#��� petri writes

[petrichor-idyllic]

Can u do Minho x reader where reader is just gawking at minhos arms and he catches her 🤭 it can be a gender neutral reader with spice ☝🏽

Alright, alright, I know, I have been very MIA, very sorry, life is a lot atm.

But this request is an easy one, so I'm tryna get through the easy ones. (Totally not cause I'm procrastinating a massive request and have fallen back into my OBX phase or anything shhh)

BEST FEATURE

MASTERLIST | MINHO MASTERLIST

SUMMARY: See above. GN! Reader x Minho. Takes place before the arrival of Thomas.

WARNINGS: Inappropriate language, you're a simp, sorry, spice.

You like to pretend that you're a level headed and controlled person. That things such as desire or general human nature don't faze you and you're focused on work and helping around the Glade.

And, for the most part - that is completely believable.

Mainly because Minho is always out in the Maze. Thank God.

Because every time you guys are in the same room, you can't take your eyes off of him. His shoulders, his back, his weirdly perfect hair, that stupid blue shirt that just clings to him in the best way- and his arms.

(Something you and a specific future Greenie and ex-WCKD member would have in common.)

His arms.

His fucking arms, man.

You just can't help yourself. He walks back into the Glade every day, sweaty and dishevelled, his blue shirt sleeves rolled up as he casually glances at you as he walks past. Sometimes, you swear he walks past you on purpose .

Newt suspects you purposely hang around the Map Room so he has to.

It's been months, and you just can't seem to force yourself to get over it. You've tried, but Minho is the hottest guy in the Glade.

You're fucked, basically.

That is no different when it comes to Bonfire night. A new Greenie pops up, every gets hammered, Gally gets in a fight, Alby looks like he's gonna have a stroke.

But it's all in good fun.

Minho doesn't normally join in the festivities. He's a very stressed individual. Sometimes, you think about attempting to convince him to join in so he can let off some steam, but you don't.

I mean, most of your thoughts are about him letting off some steam. If you get what I mean.

But, this specific night, somehow, Newt, the absolute Lord and saviour he is, has managed to convince Minho to play a game of beer pong.

Well, not beer pong, but "Gally's suspicious special brew pong" is a bit of a mouthful.

You sit at the sides with a couple of boys, watching Minho laugh along as he throws a ball (a screwed up piece of tinfoil) into a cup across the table. Cheers break out in his success, but you just stare.

Minho's arms flex under his shirt, the curve of his upper arm visible through his shirt, his forearm tenses as he goes to throw the ball agsin you swear you can see the blood pumping veins from here.

"You're drooling, mate." You're snapped back to reality as you look at Newt, who passes you a drink.

"Huh?" You catch on. "What? No - I'm not." You attempt to lie, but the heat rising through your face is a bit of a hint.

"Yeah - you are. As always."

"What? What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know what it means." You look away in respond, groaning as you rub your face with your hands.

"Shut up."

Newt snorts at this, rubbing your back with a mocking "There, there."

You want to punch him.

"Yo, (Y/N)!" You look up, heat rising in your face as Minho shouts you. "Ben just bailed on us, you wanna take his place?"

You open your mouth to speak, but your words catch in your throat, causing Newt to cringe in second hand embarrassment.

"Jesus Christ," he mumbles. "Yeah! They'd love to join." He nudges you. "Right?"

You clearly your throat. "Uh, yeah? Yeah."

Minho chuckles at this. "Come on, then."

You look at Newt again, as he nods his head to go join. Awkwardly, you stand up, walking over to join Minho's team.

"You know how to play?" He asks you.

"Uh, yeah- yeah, I know how to play." You attempt to sound confident.

"Cool - I should shuckin' hope so, you've been watching like a hawk." Oh God, he noticed. He noticed you staring. Hopefully, you can play it off as just being interested in the game.

"Y-yeah. Looked like you guys were having fun."

Please don't notice. Please don't notice. Please don't notice.

Please.

Minho's eyes flicker down you, almost like he's examining you, but also like he's drinking in your appearance, a slight smirk playing on his lips before he looks you in the eyes again. "Uh, huh."

Oh, God.

You immediately look away as another Glader passes you the ball for your turn. You miss, instantly as your body feels flushed, and then the game continues.

This goes on for quite some time.

You would think that any normal person would look away, now. I mean, Minho has noticed and Newt is undoubtedly going to bully you for it later. But, you are not that person, and you just can't help yourself.

Up close and personal, Minho looks like a God carved him out of stone. And when it's his turn, your eyes fall on his arms.

Because of course they do.

The way he rolls his sleeves up further, his muscles tensing, his veins flexing as you follow them down his forearms and down the back of his strong hands. You're seeing stars and your brain feels fuzzy.

"You good?" Minho's voice snaps you back to reality once again. Your eyes flicker to his face, his eyes narrowing as a smirk creeps across his face.

"Yep."

"You were staring."

"No, I wasn't." You say a bit too quickly, making his smirk turn into a grin.

"You sure about that? Positive you were just, checking me out?"

You blink at him, your face rising in heat.

"Yo," Clint snorts, having been also playing the game. "You were perving on Minho?" He drapes an arm over your shoulder, clearly drunk, but the implication making you more flustered.

"What? N-no. No. I wasn't."

"Mhm - I'm sure he doesn't mind." Clint snorts.

"Yeah, I don't mind." Minho agrees, grinning.

"I wasn't!" You attempt to defend yourself. "Ugh, shuck this." You grow irritated, shoving Clint's arm off. "I've had enough of this game."

You say, starting to walk away.

"What?" Minho's smile drops as he shouts after you. "We were just messing around! (Y/N)!" He huffs, dropping his head, watching you walk away. "Shuck's sake." He mumbles under his breath.

Newt, who has been watching the whole thing, stands from his seat and walks over. "Go on."

"What?" Minho asks.

"Go after them. I'll take your spot."

"Dude- why would I-?"

"Shut up, shank - you know you're just as bad."

Minho freezes at this, blinking at Newt.

Well, he's not wrong.

Minho has been listing after you for about just as long as you have him. And Newt has more social awareness skills than the both of you combined.

Minho huffs, but he turns on his heels, following after you, jogging to catch up as you make your way to the Deadheads.

"Yo! Hey! Wait up!" He says, slowing to a walk.

"Why? So, you can bully me again because you thought I was checking you out?" You snarl, mainly out of pure embarrassment.

"...But you were checking me out."

"No-"

"Yes."

"Fine! Whatever!" You throw your hands up in frustration. "I was checking you out! Big shuckin' deal! I can't help it, okay?"

Minho blinks, not expecting the sudden out burst. "Okay."

"Okay? Cool, okay? It's not my fault that you're hot, okay? A-and it's not fair that you look that good! All the time! Like, how is that fair? And how the fuck is your hair always flawless? You run for miles everyday - and somehow, you look like you've escaped Vogue! And your arms... how am I meant to even pretend to cope, you prick?"

Minho blankly stands there. "You done?"

You blink at him. "Yeah, I think so."

Minho slowly nods, stepping towards you as you both stand near the edge of the Deadheads, the drama of the Bonfire a now distant memory as he stands in front of you. He's so close and tall and generally intimidating in a way you shouldn't find attractive.

"So, you like my arms, then?" Minho acts, clearly enjoying the not needed ego boost. All you can do is blankly look at him.

What the hell is happening here?

"Do you?" You nod in response, slowly and unsure. "Okay, you can touch them, if you want?"

Your brain has melted and burnt. "...What?"

Minho huffs, simply grabbing your hand and putting it on his arm. You eyelids flutter, swapping between his face and his arm. "Don't be scared." He murmers.

Slowly, you drag your fingers down the fabric of his sun faded blue button up over his bicep, feeling the muscle and the curves of his left arm, tracing delicate shapes over the material. You move further down, passing the threshold where the fabric stops and the bare skin of his forearm starts.

To your surprise, Minho's breath hitches slightly at the contact. This is the first time you've ever touched him, and even he didn't expect the feeling to send chills down his spine and goosebumps dance on his skin. Your palm contacts with his forearm, rubbing down to his hand, feeling the visible veins as he creeps closer to you.

Your eyes go from his arm to his face, flickering to his lips as he stands directly in front of you. He becomes bold, raising his arm, your hand still loosely around his wrist as he touches your cheek. Slowly, he closes the gap.

Your chest feels like it's about to explode as his lips comnect with yours. He breaks the kiss, trying to figure out your reaction, but when you kiss him again, he takes the hint.

He's slightly taken aback from the passion and the heat, humming against your lips unintentionally as he kisses back. You're letting out the months of tension you've been feeling, your hands coming around his shoulders, feeling the muscles and caressing the tops of his arms as he backs you into a tree.

You gasp, your back hitting the back as he pushes his body against, his hands grasping at your sides. It seems that the kiss gave him all the answers he needed. His hands move down before slipping under your shirt and brushing at your bare skin - almost like he's becoming desperate for direct contact.

Pushing yourself forward, you can already feel Minho through his trousers, the kiss already getting him worked up.

For a second, you genuinely consider just letting him take you then and there when Newt clears his throat.

You both snap in the direction of the blond boy. Minho's chest rises and falls as you look away, using Minho's shoulder to hide yourself from your friend.

"As much as I hate to interrupt - but let's be real, this has been a long time coming, the others want you back at the game because apparently I have klunky aim." Newt shoves his hands in his pockets, casually rocking on his heels.

"Are you serious, right now?" Minho asks as you pant into his shoulder, clearly able to maintain his composure better than you.

"Yeah." Newt responds. "And I don't think Alby will be happy if he finds his favourite Runner fooling around in public."

Minho looks at him, before dropping his head. "Alright, give me a second."

"What? Need a moment to calm down?" Newt teases.

"Shut your shank mouth."

Even you can't help but chuckle at this as Minho starts to grin before sighing and stepping back. "I'll uh, I'll catch you later, maybe?"

A half-smile creeps across your face and you nod, your heart banging against your ribcage. "Yeah - yeah, sounds good."

"Good that." He slowly steps back, smiling at you as he walks over to Newt.

"You good?" Newt snickers at his friend. "Sure you can walk straight so lightheaded? I mean, lack of blood to the brain is a bad thing. Especially when-"

"Shut the shuck up, Newt."

Ahhhh I'm back. Kinda.

Don't bet on it.

But anyway, I've actually written something for the first time in weeks.

Hope y'all enjoy :))

[robinmage]

i know this scene is notoriously awkward but like. knowing elias' character now and looking back, personally to me this scene is really just giving "new puppy! this is your house! this is where you eat! this is where you sleep! this is where you bathe! this is magic! those are fairies! welcome home!!!"

for a guy who is considered so stoic and uncaring by literally everyone else, he seems real talkative and excited to have some new company

was going to keep these in the tags but they got too long sorry lol

[petrichoraline]

[bardic-inspo]

I'm becoming more and more enamored with the idea of Ascended Astarion becoming an accidental/unintentional service dom because either:

1. If you enjoy the vampire bride/groom lore/angle, Astarion's happiness becomes partially dependent on that of his consort (potentially with a more direct mental link), and he learns making them happy isn't actually that hard, and when he does, it hits him like cocaine and he ends up spending all of his time chasing that high.

2. If you don't subscribe to that lore, there's also the angle of love being twisted into obsession for vampires. He will be taking over the world, of course, but first, he MUST make sure his consort has the prettiest outfits. Every single day. (He has an eternity to dominate the universe, what's the rush?)

And in either scenario, coupled with his smooth brain/lack of strategic planning, he never really does fulfill the big bad evil villain endgame because he's too busy conquering his consort's every whim (the exception being any request for becoming a 'true' vampire, which I just don't see him entertaining, but that's just me!). But if you prod him about his big evil plans, he'll become very grumpy and mutter something about how his grand plan is definitely in motion, you don't even know!!

(This all makes me think of the A!A epilogue dialogue if you ask him about freedom, and he rants about all the things he's made sure you have/how he'll see you living your best life no matter what). 👀

[revelisms]

His hands are not delicate—though he carries himself with the ease of someone whose should be; lazes pirouettes the way the wind may caress a sheet of silk; treads footpaths with feline-footed grace.

No, his hands are not delicate. Not velvet-touched, not pianist-thin, not gentle—though he tries.

The years have worn on him. Liquored lines and tobaccoed stains and eyes that have seen too much by cursed magic and stolen youth both. Chipped nails that have dragged a body of bones from a pit of dissolution, cracked fingertips that have bled off battered keyboards more than the ritual twists of their blessed knives, strong forearms and shoulders that carry a boulder of a world and the hand-stitched cloak of a king on his back.

He is harsh wrinkles and harsher laughs: hair dark as pitch scattered across his brow, in brows sharp as shards, on arms and wrists and down down down the silk-sliced V's of his shirts: a body that is rugged in its refinery, was built for brick and stone more than a stage, is a fanged beast chained in a royal's beauty—

But, oh, is he beautiful.

Crooked smiles, snaggle-toothed canines, white as moonlight and Devilish to match. The Morning Star, indeed, with the glitter he beckons in every purr. Hugs that smother with a furnace's warmth, and nuzzle like a stray after a kind hand.

He didn't ask for this. Mangled opposites in a jeweled coffin. Soft and harsh angles at every turn, every feature, every crushed-gravel honey-sweet silkened breath.

He picks at cigarette marks on half-callused fingertips and nips at nails painted black. Scrubs and scrubs his palm over the brushwork of black down his arm. Stuffs his knuckles into the crook of his elbow, swallowing and fidgeting and twitch-smiled in a body that is so small for the endlessness of him, so finite for a soul straining to be infinite.

Demon and man and not quite either. 

Not quite anything, at all.

It feels like the eye of a storm, most days; like standing at the green-grassed edge of a cliff: the kind cool and rain-misted and violent, overwhelming in its limitless—sea and horizon and plummeting life and death, so tangled together in their divinity, their wildness. 

One wrong step and down down down one goes—back to the violent crash of the sea. To the sands where all were born.

Back to the winds that must have carried him here.

He stands at those cliffsides, often—the broiling engine of his car still ticking in its click-keyed silence, a lazing heat of metal and gloss against his legs—eyeing the edge of the world with an eye that has Seen it all and seen nothing, in turns; that is steadfast on seeing This, for only a moment.

A twist of a ring around his finger. Smoke on his breath. Not his father, not his mother, not Papa, now—not here.

Just a soul mangled in the binds of his own flesh.

A lifetime of restless tides.

Amalgamations of contrasts, spun by hands that could kill as easy as they could bless, that are not gentle—though he tries.

His fingers twitch over his sleeves.

Hell, he tries.

terzo / contrasts

[theprinceandthewitch]

TOH is so incredibly fanficy, despite being an original show.

I really won't get over how they made Huntlow a thing and wasted a full hourish episode to make it happen.

Frankly, it's nbd for Willow to date someone by the time the story ends. Her dating someone doesn't kneecap her story. But Hunter dating her definitely kneecaps his, because Willow is not relevant to the whole Caleb/Evelyn and Philip drama like Luz is.

It makes no sense, from a narrative standpoint, to have Hunter like Willow. It feels like they really wanted to give Willow a love interest and Hunter was the only option they had to work with.

With Hunter it's like... him getting a witch love interest is something that pretty much needs to happen from a narrative standpoint.... but Willow isn't that LI. The only character who fits Evelyn's themes is Luz. He and Luz are the "Caleb" and "Evelyn" in this story - no other character's fit these roles like they do.

"But TOH is a tragedy -"

"But TOH is a subversion of romantic-"

TBH I really don't want to hear how TOH is a romantic tragedy or a subversion of romantic expectations because... it isn't. I have read romantic tragedies and subversions and this isn't paced like either. They also put a whole ass Lunter kiss in a spoiler episode, so I really don't think they were planning on making TOH a subversion of romantic expectations or writing Luz's and Hunter's romance as a tragic one.

See, this pairing is extremely confusing to me, because if they actually were planning on Hunter and Willow being a thing from the beginning and not Hunter and Luz, then Willow would have been written into all of Luz's and Hunter's episodes - which just so happen to be his important character arc moments [ST, HP and HM].

But... they don't do that, like at all lmao. I'm also not a fan of Hunter's friendship with Willow and Gus, but that's a discussion for another time.

[adhd-coyote]

486 words of Petrichor, the clone trooper oc from this post

Cross-posted on AO3!

“Petrichor.”

The word rolls off his tongue and dissolves into the quiet air of his sleeping tube. Even after the sound fades, he can see the letters dancing in front of his eyes, bright against the pitch black darkness.

“Petrichor.”

He likes the way it sounds, the shape his mouth makes when he says it. It feels gentle. Something that is unheard of under the harsh expectations of the longnecks. Something that is not allowed. Soldiers are not gentle. Good ones aren’t, at least. And if you aren’t a good soldier, you’re defective. The longnecks don’t like defects.

“Petrichor.”

He’s already defective. Blond hair sets him apart from his vode. Only his high scores keep him from being decommissioned. He can’t afford another defect.

“Petrichor.”

But he wants to be gentle. He wants his hands to be kind and his voice to be soft. He doesn’t want to be a soldier. But if he is not a soldier, then he is dead.

“Petrichor.”

Noun. A distinctive scent that lingers after rainfall, particularly on dry soil or rock. Typically described as sweet, earthy and pleasant.

“Petrichor.”

It’s always raining on Kamino. There is no “after.” There is no dry ground for it to land on, no earth for him to compare the scent to. He has heard of “sweet,” but has never tasted or smelled it himself. And there aren’t many things he would call “pleasant” here. Certainly no pleasant smells.

“Petrichor.”

He wants to know what “after rainfall” smells like. What it feels like. Do the clouds linger, or do they vanish with the rain? How quickly does the ground dry? Is the air cold? Warm? He hopes it’s warm. Other than his vode, there aren’t many warm things on Kamino. Does the warmth after rain feel like the warmth of a vod’s skin? Or is it an entirely different sensation? He wants to know.

“Petrichor.”

Some small part of him hopes that by repeating the word enough times, he can summon the scent in this small, cramped tube of his. He knows that part of him is delusional, but little gods, how he wishes it wasn’t.

“Petrichor.”

Plenty of vode name themselves after things they want. Want to do, to have, to experience, to be. Sunshine, Caver, Firefly, Scholar, Spice, Meadow, Freefall, Artist, Sandy. Maybe he can be Petrichor. Maybe he can be the scent that lingers after rainfall.

“My name is Petrichor.”

The words send warmth sparking through his chest and dancing along his limbs. He feels his lips curl into a smile as he repeats them.

“My name is Petrichor. Pe-tri-chor. My name is Petrichor.”

It’s sleep cycle, so he can’t tell his batchmates yet. But it will be the first thing he says to them in the morning. He hopes they approve.

“My name is Petrichor.”

Petrichor closes his eyes and allows the muffled sound of Kamino rain to lull him to sleep.

[yunyunah]

can I interest you in a new Niji ship

I am open to constructive criticism

[oh-surprise-its-me]

Jamie on their couch watching reruns of last nights match. He couldn’t care that they lost though. He’s winning. He has his daughter sitting on his chest, her baby shampoo from her bath time still swirling in the air.

He can hear Roy in the kitchen making a bottle for their kid. Their kid!! They have a kid!! Jamie still can’t believe it half the time.

Roy comes back into their living room, passing the bottle to Jamie and sitting. Jamie switches around so he can lean against Roy while feeding Rosemary. A position they do quite often.

While their little 8 month old drinks, Jamie leans back and bites Roy’s jaw. Roy let’s put a quiet growl but all it does it make Rosie smile.

Jamie looks at Rosemary, he doesn’t understand how his dad could’ve possibly been so mean to such a small thing because that’s all Jamie was, he was this small once. His dad held him like this once. But it doesn’t matter now. Jamie has had a restraining order since they first talked about kids. His father is officially out of his life permanently.

He shakes those thoughts away. He’s looking forward to tonight. Almost a full three days off, Rosie is fully sleeping through the night, and with the most expensive baby monitor they can buy they finally have free time.

The things on Jamie’s agenda are.

Paint nails. Take shower with Roy. Do literally everything with Roy. Don’t let Roy out of sight until the next morning. Cuddle (and more) with Roy.

But right now as he looks down to Roy’s finger in Rosemary’s hand, he’s happy where he is.

[kingdomvel]

Assisted Reproduction AU

This was inspired by my experience in the lab this week (so I may get a bit sciency, sorry) and developed between @somethingsteff (some words here are directly hers, I can’t take credit for all) and yours truly through messages.

So in this au, Obi-Wan and Satine are friends, and Satine wants to have a son, or daughter, she doesn't care, but she wants to have a child and either she is a lesbian or she doesn’t have a partner, so she talks about it with Obi-Wan. They decide that, even if they are 100% not interested in a relationship with each other, this is 2024, times have changed, and they are not getting any younger, and both of them have wanted to be parents for a while, and Obi-Wan can’t imagine finding someone he wants to be a parent with in the near future, so they decide to be coparents.

After a doctor meeting to talk about their options Obi-Wan comes back to the hospital alone, because Satine was busy and it’s not like she is needed. This appointment is for Obi-Wan to take a semen sample, the first of many, so they can check the number, quality and mobility of his sperm cells to better assess their options. And while he is there at the doctor’s office, answering questions about how no, it’s not that they have been trying and couldn’t conceive, they are just friends and no, he doesn’t have any previous children, there is one boy sitting behind the doctor all through it. The badge on his lab coat marks him as a student but he is not paying attention to what the doctor is saying – which Obi-Wan is pretty sure he should be doing – he is looking at Obi-Wan. His eyes don’t stray for one second from Obi-Wan, his gaze intense to the point Obi-Wan should be uncomfortable, but he can’t find himself not appreciating the attention.

When it’s time to take the sample Obi-Wan is taking long, too long. Anakin is waiting in the lab for the hot man who for some divine reason hasn’t come here married and wishing to have a baby with his wife but is single to bring his sample, but the man is not coming (in every sense of the word, Anakin guesses). It’s been 45 minutes and from experience, Anakin knows that people normally take between 15 to 20 minutes, so either this man has some incredible stamina (and isn’t that a thought) or there is something wrong. There are some people that get nervous, Anakin guesses not everyone is comfortable jerking off in a setting where everyone knows you are masturbating a couple of rooms away and is then going to judge your sperm. The moment the doctor mentions that they should probably check that everything’s alright with Obi-Wan, Anakin jumps out from his chair. He says that he was planning to go to the cafeteria for some coffee, so he will just stop by to check on him on the way.

Anakin goes to the place where Obi-Wan is currently trying to take the sample, to masturbate, the door thankfully hidden from privy eyes inside another room, and knocks on the door.

“hey, are you alright in there?”

“Yes, everything is fine.”

“Are you sure? You can go take a walk to clear your head if you need, or I can get you some visual help?”

Obi-Wan is completely mortified because this should be the easy part of the process, he just needs to masturbate and come inside a tube, nothing complicated, and he is failing enough that the student intern is asking him if he should get some porn for him. “No, I am fine, don’t worry, I will be out in no time.”

“Do you want some… actual help?”

That startles Obi-Wan enough that he opens the door. “Excuse me?”

“I can help you, you know, if you need me to.”

“Isn’t that completely illegal?”

“Maybe, but I’m only a student, and you are very hot, and you said you are single so…” he smirks and comes in the room, closing the door behind him, “why? You thinking of taking up my offer?”

So Anakin helps Obi-Wan take the sample, and then comes back to the lab all smug before Obi-Wan comes to leave his sample, equal parts mortified and smug/satisfied/flirty because damn, Anakin is hot, and he feels lucky he got a hand job from him.

The next time Obi-Wan has to see the doctor, he insists Satine doesn’t need to come with him, and Satine looks at him with a bit of suspicion but she agrees. The moment it’s time for him to take the sample, Anakin makes his excuses and makes his way to Obi-Wan again. Maybe this time he gets a hand job himself in return.

In between doctor visits and Anakin maybe very illegally getting Obi-Wan’s number, they start dating, and Anakin becomes the third parent of a very non-traditional family.

Years down the line, when the baby is now a sixteen? Seventeen? Year old boy called Korkie, Anakin makes an off comment of “of course, you’re my kid after all”.

“Uh, Uncle Anakin, I know this is a non-traditional family but that’s not really true.”

“Sure it is, I was there when you were conceived.”

Obi-Wan and Satine - because Obi-Wan told her about how the samples were obtained a few months down his relationship with Anakin after one too many glasses of wine because Satine insisted he had to drink for the both of them, and they both agreed to never tell Korkie about that – immediately think about the hand jobs and exclaim “ANAKIN” “ANAKIN YOU CAN’T TELL HIM THAT”

Obi-Wan, “and that’s not exactly true.”

Satine, “I met Anakin AFTER I was pregnant with you.”

And Anakin, who had never told Obi-Wan and Satine that he had helped with the in vitro in the lab because he thought it was obvious that he did is like, “what? But I WAS there”

“That doesn’t count”

“What do you mean it doesn’t count, I saw his fertilization, I took care of him before he was inside you, I am like his second mum.”

And everyone else in the room is like “wot”

“I thought you were just a student?”

“Yeah? That’s why I was doing all that stuff? I had to learn the whole process, I even picked him out for you -you are welcome - and thanks to Obi-Wan I saw every. Single. Step.” He finishes with a smirk.

“ANAKIN”

(Korkie catches the meaning of that and promptly gets out of the room)

Whenever Korkie acts up, Anakin just tells him “when you were a clump of cells you didn’t give me this attitude.”

[coraniaid]

Who do you think tended to be consistently the strongest and weakest writers on the Buffy staff? [With the obvious caveat that TV writing is collaborative of course.]

Looking only at writers who are credited with at least five episodes so that we've got a decent sized sample of their writing (and, as you say, pretending for the sake of the argument that each episode was written entirely by the writer named in its credits), our long list is:

Dean Batali and Rob Des Hotel co-wrote five episodes together, starting with Season 1's Never Kill A Boy On The First Date and ending with Season 2's Killed By Death

Jane Espenson wrote twenty-three episodes, starting with Season 3's Band Candy and ending with Season 7's End Of Days (co-written with Doug Petrie)

David Fury wrote seventeen episodes, starting with Season 2's Go Fish (co-written with Elin Hampton) and ending with Season 7's Lies My Parents Told Me (co-written with Drew Goddard)

Drew Goddard wrote or co-wrote five episodes, all in Season 7, starting with Selfless and ending with Dirty Girls.

Drew Z. Greenberg wrote six episodes, starting with Season 6's Smashed and ending with Season 7's Empty Places

David Greenwalt wrote eight episodes, starting with Season 1's Teacher's Pet and ending with Season 3's Homecoming

Rebecca Rand Kirshner wrote eight episodes, starting with Season 5's Out Of My Mind and ending with Season 7's Touched

Steven S. Knight wrote five episodes, starting with Season 5's Blood Ties and ending with Season 6's Seeing Red

Marti Noxon wrote twenty-three episodes, starting with Season 2's What's My Line? (Part 1) (co-written with Howard Gordon) and ending with Season 7's Bring On The Night (co-written with Doug Petrie)

Doug Petrie wrote seventeen episodes, starting with Season 3's Revelations and ending with Season 7's End Of Days (co-written with Jane Espenson)

Joss Whedon wrote twenty-seven episodes, starting with Season 1's Welcome to the Hellmouth and ending with Season 7's Chosen

Unfortunately for people who like to claim that being a good person and being a good artist are correlated, I think it's pretty much indisputable that Joss Whedon was consistently the best Buffy writer. As well as every season opener and season finale except for Season 5's Buffy vs Dracula and both Season 6's Bargaining and Grave, Whedon-written episodes include Lie To Me, Innocence, Doppelgangland, Hush, Who Are You?, Family, The Body and Once More With Feeling. You could easily make a plausible top ten of Buffy episodes without picking episodes written by anybody else.

It's true that Whedon has a very particular style, that his characters all tend to default to speaking in a certain way and that he is a lot better at mood and metaphor than tight, multi-layed plotting. I'm not sure this is an approach that necessarily works well outside of the show (as well as easy targets like Avengers 2 or Whedon's bizarre Wonder Woman script or whatever was going on in the post-Chosen comics, I should admit I don't think fan-favorite Firefly is very good either), and by all accounts he's a pretty terrible human being as well, but as a writer on Buffy I think his work is consistently very good. The worst Whedon-written episodes are probably the opening two parter, Welcome to the Hellmouth/The Harvest, Season 1's Nightmares and Season 3's Amends, and I think it's a stretch to call any of them bad episodes.

Of the other good Buffy writers ... well, I wouldn't be much of a Faith fan if I didn't mention Doug Petrie (whose best episodes include Revelations, This Year's Girl, No Place Like Home and Fool For Love), but I think his Season 6 and Season 7 episodes are quite a bit weaker. I'm not a huge fan of Season 4's The Initiative either.

Marti Noxon had as big an influence as anyone on the show other than Whedon, but 'consistent' is not the word I'd use to describe her. Her best epsiodes (I Only Have Eyes For You, Consequences, The Prom, Forever, Bargaining) are fantastic, her worst ... well, she wrote the worst two episodes of Season 3 (Dead Man's Party and Beauty and the Beasts), she wrote Buffy vs Dracula (which I know some people love but I can't stand at all) and she wrote (or cowrote) Bewitched, Bothered & Bewildered and Doomed and Into the Woods (all three of which, I think, would be in the running for a list of the show's worst ten episodes).

I think Petrie and Noxon are probably the show's best two writers after Whedon. I know a lot of people really rate Jane Espenson's work, and I do like a lot of her episodes (Earshot and Band Candy are both very good), but she also wrote some real stinkers (Pangs, A New Man and ... again, Doomed). She doesn't quite have any real knockout episodes, for my money.

Worst writer is a more hotly contested category.

David Fury wrote (or co-wrote) Lies My Parents Told Me and Go Fish (and, not to keep banging on about it, Doomed) which is a pretty good claim to the title of "worst writer", but he also wrote Helpless, Choices, Fear Itself and Real Me and at least co-wrote Bargaining. So I don't think, hand on heart, that he can possibly be the worst Buffy writer. Certainly not consistently so.

David Greenwalt wrote (or co-wrote, with Whedon) School Hard and Ted and Faith, Hope & Trick and Homecoming, all very good episodes. But he also wrote Teacher's Pet, which .... uh.

Probably the consistently weakest writers are the ones who didn't really write anything dreadful but also never wrote anything particular amazing.

Dean Batali and Rob des Hotel's worst episode is the forgetable Killed By Death, and I'm not sure I could tell you what their best episode is. Never Kill A Boy On The First Date, maybe? I think I like that one more than most people do.

From the other end of the show's run, there's Drew Z Greenberg, whose worst episode is probably a tie between Him and Empty Places and whose best episode is ... uh. Entropy, maybe? And David Goddard, who only wrote for the show's worst season and who managed to cowrite Lies My Parents Told Me, easily the show's worst ever episode (and I am not as much of a fan of Selfless as many people, although I'd agree it's certainly his best work).

It's no secret that Season 7 is my least favorite season, and while I don't think Season 1 is objectively great, it -- and the early parts of Season 2 -- have a certain nostalgic charm I don't really get from the rest of the show. So I guess I'd pick one of the Drews, either Greenberg or Goddard, if I had to pick a single worst writer. Or fail to pick one, as it happens, because I can't pick between them.

Though I think the absolute best sign that an episode is likely to be a stinker is if it's credited to more than one writer, especially writers who don't normally write as a team. There are a handful of exceptions -- Conversations With Dead People comes to mind -- but on the hand you've got 'classics' like The Pack and Go Fish and Flooded and Life Serial and Sleeper and Bring On The Night and Lies My Parents Told Me and End Of Days. That's a pretty consistent list of dubious to terrible episodes right there.

Oh, and don't forget Doomed, the only episode of the show officially credited to three different writers. Have I mentioned that I don't like Doomed? Because I really don't like Doomed.

[petrichor-idyllic]

@lu-thinkingstuff I accidentally deleted the original ask (and the entire fuckin fic I'd nearly finished along with it) so have a screenshot of your ask I managed to keep. Sorry.

I'm writing this as a standalone piece, but it can be read as a prequel to quite a few of my pieces if you please.

INDOCTRINATION

MASTERLIST | MINHO MASTERLIST

SUMMARY: See above. I know the request is fem!reader, but I guess this can be read as gender neutral since I don't think I used any pronous to refer to you, apart from you obviously lmao. Follows no cannon events. I am making this shit up. Can be read as a prequel to "Life before Drowning", any other of my fitting work, or as a standalone. Whatever ya want. References to the simulation sky that's in the books - if you're reading this as a movie fic, then let's pretend this is a failed WICKED experiment.

WARNINGS: Inappropriate language, annoying WICKED shenanigans, traumatised children, Ratman.

You met Minho when you were seven. Maybe eight.

The last few weeks had been a blur of chaos you can barely remember. With the Flare finally taking its victims in your hometown, families flocked to their last resort, donating their children to WICKED.

Most children weren't picked.

Of course, they weren't. Most children aren't immune. The occasional normal child was also plucked from the masses and swept away from the warmth of their families to the cold, white walls of WICKED's laboratories. But that was rare, and they were only ever valued as a control variable in whatever twisted experiments they took part in.

Not that you ever knew that.

The potential horrors didn't matter to most parents; yours included. Mothers and Fathers desperately passing their remaining blood to men in masks in hopes of saving their loved ones. There really wasn't much choice.

You were given even less choice as you were one of the lucky ones to be picked.

A white room became your home for several weeks. They made you forget your parents - those parents who willingly passed you into Ava Paige's custody in hopes you'd have at least a fleeting chance of survival on the infected planet.

They took your name, too. Your personality. The few memories you'd managed to develop so young. All of it; gone.

You were almost in a state of shock when they finally said you could leave your pristine tiled prison cell.

Following your capture through the endless high-tech halls and flawless clean corridors, you reach a large dining hall. Several long tables fill the room, along with the high-pitched chattering voices of children. The kids vary in age - some older, some younger, but that doesn't matter. They're all talking.

"Grab your food and find a seat." The booming, hollow voice of the balding man in a labcoat reaches your ears, and you can't even begin to process what he's saying.

"W-what?" Your voice is barely a whisper as you squeak out a response.

"Join the queue, and then find somewhere to sit. Your lunch break doesn't last long." He gives you no chance to ask anything else as he turns and walks back down the corridor. Leaving you with very little choice but to continue into the room.

Getting the food is the easy bit; a tray full of a passing excuse for food and a small cup of juice. Finding somewhere to sit is the problem. You mindlessly search for an empty seat, though your gaze mainly lingers on the masked individuals lining the room; armed and dangerous.

"Psst. Don't stare. They don't like it when you stare."

Your head snaps towards a voice. An Asian boy, about your age, leans over the table top, hand cupped around his mouth as he whisper-yells at you, like he's pretending to be subtle.

"...What?" You stare back at him as a grin creeps across his face as he sits back down.

"Those freaks? Duh? Don't stare at 'em. They'll snap at you." When you don't respond, the boy starts to sense your unease. "...You gonna sit down or what?" He vaguely gestures to the empty space on the bench across from him. It takes you a second to move, but he seems relieved when you do. "You got a name?"

"Uh, (Y/N)... I think."

"You think?" He scoffs as you struggle to get your leg over the slightly wobbly bench. You think it's wobbly, or maybe you're shaking too much; it's hard to tell.

"Well, yeah - that's not my real name, is it?" Your response leaves the boy unsure how to react. You're... not wrong.

"Huh. I guess. I'm Minho." He says with a grin. "And even if it ain't my real name, they made a good choice. It suits me, right?"

For the first time since you'd arrived, you find yourself smiling. Minho is charming, for a kid. He's already got an air of confidence about him, which is almost reassuring in this situation.

"Yeah," you giggle, "I guess it does suit you."

And that is how you met Minho. Reckless, cocky, funny, brilliant Minho. And by brilliant, I mean he is a brilliantly bad influence.

It's not like you got to see him very often - just over lunch and the rare breaks you both got at the same time. But when you did, it was always fun. You even developed a little group, mainly including Minho's friends - he has enough charisma for both of you.

The first time Minho snuck into your room, you were eleven.

It's the middle of the night, the faint sounds of footsteps from WICKED guards echoing through the small white room you reside in at nights. It's all background noise, now, you barely even notice it as you drift off to sleep.

Until the loud clattering of the vent hitting the floor makes you jump out of your skin, shooting up in bed.

"...shit." Minho murmurs as he peers into your room.

"Minho?" You whisper-yell at the sudden intrusion. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I couldn't sleep." He responds, matching your tone as he attempts to clamber out of the vent and onto the safety on the floor below.

"So, you decided to break into my room?" You climb out of bed, coming to assist your best friend as he slides down your wall.

"Yeah. Figured I'd give you a visit."

You cross your arms, eyebrow cocked as you glare at your friend. "Are you insane? We're gonna get in so much trouble if you get caught." You grumble at him, swallowing your initial shock (and your small smile thanks to his presence.)

"So? What are they gonna do?" Minho dusts himself off. "Make me train more? Poke me with another needle? However shall I cope?" His sarcasm results in another eye roll from you, but you can't help but chuckle as you shove him, playfully - but warning.

"They could lock you in your room for a week." A beat passes. "Again."

"Great." He grins. "Means I get some peace. Sleep away my problems."

"You're such a dick."

"You love me, really." He flashes you another signature cocky grin.

You don't even dignify that with a response. "What exactly are we doing then? Just... hanging out in my room?"

Minho hesitates, then looks back at the vent, then you again as a sly smile slowly creeps across his face. "I think I have a better idea."

And that is how you end up crawling through a vent in the middle of the night, and following your chaotic friend through the facility. Minho is a lot calmer than you are; cracking jokes, whistling and generally being a cocky little shit. You, however, are hissing at him every thirty seconds to shut the fuck up.

Somehow, you both stumble into a vacant hall. Well, Minho dragged you through another vent and whilst he gracefully jumped down, you fell in a heap on the floor.

"Christ-" you grumble as you dust yourself off, looking around the room. It's dark, unusually so - the only light creeping in from under the locked door to the room from the buzzing halogen bulbs. "Where are we?"

Despite your low tone, Minho doesn't do much to hide his voice. "Dunno. Damn - this place is huge!" The boy chuckles to himself, dragging his hand across the wall to navigate, the sound of his words, and comfort, creeping away from your reach.

"Minho-" you say into the void, further panic swelling in your gut.

"Yo, I think I found a light switch."

Before you can object that this is a bad idea, there's a hollow click, quickly follow by a binding light.

You weren't expecting it; expecting the same dull bulbs that consume the WICKED labs. But what you get is anything but.

The entire ceiling springs to life, imitating the bright blue of the sky you haven't seen since you found yourself in WICKED's custody.

"Holy shit-" Minho gawks upwards as he stares, too, finally in your line of sight.

The fake sky is scarily realistic - the glow of the sun, the faint fluffy clouds floating across the screen. You're not even sure you could call it a screen, honestly. There's not lines, or glitches or lagging from the technology. It looks so real. Like you could reach out and feel the damp clouds through your fingers, the heat of the sun on your skin.

You look at Minho, who looks at you at the same time. Both of you have no words; how could you? But your silence and exchanges looks say everything words could - what the actual fuck is this?

"...this is.." Minho starts, losing himself quickly.

"..beautiful." You finish for him.

"I was gonna say freaky." He responds, earning a chuckle from you as you wander into the middle of the room. "Hey, there's other buttons-" He says, gesturing to the control panel on the wall that he originally assumed was a light switch.

With the click of his fingers, dark clouds start to fill the fake-sky, creating a dimmer, more stormy atmosphere. But there's no rain. Just clouds.

Those seem to be the only two weather modes as Minho keeps switching between the two. Cloudy and sunny. It's definitely not quite advanced enough to imitate the real thing.

"Look- there's a time monitor." Minho mumbles as he moves a slider. The sky dims, as bright sunset colours fill the ceiling before it creeps into dusk, and then into a series of bright stars.

Minho's goofy grin says enough as he moves away from the controls, joining you in the middle of the room. You barely even notice him until he's crouching the lie on the floor.

"What are you doing?" You raise an eyebrow at him as he moves to lay on his back, looking up.

"Star-gazing, duh. What does it look like?" He says as he smiles at you, before gesturing for you to join him.

"We're gonna get caught-"

"Will you relax?" He chuckles, leaning up on his arms. "When are we ever gonna get a chance to do this for real? Might aswell enjoy it whilst we have the chance."

"It's fake." You cross your arms defiantly.

"Still pretty. Still better than our boring white rooms." He retorts. "C'mon."

You sighs, but relent as you move to lay next to him.

He's right. It really is pretty. The mimic stars sparkle and flutter, and suddenly the labs and the experiments feel worlds away, even if your escape is an extention of your captives skills.

Minho suddenly starts chuckling.

"What? What's so funny?" You say, turning your head to look at him.

"Nothing." He shrugs. "Just thinkin' that if Thomas was here, he'd probably be telling us about all those star thingies."

"...star thingies?"

"Yeah. You know? Those... stars that are, like, in a pattern."

"...constellations?" You can't help the amused smile creeping across your face at your friends ignorance.

"Yeah- those. They got names don't they?" Minho turns to look at you. "Thomas is such a dork. He'd know all of them."

You shake your head as you look back up at the ceiling, but Minho keeps looking at you.

"We should tell the others." You say, not noticing his gaze.

"What?"

"About this room. Newt and Sonya would love this."

"I thought you didn't want to get caught?" He chuckles and you roll your eyes.

"Yeah- but this is cool. They should see it."

A beat passes as Minho continues to look at you. "Nah."

"Nah?" You look at him, surprised by this. He's rebellious and fiery and is normally the first to drag everyone into schemes and fun despite the risks.

"Nah... this is... ours." He says, smiling softly at you, before he shifts slightly to slips his fingers between yours, looking back up. "Just ours."

And that's what it became.

At least once a week, you and Minho would sneak around and into this secret special room. You'd spend hours talking and messing around, and somehow, you didn't get caught. Or maybe some of the kinder WICKED people were turning a blind eye to two kids enjoying themselves.

Who knows.

It was like this for about a year. Maybe a year and a half.

But, things took a turn.

Minho was starting to revieve praise for his athleticism. He became one of the most physically capable subjects, and it was impossible to get him away from a rigged-up treadmill. So, by the end of the day, he was exhausted. Too tired to be crawling around vents with you.

You were thirteen, maybe fourteen when Minho ended up crawling though your vents again.

Hearing the familiar noise, you're out of your bed before he's even here, your bare feet already on the cold floor as he appears.

"Minho-?"

"I know. I know." He grumbles. "I'm sorry." He says, before you can even get so much as a word in, and it leaves you stunned.

"For what?"

"For like... not being here. For neglecting you, I guess." He shrugs as he runs a hand through his hair.

"Neglect-?" You cut yourself off. "Dude, they've been working you to the bone. You don't have to apologise."

He sighs, seemingly of relief. "Yeah, well, I still feel like a dick. You're my best friend."

"Well, you're here now." You attempt to reassure him. "We can go back to the sky room."

He shakes his head. "Nah. I was thinking we could go exploring." He flashes that damn grin at you again.

"...exploring?" You raise a brow, crossing your arms.

"Yeah. Yanno- like me, Newt and Thomas used to do."

"I never joined in with that."

"Well- you should've. And we were exploring when we found the sky room, so you're no so innocent." He chuckles, and you can't help but admit he's right. Yet, he continues at your hesitation. "Look, we found that room by chance. Surely there's more cool and interesting things to find. I'm getting bored of looking at the same fake sky everyday."

Something in that comment stings. You'd never gotten bored of that pretend sky. Maybe because you'd always been with him - and you could never get bored of him.

"C'mon." He drags out the syllable. "One night of exploration. Just one. Who knows how far they'll be making me run from now on. Better take the chance whilst you have it."

You playfully shove him at this. "...fine. One time only. Okay?"

"Okay." He smiles. "Let's go."

So, once again, you find yourself creeping around the sleeping facility with your far too confident best friend.

Though, when Minho reaches a locked door, you would've never expected him to slip an excess card out of his shoe, swiping it into the card reader.

"What? Where did you get that?" You hiss, wide-eyed and stunned.

"Some dumb lab-coat dude left it on the side. So, I picked it up. Finders, keepers." He says as he pushes the door open.

Sneaky around is one thing, finding hidden rooms through vents - but stealing an ID card is something else. You're literally never going to see each other again if you get caught. Not that you get chance to voice your concerns as Minho walks into the room.

This sinking feeling creeps into your gut, yet, you can't find it in yourself to tell Minho. What if he really is starting to find you boring? Being whiney to him about this would only confirm that. You don't need him getting closer with someone else, especially not the flocks of girls in the dining hall who have started taking interest in the boy since he started his physical training.

Okay. Maybe this is creeping beyond friendship. It was years ago, but you're always thinking about the way he held your hand the first time you found that room. How it was just yours. Your special place, just for the two of you. And he doesn't want to go there anymore?

You've never felt so insecure.

So, you keep quiet.

The first room is full of labelled chemicals you don't understand.

The second is full of strange, clouded tubes, with slimy, creatures with metal arms. Even Minho was eager to leave that one - to remain ignorant for his own bliss, pulling you along once you stop to stare into the tubes. You suspect Thomas mentioned something to him. Thomas has always been Ava's favourite.

Though, the third is far less scary. It's a office - well, more like a small library with a computer and a desk. Filing cabinets liter the walls with endless documents.

Minho lets out a low whistle. "A computer." He grins, casually sliding into the office chair as he starts fiddling with the computer. Having most of the common sense in this friendship, you've assumed that the computer is password locked.

Which is confirmed by Minho's hushed cursing.

So, you start looking through the documents in the drawers. A lot of them are medical files and general testing that you don't really understand.

Though, a few documents contain blueprints and titles such as "the Maze Trails" and "The Scorch Trails". They're detailed and confusing.

"Minho-" you gets his attention, passing him the notes as he's distracted from the computer, a puzzled expression crossing his face as he looks through them.

He doesn't get much time to comment as you find another interesting drawer; labelled "Subjects."

Flicking through a few, you recognise the pictures of the people you've spent the last few years with. Teresa. Thomas. Gally.

You stumble upon Minho's- grinning at his awful mugshot style photo. A7. The Leader. They've already got him marked down pretty faithfully.

Though, something consistent through all the documents is the phrase "status: Immune." Something about that stands out to you, for some reason.

That is until you reach Newt's file.

Staus: Nonimmune. Control Variable.

Nonimmune?

Nonimmune.

"Uh, Minho-?"

"These maps are insane." He mumbles, still examining the blueprints. "Do you reckon these are those big plans Thomas is always yapping about?" He picks his head up to look at you, noticing your face drop, concern written throughout your features. "What? What is it?"

"...we're all immune to the Flare, right? That's why they're testing us. To find a cure?" You don't even look up at him.

"Yeah..? Why else would we be here?" His grin is there, same as always, but now it's uneasy and uncertain. You look at him, before walking over and slapping Newt's file onto the table.

It takes him a moment to catch on, but when he does, his face drops, and he just looks at you.

Before any words are exchanged, footsteps can be heard from down a corridor.

"Shit-" you both scramble, collecting all the papers and stuffing them in whatever drawer they came from (or whichever is closest.)

It's a mad dash to get out of the room - adrenaline and fear coursing through you both. You didn't even find your own file.

Are you immune? Could the Flare get you?

Little do you know, Minho is internally freaking out over the same thing.

In your panic, your silence evades you, which alerts whatever guard was prowling the building.

"Quick! Up here!" Minho commands as he struggles to open a vent, giving you a leg up before yanking himself up the wall and diving in.

You don't even know where you're crawling to, you're just trying to rush away. But, eventually, it goes quiet, only the sounds of yours and Minho's panting in the small vent system.

"We have to tell Newt." You say, managing to turn in the small space to face him. Minho hesitates for a moment, but nods.

Of course you have to tell him.

"Yeah, at lunch, tomorrow. We'll tell him. But right now, we have to get back to our rooms. They'll be checking." You nod in agreement. "Let's get you back first."

Minho has a far better memory than you, leading you back to the safety of the room before he turns to navigate the way back to his.

"Minho-" you say, turning to look at him once your feet hut the floor, a sense of dread overwhelming you.

"..yeah?"

You can only look at him. There's so much you want to say, but none of it want to come out. Some deep gut feeling screams at you that this is the end, but you tell yourself you're being silly.

His blank expression pushes you to talk, though.

"Just.. be careful."

He offers a warm smile, but rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. I'll be fine. Don't worry about me. See you at lunch tomorrow."

Your attempt to mimic his expression falls flat as he shimmies back into the vent and on his way.

You didn't know how accurate your instincts would be.

The next day, you make your way to the lunch hall. You're late- your lab testing ended up being longer than possible. But when you enter the dining hall, Minho's absence is quickly noted.

Though, you do spot Newt. Maybe Minho's running has gone overtime, again?

"Newt-" you shout him, jogging across the hall. "Have you seen Minho? We need to talk to you."

Newt doesn't even have to say anything as he glances at Thomas, whose eyes are burning into the table in front of him. There's some sense of desperation in Newt's expression, mixed with grief and regret, but like he can't say anything.

It makes your stomach flip and your heart stop as you open your mouth to speak, but you don't get any sound out.

"(Y/N)." Janson's annoying voice sends a chill down your spine as you turn to look at him. Two guards stand by his sides, his forced grimace doesn't reach his cold, unforgiving gaze. "I need a word."

Janson gestures for you to walk with him and you swallow a lump in your throat. Your first instinct is to run. Like Minho thought you. But in a room full of people? It's not like your quiet escapades in the middle of the night.

Your feet are like concrete as you force yourself to walk towards him.

Janson walks in front of you, the guards behind you. You're trapped, and even if you did run, that wouldn't change anything as he leads you into a room. It's a room you're familiar with.

It's where you have one-on-one progress conversations with Janson to discuss how you're doing. Minho spent more time in here than you ever did, but that doesn't mean the confines space doesn't fill you with anxiety, even in normal circumstances.

You take your place in the cold chair as Janson sits across from you, the slab of metal that is meant to be a table keeping you separated feels like a godsend. Though, not much of one with the guards breathing down your neck.

"...Where's Minho?" You manage to croak, attempting to mimic your missing friends confidence.

"He's been dealt with." Janson says, and your blood runs cold.

"What- what does that mean?"

"I'm sure you already know what that means. From your adventures last night." The world stops.

You knew.

You knew it was a bad idea and your own insecurities led you to keeping your mouth shut and hiding away from your concerns. What? Because of a stupid crush? Your own feelings of inadequacy have led to Minho's demise. And it's soul-crushing.

"I-I don't understand." You words falter, any false confidence quickly shattering.

"It's a shame. Really. It is." Janson nods as he leans forward, his elbows on the table. "We let yours and Subject A7's strange relationship slide because it was showing promising results. New waves in the Killzone we were examining. I knew we should've stopped it." He sighs. "...and now, you know too much."

"Where is he?" You spit, fists clenched, unused adrenaline causing you to tremble.

"I told you." Janson hisses. "You already know. But don't worry. You're not going to remember any of this." Janson nods towards the guards.

"What-" your words catch at a sharp sting in the side of your neck as one of the masked-men injects a burning liquid into you. You gasp, grasping the side of your neck. "What have you done?"

Your words slur slightly as a dull buzz fizzles into your vision, your head feeling light.

"My job." Janson leans back as he watches you sway in your seat. "What was always going to happen."

You can't even respond as your limp body slips out of the seat, and your consciousness leaves you before you even hit the floor.

WHOOP WHOOP. 1K BABYYYYY.

I guess this is my 1k follower post - and it's angst. That's typical of me. Sorry for the massive gap since I last posted something, but everyone's support has given me a drive to write. Well, at least finish writing this. Sorry if its not everything you wanted, but I've always felt there's something so much sadder about not getting that chance to say goodbye to someone, and things fizzing out instead of a bang.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed :)

[jack-kellys]

so i am gonna talk abt the delanceys. and i don’t want that to make you scroll away at the speed of light. i want to talk about them in a broader sense, view them in a broader sense, in the way that we talk about jack and his existential need to leave where he is for the west- and, further, going into analysis, like how “the west” in america in the 1890s is a capitalist venture that is sold to jack as this idea of a new home, a better way to live, something that he needs, when the real home is new york with his chosen family and where no one needs to call him “son”.

i think what matters most in the world of the delanceys, and what puts them into a nuanced political stance as well as a personal one, is their father, the striking trolley worker.

i think it’s fair to assume that as a striking worker demanding better wages, as a union member, he deserves those wages. it’s good that he’s striking, that he’s demanding what he’s owed and doing so with his fellow workers. strikers are the right people to support especially based on the historical context of the trolley strike.

but this guy is… an asshole. he dumped these two children into the refuge and left them there to rot, presumably. there’s a possibility he didn’t know about how abusive snyder is, sure, but he knew it was a detention center and that’s not… where u put ur kids when u care abt them lmao.

so this man is a striking trolley worker who doesn’t give a shit about his own children. he’s an underpaid union member who deserves his dues but also lets his two sons suffer for years alone in a children’s jail. he fights the system to his benefit while submitting his two kids into a different one. the dichotomy is important here- it’s essential to the foil the delanceys are for the newsies.

the delanceys are strike breakers. strike breakers are, obviously, paid under the table to disperse union-led strikes and protests to uphold a system that benefits the rich- who of course will always benefit from underpaid work. the delanceys take money from this upheld system when they get the opportunity and beat strikers bloody who don't get to benefit from this system like they do. because they do benefit from that elitist system, since they are choosing to make money off of it outside of their usual job. right.

but within those strikers is their father. the father who left them to rot, who let wiesel scrape them out of that jail and enlist them at a dead-end newspaper gig. so the brothers hate this father, this striker, this piece of family. and this father is making all this noise with these other people- these people who support their father as his coworkers and fellow union members, and the delancey brothers' leave that strike with their fists red with more blood than solely their father's, since they're angry and good at it and the money is hefty.

and their childhood is semi-revenged, but at what ethical cost? they've served broken bones to plenty of workers just trying to fight for their fair pay- something that the delanceys can relate to, by the way, since it isn't like their wages are too stellar for how many hours they're forced to put in. but they put down these people--innocent sans their father--because they have the opportunity. opportunity for them is bringing others down, and when they have the choice, they take it. gladly. "it's honest work" is shrugged off and believed. "i take care of the guy who takes care of me" is snide. uk costuming has them wearing nicer work coats over their newsie-like attire, concealing their similarities and choosing to align themselves more with the elite, since that's...the only protection they can turn to besides each other. the elite gets them extra pay, and keeps them one rung above the newsies to sneer down at them from. they fight via using the system, since systems are all they've ever been apart of, and when they see one that might benefit them for once, they latch onto it.

and, of course, they're strike breaking again, with adult men and their uncle at their side, against their personal foils- the newsies.

the newsies either don't have family like the delanceys, or frequently have to be apart from theirs. lots of them don't have a sibling they can return to daily, or any at all. most don't have parents or family members. or homes to go back to after work. the system they are stuck in is one that does not work for them unless they make it work, making their own numbers and cash by gambling how many papers they can sell in a day to earn every cent back and then some. creating a system within a system--whereas the delanceys mold themselves into one that exists, again, to the elite's benefit--to survive.

and then, the newsies and their chosen family of brothers choose to revolt against their system in an attempt to dismantle it, or at the very least negotiate it.

and the delanceys' reaction to this, to another strike, to a group of kids going against their system (of which would benefit oscar and morris to join, tbh, unless they don't classify as "working kids" of the city, perhaps putting them at around 18 years old...)?

disdain and more snide comments! "not that i'm complaining, my skull busting arm could use a day of rest" "you working, or trespassing?/what's your pleasure?" and putting pressure on scabs to keep with the system- specifically more with uksies, oscar and morris are sort of dusting tommy boy off and whispering to him. trying to split apart the family the newsies have made with each other. and then ofc they beat the actual shit out of the newsies and in uk they have bats they are full on swinging, whole shoulder into it. you did not uphold this system, and it will destroy you for it.

and it nearly does, because then jack scabs, right? and oscar and morris are in pulitzer's office as the man talks jack through the deal, through the cash. as he must've to oscar and morris earlier that week about strike breaking the newsies. and all three of them all have these nearly matching bruises and cuts on their faces.

and then all three of them go to the cellar, the lowest floor of the elite. together the three of them are in this location with this context. two strikebreakers and a scab. taking the elite's money for their benefit, be it in a moment of fear, resignation, or greed. all the oldest kids in the play, the three who've seen the scars and rips and tears in this world more than any of the others. and for like twenty seconds of stage time jack oscar and morris are the same brand. until of course oscar and morris punch into jack's gut--since they're only "given discretion to handle him as they see fit" if he misbehaves, which jack hasn't, so they punch where people won't see/check--and remind him that he's still below them (literally shoving him to the floor ofc), that they're still closer to the elite.

and yeah, they are, because later, jack again refuses the system, and tosses the money back on the table after rebelling against his terms. in true foil fashion, once jack recognizes that his actions align that which he needs to destroy, he renounces them, while the delanceys remain on the other side of the coin they share with jack.

the delanceys, as a storytelling device, right, are meant to represent what the newsies could fall to, seen with the three initial scabs and then jack in act ii. they are this constant threat of sort of equal size to the newsies through the whole show, always kinda lurking. always being a possibility to become if the newsies ever forget what they fight for and against.

also, jack is....kind of.... like their dad, in their perspective. he's parental with the newsies, he leads them, guides them, and protects them, as well as constantly getting the better of the delanceys. why should someone like a father get to fight the system again? not on their fucking watch.

i think it's pretty clear that oscar and morris are meant to represent corruption on the small scale, thematically, while pulitzer is corruption at the top- since it all trickles down. and i think it's really important that this motif is consistently upheld within the brothers, since it sort of alters the message of the show to at least drastically change that abt them. they are the nearest branch of corruption to the newsies guys. that is so fucking cool

[melrosing]

Do you think you will go to see the Harrenhal play?

im in London so I might as well 🤷🏻‍♀️ if we’re getting main series crumbs im eating them

[stormyoceans]

this was, dare i say, inhumane. p'aof and jimmy owe me money for this shot of his face alone

SETTING UP A CLASS ACTION LAW SUIT FOR EMOTIONAL BATTERY AND MENTAL HEALTH DAMAGE AS WE SPEAK THEY'RE GONNA ANSWER FOR THEIR CRIMES AND PAY FOR OUR THERAPY BILLS

dr jimmy jitaraphol certified insane person and method actor potiwihok really rolled up on set that day like im about to unleash a category 10 acting moment and have such a face journey with my eyes alone it's gonna put everyone witnessing it on suicide watch and p'aof just. allowed him to do that to unsuspecting viewers

this was truly quite possibly the worst thing jimmy has ever done to me personally as a person including puen's entire face journey in episode 9 of vice versa when he realizes who talay really is. which honestly says a lot about how much mork's face is fucking me up. it's just.. the heartbreak. the vulnerability. the crushing longing. the unspoken love confession. the desire to heal and care and protect despite his own pain. and people already mentioned this, but day being visually impaired made it that much easier for mork to drop his facade and forget about putting his walls up. around day, he doesn't have to worry about his face revealing his heart, so he can smile and laugh and be in love, but that also means that when the pain comes, he no longer has any defenses for it (which is why the possibility of day still going 'phi are you smiling?' and touching his face to make sure just like in the mock trailer makes me want to throw myself off a fifteen story building but that's a whole other matter)

THE POINT IS. EVERYONE INVOLVED IN THIS SHOW SHOULD BE IN JAIL

[nitewrighter]

"hum in response" is the new "toe out of shoes."

Honestly I'd prefer if people just wrote "mm" or "hm" or "hmm" or "mm-hm" as a part of dialogue instead. I've seen it in several fics and it throws me off every time I read it.