TRUTH

gavin is nothing if not lazy. and he lives on the seventh floor, so he absolutely refuses to take the stairs up to his apartment. he knows it’s faster, knows it’s “better for him,” but especially after walking home from work he refuses to put himself through anything else. he’s stood in front of the elevator for ages before, because their apartment is so shitty that it only has one elevator servicing twelve floors. no matter how long he has to wait, though, it’s still better than taking the stairs. 

but it’s still better to not wait at all, which is why he hurries a bit when he sees the elevator doors open when he enters the lobby. he hurries his steps a bit, raising a hand to try to get the attention of the guy stepping on. “hold the doors!” he calls, and he doesn’t know if he’s just lucky or if the guy hears him, but he manages to slip in just before the doors start to close. gavin lets out a relieved sigh and leans back against the back wall with a grin. “cheers, mate,” he says, not even knowing if the guy made any effort to hold the doors open for him. “hit seven for me, would you?”

the elevator starts moving up, and the lights to track what floor it’s on haven’t worked since gavin moved here, so he doesn’t bother watching them, instead pulling out his phone and idly scrolling through his several pages of useless games and apps. just as he’s about to pocket the device, knowing that it’s nearing time for the doors to open on the seventh floor, the elevator shakes weirdly before jolting harshly, the lights going out and leaving them in almost total darkness, gavin’s phone the only source of light in the small space. 

“oh, bugger me,” he says in english, his voice breaking the surprised silence between them. 

holding the door is the last thing he wants to do for some gangly limbed young man who rushes down the hall like one of those wobbly bean toys that can never fall over. michael is stuck, regardless, with the broken door button and his apparent neighbor makes it into the elevator before michael can think about forcibly closing the doors himself. he feigns indifference, though he glowers slightly at the dimly lit button next to his floor. seven, same as his apparent neighbor.

michael doesn’t say they’re on the same floor. he decides he doesn’t want to make conversation.

when the elevator has a major malfunction, michael swears, loud and in english and completely unabashed. “fuck!” they’re doused in darkness, a blueish light from the stranger’s phone the only illumination they’re left with in the stupid fucking elevator. he bangs on the door, kicking it for good measure, and the thing doesn’t budge even a crack to give them some fresh air. michael wonders if that’s supposed to happen.

he mashes the help button, the emergency button, the call button, willing any one of them to work. is it a building-wide power outage? or just the elevator? he has no way of telling, not when they’re trapped in this metal box of doom.

hello to our lovely members! this is your admin egg here to share our first drabble meme! this time around, we’re doing something special! not only will you get to have loads of fun writing, but you also have the chance to gain points for your characters !

for this challenge, you will be awarded ONE (1) point for every TWO (2) people you send a meme to! whichever account you send the meme from will be awarded the points, and this works up until you hit ask limit! (you can still send asks from other accounts/anonymous, you just need to stop collecting points after ask limit!) 

the only main rule is that in order for it to count for points, it has to be off of anonymous! so with that, have fun!!

@ccxmichael

“are you a butt guy or boob guy?” envy would hear humans ask each other.

frankly, he’s not sure why it seems like such a controversial question. of course the optimal answer would be butts. butts exist within all genders, and are appreciative in all aspects of the gender spectrum. breasts are hit or miss, the most viable ones more existent in bodies one would designate as female.

god, this whole ‘genders and sexes’ concept is useless. it frustrates envy. he’d love to remain purely genderless, as he always has before he took on a human form, but now he’s stuck in a form one would point at and label 'male’. an idiotic burden, it is. what happened to the times where he could easily seduce humans of all genders through androgynous forms of varying genital types? now he has to go for the stereotypical big-busted slim woman form in order to dip into the wallets of wealthier men.

maybe it’s useless to have these types of thoughts constantly on his mind, but times had been simpler then. so he sighs to himself, even now as he holds onto one of the grips keeping him steady on the train taking him back home from a tiring night of… of… well, he’d rather not say what he had done.

he’s almost close to dozing off, trying to blink himself back awake or else he’ll miss his stop. but something finally gets his attention, making him jolt a bit, feeling a sudden contact from behind.

someone’s fucking touching my ass.

but it feels accidental, and he turns to see the culprit. he blinks, and blinks again, at the sight of a foreigner– someone who obviously looks like he wasn’t born in korea.

thankfully, one of the perks of moving halfway around the world to a country where he doesn’t speak the language ( and no one really expects him to ) is that sometimes he can go out without his chobotics in-ear translators and have the perfect excuse to not talk to anyone. the downside is, however, using public transportation. he thought he had his route memorized, but now he’s not so sure. he should really learn to at least read hangul if he’s not even going to carry the buds in his pocket when they’re not in use.

he’s not paying attention, furiously squinting at signs and listening to the automated voice telling what stop they’re heading to next as if by some miracle he’ll suddenly be able to understand. maybe he’s already lost, though he’s pretty sure he hasn’t passed his stop yet.

and then someone speaks to him in his native tongue.

michael is a little surprised, staring down at a young man whose butt he had accidentally been leaning against in his distraction. he leans away sharply, almost knocking himself over comically as he does, and tries to act cool about it anyways.

aya loves her artwork, there’s no doubt about that; it’s more or less the sole thing that keeps her going (and provides a sometimes source of income), and encourages her memory. she doesn’t paint as often as she’d like to anymore; the watercolors she loves are much too expensive to afford a regular habit like hers, but when she does they’re her pride.

having them presented in a gallery is an honor in itself. (she’s really only ever had one piece in a gallery before.) she has connections now, she likes to think. certain connections that enable her to actually be an artist, and for her work to be seen by more than the landlady that only seems to pity her when she stops by the apartment to check on her.

she tries not to feel too smug when she sees people milling around her pieces- though she practically glows as they talk about how the artist’s style is a unique dreamscape type bundled with pastels and hidden meanings. (aya only paints what she sees- at least to others knowledge.) her personal favorite is a hero’s image, one that shows a battle that most people only brush past as they note it must be some vague imagining about a character or something. aya knows it’s real, and can’t help but interpret the sheer power that the painting conveys to her.

she turns as she feels a tap on her shoulder, startled briefly by the familiarity of the person addressing her, and smiles. he points to the hero painting, and she knows that he must be the one in it. praying that he isn’t mad about such a battle being captured. she hesitates, glancing over at the painting and then at the man. she purses her lips for a moment before deciding to take a chance (somehow she feels like she knows he’s kind), offering her hand. “that would be me,” she tries to sound confident, feigning that she meets subjects of her art every day, “how can i help you?”

it’s some sort of stroke of luck that the first person he speaks to happens to be the very person he’s looking for, or perhaps it’s the universe pushing him gently in the right direction he’s supposed to go. whatever the case may be, michael is pleasantly surprised that he doesn’t have to go looking for some other strange artist in this sea of people. he’d rather not hunt down one person, and now he doesn’t have to.

she’s prettier than he expected, anyways.

“is that..” me? he’s not sure how to ask that without sounding conceited. perhaps it’s a funny coincidence; the character in her painting only just happens to perfectly resemble his hero ensemble. she doesn’t seem much like a hero herself; michael is used to noticing an object they keep on them at all times, a certain posture, a certain way of looking over their shoulders. he was good at noticing who was a hero and who was not at one point in time. maybe he’s losing his touch.

he presses his lips together as he tries to find the right words to ask his questions. he just wants to know how much exactly she knows, and how she saw all this.

    [ w/ @ccxmichael ]

 he was bored. so undeniably bored. he had no classes today and all the people he was actually close to were busy. he was starting to wonder when did he become this pathetic? why was it so hard for him to just go out and do … something. anything, really.

  ignoring what kpop group was belting some catchy tune, his eyes rolled through his contacts. his eyes focused on one and he grinned a bit. 

  honestly, ryuji wasn’t someone who put up with a lot of shit, but there was one person he just loved to annoy the shit out of.

he’s probably sent that to the dude a hundred times by now, and yet somehow he still has michael’s number. they’re not even friends; michael isn’t even sure where the guy got his number. all he knows is that he never stops harassing him and it’s fucking annoying.

and yet he puts up with him anyways.

[ msg to: ryuji ⚔ ] i’m not going to give you video game facts to put you to sleep. go look it up on youtube or something dumbass.

Look out! Here comes [JONES MICHAEL], an [EXPERIENCED] magical boy! He fights with a [SWORD] that becomes a [ZELDA MASTER SWORD KEYCHAIN] when kept hidden. He is a member of [NIGHTSHADE]. You might spot him as a [STREAMER].

Please welcome them to our magical world!