#fg's writing

[fox-guardian]

idk how to advertise this but I MADE S4 JMART ANGST. TEA-FLAVORED.

Rated G, ~1k words, martin is sad and a bitch and i love him so much, etc.

[broncoburro]

MEUR TYPES: A PRIMER

Meur (or magic) is a natural force in Vestur. Since the invention of the Andimeur Synthesizer (a device that converts it into a form usable by man), Vestur’s aristocracy has continually found new uses for it. From homes heated by red meur to nutritionally dense food aided by green meur, the Tri-Kingdom has gained the distinction of most scientifically advanced country in the known world.

Children in Vestur sometimes play a clapping game that goes as such:

“Green’s for the beans on my supper plate, Blue’s for the clean water enjoyed while I ate, Red warms my toes when there’s snow on the ground, Yellow’s how a Southern fellow steers his ship around, And if he crashes it upon the shore The Architect alone will decide his score: Black, White, Black, White, Black, White, Black If the man is slack, it’s the work of Black If he avoids the light-- Then thank goodness, it’s White!”

Like all good children’s songs, it ends in giggles about dying a horrible death. But it effectively teaches every child in the Tri-Kingdom about what each of the six meur types, or colors are, and their most common use cases.

Green meur affects the botanical world. While plants cannot be summoned into existence through green meur alone, it can be used to grow plants in conditions that shouldn’t be able to foster them. It may also alter their growth trajectory or physical properties. Almost none the of the plants grown in the Northern Kingdom could survive the nutrient-poor, hard soil without green meur. Specializing in green meur may sound tame or perhaps boring at first (and green meur users are stereotyped as such), but bring domesticated thorny vine seeds onto the battlefield and a competent green meur user will be sending barbed tendrils through an enemy’s torso in seconds.

Blue meur pertains to water. The ability to command water’s flow has several use cases in itself: powering water wheels, irrigation for agriculture, maintenance of sewerways. But this meur type takes on new complexities when you consider water’s other states. Ice can be easily weaponized, and some innovative meur scientists have been doing research into engines powered by steam. Even more mysterious, it seems water’s omnipresence on earth has lent blue meur some properties related to the flow of time. There’s more to blue meur than is currently understood.

Red meur is pure energy in the form of heat. When wielded by man, It’s most commonly seen as fire. Heat is useful for everything from keeping a forge running to warming air in houses. Red meur is (sadly) not a free energy buffet though, and has some major downsides: it’s inherently tiring and energy-intensive on the user. In addition, fine control is difficult. Red meur users have something of a reputation for being none too bright, but many of said users would rebuff this with “easy to use, difficult to master”.

Yellow meur affects air. It’s mainly used to influence wind direction and speed, leading to some of the fastest trade ships in the known world. As a result, yellow meur is an eclectic choice for anyone to specialize in besides Southerners. The current use cases are narrow... but this might be more due to lack of interest in the field than anything else. Who knows, perhaps some sort of yellow meur related discovery is around the corner....?

Green, blue, red, and yellow are the standard meur colors. Upwards of 95% of Vestur's nobility have their specialty in these four. There are two less common meur types though, and they have a lot of mythologizing around them, as well as being less understood.

White meur is usually described by laymen as “the healing one”. Say that to any white practitioner and watch him start pulling his hair out in frustration and screeching through gritted teeth, “its so much deeper than that!”. Those who use white meur must, in addition to finishing standard meur education at Vestur Royal Military Academy, score well on the White College Aptitude Test and be accepted to the College of Divine Healing, where they’ll learn about the human body, pathology, and advanced white meur for an additional two years. Only then can one be certified as a white practitioner. Without knowing what you’re putting back into place and why, it’s horrendously easy to do more harm than good when mending the human body.

All this said, white meur can’t do miracle work. Wound closure or bone refusing is one thing – regrowing a whole arm or bringing someone back from the dead is strictly in the realm of fantasy.

Black meur inflicts death, plain and simple. It is unilaterally outlawed. Its only practical use is in combat, but black meur is considered a dishonorable way to inflict suffering. Any of the standard colors can just as easily be used to kill. Only one nobleman in all of Vestur is registered as a black meur user, and the designation was given as a soft way to say, “you are disallowed from wielding meur of any color”. Though... he really is quite talented at it, as circumstance will soon reveal.

And those are the meur colors! Every noble child in Vestur goes to VRMA and gets educated on the principles of wielding each, but as a graduated nobleman in the service of your community, a person may only specialize in one.

Any given two blue meur users likely have their in very different applications: one might maintain a city’s sewerways, and another might work to provide potable water in an area where there is none. There is a lot of variation and opportunity within any given color.

(The little emblems for the meur types, as with all of Forever Gold's more graphic design-y work, were done by LSDolphin!)

[fgfluidity]

Heropliers for Palestine!

hey gang!

i reblogged it before, and it sounded like such a good idea i thought i’d jump in!

marktwt users @blueangelwolf and aerobelle_39 have put together a way to fundraise money for pcrf (palestine children’s relief fund)!

this only goes from february 18-25, but you can donate here, at this tiltify link, and every single dollar counts!

i’m participating as a writer in every tier, and if you donate more than $40, you can choose someone to fill in your request! how cool is that!

here are the rules and writer tiers:

and my own writer profile! if you choose me, be sure to follow the fundraiser rules!

this is so important, and your donations go to an amazing cause. every little bit helps!

[your-absent-father]

re-introduction to the re-introduction

Hello, my dear human beings.

You can call me Eve, Evie, or even dad lmao. I am a 23 year old teacher's aid from Finland with a flaky relationship to tumblr based on my availability. I am leaving to the store to buy milk but I'll be back always. /hj

I enjoy a good morally grey character every day, especially if its a woman. Genres I enjoy go wide and far, but I am not that girl if the story needs world building, so Fantasy and scifi are out of the question for me in terms of writing it. Reading on the other hand, I love to read any type of stories.

WIPs I am actively writing:

- False Gods -

After Internet breaks over the confession of Beatrix Jones, the lead singer of the popular masked rock band, to 4 murders and countless of armed robberies, Love Bradley, a true crime podcaster, sets out to find what leads a small internet band into organized crime and if Beatrix Jones really is a monster media frames her as.

tropes: doomed by the narrative, toxic rich people, morally grey lead characters.

Snippet of Beatrix and Stevie meeting

How the False Gods start

False Gods first chapter

- midnight's daughter's -

A 1920s action novel about female assasins on the London's underground. Lillian Blackburn aka "ember" is the most notorious assasin under Lady Midnight. When Lillian's fianceè turns out to be Lady midnight's biggest rival's second in command, Lillian has to choose between her new conflicted feelings between the family she has built, or the fresh start she saw in her love.

Tropes: mobsters | lovers to enemies (to lovers?)| morally grey women | badass women

Midnight's daughters introduction

Hi to new people, and hit me up if you are a new person. I always love to hear about other people.

Important tags:

#Wip: fg - the false Gods tag

#Wip: md - Midnight's daughters tag

#Dad approval - other people's writing, especially when I don't have any like long contructive thing to say. Your absent fathers sign of approval

#self reblog time - rebloging my own stuff

[ardenrosegarden]

[chubbydino]

The first thing I thought of when I saw the Lewis to ferrari tweets was fg like, omg what’re they scheming about now

I made a montage in my head of Seb, charles, and George’s reactions on the FG universe. George found out via the internet, rolled over in bed and hit Lewis with a pillow. 🤡

[toohottohoot]

ok but tell me why Billy isn’t shipped with anyone but Steve. Is it because Billy has no friends? That hasn’t stopped a fandom before. Is it because he’s a bit of a bitch? That also hasn’t stopped people before. Is it because Steve is shipped with everyone and everyone likes Steve? It seems plausible but unlikely.

This is what I find confusing. He is such a good opportunity for shippers to go wild and yet he sits in the corner, dead, and hated.

TL;DR: Billy is literally a sopping little meow-meow bbg and he’s got it all (the trauma, the big brother trope, the eyelashes, the athletics, the flirtation, etc) what more do you want istg

[harrylights]

Fucking Avocados Rating: T Word count: 2.6k

“Actually,” Harry begins, picking one of the avocados up and tossing it in the air briefly before it lands in the palm of his hand again. “If you season them right, like I’m about to do, they’re really quite lovely on some toast,” he explains.

“Toast?” Louis questions, the confusion making his face scrunch up even further, as he shoots an overly incredulous look at Harry, slowly eyeing him up and down. “Harry, did you take one of my edibles by accident this morning?”

“No, you’ve just been living under a rock for the last few years, apparently,” Harry chuckles, shaking his head at him before returning to his task, slicing one of the avocados in half. “They’re really good for you, and besides. You’re acting like I came up with the idea. Loads of people do this,” he tells him decidedly.

Louis’ disbelief only grows starker on his face. “You’re telling me other people eat this? Voluntarily?”

“Yeah. Look it up, you fucking geezer,” Harry says, clearly amused. *** Or, my personal headcanon as to why Louis Tomlinson "doesn't like" avocados.

Read on AO3

[anaoyuo]

Suguru mentioned how y/n should stop talking to him “like that” but what would’ve happened or what would’ve he done if she continued anyways ?😭👁️

I prefer him over satoru because honestly i dislike like fg satoru but damn he’s got issues and is SO controlling

Well, Geto would've kept yelling at yn until he wore her down. No physical violence tho! You'll see the fights between them escalate in the future, and then you'll get what I mean :pppp

[itisaterriblelove]

I WAS SO NERVOUS that I could taste my own heartbeat. Gavin Porter was not asleep, and I had been aware of this for a handful of seconds that were collecting like lifetimes. I don’t know how I knew it for sure, I just… knew. Maybe it was in the tension I could feel radiating through every part of him that was connected to me.

That was a lot of parts.

I wasn’t hungover, not even a little bit, even though I knew by all rights that I should have been. I’d done much too much drinking the night before, and I’d said much too much afterwards as a result. I was still kind of surprised that Gavin and I had even gotten into a fight at all.

I hated fighting, and he hated it even more than I did. Usually when we were mad at each other, we both just kind of bit our tongues and passive aggressively referenced it until we were over whatever the problem was. Not entirely healthy, I knew, but it worked for us.

And I probably should have felt guilty for trying to make Gavin feel guilty about spending time with his girlfriend. Probably. But I couldn’t because if I hadn’t gotten roaring drunk the night before then I wouldn’t have been waking up in Gavin’s bed, wrapped up in his arms. Plus, he’d even apologized for ditching me. And I’d definitely needed that apology from him.

But, see, here was the situation: A very awake Gavin Porter had me spooned in his arms, his hands on the bare skin of my stomach, slipped underneath the t-shirt he’d given me to wear to bed. There just wasn’t enough room between us for him to deny his very obvious reaction to being pressed this close to me.

I tried not to let it get to me—I really did—because I understood the basic biology of boys and the concept of morning wood, okay. And it wasn’t like Gavin and I hadn’t ever found ourselves in this kind of position before… We’d been friends for too long and too absolutely not to have been here once or twice in the past.

I wasn’t a girl with low self-esteem, who couldn’t believe that a boy could be turned on by her. I knew I was hot, and I even knew that Gavin Porter thought that I was hot. He’d never denied it. But see, this was the thing… Gavin was awake and he hadn’t moved his hands.

At least, not yet. And I wanted to enjoy every single second of it while it lasted.

It was usually at this point in the routine that Gavin would roll away from me, put some space between us, and pretend like this little bit of awkwardness hadn’t happened. 

He had to be able to feel the way my heartbeat was slamming against my chest. My back had to be practically vibrating with it. He should have moved—should have changed the subject. What he did instead was curl his fingers against the bare skin of my stomach and bury his face in my neck, so that all of my skin erupted in goosebumps and all my thoughts scattered.

I couldn’t breathe. 

I couldn’t think past the idea of turning around, of sliding my leg between his legs, of pressing closer and closer until there was no closer. Oh my God, I wanted to kiss him so very badly. I wanted to turn around and melt into his arms and kiss him, just to know what he tasted like. Just to know what he felt like with his mouth against my mouth and his hands on my skin. Just to live in it, for just one moment. This perfect moment. I wanted to kiss him until the world slipped away. And I felt about ninety-nine percent sure that he would not only let me, but that he would actually kiss me back.

It was surreal in this freeing, kind of electrifying way. After weeks and weeks, and months, and years of waiting for Gavin Porter to finally open his eyes and see me…

I just couldn’t believe it was finally happening, and I didn’t trust it.

“Do you want a pain pill?” His voice was soft, sleep dragged, kind of lazy. It was the best morning sound in the entire universe, and I had always appreciated it. But this morning it seemed to sound better to me than it ever had. Probably because the words came out practically against my skin, all of his breath dancing down my neck as he spoke.

Sweet baby Jesus.

My stomach clenched, and I was almost scared to answer him. Like if he knew that I was awake too, then he would become the Gavin that I was used to again. The one completely oblivious to the fact that we had definite chemistry.

“Elle?” He moved his hands, trailing them against my skin until the one underneath me was free and the one on top of me was against my hip. The shorts I had on were a thin barrier and every single piece of me that he touched was aflame. I pushed out a slow breath, slowly peeling my eyes open. 

This was not a dream.

I turned around until we were facing each other, and Gavin adjusted, his head still dropped lazily against his pillow. He lifted his hand to brush my hair from my face, his fingers trailed my jaw and my heartbeat shuddered. “Do you have a headache?” 

I didn’t even mind his morning breath—I was that far gone.

I blinked, coming back down to reality, understanding slowly filtering through for me. His face was a little tenser than I was used to, but that could have been for any reason in the world. It could have been because he was still mad at me for getting drunk the night before, or because I’d yelled at him, or even because he’d yelled back at me.

It could also be because he wanted to kiss me just as badly as I wanted him to… It was hard to tell, and there was just no tactful way to ask!

The logical conclusion was that I was imagining it, of course. Because if you wanted something bad enough then it was easy to trick yourself into believing you could have it. And last night had been emotional for both of us.

The logical conclusion was that nothing had even changed at all. I knew that. And it just seemed all the more true when Gavin just kept laying there, looking at me, waiting for me to say something with an increasingly concerned expression on his face.

I sighed, careful to keep my own morning breath aimed away from him, and shook my head against his pillows. “No. I’m good.” And then I turned on my back to hide my disappointed expression from his searching eyes, because explaining myself was the absolute last thing I wanted to do right now. And Gavin always asked me what was wrong, every time that I frowned.

But—darn it!—I hadn’t imagined his hands. I hadn’t imagined the feel of his face as he nuzzled against my neck. And I knew perfectly well he’d been awake when he did it.

I sighed again. “I need to get up, anyway.” I rubbed a hand over my face, trying not to feed into the annoyance that I was starting to feel all over again. What had I even been thinking? As if this morning suddenly everything was completely different? That didn’t make any sense! 

There was still a Tyler McClain, and I was still not her.

But Gavin groaned and reached, his arms encircling me once again. “Skip it.” He was whining, which was so typical of him at the mention of getting out of bed during the am hours that it really did feel like the status quo. 

Maybe it was part of his idea of what a rockstar was supposed to do with their life? Sleep all day, party all night kind of thing.

I tried to shake out of his hold, but he wasn’t having it.

“You’re allowed to skip a class, Elle,” he complained, and his face found the curve of my neck again and settled there. “Shouldn’t you be hungover?” He said it like a complaint, and I didn’t manage to fight the giggle in response before it fell from my lips.

“I’m not.” I tried to wiggle away again, but he squeezed his hand on my hip and groaned.

“Please fucking stop that.”

All the tension in my body regrouped, goosebumps resurfacing, flames reigniting. I narrowed my eyes, the annoyance growing. “It’s too early in the morning for fuck, Gavin.” He sucked in a sharp breath of air, and I stilled. Because that time it hadn’t been intentional, but there it was, hanging between us. His very unconventional response to girls who said bad words.

“Ah, fuck.” This time I thought he’d let me go, and get out of bed. And then we’d pretend this had never happened. But he didn’t. He kept his hand above the t-shirt, but still on me as he mumbled, “I think you’re trying to kill me.” 

And I felt like all the air was being sucked out of the room again. My stomach clenched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But my voice was much too breathless to be convincing.

Gavin saw through it. He sucked his tongue against his teeth and said, “You fucking liar.” But there was no heat to it, just teasing, and he still didn’t let me go.

He yawned. “Let’s just sleep in, baby.”

It was a stupid, enabling thing for him to do. But he probably didn’t know that. I did, though, so I should have gotten the heck out of there. I knew that. I probably should have told him that this crossed some sort of invisible line in the sand of our friendship, and I couldn’t do it. 

But my heart was vibrating with the need to just lay there with him. And I couldn’t stop myself from giving in. He was warm and comfortable and this bed smelled like him. And he was holding me like he wanted me, which made imagining impossible to resist. Besides, I’d never been very good at denying him anything. That was the entire problem.

[fox-guardian]

[ID: A digital sketchpage of Colin Becher from The Magnus Protocol on a gray background. He is a thin white man with a receding hairline and a blonde mullet that is very long in the back, tied into a low ponytail. He also has a mustache, patchy facial hair, body hair, and blue eyes. In four out of five sketches, Colin is wearing silver stud earrings, rectangular glasses with yellow lenses, a yellow t-shirt under a light blue button down, a light brown zip-up hoodie, blue jeans with brown knee patches, blue and white striped socks, brown sneakers, and bracelets including a braided one with pink and burgundy threads. On the right, there's a shoulder-up sketch of Colin with his body facing to the side while he turns his head to the viewer, looking angry. Below that is a far less detailed doodle of him on all fours like some kind of creature. On the far left is a shoulders-up sketch of him leaning against his hand looking tired with one eyebrow raised. Below that is a drawing of him facing away from the viewer on all fours looking under something with a little dark smudge above him denoting annoyance. In the middle is a full-body drawing of him posed as though sitting with one leg bent as he holds a game controller. He is wearing his glasses and earrings, as well as a white crop top that says "slut.exe" in blue text, yellow underwear, and blue and white thigh-high socks. He looks focused but also relatively relaxed. end ID]

~~~~

normal about that IT manager

and yes whenever i draw him with striped socks i need you all to know that they're the programmer socks. alice gave them to him mostly as a joke but he actually loves them and that's one reason they're buds in my mind

[broncoburro]

Quintrell takes some time to clean his Duruger M1775. Rifles are a strange weapon choice in a world where you could choose like... a giant glowing magic axe instead... but Quincy is a strange guy. (It's a "she" by the way. The rifle.)

[fgfluidity]

mirror | manor (chapter 11)

Summary: After the events of Mirror | Void, a newly-christened Dark has two goals: take revenge on Mark, and, hopefully…

Find the DA.

Pairings: Damien/Dark x DA; Actor x DA (Implied, could be read as gen)

Warnings: none

Tagged: @opprose @volbeast @statictay @otterlyinluv @buc-eebarnes @flerpdederp @mirrorslament @hapikiou (if anyone else would like to be tagged hmu!)

i'm sorry this took almost three years to come out-

find it on ao3 | donate to my kofi

Dark knows the game.

Of course he does— he read the script.

He just expected them to see through it.

Then again... they haven’t seen through anything Mark’s done. They just don’t remember.

He can’t decide if that’s a blessing or a curse.

He sticks to the shadows as they approach, entirely too darling in what amounts to a burglar’s costume, as they wriggle their way inside.

Mark is his own brand of buffoon, and the ‘guards’ he hired match it to the letter, not a drop serious or truly threatening.

(“Sorry I didn’t message you first,” he says, brushing out bits of glass from his hair. “I tried to jam the cell signal and, um… it’s just broken.”)

Imbecile.

Even the dog is there, playing a role. How droll.

Even if she is a very good girl.

All throughout this, he watches for the guard’s radios, for a television screen, for— for anything that he might use to sway the DA, catch their attention without Mark noticing.

If he can just separate them—

The thing is, though, Mark is either ridiculously prepared for his planning, or is completely thoughtless about small, realistic details; throughout the entire museum, no guard has a radio, no wall has a screen.

Not ones that work, anyway— not a connection to anything remotely electromagnetic. Props at best. It’s the least technologically-advanced modern building Dark has been in since…

Well, since he left that manor, but that hardly counts.

The point stands that he’s unable to do much of anything but watch as the DA rolls their eyes and smiles at Mark’s antics, creeps quietly along while the man makes a fool of himself, face set and focused.

He’s seen that look. Pre-trial look. All business.

And they called him too serious all that time ago.

So fondly…

At any rate, their supposed treasure is both easy to get to and utterly unremarkable. A wooden case, carved but hardly special wood, the gem plastic even from his vantage point. A prop, like everything else.

And yet…

Mark lifts the box, and—

This is the end of the script. A successful heist, hightailing it out before they get caught, a seemingly-sincere thanks for help.

But there’s something. Like a little nudge, something like how he feels using the void, how the Earth seems to shift when the Host speaks creation.

The alarm trips.

Mark gives them a choice. Sneak out, or face the guards.

Perhaps... perhaps he overlooked. Perhaps he was given a working script, not the final draft.

Perhaps it’s another of Mark’s machinations.

There was no choice. Why is there a choice?

Why do they get a choice?

It doesn’t matter, really, because the DA picks exactly as he expected they would.

“We have to sneak out, it’s too dangerous, otherwise,” they say, just barely audible over the blaring alarm.

Mark’s face crumbles into a pout. “You’re no fun,” he whines— like a toddler; Dark half expects him to start stomping his feet— but he dutifully uncovers the sewer entrance, grumbling all the way.

The DA just watches, arms crossed. Petty.

They didn’t used to be so petty, but Mark deserves it, if anyone.

Dark very well understands that the entire thing is engineered, a massive staged undertaking to fool the DA and entertain an audience, unseen to his eyes but present all the same.

It doesn’t stop the trip through the sewers any less harrowing, doesn’t prevent him from using his unique position to draw attention away from the DA if ever they come a hair too close to getting caught.

It might be fake, but…

He doesn’t put it past Mark to introduce some very real danger. He’s a method actor, and he’d want his players to follow accordingly for maximum effect.

Dramatic ass.

They follow dutifully behind the entire way through the dark, though— and he notes it with a point of pride, one he chalks up to just how put out Mark seems— with a good amount of non-verbal sass. They cross their arms, roll their eyes, and stubbornly march right along behind Mark.

Not that Mark doesn’t try to get rid of them— oh, he tries to shake them like gum stuck to his shoe, and it’s a thrill to see him huff and grumble when they simply shake their head. He pouts— at several points! So very childish.

Then—

Hm. Unsurprising that the creator of this convoluted mess would whip up some way to surely remove them; if there’s one possible thing they’d listen to above anything else, it’s a worksite safety sign.

Not for lack of effort, though. “I… I really don’t know if we should split up, Mark,” they say, casting an uneasy glance back at the tunnel they just left. “I know it says only one, but if something happens—“

“Nothing’s going to happen! Nothing bad has happened even once!” His bright grin only gets a— astoundingly dry— look in return. It’s nearly impressive that he barrels on, anyway. “It’s for safety, buddy! You’re all about safety— and! We’re synchronized! In five minutes you just follow me over. Or I follow you, whichever.”

Mark gives them a once over, all while grinning, and if Dark wasn’t looking— wasn’t incensed at the familiarity— he wouldn’t have noticed, wouldn’t have cared. Alas.

It’s too… possessive. Too pleased.

He doesn’t need Damien in his head to stoke his rage, it seems, not anymore. The only thing that stops him is what Mark says next.

“You have a choice, sunflower.”

A choice. There it is again, more choices, as if giving them the power to change any of this. Giving them a say.

So they don’t feel trapped.

Aren’t they, though? If Mark wrote everything, created everything, what kind of choice is it?

However…

They glance back at the shadowy tunnel again, frowning, worrying at the sleeves of their top in a too-familiar pattern. If they turn back, they’ll be away from him. How far apart can they both get in five minutes?

How far apart do they need to be for him to intervene?

This is his chance. It may well be the only one he’ll get, and the margin of error is far too slim for his liking— he must get this right. He must say the right thing— and pray they don’t hate or fear him.

Thankfully, time goes a little off-kilter in the Void, or else he’d have to make a very quick plan.

He’ll have to ease them in. See what they could possibly remember from that night, prod what needs prodding. It’s an easy enough parlor trick to conjure up a memory these days.

After that… what could he say?

Damien— he— was never short for words in his past life. As mayor— as councilman, as law student, as debate captain, as his father’s son— he simply had to be good with them, and he was.

Not quite so smoothly charismatic as Mark, not as bombastic and warm as Wil, but— well, he didn’t make mayor through his familial connections, whatever certain parts of his constituency may have believed. He delivered his speeches, his debates, with calm strength, something personable but solid.

Hell, he—

He used to write them for fun. The person— people, really— standing right outside this pocket of Void once teased him.

How are you writing a paper now? Finals are over! Come on, live a little!

Even I don’t want to spend all summer in a library. Won’t you come with me? There are new flowers in the arboretum!

The memory comes unbidden, and throws him off-balance; thankfully, he doesn’t fall out of his incorporeal state or ruin any of his planning.

Such a memory… but how? That’s more of Damien’s—

He hasn’t heard him. Not since that agonizing split when he entered their dream.

Mayhaps they didn’t split.

Mayhaps—

“Well… if you’re sure, Mark,” they sigh, hardly thrilled at the idea. “But it has to be five minutes. If you disappear on me—“

“Relax! It’ll be okay, you’ll see me. Sheesh, you’re so serious.” Mark huffs— then straightens himself. Smiles, even as they turn away, towards Dark. “Yes, alright! You go down that tunnel, I’ll go down this tunnel. If you see anything, and I mean anything, you just turn that sweet little tuchus around and—“

He’s had about enough of that. With hardly more than a thought, he whisks Mark away elsewhere, wherever elsewhere may be, and rolls out his Hall of Memories.

And prays.

They used to pride themself on being unflappable, before, and he can see shades of it, now: their face remains the same, alert but not startled as they take in the paintings, the dust swirling in the beam of their flashlight.

He knew the truth of that, though, and it, too, remains; you need not look at their face for their feelings, but their hands.

Though one holds the flashlight, all ten fingers are in motion— tapping the length of the flashlight, curling and uncurling in their sleeve, the belt loop, the zippers and buttons of their bag. Moving for comfort, perhaps— certainly no expression of joy, as the rest of them is ramrod-straight, stiff with each step.

He longs— longs, what is happening to him— to say something to ease the anxiety, raise the darkness, but he can’t. This is no matter he can explain with soft, comforting words and a pot of tea. His powers aren’t of light at all.

They can, though, reach an electromagnetic signal, and now that they’re alone, he pushes through his thoughts.

Finally, you’re away from him. Aren’t you tired of it?

What?

He’s running you ragged. Don’t you feel like you’re running in circles?

That’s not what he said— not quite, anyway.

They won’t tell you anything. No one seems to question it.

Why can’t he change it?

I know you’re in there. But I thought you’d see through it.

The final painting, of the monster himself, grinning like a fool. It begins to crumble before them both— they step back, fingers tight around both phone and flashlight— and Dark gets a split second of pure dread before—

Before—

My villain. I wrote everything. Even you.

It’s not painful. It’s not— it’s not even close to the searing split of the dreamworld, nothing to the pain in his stolen body, nuts compared to his shattered leg almost a century ago. It doesn’t hurt at all.

He almost wishes it did.

“Same snake, different skin,” he muses, and something inside him quails at the sight of fear— truly, rare fear— in their eyes when they turn to take him in. “Always spinning his yarns, his webs, his lies.”

He means to say it. He means to say he’s nothing but a monster in human skin, that they’re being dragged one way or another at his whims— he doesn’t mean to sound so… angry. So—

Villainous.

He screams, though it doesn’t come out— not of this body. Instead, there’s the discomfort of a fragment, juddering, lashing void in every direction. He only keeps enough sense to keep it away from them.

Without him— without him!— his body paces, a smile too similar to Mark’s on his face. “Perhaps we’ve met a hundred times already, and you simply don’t remember it. Perhaps you’re tired of me repeating myself over and over and over and over again!”

He’s seen them a hundred times, but have they met? Has he said anything to them, his desperate wish for them to remember and leave simply that, a wish?

No. This is Mark’s doing, but he’s far from the only one with power. Dark pushes past the discomfort, past the fragments that shatter out of him, and tries to touch it. Tries to see what, exactly, controls him.

It’s a web.

Not unlike a spider’s, really, glimmering threads of words in several different directions, coalescing into bright points of light wherever they meet.

Ah, the choices. Planned for, then— prolonging the make-believe.

He sees an island man. He sees a brilliant scientist. He sees a pirate, an adventurer, a prisoner. He sees their end a dozen times, more, always coming back to the start.

He sees himself— but his point, his thread, is loose.

Not so in control now, are you, Mark?

They must know. They have to know.

With what little wriggle room he has, he reaches out— and changes a couple letters. One at each point. Nothing shifts, nothing breaks, but something is different— hopefully, different enough for his clever attorney to find.

They’re the sharpest he’s ever known. If anyone could, it’s them.

He settles back into his body, still speaking without him— without him!— and pacing before a desk. It doesn’t feel so wrong with his newfound confidence… in fact—

“You want answers.” He smiles to himself, happy to have control again, and for the hell of it, picks up the glass of wine— seemingly, so kindly provided for by the writer. “Well, games were always his forte.”

He’s not sure of the vintage, or even sure of the varietal, given the monochrome nature of his Void, but he takes a sip, anyway.

He tries hard not to gag, but can’t hide his wince. For all his budget, Mark hardly splurged on something decent, it seems.

Suppose that’s the loss of his wine cellar at work.

“But allow me this one moment of self indulgence.”

He sets the wine down. Neither of them will be partaking of it.

“Excuse me—“ 

He stops, holding the box— the conduit in this little foray into pretend— and looks at them from atop the desk. They’re— smiling a little. Not big, but it’s theirs, and if his heart still beat— “Yes?”

“Why’d you pick that wine if you didn’t like it?”

He wants to laugh. Oh, he wants to laugh at that, because in the face of— quite frankly— something frightening and beyond their control, they’re teasing it. He loves them.

He loves them.

“I didn’t,” he admits, truthfully. There’s something so warm in his chest, something he can’t prevent from showing on his face, so fond. “Sometimes we take what we’re given, for better or for worse. This game, for instance. This box.

“So much trouble, all for something so small.” He looks to them curiously, smile fading. “Do you want to know what’s inside this box?

“I didn’t imagine we’d have to be in sewers to get it,” they add dryly. “After all this, I definitely want to know, and it has to be something worth it, or else.”

He’d laugh at the thought, them tearing into Mark for dragging them over hill and dale, but he’s seen what lies ahead. They’ll have time to do it, and the nudging at his body indicates he’s rather short of time himself. “Well, I know how much you like a good game, so throughout your… adventures, I’ve hidden codes. Several codes. Find them all, and you’ll get your truth.”

They don’t look especially pleased at that, but the light comes into their eyes despite the slump of their shoulders— the light that kept them up all night with an encyclopedia or three, classes next morning be damned. “More games. Why am I not surprised?”

They eye him for a few long seconds, brow furrowed, even as the Void rumbles and sparks around them both. It’s too familiar, as if they’re reading him down to his core. “You aren’t Mark, are you? Not some character. But… you’re so familiar. Who… who are you?”

He could give them his name. It might spark something for them, kickstart whatever process they need to regain their memory of what happened. He wouldn’t even care if they screamed at him for all he put them through.

The Void, though, shakes and cracks, and he shakes his head with a slight frown and a mountain of regret. He has a modicum of control, still, but not fully. Not right now. “That’s all I’m going to give you.”

They open their mouth, but the Void winks them away, gone to their next run.

All he can do is sit and watch from here.

[your-absent-father]

You've heard of dark haired mafia leader, now get ready for lesbian mafia leader

Love smiled, tried not to smirk in satisfaction over the deception towards the woman's microaggression. Love sat down in the kitchen, pretending to just wait like a good cleaner who didn’t understand English that much. After the woman walked away, Love jumped up in happiness and started to walk towards the door.

“Why can’t you just let me see him?” Faint voice boomed behind the door, which made Love stop for a moment. She leaned closer towards the door, trying to decipher who was talking. 

“Stefan is resting. I am just following the doctors’ orders.” Chill ran down Love’s spine as she heard the name Beatrix just berated her for mentioning. Someone wanted to see Stevie after he was bailed, and Stevie was still in bad shape. Love had an urge to just jump to the other side, and demand to see Stevie so he could tell her every answer to a question her mind was full of.

“That’s… That’s… I don’t believe you. I think you are just hiding him from me.” The first voice was meek as it tried to overpower the other, a demeaning female voice that made Love have chills, but be tiny bit turned on by.

“Elize, you have no fucking idea what’s going on right now. This is much more than just Beatrix and Stefan’s little band. After all of this, this whole company is still ruined, all because of some rat, and I am trying my fucking hardest to keep this company holding on till that little redhead is dead so I can blame all of this on her. I haven’t had time to give you an ounce of my time, time that even a second is worth more than your entire lifetime. You holding hands with my brother isn’t number one on my priority list, he is barely even capable of talking to me right now.” Love’s mouth popped open. The women talking were Elize Grant and Evalyn Harkness. The two sisters of the band members. The manager and the CEO. Love had jumped into a gold mine, and she didn’t even plan to do so. 

“I know, please, I just… “ Elize’s pleas were meek compared to Evalyn’s commanding voice. Love could hear Elize walk around, probably trying not to look at Evalyn. “You owe me that much. You didn’t bail Nikita out. She is the most innocent but is suffering because you won’t help her. You know any of it isn’t her fault, and the bastard deserved to rot in jail. Even Stevie has done things more despicable than her.”

“Don’t patronize me about your sister. I have a plan, and the only thing you are doing is losing my time to something frankly fucking useless.” Love could hear Evalyn’s breathing more clearly, like she was getting more agitated by the second. “I love your sister. Don’t ever make me sound like I don’t. I would destroy the whole prison and start a fucking civil war if I had the men right now. But I don’t.” Love could hear a voice crack in Evalyn’s voice, or what she thought was one. 

There was a moment of silence, before Elize sighed purely defeated. “Would you take Ivy? Our mom is old, she can’t take her, and I am hounded by the police every day. I’m sure you have some people that could take care of her for a bit, just so the police won’t take her.”

Love could hear voices become more hushed, so Love leaned closer so she could hear Evalyns response. “Leave from the restaurant’s backdoor. There shouldn’t be any reporters there. If you ever talk to me like this again, I won’t hesitate to kill you. So I hope I won’t see you here again.”

taglist because i forgot from last ones: @guessillcallitart @dyrewrites @wildswrites

[mythvoiced]

-. on my third cup of chamomile I forgot my mother telling folks when i was a kid that she didn't like making me chamomile tea because it doesn't work on me it has the effect on me coffee has on most folks I am READY to fucking GO what's up chamomile tea to sleeP? NO MY BEAUTIES chamomile tea to something pls insert something that makes sense and is hype i can't think of anything, SO--

I do wanna get to some ooc messages but I can't promise I can get my brain in order to be coherent BUT ANYWAY, BEFORE THAT, dropping this asshole

Kim Minjun, 37, he/him, bloodsucker asshole baby~ Not in the literal sexy vampire sense, I mean he rose from the dirt and decided to make his living thriving off of what we made celebrity culture into, the very notion of celebrity culture itself

You want those pictures of Spider-man on your desk by Wednesday? You wanna know who's doing who and who's smoking what? You want exclusive details on a private party to start shit, get legal info acquired illegally just to have a story to tell about the latest celebrity divorce? Well, then Minjun's your fucking guy

Actually born Kim Jung-hoon but he changed it to Minjun because it sounds more... modern, fresh, better

He's a sleaze, a bit of a motherfucker honestly (forgive the cursing I'm matching his energy, his attitude), he doesn't care about the lives he could potentially be ruining, he operates according to the idea of 'well that's how this world works, don't like it? jump ship'

He'll dig up just about anything, he's started from being a sneaky piece of shit stalker following celebrities around to having built enough connections to be among the first to know when someone with a Reputation is entering this or the other club

But that's not even where his real forte is, oh no; gathering info is easy, figuring out how to get it around is difficult: who to sell it to? who's gonna pay the most, who's gonna turn into an enemy if you share the wrong name, the wrong location, expose the wrong people? no, he's good at finding shit, but the complexities of having to mind connections and be careful with who you drag into the dirt? not his favourite

What Minjun really excels at... is spinning shit around, he can turn the most innocuous of pictures into the drama of the century, by carefully nurturing doubts and rumours, he's a snake, a bastard

He's always hated the entertainment industry, he thinks himself above it, because he's not as desperate as them, he doesn't do what he does because he's otherwise got no worth in life, he doesn't sell his soul, he sells the souls of others

He doesn't think he's on the right side of history, oh no, by no means, he just thinks... well, don't become a celebrity if you don't want this treatment

The more I write about him the more I hate him lmao BUT GOOD WE NEED VILLAINS, UNREEDEEMABLE ONES

He comes from a relatively poor background, if comparing it to Hyun for example, but if he'd minded his business he would have just... lived a 'regular' life

He's particularly efficient when used as 'spy on the competition', new script ideas, new music ideas, new design ideas, you want to know what Shakespeare's next big play will be, Nicholas Bottom? well, then hit up this fucking clown

Only child, if his mother knew what he was up to she'd beat the shit out of him, he doesn't respect his father (haven't decided if he even lives still) but he does love his mother which is why he hasn't told her

Biromantic but he's a walking red flag so I hope the broadened pool of dating options doesn't fucking date him, demisexual

He can probably be fixed but WHY? why would you do that to yourself

He does have one little plus point, he's kind of like old school mafia in the sense that he doesn't mess with children, and anyone below 20 is a child to him, so he doesn't really mess with young idols and trainees

He actually hates the idol industry he thinks it's exploitative and abusive which is real fucking rich coming from him, but hey

I'LL WORK ON MORE ♥

[gaienenkidou]

im seeing more thoughts on unib arcade mode im glad im not tripping balls cuz i ☝️ also thought unis arcade modes were pretty underwhelming outside of like amnesia. merk. and walds. maybe kaguya.