⌗╴I can received also questions or any comments you wanna leave. But remember be kind and respectful, ty!
𖧧╴If you’re thinking about making a request, keep in mind I DON’T do character x character or OC x Canon. All my works are "reader x _____."
⁽⁽╴When making a request, try to be specific about what you want, especially mentioning if you'd like a Oneshot or Headcanon. If you don't specify, I'll end up choosing one of the two options myself.
✶╴I’m only writing for Pressure, Forsaken, Epic: The Musical and Dandy's World.
Masterlist
ᣟ. ୧ What I can write:
⊹ ࣪ Angst, fluff, platonic, romantic, poly, yandere (though I suck at it)
If you’re not sure about what I write, feel free to ask in the inbox, and I’ll get back to you! ✦
ᣟ. ୧ What I WON’T write:
⚠ ࣪ NSFW, incest, rape, p*do, kinks or anything like that ✦
Quick reminder for fanfic writers both on here and ESPECIALLY on AO3…
If your main character has a name and described appearance, DO NOT use the character x reader tag. Like…seriously.
That is an OC. Use the “x oc” or “x original character” tag. Stop using the “x reader” tag. It will not give you more reach because people looking through the “x reader” tag aren’t going to read it. Three guesses why.
You are also making the filtering system null and void, which is harmful ESPECIALLY for archival sites like ao3 where the tags and filtering system are specifically there to make things easier. It’s basic fandom etiquette guys. Common sense and consideration for others. It won’t kill you to tag things correctly.
And in that crooked step, the world turned into poetry
In the high halls of the Temple of Cracked Clouds, where the bells chimed with the breath of sky dragons and incense danced slowly like veils of jade, the monks spoke in hushed voices about omens. The sky had bowed days before — a black, round, motionless cloud had hovered over the valley like a watchful eye. The animals fell silent. The bamboo grove refused to sway.
Inside the central hall, a stone table was set with snow blossom tea and sweets shaped like celestial peaches. Around it sat beings who did not fully belong to the earth: a man with scales on his temples and breath like the tide, a woman with lilac eyes and hair floating like seaweed, and at the center, the most restless of them all — Sun Wukong, the Monkey King, with his tail coiled around the chair leg and his gaze fixed on the sky, as if waiting for it to suddenly split open.
"Are you really going through with this, Wukong?" asked a wind spirit, gently drifting along the edge of the hall. "A mortal celebration? A choice between... peasants and mediocre disciples?"
“‘Celebrate’ might not be the right word,” he replied, spinning a fruit between his fingers. “But there’s something there. Something… strange.”
“You always say that,” Nezha remarked, appearing with his flaming wheel tucked under one arm. “And you always end up causing trouble or stealing wine.”
Wukong smirked without denying it. His eyes, golden like the heart of the sun at dusk, seemed to see something no one else could. He rose and walked to the temple’s balcony. Below, between the mountains and the village, preparations for the festival moved like an ancient dance: red lanterns were lit, ribbons were strung between trees, drums were tested with tentative beats.
“There’s a thread moving through the fabric of the world,” he said, mostly to himself. “And I’m going to pull it.”
“The gods no longer choose in person, Wukong,” said Guanyin, appearing in a perfumed breeze, as if her body were made of flower and silence. “Not since the last cycle, when the chosen fled from their blessings. Humans have changed.”
“Maybe they’ve just forgotten how to listen,” he replied, turning to her with a mischievous glint. “And maybe I’ve got time to remind them.”
The goddess did not smile. Her gaze was like a still lake — too calm to read. “Do you truly want to guide someone? To teach with patience, with discipline? You, the untamed one, the one who mocked Heaven?”
“Maybe not,” he said, snorting. “But I’m curious. And you know how I get when I’m curious.”
Down in the village, the first firework was launched. It rose like a star deciding to fall in reverse. Children laughed. Elders whispered prayers. Women in embroidered dresses arranged themselves like flowers for an unknown garden.
Wukong turned back to the horizon, staff strapped to his back. He dressed like an ordinary wanderer, but his skin still shimmered with traces of the heavens. A thin veil covered his face — a ceremonial mask, golden, with red markings around the eyes.
“We leave at dusk,” he announced. “With or without permission.”
In the distance, between mountains and rivers, drums began to sound. Slow, ritualistic. Like the heartbeat of something very ancient.
“You’re really taking this seriously,” murmured Nezha, crossing his arms. “You’re actually… going to choose someone? A mortal?”
“Not just anyone,” Wukong replied, already descending the stairs with steps too light to be heard. “I just need to find the right soul. The one who doesn’t need to see me — only to recognize me.”
The wind blew colder. The clouds slowly descended, like veils being placed over the world.
Night was approaching at last. And with it, the gods — hidden among masks and watchful eyes.
〢
Night fell like black silk over the rooftops of the village, speckled with trembling lights and ancient songs played on bamboo flutes. The Festival of the Choosing had begun.
The streets wound through golden stalls, steaming bowls, and tents draped in fabrics from the West — crimson, amber, jade, and lilac, swaying like enchanted tongues in the wind. Children ran with lanterns shaped like fish, while elders cast prayers into the river, writing names on lotus leaves for the spirits to carry to the heavens.
At the center of the village stood a stage of ancient wood, adorned with dried plum blossoms, mountain stones, and crystal shards that gleamed at the faintest touch of light. It was said that here the chosen ones would reveal themselves, and whoever was seen by the “golden wanderer” — the celestial emissary — would have their fate woven with the sacred.
But no one knew what he looked like. That was the charm.
Wukong was already among them.
He walked through the shadows, footsteps light, as if dancing without music. His golden mask gleamed in the firelight, yet drew no attention. He passed unnoticed, like a fable whispered from mouth to mouth — present and unseen. His hair was tied with a scarlet ribbon, his cloak as simple as that of a retired warrior. But his eyes watched everything. Every detail, every gesture.
“She’s not here,” he muttered between his teeth, turning away from the first group of young women waiting in line before the Pavilion of Choosing. Many trembled, others smiled stiffly. Most were adorned in jewels, perfumes, and promises.
“Too eager. Too afraid. Or too vain.”
Behind him, Mei — a dragoness in disguise, her scales hidden beneath a blue silk dress — observed as well. She had been invited as a witness of the cycle. She stepped closer and remarked:
“You’re looking for someone who doesn’t want to be seen. But this festival is made to be seen.”
“Which is exactly why she’s offstage,” Wukong replied, grabbing a rice cake from a nearby stall. “The soul I seek doesn’t dress to be looked at. She hides where no one dares to search.”
“And why do you want her?” Mei asked, crossing her arms. “For love?”
He bit into the cake and chewed slowly. “Out of curiosity. Maybe stubbornness.”
“Or longing?”
Wukong didn’t answer. But something in his tail twitched, as if her words had struck something old.
The bells began to ring. Music rose into the air, woven from drums, flutes, and female voices. The first dancers stepped onto the stage, each representing a virtue — kindness, courage, loyalty, wisdom. The colors of their garments blended like a living painting. The crowd applauded. The full moon looked closer than ever.
“It’s all so... rehearsed,” Wukong said, watching the repeated gestures. “As if they’re trying to imitate what they think is beautiful, without ever having truly felt it.”
On the other side of the square, Nezha — bored, leaning against a column — let out a loud sigh. “If you want, I can set the stage on fire. That would make things interesting.”
“Patience, little general,” Wukong replied with a lazy smile. “It’s not time to ruin anything yet.”
Suddenly, he stopped. His eyes narrowed.
It wasn’t a presence. It was an absence. A space in the world that felt unfilled where something *should* have been. Like a heartbeat that missed its beat. Like a star that never rose where the sky had waited.
“There,” he murmured, eyes turning to the top of a distant staircase, where there was no stage, no flowers. Where no one looked. A forgotten place, nearly invisible. Where the wind blew differently.
“She hasn’t arrived yet,” he said. “But the world is already getting ready.”
Mei followed his gaze, but saw nothing beyond a dark corner, dry leaves, and a broken branch.
“You’re hearing footsteps that haven’t been taken yet?”
“Yes,” Wukong replied, and for the first time that night, his voice dropped lower. “And the ground is about to sing.”
〢
The night advanced in complicit silence, like someone holding their breath before the inevitable. Fireworks painted serpents and flowers across the sky, but in the darker corners of the square, where the crowd did not gather, the world seemed to guard a secret with its eyes closed.
Wukong, still among the people, moved like a breeze. He noticed the details others ignored — the bare feet of the child selling dried petals, the woman crying alone behind the honey stall, the forgotten candle flickering inside a crooked lantern. They were small imbalances, subtle dissonances. Like notes out of tune in an ancient song.
“You’re acting strange, monkey,” Nezha remarked, appearing beside him again without ceremony. “You’ve always liked chaos, turning everything upside down. And now look at you, with the eyes of a seer.”
Wukong didn’t answer. The golden mask hid any change in his face, but his fingers brushed impatiently against the staff’s handle, as if his whole body were waiting for something the air had yet to deliver.
At the temple entrance, the village priest climbed the pulpit. His robe was white as washed rice, and his beard trembled in the wind like a tired cloud.
“Tonight,” he said, “the heavens are watching. The legend of the Choosing lives again. A name will be seen. A destiny will be touched. A veil will be torn.”
The people fell silent. The young women dressed in pearls and brocade bowed. Some cried. One girl fainted from nerves. It was the night when, among them all, one would be touched by the gaze of the celestial wanderer. And with that, she would receive not only blessings — but the chance to cross beyond the ordinary. Toward what the tales called the *golden path*.
But Wukong wasn’t looking at the stage.
What called to him was elsewhere. Near, but dormant.
“She’s not among the candidates,” murmured Mei, appearing beside him once more, her eyes glinting like jade stones in shadow. “Are you really willing to break the ritual over a whisper in the wind?”
“Rituals tire me,” he replied. “They’ve always followed the same paths because no one dared to open another.”
The sky cracked with more fireworks. Smoke formed dragons and dancers, but a strange cloud drifted through the center of the spectacle — slow, heavy, the kind that seemed born from a forgotten sigh of the gods.
That was when Wukong felt it.
He didn’t see.
He felt.
A delicate presence, hidden like a root beneath the earth, yet stretching gently, growing in silence. A voiceless melody, a flower that didn’t seek the sun — but the moonlight.
He turned his face, golden eyes narrowing beneath the mask.
Above, in the windows that opened to the curved rooftops where no one should be — there was a different kind of silence. A silence made of waiting, not of absence.
“She’s arrived,” Wukong said, so softly only Mei heard him. “She hasn’t come down yet, doesn’t know it yet... but her time begins now.”
The wind blew colder, as if bowing in reverence to something it didn’t yet understand.
And in the center of the square, the priest raised a jade cup high.
“Let the Choosing begin,” he declared.
But Wukong had already disappeared into the crowd.
The ritual would happen, yes. But not the way they expected.
Fate, after all, doesn’t follow invitations. It enters through the wrong door, unannounced.
And in that moment, it was climbing quiet steps —
toward an attic where the world had never dared to look.
If someone were to ask him what the most beautiful or glorious thing he had ever seen throughout his immortal life was, he would say it was you.
Not the Celestial Kingdom, nor even the countless beautiful mornings and nights he could witness from atop his mountain, could ever compare to how beautiful you were. Even the smallest imperfect detail about you was something beautiful to him.
He would never grow tired of saying it or remembering just how beautiful you were, not even while joking around and calling himself the “Handsome Monkey King.”
But yes, his answer to the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in the entire world would be you.
Quick reminder for fanfic writers both on here and ESPECIALLY on AO3…
If your main character has a name and described appearance, DO NOT use the character x reader tag. Like…seriously.
That is an OC. Use the “x oc” or “x original character” tag. Stop using the “x reader” tag. It will not give you more reach because people looking through the “x reader” tag aren’t going to read it. Three guesses why.
You are also making the filtering system null and void, which is harmful ESPECIALLY for archival sites like ao3 where the tags and filtering system are specifically there to make things easier. It’s basic fandom etiquette guys. Common sense and consideration for others. It won’t kill you to tag things correctly.
"Oh, uh… Do you want to draw with me?" Painter asked, a gentle smile forming on his screen as he looked at you.
You wanted to say yes—you longed to, just like you had done before—but this time it felt physically impossible. Those had been the same words he’d said to you before you took away his passion… and his life.
"No, not today… Besides, I’m terrible at drawing. Maybe another time," you replied, a faint smile on your face as you pulled your hands away from his drawing tablet.
He, on the other hand, just looked at you with a hint of confusion and let out an "okayy," as if the excitement from before had never been there.
You could still remember his screams—how he begged Sebastian for help before Sebastian himself came to find you moments later.
I think I’ve been a bit disconnected here, but I just wanted to let you know I’ll be moving to another account to keep my personal projects and stuff there. I’ll try to post if I have time, just wanted to make the announcement. Thanks for all the support here <3
So I saw that shedletsky x reader 7 min in heaven. So I wanted to ask if we can get a shedletsky x shy fem reader smut, and if u don't do smut u can do suggestive but everyone was playing spin the bottle and it landed on the reader and shedletsky so yes basically another 7 min In heaven
Okay, so… do you know that TikTok trend with the song “7 Minutes in Heaven”? WELLL, I came up with this little scenario and PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEE if someone could write it more fully or just take the idea, my life will be yours forever /j
But seriously, anyone is free to get inspired or use ideas from this (if you do, tag me in the fic .3.)
divider by @/icyporcelain
You forced yourself to take a deep breath and avoid feeling even more pathetic than you already did in this moment.
The floor suddenly looked very interesting, not to say you weren’t desperately trying to focus or cling onto anything that wasn’t Shed’s damn feathers brushing against your skin. His wings took up almost the entire closet and it definitely wasn’t helping you calm your nerves, especially considering your goal was to not make this any more awkward or weird than it already was.
“So.. did I impress you so much you lost sight of me?” Shed teased with that overwhelming confidence he always radiated.
Even though you weren’t looking at him, you knew perfectly well he had that typical smile on his face, which only made you feel even hotter. You clenched your hands into fists, trying to distract yourself with anything that wasn’t him.
“We still have a few minutes left in here… why not make the most of it?” he murmured as he stepped closer to you, placing his hands on your hips while you felt the tips of his feathers twitch slightly — a little flutter, if you had to guess.
You couldn’t help but blush even more, letting yourself sink into the sensation as his brown curls started tickling your nose when he leaned in. He’d brought his face close to the curve of your neck, his breath against your skin sending a chill down your spine you simply couldn’t stop.
Those seven minutes were starting to feel more and more like an eternity.
"So you've only been giving him vegetables every now and then?" you asked the ex-hacker, while stirring the soup in the pot, which was nearly finished cooking.
You noticed how 007 shifted restlessly in his chair, as if any answer he gave you might upset you—whether he meant to or not. You knew he could barely take care of himself, but now, with a child involved... it was different. You couldn’t blame him, nor could you bring yourself to feel angry with him.
"I give him some from time to time, but he's never caught a cold like this—"
"Colds are common, especially if he's been playing in the rain," you cut him off, before he could spiral into stammering or explanations.
You didn’t want to make him feel guilty—far from it. You just wanted to give him a little push, a reminder not to let c00lkidd play out in the rain unsupervised again.
“…Thanks.” He said your name softly in gratitude—so softly you might have missed it, if not for the way he said it.
You didn’t reply right away. Instead, you simply motioned for him to hand you a bowl so you could serve the soup for c00lkidd. The poor kid needed to recover from all the coughing, sniffling, and fever he was going through.
You still remembered how 007 had called you in the middle of the night, worried sick over the sudden spike in fever and the coughing fits that had kept his son up all night. It had stressed you out too—worried for the boy’s well-being. You weren’t exactly close to them, especially considering the tension that still lingered between you and 007 over things from the past. But you also knew he didn’t really have anyone else to turn to. The stress of being a first-time father was clearly weighing on him.
“I’ll stay a little longer to look after the kid. You should try to get some rest now, okay?” you told him, giving him a stern look to make sure he understood—he needed rest just as much.
My friends forced me to play Forsaken and now I’m completely obsessed with the game. I used to regret having 007 as my main because he seemed so "simple," but now I need more content about him, someone give that man a hug please
