Alex Tran wanted to leave, and so they needed a replacement, someone to work under Spencer for Smosh games. enter y/n, an aspiring musician and a fairly niche minecraft youtuber. They had spoken to Anthony once or twice before and he decided that they would be a perfect fit.
The war for the Iron Throne ended not with a final glorious battle, but with smoke curling from Dragonstone and the sound of swords surrendering in the dark. Queen Rhaenyra Targaryenâs banners fell one by one beneath the advance of King Aegon II, until even her own supporters began to abandon her cause. Dragons died screaming from the sky, castles opened their gates to save themselves, and the realm learned quickly which side would survive. By the time the ashes settled across Kingâs Landing, the Blacks had been erased almost entirely from memory. Princes were butchered, loyal lords executed, and women sent to the silent sisters or worse. Rhaenyra herself met a brutal end before the eyes of those unfortunate enough to witness it, leaving only one living remnant of her bloodline behind: her eldest daughter.
Elias Mercer had imagined missionary work differently for most of his life. Growing up in his quiet Utah town, heâd listened to returned missionaries tell stories about tearful conversions, miraculous encounters, and strangers who seemed almost relieved to hear the word of God brought directly to their doorstep. As a boy, Elias had clung to every story. Even as an adult, after years spent delaying his mission to support his family, he held onto the belief that his own experience would feel meaningful in the same way. He thought he would arrive in a new city and immediately know he was where he belonged.
The first time Patrick Hockstetter really noticed Y/n Kaspbrak, she was standing outside the pharmacy on Main Street with a paperback tucked against her chest and her shoulders pulled inward like she was trying to disappear from the world around her. It was late summer, the kind of sticky Derry heat that made everyone irritable, and Patrick had only been there because Belch wanted cigarettes. He recognized her immediately anywayâEddie Kaspbrakâs older sister, the quiet one. She had always been strange in the way prey animals were strange: too still, too careful, eyes always darting around like she expected someone to hurt her. Years earlier Patrick had been one of those people. He barely remembered the exact details anymore, only vague flashes of cornering her near the schoolyard fence, making her cry because sheâd dropped her books while trying to get away from him. At the time heâd thought the fear on her face was funny.
about a year ago Victor Zsasz and y/n started dating, nowadays y/n lives in his apartments full time not leaving unless itâs with him. itâs a gilded cage but lately itâs starting to feel more like cage than before.
They grew up like two people who never quite learned where the line was supposed to be between friendship and something softer, something more dangerous. Gary Barkovitch and Y/N had known each other since they were small enough to share snacks without thinking about it, since scraped knees and schoolyard dares and the kind of loyalty that didnât need naming. Somewhere along the way, it shifted. Not into anything openly confessed, not into anything allowed to settle into words, but into lingering glances that lasted a second too long, into standing closer than necessary, into arguments that felt like foreplay for emotions neither of them had vocabulary for. Everyone around them assumed it was just closeness. They didnât correct anyone.
after Criston cole was left humilated from the cruel rejection of the princess Rhaenyra he thought heâd never love again. he never wanted to love again, it was against the vow he took. however when his eyes cast to hers he felt time stop, and he knew he was whipped.
The first time the wind was knocked out of her lungs, she was seven years old falling down the stairs of her familyâs new house in Sarasota Springs. The second time happened twenty years later backstage at a sold-out show in Midtown Manhattan. One second she was sitting at her dressing table while her band prepared for the show, and the next something invisible crushed the air from her chest so violently she couldnât breathe. Suddenly she wasnât backstage anymore. She was twenty-two again, standing in the middle of a dimly lit 7/11 parking lot while Robby Reynolds glared at her beneath flickering neon lights. âYou canât just leave,â her younger self shouted through tears. Robby looked exhausted, hollowed out by years of addiction and self-destruction. He had sold nearly everything he owned and bought a one-way ticket to Malaysia leaving in a few hours. No plan. No money. Just distance. âYou always think you can save me,â he spat when she begged him to stay. Then came the cruelty. He told her she was pathetic for wasting years trying to fix somebody who was always going to be broken. Even then, she knew he didnât fully mean it. Robby had always pushed people away before they could leave him first. Still, she snapped too. âYouâre exactly like your father,â she hissed. His expression cracked for only a second before the wall came back up. âYeah,â he muttered coldly. âMaybe I am.â He turned toward the airport bus while she screamed after him through tears, suddenly realizing she was no longer inside the memory but watching it. âDonât let him go,â she begged helplessly. But memories couldnât be changed. When she opened her eyes again, she was lying backstage surrounded by chaos. Crew members cried while televisions blared reports about people across the world suddenly reliving traumatic memories. Then she looked up and saw him standing behind a government podium onscreen. Robby. Older now. Cleaner. Alive. For years sheâd convinced herself he was dead. The shock nearly knocked her flat again. She met Robby when she was seven years old after moving to Florida from Virginia. She fell in love with him slowly through shared bus rides, scraped knees, and quiet afternoons spent hiding from the world together. But even as children she understood there was sadness living inside him. Robby grew up trapped in an abusive home ruled by his fatherâs drinking and violence. Her family tried to help where they could, letting him spend more time at their house than his own, but eventually he always had to go back home. After a serious car accident at thirteen left him injured, doctors prescribed painkillers during his recovery. One night he admitted to her quietly, âThe pills make everything stop hurting.â At first she thought he meant the physical pain. Later she realized he meant all of it. The fear, the anxiety, the constant dread of home. Over the next few years she watched him disappear piece by piece. He skipped school, vanished for days at a time, and slowly became somebody she barely recognized. Meanwhile she threw herself into songwriting and performing, eventually building a growing online following that turned into a real music career. They kept finding each other again over the years in brief, messy reunions that always ended the same way â with addiction pulling him away from her again. At eighteen, after one of her songs went viral, Robby overdosed alone in his apartment and was later arrested for possession. Sitting across from her behind county jail glass, he apologized softly before telling her he couldnât come with her when she begged him to leave town and start over. That was the closest he ever came to admitting he loved her too. Years later, after her career exploded into sold-out tours and magazine interviews, she ran into him again during a trip home. For a few hours things almost felt normal as they walked along the beach together beneath the stars. Then he admitted he was leaving for Malaysia in only a few hours. The fight that followed destroyed whatever remained between them. She accused him of throwing his life away. He accused her of loving broken people because it made her feel needed. Then he boarded the airport bus and disappeared from her life completely. Now, staring at the television backstage in Manhattan, she couldnât stop shaking as reporters shouted questions at the man she thought sheâd lost forever. Despite everything â the addiction, the years apart, the cruel final fight â seeing Robby again made her feel exactly like the lonely little girl who met the broken boy next door and loved him long before she understood what that would cost her.
The snow had started sometime after midnight. By sunrise, the gas station was buried beneath slush and frozen tire tracks, fluorescent lights buzzing weakly against the gray winter sky. Trucks rolled in and out constantly, engines growling low enough to shake the pavement. Nobody paid attention to the figure curled beside the ice machine near the wall. Y/N had learned quickly that becoming invisible was easier than being pitied. At nineteen, they already looked exhausted in the way people twice their age usually did. Their coat was too thin for the weather, their shoes soaked through, and their backpack stayed clutched tightly against their chest even while they slept.
the doctor loved the idea of the human centipede of course, that never changedâ he still actively tried to make that happen however he had another experiment⌠patientâŚ. friend. Y/N. this project was nothing like his other.
Tokio Hotel should have been focused entirely on the tour. After months away from the stage, the band was finally preparing for another international run filled with sold out venues, endless rehearsals, and sleepless travel days. Management wanted everything finalized before the first show, but one problem continued hanging over rehearsals. They still did not have an opening act.
For over six years, Y/N had been orbiting Swift Treweekeâs chaotic universe like a dedicated satellite. Theyâd discovered him during the raw, unfiltered Butchers Harem eraâthose grotesque, hilarious, and merciless tracks that felt like being punched in the face by a clown with a chainsaw. From there it was Suicidal Rap Orgy, the early Passenger of Shit experiments, and every deranged release that followed. While most people dipped in and out of Swiftâs catalogue for shock value, Y/N stayed. They collected the limited Shitwank Records pressings, showed up to every Sydney and Melbourne gig they could reach, and screamed every obscene lyric like it was scripture. Swift noticed. In the beginning Y/N had been an awkward, wide-eyed teenager lingering near the merch table, too nervous to say much beyond a mumbled âsick set.â He remembered the oversized hoodie that swallowed their frame and the way theyâd blush when he actually spoke to them. Over the years the hoodie came off. The nervous shuffle became a confident stride. The mumbled compliments turned into sharp, witty banter that made him laugh harder than he expected. They grew up in real time across his career, and somewhere along the way, Swift stopped seeing them as just another fan. He really noticed. The night everything shifted was after a brutal, sweat-drenched Passenger of Shit set at a tiny, illegal warehouse venue in western Sydney. The air reeked of smoke machines, spilled beer, and something faintly like battery acid. Swift had been on fireâscreaming, ranting, dropping 400 BPM terror alongside his signature toilet humourâand Y/N had been right up front, drenched in sweat, grinning like a maniac. After the set, the usual haze of cheap vodka, warm beer, and whatever pills were doing the rounds pulled them both into the same chaotic afterparty. They talked for hours. Not the polite fan-artist conversation theyâd had before, but something rawer. Swift found himself actually listening when Y/N spoke about how his music had been the soundtrack to their most unhinged, lonely, and liberated moments. He told them things he rarely admittedâhow exhausting it was to keep the Passenger of Shit mask bolted on, how sometimes even he wondered if heâd gone too far. The laughter between them grew louder, easier, drunker. Then came the blur.
Hunter always knew he was into dudes, even though he never admitted it, the room full of posters of shirtless men were a big giveaway. hell, he had even had a crush on Kevin for the longest time.
The first thing Billy Stebbins noticed about them was the way they flinched at the gunshots. Not dramatically â they didnât scream or cover their ears like some of the spectators lining the roadsides â but small, sharp reactions they clearly tried to hide. Their shoulders tensed, their fingers curled around the edge of the truck bed, and their eyes squeezed shut for a moment too long whenever a rifle cracked through the air. The first day of the Long Walk still carried too much energy for most people to notice things like that. The boys were loud, talking over each other and laughing too hard, still pretending exhaustion hadnât begun settling into their bones. Billy stayed apart from them as usual, pale blond hair falling into his eyes while he walked near the edge of the road beside the convoy. Most of the others found him unsettling after a while. He could always tell when conversations died around him. But the figure sitting curled in the back of the command truck caught his attention immediately. They looked soft in a place that had no softness left in it. Too gentle for the Long Walk, too visibly upset by it all. Billy found himself watching them more than he watched the crowds. Eventually they noticed and looked away so quickly it almost made him smile.
y/n was a maid. thatâs all they were ever supposed to be. they were born into a serving family, they had a serving childhood, they started working for the palace when they were a mere child cleaning the steps to the castle before dawn.