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thewriteadviceforwriters · 1 month ago

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🧪 Character Arcs 101: what they are, what they aren’t, and how to make them hurt

by rin t. (resident chaos scribe of thewriteadviceforwriters)

Okay so here’s the thing. You can give me all the pretty pinterest moodboards and soft trauma playlists in the world, but if your character doesn’t change, I will send them back to the factory.

Let’s talk about character arcs. Not vibes. Not tragic backstory flavoring. Actual. Arcs. (It hurts but we’ll get through it together.)

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💡 what a character arc IS:

a transformational journey (keyword: transformation)

the internal response to external pressure (aka plot consequences)

a shift in worldview, behavior, belief, self-concept

the emotional architecture of your story

the reason we care

💥 what a character arc is NOT:

a sad monologue halfway through act 2

a single cool scene where they yell or cry

a moral they magically learn by the end

a “development” label slapped on a flatline

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✨ THE 3 BASIC FLAVORS OF ARC (and how to emotionally damage your characters accordingly):

Positive Arc They start with a flaw, false belief, or fear that limits them. Through the events of the story (and many Ls), they confront that internal lie, grow, and emerge changed. Hurt factor: Drag them through the mud. Make them fight to believe in themselves. Break their trust, make them doubt. Let them earn their ending.

Negative Arc They begin whole(ish) and devolve. They fail to overcome their flaw or false belief. This arc ends in ruin, corruption, or defeat. Hurt factor: Let them almost have a chance. Build hope. Then show how they sabotage it, or how the world takes it anyway. Twist the knife.

Flat/Static Arc They don’t change, but the world around them does. They hold onto a core truth, and it’s their constancy that drives change in others. Think: mentor, revolutionary, or truth-teller type. Hurt factor: Make the world push back. Make their values cost them something. The tension comes from holding steady in chaos.

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🎯 how to build an arc that actually HITS (no ✨soft lessons✨, just internal structure):

Lie they believe: What false thing do they think about themselves or the world? (“I’m unlovable.” “Power = safety.” “I’m only valuable if I’m useful.”)

Want vs. need: What do they think they want? What do they actually need to grow?

Wound/backstory scar: What made them like this? You don’t need a tragic past™ but you do need cause and effect.

Turning point: What moment forces them to question their worldview? What event cracks the surface?

Moment of choice: Do they change? Or not? What decision seals their arc?

🧪 Pro tip: this is not a worksheet. This is scaffolding. The arc lives in the story, not just your doc notes. The lie isn’t revealed in a monologue, it’s felt through consequences, relationships, mistakes.

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🛠️ things to actually do with this:

Write scenes where the character’s flaw messes things up. Like, they lose something. A person. A plan. Their cool. Make the flaw hurt.

Track their beliefs like a timeline. How do they start? What chips away at it? When does the shift stick?

Use relationships as arc mirrors. Who challenges them? Enables them? Forces reflection? Internal change is almost never solo.

Revisit the lie. Circle back to it at least three times in escalating intensity. Reminder > confrontation > transformation.

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🌊 bonus pain level: REVERSE THE ARC

Wanna make it really hurt? Set them up for one arc, and give them the opposite. They think they’re growing into a better person. But actually, they’re losing themselves. They think they’re spiraling. But they’re really healing. Let them be surprised. Let the reader be surprised.

─────── ✦ ───────

TL;DR: If your plot is a skeleton, your character arc is the nervous system.

The change is the thing. Don’t just dress it up in trauma. Don’t let your character learn nothing. Make them face themselves. And yeah. Make it hurt a little. (Or a lot. I won’t stop you.)

—rin t. // thewriteadviceforwriters // plotting pain professionally since forever

P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages 👀 you can grab it here for FREE:

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darling-dearest-emi · 2 months ago

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Emi couldn't help but laugh a bit at the observation. "Are we listing known facts?" She mused, glancing at the other woman with a glint of conspiratorial amusement in her expression. "Because we could go straight into discussing their willingness to only base their decisions on the wrong head entirely."

"Men really are senseless creatures aren't they,"

#c: constance #//oh the chaos of this lmfao

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vividly-vermillion · 9 days ago

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✴︎ ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN WORDS

જ⁀➴ How they show their love without saying "I love you"

ﾉ characters: Luocha, Dan Heng, Sunday, Blade, Aventurine, Boothill

ﾉ reader: genderneutral

ﾉ wc: ~220 each

ﾉ cw: nothing. Just sickenly sweet fluff

ﾉ note: stepping into new territory with this one... please be kind to me 🥹 || TAGLIST

જ⁀➴ Luocha: His love is in care that shouldn't feel this tender.

Luocha's affection is clinical at first glance; steady hands, calm eyes, always knowing where it hurts and how to fix it. He touches you like he touches everyone. Gently. Methodically. Yet, with you it lingers. Just long enough to be noticed, long enough to make your breath catch.

He doesn't say he loves you. That would be too vulnerable for a man that walks through life with death in tow. But he's always there - when you fall asleep in strange places, you wake with a cloak tucked around your shoulders. He knows when you're lying about being fine and never calls you out, simply tending to your pain anyways, wordless and patient.

His eyes watch you when in quiet moments, when the world isn't looking, and there's silence in them that feels reverent. As if he's trying to memorize you, studying your smile like a sacred text. You catch him sometimes and he just smiles softly. No excuses, no retreat.

He would never say it, but when his gloved hand brushes yours and he doesn't pull away… There's no need for him to.

જ⁀➴ Dan Heng: His love is a quiet constancy.

Dan Heng loves you in silence, in presence, in the silence between words. Not this cold silence - never with you. It's the kind that hums with comfort, one that lets you exist without pressure. You know that he's not a man of grand declarations, but you find his love in his reliability. In the way he always waits for you after missions, in how he always saves you the last bit of your favorite dish.

He won't say that he loves you. Those words are too fragile of a thing, too precious to risk with breath. But he shows it in how he lets his guard down around you. You've seen him sleep, head tilted tilted against you in a short moment of peace. You've heard the softness in his voice when he says your name, as if it's a poem he's memorized.

He listens, really listens. Remembers things you forgot you shared. Offers you his favorite books without being asked - marked with notes he'd never let anyone else see.

He won't say the words but when your hand finds his in the silence of the archives, he will hold yours too - fingers trembling just a little… and that's when you'll know.

જ⁀➴ Sunday: His love is the art of knowing you inside out

Sunday's love is an orchestra without conductor. Chaotic, beautiful and layers upon layers. He won't say he loves you, no, that would be too easy. Instead, he sends you strange gifts; a constellation named after an inside joke. A message scribbled in in code only you know how to read. He tests if you're paying attention, and you always are.

He hides his affection in riddles, in stories and offhand comments that linger like perfume. But he watches your reaction like a hawk, hungry for every flicker of surprise or joy. You catch him sometimes, when he thinks that you're not looking - his expression is bare, unmasked and softer than it has any right to be.

He lets you see parts of him that others don't. The loneliness buried deep beneath the brilliance. The exhaustion after a long day of being a puppet master. He doesn't ask for comfort but he leans into your touch like he's scared that it will vanish.

You mean something to him and you know it. When things go wrong, when chaos surges and pieces fall, you're the one he protects without question. No games, just pure instinct.

And in that moment, he's honest. Not with words, but with you.

જ⁀➴ Blade: His love is like reluctant gravity.

Blade doesn't say the word love. he resents it, fears it - hates the way it tethers him to something soft when all he knows is ruin. But somehow, you're the only thing he doesn't destroy. The only one he doesn't push away, not completely at least.

He shows you his love in broken pieces. In the way his rage stills when you touch him. In the way he stares at you like you're something that he can't understand. Something warm, impossible - alive. He won't speak tenderly, not often. But his body always finds yours in battle, circling and watching. He won't ever let harm reach you, even if it means taking the blow himself.

You find offerings at your door after the hardest days - unlabeled things that he thinks you could like. Though he would never admit they're from him, but they're so unmistakably are. And when you wake from a nightmare, he's already there. Not holding you, but he's there, as if part of him knew.

He doesn't know how to be gentle, but when you touch him, he doesn't flinch anymore.

And if you ever asked, really asked, he wouldn't say the words you long to hear. But his silence would speak louder than anything else.

Because he stayed, for you. That's the loudest "I love you" he knows.

જ⁀➴ Aventurine: His love is like risk and reward.

Aventurine never says he loves you. That'd be too easy, too transparent - and where's the fun in that? No, he'd rather let you wonder. Keep you guessing. Push the odds and see if you'll call his bluff. But beneath the playful smirks and glittering bravado, he's the kind of man who never gambles with the things he truly values.

And you? He doesn't risk you. Not really.

He buys you ridiculous gifts, expensive and excessive. But each one of them is chosen with eerie precision, like he's been keeping notes on your passing whims. He'll tease you mercilessly if you catch on. "What can I say? I'm a man of refined taste," he purrs, though the real tell is in his eyes - watching you light up with that rare softness he can't name without cracking open his chest.

He flirts with everyone, but he lingers with you. Draws out conversations just to hear the way you talk when you forget to be guarded. He tells you things that he shouldn't - things that aren't part of the game. And when the world gets too serious, he sharpens.

You've seen it once, Aventurine without that mask. He didn't say anything - Just took your hand, steady and firm, and made sure you got out of there safe. No commentary, no price for his service.

You don't even need him to say the words. Because when you're with him, the odds always lean in your favor.

જ⁀➴ Boothill: His love his in his loyalty.

Boothill doesn't say too much, and when he does, it sure isn't "I love you". Words simply don't hold the weight that actions do, not in his world. If he likes you, you'll know. If he loves you, you'll feel it in your bones before you'll ever hear it in his voice.

He shows it in the way he walks on the outside of the road when you're together. In the way he doesn't let you carry the heavy things, even if you say that you can. In how his hand always twitches towards his holster when someone looks at you wrong - not because he's jealous, but because you're his, and that means something.

He talks about you like you're a legend, even when you're standing right there. Not in flowery language, just in facts. Simple, honest admiration like he's cataloguing all the reasons why you're better than anyone he's ever known.

Boothill carves his love into habits. He fixes things before you have to ask. Offers you his coat without saying a word. When you're tired, he lets you rest against him like it's the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe, one day, you'll catch him staring at you like he's memorizing every inch. He'll tip his hat down to hide it and grumble something under his breath.

But when the silence stretches too long, he'll mutter, "Ain't goin' nowhere, sugar." And that's his way of saying it.

Forever, if you'll have him.

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bruisedswan · 2 months ago

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PLANET DISCORD'S 𓊰 DEAR SAINT.

fear is the little death... ✹⃟ that brings total obliteration

8teen. she / they. pansexual / polyam

WHO IS ... YOUR SAINT?

██ defying the fundamental laws of reality is the star bestowing vitality & chaos to our beloved planet, dear saint yen/yenna mayhem of planet discord. i am the kwisatz of this little pocket of space, the prophet shaping my own destiny, making the fates fall and thus taking their place as mother, maiden, crone. this mighty storm of an 8teen year old is made of steel, overwhelming finality, sweet cinnamony melange, rotting willows, azaleas, and orchids.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀*♱

...this aries born being believes no other being but herself. they've come to recognise their primordial nature, how they've sewn every single thought, every memory, and every bit of flesh and bone they choose to reside in. think of her as a weaver, the lone enigmatic tailor on the far end of the valley who resides in her own little world — except the loom is her thoughts and the thread little strings of reality and matter, malleable in her fingertips. the sybil is esoterica in human form.

...kin :: alia atreides, mel medarda, princess irulan, bonnie bennett, rochelle zimmerman, maren yearly

ART IS ... LOVE.

██ film / tv :: the substance, dune ( part 1 & 2 ), the love witch, arrival, sleeping beauty ( 2011 ), kill bill, the craft, bones & all, everything everywhere all at once, lucy, possession, the colour of pomegranates, atsv, black swan, love death & robots, arcane, adventure time, killing eve, steven universe, black mirror etc...

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀*♱

██ books :: the dune books ( specifically dune messiah ), the folk of the air, iron widow, the wheel of time, hunger games, percy jackson & the olympians, game of thrones ( ty constance ) etc...

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀*♱

██ on rotation / music :: nicole dollanganger, ethel cain, crumb, fka twigs, poison girlfriend, deftones, blood orange, men i trust, eye dress, frank ocean, the cranberries, björk, fiona apple, strawberry guy, la femme, the smiths, alex g

#love: your saint 𓆣 #i FINALLY made an intro #blame my procrastination for it taking this long #shifting reality #shiftblr #reality shifting #loassumption #shifting blog #shifting antis dni

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xocxyo · 7 days ago

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𝕴𝖒 𝕬 𝕱𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖐 - Im A Freak | 𝕿𝕳𝕰 𝕴𝕯𝕺𝕷 - THE IDOL

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Amidst the frenetic energy of the club, Y/n makes her magnetic entrance, dominating the room with her words and presence. Megan, watching from a distance, finds herself drawn to something beyond the music—a force she doesn’t understand but desires. Flirting turns to dancing, dancing turns to touching, and touching… inevitably, turns into a heated kiss out of sight of the crowd. Meanwhile, Daniela watches everything with a silent tightness in her chest, sensing that something bigger is about to happen.

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: This chapter contains explicit language, sexual innuendo, use of alcoholic beverages, and references to drug-using environments.

The sound of the zipper sliding was the only noise in the room. Everything seemed to contain air. The dark walls absorbed the sound, the mirrors covered the ceiling and the opposite wall, creating the effect of a space larger than it really was — but also emptier. As if she were trapped inside herself, multiplied to infinity. Y/n stood in front of the mirror, erect, motionless, with the reflection of the night city flickering discreetly through the window behind her. The nightclub, her nightclub, vibrated a few floors below with the rehearsed energy of a chaos she had designed. But here, above all, there was only silence. Silence and control.

She was wearing black. Something between classic and fatal, with a subtle slit and tight fabric, but not obvious; no one expects fragility from someone like that. There was a hard elegance in each choice — like someone who armes herself with beauty so as to never seem vulnerable. She adjusted the diamond chain around her neck, the only thing that shone, with the calm of someone in no hurry to impress. Her eyes were fixed on his own. Not as someone who admires. But as someone who studies.

And then, two knocks on the door. There was no time to answer until Seth was already inside the room as if he owned the place, it was almost that, but in the same way. He already knew what he would find there anyway.

"You know this club is yours, right?" he began, dropping his body familiarly into the wine-colored velvet armchair. "You could pretend to have fun at least once a month."

Y/n didn't smile. She just picked up her rings from a small plate next to the mirror, sliding one of them on her middle finger as if completing some invisible armor — cold, beautiful, precise. Then she leaned slightly toward the other side of the counter, where a black velvet box always remained open, as if it were a reliquary. From inside, she took out a silver watch, heavy, minimalist, but too expensive to be discreet. She put it on her wrist with the same seriousness as someone closing handcuffs on herself. A gift from her father—the only one he had given her in person, the only one that still worked. She had never cared about its value. But she liked the way it felt on her wrist: weight, constancy, a reminder of time passing. Or, perhaps, a reminder that she had outlived him.

“Or are you going to tell me this is your meditation ritual?” Seth teased, now taking in the details. The small gap between the buttons on her shirt, the way she left the bracelet loose on her wrist, making a noise at the slightest movement. “A ritual to prepare for slaughter, perhaps.”

“Someone needs to keep this place up to standard.” She let out a soft breath, as if she were considering ignoring it.

“And this place is going to be packed today,” he said, now with a slight warning hidden in his usual sarcasm. “A lot of people from the industry. Influencers, actors, two talentless socialites, a former reality show star, and… two members of Katseye.”

Y/n paused for a second, calmly adjusting her earring. A barely perceptible pause, but one that Seth noticed.

"Daniela Avanzini and… Megan Skiendiel"

The name seemed to echo in the glass. As if something had moved inside her. But Y/n didn't react visibly. Her face remained a sculpture of control.

But the memory came, quick as a flash.

Daniela, a week before New Year's. A dressing room, maybe. A warm and fleeting body against hers, little conversation, too much intensity. They both knew it wouldn't last. Daniela was free emotion. Y/n was disguised control. It was brief. It was good. It was forgotten—or it should have been.

“Daniela, huh,” she finally murmured, showing no real interest. “Does she still dance like she wants someone to notice?”

“Always.” Seth smiled, crossing his legs with calculated boredom. “But she's not the one everyone's looking at now. Megan is something else.” Y/n finally turned her face, just a little, as if allowing a minimum of curiosity.

“Something else?”

“Chaos with a masterpiece face,” he replied, with a half smile. “Too much fame, empty expression, a beauty that always seems on the verge of crumbling. You would like it.”

“Do you think I like people like that?”

“I think you like to know where they break.”

Y/n was silent. She looked at the mirror again.

“I don’t need to see her yet.”

“You don’t need to,” Seth agreed, standing up. “But you’ll want to.”

He stopped at the door for a second, observing her as if it were the first time. That 26-year-old woman, immobile in her own empire, looking intact on the outside while the entire world was already starting to tremble at the mere mention of someone’s name.

“It won’t be long,” he said finally. “Her type doesn’t come around twice.”

And then he left.

The silence returned. But this time, he seemed less comfortable. As if something had been lit. A match. An echo. A warning.

The red Mustang came to a slow stop in front of the side entrance, under the protection of a blue light that flickered as if dancing to the muffled beat coming from inside the club. Doors opened, voices muffled by laughter and the distant sound of an insistent bass. Daniela stepped out first. Her heels touched the floor firmly, almost silently, as if she already knew the way. Her eyes scanned the surroundings calmly—not out of suspicion, but out of recognition. She had been here before. Once or twice. Enough to know the kind of energy that ran through those too-lit hallways and too-long stares. Megan came right behind. She wore a black cropped top with slits in the front—one in the center of her bust and another large one in the abdomen area. Tight black shorts with a belt detail of wide metal eyelets. Her hair was loose, falling over her shoulders with the kind of carelessness that took hours to achieve, and her bangs and dyed ends made her somehow different. She looked flawless. But only on the outside.

Two other friends came down with them, laughing, commenting on the lights, the sound, the heat of the entrance. Megan kept her head up, but her eyes were constantly moving — as if they were searching for something that even she couldn't name.

Daniela, next to her, noticed.

"You need this," she said, without looking directly at her. Her voice was low, only for Megan to hear, and firm enough to not allow denial. "Just… forget it for a bit. It's just one night."

Megan didn't answer right away. She took a deep breath, feeling the warm city air mixed with the perfume she had been wearing since the beginning of the tour. A smell that was starting to bother her.

She forced a slight smile. Just for Daniela. Just to keep things in order.

They went inside.

And then — silence.

Yesterday

The studio was large, too white, too bright. The sound of cameras, footsteps, and shouts among technicians seemed to echo inside Megan's skull like a pain that would never go away. Lights flickering, someone adjusting a fan, an assistant with a folded script trying to be heard above the soundtrack that was repeating itself for the tenth time.

It was the recording of the new music video. A strong concept, with attitude, the kind of production that demanded total dedication. The kind of dedication that Megan no longer knew how to give.

She was sitting in a corner, in front of a makeshift mirror. Her makeup was intact, her costume adjusted. But there was an emptiness under her eyes—disguised by shine, but there. She lightly massaged her wrist, as if her body were trying to remind her mind that it was still there. Her mind was traveling to other places that never matched reality, and she could no longer feel her body completely.

"Megan?" Lara called, with a gentle smile, approaching slowly, as if approaching something delicate. "It won't be long now." Do you want… a break?

Megan blinked slowly. She tried to smile, but her face didn't react.

"I just…" she began, but didn't finish. Because she didn't know exactly what to say. Something was missing. A part of her. Something that wasn't her schedule, or tiredness. Something out of place. Maybe the world.

Lara didn't insist. She just held her hand for a few seconds and then walked away, heading back to the set.

Megan took a deep breath. She looked at the mirror. And for the first time in a long time, she had the feeling that she didn't recognize herself.

The sound hit her body like a wave: deep, warm, full of empty promises. The nightclub seemed alive. Moving lights, exaggerated smiles, too much skin everywhere. Megan and Daniela walked through the entrance as if they didn't belong there — but at the same time as if the entire environment had been created just to watch them.

Daniela walked in front, opening space with her eyes, like a dancer who had never left the stage. Megan followed right behind, unhurriedly, but with a slight weight on her shoulders, as if she were carrying something that no one else could see.

“Are you okay?” Daniela asked, almost shouting close to her friend’s ear over the music.

Megan nodded. She forced a smile that she herself didn’t feel. It was strange. She was surrounded by people, by light, by life. But still… alone.

She looked around. She wasn’t looking for anyone. But she felt — deep in her stomach — that she was being watched.

Daniela noticed the look.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“Yes… yes, that sounds good,” Megan answered, without knowing what. Maybe it was the beginning of the distraction. Or the fall.

The VIP area rose above the rest of the nightclub like a silent tower. Glass, dark steel, and minimal lighting gave the space an aquarium-like appearance—as if the world below were just a showcase full of people trying to look alive.

Y/n stood there, leaning against the glass railing, one hand tucked into the pocket of her dress pants. She wore a fitted black suit, no tie, and a shirt open to the second button. A silver watch shone discreetly on her left wrist, catching fragments of the lights below. In her other hand, she held a glass of bourbon with plenty of ice, which clinked softly with each movement of her wrist. The glass was sweating, dripping a little water onto the leather of the side table next to it—but she didn't seem to notice.

Y/n watched. Always watched.

Down below, among the dancing figures and the intermittent flashes, something—or rather, someone—began to take shape in her vision.

Megan Skiendiel. The woman who was on everyone's lips without even seeming to know it.

She was there. But it wasn't like they said. There was nothing rehearsed in her gestures. Neither the deep black of her clothes, nor the cut of the top she wore so naturally, hiding her body as if she were hiding her heart. It wasn't obvious sensuality. It was presence. Broken strength. A kind of energy that didn't scream, but stuck.

Y/n leaned a little further forward, her forearm resting on the glass, her body relaxed as if she were in control of the environment — but her gaze… her gaze was fixed. Megan wasn't dancing, but floating among the people. Daniela walked beside her, confident, almost protective, but it was Megan who filled the space. And yet, something seemed missing from her.

The way she looked around. How she didn't laugh properly. How she held her drink as if she wanted distraction and not pleasure.

Y/n knew that emptiness. She carried a similar one.

The ice hit the bottom of the glass, waking Seth, who had approached silently. He looked down, following her gaze.

"So this is the famous one?" he said, his voice low, almost complicit.

"She doesn't look famous" Y/n replied, without taking her eyes off "She looks lost"

"Are you going down?" he asked.

Seth didn't even have time to say anything else. Y/n was already moving away from the glass edge, her firm steps cutting across the floor of the VIP area as if the rest of the night was just a rehearsal for that moment. She passed two employees who made way without saying a word, as if they already knew: when she decided to go down, something always happened.

The sound of the nightclub swallowed her as she went down the private stairs, accessing an exclusive passage that took her straight to the DJ's side. There, the lights flashed brighter, the faces were blurred by the constant movement, and the smell of alcohol, sweat and desire was almost sacred.

She took the microphone without asking. The DJ already understood. Y/n placed the glass of bourbon next to the soundboard, still with ice slowly melting. One hand in the pocket of her suit, the other holding the microphone as if holding an intimate truth. Her voice came out firm, hoarse, alive:

"Good night, damn it." — An explosion of screams answered, but she waited, as if savoring the reaction.

"How are you tonight? I see new people here…" she said with a half smile that made some hearts clench "Well, we're going to drink. We're here to dance!"

The crowd reacted as if they were devotees listening to a sermon.

"We're here… to fall in love, if anyone cares about that shit. And we're here, mainly…" she paused, looking around, her eyes scanning blurred faces "… to fuck. All the problems outside don't exist inside this club, understand? Fuck all that."

The place exploded in screams and applause. The DJ turned up the volume. Dense beats filled the room like a heart beating faster.

And, from afar, Megan saw.

Standing near the bar, her eyes glued to that figure next to the DJ, with a relaxed posture, the dark blouse with open buttons, the glass still in sight. Megan didn't know who it was, but she felt it. The kind of feeling that spreads slowly, like a slow fever.

"That one over there… is she the owner of the place?" Megan murmured to Daniela, leaning in slightly, her eyes still fixed on that person.

Daniela followed her gaze, half smiling, half serious.

"That's Y/n. Yeah."

"Shit," Megan blurted out without thinking. She didn't know why it came out so easily.

Daniela laughed, almost as if she had expected that reaction.

"Do you want to dance?" she said, raising an eyebrow provocatively.

"I need to dance," Megan replied, already getting rid of the glass she was holding, leaving it on the nearest table.

The beat was already at its peak when Megan entered the dance floor with Daniela. She wasn't dancing like the others — she danced like someone who had forgotten herself. Her body flowed with the music, without restraints, without performance. For a moment, it was just her. In the middle of everything.

Daniela was dancing next to him, but she slowly moved away, leaving space, like someone who understands when someone needs to get lost alone.

That's when Y/n saw her.

The microphone was still in her hand, but she didn't say anything. For a few seconds, she just… looked. Megan had that kind of raw, almost spiritual presence. She was sweaty, with her hair sticking to her neck and her eyes closed as if the beat was coming from her, and not from the speakers.

Y/n approached the DJ again. She leaned close to the man's ear, said something short, and the sound of the music lowered subtly — enough for the microphone to dominate again.

Y/n raised her voice, this time lower. Intimate.

"Hey…" she said, with a smile on the corner of her mouth, her eyes fixed on Megan "Is that Megan? Megan Skiendiel, right?"

She pointed to where Megan was, her voice a little more amused when she saw the girl

"Is that Megan on my dance floor? At my club?" — People started to scream and Daniela just laughed, watching Megan's face turn pink "Oh, no, no… you're an icon, a legend"

Y/n stopped pointing, put her hand to her chest and laughed, as if she was genuinely surprised by Megan's presence there, right on her dance floor, in the middle of her kingdom.

"Oh my God, you're so beautiful. I need, I need…" she paused for a moment, her smile growing as her eyes never left hers "I need to dance with you. Can I dance with you? I'll dance with you"

The crowd cheered as if that scene were a private show. Lights were spinning, the atmosphere seemed to boil, and Daniela just laughed to the side, one hand covering part of her face as she watched Megan turn red, half-hearted, biting the corner of her mouth as if she didn't know whether to laugh or run.

"DJ, turn the fucking music back on" Y/n said, putting the microphone back to her mouth, still laughing "I'm coming"

The sound came back with a vengeance. A thick, hot, sweaty beat. Y/n handed the microphone back, ran her hand through her hair in a simple gesture, and began to get out of the booth as if she were going on a hunt.

There was no rush in her steps. There was presence. The way she moved made space naturally — as if the room knew someone important was passing by. Some hands tried to touch her, some eyes turned, but Y/n was sharply focused, and she had a name: Megan.

When she got close, she stopped for a second.

Megan, now with her body still warm from the dance, her eyes slightly shiny, her face pink, looked directly at her — without running away, without laughing. She just waited.

Y/n came closer, tilting her face a little to speak in her ear, with the hoarse voice of someone who was having more fun than they should:

"Do you always let everyone look at you like that… or was I just lucky today?"

Megan smiled, shy, almost innocent — but there was a dangerous glint behind her gaze.

"I think you've caught the best day"

"Then I'm going to make the most of it"

Y/n put one of her hands around Megan's waist, pulling her slowly, without force — but also without hesitation. Megan, in an almost automatic movement, wrapped her arms around her neck, as if that space had been reserved for that since the beginning of the night.

The beats of the music guided their bodies. They didn't dance like strangers. It was as if they already knew each other's rhythm. Close, connected, but without vulgarity — the kind of dance that provokes more by what it doesn't show than by what it gives.

Megan leaned her body, moving her hips slowly, while Y/n followed firmly, her hands gliding with respect and intention.

For a few seconds, they were just there. Two forces meeting in the middle of chaos.

Daniela, a few meters away, watched. The glass in her hand, her gaze fixed. She knew Megan needed this. But still… there was a subtle discomfort in seeing her friend give herself so easily to someone like Y/n. Someone she knew. Who had already left marks — even when no one noticed. It wasn't jealousy, but something more primitive — a tension in her chest, like a premonition that can't be named, only felt. Maybe she knew too much. Or maybe she just knew the inevitable rhythm that came after attraction: the collapse.

Y/n lowered her face once more, her chin almost touching Megan's shoulder, her mouth close to her ear.

"I'm taking you out of here… or do you still want to dance?"

Megan laughed softly, without answering. She tightened her arms a little around Y/n's neck as if that were answer enough.

Daniela was still on the dance floor, far enough away to not be noticed, but close enough to see. The bodies danced around her, colliding in ecstasy, but her eyes were fixed on the couple at the center of the chaos. Megan and Y/n. She didn't feel jealous. That wasn't it.

Around her, the club vibrated on a different frequency. It wasn't just dancing and loud music, it never was. Shots of something that wasn't alcohol were discreetly passed from hand to hand. Looks exchanged with weight. Groups whispered near locked corridors, people who didn't seem to be dancing, but watching. The darkness there wasn't aesthetic — it was a warning.

Daniela observed. And yet, she didn't say anything. Because Megan seemed happy. Or at least… alive, and sometimes, that was enough.

Heading to the back of the club, to an area where the music was just a distant hum, vibrating through the walls. The narrow corridor led to the same room where Y/n had been getting ready moments before, but that wasn't where they were going to enter… not now. Megan leaned against the wall, her eyes still shining from the heat of the dance. Y/n appeared soon after, taking her hands out of her pockets and stopping walking. She stopped, turning to her, her arms open in a theatrical gesture:

"Welcome to my pigsty"

The sound of the nightclub still vibrated in her ears, but the intensity was different now. Megan laughed, muffled, running her hand through her own sweat-soaked hair "So… you own all this?”

“Unfortunately,” Y/n replied, with a half-smile that said more than any speech. Her eyes darkened slightly when they met hers. “But today?” She moved closer. “I only want to own one thing.”

Megan raised an eyebrow, her mouth half open, but she didn’t have time to respond.

Y/n was already there. Her eyes glued to hers, one of her hands reached Megan’s face, slowly sliding through the damp strands to the nape of her neck. The touch was slow, firm, like someone who knows exactly what they want. The kiss came soon after. Hot, with the taste of alcohol, music and something more dangerous, that was always there wherever she went.

Megan responded with the same hunger. Her hands grabbed Y/n’s shirt, pulling her closer. The cool fabric against her fingers contrasted with the heat rising through her body. Y/n's other hand ran down her back, circling the curve of her waist, firming the touch.

It was a kiss that didn't ask for permission — and yet, it was all Megan wanted.

Y/n pressed her lightly against the wall next to the stairs, her knee between her legs, her mouth moving down to her neck, slowly, just enough to make Megan let out a hoarse sigh.

"Do you realize what you're doing?" Y/n whispered against her skin.

"Fuck, no," Megan replied, with a nervous laugh.

Their hands wandered. Megan pulled her hair with her fingers, her other hand urgently squeezing her waist. Y/n slid her lips along her jaw, returning to her mouth as if it were already an addiction. The music continued in the background, muffled, like a reminder of where they were — but there, in that part of the world, it was just the two of them. Breath mingled, skin against fabric, desire trapped between kisses that didn't want to end.

And it was like that, wrapped up in each other, with the taste of the first contact still burning on their tongues, that the night had only just begun.

Dangerous.

Inevitable.

Unforgettable.

part 3

#g!p reader #katseye x reader #katseye #megan x reader #the idol #xocxyo #katseye megan #katseye smut #katseye x y/n #megan skiendiel #katseye megan x reader

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