, that I don’t hear his and Nino’s conversations, it sucks.”

“Wait,” Alya said, holding up a hand. “You hear his conversations? Just how developed is your bond?” She knew it was strong because of Ladybug’s reaction to Chat’s death, but this was more than she’d anticipated.

“I don’t know exactly. We’ve never been in for tests, obviously. But...” Ladybug shrugged. “Adrien and I have no shields or blocks between us.”

Alya’s jaw dropped. “Seriously?” she exclaimed. “You don’t have any shields at all?” She could understand why they didn’t have blocks, as though were constructed by an outside source - usually a paid professional. But anyone could create their own shields to keep some privacy in their own minds. She didn’t think she’d ever heard of anyone who didn’t have any shields.

Ladybug shook her head. “No. I’m not even sure how to make a shield, to be honest.”

“That’s...” Alya trailed off, dumbfounded. As much as she’d looked forward to finding her own soulmate, finding Nino had kind of freaked her out. Slamming up shields had been an instinctive reaction on both their parts. She couldn’t fathom meeting a perfect stranger and giving them complete access to her mind!

“What? Is that weird?” Ladybug said, looking uncomfortable.

“It’s... well, it’s not normal,” Alya said, shaking her head. “I mean... you do you, I guess. I just...”

She looked, really looked this time, at Ladybug, taking in the pallor of Ladybug’s face aside from her flushed cheeks. Ladybug’s eyes were too-bright, seemingly glistening with tears at all moments. Sweat beaded across her forehead. The usual charismatic energy that surrounded her was sorely lacking, replaced by a dull emptiness. She didn’t feel like Ladybug anymore.

“I know I’ve been keeping secrets and I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” Ladybug said quietly.

All at once, Alya felt extremely guilty. This was the very last thing Ladybug needed right now when she had just lost her soulmate, and Alya was being a horrible friend. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her best friend, pulling Ladybug into a tight hug. Ladybug tensed in surprise.

“Don’t apologize, Mari. It’s like you said, you had your reasons. I’m sorry Chat is gone,” Alya whispered.

All at once, Ladybug melted against her and gave a choked sob. “I miss him so much, Alya. I feel so... so empty. I - I can’t even put it into words, but I don’t know how much longer I can bear it.”

“You won’t have to, because you’re going to get him back,” Alya promised, hugging Ladybug tighter. The thought of losing Adrien was awful, but the thought of losing Marinette was too terrible for Alya to contemplate. And if they didn’t get Adrien back, there was a good chance that’s exactly what would happen.

Alya was not going to let that happen.

She turned her head, looking over at Nino and Chloé. Chloé was sitting on a bench, and - Alya blinked in surprise - she was pretty sure that Chloé was crying. Nino, on the other hand, was watching Alya and Ladybug. He caught her eye and raised a questioning eyebrow, and the shields between them were still raised and impassable but Alya still hoped he’d pick up on her desire for him to check the Ladyblog post she’d made.

And maybe it was just good fortune, maybe Nino was just that smart, or maybe they were growing ever closer to being on the same wavelength, but Nino’s confusion cleared and he pulled out his phone. He spent a moment with his head bowed, fingers moving over the screen, while Alya rubbed Ladybug’s back and tried to keep her friend from falling apart completely.

Then Nino shouted, “There’s a response! Someone said Timebreaker is only four blocks from here, heading towards Ponts des Arts!”

“Alright, then what are you waiting for?” Chloé demanded, surging to her feet and wiping at her cheeks.

“Right.” Ladybug pulled away from Alya. Her face was streaked with tears, but she reached for the yoyo at her side.

Alya stopped her. “Hang on.”

“Alya -” Ladybug began.

“I just wanted to say that I’m really proud of you,” Alya said quickly. “I should’ve said that first, not interrogated you. I’m sorry. You do so much for this city and I was being selfish.” She took Ladybug’s hands in hers. “You and Chat are incredible, Marinette. For all that you do, and everything that you’ve been through, thank you.”

“Yeah, Dude,” Nino said, smiling at Ladybug. “You guys are awesome. Would you - would tell Adrien that I’m proud of him?” His voice cracked a little when he spoke Adrien’s name.

“I will,” Ladybug whispered, blinking as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

“Okay, okay, can we get on with it?” Chloé said.

“Honestly, Chloé,” Alya said, but Ladybug snorted and shook her head.

“No, Chloé is right. I’ve dawdled long enough. Thanks for your help, you guys. I appreciate it.” She gave them all a very tiny smile and then took her yoyo in hand.

Alya watched in amazement as Ladybug threw that yoyo out; it wrapped around a distant point and easily pulled Ladybug off her feet and into the air. The sheer grace with which she moved was awe-inspiring to watch, particularly now that Alya knew the clumsy Marinette was behind that mask. Her heart filled with pride: she had the coolest best friend.

“Well, don’t just stand there!” Chloé said, storming by.

“Wh-what?” Alya stammered, shocked. Nino looked equally confused.

“Come on! Ladybug might need our help,” Chloé snapped, breaking into a run.

“Sometimes I think I’ve got Chloé all figured out, and then she goes and does stuff like this,” Nino said, scratching his forehead.

Alya merely shook her head. “She’s not wrong. Let’s go!”

#miraculous ladybug #marinette dupain-cheng #alya cesaire #nino lahiffe #chloe bourgeois #post reveal #timebreaker #chronogirl #passionfruit #passionfruit november

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emeto-omo · 5 years

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PSA: The Problem With RPF

This is gonna be a long post, so buckle up kiddos.

As I logged on today to a private message, I assumed I got one of two different messages: a) a fic prompt on my kink blog (hi, btw, you are here) or b) a thirst message to my non-kink blog (hi, you are not here, but this is actually relevant to this whole thing).

Boy was I surprised to find neither, but instead a message from an empty blog inquiring about rpf (or real person fiction if you’re not in the know), my stance, among other things. Thankfully, the person in question was very respectful in their inquiries, which is a breath of fresh air, but I thought I’d write this up just because I know that these issues aren’t something we ever talk about and a large reason why they continue to be a problem today.

Firstly, a large issue with rpf is the lack of consent. It’s not just a matter of people writing pedo shit and kids not being able to consent. That shit is unacceptable regardless of rpf or non-rpf. Don’t lewd kids, don’t kink kids, don’t do fucked up adult shit with kids. I don’t care if they’re real, fake, ocs, whatever. Stop it. It’s one thing if you’re underage and you’re fantasizing about people your age, but like, this is largely an issue with older people thinking “no victim, no harm” and it’s not okay.

Adults can consent, but being a public figure does not mean they consent. Signing their name on a contract does not give the world consent to do as they wish with their personhood. Ever heard of libel, defamation, slander? These are generally not things that you’re gonna be hearing about because of your RPF unless you MEGA fuck up in the most spectacular of ways, but I mention them as a way of saying we as people, famous or not, have ways of protecting ourselves against people saying shit about us that we’re not okay with. See also, Harassment suits literally anywhere.

Does this mean that RPF is suddenly okay if your fave comes out and says (verbally, it has to be verbally cause we all know how to use photoshop to edit silly sign pictures) that they consent to their self being put into sexual/non-sexual fics/art/ect? Sure! I mean, go off, if they cool with it then go. But the likelihood of that happening is slim to none unless their image already includes that sort of thing. Even then, it’s not likely.

Celebs have to package their selves in a certain way. When YOU are your greatest asset, there’s a certain way your are styled to appeal and stand out, so that you both conform to a certain standard, but also have your own niche to keep you standing out. There are very few exceptions to the rule, and those exceptions tend to be so niche-heavy that they draw people in out of sheer curiosity. But that being said, it’s very likely your fave would never say “hey, sure, I want you all to write the dirtiest, raunchiest, most sexual shit about me” because, well, a lot of legal fallout can happen. Anything that comes of the stuff created they’re responsible for.

A good example, since this was a topic of conversation, would be BTS or anyone with a large amount of underaged fans. It’s pretty much known what teenyboppers are reading online or writing online. Trust, I was one too. Fanfic is the safest way to explore your identity, likes, ect. I get that. You’re also, as a teenager, too young to be consuming the things you’re producing when it comes to that kind of content. And for BTS to come out and give the okay, it’d be the same as them telling (and easily spun as encouraging) minors to be creating sexual content of them (and in many cases with that minor).

As you can imagine, that would pretty much ruin their image.

On another hand, people like youtubers, cosplayers, influencers, ect...these every day people who may not have the resources of everyone else and are pretty much self-made...rpf can be a great source of issues in their life. I was told about a youtuber who was reluctant to come out because of all the rpf about him and his friend. As many of you know, I’m a cosplayer. The amount of anxiety I have about doing events because people like to be very vocal about the things they’d like to do to me? It’s uncomfortable as fuck.

I’m not even a celebrity, not even close to it. I’ve guested at a convention, and that’s about it. Yet, I still get that kind of attention. Now imagine someone with literal millions of fans...

And it’s probably good for you to turn it on yourself. How would you like to have a stranger writing this stuff about you? They could be literally anyone, any age, anywhere, fantasizing and writing stuff with your actual name, and any time you were googled, it was popping up. Your parents, your eventual kids, your job prospects. They look you up and all they find are these layers of nsfw stuff about you. Your job may not want it around (especially if you’re trying to be a teacher or work with kids in any way). Your parents would be appalled, your kids would be disgusted and subjected to shit you don’t want them to see.

So when you’re seeing people, and in this case the emeto community, being very anti-rpf, think about these things. It’s not an anti-kink thing. It’s just literally a human decency thing.

#emeto #fiction #psa #i cant believe this shit needs to be said.

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imsuchotometrash · 5 years

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Obey Me as Be More Chill Cast

Holy Shit this ended up being so long but I really wanted to explain myself. So I’ve put it all under a cut (hopefully). This is just how I’d cast them, and I did include understudy roles with explanations so if anybody happens to write a crossover fic/ does some art with idea they have options (please feel free to do so and please tag me I don’t trust myself to do it I’d butcher my idea with a meat cleaver but I wanna see it so bad).

Jeremy - Leviathan

Honestly the whole vibe of BMC feels like Levi’s aesthetic.

And Jeremy’s big character flaw is that he’s not satisfied with his lot in life/jealous of the life the popular kids have.

You have to pry my head-cannon of Levi already having “Two Player Game” memorized from my cold dead hands.

Understudy - Mammon

Meet dumbass #2 who just wants people to like him would jump on the chance to have a squip.

Actively argues with the casting director about making him Jeremy until he settles with understudy once he finds out MC’s role.

The Squip - Belphegor

Now, now, listen. Belphie is cannon manipulative, and Belphie is also cannon violent.

So is the Squip.

Also I like the significance of the the Squip being a character that takes a hot second to be introduced to us, and Belphie is the same.

Understudy - certain MCs (like mine for example)

Like my MC would turn “Pitiful Children” into a song just dripping with sex.

And I feel like if Levi had the chance to choose what his Squip looks like that weeb would pick either Ruri-chan or his crush you can fight me on that.

Michael - Lucifer

This seems like a stretch but it’s really not. For one, imagine Luci singing “Michael in the Bathroom”. I need it.

Michael is the only character who doesn’t get squipped, and a main reason for that is because he outwardly embraced his lot in life. I feel like that becomes a sense of Pride, like a certain demon.

I also like Lucifer as Michael because Lucifer does try to understand his siblings, and is very accommodating of Levi’s social struggles. Idk i think it makes him a good candidate to play Levi’s stage best friend.

Let Lucifer live vicariously through Michael and experience a relatively laid back life for just a moment please he deserves it

Understudy - Beelzebub

Would naturally fit the role of a stoner without having to be one just for the munchies alone.

A very good friend who deserves the world and instead ends up having a suicidal panic attack in a bathroom

Christine - MC

Obvious reason #1: both are main love interests. And I am a fan of the theater fic trope of your crush in real life is your love interest in the play. Fight me.

I feel like some of the cannon options provided for MCs naturally give way to Christine’s quirkiness.

I feel like this one is very self explanatory and kinda lazy but c’est la vie.

Understudy - Belphegor.

This is partially because one option for casting of Jake is Beel and I feel like he’d enjoy getting to interact with his brother more than the Squip interacts with Jake.

But it’s mainly because I personally thinking Belphie would enjoy pulling the switcheroo on Levi in “A Guy that I’d Kinda Be Into”

Also Belphie singing “Play Rehearsal” is a hilarious thought

Rich - Mammon

My sad greedy boy who craves attention. Would understand freshman Rich. SO MUCH.

“It’s FrOM JapaAAANNNNN”

Mammon is a hipster. He has to be, you can’t convince me otherwise. This need to know upcoming trends most definitely includes obscure drugs.

Understudy - Leviathan

Rich and Jeremy are actually really similar characters. They have important differences like Levi and Mammon do, and I think both can understand Rich.

Levi would 1000% buy the Squip just because it’s a rare, limited item from Japan

His Squip is Ruri-chan in a bikini

Chloe - Satan

Hierarchy wise, Chloe is above Brooke, just like Satan is above Asmo in the demon pecking order.

Chloe is vindictive when she feels slighted, and cunning about her execution, just like our resident bookworm which is a trait he picked up from Lucifer BUT I DIGRESS

Short tempered bitches have to stick together

Understudy - Diavolo

Queen Bee of the School meet Prince of the School

For the Prince of Hell fuckers, I bring you a feast: The baby costume (ignore the diaper part and focus on how he’ll most likely be essentially naked)

Jake - Beelzebub

Jake = confirmed jock beefcake. Beel = confirmed jock beefcake. It’s just simple math.

Turns out that Jake has family issues that bother him that he hides behind a happy go lucky, go with the flow attitude and hmmmmm that sounds really familiar.

Also turns out that Jake is decently in tune with his emotions, I swear I’ve seen this before.

He literally becomes wheelchair bound as a result of risking his life to save his friend. Guys they are carbon copies of each other.

Understudy - Lucifer

This mostly revolves around the fact that I think Lucifer’s Pride will not allow him to be anything less than a lead role.

Also, Jake is technically the second antagonist, and Lucifer ends up being an antagonist to his brothers with his strict rules and sadistic punishments.

Jake = Mr. Perfect, always gets what he wants (in Jeremy’s eyes). Lucifer = Mr. Perfect, always gets what he wants (in Leviathan’s eyes).

Jenna - Solomon

Shady characters unite.

Still holds power/prestige because she’s the school’s go to source for gossip because she just knows things. Kinda like Solomon, but I was thinking more along the lines of because he has immense power/so many pacts with demons.

Tricky bitch who is actually the person who almost causes the end of the world because a pretty person told them to do it. (Do I think Solomon is very weak to Asmo because he’s a pretty face? Yes, yes I do)

Understudy - Asmodeous

Our actual resident king of gossip

Third person in the show to be squipped, and honestly I think Asmodeous would also be the third demon to do it behind Levi and Mammon, for a plethora of reasons/head cannons.

Asmo hitting Jenna’s note in “The Pitiful Children” hits me different and I want it.

Brooke - Asmo

First off: “Do you wanna Ride”. That’s it. That’s my argument for this casting.

Actually, Brooke is a very sexualized character, but turns out to be caring and genuinely likes Jeremy at one point, and that fits my specific thoughts of Asmo’s insecurities.

Understudy - Solomon

Is this just because Solomon was last on my list to find a second role? Yes Of course not. I’m classier than that.

In actuality, I think Brooke gets screwed over pretty hard during the play, and us fans don’t particularly play nice with our resident sorcerer, what with our distrust of his shady character.

Mr. Heere - Diavolo

Diavolo playing the dad who is trying to connect with his kids? Sign me up.

Also, Diavolo singing “The Pants Song”. I don’t know if you noticed but I base a lot of these off of people singing certain songs and I’m not going to apologize

For all you Demon Prince fuckers out there, this character decision requires Diavolo to walk around on stage with no pants on for 90% of his stage time. You’re welcome

Understudy - Simeon

A guiding influence in the play, a part of the character Simeon would easily relate to and take some pride in.

For all you angle fuckers out there, Simeon in boxes for 90% of the play. You’re welcome.

Mr. Reyes - Simeon

My main motivator for this decision was Mr. Reyes’ speech during “The Play” because he snaps off and I really want Simeon to loose his shit.

Mr. Reyes is also relatively chill and goes with the flow. He’s got a lot of patience, like our favorite angel boy, and I feel like Simeon could relate to that.

Understudy - Satan

A fellow advocate for the arts.

Mr. Reyes ends up having quite the temper, and Satan would definitely enjoy his blow up scene.

A more background role, which gives Satan ample time to learn more about backstage work or anything else that strikes his fancy during all his free time in rehearsals.

#obey me shall we date #shall we date obey me #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me diavolo #obey me simeon #obey me solomon #obey me headcanons #obey me as be more chill #is my theater nerd showing?#the soundtrack came on today and I just had a visceral vision of Levi = Jeremy #did I listen to the soundtrack while making this?#did I cackle at some of the images of different boys singing the songs?#yes

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forkanna · 4 years

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NOTICE: Characters and locations ©Atlus. This fic and story ©2019-2020 me! All rights to their respective owners. Mature rating for sensual situations and dialogue. Canon (slight) divergence. Based on vanilla P4 since that's what I played (Sorry, Marie fans). Names are in Western order. Title adapted from the boss battle music. Cover art by 7aho.

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NOTES: This one isn't going to be quite as in-depth or long as my P5 fic (and also a lot lighter in the plot department haha). Apologies for all the exposition within the first couple of pages. I always attempt to make the fic accessible for readers who don't know anything about the fandom if I can, but try to keep it short.

And for those of you waiting... don't get mad at me for not putting out very much Elsanna lately. I promise you, it IS coming. LOTS of it. I just have to have proper motivation or it will turn out not so great. Thank you for your patience!

CHAPTER ONE

None of this was right.

The spooky old castle seemed to press in on Chie Satonaka from all sides as she tore down hallway after hallway, the sound of her loafers echoing off the flagstones. Nevermind how bizarre it was that she was in another world — which she was never going to get used to, even if she came and went a thousand times — but her childhood companion and best friend in the whole world being in danger was more important. She didn't have the luxury of being thunderstruck.

Chie and her friends had gone back and forth so often about the Midnight Channel. Was it real? Was it a scam, a mere urban legend? Mass hallucination? Nobody outside of the sleepy little town of Inaba had ever heard of it, or seen it happen; purely a local paranormal phenomenon. As the story went, if you watched your television with its power turned off at midnight, during a rainstorm, you could see something. Some versions even claimed the person you saw on the screen was your soulmate.

However, that was where fantasy ended and grisly reality took over. The two previous instances had shown women that later turned up dead — and not just on TV. Their corpses hung upside down from power lines and rooftops. In this most recent case, they had all seen Yukiko Amagi in the TV — first as a blurry shadow, and now in vivid high definition.

If it really was Yukiko. That woman in the screen looked and sounded nothing like her best friend, even if it was her face and voice. The garish pink princess dress was so unlike her! Not to mention the obscene thirst for boys from such a timid, polite girl… Chie could remember each word with crystal clarity:

"Goooood evening! Tonight, Princess Yukiko has a big surprise! I'm gonna go score myself a hot stud! Welcome to 'Not A Dream, Not A Hoax; Princess Yukiko's Hunt For Her Prince Charming!' And I came prepared — I've got my lacy unmentionables on, stacked from top to bottom! I'm out to catch a whole harem, and the best of the lot is gonna be all mine! Well, here I gooooo!"

Every deranged syllable had come from someone else's mind. It had to be a sick joke! Still, there was no other explanation for where her best friend had gone. Unreachable by phone or email, and her parents didn't know where she was, either.

The other world was their only lead. And since Yu had previously shown her and Yosuke that they could actually go inside, as long as the screen was large enough to step through… that was that. Insane as it was, they had all jumped through a big screen TV into a parallel dimension to rescue their friend.

But staircase after staircase flashed past, rich red curtains and glittering chandeliers, with no sign of Yukiko. The shadows pulled at Chie from all sides exactly as the boys had described. Maybe it was her bright green-and-yellow windbreaker that caught their attention, or maybe it was that someone was invading their realm. She didn't belong in Yukiko's palace. Or at the very least, the shadows of the Midnight Channel thought she didn't, and probably were equally distrustful of the boys.

Speaking of which, where were they? She could have sworn both Yu and Yosuke were right behind her… and that weird red-and-blue bear thing, whatever his name was. They had tried to insist she stay behind because she was a girl, not strong enough to fight in spite of her kung fu training, and now they were the ones who couldn't keep up?! She almost wanted to turn back and give them a good kick in the-

"Chie told me that red looks good on me…"

The words nearly made Chie trip over her own feet and go down hard. "Yukiko?!" Where was it coming from? She turned this way and that, trying to find the source, but saw no one. The voice kept going, talking about how much she didn't like her name. How she thought she was worthless. She tried to tune out the harsh words themselves, merely focusing on the direction they were coming from and attempting to follow.

But as she barrelled through an ornate set of double doors, looking for the next flight up… the subject matter changed. And she couldn't ignore the words anymore.

"Chie was the only one who gave my life meaning. She's bright and strong, and she can do anything! She has everything that I don't. Compared to Chie, I'm… I'm…"

"HEY!" she shouted. "I'm coming, Yukiko! Hang on!"

However, the disembodied voice only continued, without any obvious source now. How could it come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time?! "Chie protects me; she looks after my worthless life. And I… I don't deserve any of it… Chie is so kind."

The words burned almost as badly as the tears burned her eyes. This was wrong. Something about it sounded right, sounded satisfying to her, but she didn't want to examine it too deeply. All she wanted was to save her best friend and get her out of this nightmare palace.

"I know, right?"

That was not Yukiko.

"What the-" Her eyes swivelled to the side and saw a girl running backwards. She was about her minimal height, a little over five feet… had the same chestnut-brown bowl cut. The same green jacket. The same…

The same. "Oh no."

"Oh yes," the doppelganger laughed as she easily jogged backwards and kept pace with her, no worry for running into anything. She never did. It was as if this other Chie, this fake, had eyes in the back of her head or rearview mirrors that only she could see. "I bet you knew you'd be seeing me sooner or later."

"What are you?!" Chie demanded of the impostor.

"Don't ask stupid questions," she laughed, voice distorted. "Let's cut the bullshit. And I mean Yukiko's bullshit."

"What… do you… what are you saying?"

Waving a hand up toward the roof, she went on, "Yukiko thinks you're 'so kind'. That you protect her, right? We know that's not what you want from her at all." When she didn't respond, the clone smirked. "You're thrilled to death she depends on you. The most beautiful girl in school, and she needs you — some grubby little bitch who couldn't tell eyeshadow from lipstick. Man, do you get a charge out of that!"

"I… I do not!" she shouted, trying to put her head down and run faster — to ignore this pretender. She had been warned that there were frightening shadows all around them, and this was further proof; it was a trick. One she refused to fall for.

"Where ya goin'?" the clone pouted as she sped up to match pace. "Gotta go save your princess? Of course you do. She can't do anything while you're not around. Helpless like a lost puppy, right?"

Teeth gnashing, she snarled out, "Yukiko is not a puppy!"

"But you wish she was. If she was a helpless dog, yipping around your heels… then you would be set, wouldn't you? What else would you need with a devoted, needy little bitch to boss around?"

"I… excuse me?! What did you call her?" Chie finally stopped, turning to snarl at the girl who stopped as easily as if they had planned this weeks ago. "She's not a bitch! A-and she's not helpless! So you can shut up and go back to wherever you came from, because I have a friend to save!"

And then she left her in the dust.

Determination radiated off her entire body as she leapt over one of the shadows, landed on the face of another and demolished it. They seemed to sap her endurance a little at a time, but she also felt stronger somehow with each one she defeated. Just like training in her secret hideout when she was little; she might be getting tired now, but she would be able to handle more next time.

"You're right."

Her jaw tightened. "Thought I told you to leave me alone."

"You said to go back to where I came from," Other-Chie corrected with a Cheshire cat grin. "And I did! Right here with you!"

"Yukiko needs me! So unless you're going to help me save her-"

"Are you kidding? Like I said, you're right; she's not really that weak. Yukiko doesn't need you. It's the other way around, isn't it?" That shut her up, so the shadow went on, "You don't know the first thing about being a girl. So terrible at it. And she's kind, and sweet, and trusting. What are you?"

"I… I'm her friend."

"No, you're really not," she laughed loudly, harshly. The beginnings of fresh tears stung the back of her throat as she took the next steps two at a time, wishing desperately that she could ditch this unkind spectre. "Because that girl cares about you, and all you care about is that she does. You don't actually like her at all; you find her too quiet, too meek. Too pretty."

"That's not-"

"But she does depend on you. And hey, why should you ditch her when she's so devoted to you? Keep her on the end of your leash like the bitch she is."

"STOP!" Chie begged — and went down hard when her shoe tripped over the top stair, rolling a couple of times onto her side. Her knee had borne the brunt of the fall and now it throbbed in pain, and she automatically tried to massage it. "Just… just leave me alone, I… I do like her, she is my friend! My BEST friend!"

"Awwwwww, is she though?" More false pouting as she crouched over the real Chie. "Can she really be your friend if you want to keep her under your thumb? Totally codependent?"

Growling, she began to crawl forward, wishing she had a good pair of earplugs.

"Can't escape the truuuuth," she sing-songed.

"Go away."

"Just let yourself enjoy it. Give in. In fact… Yukiko is right on the other side of that door."

That made Chie sit up a little straighter. Was she really? Somehow, she knew it was true; she could sense a presence on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling double-doors now that they were so close.

"Yukiko?"

"That's right. So go in there and grind her under the heel of your boot. Show her that you're-"

Completely ignoring the rest of her shadow's words, Chie burst from the ground with renewed adrenaline and kicked open the doors.

"Yukiko!" But the princess didn't move. "Yukiko, what's wrong?!"

As she laughed, madly and maniacally, Yukiko did finally turn around. And she was just as otherworldly and demented as the Chie-clone that had been hounding her heels. Mostly, they looked the same, outfit notwithstanding; it was the eyes… they were almost golden, they blazed with such a yellow intensity. Something about them was most certainly wrong.

"Oh my! A prince has arrived! Things are really heating up!"

Gritting her teeth, Chie pointed at her and said, "No… you're not Yukiko. You're not her at all!"

"What are you talking about?" she gasped, full of false innocence. "I am she, and she is me! We are we."

"Oui oui," Chie's clone added with a light chuckle. A sick lurch shot through her stomach when she realised the clone had followed her inside. Now she had to deal with two of them.

"Oooh la laaaa," the false Yukiko giggled as she pressed an open palm to the center of her chest, just above her ample cleavage. "But I'm afraid if you really want to woo your princess, you'll have to wait! Deeper in, deeper in!"

The shadow of Chie approached her opposite number. Were they in league with each other? Rivals? Maybe they were part of the same being, a monster that wanted to manipulate the people that fell through the TV into this hellscape… but all she did was reach up and grasp at Yukiko's hair, snapping her head backward.

"AH!"

"I'll go deeper in," she promised with a little smirk. "And I don't want to wait."

"Mmhh! Yes, my Prince!" That obscenely lovesick look on her face made Chie turn away from them, throat tight with disgust. "But you can only have me here! I think she wants the other me!"

"Does she? Yes… yes, of course she does." She looked up in time to see the other Chie glowering down at her, despite the sinister smile. "Owning just one of you isn't enough; we need both of you in our cage."

Chie wanted to smack both of their heads together. But then something Yukiko had said pushed through to her: 'deeper in'. She knew where the real Yukiko was.

"Take me to her."

"Huh?" She tilted her head, silky black hair falling to the side. "Take you what where?"

"Don't play dumb. Just… take me to my best friend! You can do whatever you want to me, but I need to see her… I need to know she's okay!"

Against all her expectations, Fake Yukiko pouted instead of looking interested or pleased. "But that's not how this is supposed to work. You do whatever you want to me. Right? I don't wanna be the prince, I wanna be the princess!" And she actually began to sniffle a little.

"Hey, don't cry," the other Chie said with a slight chuckle, tightening her grip on the back of her hair. "I'll make you feel good if you don't cry."

"Y-you will?"

"Hey, HEY!" she shouted over the two of them. "Focus! How about this: I'll help her do that to you, whatever she wants — or I want, or whatever… if you take me to Yukiko first!"

"Oh!" The false Yukiko's face lit up with joy, cheeks turning as pink as her vile princess dress. "You promise? It's not worth it if you don't promise, I wanna hear you say it!"

"I promise. Now, can we get a move on?"

While Yukiko was giggling and literally bouncing up and down for joy, the other Chie started clapping, nodding in approval. "Daaaamn, I'm a little shocked, Satonaka. You're playing her like a fiddle. Thought you were going to insist you're nothing like me, but you're doing exactly what I would do. Bravo!"

"Just cut that out already and let's go," she groaned, burying her face in her hands. Then she felt herself being hoisted into the air. "Wha- WHOA! What are you doing?!"

"Just what you said," she sighed as false Yukiko hitched up her skirts and dashed through the other door toward the stairs. The other Chie fell in step behind her, toting the real one in a princess carry as easily as if she were a bag of flour. "Taking you to see both halves of your whole. Or should I say 'your hole'? Eh? Great pun, right?"

"Disgusting. I can't believe you can talk about her that way — and you call yourself another part of me!"

Her smirk should have been illegal. "Ohhh, but I am. And I see right through all of your bullshit. She's a trophy to you; an ornamental piece. A refrigerator magnet. No… more like, one of those cute little buttons you have pinned to the front of your jacket there." Her head nodded down at said buttons. The sleepy smiley face had always been her favourite, but now she just wanted to rip them off and throw them away. "Something you can wear around and show everyone. Maybe that's what the red one is, right? Is that your Yukiko button?"

"It's… my 'I love exercise' button. And if you're really me, you would know that."

"But it is red, like her favourite colour," she kept teasing.

"Sh-shut up. And do you have to carry me like this?! I can walk, y'know — like my button says!"

"It says you can walk?"

"No, it says I love- just shut up! GOD!"

Laughing openly at her, Other-Chie scoffed, "I'm faster than you. And I won't be a panting, sweaty mess when we get to the top floor… well, maybe once we're there…"

"Does everything you say have to be a double entendre?!"

However, she seemed to be dead on the money. In no time, they were at the top floor, and entering an ornate throne room. Somehow, the shadow Yukiko had gotten there ahead of them with enough time to spare that she could seat herself, and look as prim and proper as if she had been waiting for them for an hour. And there, at the bottom of the red carpet-lined steps leading up to the dais, was…

"YUKIKO!" Springing out of her double's arms, she ran forward and knelt by her side, curling an arm around her shoulders. This Yukiko was wearing a light pink kimono, as she typically did when working at her parents' very traditional Japanese inn.

"My, my, it's getting crowded in here," the shadow on the throne chuckled as she rose from her seat, stepping to the edge of the dais. "Why don't you and I go somewhere else? A land far, far away, where no one knows me. If you're my prince, you'll take me there, won't you? C'mon, pretty please?"

"Do you… mean me?" Chie asked hesitantly. She was a little worried about how the real Yukiko hadn't said anything yet, but curiosity would not let her ignore the shadow entirely.

"Of course, Chie! She's my prince. She always leads the way; Chie is a strong prince." Then she sighed and added, "Or at least, she was."

"Was?" the Other-Chie demanded, eyebrows shooting up.

"When it comes down to it, Chie's just not good enough. She can't take me away from here — can't save me! Historic inn? Manager training? I'm sick of all these things chaining me down — sick of everything being decided for me!"

"The hell I can't save you!" It was a disbelieving scoff, and the other shadow began to stride up the stairs as she continued, "I'm your prince, aren't I? I can do whatever I want with you. And you'll be grateful, because you know I won't let anything bad happen to you ever again. Well… nothing that I'm not doing to you myself."

Even while Chie herself was reeling in fresh disgust, the other Yukiko's eyes were widening. "You will? I m-mean… I really thought you couldn't help me escape my prison."

"I'll destroy your prison and make you a new one," Other-Chie said… and as she reached the top of the stairs, something about her changed. One blink, and she was identical to the real Chie; the next, a large crown appeared on her head to match the thin, delicate tiara on Other-Yukiko's head. The jacket stayed the same colour but turned into something more royal, with gold braids hanging down in loops over the shoulders. Medals replaced the buttons. And her school skirt became grey tights.

"A new one just for me?" Other-Yukiko gasped in wonder.

"Thick bars made of diamonds. The floor will be polished marble, your cot in the corner will be velvet…" Her hands smoothed up Yukiko's neck, gripping in the hair and tilting her head up. "And your collar will be made of the finest leather money can buy."

"Chie…?"

Her attention instantly diverted from the shadows to the real Yukiko Amagi. She was still huddled in her arms, dazed eyes finally focusing on the stairs, up at the two figures. Then turning to the one holding her.

"Yes?" she breathed. "Are you okay?"

"Chie, what… what is… going on? How did I get here?" Already, her eyes were watering as she whispered, "A-are we going to die?"

It wasn't that Yukiko was a coward, or a weakling. She was stronger than she knew. But she saw herself as weak and helpless. Chie had always tried to encourage her to train with her, thinking the kung fu might help offset that meekness, but she had shied away from it — insisting it would be seen as 'unladylike' by her extremely conservative mother. Frowned upon as something ill-suited for a girl who would one day help run the Amagi Inn to be caught doing.

"No," she whispered, a smile finally pulling at her mouth for the first time since she had entered the TV. "No way. I got your back."

"I've been s-so scared," she whispered fearfully as she trembled in her arms. "I don't know wh- don't know what's going on, but I kept thinking, if… if only you came… but how did you know where I was?"

"Boo hoo," Other-Chie jeered at them. And when she turned to look…

This was a very different scene now. Her princely green coat was now draped over her back like a cape, yakuza-style. The rest of her clothing was… something else. Was it some kind of metal bikini? Maybe it was gold; that would explain the yellow sheen. And between the thigh-high boots and opera gloves, and the smug look on her plain face… the outfit was definitely giving it a very specific connotation.

"Isn't it sickening?" Other-Yukiko sighed, shaking her head as her arms folded in front of her chest — in just the right way to push her breasts up. "They cling to each other like they're going to fall apart. And how can that other me just blubber and cry all the time?"

Other-Chie grinned and started sliding her hand up and down the small of her Yukiko's back. "Mmm, forget about them. The real Chie and Yukiko have business to attend."

"Ooooh," she giggled. "What kind of business?"

"Let's get out of here," the real Yuki whispered. "Just… j-just let them do whatever that is, and… and you and I can go back to Marukyu Tofu and… and have something for dinner, and w-we'll just… forget all about this. Okay? If… if you know the way out?"

Her eyes were so hopeful when she looked up at Chie. As always. That was the look that got to her more than she had ever wanted to admit. Which, unfortunately, contributed to how badly the shadow version of herself was getting to her with each and every word…

"Look at her face," said shadow snorted instantly, grinning wolfishly down at the original Chie. "She finally gets it. She sees the ugly black mold under the tatami that she had been pretending didn't stink for years. Yukiko Amagi is nothing but a tool to her."

"And she loves being a tool," her Yukiko breathed as she sat her Chie in the throne, then crawled into her lap, petting up and down her arms. "I know I do."

"Come on!" the real Yukiko whispered. "Can't we go away? Do you know the way home?"

"Y-yeah," Chie whispered. Then she cleared her throat and stood up. "We're going. Back the way we came; if we can get out of the castle, I think I can take us to where we can go back through the TV."

"Through the what?! I'm- WHOA! Chie-chan!"

Not wanting to mince words, she started dragging Yukiko away from the steps. The other girl couldn't move very fast, but it was as much about the restrictive kimono as it was her inferior athletic ability. But she would never give voice to it, never have complained about-

"Why is she SOOOO slow?!" Of course, Other-Chie said it for her. "Doesn't she ever even go outside? Pathetic!"

"Actually… there's something wrong, my Prince."

"What?"

"They haven't paid us back yet."

"Ohhhh. I believe you're — right!"

A loud din of jangling metal filled the air as Chie suddenly found herself stopped short, just a few more strides from the doors. When she looked down, she saw her arms were pinned to her sides by thick chains, and they were already trying to drag her back toward the throne.

"Hey!" she shouted, struggling. "What the hell is this?!"

"You promised!" Other-Yukiko wailed, pouting as the toothily-grinning Other-Chie dragged her back toward them, up the steps and onto the dais. It hurt, but her pride was wounded far more than her body.

"Promised wh… oh. OH! B-but you already have the other me, isn't that enough?"

"You're my prince! Why should I only want one of you when two princes who adore me is twice the fun?"

Her shadow chuckled. "She's got you there, Satonaka."

Now Chie had a dilemma. She could see Yukiko approaching the steps, expression panicked and worried for her best friend. And all she wanted was for her to escape, to save herself. Her entire goal in entering the TV was to get Yukiko out of there!

Then she thought about something else. There were more shadows than their two clones roaming those stone hallways; all manner of beasts and ghouls and assorted horrors. Yukiko was not a fighter; never had been. She still needed her. Even if she hated that she liked it, that didn't make it untrue.

"Alright!" she gasped out. "Okay, let me out of these chains, and… and I'll do it. I'm sorry, I forgot."

"You forgot?!" Yukiko asked incredulously.

"No, no, she did," her own shadow mused, eyes narrowed down at her. "So obsessed with Amagi that we stopped mattering, didn't we? You're as codependent as she is."

"Sure, yeah, whatever. Let's get on with it. What am I supposed to be doing?"

The eyes remained narrowed, but her smirk came into full bloom. "You know already."

"What? No, I really don't. Should I pull her hair like you did?"

"Chie?" asked the real Yukiko as the fake one smiled wider. "What are you doing?"

"I'm sorry, Yuki-chan. Really, it's… I promised them…" She didn't want to continue, but her shadow had other plans, and nudged her hard with her elbow. "I promised I would d-do whatever they wanted if they took me to you. And I mean… they did, so…"

As her friend looked stricken and confused, the false Yukiko nuzzled up against her side. "Do whatever you want to me. It's going to make me feel so safe, so loved! Like my prince cares about me!"

"But she's your prince!" she protested, nodding at the other Chie.

"We're both her prince. How are you still not getting this? No wonder our grades are in the toilet; we're just dumb as a fencepost, huh?" Then she picked up Chie's hands and guided them to the princess's neck. "Do what comes natural. Go on."

"What comes… natural…" Well, putting her hands on Yukiko's neck sure didn't feel that way. Even if this monster was a fake, it had her noble features, her little bow mouth… which was slightly parted in anticipation.

They wanted her to choke her. It hit her like a ton of bricks, and her hands shot away as if burned. Yukiko pouted, and Other-Chie rolled her eyes in annoyance.

"Please, stop this," asked the real Yukiko, bowing politely. Just as she had been trained to do. "W-we just want to leave. Is that so wrong? We want to go home!"

"Not until she fulfils her promise," Other-Yukiko pouted. "And it's such an easy one! All she has to do is put me in my place like she already wants to do — everybody wins! I get to belong to my Prince, and she gets to enjoy owning me!"

Yukiko was revolted. "What are you saying?! You're a person, I- no, I'm a person, and so are you, and… who would want to be owned like they're some kind of thing?!"

"Why, we do, obviously. We want a hot stud to sweep us off our feet, so we don't have to think about anything at all! Not managing an inn, not grades, not responsibilities. Living the life of a pet sounds so inviting, doesn't it?"

As she went on, the real Yukiko was beginning to look despondent. And Chie knew why; because she was right — at least partially. It didn't mean she really wanted a life like that, but as she was now beginning to understand, it meant there was a part of Yukiko that found the idea of running away from everything that was expected of her to be an extremely appealing notion. And that it distorted the bonds of their friendship. All the things she had heard Yukiko saying before, echoing off the walls… those were probably her honest feelings and wishes. Everything the shadow spouted was the worst possible version of said feelings.

"Well, I'm not going to do this forever," Chie warned them with a sigh as she reached into the shadow Yukiko's hair and scratched behind her ear. "But I will for a little while. I did promise, I guess."

"Mmm," she hummed, and the false Chie also watched with satisfaction. "My prince… it feels so good, I'm so yours…"

"Doesn't she have any self-respect?" the real Yuki muttered. But it was loud enough they could hear her.

"She doesn't. You know that she doesn't and you don't." Other-Chie began to stride down the steps toward her, a red whip appearing in her hands, already pulled taut. "But while they're busy… would you like to find out how they're feeling up there? So boring, sitting around on the sidelines."

Instantly, the real Chie stepped away from the pet, letting her fall onto her elbows from the unexpected absence of her master. "You leave her alone. That's not part of the promise."

"It's a bonus," her opposite chuckled with a smirk. "All she has to do is say 'yes'."

"But…" She had to think fast. As usual, Yukiko looked too terrified of the imposing shadow, of the whip in her hands, to protest; she might even give in. "But I… but your Yukiko wants us both!"

One eyebrow raised as she turned to smirk back over her shoulder. "But they are both ours. Every Yukiko belongs to us for all eternity. Doesn't that make you feel so good? Makes them feel good."

"So good," Other-Yukiko echoed, rubbing up and down her upper arms as her eyes closed in bliss at the mere fantasy.

"You lay one finger on her and the deal is off," Chie pushed stubbornly. "I said I would… d-do things to the other Yukiko, but you getting to torture my best friend isn't part of that!"

A little "Chie…" slipped out of Yukiko's lips. Then she swallowed hard and said to the other one, "Y-yes, please don't touch me. I… I don't want…"

"Liar," she insisted.

"I am not lying! I'm scared, I d-don't want to be here! And I don't want you to hurt m-"

She cut off with a yelp as the whip came whistling down, hitting the ground right next to her fingers. She clutched both hands to her chest and shrank in on herself, eyes slammed shut as she tried to blot out everything and everyone.

"She wants it," Other-Chie said with certainty. "Look at how pathetic she is. Not trying to fight me off, can't even move now."

Other-Yukiko laughed and began to paw at Chie's leg, which made her a lot more uncomfortable than she could have imagined. "Poor little bitch thinks she's too good for our collars. Speaking of which…"

Suddenly, the other Chie was standing over her and holding a black spiked dog collar, dangling off the end of her index finger. She began to twirl it around and around. "Happy birthday to us."

"What's… what are you doing with that?" Now it was in real Chie's own hands. The leather was warm and heavy, and the shadow Yukiko's neck was slender, calling out for its companion. "Oh."

"Please?" she breathed needily. "Just… put it on, and we'll both be so happy…"

So she put it on. She couldn't bear to face the real Yukiko, but she managed to slide the leather around her doppelganger's throat and fit it snugly without being too tight. A sigh of gratitude fell from her as soon as it was complete, and she smiled up at Chie with what seemed like genuine affection.

"I thought you had seen how worthless I am," she whispered. "But you want me all to yourself? Really?"

"S-stop it," she muttered as she cleared her throat. "I did it because it's… what you wanted. A trade for Yukiko."

"But I'm-"

"What else do you want me to do? Huh? So we can get it done, and… and I can go home."

Now the false Yukiko looked as if she might cry. Her real life counterpart crept forward to kneel on the second step, getting a better look. Other-Chie clicked her tongue, though her expression remained as smug as ever. "So mean. Give her what she wants, and then make her feel like doggie doo. What a power move; really keep her on your leash this way."

"Cut that OUT!" Chie snapped.

"Whoa, touchy! I can't help it if the truth is too weird for you."

"You don't want to be here with me," Other-Yuki finally breathed, and Chie found herself actually feeling a pinprick of remorse. "Can't you play with me a little more before you go? I… I'm gonna miss you…"

"Oh… fine, fine. Tell me what it is you want me to do."

Her expression full of sappy affection — and the real Yukiko's full of disbelief and outrage — she began to hitch up her skirts. "Well, I did pick out something very special to wear today — so I can catch a stud, like you! But it looks like I got defeated, and these are going to waste, so… I thought-"

"Wait, wait, I'm not- you want me to see your underwear?!"

"Not just see it…"

Cold flooded the pit of her stomach. She turned wide eyes on the real Yukiko, who still seemed dazed but was now frowning a lot deeper than before, then back to the legs that were appearing beneath the hem of the clone's dress.

"No."

"Don't you want to go home?" she purred as her thighs came into view. "Play with me. Make me feel really, really good… and you might get that wish. Pretty please?"

"NO! You're a shadow, a- a demon! Why would I do something for you I've barely ever done to myself — much less anybody else?!"

The shadow Yukiko got a little more insistent, pout more pronounced. "Because I'm your princess! Touch me — make my body come alive for you! Turn me into your willing servant!"

"Come on, stop it!"

"Why? Give me one good reason you shouldn't be ripping off my clothes and having your way with m-"

"Because I wanna do this with the REAL Yukiko, not YOU!"

To Be Continued…

#We'll Face Ourselves #persona 4 #p4 fanfic #forkanna writes #chiko #chie satonaka #yukiko amagi #jess the writer

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echoeternally · 5 years

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What do you do to get motivation? I have a fic that's been going on for years now. I have the whole thing drafted, I mostly know what I want to happen, though I sometimes get stuck on side details.

Motivation works differently for everyone. I wish I had one universal answer to simplify it, but it really depends on who you are and what drives you.

To help, I can give you some tools that I use to help inspire me, and maybe from that, you can find your answer as well.

Short version for that would be the following:

Books, Media, and Other Stories

Music and Art

Unexplored Territories

Rewinds: Re-read and Remind

Audience

Friends

Research

Creating Goals

Slightly longer blurbs will go under the cut to explain things.

Ok, let me explain some inspiration sources a little more. (And because each section is longer, this now is a very long post.)

Books, Media, and Other Stories: This is usually a good place to start, since you can help engage yourself to your work by getting into other things. Books get a particular special mention because writing and reading go hand-in-hand. This can be extended to comics and manga though. Media is the umbrella term for tv shows, movies, video games, and other forms that entertainment take to portray stories of different kinds. Other stories themselves are meant for the less conventional venues to explore, like articles or history, or even other fanfics as well. Each source has their own story to tell you, and by looking into things, you can find how storytelling flows from each of them.

It doesn’t have to all be good stuff either. Maybe you hated the latest episode of your favorite cartoon or tv series. There was a book you finished last week, and it just completely fumbled the ending into a mess. Perhaps history was duller than dirt. Think you can come up with something better to tell? Great! Then fire up and get into writing how you’d do it better.

Music and Art: Another good spot to rouse creativity. Music and art tend to help bring about some life into you that stoke your creative fires well. Both are broad to describe, but they each have a lot of forms to them, so you should go with what you like to delve into. For example, art doesn’t strictly have to be fan art for fanfics; maybe there was a cool painting you remember from a museum that you wanted to recapture or explore. That can be useful. Same goes for music, as maybe there’s a song’s lyrics that you want to elaborate on, or take into a story of your own.

Personally, I prefer music that doesn’t involve lyrics. Classical music and media soundtracks (movies, video games) are usually super helpful, because they can have dramatic flares to them, and don’t always have people singing with lyrics that you end up associating with the song, which becomes a story of its own. If you can get the right tune that you can relax to, it can then help you want to create a story that goes with the atmosphere. There are all kinds of feelings that songs can stir in you, so experiment and see what you like.

Unexplored Territories: Stories are mostly not quite groundbreaking in what they tell, but rather how they tell it. Nevertheless, there are numerous less explored resources that can be immensely helpful to get into. Most people go for realistic stuff, like cultures that aren’t as primed for media representation. It’s good when you’re doing grounded things that deal with people mostly. For those more engaged in fantasy, though, you’d want to get into stuff that’s not tied for cultures, or extract it from them. Maybe you look up a list of mythological creatures and want to write about something that isn’t the woefully tiring trend of wizards/witches, vampires, werewolves, or clowns. Even changing it up in simple ways, like establishing a difference between sorcerers and witches, or having werewovles, werecats, and werebears all in one story that operate differently.

But don’t be afraid to turn to real life stuff too, especially for less explored spots. I tend to use LGBTQ+ stuff (mostly gays) to both give representation to groups that I identify with, as well as use character dynamics that mainstream media is too afraid to touch. Those two main male characters that are best friends? Make them boyfriends. That lady who seems like she’s super sexy? She’s actually asexual. I’m not telling you to specifically use this stuff, mind you, but this is an example of less explored territories that you can have a little more flexibility with. Heck, it can even simplify the story you tell with minimal changes: Beauty and the Beast’s titular characters are both female. The rest of the story plays out as follows, but it now gains brand new angles to be explored by a small change. That’s part of why I also like shipping and going for “rare pairs” for romance stories: they’re not as explored, and therefore, prime for new content that can be exciting just by existing!

Rewinds (Re-read and Remind): A simple concept, but sometimes you can help stir some motivation by looking back over your old work. Checking back on things can help remind you of what’s going on, or can help create the desire to continue what was going to happen next. It’s basic, but sometimes just the smallest trick to help start some sparks you lost.

It doesn’t have to be a lot, either. Maybe you just wanted to write up this one scene, but you haven’t gotten there yet. Write it anyway, and then work on how you need to get there. While you’re reading over something you wrote, don’t focus on editing, but on the content. Maybe there’s this one line of dialogue that you really loved, and it’s this excellent one-liner that defines your character really well. And then that can make you want to give more to them. When you rewind and recall things you had ideas for, sometimes reviewing them can help you expand on them.

Audience: Has anyone read your stuff yet? If not, ask a few people to do so! An audience can help you immensely, because their reactions help gauge what works and what doesn’t. By giving them content to look over, and interacting with your readers as well, you can end up helping drive yourself to want to deliver more to them. It keeps things flowing nicely! (And this is why writers cry a lot about wanting feedback: it super seriously helps out in a great big way!)

Make sure to look for readers too, not just other writers. Sure, other writers can give you tips and tricks, but they’re looking at it from a similar perspective to yours: the creator’s. For readers, they’re specifically interested in consuming the content, and therefore, have different interpretations and interests for the story. They can give you opinions that other writers can’t quite so easily offer, because they can be more to the point of entertainment engagement. (Writers do typically double as readers, though, so it works out either way.)

Friends: I wanted to add a special distinction for friends as opposed to audience. Friends are nice, but are infinitely less likely to read your work. Online pals, irl friends, whichever you’re comfortable with talking to, they’re still not always the people you’ll go running to so you can grab a new reader. But that’s ok, because you have other ways they can help!

Sometimes, just telling a vague summary of things that are going on in your fic can help you get interested in telling more about it, and to others that might understand it more. Telling your friends puts you in a spot that helps you come up with ways to break down your story to its bare bones, and then what you want to do to help build it up. Another way to go about it would be to listen to stories that they have to tell you. Maybe they’re not writing, but sometimes just interacting with others can help you with developing dynamics that people can share in stories. Or events that are so out there, and you can come up with a way to create a related scenario. (No, I’m not telling you to write your friends…unless they make good characters, lol.) Even just being with friends to take your mind off of things and relax? That helps out too, more than you realize in the moment or immediately after.

Research: It kind of goes with some stuff above, because by viewing media, other stories, unexplored territories, music, and art, you’re doing a type of research. Each one presents a different medium that lets you get to know about them, and the more you look into it, the more you learn.

But the cool thing about research is that it takes you places. Websites like TVTropes and Wikipedia can take you to all kinds of weird places, but that’s what makes them great! You end up learning new topics and angles to explore, and they can help inspire new ideas by doing so, or help you restructure ideas you might think are too cliché or simply don’t work. Delving in deep can be time consuming, but also can lead to major payoffs.

Creating Goals: This one I’m not quite as sure about, because it depends on what you’re looking for out of stories. Still, it can be a helpful boost in its own way, so I’ll include it. Goal creating isn’t just something like, “Today I want to write a sentence.” That’s good to do in general, but I’m talking a little more along the competitive lines.

You’ve got a fic written up, but you’re looking to keep it rolling. Maybe you’re exploring two neglected characters from a movie and giving them a new life. But, guess what? Someone else tried something similar about two years ago. Heck. Are you going to let that stop you though? Heck no! What you do with that is see what that story nets for ratings, and plug away at trying to match them. Don’t overwhelm yourself by trying to outdo them entirely, especially the top ranking stuff. You don’t have to be the best. But you want to compare as well, so see how your content measures up. If they have bookmarked readers that stack to several hundreds, and you can net half after writing about the same characters? That’s pretty great stuff on your part! Even if you don’t have something specific to go up against? Tackle the archives or stories in general! See how highly rated you can get your stuff to be, and duke it out to be visible among everyone else’s content.

This one is really dependent on your personality type, so if you’re not competitive, don’t put stock into it. But if you get fired up about a challenge? Bring it on!

…

There’s a bunch of different avenues that you can look into, and different ways to help bring some motivation and inspiration into your creative mind. These are some suggestions based on angles that I’ve personally attempted, so they may or may not work for you. But that’s ok, because you might be able to come up with more ideas as well.

It just depends on what you like, what you want to do, and what stories you want to tell. From there, just let loose and explore.

But, please do keep in mind to keep yourself (yes, you) in check and feeling good. Tired? Get some rest! Hungry? Go eat! Overwhelmed? Decompress and relax. Know your five senses? Engage them all! Your mood definitely matters as well, and it’s little things that can sometimes hold you back in major ways. Take breaks, and when you come back, things might flow a little easier.

No matter what though, make sure you’re having fun! That’s what really counts in the end, above all else. Do stuff that’ll make you happy, and you’ll flourish in ways you might not even realize. These may be typical lines you’ve heard in countless places before, but they’re pretty helpful.

Again, go for it, and have some fun with the writing!

#askecho #echo's writing advice #writing tips #writing #fanfics #motivational #inspirational #motivation #inspiration #bobosmith01

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ladylynse · 6 years

Text

Revealed: This time, Randy doesn’t know how he can keep his secret. This time, he’s unmasked in front of everyone. (FFnet | AO3)

A continuation of this three sentence fic for @briethebee927‘s birthday. Happy birthday!

Randy struggled, even though he knew he was pinned to the tree, that his suit wouldn’t easily tear free from the knives thrown at him by Viceroy’s newest robot. He tried to focus on the Art of Disguise, but his head was still spinning from the last hit he’d taken, and he couldn’t even focus his eyes well enough to pick Howard out of the crowd, let alone do the required Ninja-ing to get out of this.

He barely felt the mask being yanked off his face, let alone the swirl of furling cloth as his suit vanished and he dropped like a stone, but he could hear people’s shouts, hear McFist’s victorious cries from where he thought he was hidden, and Randy knew it was over.

Heidi had already begun Me-Casting, her voice rising above the others—or maybe the others hushed. He wasn’t sure. All he knew for certain was that his mask was gone and the robot had stopped before spearing him, and he wasn’t going to complain about that last part.

McFist might’ve revealed him, but he couldn’t kill him here, not in front of everyone. He could try, blaming the robot, but someone would find a way to connect it back to him. Viceroy was good, but he couldn’t cover all of McFist’s tracks. If the Ninja—the former Ninja—was murdered by a robot in front of the entire school, some nerd would figure out who was behind it all.

So he might not have the mask, he might not have his secret identity, but he did have time. At least a little. If he could hear McFist celebrating, he wasn’t talking to the Sorcerer, not yet. Which meant people weren’t going to be stanked immediately, even with the general unease of the Ninja being defeated, which meant there was hope.

Didn’t it?

He tried to focus on Heidi’s voice, tried to hear the whispers beyond it. Too much sounded muffled, like he was listening to it from underwater, but Heidi’s tone sounded confused. Despite Howard’s announcement that one time that he knew the identity of the Ninja, she’d never really considered that her brother’s best friend might actually be the Ninja.

And if she was confused, maybe that meant people weren’t entirely convinced.

Maybe there was actually a way to turn this around.

Randy didn’t realize that anyone was trying to talk to him until Debbie’s face was suddenly there, blocking out the view of the robot. She hauled him to his feet when his only response to what were probably questions was a blank stare and steered him into the crowd, which parted before them. There was a general buzzing that grew louder, but nothing he could make out.

A few excited shouts from Julian and Bucky did pierce his haze, though, and as Debbie stopped, he managed to find the source of the fuss. It was the Ninja, another Ninja, which meant it was Howard, but he was just in a ski mask and a scarf, the same old costume as before, nothing that would fool them after they’d seen the real thing—

Debbie was pulling him away.

He let her.

He didn’t know how to get the mask back yet, and until he had the mask, until he had the suit….

“Focus,” Debbie’s voice hissed in his ear. She pushed him down, and his legs collapsed obediently beside what he now realized were the ruins of Principal Slimovitz’s car. “Tell it to me straight for once, Cunningham. Are you actually the Ninja?”

“Do I look like the Ninja?” he asked. He tried to smile. He wasn’t sure he managed it. Debbie growled at him either way.

“This is serious. McFist is after you, you know. Even if you aren’t the Ninja, he’ll think you are after this, and that’s got to be his robot. I don’t know why he wants the Ninja mask—”

“He doesn’t want the mask,” Randy said. “He wants the Ninja destroyed. So he can free the Sorcerer.”

“What?”

“The Sorcerer. He’s trapped. That’s why he keeps stanking people. So he can get free.” The Nomicon wouldn’t approve of him telling people, least of all Debbie, but Howard’s ruse wasn’t going to last long and Debbie apparently already knew about McFist. She was the only option he had. It’s not like the swordsmith was going to get him out of this one, and the guy who’d given him the suit in the first place was nowhere to be seen.

Not that Randy was entirely sure he’d have noticed either of them if they had been in the crowd.

“He’s the reason people turn into monsters,” added Randy when he saw Debbie’s blank look.

She swallowed. “There’s a Sorcerer. And McFist wants to free him. And the Ninja—you—have to stop that.” Nodding would hurt, but before Randy could give any sort of verbal confirmation, Debbie had started again. “But now there’s no Ninja, no real Ninja, which means the Sorcerer can get out and…and transform everyone? Into monsters? And destroy Norrisville?”

She was breathing faster than before, and Randy reached out to put a hand on her arm. He accidentally swatted her in the process, but she didn’t seem to notice—which meant she was pretty far gone. “Calm down,” he said in the most authoritative voice he could muster. Instead of sounding like he wanted it to—calm, commanding, in control—his voice cracked. “Panic won’t help. He feeds off chaos.” It was getting easier to think now. “Howard’s trying to confuse McFist. It’s worked before. We just need to get the mask back.”

Debbie stared at him.

Randy tried to remember what the Nomicon had said before he’d gotten into this mess. WORDS ARE SHARPER THAN SWORDS obviously did not mean taking the chef robot into the library; that had just led to the library’s destruction (no great loss, as far as he was concerned), but taunting the robot as per usual had ended up with him pinned to a tree.

But Debbie dealt with words all the time. So, maybe…. “Words are sharper than swords.”

“What?”

Randy repeated himself before adding, “That’s what the Nomicon said.”

“What’s the Nomicon?”

“Doesn’t matter now. Can you figure out what it means?”

“You mean beyond what it sounds like?” Debbie must have read something in his face because she sighed and continued, “It’s basically the pen is mightier than the sword, isn’t it? Better to fight with words? Because they’ll cut deeper in the end?”

“That makes no sense,” Randy said, confident of that despite how rattled he felt. “I mean, you can chop someone to bits with a sword.”

“And you can destroy them without lifting a finger with words,” Debbie shot back. Then she frowned, pursed her lips, and added, “Actually, we could do that here.”

“Ruin McFist?” Randy had serious doubts about that. McFist had more money than he knew what to do with, and he used a lot of it to his advantage.

“Not exactly. But we can destroy the truth and craft it into something else if we have to.” She still looked unhappy. “I really don’t want to do that. I’m the editor of the NHGTTWDPC because I like to uphold the truth, uncover it, but…. This might be the only way to turn things around and…and keep that Sorcerer from getting free.”

Randy gaped at her. “And you know how to do that?” Maybe the Nomicon wouldn’t be mad he’d told her. Not if it had given him a clue she’d been able to figure out so easily. After all, if they got through this without the Sorcerer escaping, he could just mind wipe her if he had to.

Although, if she didn’t expose him, he actually wouldn’t mind another ally….

“Howard’s pretending to be the Ninja, isn’t he? Well, then we start there. He won’t be the only one. And neither will you.”

She had her phone out and was dialing a number. Randy frowned. “Wait, who are you—?”

Debbie, with the phone already to her ear, held up one finger. “Hey, Theresa? I need a favour. Like, right now.”

Randy swallowed. The Nomicon might let him get away with telling one more person, but two? It would never— “You can’t tell her anything!”

“You’ll need a ski mask,” Debbie was saying, ignoring him completely, “or something else to cover your face. Black or at least dark. Here’s what we’ve gotta do.”

XXXXXXX

Debbie marched back and forth on the stage in front of the assembled students. Randy sat off the side, trying not to be the centre of attention or to look too obviously like the defeated Ninja he was. He wasn’t sure what Debbie and Theresa had said to convince the half dozen students to leave behind the unfolding scene with the supposed Ninja, and he didn’t know where every kid had gotten dark clothes on such short notice (Julian excepted), but he hoped this would work. Whatever it was.

All he knew was that Theresa had already gone out there wearing her war paint and a scarf she’d found…somewhere. Whenever Howard got ‘exposed’, she was supposed to step up and switch him off. She was going to break out some tumbling moves and baton tricks to confuse McFist, and she was armed with a few Frisbees as Ninja Ring stand-ins when the time came. He’d debated going and begging S. Ward Smith for some real weapons but figured balloons wouldn’t be any better, and the less Debbie knew about everything else, the better.

Right?

“Foam daggers,” Debbie said, handing a box to Rachel to pass out. “Collapsible swords. All the tennis balls I could find in the gym. Randy did a great job covering for the Ninja, guys, but we’ve gotta step it up.”

Bash snorted. “Cunningham completely wonked up when he tried to cover for the Ninja. That’s why we’ve gotta save him!”

No one questioned that someone was after the Ninja now. Debbie hadn’t said it was McFist, of course, or breathed a word about the Sorcerer, but no one needed to see the villain to believe there was one. Not once the Robo-Chef had stopped dead upon unmasking him, having seemingly achieved its purpose—or at least one of them.

“He lasted longer than some of us would have,” Debbie pointed out without missing a beat, “and it might’ve been enough to fool the Ninja’s enemies. Until the real Ninja gets back from his vacay, we’ve gotta save Norrisville ourselves.”

Randy had to hand it to her. It wasn’t a completely terrible lie, and she’d come up with it pretty fast.

“What the juice was the Ninja thinking to ask him to pretend to be the Ninja?” continued Bash, pointing in Randy’s direction. “He’s a complete shoob, and he shoobed this up! I would’ve been way better!”

Randy’s face burned but he kept his mouth shut. Arguing wasn’t going to get him anywhere, and arguing with Bash might end painfully for him. Besides, keeping the tattered remains of his secret intact demanded he not argue. And that he get to Howard as soon as possible to fill him in.

He should probably be shloomping on this, but there wasn’t time. The damage had been done. They needed to do damage control now or there really wouldn’t be a Ninja in Norrisville.

“I’m gonna go check on Howard,” Randy announced, getting to his feet. Debbie didn’t even acknowledge him, instead telling Bash to hide a collapsible sword in his McHoodie—just with the hood on the inside, turned in instead of out, so that it would appear as if he were pulling the sword from nowhere when he retrieved it.

Randy had to hand it to her.

She was good.

She was also good at convincing the others that their eyes had been playing tricks on him, that he wasn’t the real Ninja. And that…hurt, a bit, because he was the real Ninja, the Nomicon said so—he wasn’t going to let it take that back—but if he had to play fake Ninja to preserve the real Ninja, then so be it.

It was a confusing concept, but if it worked, he wasn’t going to argue.

Besides, he really was better off back outside. If this actually worked and McFist threw the mask away, thinking it worthless, then he had to be there to pick it up again. And then the real Ninja could show up. Again. Just for the first time, as far as everyone else was concerned.

And if this didn’t work….

It has to work.

There wasn’t another plan this time.

XXXXXXXX

Viceroy winced as McFist let out another holler entirely too close to his ear. “I wouldn’t contact the Sorcerer yet, sir,” he said carefully, not taking his eyes from the screen.

“But I got him, Viceroy! I defeated the Ninja! Me!”

It was not the time to point out that he had built the Robo-Chef, nor that they’d merely unmasked the Ninja rather than ensured his defeat—especially not when he was about to give McFist some bad news. “Yes, sir. But I’m not sure if we’ve unmasked the right Ninja.”

“Of course it’s the right Ninja! Why wouldn’t it be the right Ninja? Er—what do you mean right Ninja?”

Viceroy pointed to the feed on the screen. The boy—Randy Cunningham, if he remembered correctly—had been helped to his feet by another one of the students. Beyond the crowd the two disappeared into, the multiple hidden cameras in the Robo-Chef clearly showed another Ninja striding onto the scene to take the place of the fallen Ninja.

“Why is there more than one Ninja, Viceroy? There isn’t supposed to be more than one Ninja!”

“I know, sir.” Viceroy frowned as the new Ninja began making terrible puns. “The first Ninja was more convincing than this one, but without—”

“Reactivate the Robo-Chef!” McFist yelled. “I have to defeat the Ninja!”

And because that robot had beaten the last Ninja, he assumed it would make short work of this one, too. Viceroy sighed but couldn’t argue McFist’s logic right now. Their position was precarious as it was, their catering truck easily visible from the school grounds and no doubt within earshot. One of these days, someone would realize how often they were on the scene of an attack.

But until then, they’d make do. And if McFist truly did defeat the Ninja before that and freed the Sorcerer, well, he’d cross that bridge when it came to it.

Although, hopefully, he’d be able to take all the vacation time he’d earned first.

XXXXXXXX

Theresa’s scarf caught on the branches of the bush she was crouching behind, and she reached up to adjust it. She wasn’t sure if Debbie was brilliant or crazy. Le Beret was one thing, but the Ninja? She’d never seriously considered that the Ninja might be one of her classmates, not when he’d been around for over 800 years. She’d laughed whenever Debbie had brought up the very idea. But now….

“Randy’s covering for the Ninja, but he shoobed it up and now we’ve gotta save his butt.” Debbie handed her a backpack filled with Frisbees. “These are your Ninja rings.”

Theresa looked at Randy, who shuffled his feet and didn’t meet her eyes. “Seriously? Where’d you get the sword and everything?”

“Drama department,” Debbie replied without missing a beat. “We’re going to round up a few other kids and hand out the rest of the stuff, but we need someone to cover Howard ASAP because I can’t see him lasting long.”

“And you think I’ll last longer?” She slipped on the backpack, knowing it wasn’t ideal but that she’d need both her arms for this to work—even if this was crazy.

“I think you can move faster, which you’ll need if the attacks begin again.”

“Attacks?” Even when Debbie had first asked her to do this, she hadn’t thought—

“You don’t have to do this,” Randy said, finally looking at her. “I don’t want people getting hurt because of me.”

She tried not to let her heart swell at his words, at the concern in his voice. He’d said people, not you, and she couldn’t pretend it meant the same thing. “I know.” She had to force the next words past her lips. “But I want to do this. For you. And the real Ninja.”

Randy winced, but Debbie had already started talking again, explaining her plan in more detail, and Theresa didn’t have time to wonder about Randy’s reaction. “You’ll have to step up when it looks like Howard’s about to falter. We need him confused.”

“Him? Isn’t it a robot?”

Debbie pursed her lips. “Someone had to build it.”

The truth was, Theresa had never thought about that, either. Monsters and robots…. The Ninja always stopped them. She hadn’t questioned it, hadn’t considered that the robot attacks were relatively new in the grand scheme of things.

Debbie was right, of course. The Ninja didn’t just defend the citizens of Norrisville; he defended himself. The monsters terrorized indiscriminately, but the robots always targeted the Ninja once their attacks had drawn him out. There had to be a human mind behind their design. She had no idea who would try to destroy the Norrisville Ninja, but she doubted it was simply an inquiring mind like Debbie’s. This latest robot had stopped short of a fatal attack, but there had been too many close calls to naïvely assume that wouldn’t have been an acceptable outcome.

Which meant someone in Norrisville saw nothing wrong with destroying Norrisville’s defence against monsters, destroying a beloved town hero, and was highly unlikely to pause for very long when she stepped into the fray.

But she’d agreed to do this.

For Norrisville.

For the Ninja.

For Randy.

He might have been the first to fill in for the Ninja, but he was surely the reason Howard had had a costume stored in his locker. They had both known the Ninja’s plan. They’d always proclaimed to be the Ninja’s number one fans, but she’d never thought much of that, either. But perhaps Howard’s old claim of knowing who the Ninja really was hadn’t been as false as he’d allowed it to seem.

Howard seemed to be doing a decent job of evading the robot that was now chasing him, but it mostly involved him ducking to avoid knives, doubling back because he was still faster than it was, and yelling things over his shoulder. But he was tiring, getting slower, and he’d barely started the actual chase; his appearance itself had been enough to confuse it, to confuse the human behind the robot, but now that the initial shock had worn off….

“I have to get out there,” Theresa realized. If she waited, Howard might make a mistake. And, despite that this was his choice, she’d feel responsible.

She swallowed, trying to gather her courage, and then she stood.

For now, she was a Ninja of Norrisville, and she had to fight accordingly.

XXXXXXXX

Howard clutched at the stitch in his side, gasping and trying to ignore the coppery taste in his mouth, and wondered if his friendship with Randy was worth this pain.

This wasn’t the first time he’d had to save Cunningham’s butt, but he really hoped it was the last.

He dove for a tree, ended up sliding more than rolling, and heard the thunk of a knife embedding itself into the wood above his head.

Maybe it would just be easier to let this robot unmask him, too. Lying here was really appealing right now, giving him a chance to catch his breath even if he still hurt all over, and—

“Ninja Ring! Ninja Ring! Ninja Ring!”

What the juice?

Howard rolled over when he heard the robot moving away from him. Some of the crowd had dispersed, but most were still there, blithely unaware that they were in real danger because the Ninja always saved them. Seeing the Ninja unmasked should have scared them but obviously didn’t—much—because he’d been fast on his feet. (Cunningham definitely owed him for that.)

But if Randy didn’t have his suit, and he was already on the ground, who—?

A blur of purple streaked past, tumbling and grabbing— That was a baton.

That was Theresa.

What the cheese did Fowler think she was doing?

“Get up, Ninja!” she yelled as she dodged another volley of knives. “Unless you like the taste of dirt!”

Wow, she definitely needed some new lines. He got to his feet and made a show of brushing himself off. “You’re late, Ninja!” he called back, successfully distracting the Robo-Chef. It hesitated, its head swivelling back and forth between them, not sure which of them to attack. Just as well. The more time they bought, the better. The Robo-Chef had taken Randy’s mask and stored it a compartment in its chest, probably as a trophy of some sort, or proof, or whatever McFist and the Sorcerer needed, and the only way they were going to get it back would be beating this thing themselves.

Granted, if he could just get close enough to touch it without getting stabbed, it might break on its own.

His magic touch was useful like that.

“I’m not late! You’re just early.” She was trying to sound brave, but he could hear the quaver in her voice. He’d expected to do this; he doubted she ever had.

Didn’t explain why she was doing it now, but he couldn’t exactly ask that in front of everyone.

He’d already opened his mouth to say something else when he realized he was hearing a high-pitched whine coming from the robot. “Duck!” he yelled instead, hitting the dirt again. He rolled on instinct, not stopping to see if Theresa had paid attention to him.

His (brief) stint working with Viceroy had given him a better idea of how the mad scientist worked. Self-learning AI wasn’t out of the question. Vanishing robots weren’t out of the question. He’d be stupid to think Viceroy couldn’t build something that could alter its internal mechanics as easily as its exterior to adapt in a fight.

So, really, getting more knives thrown at him?

Par for the course for today.

“We just need to keep it busy!” he heard Theresa yell. “The others’ll be out soon!”

Others?

That made it sound like this was planned.

But Cunningham didn’t do plans.

That was more for people like—

Oh, that shoob’s cheese was so wonked if Kang had finally put the pieces together. Unless this was some weird ploy on her part to draw out the ‘real Ninja’. Except that assumed she thought Cunningham was another fake Ninja. That didn’t—

Cold hands grabbed him.

Metal.

Hard enough to bruise.

Theresa was screaming.

He didn’t have a free hand to reach the robot, to touch it and make it fall apart. His hands were pinned to his sides. It lifted him up, analyzing him. He heard more people yelling. Saw the blade spring up from the robot’s shoulders.

Howard closed his eyes.

XXXXXXXX

“Everyone clear on the plan?” Debbie waited for their nods before continuing. “Then we’re a go. Bash, come around from the gym. Bucky and Pradeep, cut through the band room. Rachel, head straight out the front doors. Julian, west entrance. Jacques, take the east. For the Ninja!”

“For the Ninja!” they echoed, raising their fists as she had.

They scattered, and she hoped this would work. She didn’t have a backup plan, and casting doubt felt like the only thing she could do. Half the kids who’d shown up had attended Ninja Camp at one point, but someone like Mikey was better off figuring out how to hack into whatever was controlling the robot—there had to be some kind of wireless signal, right?—and disrupting things without actually going out and fighting, so she’d sent him and a few of the others to the computer lab to figure that out.

If they actually managed to trace this back to McFist, well, she’d at least get the scoop before Heidi. If they could find some proof for her, she might be able to publish it. It would be beyond risky, but she wanted to uncover the truth.

Some truths, though, made less sense than others.

Why Randy?

What was the Nomicon?

And what the cheese was all this about a Sorcerer?

Words are sharper than swords. Randy had said that that was important, treated it like it was some kind of clue. But it sounded more like a message for her than for him. If everyone claimed to be the Ninja, it would cast doubt on Randy being the real Ninja. It would help get him out of this scrape, hopefully. Something similar had worked once before; it had to work again. But beyond that….

“I’ll destroy him if I write about this,” she said softly. “If I tell the truth.” People would happily believe Randy was just playing at being the Ninja, considering the Ninja’s legendary reputation, but to hear that, yes, a mere teenager was protecting them? From what could very well be evil incarnate? It wouldn’t go over well. And if this Sorcerer would be freed when the Ninja was destroyed—either by McFist’s robots or her words—then Norrisville would probably become a ruin, too, if the monsters were any indication.

So maybe it wasn’t a clue for Randy after all.

Maybe the words were a warning for her.

If she wasn’t careful, she could dig too deep, cut too much, and destroy the safety that ignorance granted them all.

Debbie swallowed and pushed those thoughts aside. She could deal with the implications later—including the scary ones, like how the heck this Nomicon would know to leave a message for her. Right now, she needed to get outside and make sure her plan was actually going to work instead of falling apart before she could do anything.

XXXXXX

Randy burst outside in time to see the Robo-Chef grab his best friend. He saw the panic in Howard’s eyes, saw his feet flailing as he struggled in vain. Theresa was there, running towards the robot. Her scarf had slipped off her face, revealing her identity to all who hadn’t guessed it, and—

There was no time to find some kind of weapon. Randy took off running, too, yelling wordlessly in a vain attempt to get the robot’s attention. His head pounded with each footstep, but he pushed forward, barrelling towards Howard.

He wasn’t thinking when he took the flying leap toward the robot.

By the time he realized that probably wasn’t the smartest idea, he was scrabbling for purchase on the tiny ridges between the metal plating. Theresa arrived a moment later, breaking her baton in an attempt to get the Robo-Chef’s attention when she whacked at the knife that was attached at its shoulder. It was only when he heard a lot of other yelling and cheering from the still-gathered crowd that he realized the reinforcements had arrived. The other Ninjas.

The robot turned to look, not dropping Howard, who had cracked open an eye at some point. The kids in their makeshift ninja suits were whooping and hollering, grabbing everyone’s attention. The barrage of tennis balls began a moment later, and Randy couldn’t bring himself to care that he was getting pummelled, too. There was something particularly satisfying about seeing them producing daggers and swords (seemingly) from thin air and waving them around, in the true spirit of the Ninja.

The Robo-Chef easily knocked Theresa aside and ignored him, raising one hand to unmask Howard, who plastered a grin on his face. “We’re all the Ninja,” he said. As the others converged on them, he thrust his fist into the air and yelled, “I’m the Ninja!”

Theresa scrambled to her feet and proclaimed the same, and her cry was echoed by the other kids, and then picked up by those in the crowd.

Just like at the Battle of the Bands.

Randy was too busy grinning to join in.

He was also too busy to see Howard put his hand firmly on the Robo-Chef’s torso until it collapsed to pieces beneath him.

“Ow!” He sucked the blood from his finger, even though he knew the cut was shallow and that he was lucky that’s all that he’d gotten considering how many knives had been inside this thing.

“Just track down the real Ninja, will ya, Cunningham?” Howard nodded to the mask that lay in the wreckage. Randy quickly pocketed it and got to his feet. The rest of the kids were beginning to swarm the lawn where the battle had taken place, and it was easy enough to slip away—even without a smoke bomb for a distraction.

He’d just crouched behind his favourite set of Ninja-o’-Clock bushes when he heard, “You gonna fill me in at some point, Cunningham?”

Debbie.

He turned to see her and smiled uncertainly. She was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking out at the joyful chaos on the lawn instead of at him. “You owe me since this worked,” she added, finally glancing at him.

“Uh…I plead the fifth?”

She snorted. “Off the record, Cunningham. I’m not stupid. I know the truth now, and I can help you. Like Howard apparently does, except better.”

“Uh—”

“Just think about it, Ninja.” She turned back to the crowd outside. “Someone will need to help you keep off McFist’s radar, and there’s power in words.” She stepped away and walked a few steps before turning back with a grin. “They’re sharper than swords, after all.”

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