#-in their enemies instead because he hates being sidelined

[the-one-with-spider-brainrot]

One thing Im gonna have fun with in regards to the purge of the crowns stuff is writing Shamura and the other Crowns. Even if it seems Shamura is amicable to the rest, so much of it is just a ploy to know their weaknesses and strengths. It’s hundreds blessed against five after all.

War had to have the Knowledge to destroy them all so effectively somehow.

[papil0nglegs]

Sweet n’ Sour 👛 (pt.2)

Tf2 x “nice”Reader

A/n: Here’s pt.1 if you don’t know what this fic is abt, ik I said I was going to do my own fic after the last one I made but I couldn’t think of anything sooo I’m just doing this. I might do a ‘tf2 x Snooki!Reader’ cuz I just started watching jersey shore and I love it (also you could tell I put my whole heart and ass into snipers section)

warnings: Slut shaming, Reader and Sniper banging, enemies to lovers, hatefuck (sorry this one’s wild)

Pyro

Pyro quickly took a liking to you because of your girly nature, he loved your style

He’s only ever been on your good side, painting nails reading magazines gossiping etc.

He’s such a girls man. No, not a ladies man, a girls man

“Holy fuck! Snooki got arrested”

“Mm mffmm mmm?”

*from jersey shore??

“Yes from jersey shore!!”

Of course you two are duos on the battlefield, skipping happily around the blu teams base as it burns down

Def owns one of those heart friendship necklaces

About him being a girls man, he always makes sure you look good on the battlefield

Loves picking out outfits with you and always carries around something he knows you’ll forget

“Shit! I forgot to put on lipgloss..”

“Mmm mmphm mm?”

*here, cherry bomb right?

“gasp Omg I love you so much 💕”

You and Pyro would have the loving best friend relationship, kissing each others cheek and shit

Doing makeup on mask>>>>

Imagine the fake lashes along w the blush 😭 he loves it

lol put big anime girl eyes on him pls

“You’re fucking chewing right now P.”

“mmm mm!!!”

*thank you!!

Sniper

He hated you when he first saw you omg. Sniper is introverted cuz he got bullied and school, so now he automatically thinks any girl with even a slightly feminine style is bitchy

To be fair you were.. to him

Srry but he got annoyed with you so fast, it started a hefty rivalry between you and snipes

“Where’s princess prissy?”

“Uhm I know you’re not talking about me, at least I actually go down there to fight unlike you in the sidelines.”

It’s always something with you guys istg

He has to admit (but won’t) , he loves watching you destroy the enemy team the way you do from afar. Blood and guts getting in your hair and pretty face. Whenever you catch him staring at you you always give him the finger, makes him chuckle despite how much he ‘hates’ you

Sometimes he has to leave more than piss in his jars

He still kept the enemy streak but it was just to hide his feelings

The mercs get so sick of your guys’s attitude, they practically begged Miss Pauling to send you and sniper off to a mission so they can get a break. She obliged

“Yeah I’m not working with him, sorry! I’d rather go back to juvie than go sleep in his musty van.”

“Bonzy, wouldn’t want to smell your bloody strong perfume all over me van ya whore.”

“I’d rather smell like strong perfume than someone who hangs around piss jars and has coffee breath!!”

Miss Pauling immediately understood why the mercs wanted you guys to go away. And so she forced you to stay in his ‘musty van’ for a week so that you both can go assassinate god knows who. Safe to say it wasn’t an easy trip.

“Ay, I’m gonna go hunt for dinner, you comin’?

“Why the fuck would I wanna go with you?? Bye.”

damn, you didn’t have to end him like that 😭

You felt something when this bitch came back with a 14ft alligator, dragging it by the tail back to the van. You bit your lip staring at him as he wiped the sweat from his forehead

You asked him to hook up, you tried to be subtle but it just turned out uneasy to say the least

“Hey I liked the way you um.. dragged that crocodile back there”

“Chuckle it was a alligator, Sheila”

“Of course you know the difference..”

You blushed, along with him, laughing awkwardly, biting your pink painted thumbnail while he scratched the back of his neck

Cut to you guys waking up naked in his bed all sweaty

Hate fucking or not, now instead of the mercs being annoyed of you hating each other too much, they hate how much you love each other

“Cmon guys not in the goddamn break room..”

“Sorry, I just love his black coffee breath”

“And I love the smell of the perfume I got ya”

“God I fucking hate it when you use Australian slang..”

You still did your thing in the break room

Spy

He has so much hate in his heart for you, and it shows

The difference between him and sniper is that he doesn’t like ANYTHING about you, especially the way you fight

Sure it surprised him when you showed off how you fought, but he didn’t take a liking to it

While trying to sneak up on an enemy sniper, you immediately bashed their head in with your pink hammer. He glared at you so hard

“😐”

“What shitface?? Say something. I got impatient you were taking too long.”

This guy wants nothing to do with you, if you get assigned to a mission together he’ll have his way to sneak out of it.

In the expiration date short you wrote

Fuck you <3

On the paper he handed to everyone along with a drawing of a middle finger for the bucket thing he did

How did he know it was you? You made the hand look exactly like yours, acrylic nails and all.

You and scout started giggling like school girls

“..would anyone else like to insult me??”

soldier slowly raising his hand

Posting on your story in the middle of a battle is such a good way to mess with him, just doing the peace sign while he stays frustrated in the background

‘This old fuck really expects me to kill this big bitch alone 😹😹 Lol he fucking wishes, anyways I’m prob gonna get in trouble bcuz of this but IDRC 💜 #ellieandmasonhouse’

He wants to kill you so bad, sadly you’re one of the most useful mercs on the team. But if you weren’t he’d be so down to kill you

[ananicoleta]

Looney Tunes headcanon time!

I've been thinking about this for a while so now I gotta share it on here!

Bugs Bunny doesn't get mad easily. That's just how he's wired. Calm, collected, level-headed, usually pretty relaxed, lazily strolling down the street while humming a merry melody (eh?), he prefers to chill and doesn't really take anything seriouslly.

A Warner Bros. intern messed something up, be it accidentaly or because he was a careless idot? Bugs doesn't even flinch and immediately finds a way to fix whatever it is.

A student at Acme Looniversity is goofing around way too much during a lesson? All Bugs has to do is give him a look and the child stops at once, but he never raises his voice or loses his temper.

One of his enemy messes with him? Pfff, are you kidding? That's the most fun he's gonna have all week!

Even when he gets irritated by one of them, he doesn't actually get mad mad and he certainly doesn't hate them (he's too cool for that). It's more of an "oh, he interrupted my peaceful afternoon? now i'll have to fuck his entire shit up" kind of thing. He might be mildly annoyed in the beginning but by the time he starts plotting the poor soul's demise, his irritation is long gone. His motivation is rather the principle of "don't mess with me" rather than anger.

Sometimes Bugs will fake being mad to get his point across (to scare people, usually a nemesis or a student), but again, he's not really angry, he's just exaggerating.

However, and this is where my headcanon comes in, this doesn't mean that sometimes Bugs Bunny doesn't get pretty fucking MAD.

Like I said, it's very hard to get him at that point. But when he gets there oh, Lord have mercy! And it's not what people (who have obviously never seen him in that state) might think.

He doesn't shout. He doesn't get physical. He doesn't throw a tantrum. If he does any of those then again, he's not really mad. He either does it for comedic effect or to intimidate. No. It's much more unsettling than that.

Instead, he just goes quiet. And not the usual relaxed, watching-shit-go-down-from-the-sidelines quiet. Oh, no. He's rigid as a statue. His upbeat expression is replaced by one of pure coldness. No condecending smirk, no smug look, no playfullness in his eyes. Just a motionless face with an icy stare.

If Bugs speaks when he's like this he doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to. Instead, his tone is serious but surprisingly... calm. Not relaxed like it usually is, but more like... even. Controlled. Firm. There is a slight strain in his voice as if he's doing his best to hold back the greatest rage someone has ever seen (because he is).

If he does this to anyone then that person/toon will most likley shit their pants. Because they know, oh, they know they fucked up big time if Bugs Bunny acts that way towards them.

Whenever he's like this literally everyone is scared of him. Toon or human, doesn't matter, if Bugs is this angry YOU STAY OUT OF HIS WAY.

No one messes with him, not Elmer, not Sam, not Wile, not Marvin, not any of his enemies, no Acme Loo student, no WB intern, even the executives are nervous around him if he's like this. Even Daffy, who gets a kick out of pushing Bugs' buttons every time, is nope-ing himself out of that situation so hard. Like nope. Not today. Nuh-uh. He wants to live, thank you very much.

I feel like I should mention that Bugs isn't cold hearted though. Even if he is in this state he will not be a prick to people who have done nothing wrong or to the ones he cares about. He realizes it's not their fault.

He might be a little distant but it's just because he wants to be left alone to calm down. The others know and understand and will leave him to cool off.

Again, though, he doesn't get this angry that often. In all his life he's probably been like this like three or four times (which is very rare given that he's been around since like what? the 40s? but even if it's happened only a few times it was enough to earn him the reputation of being really damn scary when pushed to far).

Also, he's never ever like that because of a Looney Tune or an Acme Loo student or anyone he cares about. If you are part of the aforementioned categories then it's damn near impossible to get Bugs to be that mad at you. Annoyed? Sure. Angry? Sometimes, yeah. But never mad like that.

No. This type of rage is reserved for a special breed of people. The ones that have crossed Bugs big time, that have done something really messed up.

What makes this so scary for the others witnessing it, even if it's not aimed at them, is the fact that it's so different compared to the way Bugs usually acts. Like, he's almost unrecognizable. Besides, the rabbit is pretty powerful given his whole WB mascot gig thing. He can rock your entire world with just a snap of his fingers.

[citylighten]

Storytelling Secret Saturday

I was tagged by @havenroyals 😘

Secret One! Let's Talk About Relationships In my first half-formed draft for Sink or Swim, Pietro was an absolute mess, but as I planned things out more thoroughly, he gradually became better and my angle around him shifted. Pietro was originally very devious, cunning, and a tad extroverted. He was actively plotting to kill Raphael, which, yeah, he is now, but the plotting wasn't really justified. Rosaria was going to end up working for Pietro due to Franco's situation with Raphael and be manipulated by him into thinking he was a good guy. They still would have had their sexual relationship. Eventually Sal would've found out, took issue with it, and Pietro set Sal up to be arrested. But then, I decided to dial it back some 'cause that would have been A LOT of drama and confusion. I remember thinking, okay what if he DID have a heart? What if he DID grow to love Rosaria? Then, I rambled out some thoughts at @ladygangsters and she was a sucker for an office romance, and that prompted my heart to soften towards Pietro and Rosaria more. I started to think of how there would be a significant sexual relationship between them, how Pietro would lead to changes in Rosaria and accordingly, Raphael became the antagonist. In regards to Rosaria, she and Ben were never meant to be a lasting couple. It was always meant to be something brief that led her to someone else. Originally, I swore I was going to have Adriano and Rosaria be end-game, but no matter how cute I felt they were, I couldn't visualize a story for those two. Neither of them changed. Similarly, before simblr, Rosie's old college friend Tariq and she were a thing. But, they also felt like a directionless pair. Pietro, even when he was at his worst character-wise, was the first person I could see her having a 'story' with.

Secret 2! The hit on Ben was suppose to be muuuuch different. So, what was going to happen was originally this: Ben was the one who harassed Rosaria on instagram. However, instead of Ben and Bethany being at the bar when Sal was on stage? It was Ben and McNeely. Sal would still follow the men outside the bar, but instead of Ben (who was passive as always) he would have instead fought McNeely and been arrested for that. Rosaria would have been pissed and told Pietro, but the punishment would have been different. Pietro would have contacted Iris from @digital-deluxe's Public Enemies who would have placed a virus on Ben and McNeely's computers. And that was it. This was my plan for awhile. But then I thought. I need to go harder than that. I thought Ben's harassment would have been more meaningful if it was shown that he was dating someone new and still had Rosaria on his brain. I thought, for Sal to directly call out Ben on stage and fight Ben would have been meaningful 'cause he's hated Ben since Dear Diary, and this action didn't sideline Ben, who is the issue and has been a core character since the beginning. I did want Ben to be written out appropriately, not in a, "well, he and Rosie broke up and they never crossed paths again and it's all good." As said above: I needed to go harder than that. I decided that Rosaria would give Ben's name to Pietro after this whole fiasco. HOWEVER, she was going to be more conscious in what she did. She was going to tell Pietro, "don't hurt him" and Pietro would agree to it. Then I thought, "nah, I need her to be totally blinded by her rage and speak through the lens of seeing nothing but red, only to be stunned when disaster happens." Why? Because she needed the character development for this chapter! She needs a little arc! Pietro has told her a bit about his world, sure, but she's only seen the glitzy and calm side of organized crime. She needed to see how brutal things could get and work through it in order to become the woman she is in the future. Secret 3!

The scene I'm depicting in my next update? It was always envisioned for Sink or Swim. But, it was actually meant to be a turning point for Pietro and Rosaria's relationship - the beginning of the end of the first half of the story, if you will. But if I squeeze out this update tonight or tomorrow? I'll be elaborating on this more lmao

Tagging @sirianasims @digital-deluxe @swiftviolets @rebouks

[chishiyae]

— BEING THE BRAINS AND BRAWNS POWER DUO !

+ feat. ⋮ chishiya shuntarō

a/n. — thank you anon for requesting <3. in other words these are headcannons of chishiya with a spade specialist s/o. i feel like this focuses more on being in a long-term relationship before/during the borderlands but there’s still spade specialists hc’s 😅. || masterlist.

YOU AND CHISHIYA, were already a strong team before the borderlands; he was a doctor and you were a gym instructor, both of which were life-changing positions, and you two supported each other well.

and nothing much changed after entering the borderlands, atleast negativity.

because of the trust and care you two had prior to the borderlands, you two pretty much only trust each other, telling each other secrets about executive meetings and sharing information you two learned about people.

however, because chishiya had told you that no one here could be trusted and that he himself was an enemy of many, you two's relationship was kept quiet. he didn't want to put your safety at risk by exposing his vulnerability to others.

and you agreed.

so, after a long day of "avoidance," you two would meet late at night on the rooftop.

as a player of spades, you've never had any trouble participating in physical games. to defeat other players, it was simple to have to climb buildings, run, or even do workouts.

chishiya, as your long-term boyfriend, was well aware of both your strengths and weaknesses. he wouldn't admit it (would rather die), but when you would talk about your games and mentioned climbing a tall building to get away from someone, he becomes concerned.

to fix this, he gives you little trinkets and such to help you during your games (like a literal bomb).

he knows that your abilities may be useful in situations other than games with only physical themes. so, when you go out to play games, chishiya has more faith in you (though he still gives you three taps on the arm to express his love).

however, not necessarily in all games. some are difficult puzzles that will take you back to seventh grade math class. furthermore, once you've entered a game, you can't change the type of game you'll play. so, after each of his own, he'll give you insights into the game he played during your rooftop meetings (hoping you'll take mental notes).

you do the same in your little meetings, giving him the best tips you can, but you know he won't take them. instead, he'd be standing on the sidelines, calculating a game loophole.

you might be wondering why he doesn't just accompany you to games. but that’s since he doesn't want to risk having to play a hearts game where you both have to kill each other in the end. he didn't want either of you to have to feel that grief — especially if you could make it back to "your world".

continuing on, in his plan to get away from the beach, you'd be on the lookout with kuina.

being a specialist in spades games meant you'd pretty much earned your spot as an executive. and if chishiya was caught as a suspect while dealing with arisu, he'd prefer you not be present and act out of character if he was hurt.

he wouldn't want you to be a part of the plan, for sure. but he understands that he needs everyone he can to participate in such a dangerous act, and being a lookout was relatively risk-free with kuina.

speaking of kuina…because of his wits and your toughness, you two become unstoppable in this world as well, earning the nickname "einstein and his bodyguard" from her.

chishiya hates it.

basically, the only difference between "your world" and the borderlands was that you two formed a stronger bond in the end.

and perhaps he changed a little — learned a little more about life.

and you did too.

——

BONUS: expect massages after a difficult day (in this case, a draining spades game), just as he did before the borderlands.

© 2023, CHISHIYAE

[maxmckitty]

Feminist thoughts on Lord Ares:

First off, I’m gonna be open and honest: I’m personally not a devotee of Ares. So any of my thoughts on the matter are going to be from the perspective of someone that respects Him but doesn’t centre Him in their life.

Now that that’s been said, I’ve seen people online give Him the title “Protector of Women” and it just rubs me the wrong way. Namely, the way people use it as a reference to His epithet Ares Gynaecothoenas (trans: the god feasted by women).

Dr. Peter Meinick (a professor of classics) once described Ares as less a god or war and more a god of violence. Historically, Ares was one of the most hated gods of the pantheon. Often depicted as cruel and cowardly, running to Zeus when things got rough and Zeus even expressed revulsion to Him in the Iliad with the line, “Do not sit beside me and whine, you double-faced liar.”

Which makes a lot of sense. At least to me.

To me, the fear and the cruelty is integral to Him as a god. In fight or flight, He is the fight.

When you’re watching all the chaos and bloodshed and death closing in around you in an active war zone, you are afraid. You will lie, cheat, fight dirty, do anything it takes to make it out alive. Between life and death, there is no space for honour, only survival.

And it makes sense that He runs to the god of law and order.

The brutality in the streets is protected by our governments. Carefully hidden by people in power. Enacted by the system.

But that’s the point. He was so hated because nobody WANTS war. The soldier doesn’t WANT to have enemies. However, as vile as you believe violence to be, you can think of moments where it’s necessary. It’s the ‘right’ thing to do.

Unfortunately, women have suffered a lot of violence, including systemic. But I don’t believe Ares is inherently a misogynist. He is a complicated god because violence and war are complicated subjects.

Like the story that earned Him the epithet that’s being referenced. The god feasted by women.

Tegea was being invaded by Spartans. As the men prepared for battle, the women got together and decided among themselves that they weren’t going down without a fight.

Led by Marpessa, the women armed themselves and ambushed the invaders. And they won.

They even took the Spartan King, Charilaus, as their prisoner.

All without any divine interference.

The women held a feast to celebrate their victory, a feast that the men weren’t invited to. At this feast, they offered up a sacrifice to Lord Ares.

It was only by making space for violence that they could protect their city, their families, themselves. So it was only right to make space for the god of violence at the celebration of their victory.

And that’s why it rubs me the wrong way.

It’s like watching a woman give a masterclass in fencing and instead of acknowledging her skill with a sword, you say the sword was the ‘real’ protector.

He won’t fight our battles for us. He’s the one to pick us up, wipe the blood from our face, and tell us to keep fighting. He isn’t our protector. We are. He’s the one on the sidelines, yelling out banned MMA moves and how to do them for us. He’s a coach and we’re all scrappers.

[gay-mafia-stickball]

I have mixed feelings about the red white and royal blue movie (red white and royal bluevie, if you will).

let me preface this by saying two things: one, you are entitled to your opinion and so am I so civil discourse is welcome, but hate speech is not, and two, I am a firm believer that book vs movie argument is pointless as long as you enjoy the media, so take the following with a grain of salt. I enjoyed the movie a lot, and if you don’t want to see anything negative, you can scroll past this, but these were things that caught my eye. that all being said, here are my thoughts.

first things first: the change from Raphael Luna to Miguel Ramos felt like it detracted from the story. in the rwrb book, the Alex looks up to Luna and considers him an ally and a role model in the political field, seeing him as a goal to shoot for. this makes his betrayal (working on richards campaign) hurt a lot worse, and it makes his subsequent redemption (him bringing up dirt on richards that not only effected him as a queer man but as a politician) feel a like a big triumph and a loose end that has been tied up. Alex’s relationship with Ramos is already a different kind of relationship, since Alex wants to be a politician, not a journalist, and their connection feels a lot less secure since their only tie is that they’re friends who have hooked up, so when he starts to publish aggressive and harmful stories toward Alex, it feels less like a betrayal and more like pettiness over being rejected. this is only reinforced by the fact that he isn’t given any redemption, and his loose end remains untied and without closure. Lunas story is, in my opinion, just as much a part of the main plot as Alex and Henry’s, because he reflects the struggles of older queer generations fighting the good fight behind enemy lines and the thankless battle that a lot of younger people take for granted. without Luna, President Claremont’s win feels more arbitrary, and a lot of the stress that motivates Alex and his character development as a person and as a politician is flattened.

another thing id love to address is the so called “side characters”- pez, bea, nora, and june. starting with pez, who is meant to be Henry’s best friend and lifeline: he got barely five minutes of screen time, and it felt like he was sidelined as unimportant and a supporting cast member instead of an actually important member of the group. Bea as well was sidelined, and kind of pushed into the role pez had in the books. by ignoring Beas history with substance abuse and her moniker of “powder Princess”, it takes away from her depth as a character and the struggles her and her family have gone through, not even mentioning the fact that their mother isn’t even in the movie. the same thing is true with the lack of Alex’s parents divorce; the trauma from that event led to a lot of important character development and growth, as well as some pretty important plot points (such as the first phone call). Nora and June I can do in one fell swoop: they should not have been combined into one character. they both played different and significant roles in Alex’s life, June as a steadying factor and a shoulder to lean on, and Nora as an experienced confidant that unwinds Alex and allows him to live a little. not only did the combination of their characters take away a healthy polyamorous relationship with pez, but it took away a big piece of Alex’s support system and the factors to a lot of his character growth.

a final thing that I’ll mention in this post is specifically about Alex- sorry, I can’t help it, I love him so much 😭 I just feel like the decision not to focus more on his work life and his personal life was poorly made. the movie did a phenomenal job of outlining Henry’s stressors and backstory and of course I’m so glad that he was given the closure and attention he needed (though I’m a little pissy that his mother wasn’t involved), but without mentioning Alex’s admittedly shitty work-life-balance and his stress as a newly discovered queer biracial politician and the stress from his parents (apparently nonexistent) divorce, the relationship feels toxic and a little one-sided. im not here to throw any pity parties for any characters, but all of the previously mentioned factors, among others, play into Alex’s decision to go to law school and start taking his time with his life, and the fact that that wasn’t even mentioned put Henry and Alex into a position where Alex seems unreasonable and insensitive while Henry is the only one with a good, albeit traumatized head on his shoulders.

like I said, these are just my opinions, and obviously I like the show a lot, though maybe more as a romantic comedy than a true adaptation of rwrb, so if you have thoughts to share, I’d love to see them! be kind and gracious and don’t start stupid fights over book accuracy, I don’t care that there were no monogrammed kimonos or that a different song played in the museum ❤️

[inkbats-writing]

Not gonna lie kinda disappointed with what Sonic three looks like.

Still seems like an interesting movie don't get me wrong but not what I thought they were gonna do.

For one I hate the fact that the military is working with Sonic. You spend two whole ass movies having them being an incompetent enemy and for the third your like oh well actually we're cool now so it's fine join us or whatever. Second I'm worried based on the trailer that their going to go with the whole shadow was too powerful and that destroyed the Station and killed his loved ones not that oh I don't know the military actively put a hit on an entire stations worth of people and didn't care. Third as cute as the scenes with Stone and robotnik are, fucking hell do I not enjoy the idea of them trucing for this with sonic Co. The final scene of the third movie implied Stone at least would be investigating the whole shadow thing your telling me that if he did he just left him there in prison instead of using shadows threat status as way to get robotnik out of whatever funk he was in during recovery?

I also really did not vibe with the whole saving the world instead of ruling it line from robotnik. It doesn't seem to suit the character they've created and feels wrong to here.

Idk maybe the movie will reveal that shadow only started attacking because Stone and robotnik helped his escape and are helping lead him to his goal from the sidelines while distracting sonic and go. Maybe in the end it will imply robotniks back on the villain side.

Those are just my feelings about it. Still excited and I do want to see just I feel like it wasn't what I expected and I'm kinda bummed

[zacksfairest]

Top 5 favorite books of 2023 and 5 least favorite books, go!

Oh boy! I was so very kind to myself this year and read mostly bangers. Let's see what we've got.

The Dragon Republic by R.F. Kuang. Now, I love the entire Poppy War trilogy, make no mistake about that. It completely rewired my brain and has firmly taken up the spot of Favorite Series Ever. But The Dragon Republic specifically was just It for me. It gave me everything. A well thought out and executed campaign of war, not sparing us the grizzly details (civilian casualties, civilian displacement, the logistics of moving a large army, how ACTUAL BATTLES work), as well as WAR CRIMES. But in addition to that, I was given Rin and Nezha. The epitome of Show Not Tell where it comes to developing feelings. Hateful schoolmates turned comrades in arms turned almost lovers turned mortal enemies. A tragedy that serves as a mere backdrop to the larger tragedy happening in the country at large due to a lingering invading force and a newly sparked civil war. This was easily my favorite book of the year, and I have been chasing the high from reading it ever since. Outbound Flight by Timothy Zahn. Yeah, I've owned this book since 2006 and never read it. What about it? I am well aware that was a major blunder on my part. Perhaps had I read it sooner, I would have been able to hop on the Thrawn train much sooner than 30 years late. This book truly had me sucked in right from the start. Young soldier Thrawn? Dedicated to his troops and his people? Willing to do anything to keep his people safe from the dangers that lurk in the infinite abyss if the universe? Swoon worthy. And also watching Maris be all heart eyes over Thrawn was a big Same Girl moment. Mr. Zahn knew what he was doing to us all along. Yet another book that understands how battles work! And with characters at the helm that are actual good tacticians and understand how battles work also. Dark Force Rising by Timothy Zahn. Yes. Another Thrawn book. Shut up. I loved the entirety of the (original) Thrawn trilogy, but this one really stood out. Leia was allowed to do her thing and be a force to be reckoned with in her own right. Also it felt good seeing a pregnant woman not be sidelined just because she was pregnant. Leia Organa-Solo does not stop and will not be stopped. This was yet another book that understood war and tactics, as well as the espionage that goes into ensuring proper battle plans can be laid out. I owe Zahn my life for being so consistent with this content, as I am a drowning lass in a sea of books that do not fucking understand how this shit works. Also, Thrawn won this round, which felt good. Felt organic. Hell Bent by Leigh Bardugo. AH, YES. The book that proved I was right to put my faith in Bardugo and her plans for Ninth House. We got hot demons! We got fucked up journeys to hell! We got vampires! We got it all here, folks! I'm still super hoping that we get to see someone fuck Darlington by the third book. I want to see that demon dick in action. I hope it's fucked up. The Stolen Heir by Holly Black. This one went an entirely different route than I thought. I expected your standard YA fare: hot dude and meek girl meet, are at odds for a bit, fall in love, etc., except with fae. I should have known better. It's Holly Black, after all. Instead I got a viscious girl as my main character, a hot fae dude (Oak, baby. You're all gown up!), but they have most definitely not fallen in love by the end of this book. I got to put this on my Problematic Villain Love Interests shelf on goodreads! And not even for the reason I usually do! I still think about that final line: "I can't pretend that I don't like the sound of him screaming my name."

As for our bottom five... well. It's a bottom three. Like I said, I was kind to myself this year (also I read a lot of manga. Don't look at me.)

The Resistance Girl by Jina Bacarr. We don't talk about this one. I technically started reading it at the end of 2022, but I didn't finish it until we were decently into 2023. So it counts. It was awful. Terrible. An affront to the written word. And not for the reasons that everyone was up in arms about it. Writing was terrible. Characters were awful and indistinguishable from each other. Plot was bad. Dialogue was the worst slop I've ever laid eyes on. Descriptions not much better. It was just awful. A Curse for True Love by Stephanie Garber. This one was a spirit breaker. The Ballad of Neverafter was so goddamned good. The ending specifically was spectacular and left us off on a wonderfully torturous cliffhanger. I was so excited for what the final book had in store. However, I was so caught up in the euphoria of having a delightful fucked up immortal love interest in Jacks, that I forgot that Garber is Not Great at ending her series. The book overall really wasn't fantastic (a tragedy), but there was a Specific Line toward the end that fucking just. Ruined the entire book for me. Lowkey ruined the whole series, but I fight hard to prevent that from being the case. I loved the first two books so much. I refuse to let terrible storytelling and copouts and a single retcon ruin it for me. Final Fantasy VII Remake: Traces of Two Pasts by Kazushige Nojima. This one was really just a big letdown. It was just a meandering tale of Tifa and Aerith's childhoods. We somehow just completely skipped over how traumatic their respective experiences were at the hands of Shinra. We instead decided to give me boring as fuck stories about their everyday lives. Like. I get it. This is really just a money grab and a way to generate hype for FFVII: Rebirth. But still. Have some pride in your work, Square! Have pride in your characters! Let the writers have fun! I still stand by the idea that the translator might have had a bit to do with why I didn't enjoy it, though. The Kids Are Alright remains one of my favorite books, and the writing for that was fantastic. It was written by the same guy who wrote this book! And it had, what I would say is, the best english translation for a Japanese novel I've ever read. But the translator who worked on the FFXV novel The Dawn of the Future also worked on this Tifa and Aerith centric novel, and I wasn't a giant fan of the writing in the FFXV book either. So while the translator probably played a part in how much this book disappointed me, I don't think much could have saved the meandering plot and redundant experiences contained within.

[golvio]

Yeah, like…the thing that disappointed me the most, which also seems to have been the thing that killed the YouTube Zelda Theory Speculation community that popped up around BotW overnight, was that there was no follow-up to the most compelling ideas introduced in BotW. The only thing that was held over was Zelda and Link’s relationship and some mentions of the Champions, but only Mipha’s story felt like it got any sort of true closure while the other Champions only got brief references. But even the relationship between Zelda and Link feels like it was interrupted to fit Zelda’s isekai plot and the demand to replicate Rauru and Sonia’s relationship over what was established in BotW, particularly the erasure of Zelda’s light powers into a copy of Sonia’s time powers with zero buildup/foreshadowing, because god forbid we make The Girl Rauru’s direct successor instead of a maternal, nurturing, supportive figure who cheers The Boy on from the sidelines! 🙄

Also, do not get me started on how Zelda felt like she’d been reduced to a supporting character in her own story, to the point where Ganondorf only spoke directly to Rauru (and Sonia five seconds before she got fridged to motivate Rauru with Man Angst) instead of her, despite how Zelda being set up as his ultimate enemy from early childhood defined her whole life in BotW, and TotK’s final fight made a big fuss visually about Zelda being Ganon’s opposite without any actual narrative payoff.

The thing that disappointed me the most was the jettisoning of everything that had to do with Calamity Ganon except for a cursory shoutout during the Demon Dragon fight. It introduced a really intriguing reinvention of Ganon’s tendency to create body-doubles of himself, now with them being literal extensions of himself, with Ganon becoming a sort of eldritch entity, but in TotK that gets jettisoned in favor of making him Big Scary Punch Guy. Even his hijacking the Guardians got obscured by the unwillingness of the story to give him traits beyond Big And Scary, to the point where a lot of players assumed his motive was “Me Big Strong He-Man, Hate Scrawny Nerd Technology! *grunt*” And I loved certain aspects of Ganon’s “Demon King” design and thought the Gloom was interesting, as a relation to the way Clammy Gan sapped peoples’ life force in AoC to sustain himself, but the connection itself wasn’t that strong or elaborated upon beyond being a gameplay mechanic whose purpose was to make the Depths more challenging. Link’s arm still containing traces of Gloom didn’t matter beyond the Light Shrine cutscenes, even though we’ve seen Ganon possess other beings in BotW/TotK.

But, basically, TotK made me feel like a moron for even trying to speculate how it would be connected to BotW, because none of the ideas I found really interesting about BotW’s backstory actually made it into this game. I like how the NPCs were fleshed out, but that makes how basic and retcon-heavy the main story felt even more obvious.

I probably still wouldn’t have been a big fan of the game, but I don’t think I would have been NEARLY as upset about TotK if BotW didn’t seem like it was so obviously setting up plot points for a sequel. Like, you’re very clearly MEANT to wonder what malice is, and how Ganon became the Calamity instead of just the Demon King. Fi is awake again, where are they going either that? What’s the deal with the Triforce-shaped symbol on Zelda’s hand? There were a LOT of other things like that, and many of them had to do with overarching lore for the series.

I get it if they want to reboot the series, but “BotW 2” was the single worst game you could have done that with. It could have been an amazing conclusion to the original continuity.

EXACTLY, you, you get it

botw felt like the introduction to a vast world with secrets and hints to things that were planned to become a bigger thing- a big giant game as a big giant set up, and then ... like totk likes to do alot, it lacks a pay off, and that is something it even does within itself, cosntantly, set up and no pay off, or set up and the most boring and uninspired pay off you can really not even call that, from the bigger things like the whole dragon thing being hammered into your head as irreversible and then it IS reversible.. out of nowhere without you having to do fuck all, the whole thing with the ancient hero beign a big mystery with lots of interesting ideas attached and then its some weird ass dog creature that doesnt resemble any other race with, of course, sonau armor, bc there nothing that isnt sonau in that game, even finding the old treasure maps you can find that then lead to amiibo stuff from botw id call that

botw wasnt that great with rewards either but exploring the world and wondering about those, surely intentionally, placed mysterious and intriguing designs and places did alot for making it so interesting to think about, totk fumbles it all and even the new stuff doesnt even come close to that environmental storytelling botw was so great at, sonau ruins? ha they look entirely different than in botw actually, bc those were built by hylians you see, the actual sonau stuff is in prime condition considering the time thats passed and its all the same blank blocky blocks that serve no purpose but to be a place for you to find a thing or exchange some currency- the most you can think about it is ... that the sonau hollowed out the entire underground of hyrule, every inch of the map, ... which is WEIRD and doesnt exactly make them look that good but ... thats all there is

at least with the shiekah it made somewaht more sense and it felt much less .. invasive? and you didnt have anyone from that time to talk to, other than dead monks whos only purpose is to give you their last piece of their own spirit, but in totk ... raurus ghost and mineru too are both just there to talk to but DONT tell you shit but vague hints that were already clear, the sky islands used to be on the ground? oh you dont say, you see them there in the stupid memories! and dont get to know how they got up there and theres nothing that can clue you in to that, its just sonau magic yet again i guess

dont even get me started on the whole malice/miasma thing, it made so much SENSE that there was a source of it, someone that has keep kept in a horrible place just between life and death for thousands of years trying to break free by their hate and anger manifesting to such a degree its literally spilling out and building creppy eyeballs, mouths and ribcage like structures like they are trying to rebuild themsleves outside of their awful prison no one knows about is so damn compelling, but no, actually, the guy trapped there was the msot evilest evar, was sealed bc him evil and no other motive, and the previously mentioned stuff is pretty much utterly unceonnected, and his magic beign miasma with red instead of pink and no creepy body parts was the true version of it, that pink one was its own thing heehooo SHUT UP argh

it doesnt help that really, i dont feel like the sonau were set up either, they were a tiny part in botw, really only serving to make the world seem more ancient and more full of history, having ruins from a past civilization there you know nothing about and cant find out more is so good, its compelling and sad and makes the world feel more real, just shoving them into everything, being the center of attention all of thes udden and not even the architecure fitting feels so ... forced, i really truly believe the og sonau werent meant to be more than that, but in their fear of the game being too similarly looking like botw they took the sonau to replace the shiekah with them- imo the shiekah were the ones set up to be deeper explored in botw, with their whole misstreatment by the royal family in the past, monk miz kyoshia reacting the same way a yiga commander would was deliberate and brings up even more interesting ideas, the comments about where the mysterious energy the ancient shiekah used to power everything being concentrated in certain regions?? thats a big ass set up, the fact that the center of what is signaling everything to reactivate being below hyrule castle? the fact the whole arena thing was BUILT INTO THE CASTLE or it on top of it is so??? cool??? and sso damn intriguing, we are scratching the surface of their history- but then no, actually, the sonau are the cool new shit those other ones just uh ... disappear, also the sonau did everythign the shiekah did but even better wayy before them haha

its like they didnt want to tackle the more complicated stuff with the shiekah, their relationship to the royal family and how the yiga ... have a point and a good reason- so they replaced them with entirely new purely goodest good guys that did the same stuff before them with none of the history attached :))

this is why im so insistent on it not really being a sequel, thers no follow up on anything that was set up, NOTHING, and no, a couple having a kid now or whatever isnt a follow up on an interesting set up, how hard is it to understand that-

.... listen to me rambling, you probably know all that already nhjdfkbnkd

(i know i always bring up the shiekah but ... they were so central in botw, while also not taking up every single corner- unlike some other ones >_____>, with so much interesting stuff to connect and think about, i cared about them so much i felt kicked down the stairs by their treatment in totk)

[inklore]

a tortuous holiday.

premise: the annual thrombey christmas party brings you the same old frustrated and annoyed feelings. except this year instead of it ending with you and ransom torturing each other with your constant hatred and banter, the two of you discover a better way to end it.

pairing: ransom drysdale x (f)reader

warnings: hate to lust/enemies to lovers, smut, 18+ only minors dni, shitty parents, a little bit of steve rogers slander, mentions of drugs and alcohol, dirty talk, praise kink, reader and ransom are both assholes, rough unprotected sex, creampie, dom/sub dynamic, pet names (sweetheart, baby).

word count: 10.8k

etc: tis the season for christmas smut, and my entry in @stargazingfangirl18, @navybrat817, and @drabblewithfrannybarnes’s hoelidays challenge! this was incredibly fun to participate in, even though this got away from me and became longer, and more plot heavy than i was going for lmao. but i shockingly wrote soft!mean!ransom rather than just straight up evil, which is shocking. my ingredients will be listed at the end!

Your nails tapped the side of the champagne flute in your hand as you stood on the sidelines of the annual Thrombey Christmas party. Your indifference slowly churning into annoyance the more you drank. The Holiday music that was blasting from whatever god awful sound system within the house only adding to your agitation.

Usually it wasn’t that hard for you to sit and bare such events. For work, with your family—which was rare, usually a phone call on Christmas or your mother asking you if you liked the purse she had mailed you. The only other time the three of you celebrated anything was at this awful party, and everyone knew it was only to make sure the lines of business friendships were still there. Respectfully so, and because no one felt like losing money over one family turning on the other. So an annual holiday soirée where fake smiles and talks of business, and lots of alcohol being downed, had come to be a tradition.

And god do you wish it hadn’t.

But when a feud between your grandfather and Harlan had blossomed way before you were even born, it seemed to follow the generations until your grandfather passed and Harlan decided the two families were wasting precious resources and money feuding. And that if the two families came together it would surely help both businesses, and of course there was the pure childish act of said feud that you were guessing he was sick of now that he had reached a certain age. And with the feud gone and your families joining sides that meant that events like these were mandatory.

Especially by your father who couldn’t stress enough that you had to look your best, that you had to give your best winning smile. Bring a date, wear a pretty dress, make them see that nothing could be a miss even if they looked too closely—too closely to see that your mother had a drinking problem and was completely indifferent to her husband and her daughter most of the time. And that your father had as many mistresses as an old King, and was just as indifferent with his daughter unless it came to business. Which was the only time the two of you seemed to really speak. Even when the two of you worked in the same building you’d only ever see, or talk to him, when he called you into his office for reports on something. Or to do his dirty work for him.

Once you were able to read and write your father drilled into you the importance of work ethic and being the absolute best at what you did. And from a young age you aimed to please your father, because as he made very known, you were his only child—sadly a girl—and it was your job to please and make a name for the family. And it seemed that line of thinking had yet to detach itself from you in adulthood. Even when you couldn’t stand either of your parents, and the only praise your father had ever given you was for signing the biggest movie deal the company had seen, with a pat on the back and lackluster smile; you found yourself still trying to please him and maybe see an ounce of pride in his eyes.

It was pathetic as hell, you knew this. Your parents were not people who could, or would change. They were both the poster couple of neglectful parents and rich assholes. You wondered why someone like Harlan had kept the joining contract with them, especially when he seemed to be the only one of sound mind and good heart in both your families put together. Besides yourself of course.

Which is why you were having a god-awful time at this shindig. Your parents acting like they didn’t sleep in separate bedrooms, and can stand each other for more than five minutes as they talk to the Drysdale’s. You’re sure about nothing but business, or worse fighting over who’s prodigy child is better. Which was another reason you wished you had fallen ill or got hit by a truck on the way here; Ransom Drysdale.

He had took it upon himself to host the party at his house this year, and did not spare any expense. You wondered if it was his own money he was squandering to prove a point, or his grandfathers.

While the feud between your grandfathers had ended it didn’t stop your fathers from pitting the two of you against each other. Making it known that someday it would only be the two of you left to run the business and one clearly had to be better than the other. One had to be the boss and one had to be the lackey. Because while this was now a joint business there was nothing joint about being better than the other. Out selling, out bidding, out signing, god-forbid it be a real team effort. No, this was about money and power at the end of the day. Being top dog meant more money and if anything was certain it was that both your families cared more about money than ethics.

And you weren’t any better than them. You couldn’t imagine your life without easy access to money. You were raised that way. In the pits of shallowness and money hungry parents who fed you hundred dollar bills to shut you up. Sometimes you found yourself wondering what it would be like to sell out. To tell your father to fuck off and live a life without constant striving to please the asshole and being weened on bags of green and fancy things.

But you were resilient more than anything and if you sold out that meant Ransom would get your shares. Would win out and you’d rather drown in dirty money and be tortured with awful Christmas parties than ever let that happen. Because truly, fuck that guy.

“Darling,” you look up from the glass pressed to your lips to see your mother motioning for you to join them. You’re tempted to feen your desperation for another drink, something you are sure she would understand. But the stern look your father shoots singes such a thought. And so your inwardly groaning, trying not to roll your eyes as you stride over to them. Plastering a big fake grin on your lips once you’re beside your mother, her arm wrapped around your waist to prove something.

“You look beautiful as ever.” Linda compliments, her smile genuine and nice. And if there was anyone in this family you could stand it was her. Her strong opinions were the only ones you could suss out if they were fake or not.

“Yes, I agree.” Richard adds in, his smile making you cringe. He reminded you too much of your father, with both his assholeness and his love for mistresses.

“That’s our girl,” your father gives his ever winning grin as he pats your shoulder. “Cleans up well in and out of the workplace.” Everyone laughs at that except you. You press the flute to your lips and down the rest of your Champagne. Sufficing a closed lip smile when you feel your mother pinch your side. Her eyes warning ‘play along or else’. A threat that’s lost it’s luster since you were a child.

“I was just telling Linda and Richard here about the big deal we signed with Netflix the other day.”

“We?” You give a small fake laugh. You can see your fathers blood pleasure rising by the second as he narrows his brows at you.

“Right, well, you–of course that’s what I meant.” He gives that fake grin again, “I’m sure it was very hard for you to seal the deal once I relayed you the information and gave you the tools you needed.” He jabs at you, his false statement making your chest tighten. Your fingers tightening around the empty glass in your hand. “But it was your pretty face that nailed the deal in the head. We must give credit where it is due after all.” He pats your shoulder again and raises his glass in the air in celebration of his back handed compliment.

“Here here!” Richard rejoices, his fake grin more of a sneer as he drinks the dark liquor in his glass, eyes attached to you as he does so.

And if you have to stand there any longer and listen to another word, on your of success—or lack there of—being anything other than you just having a pretty face, or fake another smile, you’re sure the tightening in your chest will take you out. If the look your parents keep shooting you doesn’t. Your misstep of being anything but showmanshippy being worse than if you would have thrown your drink in their faces.

“I’m going to get another drink, anyone need another?” You ask politely, act as if you truly mean it when in reality you hope they all choke—and the fact that all of their glasses are nearly full.

“No, sweetie, thank you.” Linda thanks within the same breath she starts talking about some real-estate deal with your mother.

You don’t wait for anyone else to answer to turn on your heels and make your way towards the kitchen, “hurry back, and don’t drink too much. No need to celebrate that hard. No one likes a sloppy drunk, darling.” Your father adds behind your back and you know if you turn around you’ll regret it. Liquid courage thrumming through your veins ready to have you shoot venom.

Instead you silently make your way to the kitchen, passing by several people who try to give you smiles that you all but ignore. Your scowl making some people move completely out of your way without having to utter a single word, thank God. You don’t know if you could find it in yourself to be nice right now.

When you reach the kitchen and the fully stocked tray of Champagne glasses you quickly take one and down the whole thing. The bitterness of the alcohol burning your stomach easing your nerves a bit. Your nails tapping on the counter as you try those breathing techniques your therapist raved about. And you think they’re working, think your chest finally feels normal again and your blood less of a boil and more of a light simmer—even with all of the disgusting Holiday cheer still going on around you, and your fathers words ringing in the back of your mind.

If only everyone knew how your father hadn’t made a sale in two years. That you and your fathers dirty work ethics were the only reason your side of the business was doing any good. You wonder what everyone would think of him then? The thought makes you smile.

That just as quickly fades when you hear the boisterous cocky laced voice of Ransom entering the kitchen and spotting you.

“So she does smile. And here I thought only the torture of children and puppies only brought a smile to your face.”

So much for blood simmering.

You grab another glass from the tray, take a sip, turn and give Ransom—who is leaning up against the counter, arms crossed over his chest smirking at you—a less than enthusiastic smile.

“Ransom,” you can’t help the rolling of your eyes. “I didn’t expect you to show your face much tonight. You’re usually distracted by whatever coked up model you’ve invited.” You press your hand to your chest, faking sincerity, “oh, no did you finally run out of money to pay them to give you the time of day, or their habit. Or did they realize no amount of your grandfathers money, paired with lackluster dick is worth a gram?” You smirk when his eyebrows shoot up, nodding his head, and chuckling softly as if he’s impressed.

“Wow, such hostility. That’s no way to treat your host.”

“You’re right, where is your grandfather? I’d love to thank him for letting his mooch-grandson use his money to buy this really good Champagne.”

“Oh,” Ransom laughs. “He’s probably congratulating your dad on his big deal, we all know how hard Daddy works to keep the company afloat. And he definitely doesn’t step on the back of the help—sorry, I mean his daughter.”

You hate how the jab burns you like a hot iron, making your scowl deepen—the middle of your forehead aching from the elongated dirty looks you’ve been giving all night. You want to reach out and slap the winning grin off of Ransom’s face. Not caring that if you caused a scene right here and now your parents would probably never speak to you again. That fact alone making the idea more enticing.

You open your mouth to shoot more venom at the pretentious asshole in front of you, until you feel an arm wrap around your waist. Lips pressed to the side of your head.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” The man, Steve, says softly. Giving you a warm smile that does the opposite of what it’s supposed to do to you. His sweetness entering your atmosphere as an unwanted plague.

The two of you weren’t really a thing, at least in your book. He was the typical poster child of ‘good guy my parents will like and everyone will be impressed with’. And sadly that’s all you ever viewed him for, and could see yourself viewing him for. You think if you were a better person, one who didn’t label romantic emotions as detrimental and scarce, you might actually like him. Maybe even grow to love him one day. But you were set in reality and the reality was that Steve Rogers was not your type, and it didn’t matter how many times you fucked him, or dragged him to party after party because your parents said he was good for your image, nothing would change the fact.

But that doesn’t stop you from feening the utmost interest in him as Ransom looks on. One brow quirked up as his judging eyes look between the two of you. The corner of his mouth twitching up the slightest.

“Great party!” Steve holds his drink up in solute to the other male, the genuinity in his voice towards Ransom makes you want to roll your eyes. But you’d never give him the satisfaction.

Instead you wrap one of your arms around Steve and look at him with your winning–actress–smile. Trying to paint the picture of admiration and love, as your insides churn and scream for you to move into the other room and down a whole bottle of liquor.

“It’s the Holiday season,” Ransom smiles. “It’s the least I could do. Christmas cheer and all that.” He laughs, his very very fake laugh that you’ve come to notice, even grow accustomed to hearing so much. Especially in joint meetings or when the two of you had to meet up with a client together—the only time either of you faked fondness of the other as if there was a gun held to your head. You actually knew a lot about Ransom from being forcibly pushed against him by your parents, and having to work in tandem with him, or out do him. And if you really thought about it you could depict more of his mannerisms, and habits of speech than you could Steve’s. And that thought alone has you downing the rest of your drink in a haste.

“Well, it’s great. I especially love the eggnog.” Steve takes a sip from his glass and grins, “it’s amazing.” You grimace at the slight left over residue at the top of his upper lip, pull away from him to set down your flute and reach for another. A little voice in your head telling you to take it easy, a voice that sounds more like your fathers than your own.

Ransom notes your face, almost beaming with glee at your displeasure and the opportunity to jab you once more. “What? You don’t like eggnog?” You give him a blank agitated stare that makes him laugh.

“What? Serious, babe? Have you ever tried it, it’s delicious!” Steve raves.

“Wanna try my eggnog? I made it myself.” Ransom smirks, motions towards the big bowl of the thick yellow hell on one of the counters.

“I’d rather choke.” Your tone is clipped and void of emotion as you sip more Champagne, the bitterness burn now gone and numbing the back of your throat.

You don’t miss how Ransom chuckles deeply and Steve looks over to you in bewilderment? Surprise? You’re not sure but you don’t let your eyes meet his, you just keep scowling at the asshole in front of you. The two of you having a stare off so long that the man beside you has to clear his throat and squeeze your side to cut the tension.

“Uh, anyway, like I was saying.” Steve swallows nervously, “this is all so great. Especially the nog.”

And you know Ransom doesn’t miss the way you cringe at Steve’s repeated politeness, or the use of the word nog. And maybe you shouldn’t find it annoying, that was just how Steve was; utterly nice and agitating. But you curse softly below your breath for letting your fake love veil slip in front of Ransom.

You knew he wasn’t stupid though, and if anyone in this room is going to read you like a fucking book it’s the man right in front of you. The two of you having some kind of sick foresight from jabbing at each other for years. A sick bond built on torture, mean words, and dirty looks. So it’s not really that big of a deal that Ransom see’s your indifference towards Steve. But you also hate the idea of him knowing anything about you, or thinking he does, because fuck him.

“I aim to please.” Ransom shrugs his shoulders, gives Steve a wide grin, that etches more into something devilish when his eyes look over to you again. “I learn from the best after all.” He motions towards you, “she knows all about pleasing. Some would say it’s more her job title than anything else. Pleasing the clients. Pleasing Daddy dearest so much that I think he grows sick of it.“

Your grip tightens on the glass in your hands so hard that you think you hear the slight crack of it about to break and slice your palm. Your chest once again finding its home in that tightened state that makes you want to scream, or pass out from the tension it’s causing in your rigid body. Your blood less boiling and more lava.

And Ransom knows he’s won this little stand off, this time. With the way he shoots you a wink, moves from the counter and out of the kitchen. His boisterous voice carrying through the open concept as he makes his way around in the other room. And you’re left there stood beside Steve, your breath now coming out in hot puffs of fuming air and the man beside you removing his arm to place his palm at your shoulder. The coldness of his hand on your too warm body making you want to cringe away from him—but you’re too pissed to move.

Your mind working overtime to come up with ideas of things to say the next time that prick Ransom is in front of you—so you don’t hear Steve’s soft voice next to you asking if you’re okay. Not until he moves in front of you so you’re looking at him.

“Hey, are you okay?” He asks for what you’re sure is the seventh time. “What an asshole that guy, I’m sorry, babe.”

You can’t help the slight scrunch of your nose at the pet name. Something you never let him get away with saying if there was someone next to you to impress, or in the bedroom—which was not often. You knowing full well the more times you fucked Steve the harder it was going to be, on him after you cut him off. Not needing his services anymore. Something you’re realizing in this moment needs to happen sooner rather than later.

His sincerity only makes you the more annoyed and fuming. But causing a scene with having him potentially cry and preface his love to you was the last thing you needed right now. So you give him a pressed lip smile and follow him into the living room—per his suggestion of the two of you going to sit and enjoy the rest of the party together. Something you were most certainly not going to do.

The rest of the night seems to go more of the same. You scowling in the corner, trying to fake it for your parents and now Steve. Ransom sending little menacing looks and smirks your way and you glaring at him in return—at one point even going as far as to flip him off.

You find your way back into the kitchen, all but volunteering to refill Steve’s drink when he stood up to do it himself. Faking the ever generous lover just to get away from him and the irritating conversation he was having with your parents and Walt.

Your plan already being to grab another drink yourself and not leave the kitchen again until you’ve at least downed enough to feel more than just a very dull buzz—that seemed to be dying dead each time you were in the vicinity of your parents. But as you turn the corner into the kitchen Joni is leaving it and runs right into you, spilling her glass of wine all over your dress.

The sheer shock from the coldness of the booze now making your already tight dress stick to you even tighter, making you take a sharp intake of breath, your hands out at your sides, mouth open in shock. And when you look down at the front of your dress you know it’s completely ruined, the dark red wine completely covering your chest and seeping it’s way down even further.

And you’re not mad that your dress is ruined. You have a million dresses, could buy more. No it’s the fact that now everyone is staring at the two of you and you can feel the disappointing embarrassment from your parents radiating off of them from their places on the couch. And you can’t see him but you know Ransom is eating this shit up like it’s golden armory.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” Joni frowns, quickly sets down her glass in a panic and grabs for the nearest thing to start wiping at the stain. “I have some stain remover in my bag, Flam is trying to branch out into some travel essentials.” She toots her own horn smiling up at you as she continues to scrub.

You have to take in a deep breath, collect yourself, before grabbing Joni’s wrists to stop her, from both scrubbing at the helpless stain, and from talking anymore about her failing business. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it, accidents happen. Even by the less unfortunate.” You jab at her, even though deep down you feel a pang of guilt because she really doesn’t deserve it. Joni has never given you a reason to dislike her, other than her density and being a bit full of herself, you could actually stand her—on a good day. But today was not one of those days.

You don’t wait to see her reaction to your harsh words. Instead you turn and make your way towards the bathroom. Blotting the front of your dress with a wet cloth once in there, staining the white linen red—it bringing a sickly smile to your face knowing that now it was ruined too and you hoped it would get on Ransom’s nerves.

The dress is all but hopeless and you lean deflated against the counter, wondering if you can use this mishap as an excuse to finally leave the party. Maybe this was a good thing, a sign from whatever God handing you a break to finally end your suffering.

But you weren’t that lucky.

You hear a knock on the door followed by your mothers voice as she pushes her way in the vast space, without waiting for your response.

“Here dear.” She hands you a small pile of clothes that, once you’ve rummaged through them, has a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt with the bright colored words FLAM printed across it. “Joni said she had spare clothes in her car. I guess we should thank her for her failures. It seemed to come in handy.” She gives you a tight smile, takes the cloth from your hand and attempts to do what you couldn’t—and failing.

And you think this is the most motherly thing she’s ever done for you in the last ten years, and you know it has nothing to do with motherly love and more her embarrassment for you. And the fact that you ruined a perfect dress, as if it were your fault for running into Joni.

“Your father and I will be leaving soon.” She sighs, sets down the cloth. “It’s supposed to storm. Our driver called in today. Some family emergency,” she rolls her eyes as if to say her and your father were more important than whatever potential family tragedy could be happening to one of their employers. “Will Steve be driving you home?”

“Not if I have a say in it.” You mutter as you strip your dress off, your skin feeling cold and damp from where the wine had soaked into the fabric.

“I really wish you would just give him a chance. He really is a nice boy.”

“Too nice.”

Your mother gives you a deadpan look, her gaze anything but pleased. But unlike your father you could say things like this around her—to an extent. When it was just the two of you alone she soon forgot about her perfect role she was supposed to play—those sparse moments being the only redeeming aspects you’d ever give your mother. Ever. “There’s nothing wrong with too nice. Too nice can be good. You don’t want to marry a scrooge, dear.”

“Mother I am the scrooge. And apparently marrying myself is improper,” your tone is clipped and muffled as you slip on the pants and sweatshirt. Your breath coming out in frustrated puffs the more you moved, no thanks to the amount of alcohol you have downed, and your mothers badgering.

She picks up her glass that you almost didn’t see her bring in, but of course she has it—would be a fever dream if she didn’t. “Unfortunately you are correct,” she gives you a once over look and you can see her blatant grimace at your new outfit, as she takes a sip of her drink. “What about,” she takes another sip, swooshes around the liquid in her glass as she speaks. “Ransom.”

You stop dead in your tracks, stand straight up from trying to fix the legs of the overly tight pants, and lower your brows at her. “What about him?”

She shrugs, “I don’t know, have you ever thought…” she lets silence trail behind that question as she stares at you, her eyes saying what her mouth didn’t.

The sound you make is a mix of a gag and disgust. “You really need to stop drinking.” You glare at her, grab your dress from the floor and begin to fold it.

“All I’m saying is that it wouldn’t be a bad idea. It doesn’t have to be a love match. We all know the two of you can’t stand each other, God it would be a more volatile relationship than anything else.” She sips, “but, it would be a good image. Not only for you but both families. And great for business.”

Of course this was about business. About image. It always was. Thank God you didn’t allow yourself for a second to think your mother had seen some ignored spark between the two of you or some other sappy bullshit. This just proving even more that your mother could not careless about your true happiness. As long as you were ever willing to please your family and do right by the business she couldn’t careless.

“I’d much rather marry a cactus, Mother.”

She scoffs, shakes her head disapprovingly. “I don’t know why you have to be so difficult. Why is it so hard to do what is asked of you? To prove that you actually like being a part of this family. After all your father and I have done for you, you can’t even do one simple thing. Make us happy, proud. Marry someone rich and successful so you can stop trying so hard to be the son your father never had, nor I wanted.” Her head shaking doesn’t cease neither does her speaking in between sips, talking to her glass as if you weren’t even there. Or as if she didn’t just slap you in the face with her words and make your stomach plummet.

And for once in your life you have no idea what to say. You just stare at her. The corner of your eyes burning as if you might cry, as if you might give her the satisfaction to see that you gave a fuck about her words. You feel your grip tighten on the dress, something your mother notices and frowns at. The only thing she notices—your glazed eyes, and lack of breathing, and shaking hands from the rage you feel inside of you going unnoticed.

“That’s expensive,” she grabs the dress from your hands. “I’ll go give this to Ransom’s house keeper, I’m sure she’ll have it all washed and good as new before you leave, dear.” She gives you another pressed lip smile and she’s out of the door as if nothing had happened. As if her words never happened or cut you down like a knife. Ever the casual converser your mother. Ever the oblivious to torturing her child as well.

You close your eyes, hands gripping the sides of the bathroom counter. Try to coach yourself to breathe, to not pay attention to how fast your heart is beating or how you can hear it in your ears. It muffling the constant loop of your mothers words in your head; why is it so hard for you to do what is asked? after all your father and I have done for you. You can’t even do one simple thing.

As each syllable replays in your head you feel like screaming from the dagger that feels like is being pushed in your chest. The notion that you have do anything but listen to your parents since you came out of the womb preposterous. As is your mother saying her and your father did anything for you other than raise you to be as money hungry and business mongered as them. You have done nothing but listen to your father, his needs and wants for the company. His threats and even turned a blind eye when you saw him do something shady. You’ve spent all of your life begging, not in words but in the many achievements you’ve done—not to mention the business aspect of it—just to hear a simple ‘thank you’, or ‘you’re doing so great, we are proud of you’.

And deep down you knew those words would never come. You knew it. You knew your parents through and through down to your very bone marrow and yet here you were letting tears fall in front of the mirror as if you were some blubbering baby. God you hated them, hated this fucking holiday, hated this house, hated yourself for letting anyone make you cry—let alone your parents. As you wipe the tears from your eyes and shake off the feelings of despair, your long forgotten breath technique ignored as you decide smiling as if nothing happened and moving on was what was best. What was always best for you in these situations, fuck what your therapist thought, who was she anyway?!

You try to fix your makeup as best as you can, try to not show your lapse of weakness. And hope that people pay more attention to the tacky outfit you are wearing rather than the slight reding of your eyes. Or maybe you should drink more so they can chalk it up to you being plastered instead.

When you open the door you don’t expect to see Ransom stood on the other side of it. You also don’t expect to see his smirk fade once he takes in your face.

“Shut up and move.” You say enraged that this asshole seems to catch on to you more than anyone you’ve ever known, fucked, dated. Just another thing to add to your never ending list of why you can’t stand him.

“Did you really love the dress that much? I figured daddies money could buy you something a little more tasteful, at best.” And you’re glad he’s back to his normal jabbing but his words also add fuel to the flame that’s feeding your rage, and making your chest continue to ache.

And you turn on him in an instant, your finger pressed into the soft knitting of his sweater, your voice low and eyes blazing. “Look, unlike you I make my own money and don’t need to be weened on the scraps of pennies from my grandfather or parents. I don’t need anyone to be successful, can you say the same? What even is your talent again, besides fucking clients into submission?”

“I see whatever little chat you and Mommy had didn’t go too well, huh?” Ransom clicks his tongue, his smirk returning. “This, thing between us, whatever it is.” He shrugs, grabs your wrist, moving your finger from his chest. He slowly backs you up into the wall until your back is pressed flush against it, your hand soon following as he holds your wrist to the wall. His face dangerously close to yours, and if you weren’t stunned you know you’d knee him in the crotch or spit in his face. But that pounding in your heart is back and there’s a part of you that worries about someone rounding the corner and seeing the two of you like this—and you don’t need anyone thinking such disgusting things about the two of you, especially your parents, which you sure would please them.

But you can’t take your focus off of Ransom and how his face molds into so many different features; cocky, snarky, a bit of pity. The tightened grip on your wrist making your heartbeat travel to more places than just your chest. “It’s growing tiresome for me. It’s always the same thing over and over. I tell you you’re a raging bitch and you tell me to fuck off and mooch some more. It’s the same old song and dance.” He sighs, “aren’t you tired? Tired of always letting your father take the credit for your work? For pitting you up against someone who’s clearly more talented and well off for the business than you, only because he wants to see you fail? Fall flat right on to that pretty face of yours.”

You scowl at him, glare, send fucking death threats all with your eyes because who the hell does he think he is? You open your mouth to ask him just that but he’s cutting you off with another degrading monologue.

“Maybe you’re just not smart enough to be anything other than your fathers lackey. Or maybe you just love looking desperate for praise from parents who wouldn’t bat an eye if you dropped dead this very second.” His words cut you even deeper than your mothers did. Make tears threaten to fall once more, and you can feel your body shaking with rage and frustration and all you want to do is scream at him. But you can’t. You can barley even breathe with everything you are feeling right now. “So, I say instead of me just adding to the same bullshit torture your parents add on to you, we cut the shit. I won’t jab you if you don’t jab me, and then maybe you’ll actually get some fucking work done and I won’t have to see that same old sappy look on your face each time your father doesn’t praise his little girl for doing something.” He smiles, “doesn’t that sound so much better than whatever this is?” There’s a moment where the two of you just stare at each other and you know he can see the glossing of your eyes, knows he can feel the anger and hurt radiating off of you like a fucking furnace. But he doesn’t comment on it. He barley acknowledges it and you’re thankful for it. You take it as an act of kindness. Probably the only one you’ll ever get from him.

“You really are brilliant. I wish you could see that. Your father is worthless to the company, everyone knows that. You’re the only one who doesn’t. It’s a pity.” You see his eyes flash from your lips to your gaze, before he’s letting your wrist go and moving away from you. Headed back in the direction where you can still hear people partying. “Your clothes should be done shortly.” Is the last thing he says to you before he turns the corner and is gone.

And you bring your hand up to your chest, rubbing the wrist that was held in his burning hold. The skin warm and tingling from his grip. Your heart still beating out of your chest, your breath finding you once more and coming out heavy.

What the fuck was that? Did Ransom just raise a white flag in surrender, insult you worse than he ever has, and give you a compliment all in the same breath? What was his fucking play? You couldn’t wrap your mind around the thought of Ransom putting you out if you were on fire let alone give you a compliment. And not one that makes a smile threaten to come across your face at that—and the remanence of that heart between your legs.

You didn’t know what his game was, or what kind of reverse psychology he was using on you but it wasn’t going to work. And fuck him once again for proving why you can’t stand him, and for touching you. He had no right to pin you to the wall like that…or look at you like that…or make your fucking head swim with irrational thoughts that have you aching from him pining you to the wall.

Fuck him.

You needed another drink.

As the party starts to wind down and people start pilling out of the door, the snowstorm your mother had warned about—before she stripped you of all feeling—was reigning in. You could barley see out of the window as you stood in Ransom’s living room, now much more quieter, with only you and a couple of caterers and house keepers occupying the spaces within the other rooms. You watched as your parents drove from the drive way, their goodbyes to you less than enthusiastic.

Your father reminding you that being a lush wasn’t a good image for you and you better not let it show at work the next day. And your mother giving you a simple smile and a “you should of went home with Steve, poor boy, deserves better” then leaving. And a sick part of your brain hoped they’d get snowed in their car and freeze to death. A sickly thought that you wished didn’t bring you joy to think about. But when it came to your parents joyful thoughts never came.

You check the time on your phone as you impatiently wait for your dress to be dried. One of Ransom’s housekeepers assuring you that she got the stain out and was working hard on drying it perfectly for you. The sooner you left this house the sooner you could breathe normally again, think normally. And maybe feel less tension in your brows, the dull headache pounding in the back of your skull from your constant scowling tonight more rueful to you than anything.

You decide there’s no sense in watching the clock, or trying to rush your way out of the door when your chances of getting a driver to come get you right now—in the heavy snowstorm—was pitiful. So you sit yourself on Ransom’s couch, you almost find yourself scowling at how soft it is. How you seem to melt right into the cushions even though it looks anything but comfortable, more stylish than anything.

You let yourself lean back and enjoy the silence, closing your eyes and trying not to think about anything for a second. You got through this God forsaken party—half unscathed—your parents were gone, there was no more Jingle Bell Rock playing on a loop. And Joni’s clothes were actually pretty comfy, way more comfy than your dress that was for sure.

When you open your eyes back up Ransom is stood there holding two mugs of what you assume is eggnog, if the yellowing color is any indication. Neither of you say anything when he hands it to you, you take it, and he sits besides you on the sofa.

You bring the mug to your lips and take the tiniest of sips, actually feel yourself light up a little after swallowing. The smallest burns of the evidence of booze mixed in lolling your body a bit.

“Thought you’d didn’t like eggnog?” Ransom quips, giving you a lopsided smirk as he watches you drink.

“I never said that.” You shrug, “I just hate giving you the satisfaction of seeing me enjoy things. Especially when you’ve made them.” You admit, feeling yourself smile genuinely for the first time tonight.

“Ahh, I knew it had to be something. Because everyone loves my eggnog.” He winks, takes a sip from his own mug.

“You just love ruining moments don’t you?”

“When it comes to you, absolutely.” He grins, sets his mug down on a coaster on the coffee table in front of the two of you. “But I like seeing you smile more, so. I do what I have to do to get it out of you.”

You almost choke on the contents in your mouth at his words. You eye him suspiciously, this whole nice act was not something you liked. Or trusted for that matter. “Did you poison me?”

“What?”

“Did you poison me?” Your tone is serious, “You’ve complimented me twice in the same day you told me my parents would love to see me in a grave.”

Ransom laughs, “I didn’t say they’d love to see you in a grave, I just said they are neglectful and would move on within the day. Two days, tops.”

“I won’t deny that you’re probably right. But I still don’t like this act of yours.” You set your mug down next to his, “I hate you, you hate me. Don’t fuck that up by faking nice. I expect it from everyone else but you.”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, just turns and looks at you, really looks at you. “I wasn’t lying when I said I was sick of it all. Our parents don’t give a fuck unless we are making them money and the only reason they pit us against each other is because they’re probably hoping one of us folds or has a heart attack from all the bantering and rage. So then they can swoop in and take our shares.” He picks as a stray string on his sweater, “you’re not the only one with parents who don’t give a shit about them. And yeah, I can’t fucking stand you, and you me. But I know for a fact that we hate them more. Equally. Separately. It’s all the same. Hate is something we both thrive on. Can live off of, make a God damn name for ourselves with.” His words, and the breathy chuckle he lets out makes something inside of you squirm. “I don’t want you to be my enemy, at least not behind closed doors.” He’s looking at you again, smirking, “but for the cameras and our puppeteers gladly. At least until everyone dies off and it’s only you and I left, then I’ll consider taking your name out of my phone as ‘Rueful Bitch.’”

You can’t help the laugh that slips from your mouth, or the way you slam your mouth shut when Ransom looks at you in shock from actually hearing it. “Shut up.” You roll your eyes, bring your knees to your chest and look back out at the window, trying to hide the emotions that are flowing across your features. While Ransom’s words were humorous and you could agree—on some of them—you weren’t too sure if you actually trust them. Or him. If there was anyone in this world who’s intentions you would never find yourself to put your trust in it would be the man beside you. The hatred bond and derogatory manner in which the two of you started out this—whatever it was—was not something that built trust between two people. Or paved the way to a good truce. The two of you would always be stuck in that untrusting limbo and at each other’s throats whether you liked it or not. It’s what you two were trained to do after all.

“So, Steve, quite the love match there.”

You whip your head around to glare at him but find he’s trying to hold in a laugh. covered by a smirk and you find yourself doing the same. “Just because you’ve waved your white flag and want to become acquaintances behind closed doors, does not label us as friends. Therefore not giving you the right to speak on my relationships.”

“Or lack there of.” He mutters under his breath.

“Ransom.”

“What?” He shrugs, turns slightly so he’s facing you more. “All I’m saying is that he doesn’t seem like your type.”

“Oh, and you definitely know what my type is because we are such great pals.”

“I know more than you think.” His face is unreadable and cocky, and it makes you want to slap him—an all too familiar feeling that you keen at.

You narrow your eyes at him, “elaborate.”

He stares at you for a beat as if debating on if he should go full asshole, or semi now that you two are—whatever the hell you were. And when he opens his mouth to finally speak you expect nothing but venom from that snake you’ve grown so accustomed to. Instead his words make your cheeks burn hot and the urge to slap him growing even more, except this time from the prick of something else. Some other wound you’d hoped no one would know about.

“Remember last Christmas, when my grandfather insisted we all dress accordingly to take a grand Holiday photo for the company website? And you mysteriously fell ill that night and couldn’t be a part of it, which I’m shocked your parents didn’t make you snort a line of dayquil and force you by your hair, we know how they love parties.” Ransom smirks, “well, me being me, ever knowing and great. Knew that was a load of shit. And I knew where you’d be, where you always are. At the office. So I originally left the party early to come fuck with you, very dearly missing our yearly Holiday jab-bery. And when I turned the corner to your office, to my utter shock and surprise,” his expression has gone back to serious, calm. His eyes boring into yours as if they were missiles aiming and ready to ruin your whole facade, your breath catching in the back of your throat because you knew what his next words would be. Knew what you were really doing that night.

“There you were bent over your desk and being fucked. Throughly fucked, actually. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so fucked out as you looked.”

“Fuck you.” You don’t process the words have slipped from your lips until Ransom’s smirk is back, and you feel the heat burning through your body like a flame to his never ending dousing of gasoline on you. You don’t know if the heat you feel is from embarrassment, or rage from the lack of privacy and this asshole of a man seeing you in such a compromising position.

“Hey,” he puts his hands up in the air in defense. “I’m not judging. I’ve fucked plenty in my office, like you said it’s how I get deals done.” Ransom grins, “I’m just saying I get it now.”

“Get what?”

“What kind of man you’re into. I heard you begging, losing yourself on his cock while he praised you for taking it so good.” His voice has dropped, turned dark, knowing, and laced with something you don’t like—something that’s making your body feel things, things that if you weren’t clouded with heat right now you would cringe at—the same as when he had you against the wall. “I knew you had daddy issues, everyone can see it from a mile away, sweetheart. It’s no secret. But what I didn’t know is that it turned you into a submissive little slut.”

Your breath stops completely at his last words. Your entire body and mind feeling like it’s just been thrown into a pit of lava and burnt to nothing more than Ransom’s words. Those dirty words that fill you with so many different emotions but have your legs pressing closer together all the same.

You remember the night in talks. Remember getting out of the Christmas party and asking one of your flings to come by your office, it being much easier to fuck there than your house—and also not wanting to let a simple fuck crowd in your peaceful space that you’ve made for yourself. And it was Christmas Eve for fuck sakes, no one should of been at the office, let alone randomly deciding to stop by. But of course Ransom did, of course fate had to continue to give you reason to want to destroy this man even more.

Your mind helplessly wanders to how much he could of seen. Did he see the way you got on your knees and begged him to cum in your mouth? Or how you melted like fucking butter when he told you were a good girl for doing so. And Ransom was right, the pretentious little shit was right. Steve was not your type, the man didn’t have an ounce of dominance in his body. His idea of sex was missionary and looking into your eyes longingly. It took all you had inside of you not to scream at him to actually fuck you, make you beg, or cum when the two of you had hooked up—the one and only time.

“If you needed someone to tell you how much of an undeserving whore you were, all you had to do was ask.” You feel Ransom’s finger under your chin, moving your gaze back to his. “I’ll gladly have you on your knees and begging for my cock.” And there’s that smirk again that you hate, but right now has you reeling. As if that switch—that you know all too well—has been flicked on and you’re suddenly submissive putty in his hands. “I love the idea of fucking that annoying little mouth of yours, won’t lie and say I haven’t thought about shutting you up for good with my cock. Or fucking you right in front of a client to show them you’re not really in power here, you’re just a weak little girl who wants to please.”

The whimper that slips out of your parted lips does not go unnoticed, and you hate yourself for it. Hate the way that you feel like you can’t breathe. Like your legs are shaking from pressing together so hard. Can feel the slickness that’s gathered in your panties. Fuck you hate this man. But your willingness to do whatever he says to keep hearing those filthy words and potential praises is nipping at your core, and you can’t help yourself.

“Do you want to please me?” The serious bravado of his tone makes another whimper slip. Everything inside of you begging you to say yes, to please him, to fuck him. But that rational part of your brain that still finds Ransom repulsively annoying is screaming at you to slap him and walk home in the storm—even if you do die of hypothermia.

You give that part of your brain the smallest amount of shine as you move your face from his finger. Push yourself further down the sofa and away from him, trudge up your signature scowl the best you can.

Ransom only laughing in response, smirk showing his pearly whites. “Stubborn even when she’s fucking needy for it.” He reaches out and grabs the back of your thigh, gripping your muscle and pulling you to him so you’re even closer now. The protest and—lack there of—of a fight you try to put up is pitiful. Ransom grabbing both of your wrists and holding them in one of his palms above your head. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you so quiet. I didn’t know you knew how to keep that pretty mouth of yours shut.” Your body squirms as his other hand spreads your thighs apart, wasting no time in pulling the tops of your yoga pants down to the tops of your thighs to reveal your panties. The wet spot clearly evident on them. “You’re wet.” He grins at you, “for me.” He hums softly as he lets his fingers skate across the peaks of your thighs until they make a home over your clothed pussy, his index finger rubbing against the wet spot, right where your clit is, making your hips buck slightly and small moans fall against your pressed lips.

“You know I can give you a lot more pleasure than just this. I can make you cum. With my hand, my mouth,” you feel his lips at the side of your face. You turn your head slightly, lifting your gaze from his hand between your legs. Your lips inches from him, “or my cock. All you have to do is say the words sweetheart. Be a good girl for me and ask nicely, we both know you want it. Have wanted it for a long time. Just say the words and I’ll give you all the praise and cock you need.”

You swear you have a sane thought to end this right here and now and not listen to the throbbing of your cunt, or the way Ransom’s fingers feel, or the way he’s not only stroking your clit but that submissive bone in your body that craves something just like this. But your mind goes even more hazy when you give in and press your lips to his in a searing rough kiss. His hand letting go of your wrists, you quickly grabbing at his neck to pull him to you. Dig your nails in his skin. Let him devour your mouth like his last meal, his tongue tasting of scotch and eggnog.

And Ransom wastes no time in making good of his promise when he maneuvers you so you’re bent over, cheek pressed to the couch cushion. The yoga pants and panties long gone, as he positions himself between your legs. You can feel the outline of his hard cock through his pants as he rubs it against your bare cunt. Your moan soft and your body trembling. The palms of his hands at your hips, massaging the skin there.

“Are you going to be a good girl for me? Going to take this cock like the little slut we both know you are?” Your body answers him before you can, your back arching and pressing your ass more into him. Your head nodding quick and sharp. “No, sweetheart. I need you to say it. I need to hear you, tell me you want my cock. Good girls earn it.”

The whimper you let out at the potential praise has your eyes fluttering and your voice coming out more needy, and like a purr, than you expect it to. “I want your cock, please. Ransom, I need—“

“You need it baby?” Ransom coos, and it should piss you off but it makes you feel helplessly fucked. You feel him wrap his hand around your neck, pull you up so your back is flush against his sweater. His fingers splaying across the column of your neck as he brings his mouth down on yours. “Ask me again,” you can feel his other hand undoing his pants, can feel him shift behind you and then the head of his cock is right there. Rubbing against your wet folds as he thrusts slowly against your ass. Your moan swallowed down when he kisses you again.

“Please, fuck me. I’ll be good.” You beg, plead, feel his smirk against your lips before he pushes you back down onto the sofa. His hand wrapping around his cock to slide through your folds and to your entrance. The head of his cock slowly, so fucking slowly, pushing inside of you. The lack of warm up to accommodate his size makes your inward breath sharp and burn. Your nails digging into the cushion below you.

“I know, baby.” Ransom runs a soothing hand across your exposed ass as he pushes all the way to the hilt. Until you’re burning and full of him. Your body mewling. “I’ve waited so long for this, to have you bent over and inside of you. If I was a better man I’d take my time with you, work this tight pussy up until it’s fully ready to take me. But you’re a good little whore and I know you’ll take it just fine like this.” His words and the groan that follows has you reeling and trying to push back on him. His chuckle vibrates against your skin, “God, can’t even wait to be properly fucked can you? Needy little slut.”

Ransom doesn’t give any warning when his fingers dig into your skin and he begins to do just that; properly fuck you. His hips slamming into your ass as he fucks you hard and without sensitivity. He doesn’t worry if you can take it or not, or if you’re in pain or something worse. No, he’s doesn’t need to worry, or wonder. Your noises and words of ‘oh my god’ and please and pleads are not falling on deaf ears. He hears them and fucks you ruthlessly through them, just the way you need.

“I think I like you better like this. Taking my cock and begging like a good little whore.” His grunts are deep, his thrusts hard. “Always knew you could be good for me. Who knew it would take my cock to do it.”

Your throat burns from how loud you are being, you’re sure the rest of the housekeepers who are still somewhere in the house are getting the show of a lifetime. But you can’t seem to care. Can’t seem to think about anything other than how good Ransom feels right now; the hard drag and slam of his cock deep inside you better than you could of ever imagined—and you may have imagined a few times. That tension and hatred that had built between the two of you now clearly written in your need for degradation and domination—with the promises of praise. Where as Ransom’s needed to be in control, someone to over power and do as he said.

In a sick way the two of you were perfect for each other. Fucked up by your families. Fueled by hatred and rage that was into sedated, when you could take it out on someone else; whether that be harmful banter, or fucking.

And you know when this is all over and done with that you’ll be fucked up about it. Know there will be a part of yourself that self loathes for letting Ransom Drysdale fuck you into his couch. For letting his dirty words and praises make you melt into him and beg to cum. But you can’t seem to suffice a care right now. All you want—all you need—is this moment. Where Ransom has his nails digging into your skin, your face hot and raw from your cheek rubbing against the sofa cushion. Your cunt fluttering and soaking his cock, the wet noises filling the room obscene and dirty. Right now all you want to be is Ransom’s good girl and have him fuck you until all you can feel, and all you can think about is him and the praise that falls from his lips.

“Do you want to cum?” Ransom grunts, his thrusts never wavering. “I can feel your sweet little pussy clenching around my cock, fuck, should I let you cum?”

“Please,” your moan is choked and sounds more like a cry as you feel that sweet preface of euphoria from your orgasm so so close.

“Think you’ve taken my cock good enough, hm? Think you’ve earned it, baby?”

“Mhm, yes—Ransom.”

“God I love the way my name sounds on your lips when you’re not bitching at me,” He grunts, grips the side of your midsection as he pushes you down further, your ass more on display for him. Your face pushed further into the sofa, and at this angle he’s gone even deeper, is fucking you even harder and with more vigor that you can barley breathe. “Next time I’m going to make you really earn it. Have you so needy for it, your mouth around my cock, inside this tight little cunt again. Or maybe I’ll tease you all day at the office, have you so soaked and dripping for me. And the only way I’ll let you cum is if you get down on your hands and knees and crawl to me, begging.”

And it’s those words that send you over the edge. That have you screaming his name as your orgasm hits you like a ton of bricks, your mouth pressed into the sofa, nails ruining the upholstery. Your body quivering and shaking as your fucked out cunt throbs against Ransom’s length. Sweat gathering all over your body from the sweatshirt you still have on, and the heat from Ransom’s body and yours put together. You can’t help but slump a little as he still continues to fuck you. Hard and fast, your body taking him like it’s his home. As if you’re not feeling over sensitive and a fucked mess.

Ransom pulls you up to him again, holding your body to his at your waist. “God you’re so fucking filthy, I love it.” He’s kissing you fervently and deep, his hips rolling against your ass. “I want you to take my cum, can you do that, baby? Be a good whore and let me paint this sweet pussy of yours? Claim you.”

“Yes, God,” you whimper against his lips. Your breaths hot and mixing and Ransom swallowing down the mewls as he picks up his pace once more. The slam and slap of his hips into your ass almost painful and excruciatingly good from this angle. Your tongue vibrating from his deep grunt of “good girl”, as he cums inside of you, the length of his cock throbbing against your sensitive walls.

It takes more than a minute for the two of you to come down. To separate and you lay on one end of the couch and Ransom on the other. You stare up at the ceiling, your heartbeat coming down, your body turning more into a lukewarm inferno than a volcano.

You don’t let yourself think about what happens next. Where the two of you go from here or what the fuck you just did. You were always good at the playing the role your parents wanted, but even more so this role; going from a submissive needy mess, back to normal within seconds it was over. As if it sedated everything inside of you and all your problems were fixed.

Except now you were sure you had an even bigger problem on your hands.

You look over at Ransom and he’s smirking at you and you know whatever moment the two of you just shared—one of the best fucks in your life—was now over. And you couldn’t help the smile that falls across your face.

“Still can’t stand you.”

“Still hate your guts.”

ingredients: ransom drysdale’s, a character not liking the holiday season, “wanna try my eggnog? i made it myself.”, snowed in & stuck with an enemy.

[maatryoshkaa]

between the lines | lee minho

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐃𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐋 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒!𝐀𝐔

✑ Late fines, shared lockers, and a missing love letter:

In which a frantic search for an overdue library book leads to you finding other things that are...long overdue.

✑ PAIRING: student librarian!minho x bookworm!reader

✑ GENRE: retro!high school au, slow burn, slice-of-life romance, slight enemies-to-lovers shenanigans

✑ WORD COUNT: 9.7k

✖︎ TAGS/WARNINGS: fem!reader, mild language, bullying themes, skz are all around the same age. mc is insecure and a bit of a valentine's day grinch. minho is whipped but too hardheaded to admit it. also, an embarrassing amount of classic literature/pablo neruda references.

Ah, Valentine’s Day.

Call it the most romantic day of the year if you will, but in the treacherous hallways of Levanter High, it meant a minefield of hormonal couples, crushed chocolate boxes, and supermarket rose bouquets. Clutching your backpack with a grimace, you narrowly dodged a pigtailed cheerleader as she leapt into her jock boyfriend’s waiting arms. Turning into another hallway, you plugged your ears to block out a senior boy’s cold rejection of a freshman’s nervous love confession.

You finally caught sight of your locker and breathed a sigh of relief. Levanter High’s lockers were split in half lengthwise—one top row, and one bottom row. You dropped to a crouch to wrench yours open—you’d lost your lock a couple of weeks ago—trying to block out the early morning commotion as you rummaged for your English books.

“Hey, watch ou—”

The locker above yours opened with a screech, and you looked up just in time to see a pink avalanche of cards and chocolates raining down on your head in a painful, deafening crash. The student who had called out the warning was frozen with a comical look of shock on her face. You swore the entire hallway fell silent, blood rushing to your cheeks as you slowly raised your gaze at the person who had opened the locker.

Lee Hana—head cheerleader of Levanter’s pep squad, and in your humble opinion, the spawn of Satan herself.

“Ohmigosh,” she exclaimed, raising one hand to her mouth in mock horror, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you there.”

The crowd around you was beginning to snicker and point, and you felt your face growing redder by the minute. “What are you doing here?” You asked tersely, motioning towards the locker above yours. “That’s not even your locker.”

Hana smiled and held up a small, glittery package. Oh. You didn’t have to look closer to know that the envelope was a love letter, elaborately tied to a box of expensive chocolates—the kind your parents would probably have to work overtime to afford. “My Valentine—for your locker buddy,” Hana replied matter-of-factly, then added, “Not that you would understand, hm? Since you’ve never received one yourself, and all.”

A smattering of laughs erupted from the crowd that was building around you. Biting back a retort, you looked down at all the other Valentine’s trinkets that had spilled around you. Of course—you should have gotten used to it by now. After all, your locker was right underneath the one that belonged to the student librarian, school heartthrob, and the absolute bane of your existence, Lee—

“Minho!” Hana exclaimed, and you looked up to see him shuffling through the crowd, his eyes briefly falling on yours. You immediately turned away as the pretty cheerleader skipped up to him, and shoved your books into your bag. Slamming your locker shut—twice, because Levanter’s damned lockers always jammed before shutting properly—you snatched up as many of Minho’s fallen Valentine’s Day trinkets as you could before shoving them back into the now-emptied top locker. The metal door was still swinging wide open. You’d overheard Minho complaining to the boy who always did the announcements—Han Jihyun? Han Jisung?—about how he kept losing his own lock. Both of you seemed to have a habit of misplacing things (not that you liked to admit to that similarity).

Out of the corner of your eye, Minho was still watching you over Hana’s shoulder, his lips tilted in a half-smile. Your gut twisted unpleasantly. Four years and counting—that was how long you’d ended up with a locker right under Minho’s.

“You’re so lucky!” Lia—your best friend—had gushed, while you had scoffed in utter disbelief.

“Oh, sure. Just my rotten luck.”

“Come on, y/n. Are you still hung up about that love letter from freshman year?”

Yes, you had thought sourly. “No way,” you had snapped, and Lia had giggled, unconvinced.

It wasn’t like you’d always had a personal vendetta against Minho. In fact, in ninth grade, you’d been head over heels for him, just like the rest of the student body—to the point where you’d even slipped a small love letter into his locker on Valentine’s Day, too. It had been one of those gaudy 99-cent corner-store cards, and you'd saved up your pocket money just to buy a matching pack of candy hearts. Then you’d spent the day with butterflies in your stomach, anxiously waiting nearby his locker to see his reaction.

But when he hadn’t shown up, you'd shrugged and begun heading home—and that was when you had caught sight of Minho, throwing all the love letters he’d received straight into the Dumpsters in the back parking lot.

Talk about a reality check.

As if that hadn't been traumatizing enough, you’d been forced to face him nearly every morning for the following three years. To make matters worse, being Minho’s involuntary locker mate also meant that all the girls—and guys, for that matter—saw you as little more than a stepping stone to him, always asking you to relay party invitations or trying to curry favour with you to get to him.

“We’re not close,” you’d insist to his persistent admirers every time, but it didn’t help. Minho, on the other hand, you thought bitterly, seemed to think he was too good for anyone—he didn’t even respond much to Hana’s advances, and she was drop-dead gorgeous. There was no way he’d even look twice at you—you’d been firsthand witness to that. You finally gave up trying to clean up the fallen Valentines, and stood up with a sigh. Throwing him a death glare, you pushed past the crowd just as the bell rang and students began scurrying away.

What did it matter if Lee Hana was trying to get with Minho? If anything, they were a match made in heaven. Or hell. With a decided huff, you plopped yourself down at your desk just as your English teacher began class.

“We’re starting the poetry unit today! Remember, you’ll be writing a love poem of your own for the final project—so I suggest you all get started on reading!” You teacher had winked and clapped her hands excitedly while a collective groan had swept through your class. A few couples had nudged each other meaningfully, already promising to write their poems about each other, and you’d thrown up a little in your mouth.

Romance was a bit of a touchy subject for you— now, you didn’t hate the notion of love, per se, you’d just always been somewhat...wary of it. After watching your friends fall in and out of disastrous relationships and fleeting feelings from the sidelines too many times to count, your own defense mechanisms had skyrocketed, and now you found yourself trying not to roll your eyes at every piece of romantic writing you read. Still, this inexperience only made you more determined to get a head start on the topic— and so, once the last bell had rung, you made a beeline for the school library. You would tackle love the only way you knew how to—by hitting the books. Pushing open the door, you overheard Hana and her friends muttering in disappointment and immediately recoiled.

“You said he’d be in here!”

“Well, I thought I saw him! Let’s wait for a bit.”

You peeked over the librarian’s desk, and sure enough, it was vacant— save for a tray of half-shelved books and stamping cards. Maybe Minho left early today, you thought, shrugging. That’s a relief. Then you shook your head quickly. What’s it to me whether he’s here or not? You tried to ignore Hana’s disdainful glance at you, heading straight towards your favourite nook at the back of the library instead: a cozy alcove tucked behind the last row of shelves. With a deep sigh, you pulled out the first book of poetry your teacher had assigned—Shakespeare’s Complete Sonnets—and sank into the bean bag chair.

‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May…’

A couple lines in, and the Englishman’s words were already making your head spin. You grimaced, massaging your temples. ‘A summer’s day?’ Seriously? You could swear you’d seen something less cheesy on a dollar store card. After a couple of pages, you could already feel your treacherous eyelids beginning to droop, fighting to stay awake as you tried to make sense of Shakespeare’s verses. But thy eternal summer...shall not fade...nor lose...possession…

“The library’s closing.”

You jolted awake, hands fumbling blindly before you could even force your eyes open. The library came into focus first—the lights had been dimmed, the flickering EXIT sign from the empty hallway casting a warm glow through the panelled window across the room. A dull headache still throbbed in your temples.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes groggily. You had to practically peel your cheek away from the Shakespeare book, fingers gingerly feeling the dent the cover had left in your cheek. “I-I’m so sorry, I must have—lost track of time studying.”

A familiar chuckle sent your heart plummeting to your stomach. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

When your eyes finally adjusted, your expression automatically soured into a glare.

“Now that’s more like it.” Smirking, Minho crossed his arms, leaning back on a bookshelf. He glanced down at the book in your lap—the book that you clearly hadn’t been studying. “Didn’t know you were one for Shakespeare.”

“I—” You threw your hands up in exasperation. “I’m not. His writing gives me a headache. It’s like it’s all in another language or something.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “Old English. Why are you reading it, then?”

“We’re doing poetry in class—and our final project is to write an actual love poem, based on the poets we’ll study. Shakespeare was just first on the reading list, so…” you felt yourself trailing off, flustered. Why were you even bothering to explain this to Minho, who probably couldn’t care less? “Nevermind.”

You felt his piercing gaze on you as you shoved your books into your bag, glancing outside at the nearly emptied parking lot. If you squinted, you could spot a couple—Seo Changbin, judging by the male’s iconic leather jacket, and his lover—making out under the bleachers. You shook your head incredulously. Valentine’s Day. Love poems. Hormonal couples galore. It was like the universe was playing a long, cruel joke on you: Ha-ha, look who’s spending Valentine’s Day studying in the library alone.

Well, alone except for a student librarian with whom you had a mortifying history. Not much better. Eager to leave, you got to your feet, only to see Minho flipping through a smaller book he’d pulled off the shelf next to him. “If you want some real inspiration,” he began slowly, pushing up his glasses, “I’d suggest you start closer to our time period.”

You looked down at the book he was holding up, brow furrowing as you read the title out loud. “Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. Pablo Neruda.”

“The best Chilean poet of the 20th century,” he nodded. “‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way, because I do not know any other way of loving but this.’”

It took you a second to realise Minho was quoting a poem, and you were suddenly grateful that the dimly lit library hid the flush of red that had betrayed your cheeks. Clearing your throat, you mumbled, “That actually sounds...kind of pretty.”

He didn’t look up, but you thought you saw the corners of his mouth shoot up ever so slightly. Maybe the shadows were playing tricks on you? Flipping through the book, Minho fished out a pad of sticky notes from his back pocket and marked a few pages. “Here. ‘The Song of Despair’...‘Tonight I Can Write’...‘Here I Love You.’ Those are good.” Clamping the book shut, he held it out towards you.

You almost thanked him, but the words faltered on your tongue as you took it from him suspiciously. “What’s with the sudden helpful attitude?”

He shrugged. “It’s my job.” You raised an incredulous eyebrow, and he smirked. “Consider it my apology for this morning, then.”

That left you at a real loss for words, and for the first time, you struggled to find a retort. “That’s...considerate of you, apologising on behalf of your girlfriend and all.”

“Hana’s not my girlfriend.”

You breathed a small laugh. “Soon-to-be, then. Don’t break her heart.”

Minho scoffed, bringing the book to the front desk and scrawling your name on the sign-out card. He stamped the dates, then held it out at you before glancing out the window. Dusk had fallen, the empty football field lit only by rows of flickering lampposts. “You can get home safe?”

“Screw off, Lee Minho.” You eyed him warily, shoving the book into your bag before practically running to the double doors. The strange atmosphere that had suddenly built up in the library felt terrifyingly foreign to you, and your first instinct was to be rid of it as soon as possible. In the hallway, you spotted a janitor dumping a bin into a trash bag. A familiar avalanche of pink envelopes and gifts caught your eye, and you felt a wave of humiliation. Just the memory of Minho throwing yours out—after reading it and having a good laugh, no doubt—made you want to ram your head into the lockers all over again. You’ve got no chance with him, y/n, you thought blearily. Right when you’d thought you’d finally come to terms with Minho’s brutal (albeit unintentional) rejection, here he was again: crashing back into your life like some...cat-eyed, pointy-nosed meteor.

“Oh, y/n! One more thing.”

You’d already had one foot out the front door when Minho called your name again, making you jerk your head back in surprise. Minho had his bag slung over one shoulder, a pile of books in his arms as he waved to get your attention. His smile looked almost...genuine in the warm shadows, his round glasses softening his usually sharp gaze. Despite yourself, you felt your heart skip a beat.

Then Minho made a wiping motion over his face and grinned. “You’ve got drool on your chin.”

Your face reddened, and you slammed the library door shut, earning a glare from the janitor down the hall. Smacking the heel of your palm against your forehead repeatedly, you stormed out of the school muttering curses under your breath. Typical Lee Minho.

To your surprise, you practically devoured the poems in less than a week, taken aback at how much you genuinely enjoyed them. It was the first time you didn’t find yourself cringing at romance—and sure enough, in a couple days’ time, you found yourself reluctantly standing back in front of the double doors of the school library once again.

Carefully, you craned your head to peep into the panelled window, scanning the room for Minho. As per usual, a gaggle of girls were huddled on the other side, blocking your view.

“Looking for someone?”

Flinching, you nearly tripped on Hana’s long legs as she came up beside you. Before you could respond, she fixed you with a withering look. “You’ve got some explaining to do, Little Miss Perfect.”

“I—sorry?”

The cheerleader rolled her eyes, sneering. “Don’t act all innocent with me, you sneaky b—”

Sighing, you pushed open the doors before she could finish. Hana followed you into the library, still sputtering angrily. Her hand snatched your arm, French manicure digging painfully into your cardigan.

“The Valentines,” she hissed, and it finally clicked.

She’s talking about the love letters, you realized. The ones Minho throws out every year.

Gut twisting, you looked up to see all the other girls crossing their arms and looking back at you expectantly. “None of you...got a response?” You asked incredulously, already knowing the answer. This happened every year: Expectant admirers showered Minho’s locker with gifts, Minho wouldn’t even glance at them— and then, for some reason, you were left to take the blame. A twinge of annoyance shot through your chest.

“You stole them from his locker, didn’t you?” Hana continued accusingly, pupils shaking. “You sneaky, jealous bitch— of course you did.”

He threw them all out, you wanted to scream back at her, but the words wouldn’t budge from your tongue. Somehow, saying them out loud felt like tearing off the stitches of an old wound; a painful reminder of your personal humiliating memory. And—though you hated to admit it—a small part of you still didn’t have the heart to throw Minho under the bus just yet, even after all that he’d done.

Feeling defeated, you sighed and turned towards her. “Why would I want to do that?”

Hana scoffed, tossing her chocolate curls over one shoulder. “Oh, please. We all know you’ve had a massive one-sided crush on him since ninth grade.”

A rush of heat flooded your cheeks, the other girls’ snickers at your reaction drowning out any of your protests. “That’s not—”

“Not true? Then—is it mutual?” Hana sneered mockingly. “Don’t make me laugh. He wouldn’t be caught dead with the likes of y—”

“Can I help you with anything?”

The small crowd fell silent as Minho appeared from one of the aisles, eyebrows raised slightly in his usual nonchalant manner. A chill of panic rushed down your spine, palms growing clammy with cold sweat. H-how much did he overhear? In your peripheral, Hana was practically batting her eyelashes at him, but Minho’s mild eyes were focused on yours expectantly.

“I—uh. Well,” you stammered eloquently, your entire body suddenly paralyzed. Hana’s cherry red lips were twisted in a smug smirk, clearly waiting for you to embarrass yourself. “The book,” you blurted, immediately rummaging for the poetry book in your bag and holding it out to him.

Minho took it from you, fingertips grazing yours slightly. They were surprisingly warm. “How’d you find it?”

“R-really good, actually.” Then, you hesitantly added, “I...like the way Neruda uses imagery—he’s precise without being plain, and artful without deviating too much into purple prose. I think I liked Tonight I Can Write the most— y’know, ‘Tonight I can write the saddest lines...’” You swallowed, then instantly began regretting having ever spoken. Great job, y/n, now you sound like a full-blown nerd.

But Minho nodded, his eyes gleaming. “‘I loved her, and sometimes, she loved me, too.’”

“That’s the second verse,” you muttered automatically, and his lips twitched.

“It’s one of my favourite lines.”

The other girls had begun to awkwardly shuffle out of the library, their absence easing your racing heart. With just a few mildly spoken words, you noted, Minho had managed to make you feel as though you had blocked out the rest of the world. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Hana glaring daggers at you, and the small smile dropped from your face.

“Do you need something?” Minho asked her blankly, his gaze trailing down to Hana’s hand, which was still painfully latched onto your arm. With a roll of her eyes, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the library.

As soon as she was gone, you breathed an audible sigh of relief. Minho was peeling the sticky notes off from the poetry book you’d returned, eyes still watching you intently. Giving him the side-eye, you deadpanned, “She’s pretty, you know. Maybe you should go talk to her sometime.”

There was a small smile on Minho’s lips. “Does she like Chilean poetry?”

You could only give a short—slightly too shaky for your liking—laugh in response, ruffling your own hair as you tried to calm your frazzled nerves. Don’t forget, y/n. One, that he’s out of your league. Two, how this was all his fault to begin with.

“Is that all you came here for?” Minho’s voice broke into your thoughts again, making you jump. There was a glint of amusement in his eyes. He finds this—me—amusing.

“Well…” you looked down at your feet, then grudgingly nodded at the poetry book you’d just returned. “Do you...have any other recommendations?”

Minho’s face broke into a shit-eating grin, and you bit back a groan. before your pride got the better of you and you changed your mind, he was already heading towards the back of the library, sliding books out as you struggled to keep with his pace. “First of all, Dickinson. Hit-or-miss, but you never know. Then there’s Sylvia Plath, some Emily Brontë…”

Before you knew it, you’d been whisked into a world of verse and metaphor, flying between numerous time periods and continents as you and Minho perused the shelves. Just like the time when you had accidentally fallen asleep in the library, the library seemed to grow cozier, quieter, more peaceful during moments like these, as if the entire world was holding still as you lost yourself in pages upon pages of books. Soon, you found yourself heading to the library nearly every day after school. Despite yourself, you found yourself looking forward to that sunset hour, the fleeting period where most students had left, and the entire library would glow warm as though it were blushing under the swathes of golden light. And in these same fleeting moments, you found your gaze lingering more and more on Minho—the way he would push his silver glasses on, furrowing his brow in concentration whenever he searched for a book, or run his long fingers over their worn spines whenever he was lost in thought—

“Like what you see?” With a flinch, you realised Minho had begun walking back towards you, a crooked smirk on his lips as he set a new pile of books down at the desk you were sat at.

“No!” You snapped, too quickly. “Just—spaced out for a bit. Too concentrated on the project.”

The smirk hadn’t budged from Minho’s face, and you resisted the urge to throw a copy of Emily Dickinson’s Selected Poems at his long, pointy nose. “Mm. You seem to be coming here a lot more often.”

“That’s because the due date is coming up.”

“No. I mean, you seem to be talking to me a lot more.”

You rolled your eyes, snatching a book from the top of his pile as you muttered, “Screw you, Lee Minho.”

His eyebrows shot up in wicked mischief. “You’re more than welcome to try.”

With a cry of exasperation—and surprise at having been heard—you hoisted your book bag onto the table, building a makeshift wall between the two of you.

You didn’t catch the way Minho’s laughter slowly faded as he rested his head on one hand thoughtfully, quietly watching you read. Your lips were pursed in concentration as you muttered your notes under your breath. Cute, he couldn’t help thinking.

Minho had always been good at memorizing things, but he couldn’t remember exactly when you’d begun disliking him so much. You had always intrigued him—what with the way your locker always seemed to be overflowing with books, or how you used to lend him your copy when he forgot his, back in ninth grade. That Valentine’s Day, four years ago, your name had been the only one he’d hoped to find as he rifled through the cards he’d received. But he’d come up empty, and so he’d thrown them all out. And for some reason, you’d been cold to him ever since.

Minho had assumed that you were probably annoyed with all the letters that would fall out of his locker and onto you, and so every year he tried his best to get rid of the Valentines as soon as possible. Nevertheless, you only seemed to be getting more and more annoyed with him.

And now here you were, right in front of him, four years later, and he still couldn’t bring himself to ask you why. Confrontation had never been his strong suit—his words always seemed to come out too blunt, too cold, too soon, and so he’d always avoided bringing it up with you again. Minho sighed, raking a hand through his hair. Written words—that is, books—had always been so much easier than people.

He did, however, remember when he’d started falling for you.

Tenth grade, literature studies. He’d begun arguing against your thesis during one of your presentations, and the two of you had ended up bickering the entire class—pulling out quotes from nearly every chapter of Pride and Prejudice before the class president had to intervene, and your teacher had sent you both to detention.

You had glared at him once, and he’d fallen head over heels.

These violent delights have violent ends, he’d mused in his head back then—Romeo and Juliet—and with the murderous stare Minho sometimes caught you fixing him with, he was willing to bet that you were wishing a violent end on him, too.

He couldn’t pen a love letter to save his life, either— and so, he resorted to pettily glaring at any admirer that approached your locker like Gandalf—you shall not pass—until they backed off. Minho didn’t think you would appreciate him revealing that, either. The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous his actions seemed—and like a poorly written plot twist, you had ended up stumbling back into his life again. Never in his life, however, did Minho think that Pablo Neruda would become his wingman. Glancing down at his portrait on the back cover of the book, Minho could almost imagine the Chilean poet pointing his pen threateningly: “Don’t screw this up.”

“Hey, Minho?” He snapped out of his thoughts to see you waving your hand at him from the other side of your book bag. “You were right. I don’t get any of Dickinson’s poems.”

Your words took a moment to register, Minho caught off-guard by the soft golden hour light illuminating your pretty features. You waved your hand in his face again, and he blinked, breath caught in his throat. Almost tripping over his tongue, he finally quipped, “How on earth are you passing AP English?”

You glowered and smacked his shoulder, the near-silent library ringing with Minho’s laughter once again.

With a week left to the deadline, you were planted at your desk in your room, the wastebasket littered with crumpled up half-sheets of notebook paper. To your dismay, none of the words seemed to be coming out the way you wanted them to. Gnawing the back of your pencil in frustration, you dumped the contents of your book bag onto the desk, and spotted your latest library book—100 Love Sonnets, by Pablo Neruda. Inexplicably, out of all the poets Minho had introduced to you, you always found yourself coming back to him.

Flipping through the well-thumbed pages, your fingers stopped at one titled Sonnet XVII. “I love you without knowing how,” your eyes scanned the verse curiously, “or when, or from where. I love you simply…”

It was the poem Minho had quoted that evening in the library, you realized, heart skipping a beat. “...without problems or pride / I love you in this way, because I do not know any other way of loving / but this, in which there is no I or you / so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand / so intimate that when I fall asleep, your eyes close.”

With a sigh, you buried your head in your arms, lying face-down onto the desk. Maybe the reason why you instinctively disliked reading love poems so much was because of the sheer sincerity of them all. You envied their ability to put feelings into words—with unabashed, unapologetic ardour, and be celebrated for it, to boot. Eyes scanning the verses again, your mind wandered to the way Minho’s eyes had lit up as he’d explained the lines to you, his brow furrowed in focus.

At Levanter High, you had grown used to being pushed around and out of the spotlight. It was either the popular girls and their backhanded compliments, or the boys who spoke to you condescendingly just to a) get you to do their homework, or b) get in your pants. But Minho had always taken you seriously, albeit while driving you half-insane with his infuriating remarks. And as much as you hated to admit it, that same fiery look in his eyes whenever he got worked up—so different from his usual reserved facade in front of the teachers and swooning students—had always made your heart skip a beat. In tenth grade—back when he seemed to pick a fight with you nearly every English class until Bang Chan had to hold the two of you back from killing each other—you’d thought you’d successfully quashed your feelings for the mild-voiced, hazel-eyed librarian. Yet every time he spoke, he left you feeling vulnerable, disarmed, and you were back—though you refused to admit it—to square one.

“‘I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul,’” you whispered, fingers tracing the words on the paper. Feeling a sudden surge—of confidence, or simply exasperation, you weren’t sure—you seized the pen and began scribbling on a new piece of paper. For years, you’d been afraid to face your feelings, terrified of the humiliation if Hana—or anyone at school—found out. But if getting them all out in one cheesy, hot mess of a love letter could give you some closure, you thought tensely, you were more than happy to oblige. You would write it all out under the guise of a love poem, and then it would never have to see the light of day again.

Words began coming to your head like a floodgate had been thrown wide open, and you began scrawling onto the page. “‘I love you as the plant that never blooms, but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers,’” you quoted thoughtfully as you drafted your own poem. In a way, it felt cathartic—you could get all your feelings out, pass it off as an assignment, and never think about the forbidden fruit again. For all you knew, it was a win-win situation. The pen kept wobbling, ink spilling out haphazardly and skipping, but you relaxed slightly. Maybe this assignment wasn’t too bad, after all.

Head filled to the brim with poetry, you set the pen down and dozed off.

“You’re not coming to the football game?” Lia flashed puppy eyes at you, and you smacked her hand playfully, swiping a french fry from her plate.

“Lia, since when have I ever gone to one?” The two of you had dropped by the Sunshine Coffee Shoppe for a quick pick-me-up during lunch hour, but one smile from the cute waiter—Yang Jeongin, if you remembered his name correctly—had dazzled Lia into ordering an extra burger combo, complete with a plate of fries. “Sports and crowds—not my thing. And I have an English project due the next day.”

She pouted. “Oh, come on! Knowing you, you’ve probably already finished it by now.”

You grinned, thinking back to your love poem and fighting the urge to cringe. You’d read it the morning after, and it had taken every fibre in your being to hold yourself back from ripping it to shreds. Piercing, catlike eyes, you’d written in one line. Silver spectacles. Long fingers on dusty pages. Shuddering, you’d stuffed it into the Neruda book before banishing them both to your locker and going about your day. Love poems are supposed to be cheesy, y/n, suck it up. It’ll only be this one time. Besides, it wasn’t like anyone other than your teacher would ever read it.

When you dropped by the library after school, you spotted Hana’s familiar figure by one of the cubicles. As she tossed her hair over her shoulder with a laugh muted by the plexiglass windows, you saw that she was talking to a grinning Minho.

“Are you sure you’re not coming to the game on Thursday?” Hana was whining as you pushed open the doors to the library. She patted his arms playfully. “You could be on the football team if you wanted to, you know! Why don’t you try?”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not that quick on my feet.”

“Well, tell you what. They’re having a party at Hyunjin’s place right after—his parents are out of town. If you don’t feel like coming to the game, at least join us at the afterparty to loosen up a little—have a little fun.” She blew him a kiss and stood, throwing her purse over her shoulder and spotting you. You instinctively froze, bracing yourself for whatever slew of insults she had for you today, but all Hana did was beam and wave at you.

As she passed you by the door, she threw you a knowing wink. “Have fun on your little study date!”

Her words made your ears grow hot again, but to your surprise, there was no trace of venom in her voice — only a lighthearted teasing, as if she had been your friend all along. Hana really did look sweet when she smiled genuinely, and you could see why she had so many people easily wrapped around her finger. Maybe people do change. Or she’s just in a good mood. Before you could shrug and turn away, you sensed Minho’s presence behind you and yelped.

He held his hands up in mock surrender, and you could swear he was suppressing a laugh. “Here to work on your project again?”

Hana’s strange exchange with you on her way out had left your mind reeling, and you scrambled to form coherent sentences. “No, I, um—I actually finished it last night. I just…” Thought I’d just drop by to say hi. But your pride turned the words to mush before they had even formed, and you ended up trailing off awkwardly.

“Really?” There was a flash of disappointment in his face, then Minho’s gaze landed on the book-borrowing register on the front desk. “Right—your book is due today. Did you want to return it?”

Your eyes widened, silently cursing at your own forgetfulness. “Um—yes,” you lied, pretending to search in your bag before giving an awkward laugh. “Yep. I think it’s in my locker—let me go get it.”

After jogging to the other side of the school, you flung open the bottom locker, making another mental note to replace your missing lock. Still catching your breath, your hand sifted through the notes and textbooks before coming up empty. Where is it? You could swear you remembered putting it there, unless—

Breath catching in your throat, you shut the locker with a mortified bang. The English classroom. You practically sprinted down the hallways, earning another dirty look from the janitor as you raced past. Bang Chan looked up in alarm when you nearly crashed into the English classroom door. The entire room was empty, save for the class president, who looked like he was helping to file the teacher’s papers.

“Where’s the fire?” He asked jokingly as your eyes frantically raked the room.

“Have you—seen a book, by any chance? 100 Love Sonnets. Pablo Neruda.”

Chan frowned. “We shelve all the books after class, and if it’s one we don’t recognize, we keep it until the students come back in the morning.” He shrugged. “I don’t remember seeing anything.”

Your heart sank, and you saw the corners of Chan’s mouth lift bemusedly.

“What’s the hurry, anyway? I thought you hated love po—”

With a groan of frustration, you left the baffled class president staring after you as you turned on your heel and back into the hallway. Your mind was racing, panic making your ears buzz. The love letter’s in there. Where the hell did I put it? You sprinted to the Sunshine Coffee Shoppe next, but only got an apologetic shrug from Jeongin even after you’d scoured every nook and cranny of the diner. The sun was already beginning to set as you trudged, defeated, back to the school. Spotting the library’s dim windows in the distance, you wrestled with your options — if it weren’t for that cursed love letter, you could’ve probably just told Minho you’d misplaced it. But now the book—along with everything you’d never dared to tell anyone, crammed onto a sheet of notebook paper—could be anywhere, and there was no way in hell you were going to stop looking until you found it. Heart heavy with dread, you did a full 180 and began walking home.

It was no use. You’d practically pulled an all-nighter tearing your room apart searching for the book— and then, the better part of the following day running around town. But no matter where you looked—the record shop, Blockbuster’s, or even the laundromat—you came up empty.

It’s like it’s disappeared entirely, you thought as the lunch ladies piled your tray with a few sad-looking burritos. The cafeteria was buzzing with teenagers jittery with caffeine and sugar, and you had to duck as a boy chucked an apple at another across the room. You passed the cheerleaders’ table, trying to avoid eye contact, but their giggly conversation carried over the chaotic commotion.

“Did you see how cute Hyunjin looked today on the field?”

“Are you sure he doesn’t have a girlfriend? Maybe Hana can talk to him for us—if he doesn’t fall for her first.” The blonde cheerleader that had spoken nudged the older girl insistently.

“Me?” There was a smile in Hana’s voice. You could feel her eyes on you as she mused, “Oh, I don’t know, Hyunjin’s not my type. I much prefer boys with—how should I put it—catlike eyes, silver spectacles, and long fingers perfect for turning dusty pages…” She clasped her hands together in mock adoration, and her friends erupted in giggles.

“What the hell was that? Sounds like a cheesy love poem.”

You had frozen stiff as soon as she had uttered the words, stunned eyes finding Hana’s only a couple feet away. She gave you a winning smile—the same one you’d deemed friendly just a couple days ago—and winked.

“Give me my book back.”

You pulled her aside after the last bell had rung, voice shaking. Hana only tilted her head innocently, eyes round as a puppy’s. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Before you could spit a biting retort back at her, the taller cheerleader tapped her chin thoughtfully with one bejewelled nail. “But I might think harder if...I got a little something in return.”

You grit your teeth. “What do you want?”

“Make your librarian boy come to Hwang Hyunjin’s party as my date,” Hana beamed, “and tell the office you want to change your locker.”

“You’re crazy,” you blurted, and her face immediately darkened. Dropping her voice, she leaned in closer, until her voice was right beside your ear.

“Oh, I can be even crazier. What would happen if I made copies of this little letter on Monday, hm? Or published it in the school paper for everyone to read? I’m sure Han Jisung would love that—”

Your eyes trailed down to the slip of paper she’d pulled out of her purse, the sight of your own familiar handwriting making panic surge through your veins like ice. Snatching it from her hand, you quickly began tearing it apart before noticing the calm smirk on Hana’s face.

“Photocopy, silly,” she giggled in a sing-song voice as you peered more closely at the shredded pieces, hands shaking. “Oh, all right, don’t cry. If you want the original so badly…” she leaned in again, cruel smile on her lips. “Then you might want to look in the library.”

Eyes widening, you immediately pushed her away and bolted for the stairs. “Don’t forget the deal! Thursday night,” Hana called after you, and you broke into a run.

Most of the classrooms were already empty, their dark windows reflecting your own face back at you as you hurtled past them. Your heart pounded in your chest as the library finally came into view at the end of the hallway, but you nearly came to a screeching halt when you saw that the lights had been turned off. Had Minho gone home early? Chewing your lip anxiously, you peered past the plexiglass. Aisles empty, books all shelved neatly, chairs stacked. The library was quiet as a tomb. Desperately, you tried the knob—and to your surprise, the door creaked open. Maybe he forgot to lock it. You had nothing to lose. Holding your breath, you slipped in.

Even the faint click of the door closing again sounded deafening. You rifled through the front desk first, dropping to a crouch as you inspected the carts and borrowing-bin. To your dismay, they were all empty—they must have all been re-shelved already. Heart sinking, you began tip-toeing through the shelves, fingers trembling as they ran over the laminated Dewey Decimal labels. Please, please, please…

You reached the poetry section at the back of the library, eyes squinting to try and read the spines of the books under shrouds of shadows. Poets— Nash. Naidu. Nemerov…

“Neruda,” you gasped, eyes falling on the book you had practically gone through hell searching for. 100 Love Sonnets. Almost sobbing in sheer relief, you reached out to grab it—just as another hand shot out from beside you. Your yelp of surprise broke the still, dim quiet, and you didn’t have to look up to know who the warm, pale fingers belonged to.

“Care to explain what you’re doing here?”

Spectacles glinting under the twilight, one hand in his pocket, nonchalant as ever, was the boy that had gotten you into this mess. Lee Minho.

As you stared back at him, mouth slightly agape, you felt as though your entire world was balancing precariously over a yawning abyss— as if one wrong move would send everything you’d spent the last two months—no, the last four years—repatching. You swallowed hard. His hand had landed a split-second later than yours, holding both you and the book in place, and you tried to ignore the feeling of his warm fingers on your chilled skin. Forcefully, you yanked the book from the shelves and out of his grasp. “The—book. I-I realised I still needed it for the project. It’s due this Friday, you know.”

He raised his eyebrows, unconvinced. “Today’s only Wednesday. Why not come back tomorrow morning?”

Shit. “I, um, promised Lia I’d go with her to the game tomorrow,” you fibbed, flipping through the book quickly, ready to grab any stray piece of paper that flew out. Nothing. “So I—need to finish the assignment today. Could you renew it for me?” Trying to plaster on an unbothered smile, you flipped through the book again. Still nothing. Had Hana lied to you?

In your peripheral, you saw Minho slowly shift his weight, crossing his arms as he mused, “Well, I’m not too sure about that. We’re getting...careful about letting students borrow books for too long. People tend to leave some...strange things in them.”

Your eyes snapped up, fingers freezing on the fluttering pages. “What—then did you—see anything? S-strange, I mean.”

A flicker of amusement passed through Minho’s eyes, and then it was gone. He cleared his throat, humming thoughtfully. “Why? Do you have something in mind?”

The strange intensity of his gaze seemed to corner you into the shadows, and you swore your heart was pounding so hard it seemed to echo through the room. “Nothing,” you stammered, throwing your hands up in exasperation, “I mean, I just—accidentally left—” Kill me now. You shook your head rapidly. “N-nevermind. I’m heading home.”

“Y/N—”

“Oh, one more thing.” You turned, remembering Hana’s sly words to you back in the stairwell. “You’re invited to Hwang Hyunjin’s party, after the game on Thursday.” Then, hoping you sounded more convincing than you felt, “Hana’s really counting on you to be her date.”

Minho chuckled. “You know I go to parties as often as you do.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no malice in his words, only that same, airy indifference Minho always carried himself with. “Please? Hana—I mean, it would make her really happy if you went.”

“Would you be happy?”

The strange question caught you off guard, making you look up again. Minho was no longer smiling. His hand was still resting lightly over the missing space the book had left on the shelf, and his expression looked strangely lost under the twilit sky.

“Would it make you happy if I went?” He repeated, and you felt your mouth go dry.

Make your librarian boy come to Hwang Hyunjin’s party, and I won’t publish your little love letter for everyone to see on Monday. You nodded firmly, laughing in an attempt to ease the strange atmosphere that had settled over the two of you once again. “Y-yeah. Ecstatic.”

You turned on your heel, breath leaving your lips in a shaky sigh. If the poem wasn’t in the book, where on earth could it be? Option one: It had fallen out somewhere along the way, and hadn’t fallen into anyone’s hands. The best case scenario. Option two: Hana had been playing with you again, and she had had the original all along. Option three…

“By the way, Hana told me not to give this to you.”

You whirled around in surprise, and your eyes landed on a horribly familiar piece of notebook paper dangling from Minho’s fingers. Option three, damn it all. Mortified, you snatched it from his hand, crumpling it into your fist as he laughed lightly.

“It’s a very good poem.”

“Shut up, Lee Minho,” you wailed, wishing the ground would just swallow you up and bury you six feet under for all of eternity. “It’s a cheesy, cliché wreck.”

He hummed in amusement. “What were you writing about?”

Paralyzed, your eyes flickered towards the window before sputtering, “The—sunset. Figurative approach, you know? Emily Dickinson-inspired—”

“Mm. Then what was that quote about—” He tilted his head in thought, fingers snapping. “Catlike eyes, silver spectacles, and long—” He stopped when you plugged your ears instinctively, eyes glowering at him in disbelief. If looks could kill, Minho was sure he’d now have died more times than the characters in a Shakespearean tragedy. “—was that about the sunset, too?”

“Of course,” you snapped, your voice a tad too pitchy for your liking. Damn Lee Minho and his knack for memorizing things. “Haven’t you ever heard of extended metaphors? Rest assured, Lee Minho—I will never, ever, ever—have feelings for you.” You crumpled the sheet of poetry into a ball as you spoke with a note of finality, jamming it into your back pocket for good riddance.

Minho looked unfazed, the light curve of a knowing smile playing on his lips. After a moment, he took a step towards you, making you stumble back in alarm. “‘You can cut all the flowers,” he mused, glancing down at the crumpled love letter, “‘but you cannot stop spring from coming.’”

“Wh-wha—”

“Neruda quote. Tell me if I’m making you uncomfortable, and I’ll stop,” he murmured, eyes growing serious for a moment before his lips twitched with mirth, “but something tells me I deserve to hear more about that sunset from your poem.”

Gulping, you felt hot tears brimming in your eyes, and suddenly wished you were anywhere but here. This confrontation had been your worst nightmare, what you had always wanted to avoid. Your pride’ll be the end of you, y/n, you remembered Lia remarking when you’d sworn up and down that your feelings for Lee Minho were a thing of the past. And it was true—your pride had always gotten the better of you. You were a hypocrite, and a terrible one at that—always telling yourself you had gotten over that stupid, ninth-grade heartbreak, before unravelling into a nervous mess whenever Minho so much as threw a glance at you. And now, you could feel everything you’d feebly repressed for the last four years caving in. Crashing down on you like an avalanche of cheap supermarket chocolates.

“It was about you. You, alright?” You hissed, voice coming out more wounded, rather than venomous like you’d intended. “There. Are you happy now?” You were glad the shadows hid the humiliated tears beginning to roll down your cheeks, and wiped at your eyes furiously. Damn it all. So much for not crying.

“Then why didn’t you—”

“Say anything?” You breathed a short laugh. “Because I didn’t want to see you just throw it out again, okay?”

The silence that met your words was deafening, and when you finally mustered the courage to lift your gaze you saw that Minho’s look of disbelief mirrored your own.

“'Again?'”

Damn Lee Minho and his two-faced ass. Had he already forgotten? “In ninth grade. I left you a—stupid love letter in your locker, with all your other Valentines. Then I s-saw you throwing them all out, behind the school.”

“But I read every name on the cards,” Minho insisted, running a hand through his tousled hair. I left you—a stupid love letter in your locker. Your words sent his head spinning, and he felt his flustered cheeks heat up as he mumbled, “I’ve never—seen yours on any of them.”

Now it was your turn to blink in confusion. Minho’s brow furrowed in vague recollection. “But I did see Hana pulling an envelope out from my locker that day. She said that—she’d heard someone had been sending chain mail on Valentine’s Day, so she was helping the principal clean them up from people’s lockers.”

Hana? Your mind flashed to the missing locks, and the cheerleader that always seemed to be hanging around your locker, and suddenly everything dawned on you. “What did the envelope look like?”

“A corner store card. With—”

“Candy hearts. Right.” You muttered, watching Minho nod slowly. Your anger faltered slightly, feeling a slight shame wash over you, but you weren’t willing to give up just yet. “That still doesn’t explain why you dump out all the gifts you get every year.”

He sighed. “Look. Why would I keep love letters from people I don’t like? That’s just...narcissistic. And I don’t...like chocolate, either,” he added as an afterthought, and you couldn’t help exhaling a short laugh at his ridiculously blunt sentence. Another silence fell between the two of you, the angry tension in the air replaced with an almost childish awkwardness.

“I really did like the poem,” Minho spoke tentatively after what felt like an eternity, and you buried your head in your hands.

“Shut up, Lee Minho, oh my g—”

“And I wouldn’t have thrown it out.” The soft edge to his voice made you stop, peeking out of your fingers to look at him questioningly.

“Why not?” You asked, swallowing hard. “You said keeping letters from someone you don’t like would be narcissistic.”

He was barely a foot away, and the sheer proximity of his face from yours made your stomach flop—with irritation or butterflies, you weren’t sure you wanted to find out. Nonetheless, a tiny voice at the back of your head told you that you were heading towards the latter.

“You know, for someone who reads so many books, you sure are dense,” Minho murmured, shaking his head.

“Wh—”

“I throw out all my Valentines every year because I never see your name on them, alright?” His expression was as careless as ever—that cool, calm facade he wore like a suit of armour—but you didn’t miss the slight tremor in his voice, the flicker of apprehension in his eyes. Lee Minho, you realized with a jolt, was nervous. “I...only ever wanted to receive one from you.”

Your eyes widened, hands lowering from your face in shock. The book tumbled from under your arm to the ground. “But—Hana always told me about how much you hated me.”

“Hmm.” He dropped down to pick it up before fixing his piercing eyes on yours. “Funny. She’s been telling me the same about you. How you’re a two-faced, back-stabbing...such-and-such,” he smiled at the indignant look on your face before his face grew serious. “You’ve always let people walk all over you, and you never retaliate. It’s both admirable and frustrating to watch.”

“I’m not good at confrontation,” you mumbled, still shifting your weight from one leg to the other nervously. “Every time I think I’ve finally got the guts to try and say something back, I...I get all terrified that the words’ll jumble up and I-I’ll start to cry like an idiot again—”

“You’re not an idiot,” he interrupted sternly, “You’re probably more clever—and genuine—than everyone in our grade combined. Your thesis was brilliant.”

You snorted incredulously. “Then why did you keep attacking it every class?”

“It was the only time I could get you to talk to me.”

“Weirdo,” you muttered, but you couldn’t find it in you to make the word sound insulting anymore. Minho chuckled, hand grazing yours as he handed the book back to you. You didn’t move your hand away, and neither did he.

“It is weird. I must be out of my mind. Whenever you look at me, it’s like the whole world stops, and suddenly every cheesy line of poetry I’ve ever read just seems to make sense.”

Your heart was pounding so hard you were more than certain Minho could hear it. The way he was looking at you was nearly overwhelming, stomach fluttering with a feeling so strange and foreign it terrified you. Never in your wildest dreams had you thought that you would be here, in this delicate, unreal moment, and you felt all your insecurities threatening to swallow you up again. Out of everyone in the school, he likes you? A voice snickered at the back of your mind. Don’t kid yourself.

Shrinking away, you mumbled, “Y-you—don’t have to say stuff like that, you know. I mean, i-if you feel bad because of the letter and everything, you don’t have to pretend you lik—”

There was a flash of an exasperated smile on Minho’s lips. Before you could finish, his hand reached to pull your chin towards him again, and suddenly his mouth was pressed flush to yours. You froze, lips parting in surprise, but the kiss was light—barely even a brush of soft skin, and bringing with it the faint scent of vanilla and old books. Minho pulled away almost as quickly as he’d pulled you in, stammering, “I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

That seemed to send what was left of your hesitation crumbling into dust. You grabbed the collar of his dress shirt to pull him back in, and the library fell silent again.

Minho kissed the way he talked—soft but firm, and always leaving you struggling to catch your breath. Each touch had the growing intensity of something long overdue, starting out careful—as though you were treading over the newly shattered, four-year-old misunderstandings of one another—before your hands instinctively tangled in his hair and Minho pulled you in impossibly closer. You could feel his heartbeat pressed against yours, the crumpled poem and Neruda’s sonnets long forgotten on the carpeted ground.

The click of the library door opening sent the two of you flying apart, Minho hitting his head on the shelf with a comical thud. The kiss left you dazed and out of breath, and Minho’s face was flushed as both of you whipped around to see a livid Hana at the front of the library. Mouth opening and closing in silent fury, she shot you a death glare before storming out the door, leaving both you and Minho blinking after her.

Several moments passed, the whiplash of the unexpected interruption having sent both of your heads reeling. Then, the two of you broke into stunned laughter, slowly sliding down to the carpet as you doubled over in giggles.

When you finally stopped laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, Minho’s gaze was fixed fondly on your face. You poked his cheek. “You’re blushing, asshole.”

He didn’t respond, eyes falling to your lips again, and you felt your own face flush. “W-what?”

Minho grinned. “And you have drool on your chin again.”

“Hey, Minho! Minho, you won’t believe this!”

That enthusiastic voice belonged to none other than Han Jisung—voice of Levanter High’s morning announcements, and notorious school gossip. He hurtled down the bustling hall towards you and Minho, hunching over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

“Shit, ‘sung—did you kill somebody?”

The dark-haired boy shook his head rapidly. “Did you see the school newspaper?”

Your mouth went dry, Hana’s lingering threats still ringing clear in your ears. Jisung continued excitedly, “Two people submitted anonymous love poems over the weekend—at the same time! Can you believe it? I’m supposed to cover it on the announcements in a bit!”

Two? You peered at Minho, who hadn’t looked at you, and glimpsed a knowing glint in his eyes. “W-who submitted them?”

“Well, Lee Hana was handing out copies of the first one to everyone first thing this morning. But when I showed her the other one, she refused to tell me who the first belonged to.” He pouted.

Minho looked like he was trying hard not to laugh. “Do you have a copy of the paper, ‘sung?”

The dark-haired boy grinned. “Yeah, ‘course! You guys can have mine. See ya!”

As Jisung disappeared into the crowd of students, you turned back to Minho. He had been in the middle of putting a new lock on your locker, and was now setting the combination on his own. “They’re matching,” he’d pointed out when you’d gone into town together to buy them, and you’d groaned.

“Gro-oss.” The old, PDA-hating you would have probably thrown them away on the spot, but now the sight made you smile like a dork. If you can’t beat em, join ‘em.

You looked down to read the papers Jisung had deposited into your hands. Sure enough, on the left column, you spotted a photocopy of your own love letter. But on the right, there was a completely new one—and you had a sneaking suspicion you knew who the anonymous writer was.

“You know, Minho,” you deadpanned, “I don’t think either of us are cut out to be poets.”

“I stayed up all night writing that love letter, you know!” Minho exclaimed indignantly, and you just shook your head laughing. “But you’re right. I could feel Neruda turning in his grave.”

“You’re going to be the end of me, Lee Minho.”

His face broke into a mischievous grin at that, pinning you playfully to the lockers and stealing another kiss as you yelped in surprise.

“Can it be a happy ending?”

[milkybonya]

cheer up, buttercup!

order #001: large banana milk tea with pudding and grass jelly for Cha Eunwoo, requested by my lovely @daybreakx !

-> enemies to lovers! & college!Cha Eunwoo x (gn) reader

-> warnings: some angst and food mentions! also drinking/alcohol mentions and everyone is really mean to the reader >:0

-> where Eunwoo is the president of your department and you're the vice president. you work your hardest but always end up second to him.

[a/n]: i'm sorry for the CHAOS that this is and i feel like there is minimal (?) fluff but i hope you enjoYY THIS WAS FUN

You and Eunwoo had major beef. There wasn't even an event that started it all, but Eunwoo treated you with such disrespect from the start. And of course, anyone who disrespected you was on your list of... well, the closest thing to a list of enemies.

The first time you met him was in freshman year at the orientation before classes began. There was a basketball game going on and Eunwoo was playing. You watched from the sidelines in the shade, cheering him on at first because he was playing on behalf of your department.

Then, the ball flew in your direction. Eunwoo had tried to get the ball back for his team, but ended up accidentally throwing it towards you.

Luckily, it fell somewhere to your left, but it gave you such a fright that you stood up and started panting.

A few of the people who were playing rushed over to make sure you were okay, but Eunwoo didn't even throw a look your way.

"You, from our department? Just throw the ball back!" was all he said to you.

It made your blood boil.

Eunwoo was known for being a little blunt anyway, but he definitely went out of his way to grind your gears.

"Where is the president?" the social convenor asked.

You sighed, checking the time and noticing that Eunwoo was fifteen minutes late.

"If I knew where he was... If only I knew," you mumbled.

"Why is Eunwoo even the president, anyway?" another member of the student council asked.

"Because he's hot and cool and everyone likes him!" a girl squealed. You couldn't even remember what her position in the student council was, but judging by her comment, you realized that she must be here just for Eunwoo.

"He's absolutely dumb, does nothing all day yet somehow gets A's! Of course, why wouldn't he be the president?" your tone was dripping with sarcasm and your anger was almost about to overflow.

Until that man walked into the meeting room, at last.

"I'm dumb and do nothing all day? Why, thank you. I'm here, now," Eunwoo declared, strolling towards his seat. He had his black leather jacket slung over a shoulder.

God, I hate my life, you thought to yourself.

"That's what [y/n], said, but I don't think that way!" the girl who squealed earlier spoke.

"Thanks, Stacy."

Eunwoo only flashed her a quick smile before he sat back in his seat.

"So, what are we doing?"

"What do you mean, 'what are we doing'? We have an open house tomorrow and tons of high school students will be checking on our department! You're the president, you were supposed to-"

Eunwoo hushes you by raising up his hand from where it was resting on his thigh.

"It's all good, I've got it sorted."

He slammed down a notebook onto the table.

"I've taken notes on how open houses have been previously organized and have put them all in this book. I highlighted the events that seemed like they had a lot of potential, so look through those and decide on something, alright? I'll be off," Eunwoo explained, standing up.

"Where are you going?" you almost spat out at Eunwoo. He walks in here, makes a fool out of you and then decides to leave?

"To go 'be dumb and do nothing all day'. Isn't that what you said I do?"

He glared at you slightly before leaving the room.

"[y/n], you made Nunu so angry! Nunu, don't be mad, come back!" Stacy screamed, chasing after him.

You sighed, running your fingers through your hair.

"This idiot really thought I wouldn't know about the past open houses..."

You slam down the notebook that you had also brought.

"Damn... so he really just provided us some useless info and left?" the social convenor asks, shaking their head.

"Yeah, pretty much," you say.

-

So how did you and Eunwoo end up as vice president and president, anyway? Well, these positions were given to the students with the highest grades. Eunwoo had the highest, so he was given the title of president. You were trailing close behind, and were given the title of vice president.

You always told yourself that you should have been the president, and rightfully so! Eunwoo never did anything but play games on his phone, anyway.

When the open house event finally rolled around, you and Eunwoo were supposed to give a speech in a lecture hall to get the day started. It was mostly to welcome the high school students and lift the spirits of everyone there, not too big of a deal!

But still, big enough of a deal that Eunwoo should have shown up.

He didn't. And you were anything but surprised.

Forced to deliver your speech and somehow improvise along the way to make up for Eunwoo's missing presence, you were shocked to find that the audience started clapping right as you finished. It felt as though your hard work had paid off, and you stepped back, smiling at everyone in the crowd.

Until Eunwoo walked up to the mic, flashing a smile of his own and greeting everyone.

Yep, they had all been clapping for him, not for you.

Eunwoo turned and looked at you, mouthing, "did you prepare my script?"

"You were supposed to do that! Do I look like your secretary?"

Eunwoo scowled at you and turned to everyone who was seated. He ended up repeating a bunch of the same things that you had said and received an enthusiastic applause. You sighed from behind the curtains, wondering why Eunwoo always got the credit for all your hard work. It was probably his looks, but still.

Throughout the day, you walked around campus and ensured that everything was running smoothly. Eunwoo was supposed to be doing the same, you hoped, and you asked him this when you ran into him outside of the campus student centre.

"Have you been walking around like you were supposed to?"

"I'll deal with my business on my own," he said, almost scoffing at you. He was standing there scrolling through his phone.

"This isn't 'your business'? We're literally supposed to be working together!"

"Stop nagging me, [y/n]. I don't like it when you do that," he grumbled.

"Yeah, well I don't like you!" you yelled, storming away from him. You felt... very embarrassed. What kind of comeback was that? It sounded like something a child would say... oh, well.

You saw your friend handing out some goodies at a table outside and approached them.

"How's it going, vice president?" they asked you, handing you a snack.

"Terrible," you groaned, opening it and eating some.

"Why, what's up?"

"Cha Eunwoo is being a pain in the butt, as always," you sighed.

"You might want to watch what you say," your friend mumbled, pointing behind you.

You turned around a little too late as the snack in your hands was whisked away by Cha Eunwoo himself.

"You're the only pain in the butt here, [y/n]," he said, eating your snacks.

"What are you doing here?! You should be on the other side of campus!" you yelled.

"And you shouldn't be here, either," Eunwoo said with a glare.

"Can y'all go argue somewhere else? You're scaring the highschoolers away," your friend complained, nodding in the direction of some highschoolers who were hesitant to approach the snack stand because you and Eunwoo were arguing.

"Go attend to your duties, [y/n]," Eunwoo huffed, walking away from you.

You angrily stomped the ground, walking away and feeling a little embarrassed because you could feel the high schoolers watching you.

-

"[y/n], why won't you learn from Eunwoo a bit? I understand that he's the president and you're only the vice, but you could have at least prepared what we needed you to prepare!" the director of your department told you, shaking her head at you.

You tried to contain yourself and looked down as you rolled your eyes. The only reason Eunwoo was more prepared than you were today was because he had stolen what you prepared and claimed it was his instead.

"I understand, I'm sorry."

"You're at risk of getting your position taken away, [y/n]! This is a warning."

After leaving the director's office, you were met wih a grinning Eunwoo who was sat on the couches in the lobby.

"What are you looking at?" you asked him.

"Thanks for these papers, [y/n]," he said, holding up your hard work.

"I didn't even give them to you. You took them from me, but okay," you said, leaving him there.

You walked to a coffee shop that was on the same floor to get something to refresh yourself. Since it was so early in the morning on a weekend, the building was fairly quiet and empty. It wasn't hard to overhear a conversation.

"Eunwoo, I think [y/n] has not been taking their vice president duties seriously these days. Do you think we should find someone else?"

The director's voice.

"Do the other members of student council agree?"

Eunwoo's voice.

"I haven't spoken to them-"

"Then [y/n] remains as vice. I haven't seen any sort of slacking or a lack of seriousness from them, and I don't think anyone else is fit for the role."

Did Eunwoo just... compliment and defend you?

You turned around with your drink in hand to find that it was indeed Eunwoo talking with your director. Then, you quickly scurried away to avoid being seen by them, feeling very confused.

-

"Cheers!" everyone shouted around the table, clinking their glasses together before downing their contents. After a successful open house, everyone had gathered at a bar to celebrate. You squirmed in your spot beside Eunwoo, feeling uncomfortable. He rolled his eyes at you and shifted even closer to you, leaving you with less room to sit than before.

"Is that better?" he asked, smirking at you.

You frowned, pressing your foot on top of his clearly new shoes.

"Is that better?" you asked him.

"Why are you guys so close? Are you about to kiss or something?" one of the student council members asked.

"No! Ew-"

"And what if we did?" Eunwoo asked, glaring at the member.

What the hell?

The member looked down at their drink, unsure of what to say. The atmosphere grew awkwardly quiet until someone asked if everyone wanted more drinks, to which there were murmurs of agreement.

"Hey, [y/n], I overheard the director talking with you in her office today. Did she really threaten to kick you out as vice president?" the student council member next to you asked.

You laughed awkwardly, already feeling uncomfortable.

"Yeah... I'm working hard, though! So I'm sure it won't happen."

"Are you sure? You weren't able to prepare what the director asked you to, and there's been countless times where Eunwoo has always had to do things for you..."

You were in such shock. Everyone in student council knew that Eunwoo just acted like he was on top of everything, meanwhile you were doing all the work. Even for his grades, he never studied but was at the top because of all the people who handed him study notes and past tests to get his attention. You worked so hard...

"... I get that you're the vice president, but shouldn't you be trying a little harder? Hey... [y/n]? Are you crying?"

You couldn't help it... it had all been building up until now. You didn't even realize you were crying, though, until this guy pointed it out to you. His hand on your shoulder felt like it was suffocating you...

"What the hell have you been on about, you idiot?" Eunwoo growled from your right. You turned to him and he was glaring at the boy who had been talking to you.

"I-"

"Don't even talk. There's nothing but garbage coming out of your mouth. Come on, [y/n], let's go," Eunwoo said, grabbing your hand and guiding you out of there.

You were extremely confused, but more than anything, you were just sad. So you didn't stop Eunwoo when he led you outside of the bar.

"Is everything okay? Take some deep breaths." Eunwoo was staring right into your eyes as he spoke to you, reaching out his thumb to gently wipe your tears away.

"What's... going on?"

"That idiot was saying some useless garbage so I brought you out here. I can leave if you want to be alone-"

"No! No, please don't go," you begged, holding on tightly to his sleeve. You couldn't help it, you completely broke down and found yourself sobbing into his chest. What was weirder was that Eunwoo had his arms wrapped around you and was rubbing your back...

After you calmed done, Eunwoo insisted that he walk you back to your dorm.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" you asked him, sniffling quietly.

He threw his hands in his pockets and stared at the ground.

"I don't like it when people are mean to you, [y/n]," he said quietly.

"But you're mean to me all the time!" you pointed out.

"You're the one who started being mean to me!" Eunwoo whined.

You stopped walking.

"I started being mean to you? Eunwoo, you know you're the one who threw a basketball at me that day and never apologized, right?"

Eunwoo stared at the dark sky for a moment as he tried to remember what you were talking about. Then his eyes widened and he looked at you.

"Oh... I swear, there's an explanation-"

"There better be!"

"This is going to sound dumb but... I felt too shy to look at you... which is why I avoided you like that."

What? Eunwoo, the most cocky and arrogant president you know, was shy?

"Why in the world were you shy, Eunwoo?"

It wasn't just the slight breeze in the air that was turning his cheeks red, now. He was about to tell you something important.

"Ever since the first day at the orientation week... I thought you were really... attractive. And then, learning about you through all the icebreakers just made things worse. I don't really know how to handle my feelings, so maybe that's why I came across as so rude."

There was silence as you processed everything and starting walking to your dorm again.

"Eunwoo... if you had just cleared this all up a little sooner, we wouldn't have been like cats and dogs," you said, laughing nervously and touching the back of your neck.

"I know, I'm sorry."

"Do you still... like me?" you asked him quietly.

Eunwoo paused before answering. "I don't think I could ever just stop liking you."

Both of you giggled at his cheesy words. You felt like you were on another planet. The boy you'd hated so much turned out to have a crush on you?

"You don't need to tell me how you feel anytime soon. I know there's been a lot of misunderstandings... so let's just clear those up first?" Eunwoo cocked his head to one side.

"If you get to my dorm faster than me, I'll consider it!" you yelled before running in the direction of your residence building.

"I don't even know where you live!" Eunwoo yelled after you, following you along.

"What kind of president are you? You don't even know where your vice president lives?" you yelled back, sticking your tongue out at him.

Suddenly, Eunwoo caught up to you and started racing ahead. Of course he knew where you lived. He liked you.

[muffin-n-waffle]

The more I think about it, the more annoyed I get with the character assassination of the Sharma sisters.

Is this simply because I’m a book reader, and this is one of my favorites from the novel series? Possibly. But listen, I feel like there was plenty in the book that the show could have explored further!

In the book, the Sharmas (Sheffields) can only afford one season. Kate, the older sister, feels their greatest chance is Edwina. She’s got this silly notion in her head that she’s not as classically pretty as her younger half sister, whom she adores by the way, and Edwina adores her in turn. Yes, in the books, Edwina might as well be described as a diamond, so she does become quite popular. Of course Anthony takes notice too, and his reasons for courting Edwina are much the same as they are in the show. There can be no love in his marriage he’s decided, because he’s an idiot, and also yes, because he’s got his own past trauma to deal with.

Edwina, on her part, actually already has the hots for a certain scholar, but he doesn’t have the money that her family needs, and I’m sure she felt the pressure from her sister to find the best match. In the end, she’s amiable with Anthony, but she doesn’t love him. In fact, she later reveals to her sister that she’s relieved she won’t be marrying him after he admitted that he doesn’t read much. She’s a woman who knows what she wants, and she wants a nerd, yall!

My question is, why was this not something that was explored further in the show? I know shondalnd thrives on their drama, and I think this could have made for some excellent drama if they wished it to. Edwina being in love with someone she feels she can’t have, all while Kate is pressuring her to find someone well off. If they wanted an argument between the sisters, I think this would have been much better, and it would have also saved Kate from taking the role of the lying, older sister.

Speaking of Kate, the only lying she really does in the book is to herself. She’s convinced she hates Anthony, and vice versa. It’s enemies to lovers baby! She’s willing to sacrifice her own happiness and her own chance of finding a match for herself if it means Edwina can be happy, and not just because she thinks Edwina has a better chance of it, but that plays a part too.

All in all, I feel like these leave lots of room for the show writers to play with, but instead they focused on the Featheringtons, as well as a love triangle that never existed

I ask again, where was Kate’s on backstory? As well as her own trauma that she faced in the book? Why was Mary sidelined so much by Lady Danbury? Yes, I love the woman, but goodness, Mary is their mother!! And why would they omit the library scene almost entirely? Anthony comforting Kate, and both of them opening up a little to one another. Goodness, what a shame.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Unfettered (aka NHS goes feral) - part 4 - previous parts: on ao3 or tumblr pt 1, pt 2, pt 3

-

Wei Wuxian wasn’t going to lie: it was weird seeing Nie Huaisang smiling again.

It wasn’t that he didn’t remember how Nie Huaisang used to behave when they were all back at the Cloud Recesses, and even before, but that seemed so long ago these days that it might as well have occurred in a past life. The expression just didn’t fit him anymore, like a grown man trying to return to the clothing of his childhood, and yet at the same time it was wretchedly familiar, even welcome – it was as if time had reversed course all at once, plucking them all out of the stream of their lives and returning them to how it used to be long before. Back to simpler, happier times.

It was kind of funny, actually.

Those that had not known Nie Huaisang as anything other than the Pallbearer seemed to be in a state of utter shock, gossiping madly – Did you see? He was smiling! He laughed at someone’s joke! He told a joke! He patted that child on the head and said ‘good job’ and the child didn’t cry even once!

Those that had known him from before only by reputation were, if anything, even more aghast – Do you think he’s going to start pouting and crying at things again? Surely not, I can’t even imagine! The last time he pouted was when one of his fans got stained, remember, after he stuck it straight through that man’s throat –

Those that had known him from before in person…

Well, the reaction was mixed. There was some relief, some distress, and a great deal of pain as they remembered once again how much their friend had changed in the wake of his brother’s near-death – the reminder of his former self was both nostalgic and bittersweet.

Personally, Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji were working through their feelings on the subject with the help of a lot of roleplaying involving their time at the Cloud Recesses. It was very healthy of them, emotionally, although maybe not so healthy for the state of Wei Wuxian’s waist. Or throat. Or hands…

(No, they weren’t officially married yet, since they were still hoping that they could have a proper ceremony when the war ended, but they were both of age and engaged. And that meant they could go to bed together, no matter what some of the more conservative Lan sect members thought – with Lan Qiren backing them up, which he did with no small amount of eye-rolling and deep sighs and long-suffering resignation, they were free to do as they pleased.)

That, too, was something they owed to Nie Huaisang.

Without Nie Huaisang’s timely intervention, both Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng would’ve fallen for the Jin sect’s instigation and turned against each other in an act of mutual destruction that harmed both of them, and everyone else besides. Jiang Cheng would have cut off his own right arm, voluntarily weakening his sect just at the moment when they needed strength the most, and rendered himself without any other choice but to be dependent on Lanling Jin, while Wei Wuxian would have remained trapped in the Burial Mounds in Yiling, getting called the Yiling Patriarch as some people still today did, growing ever more resentful at his isolation and poverty.

(That one uncomfortable month he’d spent arguing with Wen Qing and Wen Ning about whether they should try to grow radishes or potatoes had been very educational, especially since they were both not-so-secretly convinced that the argument was futile and that nothing would ever grow on the Burial Mounds, such that they were just whiling away time until they all starved to death.)

They would be scattered, weakened, unhappy and vulnerable. Wei Wuxian would be sitting there like a giant target until the Jin sect decided, in their leisure, to deal with him the way, in hindsight, they had so obviously always intended to.

Wei Wuxian would have missed his sister’s wedding, probably. He might even have missed Jiang Yanli’s widowing, and the consequences of that were unthinkable.

If Wei Wuxian hadn’t brought the Wen sect back with him to the Lotus Pier as a result of Jiang Cheng’s defiance of the cultivation world’s criticism, Wen Qing and Jiang Yanli would never had the chance to hit it off the way they had, becoming fast friends. If they hadn’t been friends, Wen Qing wouldn’t have been visiting Jinlin Tower to check up on her good friend when the news of Jin Zixuan’s death had first spread.

His murder, rather – Wei Wuxian wasn’t terribly clear on the details, but it wasn’t really necessary. Jin Guangshan had pressed his legitimate son’s filial piety to the breaking point in his pursuit of power, and finally he must have done something to go too far, to cause there to be a real break between them. Jin Zixuan must have made clear that he would not play along, no matter what, and by that point Jin Guangshan already knew there was Jin Guangyao waiting in the sidelines to step up and take his place. There was no other way it could have gone, simply because there was no other reason for both Jin Zixuan and his mother to so conveniently die on the very same day.

If it hadn’t been for Nie Huaisang convincing Jiang Cheng, Wen Qing wouldn’t have been there. Wen Qing wouldn’t have been available to be bold and decisive, the way she was with her medicine; she wouldn’t have been able to persuade Jiang Yanli of the possibility of danger and then to smuggler out of Jinlin Tower and take her on the run in disguise, long before it occurred to anyone else that there might be some threat to her – that the Jin sect might decide to hold her hostage, or worse.

Definitely worse. If Jin Guangyao had had the chance to figure out what only Wen Qing had known back then – that Jiang Yanli, barely more than a newlywed, already carried the next heir to Lanling Jin within her belly…

Jin Guangyao’s ambitions would never have let Jin Zixuan live, a fact they’d all only realized in horrible helpless hindsight, but if Wen Qing had been trapped in Yiling with Wei Wuxian at the time, instead of visiting Lanling, then Jiang Yanli…

Wei Wuxian didn’t even want to think of it.

So, really, it was only fair that Nie Huaisang, who had whether intentionally or incidentally saved so many of them these past few years, finally, finally get what he’d been dreaming of all these years: his brother’s return.

It was only fair that he be allowed to return to being happy.

And yet, at the same time –

“You need to go talk to him,” Jiang Cheng said. His arms would be crossed in front of his chest if he wasn’t currently holding a sleeping Jin Ling, who’d had something of a fright upon meeting the new and improved Nie Huaisang. The poor kid had been convinced that his habitually bitter and vicious Second Uncle Nie was possessed by some sort of fierce but bizarrely friendly ghost. “There’s a war on, for fuck’s sake. He can’t spend all his time haunting the Unclean Realm trying to pretend that he’s something he’s not in order to keep his brother from finding out that he’s changed!”

“It’s not as bad as all that,” Wei Wuxian objected. “I mean, Nie Huaisang’s always run most of the war through correspondence, anyway, and it’s not like we’re totally helpless without him to boss us around.”

“His absence hasn’t been noted by our enemies just yet,” Wen Ning murmured. His arms were similarly full with Wen Yuan – a little older than his friends, steadier and more mature, but a sympathetic crier, and spending a month of his childhood in the Burial Mounds made him more susceptible to fears of possession, not less, so he’d been set off by Jin Ling. And seeing them both in tears had, of course, made poor level-headed Jin Rusong, who didn’t cry easily at all, panic and try to help in a way that only made it worse; Xiao Xingchen had swept him away to the kitchen, and the two of them were currently making snacks for the other two when they woke up. “But it will be, soon. They are already puzzled by the change in tactics.”

Wen Ning’s voice was as soft as ever, his stutter subdued only by the fact that he was with company he liked, but his tone brooked no argument – he’d changed a lot since their youth, too, and knew more intimately than most how some things could not be undone.

The Jin sect, not content with merely killing him, had dubbed his resurrected self ‘the Ghost General’ in an attempt to incite the cultivation world into hating and fearing him. It had been a lie back then, when he’d been doing nothing more than planting radish seeds and babysitting, but now Wen Ning was a general in truth, the leader of their archers and one of Nie Huaisang’s right hands. He was still shy, still didn’t speak fluently and probably never would, but Nie Huaisang had assigned him several capable deputies who understood him even when he had to resort to the type of hand-signs used by the deaf or in covert situations. He was surprisingly popular with the cultivators on their side of the war, although Wei Wuxian acknowledged that perhaps his popularity shouldn’t be that much of a surprise: there was a certain morale-boosting effect in seeing your general continuing to fight even after being struck with enough arrows to create a porcupine.

“Being puzzled by a change in tactics is fairly run of the mill for any enemy facing Nie Huaisang,” Wei Wuxian pointed out.

“Which is why they haven’t noticed it yet, Wei-gongzi. But eventually…”

Wei Wuxian grimaced. “Is it really that dire?”

“Not yet,” Lan Wangji said ominously, and – fine. If even Lan Wangji thought that someone should talk to Nie Huaisang, Wei Wuxian would go and talk to him.

After all, they were old friends of long acquaintance.

Very long, even.

“I come bearing terms of peace,” Wei Wuxian announced, walking into Nie Huaisang’s study and waving a few jars of wine at him. “Come negotiate with me, Nie-xiong!”

“I don’t recall giving you permission to barge into my room,” Nie Huaisang said without looking up from his correspondence, a little flash of the vicious Pallbearer they’d all grown painfully accustomed to – he had his family’s temper but a cooler head, with rage that burned low and long rather than flaring up hot and burning out.

Wei Wuxian reflected once more on how apt Nie Huaisang’s personal title was. The foolish thought that it referred to the filial piety he showed in mourning the brother that raised him since childhood, the somewhat wiser to the way the attack on Nie Mingjue had forced Nie Huaisang to find the virtue he had previously lacked, but the really smart ones knew that the most accurate interpretation was that those that Nie Huaisang chose to accompany to their end would ultimately find themselves without any path forward but death.

Nie Huaisang’s cultivation was still nothing special, his ability to fight virtually non-existent beyond the most basic of saber forms – a saber he now carried with him often enough, but still almost never used – and he’d rejected Wei Wuxian’s very innovative idea (if he did say so himself) that he try to train with a war fan, both on the basis of it being both too much effort and furthermore thoroughly lacking in aesthetic. As a result, he had no particularly notable talents, and none that could allow him to triumph in a night-hunt or a duel.

It didn’t make him any less terrifying.

“You’ll forgive me,” Wei Wuxian said flippantly, and sat down next to him, looking at the words that filled the page with Nie Huaisang’s lovely, artistic calligraphy. “More spy stuff?”

Nie Huaisang’s lips curled up into a small smirk. “Naturally. The network never sleeps, as you well know. I assume you’ve been sent to scold me about the war?”

“Amazing,” Wei Wuxian said, and nudged him in the side with his elbow. “It’s almost like you have a brain in your head or something. Since you’ve guessed it, I don’t even know what more I need to say…how’s Chifeng-zun doing?”

That got Nie Huaisang’s face to soften, as he’d hoped it would. “Much better. He’s been sleeping and waking consistently, and the mobility exercises are working well, though of course he’s insisting on trying more than he can manage. He only just managed to walk across the room without stumbling yesterday, had to sit down right away after, and he’s already asking about saber training.”

That was very in character for Nie Mingjue.

“I’m glad,” Wei Wuxian said, meaning it with all his heart. “I missed da-ge.”

He owed him so much, after all.

So much more than most people knew.

It had been Nie Mingjue who had found him all those years ago, in the dark days when his parents had died in a night-hunt gone wrong and the money they’d left with the innkeeper turning out to be insufficient to keep him housed or fed for more than a fortnight. Wei Wuxian had been a spoiled, beloved child – even if his parents were rogue cultivators, his father originally a servant, they were famous; there wasn’t a town that didn’t welcome them with open arms. They had never lacked for money, for warmth and comfort.

Wei Wuxian might have had a chance if they’d died in the spring or summer. He might have been able to learn to sleep on the streets during warm nights and used those rich fat months to learn from all the other beggars how to eat refuse, but his parents had died in the winter. Even the beggars chased him away, unwilling to spare the smallest scrap of food or lose any bit of warmth by sharing the spots they had found to shelter from the cold; and when he went to the richer districts that had once greeted his parents with such enthusiasm, wild dogs were sent to chase him away, vicious and merciless…within a week, he had been very nearly dead.

Luckily, when hiring rogue cultivators turned out to be insufficient to deal with the problem, the miserly local landlord that had sent out the notice in the first place had finally given in and written to a Great Sect, begging for aid – as a rich man, he was obligated to contribute to the costs of a requested night-hunt, and the Great Sects, while generally more successful, were typically far more mercenary in that regard than rogue cultivators – and Nie Mingjue had come with his Nie sect, the most willing by far to do the work of defeating evil without charging too much for the privilege.

He’d found the bodies of Wei Wuxian’s parents.

Soon after, he’d found Wei Wuxian himself.

Wei Wuxian had been about seven, then. It had been a full two years before Jiang Fengmian had found him on the very same streets, hiding in the trash with a dirty face and a sad and miserable expression, ready to be picked up and taken home by his father’s old friend, the Sect Leader of Yunmeng Jiang.

Just as anyone might’ve predicted.

After all, Nie Mingjue had never stinted on sending out spies, even if he never used them.

(He’d released Wei Wuxian of all those old obligations long ago – but Nie Huaisang never had.)

“Da-ge passes along his thanks, by the way,” Nie Huaisang said. “He thinks the array you created to help preserve his life is brilliant.”

“It is brilliant,” Wei Wuxian said, shameless as always. Getting a truly vicious scolding from his little master Nie Huaisang about exactly how close to the line his arrogance had brought him and the Wen sect had humbled him a bit, and the disaster of the Stygian Tiger Seal nearly going out of his control at the Nightless City not long thereafter had humbled him still more, but in the end he was still Wei Wuxian. He was awesome. “Could anyone else have done what I did?”

Nie Huaisang rolled his eyes.

“He’s not angry at me for misusing Baxia?” Wei Wuxian asked, fishing for confirmation. If there was one thing that his two years in the Nie sect had taught him, it was a near-pathological revulsion at the thought of touching another person’s spiritual weapon – he’d been very nearly more excited to be allowed to put his hand on an unsheathed Bichen than Lan Wangji’s dick, although not quite – and Nie Mingjue was quite justifiably more paranoid than most on the subject.

Even that treacherous dog Jin Guangyao hadn’t dared touch Baxia. The spiritual poison he’d used on Nie Mingjue had been limited to the man himself, and that had been what gave Wei Wuxian the idea for the array he’d invented. Nie Mingjue cultivated with Baxia as his primary, if not only, spiritual weapon, and the disciples of the Nie sect were closer to their sabers than most – and by the end of the Sunshot Campaign, Baxia was a fearsome entity in her own right, possessed of her own spiritual energy.

And as he’d always said, energy was meant to be used.

There was something about the Nie sect’s cultivation style that reminded Wei Wuxian of his innovations in demonic cultivation, although it wasn’t quite the same. They didn’t manipulate resentful energy directly the way he did, but they still made use of it, refining their blades with it until the sabers were very nearly guai, cultivating saber spirits filled with a lust for blood – although the strict disciplines of the Nie sect cultivation path meant that every saber spirit that Wei Wuxian had ever had the fortune (or misfortune) to personally encounter just as absolutist in their disdain for evil as their masters.

Even Nie Huaisang’s saber Aituan was like that, and maybe that should have been Wei Wuxian’s first hint that Nie Huaisang wasn’t as simple as he appeared on the surface.

“It’s fine,” Nie Huaisang assured him. “Really. Da-ge said it was – how’d he put it – a charming contradiction, that his saber get used to cultivating energy for him rather than him for the saber. Though maybe he was just relieved that she was intact, given everything.”

Wei Wuxian grinned and toasted Nie Huaisang, drinking a little of the wine while Nie Huaisang continued with his correspondence.

They sat in comfortable silence for a little while.

“I’m not pretending,” Nie Huaisang said abruptly, and Wei Wuxian, who’d drifted off into daydreams involving him, Lan Wangji, and a very sturdy bathtub, turned to look at him. “I know what Jiang Cheng thinks –”

“Of course you do. I tell you what Jiang Cheng thinks.”

“Shut up, you – you calamity. I don’t need you to tell me what Jiang Cheng thinks, he tells me himself more often than not. He thinks that I’m pretending to be useless because I don’t want da-ge to know about everything I’ve done, but that’s not the case at all. He knows. I wouldn’t keep it from him.”

“I know,” Wei Wuxian said, because he did. Even at his most lazy and self-indulgent, Nie Huaisang abhorred the thought of lying to his brother. “But you are spending too much of your time in the Unclean Realm. We need you back in the field.”

Nie Huaisang scowled. “The cream of the cultivation world,” he said disdainfully. “Can’t they do anything by themselves, just for a few short months? You’d think my brother fought the entirety of the Sunshot Campaign by himself with how little they seem to contribute.”

“Personally, I think that everyone has just taken the Nie sect as lucky cats, and are afraid to do without you,” Wei Wuxian said, batting his eyelashes at him in his most provoking show of earnestness. “Nie-xiong, if I rub your head, does that mean I’ll win my next battle…?”

“Don’t you dare,” Nie Huaisang said, but the scowl receded and he looked amused again. “I can’t wait to send da-ge out on the battlefield again.”

“The Jin sect will trample each other in their eagerness to get off the battlefield rather than face Chifeng-zun,” Wei Wuxian agreed, and couldn’t help his own smile at the thought. “The rumors that he’s returned have already started spreading like wildfire, but you’ve done well to hide him away so thoroughly. It means no one knows if the rumors are right or if you’re just pulling some kind of trick on the world.”

“Who, me? A trick?” Nie Huaisang said, and smiled thinly. “I only wish I could’ve seen the look on that treacherous dog’s face when his spies reported on my unusual behavior. I hope he’s afraid.”

Wei Wuxian agreed.

He had tried many times to imagine doing what Jin Guangyao had done. To turn your hand against the man to whom you had sworn to love as a brother –

He couldn’t even imagine hurting Jiang Cheng like that, and Jiang Yanli even less.

Wei Wuxian owed Nie Mingjue his life. He had sworn fealty to him with all the passion and singlemindedness of childhood, and had never once regretted it. Nie Mingjue had taken him off the streets and brought him back to his sect, he’d taken back his parents’ bodies and buried them with full (if private) honors, he’d given Wei Wuxian training to make him strong and smart and capable. He’d sent him to do work in a place where he would prosper and thrive and be happy, and all the while promised that he would never be trapped – that he would have a way out if the Jiang sect became too suffocating or he was treated too viciously, on one hand, and on the other told him that he could one day petition to be released from his obligations to the Nie sect if he ever found them too demanding.

Wei Wuxian had asked to be released from those obligations after the fall of the Lotus Pier, unable to stomach the idea of reporting on Jiang Cheng now that he was all alone in the world in the way that he had so effortlessly reported on Jiang Fengmian and Madame Yu. Nie Mingjue had granted the reprieve without a second’s hesitation, even though it meant wasting the years and years of investment they’d put into him, even though it would have been a critical moment to have an ear within the Jiang sect’s camp.

Wei Wuxian owed Nie Mingjue everything.

And yet – if the man had asked him to kill Jiang Cheng, he would have said no.

Twin heroes, he’d promised Jiang Cheng, and if for a while he’d thought he would have to give up that promise because of the secret of the golden core that he still kept hidden away, he refused to think it any longer. Jiang Cheng was his brother in all but blood, in all the ways that mattered. Wei Wuxian would stand aside from him if he thought he had to, as he had with the Wen sect remnants; he would keep secrets from him, he would even deceive him, but he would never willingly seek to hurt him.

Jin Guangyao, though? He had attacked Nie Mingjue without even being asked.

He was like some rabid beast, a white-eyed wolf, Wei Wuxian thought. Utterly beyond his understanding.

He deserved to be afraid.

“Speaking of which,” he said, suddenly remembering. “I think I’ve figured out why Jin Guangyao was willing to kill his own heir to further his and his father’s ambitions.”

“About time,” Nie Huaisang said, and while his tone was stern Wei Wuxian was mostly sure that he was teasing. “I put you on that job months ago. What do you think I keep you around for? Your brilliant inventions? Your armies of corpses? Your amazing ability to stun irritating sect leaders into silence with your overwhelming shamelessness regarding Lan Wangji –”

“Let’s not talk about that,” Wei Wuxian said hastily, although the giant grin he couldn’t keep off his face said everything about his shame – or lack thereof – relating to that last one. You get caught doing one little roleplay about the fearsome demonic cultivator Yiling Patriarch being arrested by the righteous cultivator Hanguang-jun and suddenly no one wanted to look you in the eye anymore… “Anyway, according to all the rumors, you keep me around because you want me to raise your brother the way I raised Wen Ning.”

Nie Huaisang rolled his eyes. “I’ve heard that one, and I still can’t believe anyone believes it. Da-ge’s a sect leader! Even if you wanted to bring him back, think about the amount of resentment he would have had to feel at his death to rise up again despite all the soul-calming rituals he’s gone through! If he ever became that resentful, he wouldn’t rise up as a ghost general, he’d be a ghost king, and then we’d all be screwed.”

Nie Huaisang wasn’t wrong. Nie Mingjue was one of the most powerful cultivators living – if he rose as a fierce corpse, he’d be able to slaughter an entire village of common people overnight with just the energy in one hand. And if he were then allowed access to Baxia, her power added to his…he’d become a scourge on the world, a true calamity, and they’d need to find a way to appease his anger and somehow lock him away forever just to survive.

Assuming Nie Huaisang allowed something like that, anyway. Wei Wuxian was very happy they had never been forced to face the question of whether Nie Huaisang preferred his brother or his morality, as he suspected no one would like the answer to that. Not even Nie Huaisang.

“Enough speculation,” Nie Huaisang said, and Wei Wuxian twitched guiltily even though he knew Nie Huaisang was not, in fact, a mind-reader. “What’s the story with A-Song?”

“You want the long version with all the proof I found to support it or the conclusion?”

“Start with the conclusion.”

“Jin Guangyao couldn’t risk A-Song growing up into a half-wit on account of being a child of incest.”

That actually surprised Nie Huaisang, Wei Wuxian was pleased to see.

“Incest?” Nie Huaisang said wonderingly. “But how – oh, of course. Jin Guangshan and Madame Qin? An affair or rape?”

“Rape while he was drunk, supposedly, though of course we only have the relevant people’s words for that, and they’re not exactly impartial sources. Could’ve been an affair that had unexpected results, not that anyone would ever admit it.”

Nie Huaisang started laughing.

Wei Wuxian really wished he wouldn’t. It wasn’t the sort of happy giggle that he sometimes let out nowadays when he was thinking of Nie Mingjue’s recovery – it was the jagged vicious bitterness of the Pallbearer, through and through.

“Oh, Qin Su, Qin Su,” Nie Huaisang said, wiping tears from his eyes. “I gave you all the chances in the world, you stupid woman. I hope you’re happy with what you chose.”

“Can I ask?” Wei Wuxian said cautiously. “You never said – you just showed up with A-Song, no Qin Su and no explanation…”

“Says the person who adopted A-Yuan all but sight unseen?”

“I lived with him for a month, it’s different,” Wei Wuxian said. “What happened with Qin Su?”

Nie Huaisang shrugged. “Nothing dramatic. She wouldn’t believe me when I told her that her husband was planning on killing her son to frame his enemies, which is reasonable enough given that everyone knows I’m at odds with him. Even when I offered her proof, she said it was just a forgery – that he wasn’t like that, that she knew him, the real him, that she was the only one who really understood him, even though I’d say the whole cultivation world knows the ‘real’ him by now.”

“Irritating, but understandable, I think – he is her husband, the dashing hero that rescued her so valiantly in the Sunshot Campaign and which she defied custom and her parents to marry. So why all the disdain?”

Nie Huaisang’s lips pressed together tightly with disapproval. “I asked her if she was willing to risk losing A-Song just to show her husband that she trusted him, and she said that she was, because it wasn’t a risk at all. Because she knew he loved her too much to do such a terrible thing without a good reason.”

“Without a good reason?” Wei Wuxian demanded. “That’s her son!”

“Don’t you know that they can always have others?” Nie Huaisang said with a sneer, clearly paraphrasing words he’d heard. “They’re young, in love – it’s all my fault that he stopped touching her, apparently. I took Lan Xichen away from him and he’s so upset about it that he can’t come to her bed, but once the world is rid of me, it’ll all go back to the way it should be…”

“I’ll give her that much: she really loves him,” Wei Wuxian said, shaking his head. The delusions of a person in love, he supposed. He hoped that he and Lan Wangji weren’t quite that bad. “She’ll be in for a disappointment. Given what I found out…he’ll never return to her bed or give her children, not in this lifetime.”

“No, he won’t.” Nie Huaisang reached for his fan. “Thank you for this. I’ll think about how to use it.”

“And?” Wei Wuxian prodded.

“And I’ll come back to the battlefield,” Nie Huaisang conceded, looking discontented, and Wei Wuxian smiled smugly. “You can supervise the Unclean Realm in my place.���

“What? No!” Wei Wuxian protested, his smile disappearing at once. “You have Xiao Xingchen –”

“He’s newly blinded, and out of all the cultivators we have available, you’re the most effective at fighting on a stand-alone basis. Think of it as having some time to bond with your mother’s shidi.”

Wei Wuxian didn’t want time to bond with his martial uncle – or, well, he did, he’d been dying for an opportunity to talk with Xiao Xingchen more or less since the man first made his name known in the cultivation world, but Nie Huaisang’s rules were such that no one outside the most trusted inner circles of the Nie sect was allowed in the familial quarters of the Unclean Realm, or even in the Unclean Realm at all. And that meant…

“But – Lan Wangji –”

“Will not die if he’s forced to be abstinent for a little while,” Nie Huaisang said, and oh, it was on.

“Did Qin Su specify the method by which you took Lan Xichen from her husband?” Wei Wuxian asked, crossing his arms. “I was under the impression that you still referred to him as Zewu-jun –”

Nie Huaisang glared.

Too bad – if the Pallbearer didn’t want to get mocked over his crush on the First Jade of Lan, he shouldn’t have let Wei Wuxian find out about the fact that the torch he held for him was still burning hot as ever.

“Perhaps my information is out of date. Tell me, little master, what means of seduction did you employ to convince Zewu-jun to betray his poor sad little A-Yao? Did you work your wicked wiles on him?”

“Wei Wuxian –”

“Did you play his xiao?”

Nie Huaisang let out an ungentlemanly snort and had to cover his face. “Oh no,” he said. “Oh no. Why did you have to give me that mental image? Fuck you, Wei Wuxian.”

“Yeah, well, fuck you too. Abstinent my ass.”

“I think you’ll find that the problem with abstinence is that it’s not your ass,” Nie Huaisang said, shoulders shaking. “That’s kind of the point. Now go tell everyone that I’ll be rejoining them tomorrow.”

“I will relish their groans of despair,” Wei Wuxian said, standing up. He was clearly going to have to take as much advantage that he could of the little time he had with Lan Wangji before being cruelly locked away. “Oh, is there any news on Song Lan?”

“None,” Nie Huaisang said. “He may as well have ascended into the heavens. Don’t tell Xiao Xingchen, he’ll only worry.”

“I won’t, I won’t. As for you – could you try to lighten up on Zewu-jun? Now that da-ge’s awake again?”

Nie Huaisang frowned.

“I’m not saying forgive him,” Wei Wuxian clarified. “Just – you know that da-ge wouldn’t want you to be so mad at him, especially since you still like him and all.”

“I’ll let da-ge decide that, I think,” Nie Huaisang said, and the humor had fled his face entirely. “It was his assassin that Zewu-jun decided to trust and protect, after all.”

Wei Wuxian nodded, accepting the verdict – he disagreed, but he understood – and turning to leave.

He paused at the door.

“Just so you know,” he said, not looking at Nie Huaisang. “Having trusted Meng Yao doesn’t mean you have to be so mad at yourself, either.”

He left before Nie Huaisnag could respond, but he heard something shatter in the room behind him.

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

idk how many people would even want to see this BUT i wanna yell about Leela and Brax so here's a list of all their scenes togethr/scenes pertainng to them that i can recall (pLEASE add on if i missed anything/ you have any additional thoughts!! i could talk about these two all day!)

right off the bat in Weapon of Choice when Leela is on the outskirts of the Citadel and Brax goes to bring her back (which is interesting in and of itself, bc usually i would imagine a chancellery guard would go do that so what made Brax decide to instead??), Leela kinda goes off at him bc she's hurting and instead of trying to actually explain what's going on Brax doesn't even try to argue he just says "we need you" which is great bc Leela has that instinctive desire to be needed and to help people and he's speaking right to that -- also as far as we know, this is Leela and Brax's first actual meeting in canon? it's implied that they know of each other, which makes sense, but it doesn't seem like they've ever directly interacted before: Brax seems almost slightly uncertain, and Leela is combative, but when he's gentle with her she's actually quite receptive

the literal next scene after that, where the OT4 is all in one room for the first time (they still kinda hate each other at this point but still !!!). Narvin explaining Gryben and being a real jerk about it and Leela (understandibly!) questions if Gryben is a prison world, and Brax (who to this point has been mostly quiet as Narvin and Romana brief Leela) jumps in to both clarify Narvin's previous xenophobic statements while also maintaining the inherent questionable/negative connotations

(btw it's actually pretty important to note that Romana self-edits herself a lot when talking to Leela, especially in the earlier seasons; you can actually hear her revising the things she says to put it in terms that she thinks Leela will better understand. and i mean she does it out of genuine consideration for her friend associate but it often comes across as varying levels of patronizing. Narvin also obviously "dumbs things down" when dealing with Leela early on, but like... Brax never does that on any level. the only difference i can tell in how he addresses Leela vs how he talks to anybody else is that he seems much more kind with her than almost anyone else???)

their conversation about the Matrix in The Inquiry: this is REALLY important (and if you've ever talked to me on ao3 i've probably gone off to you about it lol) because it's layered. they're talking about the Matrix but they're also not because in answering Leela's question Brax is making a very thinly veiled allegory (which he outright states a minute later) to Time Lord society/politicians/most importantly HIMSELF -- he's actually strangely open about his morals/beliefs in this scene and i'm living for it tbh -- and i find it very interesting that even though he does directly explain what he means ("how do you know all this?" / "because i am a politician.") he also leaves it for Leela to work out the implications. like it's a very nuanced conversation bc there's double meaning in it and most people on Gallifrey seem to think that Leela is tone-deaf and can't pick up on that stuff (even Romana sometimes oversimplifies things to her) but Brax totally just lets her take from it what she will bc he believes her intelligent enough to understand. he doesn't think her any lesser because she's human.

ALSO on a secondary note to the above: the fact that Leela has a question/needed clarification (sorry, haven't listened to this in a while i forget how it actually happened) and actively sought out Brax to talk to about it?? like she knows Romana better she could have gone to her but i feel like Leela kinda imprinted on Brax and someone she can go to for help if she needs it; maybe it's partly bc she knows he's under marginally less pressure than Romana is but also the truth of the matter is that Brax was the most genuinely helpful person to her in the previous stories and that probably means a lot to her (esp. bc he acts like the essence of everything she hates about Gallifrey but he doesn't treat her the way she would expect from that). btw this topic is gonna come up again in a hot minute

that part where Brax gives her that information that might help her re: the Andred thing, even though he really probably shouldn't have done that -- it kinda makes me think about what he must have been like with Theta tbh???

actually this is mostly my own conjecture but there's some neat stuff in Spirit bc during the *waves hand vaguely* bodyswap dream sequence thing, Romana is very "!!!! Brax can help us !!!" which is tecnically Leela brain talking, so like there's the implications of the stuff i've said above about Leela having this idea of Brax where she knows he's someone she can go to for help

can u tell i'm soft for them

Leela sounding really sad/distracted when she talks about how Brax isn't there YES i'm grasping at straws but a lot of this relationship really is conveyed through the voice acting bc of how little direct focus there is on the characters. there's actually several scenes in Mindbomb where she mentions him and she outright says that she misses him during her discussion with Matthias

that implied scene with them in Mindbomb!! i have a Lot of thoughts about that!!! it's all conjecture and fanfic fodder!!! but the reason i mention this is because it seems pretty meta that out of the whole Gally Gang, it's Leela who first sees Brax when he comes back to Gallifrey and in turn she's the first person (besides Matthias, i guess) that he sees upon his return?? idk i just feel like that's somehow a meaningful detail??? also her reaction of utter shock after spending the entire episode missing him and how worked up she is when she tries to tell Romana, like I desperately need to know what happened in this missing scene MR RICHARDS PLEASE TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED

Leela insisting on going with Brax when Pandora starts hurting him and their whole conversation there is just. so good. like they're both just so soft and then when Darkel comes in Leela instantly goes into protective mode. like they just have such an open relationship bc Brax doesn't even try to be all pretentious with her, like he doesn't even try to keep up any facades when he's with her he's just very genuine and it really says a lot about both of them -- Leela is so good at seeing people, like getting down to the core of who people are and what makes them them (which is why she's good for Romana, btw, bc Romana has a lot of identity issues) and Brax is so tangled up in who he presents himself as that he barely knows who he actually is anymore but Leela can see that and she makes it so he can truly be himself and he doesn't have to hide. also she's so gentle with him when they talk about Pandora, she's very caring and empathetic and wants to make sure he's okay and i am WEAK

it's been a hot while since i listened to Panacea but I think i remember Brax being really soft with Leela when he first brings the gang to the Axis, like just sounding really glad to see her

ok other than the fact that Brax is lowkey relatable in Reborn (daydreaming fanfic about yourself/people you know? simping for Mary Tamm Romana? yeah mood, my man) there's that scene where they're first appraoching the Citadel on the alt!Gallifrey and it seems like none of them, and Brax specifically, have seen it from the outside in a good long while bc he's very in awe and he tells Leela that he wishes she could see it and he sounds sO hEcKiNg sOFT oh my word-

and once again with Leela thinking of Brax as someone she trusts for help: in Dissassembled when everything is going to crap she straight-up says that she wants to go find Brax bc he'll know what to do/be able to help

at the beginning of Annihilation when Romana is depressed and questioning if Brax truly was her friend and Leela INSTANTLY, NO HESITATION assures her that he was; i lost where i had her exact lines written down but she actually kinda goes off to make sure Romana gets the point

literally forcing myself to talk about this bc it makes my brain stall out but like,,, the Brax Hound in Annihilation,,, Leela being like "goodbye, Braxiatel... again" she sounds so sad and like UGH i always kinda forget how sad it actually is for them to lose Brax in Dissassembled bc like, it was so sudden and they didn't get to say goodbye and Leela is always losing people and i have many many feels about this scene and how all that emotion is made very clear in how they each respond to the Hound (might make a separate post abt this later if anyone is interested ::eyes::)

Enemy Lines is utter bullcrap about these two and I will never stop being salty about how they not only sidelined the very good, very subtle friendship they had in s1-4, but they??? made Leela acutally not trust Brax??? when literally this entire time she's been the one person who probably genuinely trusts him the most?? what the heck, David

I haven't heard TW3 or 4 yet but i'm assuming there's nothing worthwhile in those with regards to this duo (correct me if i'm wrong tho lol, i would love to be mistaken in this assumption)

TL;DR Leela and Brax mututally imprinted on each other and have probably the most open and healthy relationship within the OT4 and it is an absolute CRIME that nobody besides Gary Russell and Justin Richards cared enough to actually build on it in canon