#Admittedly at least one of those times his memories got erased

[kara-zor-els]

In regards to SA against men not being taken seriously in comics, I'm thinking about how Clark has entered sexual relationships with women while brainwashed at least 3 times (2 in comics, both written by John Byrne btw, and 1 in STAS, but there might have been more) and no one ever brings that up.

[channieverse]

I genuinely feel so nervous and inadequate about reblogging this, because I know that no matter the amount of words I try to express my appreciation and love for this piece with, it will never be enough. It honestly feels like being able to read this, being allowed to have my mind and my heart changed by your words, is a sin so incredibly grave. Like, how dare I read this skillfully crafted piece and live on to say I experienced such beauty. How dare I?

When I was reading this, a profound sense of guilt settled in me, the kind of guilt when you cut into a cake that's so beautifully decorated and you just can't bare the thought of eating it, or when you light the wick of the prettiest candle you own, or when you open a new album and the pretty photocard gets marked up by your finger prints. It's a hard feeling to describe and those examples might be so subjective lol. But I felt genuinely inadequate(?) reading this... like, how dare this piece be tainted by my gaze... ahhh I think I'm waffling lol, I think the emotions of reading both parts of this ingeniously crafted fic are still too raw and visceral. (Raw and visceral in the most beautiful way that I genuinely didn't deserve to experience... ahh, yes, deserve is the right word. I don't deserve to indulge in your excellence, honestly).

Despite the praise in the amazing reblog I saw this fic already garnered, I will try to share my appreciation as best as I can since it's the very, very least I could do. (wah this is saur hard I'm so nervoussss)

I can confidently say that I've never read something that touched my soul the way this piece did. It felt like your words permeated my being and changed everything I ever knew about feeling and love and patience. I genuinely cannot fathom that I've read this, haha, it feels ethereal, really.

This rollercoaster of a fic kept me at the very edge until the absolute end, I was greedily inhaling every word... and it really felt like I was committing a crime by doing so 😭 istg my thumb hovered over my screen above the link to the second part, not because I didn't need to know what more you graciously had to share, but because I was questioning if I'm really allowed to read more. (lol I really don't know what I'm even saying anymore)

I was so immersed in the story and I cried so many times. You wrote both characters' thoughts and emotions so perfectly and so vividly. Admittedly, I guiltily indulged in the way both of their perspectives were so real and incredibly well-depicted. The reality of it all was like a punch to my chest. It genuinely feels like something one can only write after experiencing it. How do you do it, and so beautifully too?

I loved the element of muscle memory you'd added close to the end, I thought it was so smart and it never crossed my mind that even though conscious memories can be erased, you can still hold onto said muscle memories. And please don't get me started on the pudding part and the tracing of his scar and how you personified the house and its walls-- my heart can only handle so much.

I usually try to avoid angst at all costs lol 💀 because it will genuinely affect me for the next few days. But I just dove into this piece and it got to the part of Minho wanting to leave. And then I physically sucked in a breath and thought that the end would be tragic and sad and will leave the population heartbroken beyond repair and that I made a mistake by choosing to read this. But. BUT. The ending so expertly waltzed along and soothed my soul. Yes, I'll probably be thinking and dreaming about the emotions and images you placed into my brain for the next few months, if not forever, but the ending was so perfect. I genuinely cannot explain it in words and it's so frustrating. I adored the imagery of the stars.

I must say, I think my favorite line was "It is a rare fortune to be chosen by you not once, but twice..." If I had to explain why (lol wow I apologize in advance for more waffling)... it's like the fic up until that point was an open wound and this line came along, caressed the reader gently, applied a hello kitty plaster onto said wound, and kissed it better. It settled my aching heart so well and it felt like I could breathe again because no longer is Minho grieving the loss of someone who's still very much alive and breathing. Instead, it seems as if his perspective of this situation has changed and there's more beauty to this situation than pain because Minho experienced y/n falling in love with him twice. I don't know what love's like, but once sounds as lucky as finding your twin flame, so what must twice feel like?

and you write Minho and his kind and gentle yet teasing personality so incredibly well. When he said "that obnoxious orange," I stopped, gasped and went, "THAT IS SAUR MINHO STFU" But really, the image of him in my mind never faltered once as I read, I clearly pictured him in every scene with ease, purely because of how expertly you pieced him together. And it's all the little things that makes the difference, right-- his moles, his scar, his teasing nature, his sparkly eyes and his jet-black hair, his cats and his gentle yet stubborn stance. I feel like if I personally knew Minho, this is exactly who he'd be. ( wow honestly at this point, I don't even know who's my bias anymore??? what did you do sahar 😖)

Lastly, I want to say thank you, Sahar. Not only are you talented, but you are indeed beauty personified.

-

P.S. (thought I'd leave some songs...)

끝나지 않을 이야기 (Neverending Story), Stray Kids Zombie, DAY6 She's In The Rain, The Rose Renee's Song, Bazzi

I feel like the words in these songs are so... obvious... like you don't have to decipher their meanings to link it to your story, which seems kinda shallow(?) on my part 😭 but listening to these songs after reading your work just brought me this sense of solace...? idk it's hard, to comprehend and even more challenging to explain. But I'd thought to leave these songs here since your work resonates with these songs for me... and it's so crazy because these are some of my ALL TIME favorite songs (especially 끝나지 않을 이야기 😭 istg it's my favorite song and i'm going to have this song carved into my headstone and tattooed onto my skin). So, for me to experience the same feelings these songs provide by reading your piece... I was genuinely speechless.

I hope you are well, happy and healthy. 🩷 with love, channieverse

Echoes of love

"to love someone is firstly to confess; i am prepared to be devastated by you."

Chapter ii. to remember

genre : memory loss trope. angst. slow burn. unrequited love except you were in a loving relationship and everything changes overnight.

pairing : minho x reader. (3racha cameo)

summary : if given the choice would you love minho again? yes, you would've once said in a heartbeat. but now, you aren't sure of your response anymore.

cw : depiction of a nightmare and anxiety attack. allusion to mc having a bad family history with alcohol. suggestive in the end (allusion to sex but no smut). reader had she/her pronouns.

word count : 11k words.

song recs : the night we met/terrible love/black friday/cover me/already gone/enough.

chapter i. skz quotes series masterlist.

A.N: PT. 2 IS HERE!!!! i hope you'll enjoy this one, she's my baby and i put so much work and thought into her, so feedback is highly highly appreciated!!! thank you to my @forlix for being with me every step of this journey, i love u the most<33

Day 33. 

With a gentle, absentminded sweep, your fingers trace the delicate contours of your wrist, a faint dance with the pulse beneath your skin– the cocoon of the soul you’re gradually growing accustomed to. It is a trying task, you've found out, to no longer yearn to flee from your body, leaving the weight of your worries for your bones and flesh alone to bear. 

A subtle fragrance floats in the air surrounding you- the familiar gardenia and honey tones of your sweet perfume. It is a scent you reserve for special occasions, such as this one- your first date, in three months according to the world, in more than a year for your memory. 

You swiftly retrieve a mirror from your pouch, checking your appearance for the tenth time in mere minutes. Your nude lipstick is still, unsurprisingly, in place, and you smile reassuringly at your reflection. She smiles back, though sometimes you half-expect her not to. In defiance, perhaps, maybe even repulse. 

The melodious chime of the café's bell captures your attention, and the man you've been awaiting finally enters. He confidently strides in, clad in a blue polo and black slacks, an evident effort poured into his appearance. 

Standing before you, his warm, gleaming eyes meet yours, effortlessly melting your lingering worries. You smile at him, he beams at you. 

“Did I keep you waiting?” Changbin, your date, asks as he pulls the chair adjacent to you. 

“No, just in time.”

Two weeks ago. 

Day 17. 

“Use me. Use me to remember,” Minho whispers, the distance between your lips resembling the thin edge of a blade. 

You close your eyes, the world narrowing down to the sound of your heartbeat, a rhythmic drum drowning out any attempt at coherent thoughts. Kiss him, your heart chants, kiss him and all your memories will flood back. But what if they don't? What if the abyss persists before the brightest beam of light?

A tender kiss lands on your forehead, gently interrupting your tumultuous thoughts. Minho’s lips are as warm, as soft as you remember them. They're now imprinted into your skin, no longer a hazy memory beyond your reach.

His hands cradle your hair, smoothing it down, making the ringing in your ears soften. You surrender to his gentle embrace, to the soft tide of emotions rippling from him to you, pulling your wounded soul to safe shores. 

“You need to forgive yourself,” he whispers, his words echoing against your skin, lips still pressed to your forehead. A rush of warmth overwhelms you, all your senses coming to life, ringing the alarm- he sees you, he sees through you.

“None of this is your fault,” he assures, a sudden cooling balm against your scorching wounds. These are the words you've been aching to hear. You didn't know, but Minho did, reading between the lines of your quivering lips and your reluctance to look into his eyes. 

He knows you better than you know yourself. 

“Don’t blame yourself, please.”

“But all I do is hurt people,” you confess, tears streaming down your face like a relentless downpour, soaking Minho's hands. 

You expect punishment to strike you, bolting lighting aiming straight for your heart as you finally admit to your biggest sin- the shadow of sorrow that trails your every step. It is the way it has always been since you were a child. It is what you fled from. 

What you don't expect is for tenderness to cradle you instead— in Minho's warm hand as he gently guides you to his chest, your ear resting above his steady heartbeat. Its rhythmic cadence akin to a lullaby- you shouldn't apologize for existing, you hear it sing to you. 

“If you need forgiveness, I’ll give that to you. you’re forgiven, okay? I forgive you. Today and tomorrow. I'll forgive you until you'll forgive yourself.” 

“Okay,” you nod, muffled words against the fabric of his shirt.

“Now, will you please come back with me? The cats will miss you a lot if you don’t,” he suggests, pressing his cheek onto the crown of your head. 

“I don't want to leave them,” you reply in a small voice, dewdrops gathering in your eyes at the thought of running again. 

“You don’t have to. It’s your home too.”

“Okay,” you sigh in acceptance, relief, encircling his waist with your arms. He is all inviting, like an open book, and you're resting between his pages, scribbled with love confessions for you. 

The world stills, waves slowing their relentless crash against the shore, as you draw in a deep breath from the pits of your soul. You don't remember all you’ve once felt for Minho. But you know it must have been safe, like stumbling upon a haven and then learning it was specially carved for you. 

“I miss you, Minho.”

“I know, I miss you too.”

Day 19. 

“Minho, can you come to the kitchen please?” your voice reverberates through the house, weaving through the air and reaching the bedroom where Minho has been ensnared, his less-than-graceful complaints echoing loudly for the past hour. You had sealed him within without explanation, only making him promise not to leave the room until you told him to, much to his dismay, and deep down, amusement. 

He chuckles lowly to himself as he rises from the bed, before making his way to the kitchen. There, he finds you near the doorway, hands concealed behind your back, dusty flour adorning your cheek like an artist’s absentminded paint stroke.  

“So…,” you trail off and Minho smiles, crossing his arms before his chest.  

“So?”

“A situation may have happened.” 

“Which situation?” he inquires amusedly, attempting to peer past you into the kitchen. Your extended arms block his view.

“You know how I got a concussion from the car accident,” you ask. 

“I do.”

“I think it may have affected my cooking abilities.”

“But you didn't have any to begin with?” he muses, tilting his head to the side innocently. 

“Shut up,” you playfully admonish before clasping your hands in a silent plea. “Will you help me?” 

“Mm, what are you making?” he inquires, leaning against the doorway.

“Pudding.”

“Pudding?”

“For you.”

“Oh.” 

A blush creeps up Minho’s neck as he grapples to find a reply, his surprised gasp hanging into the air. You giggle faintly, entertained by his sudden speech impairment. 

In response, Minho takes a step forward, delicately brushing away the flour on your cheek, his thumb hovering near the corner of your mouth. “How did this get here?”

“Huh?” you sputter, pink splashing across your cheeks like spilled Rosé. 

Minho is testing your waters, dipping one toe in, hoping he’ll find your reassuring embrace lurking beneath the surface. Did you blush from the heat of the stove or his touch? Minho doesn’t know. Minho needs to find out. 

“And you also forgot this,” he lightly pouts, reaching over your head to the hanger behind you, caging you between his arms. 

He’s sacrificing his heart, placing it on the frontlines of hurt once again. Yet, when you look up at him, dewy eyes flickering to his lips, Minho feels a single match lighten up in his core, not enough to burn all his doubts. But enough to signal hope. 

Hope is a perilous possession, akin to cradling a fragile glass that threatens to shatter at the slightest tremor. Hope is the only thread Minho can now hang onto. 

“You forgot your apron,” he finally says, withdrawing two aprons from the hanger. He drapes one over your head before placing a hand on your shoulder, gently turning you around. He silently ties the strings into a ribbon, his fingers brushing against your spine. He can distinctly remember the feel of your bare skin beneath his fingertips, silky, smooth, intoxicating. 

“There, a pretty knot,” he whispers, not moving back an inch, waiting for you to swivel around. Yet, you remain silent, undoing your hair from its loose ponytail. Your hair cascades over your shoulders, resembling the unveiling of curtains, and Minho senses something unfurling in the depths of his stomach.

“Tie it for me?” you whisper, handing him the hair tie without looking back. Your fingertips brush against each other, and Minho inhales deeply.

“Sure,” he says, voice thick with emotion, he needs to drink water. He needs to drink you in. 

He gathers your hair strands in another low ponytail, trembling hands as they brush against the nape of your neck, akin to powerless leaves before the autumn breeze. He’s close, so close to you, so much his chest almost brushes against your back. 

As soon as he’s done, Minho swiftly steps back before doing something he’ll surely regret, like placing a tender kiss on your shoulder, or worse, confessing that he misses the simple act of brushing your hair at night. 

“So, pudding,” he clears his throat, rolling up the sleeves of his white hoodie. your eyes follow his movement, lingering on the veins protruding on his forearms. Minho feels a bit foolish for wanting to flex for you. 

“It’s really easy actually. bring me two eggs?” 

“Sure,” you grin, heading for the fridge as Minho retrieves sugar from the cupboard, throwing away the odd liquid mixture you managed to conjure. 

You stand beside Minho, eyebrows furrowed as he explains why the milk needs to be brought to a boil before adding the cornstarch, or how adding the vanilla at the very end will help preserve its flavor. You listen intently, nodding along, and the tension between you dispels, leaving place for something comforting, familiar– you’re erasing the remnants of his sobs, the sight of him crumbling over the green kitchen tiles. 

“Let's leave it to chill,” he finally says, closing the fridge’s door. 

“Okay,” you nod, packing away the butter. Minho leans against the countertop, an ember of curiosity ablaze at the tip of his tongue

“Why did you want to make pudding?” he asks and you freeze in place. 

“To see if I’m capable of not being a lost cause,” you respond playfully but the undertones of your voice indicate otherwise- laden, charged. One more match that you could light up? 

“Really?” he says softly, taking one step toward you. 

“No,” you giggle faintly and he nods, a gentle smile unfurling on his face, gradual as the eclipse of a moon.

“It was supposed to be your birthday gift. That's why I locked you in the room. I even bought little birthday hats for the cats, silly I know, and very late, but, turns out I’m a horrible-” 

“I wanna see the birthday hats,” he cuts you off.

“Really? They’re really ugly.” 

“It's my birthday gift, right?”

Five minutes later, you and Minho are seated on the floor, legs crisscrossed, three perplexed cats before you, and on their heads, obnoxiously neon green hats.

“They look so…” you tilt your head, assessing the view before you. 

“Stupid?” Minho suggests, eliciting a startled snort from you that swiftly transforms into an almost maniac cackle, which in turn, catches Minho off guard. He gazes at you bewilderedly before succumbing to a fit of giggles, which intensifies your laughter, as you punctuate his shoulder with light hits, tears streaming down your face in an attempt to regain composure.

One hundred matches light up in Minho’s heart at the sight, all at once.

“My God, they look so stupid, I’m so sorry,” you laugh harder, your body collapsing to the ground, hands tightly clutching your stomach. 

They can laugh again, the house sighs in relief, something other than sobs can still echo within my walls. 

Day 22. 

“I miss the sea,” you sigh softly, cradling a cup of chamomile tea between your hands. Minho, absorbed in his book, glances up to find a melancholic expression etched on your face—a poignant blend of sorrow and longing that he knows weighs heavy on your heart. 

“We saw it over at the bridge, no?” he ventures tentatively, setting the book aside on the living room table.

“Yes, but I miss the sand, and the waves lapping at my feet. I miss feeling the sea, not just seeing it.” 

“I’d take you, in a heartbeat,” he says assuredly, ready to bring you the moon if only you dare ask. “But it's far, and you can't get into a car.” 

“I can try.” 

“You can?” he questions, hope budding in his eyes.

“I mean- I want to, it's just… I don't know,” you retract, nails drumming anxiously against your cup, gaze lost into the amber liquid.  

“Talk to me, yeah?” he smiles softly, draping a reassuring hand on your arm. His thumb swipes across the slate of your shoulder, and an impossible knot in your throat untangles. 

“The accident took a lot from me. My health, my memories, a year of moving forward.” You quiet down, eyes meeting his in a barely veiled vulnerability. Silence speaks of your hardest loss— him. 

“Can you help me get the sea back?”

Minho’s radiant smile is louder than any spoken agreement.

…

Thread by thread, drop by drop, your fears unravel as Minho lowers all the car windows’ before gently guiding you into the car seat, dispelling any prospect of feeling confined within the vehicle. 

He remembers everything, even the panic that gripped your being when you went into his enclosed car, nearly a month ago. 

“Can I blindfold you? It might help, so you wouldn't see the car lights since it’s night,” he suggests.

“Yeah, that'd be nice,” you agree, your hand lightly gripping the car seat.

“Hey, hey,” he calls out gently, “I'm here, okay? The second you feel overwhelmed I'm stopping this car.”

“Will you drive safely?” 

“Of course. I promise you.” 

Your nod is met with the softening of Minho's eyes, as he delicately tucks a strand of your hair behind the curve of your ear. 

“I'm proud of you,” he whispers, tone laden with so much tenderness, love, that your throat becomes a garden, vocal cords bound not by thorns but the delicate blossoming of flowers. 

With a gentle touch, Minho wraps a tie around your eyes, cocooning you in a tranquil darkness. His hand seeks yours instinctively, fingers intertwining with yours akin to the wind weaving through the strands of your hair.

In this moment, every fracture within you is delicately filled by Minho.

He starts driving, a soothing piano instrumental playing out of the car’s speakers- his hand still in yours. “Breathe,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing a soothing path across your palm. 

“Follow my touch.” A gentle sweep to the right, an invitation to inhale slowly. “In,” his voice guides, and you draw in a deep breath.

Another caress to the left, a silent directive to release your confined breath. “Out,” he whispers, and you exhale, surrendering to the rhythm orchestrated by his thumb.

He raises the music’s volume, his touch becoming a maestro, speaking silently to you. You’re grateful for it, for the way in which he’s driving- avoiding curbs and speeding, safely, making the wheels float across the road. 

Your heart still constricts in your chest, anxiety squeezing your veins, bleeding them dry, but you focus on Minho’s thumb, you let it guide you, like a compass navigating the dark tunnels of your heart. 

“We're almost there,” he reassures as he stops by a red light. 

“I look silly, right?” you reply, giggling a bit. 

“What?” he asks, confused. 

“I can feel you looking,” you clarify. 

“How so?”

“My right cheek is tingling.” 

Minho snorts incredulously. “What does that even mean?”

“You have a piercing stare. You're like melting through my skin and vibrating my bones.”

“Idiot,” he chuckles. My my my idiot, Minho grieves to say once again. The human heart is peculiar, he learns day after day, mourning the loss of a myriad of minuscule things, even words. 

“And, you don't look silly,” he clears his throat minutes later, as he finally parks by the beach.  

“You look pretty,” he utters, unraveling your blindfold, and you blink, caught between the sudden light and the weight of his words. “You always do,” he concludes, a whispered confession that lingers like the afterglow of a sunset, painting your world in golden hues.

“Minho, I…” you trail off, eyes landing on the vast sea ahead, blending into the sky in an alluring shade of turquoise. “We're here!” you shout bewildered, a magnificent grin on your face. 

“We are,” Minho smiles, drinking in the delight in your expression. 

“Oh my god I missed the sea!” you giggle as you undo your seatbelt, quickly opening the car’s door and taking off running. 

Minho follows closely behind, captivated, as he watches you glide across the shore, the sand ricocheting off the soles of your shoes. You look like a fairy, bending the wind to your will, coaxing it into a choreography that mirrors the rhythm of your movements, your messy footprints marking your pathway to happiness once again. 

Upon the sand, you finally settle down, and Minho walks over, sitting beside you. Both of you quietly gaze ahead, entranced by the moon's silver glow caressing the water’s surface. Each shimmering wave resembles glistening diamonds, a celestial mirror reflecting the lights in the sky.

“Have I ever told you why I love the sea?” you speak after a while, tone softer, more content. 

“You did.” 

“Can I tell you again?” you say. Can I tell you what I still remember? He understands. 

“Of course.” 

"There was a beach near our home, back then," you reminisce, a nostalgic aura enveloping your words. “And whenever I felt lonely I used to go there and watch the waves, to calm me down. But, one time, I was really overwhelmed so I ended up crying. And then, coincidentally, it started raining too.” 

Your eyes widen slightly, a hint of amusement in your voice. “At that moment, I chuckled at the timing, how the sky was crying with me.”

“Ever since that day, I liked to believe that the sea is made up of the sky’s tears, the ones that fell in sync with those of humans, so it'd comfort us. And the tears grew from a pond to a river, to a vast ocean, as humans cried more and more. That's why sometimes the sea’s waters are gentle because those are tears of happiness falling somewhere. Sometimes they're stormy, since someone is crying out of anger. Sometimes they're melancholic, just relentlessly crashing against the shore, because someone is in pain. Like we are.”

A tranquil hush falls over the night as you quiet down, before turning around to meet Minho’s teary eyes, mirroring yours.

“And if the sea persists through tempests and tranquility, if it goes on despite the myriad of emotions it holds within, then so will we.”

Hope isn't fragile, as Minho once believed. Hope scrapes its bloody palms against the rough surface as it climbs defiantly to the pinnacle once again. Hope picks out rugged stones with weathered hands and builds a home out of them. Hope is strong, it clutches onto the thinnest threads so we’d endure and endure once more. As many times as we need to. 

“Well, the sky isn't crying right now,” Minho notes.

“I know,” you smile softly, “Because we're holding on to hope.” 

Day 26. 

Under the soft glow of the TV, Dori settles comfortably on your shoulders, nuzzling her tiny nose onto your face every now and then. Soonie and Doongie are a bit far away, playing with a piece of yarn, captivated by its vibrant red threads. 

It is an ordinary, comforting setting to watch a movie with Minho, on a Sunday night, a bowl of popcorn nestled on his lap while his cats lounge around. So familiar that the world around you blurs, like the vague brushes of an impressionist painting— a vivid déjà-vu sensation clinging to your body. You’ve lived this scene before. You want to live it again, now and in the future. More and more. 

However something is different— your skin tingles, a buzzing sensation that travels from thigh to knee to hand, as if your body knows that something’s amiss. Minho’s touch perhaps, his palm casually resting upon your skin. 

You don’t know where this urge is coming from— to lay your head on his shoulder, to have him run his fingers through your hair. Even more, to lose yourself in the nutmeg and peppermint notes of his cologne, to disintegrate your worries into his hold and rest. 

“Would you mind if some of my friends came over?” Minho speaks up suddenly, cutting off your trailing train of thought. 

“Hm?” you hum absentmindedly before clearing your throat. “I mean, no, I don't mind. Who are they?”

“Han and Chan. They’ve been asking about you for a while now.” 

“Sure, this is your home.”

“It is yours too,” he says, gaze locking onto yours. His eyes are like a dark tapestry woven with threads of stardust- you’d never tire of looking into them, into the universe they seem to cradle within. 

Do you know that there is a galaxy inside you? You almost slip out, words in an urgent race against your mind. You barely stop them at the tip of your tongue, before smiling and peeling your eyes away from his, painfully, like scratching a burn scab long before it heals. 

…

“They’re here,” Minho announces as someone knocks on the door. 

“Okay,” you smile, a tad nervous. You’re not even sure what for. 

“If they annoy you too much tell me, I’ll kick them out,” he reassures, raising his brows playfully at you. 

“That's mean,” you giggle, albeit soothed by his words.

“They already love you,” he grabs your wrist, his thumb gently swiping over your pulse. “No need to be worried.” 

He drops it, as though a countdown is ingrained into his brain— never to touch you for more than ten seconds. Wouldn't it be selfish, pathetic even, to ask him for more? 

As Minho heads to open the door, you linger in the living room, idly fidgeting with the hem of your sweatshirt. It is a weird circumstance to greet strangers who know you— you may have brushed against their shoulders in an alley and not known who they were. 

Your thoughts dissolve as two men saunter into the living room, stopping in their tracks once their eyes land on you. They’re both beautiful– that is the first thing you note, closely followed by how relieved they seem to see you. Simultaneous soft sighs escape them, gentle smiles blooming across their faces. Tentatively, you return the gesture.                          

Minho takes the initiative to introduce them. “Yn. This is Chan,” he points to the man on the right, clad in black from head to toe, his smile grows wider, his eyes disappearing into moon crescents, two dimples peeking gleefully on his cheeks. 

“And Han,” the younger man, sporting a Supreme t-shirt despite the cold, beams at you, highlighting his round cheeks, and an adam-apple that weirdly resembles a heart. 

“I want to hug you but Minho put us on a strict no-touch notice because of your ribs,” Han speaks first, a small pout tugging at his lips as he glances at Minho, who simply rolls his eyes at his words. 

“You can never keep something for yourself,” Minho sighs, rubbing the space between his eyebrows. You stifle an amused giggle. 

“And she technically doesn’t remember us so it’d be weird for her to hug a stranger,” Chan notes, offering you an understanding smile. 

“Hey, I didn’t mean it in a creepy way! more of ‘Oh my god I’m so happy you’re alive, thank you for still being here, I was so worried about you’.”

“But were you worried?” you ask, tilting your head to the side.

“Of course, I-”

“Then why weren’t you at my bedside?” you question, an eyebrow raised, and Minho chuckles at your words. 

“W-what?” Han asks, glancing worriedly at the two men by his side. 

“Why weren’t you there sobbing when I woke up? It doesn’t look like you were worried,” you muse, throwing a wink to Minho who walks over to you.

“Right, you should’ve sent her a pic of you crying,” Minho adds, as you drape a hand on his shoulder. 

“A picture for every day you didn’t come see me,” you say solemnly as Han’s face grows paler by the second. 

“I-I didn’t, I really was worried, I swear, I kept asking Minho every day about you and…” he trails off as giddy smiles break out on your face and Minho’s before you both burst out laughing. 

“You guys are evil,” Han laments, as Chan pats his back in faux sympathy, a string of giggles falling from his full lips. 

“I’m sorry. we made you dinner to make up for it,” you grin and Minho looks at you pointedly. 

“He made you dinner,” you correct with a huff, and Minho smiles, satisfied, raising his brows smugly at his two friends. 

“Let’s choose a movie then!” Han claps, turning to the TV as Minho sidles by his side.

“I’ll set up the table,” Chan announces.

“I’ll help you,” you offer, and he nods, clearly grateful for your assistance.

You’re taking out four plates from the cupboard, Chan effortlessly bringing out the glasses, clearly familiar with the nooks and crannies of your home, when he suddenly speaks.

“How are you, Yn?” 

“Do you want the truth?” you ask back, and he grins. “Always.”

“I’m okay. Right now. I don’t know if I’ll still be tomorrow, you know? It all fluctuates so much.” 

“Mm, I understand,” he says, and something about his tone indicates that he isn’t saying this just to comfort you. “And that’s okay too. What you went through wasn’t easy, but good times will come again. They always do, you know, just like the sun always comes back after the rain.”

“The sun,” you repeat, as you glance out at the living room, where Minho is laughing at something Han just said, his head tipped back, bunny teeth peeking out. 

Perhaps the sun rays were by your side all along. 

“Thank you, Chan,” you beam at him. “Truly, for being worried about me too.”

“It's nothing to thank us for. We care about you, even though you don’t remember us,” he pouts, a hand on his heart in mock offense. 

“Hey, it’s not my fault I got amnesia!” you chuckle. 

"Excuses!" he drawls with a playful tone as he exits the kitchen, and you can't help but laugh quietly to yourself. You recognize what he's doing—making light of your accident to alleviate the weight on your heart.

The night blurs in your memory, but this time it is tinged with happiness and laughter. The three men recall fun stories of their time together, a seven-year bond rooted in love and care, albeit silently. You witnessed it in the details—Chan ensuring the food was on their plates first, Minho peeling shrimp for Han, the latter rubbing Chan’s arms when he complained of being cold.

Then you saw it directed towards you– how they put on the movie you wanted and watched in anticipation as you took the first bite of food, draped the fuzziest blanket around you, and rushed to your side simultaneously when you stumbled on your feet.

You were loved, although you didn’t know of it. The accident took away your memories but it didn’t plague theirs. 

“Thank you,” you beam at the two men as you walk them to the door. Opening your arms wide, you invite them in for a hug. Han embraces you first, a large smile on his face, and you gently beckon Chan in too. “Easy,” he whispers in Han's ears, careful not to put any pressure on your ribs. They both pat your back as you wrap an arm around their respective shoulders before leaning away.

“I’ll call you,” Minho bids them farewell, tipping his chin forward. They wave to him before finally leaving

You close the door, leaning against the auburn wood. Minho watches you, a soft smile playing on his face.

“Good?” he inquires, closing the distance between you.

“Mm, good,” you reply with a smile as he halts just an inch away. His intoxicating scent envelops you, permeating your bones and flowing through your veins like liquid warmth.

A torrent of memories floods your mind—images of you pressed against this same door. It is dark, a stark contrast from your first memory, a lone lunar beam of light slashing through the night. Minho’s hands grip your waist with a fevered urgency, while yours entwines around the nape of his neck, in passion, in hunger, almost as if you were deprived of him for so long.

You angle his mouth closer to yours, his lips pressing against your own repeatedly, a desperate attempt to brand the contours of his mouth into your soul. His hair, a cascade of midnight silk, tickles your fingers with an electric charge, like the crackling of the air before a storm. His tongue sweeps across your lower lip, seeking entrance, one you willingly surrender, white flag easily thrown to the ground. With every kiss, your bodies meld together, so much so that you could merge into the door, disappearing into the shadows as one.

“What's wrong?” Minho breaks your trance and you snap out of your reverie, a bright flush adorning your cheeks. 

“N-nothing,” you stammer. 

“You’re all red, do you have a fever?” he asks, coming closer, his hand pressed to your forehead. His woody scent envelops you once again– everything about him is enticing— his cologne, his lips on you, his fingertips dragging underneath your shirt, his eyes piercing yours, undressing you before his hands ever could.

“Yn?” he questions and you grab his jaw, angling his face away from you. 

“Stay like this, don’t look at me for a moment.”

“What?”

“Just… please,” you say and he chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief, and yet he complies, his side profile now facing you.

How does he live with these memories each time he looks at you? 

You take in a deep breath, focusing on his silhouette. It might seem counterproductive to fixate on the same man consuming your thoughts, but how could you not when he was mere centimeters away, his eyes averted from yours?

You exhale softly as your gaze glides along the graceful curve of his neck, a solitary mole resting just beneath his sculpted jawline, leading the way to his plump lips, a cupid's bow delicately carved by the hands of the divine archer himself — crafted to be kissed, to be adored.

Your eyes trail up, tracing the high bridge of his nose, another mole perched at its pinnacle, sharp and smooth as if chiseled by a master sculptor, one who dedicated months to perfecting his artistry. His eyes are a mesmerizing brown, punctuated with long lashes that flutter like the delicate wings of an angel with each slow blink.

Minho sweeps aside strands of his hair, his fingertip delicately fluffing them upwards. It dawns on you, a sudden revelation of the necessity of art — to immortalize such beauty for generations to come.

You imagine admirers gazing upon Minho, sighing in sheer amazement, their hearts tightening with emotions that words struggle to encapsulate in the face of this epitome of beauty. Inside and out, you reflect, inside and out. 

“You told them not to drink around me, right?” you ask softly.

A blush grows from the base of Minho's neck to the tip of his ears, like roots expanding into the soil. He sighs before finally looking at you.

“I did. How’d you figure it out?” he wonders.

“I asked Han if he wanted a drink, but he refused so categorically that I assumed he didn't like alcohol. But most of his stories were of him drunk,” you chuckle quietly, and Minho shrugs sheepishly.

“We get loud when we drink. You don’t like that,” he says simply as if it’s a given, an absolute certainty that he’d do anything but make you uncomfortable.

He's beautiful, the light of his heart basking his face in a glow that even Michaelangelo's skillful hands wouldn’t be able to replicate.  

And he loves you. 

Till when? Your heart sounds out in alarm. Till when will he love you? What if the grains of sand slip away from the hourglass before you can reciprocate his love? Two stars colliding at disparate speeds, never converging into a singular entity, destined to erupt and scatter into cosmic dust.

How long do you have left? How many more days will he love you for? 

How many more days do you have to love him back? 

Day 30. 

Minho is sick. 

He tried his best to conceal it from you, as he came back from his dance studio, strands of his hair clinging to his forehead, a thin sheen of perspiration above his right eyebrow. Yet, his uncharacteristic silence betrayed him, as he quietly retreated into the shower, emerging with a solemn expression on his face. 

Seated on the bed, book long forgotten by your side, you bit your lip tentatively. “You're okay?” you inquired, perched on the edge, concern etched in your gaze.

“Mm, just tired,” Minho responded, his attempt at reassurance falling short as he laid down on the floor mattress. “Can you turn off the lights?” he softly requested. “Hurts my eyes.”

“Yeah, of course. Will you sleep now?”

“I think so.”

“Okay then. Good night, Minho,” you uttered gently, the veins in your heart tangled with worry. “Good night,” he whispered in return.

In the stillness of the night, you were roused by soft whimpers escaping Minho's lips. He writhed in apparent discomfort, his features contorted with an unseen anguish. His pupils moved furiously underneath the thin layer of his eyelids, betraying the tumultuous thoughts raging in his mind. 

You've never seen Minho so disrupted in his sleep, mouth slightly hung agape as if he struggled to breathe in the depths of his dreams. Your worry for him came back to haunt you ten times fold.

You lean over the bed, gently shaking his shoulders. “Minho, wake up.”

“No... no-no, don't-don't go,” he whispers, caught in the vines of a restless dream, seemingly wrapping around his mind, trapping him in. “Minho, come on wake up,” your pleas grow more insistent, but so do his. “Don't go, s-stay,” he implores, voice broken, prompting you to abandon your bed and join him on his mattress.

“Minho!” you call out, shaking him until his eyes finally flutter open. He gasps for air— as if inhaling his first breath on this earth, shooting upright, wide-eyed and disoriented. 

His gaze locks on yours and he instantly cradles your face in his sweaty hands, bringing you closer to him until your noses bump into one another. “You didn't go,” he whispers, and you shake your head. “I'm here.”

“Fuck,” he swears, releasing his hold on you and sinking back into the pillow. 

“Minho, what's wrong?” you ask softly, afraid you're treading on stormy waters.

“I… I don't know. I don't feel good,” He admits, fingers tugging at the collar of his shirt, as if the fabric morphed into a vise around his throat. A flush creeps up his neck, red dots splashing across his ivory skin. A droplet of sweat traces a slow path down his temple, as the white fabric clings uncomfortably to his warm skin.

“Do you have a fever?”you ask, placing your hand on his forehead, sensing an unusual heat radiating beneath your touch. “Minho, where is your thermometer?”

“Bedside drawer,” he breathes out.

Fetching the thermometer, you gently tug at his chin, opening his mouth to check his temperature. “Stay still”" you instruct, watching anxiously as the numbers climb steadily.

“40°C, fuck Minho, you have a really high fever,” you exclaim as he shuts his eyes, an unmistakable weariness claiming him, rendering him malleable, akin to the silk pillow he's resting on. 

“I feel dizzy,” he admits, burying his face into the covers. 

“You need to take a cold shower now,” you urge a sudden lump materializes in your throat at the sight of his suffering. 

“It's okay, I'll just sleep.”

“No, no, it's far from okay!” you almost exclaim, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes as if you were peeling an onion—your own emotional layers unraveling, exposing the depth of your concern for Minho.

“Minho, please, you have a really high fever,” you plead, feeling an unexpected surge of panic at his unwillingness to cooperate.

“Yn… are you worried about me?”

“I am.”

“It feels nice. Please be worried about me more,” he mumbles, eyes still closed, eliciting an incredulous laugh from you. 

“You are so unbelievable, my god,” you pull him up and he doesn't resist, nearly stumbling on his feet.

“Okay?” you ask, running your hand through the nape of his neck.

“Mm,” he hums, burying his head in your shoulder. “Sleepy.”

“I know, you'll sleep after the shower,” you reassure softly, guiding him to the bathroom, his entire body weight leaning onto yours. There, you turn on the light, your right hand holding Minho's waist tightly as you lead him to settle atop the toilet.

“Can I take off your shirt?”

“Are you planning to undress me?” he smiles lazily, hooded eyes locked onto yours.

“No, I just-” you stammer, but he’s quick to cut you off.

“Because I don't mind.”

“I can't believe you're flirting with me while you're sick.”

“I always am, I can't help it,” he says, raising his hands as a silent signal for you to remove his shirt.

“You're awfully candid tonight,” you observe, seizing the edges of his shirt and drawing it over his head. His tongue glides across his lips, his gaze drawing tantalizingly slow over your form, and you clench his shirt tighter in your hands. He's the one with the fever, yet it's you who feels ablaze, flames of longing licking at your every sense.

“Come here,” you beckon, the icy water now flowing as you turn the knob. He reaches his hand out to you, and you grasp it, guiding him under the frigid cascade, soaking you both.

“C-cold,” he stutters, and you nod, your breath escaping in short, visible puffs.

“I-I know, just a little longer,” you reassure.

2 a.m. is a peculiar time to shower, the water droplets echoing against the tiled floor is the only sound that can be heard. That, and your labored breaths in tandem with the chilly embrace of the water filling your bones. The quiet makes way for other unspoken sentiments to surge forth, electric and palpable, heightened by the way Minho gazes at you through the liquid curtain, his hands clinging tightly to your arms for stability.

Droplets of water weave seamlessly through his hair, and an unexpected pang of jealousy grips you— you envy the liberty of those water beads as they thread through his locks, tracing the contours of his broad shoulders, nestling in the enticing recesses of his collarbones, without fearing the consequences of such acts. You don't dare look further down, wary that the rivulets on his skin may lead to your own undoing. Instead, you close your eyes thanking the stars that you weren’t wearing a white shirt, which would have turned translucent by now. You don’t even want to contemplate the consequences of such a premise.

After a few minutes, you turn off the water, stepping out of the shower and swiftly enveloping Minho in a towel.

“Go change, I have some spare clothes in here. Oh, and don't wear a top,” you instruct.

Minho chuckles quietly and you roll your eyes. “Shh. Make sure to dry your hair too.”

Taking your time in getting dressed, you peel off each wet layer, depositing them into the washing machine, before donning a spare pajama from a cabinet. You stroll to the kitchen to pour Minho a glass of water and retrieve medicine from the drawer, lingering at the counter long enough to ensure he'd be dressed by the time you return to the room.

You knock softly before opening the door, and the sight of Minho freezes you in your tracks. The room basks in warm, orange hues from the lamp's glow, playing upon Minho's skin and casting enticing shadows on the contours of his muscles—a masterpiece created by the skilled hands of light. His toned arms rest between his legs, back against the headboard, and an inexplicable urge to flee washes over you, your heart sinking to your knees in the face of his long-avoided vision of beauty.

You swallow the tumultuous thoughts raging within you before handing him his medicine, which he drinks diligently. Pressing your palm to his forehead, you're relieved to find a slight reduction in his temperature. “It will go down more once the medicine takes effect,” you assure.

“One of my students had a nasty cold. I think I got it from him,” he explains, and you nod, your hand lingering near his. Your fingers twitch as his pinky brushes against yours—akin to birds fluttering their wings in anticipation, awaiting, aching for a release from their cage, at last.

“I'm tired,” Minho sighs, closing his eyes. “Lay down,” you gently instruct, and he complies, resting his head on the pillow.

“It's cold,” he whines, swaying like a child throwing a bedtime tantrum. He's endearing, melting the frost that had gathered in your heart.

“You have a fever, silly,” you chuckle, pushing strands of his hair from his forehead, twirling them around. “Your hair's gotten longer,” you muse as you braid a tiny section of his bangs, only to undo it again.

“Can you play with my hair some more?” he requests softly.

“Of course,” you reply, threading your fingers through his locks, jet black as if all the stars in the sky collided, leaving behind nothing but a dark abyss.

“Please stay healthy, Min. Take care of yourself too.”

“But I like it more when you take care of me,” he pouts, before sighing shortly after. “I'll probably regret a lot of my words tomorrow, right?”

“Why is that?” 

“Because you don’t feel the same for me,” he confesses, leaving you silent, grappling with the echoes of his words. What do you feel for Minho?

The question jolts the breath from your windpipe violently, an unyielding force crashing against your lungs till the answer finds its footing on your tongue.

“Can I ask you something?” you finally speak, cringing at the sound of your voice disrupting the fragile quiet. 

“Anything.” 

“Where did your scar come from?” you inquire, gesturing towards the mark just below his belly button.

“I got surgery a long time ago. I’m kind of self-conscious about it,” he confesses, a bit shyly. 

“Really? But it’s beautiful, it looks like a strike of lightning,” you sincerely remark, coaxing a tender smile from Minho, unfolding like the gradual sunrises of autumn.

“This is exactly what you told me months ago.”

“Did I?”

“Mm, and then you traced it with your fingertips,” he grabs your hand, hovering it over his stomach. You can easily slip out of his grasp; you choose not to. 

“Like this?” you murmur, tracing his scar gently, fingertips grazing his skin like a lit fire, subtly enough not to scorch. His flesh tenses beneath your caress, muscles constricting as you navigate from right to left—a trajectory of dusty stars akin to the Milky Way, his skin soft to the touch, rippling beneath you with thinly veiled goosebumps.

“Yes,” he breathes out, his gaze wide, running furiously over your face. Yet, your attention lingers on his skin, shadows dancing across its surface, its honeyed hue a shade you wish to sear behind your eyelids. Your hands ascend and descend, mapping his body which blushes in response, as if his very being memorized your touch, imprinting your fingerprints onto its memory. You slide down his forearms, pausing over his fragile veins, seemingly offering you his life.

Silence envelops you, punctuated only by the weighty exhales escaping you both, for there are feelings that words cannot encapsulate, no matter how much human languages strive to, ultimately succumbing to the profundity of silence— the one language only souls comprehend.

Your hands ascend to his neck, thumb grazing the tender skin cradling his pulse. It resonates throughout your bones, echoing from his being to yours as if you’re harboring two lives within you.

“You… you could've kissed me over at the bridge,” you whisper, bringing to light the question that’s been lingering at the back of your mind. “Why didn't you?”

“I wanted you to kiss me because you wanted to. Not because you longed for our past or our future. I wanted you to want me in the present,” Minho explains, vulnerability seeping into his words, like honey melting into a warm cup of tea. 

“I’m scared,” you admit, your voice a fragile murmur, even as your head leans forward, hair cascading around Minho’s face, enclosing him in an intimate curtain. Minho gently grabs your hand and cradles it against his cheek, pressing a tender kiss to the center of your palm. 

“Right now. Do you want me?” he asks simply, offering himself openly to you. 

Do you want him?

After a momentary pause, you tentatively lean in, planting a gentle kiss upon his forehead. A resonant exhale escapes him, as your lips trace a path along his cheeks, leaving behind a trail of tiny kisses. Moving to the tender skin beneath his eyes— as easily bruised as your emotions—you bestow soft pecks to it as if seeking forgiveness for every tear he shed in your name.

His eyes remained closed, his trust evident in the surrender of his being to you. The answer to your internal query is written all over his features— the hushed exhale escaping his body, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the tranquility nestled between his eyebrows. 

Yes. Yes, you do.

Your lips finally meet Minho’s in a delicate union, unmoving like rose petals folding onto one another. A surge of warmth emanates from the depths of your heart, coursing through your entire being like sunrays, submerging your soul in a tranquil white glow.

Leaning away ever so slightly, you press a tender kiss on his lower lip, enclosing it between your own. Your hand cradles his jaw, running gently through his damp strands. Your lips move against his slowly in a saccharine kiss, parting, only to meet again, in the same tenderness, perhaps a growing one as you become accustomed to the contours of his lips, to the languid moves of his mouth, following your rhythm. You were leading the dance, his lips mere puppets to your heart’s wishes. He didn't rush you, only allowed you to kiss him, whichever way you wanted. 

A pause, a moment suspended in time, your hands trembling as they rest upon his cheeks, his palm hovering above your own, offering a comforting press. The gesture reassures you in your curiosity that won’t be satiated, urging you to seal your lips on his with a tentative fervor. The world outside dissolves into a distant murmur, the seconds blending into a timeless run, you slamming the door before your worries protesting at the entrance of your mind. Tomorrow, you’ll find the answers. Tonight, you are kissing Minho.

As you press a final, lingering kiss to his velvety mouth, visions of you at peace flood your being. You see yourself sinking into the warm pool of your aunt’s country club, you see yourself walking on the beach with sand molding to the contours of your feet, you see yourself laying on the grass while observing sunrays weaving through the trees. And then, amidst your most serene memories, the act of pressing your lips to Minho stands out, the warmth of his mouth against yours eclipsing all other sensations.

Leaning away, you rest your forehead on his shoulder, and Minho's hands cradle your hair.

"Which lip balm do you use,” you giggle against his bare skin, relishing in the sweet taste of his lips.

“Yours.”

Day 31.

Minho’s nose is buried in the crook of your neck, his arm draped across the expanse of your stomach. He sinks further into you, binding himself to your body, anchoring his hold on your being. You are warm, your skin is soft to the touch and Minho doesn’t want to wake up from this tender dream, akin to plummeting into a sea of silky pillows, falling into a blanket of clouds. 

Except, he's awake, Minho realizes with a jolt. He blinks repeatedly, allowing the sunrays to stream to his eyes, his pupils dilating once they settle on you— so much their obsidian depths swallows the brown of his irises whole. You stir beneath his touch, making your cheek press upon the crown of his head. He's fully awake now, snatched from the velvet threads of his dreams made up of you, thrown into your arms once again after thirty-three days. 

A soft gasp escapes Minho’s lips, the air stolen from his lungs as if it was yours to claim. Echoes of the night replay in his mind— a fever, you tending him to me, a cold cascade of water, you tracing his scar, and then, the kiss.

You kissed him. A long shiver runs down his spine at the memory, a subtle twitch that stirs you from slumber once again. 

What does one kiss mean? The question dances wildly in Minho’s mind. More importantly, what do you want it to mean? 

Minho whines softly, closing his eyes for a few seconds, relishing in the fragrance of your hair, in the serenity that floods his being each time he’s around you. This was his most restful slumber in weeks, because you were near, his mind recognizing you, relaxing underneath your touch, drifting to a mindless sleep. 

Reluctantly, he untangles himself from you, a bittersweet departure from your arms. Work was calling his name. 

He prayed you’d call his too soon. 

….

You wake up to an empty bed, the only lingering trace of the night you spent being the tingling of your lips, as if aching to be kissed once again. You sigh, running a hand through your face. It was much easier to succumb to your heart’s wishes when it was late at night, when minho laid bare beneath your touch, so enticing in the gentlest of ways. When you were cradled by the moon’s soft glow, blanketed by the night’s cloak of darkness.

But it was light now, the sun was glaring as it streamed through the windows, exposing all the flawed ways of your mind.

What does one kiss mean? 

Nothing, if it wasn’t minho who you had kissed. If it wasn’t as tender as the meeting of your lips. 

The tomorrow you believed far quickly came, and you still beheld no answers. A few hours drifted by and you still knew nothing. What does this kiss mean? It's late afternoon and you’re strolling through the park nearby and you can't find an answer. The question rings in your mind as you sit by a bench, and you still don’t know.

“You seem preoccupied,” a voice quips up nearby and you startle. You hadn’t even noticed the man sitting by your side. His arms crossed before his chest, making impressive muscles constrict beneath the snug fabric of his black shirt, a cascade of fluffy black curls sat at the top of his head, a slight smirk etched on his lips.

“Pardon?”

“I said you seem preoccupied.”

“No i heard that,” you roll your eyes subtly, “do i know you?”

“No. You just look worried, that's all.”

“You really don’t know me?” you ask, a tad apprehensive, unsure if this was someone else your memory faulted you of. 

“No? Are you a celebrity of some sorts?” he inquires, tone much more cheerful, angling his body towards you.

“No, i’m not,” you giggle, before quieting down, an exhausted sigh escaping your body. “Is it that obvious then?”

“Yeah. I’m afraid so,” he pouts sympathetically, tone almost desolate and you huff, burying your face in your hands.

“Do you need help with something?” he offers after a while, his concern evident in the frown of his brows. You are comforted by the anonymity of talking to a stranger, you were but a blank canvas to him. You wouldn't see him again, anyways. 

“I feel lost. I can't seem to find the answers I'm looking for.”

“Maybe you’re just not asking the right questions.”

Oh. 

The guy claps his hands suddenly, long before you could dwell on his words and their implications

“I actually have a question for you!” 

“Ask away.”

“Do you want to go on a date with me?”

“No?” you chuckle, amusement dripping from your voice. “I don't know you?” 

“That's the point of a date.”

“Are you this bored?” you smile, arching an eyebrow at him. 

“I'm not bored. I just need to take my mind off things,” he shrugs, a slight smirk on his face. but you somehow see beyond it, right into the dull twinkle of his eyes. Maybe he also couldn’t find the answers he was looking for.

“So you're using me?” you fake outrage and he giggles, a high pitched sound that reverberates through the playground, making some kids nearby stare at you. You stifle a surprised laugh. 

“I'm not using you if I tell you upfront why I asked you out.”

“You are right, but i decline your kind offer,” you say solemnly and he nods, shaking his head in defeat.  

“Here is my card, in case you change your mind. Or need a little escape, call me,” he smiles, handing you a sleek black card before getting up and dusting his pants. “See you,” he says, as if he was sure you'd call him back. you stare in disbelief at his retreating figure, before glancing down at the card. 

Mr. Seo Changbin, you read, CEO of Gold’s Gym— the largest gym branch in the country.

Oh wow.

The amused smile lingers on your lips as you gaze ahead, lost in thought, contemplating the words spoken by Changbin. Maybe he was right; perhaps you are afraid of asking the right questions. Sucking in a deep breath, you decide to take the longer route home, eventually finding yourself outside your favorite bakery; the one you discovered on one of your many walks with Minho.

You go to open its door when an unexpected tingling at the back of your neck freezes you in your tracks. Your heart tightens in your chest as you turn around slowly, greeted by the sharp eyes of two familiar faces—Lia and Mari, your coworkers from before your accident. A tentative smile graces your lips, but the alarms of warning in your mind intensify. 

“Hey, yn!” 

“Hey, guys,” you greet back, taking a step backwards from them. 

“How have you been since… You know, your accident,” Lia pouts, but the question lacks sincerity, as if they were wearing masks before you, concealing their true intentions. You wonder which one they'll put on next.  

“Good, i’ve been good,” you force a smile, as their eyes move up and down your body, judgment dripping from their gaze.

“We wanted to come see you but we didn’t know if you were still at your listed address. Since your boyfriend lives there.”

“Oh, um, yeah, I still live there.”

“But didn’t you forget about him?” Lia feigns ignorance and you feel anxiety picking at your skin like relentless protruding needles. You want to run. 

“Lia that’s rude. I think he's her ex-boyfriend now," Mari chuckles, mockery palpable in her tone.

“Poor Minho, he must suffer a lot. Say hey to him from me,"Lia smiles, a chilling feline grin, her eyes narrowing down like a hawk peering at his prey. 

“I will.”

“We’ll see you at work. If you’re still able to keep up with the tasks,” they leave, ugly laughs echoing after them, and an urge to throw up overtakes you, the scent of pastries furthering your nausea. You hasten your steps toward your building.

You’re almost safe, almost, keys trembling in your hand as you struggle to enter your apartment, when the door adjacent to you opens. Your neighbors smile at you, although it is a gesture tinged with pity. You painfully smile back before slamming the door.

Yeart hammering in your chest, you press your back against the door, hand clawing at your throat. 

“Did you know she got into a car accident, and apparently she forgot her boyfriend?”

“Really? They were so cute though.”

“Yeah, it’s a shame.”

Their words suffocate you, stepping atop your lungs, syllables choking you from within. Is this what everything thought of you? Did they all pity you for the accident? For forgetting your lover? Did they see you as a burden, a parasite plaguing his life? Is this what Han and Chan saw when their eyes lingered on you? Is this what the librarian and florist whispered to each other each time you passed by? 

You didn’t know these people and yet they had their minds set on you, fixated storylines you couldn’t change, no matter how much you tried to rewrite them.

Your thoughts spiral like the unloosened screws of a ticking clock. Minho, the unanswered questions, the expectations of others—everything converges in the base of your mind, making your ears ring cacophonically within your skull.

You slide down the door, fingers trembling as you take out your phone then Changbin’s card from your pocket. You dial his number with haste. You needed a breather, to talk to someone who knew nothing of you, of who you were, of who you could be. 

“Hello?” his voice booms clearly through the phone.

“Changbin,” you breathe out. “Let's go on a date tomorrow.”

You were asleep when minho came back from work, your back turned towards him, soft exhales escaping your body. He didn't want to disturb you, so, he made sure to come earlier the next day, a strawberry and cream pastry in his hand that he knew you loved. Perhaps, you’d both talk about your kiss today, what it meant for you both. 

But, he doesn’t find you home. The only indication that you had just left was the lingering scent of your perfume, tickling his nose as if to mock him. Poor minho— the gardenia and honey tones spelled out in the air; the one fragrance you strictly reserve for dates. The one you used to put for him.

It looked like you found your answer after all. 

Day 33. 

“Did I keep you waiting?” 

“No, just in time,” you smile as Changbin pulls the chair in front of you, settling down with ease, a pang of confidence coloring his movements.

“How are you, today?” 

“Better, i think,” you falter under his scrutinizing gaze, your facade cracking. “I don't know, it’s all complicated,” you sigh and he nods, signaling for the waiter to take your drinks order. Chai latte for you, hot chocolate for him. 

“Spill, what’s preoccupying you?” he leans forward, arms crossed on the table. 

“You don’t even know my name,” you giggle, looking around at the warm interior. Cozy, faint music playing in the background, taupe chairs and amber tables, the smell of cinnamon rolls wafting through the air. Minho would like it here. 

“What's your name?”

“Yn.”

“Okay, Yn,” he emphasizes, a slight smirk on his face. “Spill.”

You shake your head as the waiter places down your drinks, wrapping your fingers around the heated cup, hoping the warmth would seep into your being through your palm lines. 

“Did you want to become a therapist by any chance?” you muse, arching an eyebrow at him.

“No, it’s just fixing others' problems helps me forget my own,” he winks and you snort at his honesty. it was admirable, how frank he was to a complete stranger. 

“Fine, it’s a long story, but basically…” you lick your lips, wondering what’s the best way to go on about this. “I got into a car accident and I lost my memory of the past year and so.”

Changbin winces at your words and you sigh. “Yeah. Except I was in a relationship before…”

“And you totally forgot about it?”

“I did. It hurt him a lot.” 

Changbin nods in understanding, taking a sip of his drink. He places his chin on his palm, carefully eyeing you. 

“But how does that make you feel?” 

“Me?”

“Yes, you. You're the one who lost your memories after all.” 

“I feel guilty for forgetting such a relationship.” 

“Why is that?”

“Because everyday i can see why I fell in love with him.”

“And you don't love him now?” 

“No,” you quickly say before pausing, shoulders dropping under the weight of your questioning. “I don't know. It's complicated.”

Changbin absentmindedly tugs at the charms of his bracelet, gaze flicking down to his wrist for a couple seconds, before locking on yours intently.  

“Describe him to me in one sentence.”

“You sound like my annoying French teacher,” you roll your eyes and he huffs, not offended in the least. “Look, I just want to know my competition.”

“Do you have a retort for everything?”

“What can I say? I'm witty and all that,” he shrugs confidently and you giggle before quieting down, muling over his question. “In a sentence…” you muse, fingers drumming along your cup. You don't even realize that a fond smile has unfolded on your lips, but Changbin does.

“He's the light rain that falls during spring, that makes the flower bloom and the smell of earth waft through the air. He brings things back to life, in a way.” 

Changbin smiles softly, tilting his head to the side. “Can you really not see it, or are you hiding the truth because you're scared?”

“What do you mean?” 

“Yn, he brought you back to life.” 

“I… no.” you pause, voice faltering. “Did he?” 

You see Minho pushing you on a wheelchair to your home. Minho protecting you from your mind. Minho washing your hair. Minho making you tea. Minho baring his soul to you. Minho helping you cook. Minho bringing the sea to you. Minho holding your hand. Minho comforting you before comforting himself. Minho forgiving you so you'd forgive yourself. Minho devastating himself so you'd piece your heart together. Minho, minho, minho.  

“Fuck, he did,” you whisper in realization, as a grand feeling swells in your heart suddenly, pushing your heart against the confines of your ribs. Flowers bloom into your entire body, petals melding into the coursing blood in your veins, butterflies fluttering their delicate wings across your chest, an effulgent light flooding in like the sun was spilled inside your very core. 

“Aren’t I so smart,” Changbin grins, satisfied at the awestruck expression on your face.

“What should I do?” you ask anxiously, gripping the edges of the table. 

“Go talk to him. Don't waste any more time.”

“You are right, oh my god,” you grab your purse, standing up abruptly. “I have to go, I…”

“It's okay, don't worry about me, I'm always the side chick,” he sighs in faux sadness and you giggle, swatting his shoulder. 

“Thank you so much. I'll repay you for this, I promise!” you start walking before stopping and turning around. 

“Oh and Changbin?”

“Yes?”

“You know what to do too. They made you that bracelet right? You haven't taken your eyes off of it.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, “those are my lines.”

“They are mine now too,” Laughter dances from your lips as you flee the café, taking off running to your home. It was near, merely a five-minute walk, nestled beside the playground where you encountered Changbin. Yet, urgency propels your steps, a fervent need to reach Minho swiftly. You had wasted thirty-three days, three million seconds that could’ve been spent with Minho. You don’t know how many more breaths the universe might extend, what if the stars tire of your reluctance and blow the winds of his love to another soul? You couldn’t stomach it. 

You climb up the stairs, chest heaving, breaths escaping your being in an erratic rhythm. you didn't even know what to say, your words remained unscripted, unsure of what confessions will spill forth when your eyes will meet Minho's. Yet, you're not worried. You know that whatever surfaces would be surging from your heart. 

What you don’t anticipate is for an uncharacteristic silence to find you at home, the scent of your perfume faintly wafting into the air. Minho sat in the living room, a bag by his side, his head downcast. The cats watching you from the corner of the room. 

A desert- dry sensation clings to your mouth, your tongue heavy as if crafted from lead. Your once vibrant excitement extinguishes, much like a match blown out, leaving only a lingering stench behind. 

“Minho?” 

“Yn,” he responds, eyes actively avoiding yours. “I was waiting for you. I... I'll be gone for a few days, a week at most.”

“What? Where to?”

“I already told my parents to come pick up the cats so you don't have to worry about feeding them. The fridge is stacked, so you-” his voice falters, “so don't worry about that either.”

“Minho... what-what are you saying?”

“I need time away, alone. I'm sorry, I tried, I tried so hard, Yn, but there is only so much I can take,” he whispers, and your heart shatters, tiny million pieces blown away by the wind.

“Minho, look at me,” you crouch before him, your hands resting on his knees. He still avoids your gaze.

“Minho, please,” you plead, and his eyes finally lock on yours. They glisten with tears, reflecting light akin to a celestial mirror.

“My heart hurts so much, but it's not your fault. Loving me once doesn't mean you'll love me again, and it's okay if you want to see other people. I just... I need to go somewhere, for a little. I need to make room for the pain because it's overwhelming me,” he confesses, his words eating at your insides. Was it too late? Have you lost him?

Minho gently takes away your hands before standing up. Fear overwhelms you as you watch his shoulders drop, his eyes glazing over the walls one last time. He will come back, but not here, not to you. He's bidding goodbye to the home and you because you killed his hope. He would leave everything behind but echoes of him that you'd be sentenced to hear alone, every day, every night.

“Minho,” you seize his wrist, “Minho, don't go.”

"Why?" he asks in the smallest voice you've heard from him. He's like a river cut off by a dam, yearning to run back home, to flow the way it used to, back to you. His heart rings loudly in his ears, pain overwhelming him, yet your touch calms him down. You are the knife and the medicine, the scorch and the cooling balm; you are everything at once.

“I'll make room in your heart, I'll take out all the bad weeds and start again. Just don't go.”

“What do you mean?” He's breathless, hope inflating in his heart, clouds parting to reveal the sun.

“I know things won't go back to the way they used to. I don't think I'll ever remember everything, but I want you to tell me,” there is a lump growing in your throat, but you push it away. Your voice breaks and cracks, yet you still speak. You need him to know.

“I want you to take me to all the places we've visited and then tell me how we fell in love in them. I want you to show me how I loved you,” your hand trails down his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, pulling him closer. “I want to learn you, what you like, what you hate, what makes you angry and what makes your heart flutter.”

“And I want to love you, not because you love me, but because my heart chose you," your hand travels up his arm, settling right down at his cheek. Your thumb swipes across his tender skin. “I choose you over and over again. It's you, Minho, it's always been you.”

“You want me again?” he says tentatively, eyes wide, pouring onto yours—your galaxy to love, to admire, to peer into for the rest of your life.

“I want you. Please don't go.”

“Swear it, please.”

Instead of ephemeral words, you softly press your lips to his, as you did last night. “I swear,” you whisper against his mouth. “I'm falling in love with you,” you peck his lips, hand snaking up against his neck, moving his mouth closer to yours. “Not falling,” you say, pressing your forehead to his, nuzzling his nose against your own. “I'm coming back. I'm coming home.”

“You came back to me,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

“I'll always do,” you promise, a grin overtaking your mouth. “Can you kiss me, Minho?”

Minho blinks in amazement, his eyes darting all over your face, each blink resembling the capture of an image. He's stitching this moment into his mind, the hue of your cheeks and the gleam in your eyes. He missed the way you're looking at him, the slight shiver running through you as he brushes his lips against your own, slowly savoring the feel of you so near. His hands find your jaw, cradling it softly, and then he kisses you, just like how he dreamed of doing for the past month.

The kiss is dizzying, far different from your previous one. You’re no longer grasping at elusive cigarette smoke, fleeting through the gaps between your fingers. You are no longer awaiting a beacon of remembrance to shine upon your mind. You have minho, and he's delicately nibbling your lower lip, eliciting a soft gasp from you. His tongue glides across the tingling expanse, soothing down the pang of hurt, asking you for more. You willingly give it to him in a fervent, whirlwind kiss, his hands finding solace in the curve of your waist, while yours become poets, weaving tales in his hair, tugging at his strands the way you've always yearned to. 

It is muscle memory, to press your body against his, to gasp into his mouth, to match the rhythm of his tongue, the way it circles tantalizingly around yours, the way you groan against his mouth, as he briefly parts from you, his giggle a sweet prelude to meeting your lips once again with increased fervor. His tongue weaves words against the roof of your mouth— I missed you, I want you, I love you.

Minho snakes his hand around your lower back, guiding you back until his legs find the couch. He eases you down, fingers hooked through the loop of your jeans. You kiss him again, a cadence as natural as breathing. Time unravels, rewinding to mend the fractures in his heart, erasing thirty-three days of heartbreak in mere seconds. You kiss him, again and again, thirty three days of longing exploding in your touch.  

“Are you crying?” you whisper against his lips, your thumbs delicately swiping across his damp cheeks. Unaware of his flowing tears, he closes his eyes, embarrassment coursing through him. “I'm here,” you reassure, peppering his face with kisses – from his ear to his nose, cheeks to the corner of his mouth. “I'm here, honey. I want you.”

“Only me?” he questions, tone fragile.

“Only you,” you kiss him again, tenderly, inhaling life through his lips. “Let me show you how much, hm?”

Your lips trace a path down his neck as you draw his shirt over his head. An ivory canvas, he is meant for you to mark, to touch however you desire. Your lips graze the scar on his stomach, kissing it in the way you've ached to do since two nights before.

You're sinking to your knees before him and yet you’re the one in control, rippling shivers all over his skin. He’s impatient, needing you close, so he quickly pulls you up, before hovering over you, his hands drawing everywhere, running wild across your body. He missed the plush feel of your skin, the contours of your body that he yearned to explore once again. He's a prisoner deprived of the light for so long, sinking into the sun once again. 

Minho's eyes never leave yours, as he touches you, moves in you in ways your soul seems to remember. He's gentle, removing strands of your hair out of your eyes, smoothing down the side of your head. All encompassing, drinking in your moans and groans, burning you up and soothing you all at once. “Good?” he asks, again and again, waiting to hear your affirmation before picking up speed again. Your answer is yes each time he asks, as he seals the void in you, the one he's been carefully stitching up for the past weeks. You store his glazed eyes and scrunched eyebrows in the gallery of your mind, you make room for new memories with Minho. 

You're overwhelming him, in the most beautiful ways, contradicting feelings coursing through him like a rain flood. He's aching yet relieved to have you beneath him, lost in waves of pleasure so he grabs your hand to anchor himself, entwining his fingers with yours, before bringing it to his mouth, placing a tender smile on your palm. You beam at him, trust reflecting in your eyes as you bare your being to him. It is a rare fortune to be chosen by you not once, but twice, he can't believe how lucky he is to have you as his guiding star.  

Your eyes never leave Minho’s, a shimmering pool mirroring your emotions. You see everything you feel in him—your better reflection. You had missed him, you were home now. “Miss you,” he whispers as he buries his face in your neck, seemingly hearing your thoughts. “Missed you so much,” he mumbles as your hands tangle in his hair, tears descending gently upon your cheeks, as they are on his. “Please don't leave me again.”

“I won't- I won't,” you promise, as light floods your vision, reaching the pinnacle of your pleasure. Colors burst before your eyes in a kaleidoscope, resembling shades of Minho— the warm brown of his eyes, the honeyed hue of his skin, the pink tint of his ears whenever he's embarrassed, the red of his lips, swollen as they kiss you. Tonight and tomorrow and every day after this one. 

Day 1.

In the hushed aftermath, your head rests upon Minho’s bare chest, listening to the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat, calming down as the seconds trickle by. His arm curls around your body protectively, keeping you from slipping off the couch. Your knuckles trail up and down his shoulders, soothing the places where you had scratched too hard. His hand seeks yours, delivering a kiss as tender as the silence enveloping you—quiet and secure. The forgotten past doesn't matter; you will rewrite your story once more.

“Do you think our designated stars are sad somewhere far away?”

“Why would they be?” 

“I don't know. Don't you think it's bittersweet how they missed out on so many days of loving one another?”

“I don't know, did they?” he muses, planting a tender kiss on your shoulder. “I think mine loved you all the same.” 

[starshipsofstarlord]

Killer Inside

Pairing | Bucky Barnes / The Winter Soldier x Reader

Summary | As HYDRA’s weapon, Bucky Barnes has always felt used, but he was not the only Winter Soldier that felt this way. They look to one another for closure and comfort, only to lose it all once their brains go back in the blender.

Warnings | SMUT, unprotected sex, denied orgasm, angst, death, murder, a concussion, mention of abuse

Requested ✖️

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

Soldat closed the door behind himself, the blood on his hands a normality for the pair of you. The scientist tilted your head once more, Bucky as you knew him frowning at the action.“What are you doing?” One thing that he had not been taught was to ask the handlers questions, but a part of him, deep down in his cold exterior was warm.

It was as thought the ice of his winter exterior was refrained by a crack; a singular flaw that set him apart from the newer soldiers that had been introduced within the gloomy base. There were a whole bunch of them, though, they seemed to prefer the originals, you and him. The majority of the time, neither one of you paid your dues to resist orders, or lash out at the surrounding agents.

At least, not in the same way as the newer breed. Though, they were much larger in mass, and had far more strength behind their pushes, which was evidential, considering the bruise that swallowed up the side of your face.

And the soldat cared, as little as he did, of was made to, he still valued you. The pair of you had experienced so much harm together, endured the needles that sled through the skin in a harmony, it had to have meant something. Whether that be because of your shared traumas, or the fact you were the same, it was not nothing. The image of the world’s most efficient assassins gave him something to hold onto.

It made him feel strong, even against the new batch of winter soldiers that had been introduced. They were out of control, disobeying the instructions that were imbedded in their heads. The two of you, though strong were so meek and small in comparison to the newcomers, they would toss you around like rag dolls, seeing you as nothing more than the enemy, when in reality, you were victims all the same.

“She’s got a concussion.” The scientist speculated, releasing his grip on you chin as you tried and failed to focus on the words that were fleeing from his mouth. It appeared that you were dazed, blown out of your body mentally from the nasty hit that you had taken whilst following your own orders. It involved protecting the scientists from the small and capable of army, and it was quite evident that you had endured a run in with them personally.

“Bucky.” You weren’t sure what the name meant, but it fell from your lips, a frown contorting your face as it was the only thing that made any sense, yet none at the same time. Or at least, you guessed that it was the labelling of a person, it felt like such as it vividly rolled from your tongue, and invaded the air.

There was a tenseness within the room after you spoke it, as though it were a forbidden hymn. And it probably was, from the dissolved way that you were eyes, as though you were revealing that you had gone through time, and time travelled, which you had, thanks to the concept of cryo.

The man examining you froze, and the soldat realised that you had struck some kind of nerve within your superior. It appeared that it was a word that you were forbade from uttering, one was both familiar and foriegn on your tongue.“Who the hell is Bucky?” He asked, but he had to learn, he was not in the placement, nor did he have the status to ask questions.

The person clothed in the white lab coat reached for a device that he used to communicate, and spoke into it. “They need to be wiped again.” At that, Bucky tilted his head, glaring at the man that had suggested that your memories been erased; the action had happened far too many times.

Yet this time, the winter soldier resisted the prospect, reaching out with his metal hand, and grasping onto the wired strands emitting from the doctor’s head. With the grip that he had obtained, the soldat pulled his neck back, only to push it forwards as he slammed his face into the corner of the desk, over and over again.

The sight had no immediate affect on you, instead you coldly viewed the uninstructed command that the soldier carried out, feeling nothing towards the blood that dropped upon the floor. Bucky knew that his time was limited, that name, which he assumed to be his own, and if those soldiers that were experiencing the whims of their ability could lose control, he sure as hell could too.

He needed to break free, so that he remembered who he truly was. Here, he was nothing more than a prime asset, and now, he released his grip on the man whose name he couldn’t remember, and allowed his body to drop from the chair lewdly to the concrete floor, a harsh thud clear as his lifeless body collapsed.

“Bucky?” You spoke again, this time in question, as you squinted at your well renowned comrade, and the way that you said it, Bucky was almost certain that the name belonged to him. For a long time, he had not even thought of what his real name may have been, all the executives of this organisation had names, and yet, he was stuck with the noun of ‘soldier’, as were you.

The metal armed knew that he was on the clock, the currently dead man had called in for an order to be carried out, the others would be here soon to carry out his firm request. And then, all would be blank once more, clean from any of this, the reminder of who he was gone in a split second. And that meant that you wouldn’t remember you either, and that the foundations of companionship that you had founded, would need to begin all over again.

As you remained confused, sitting upon the examination table with little clue that was going on around you, Bucky tenderly grasped your chin, watching as your eyes fluttered with contentment. He couldn’t keep up his resilience any longer, instead, pulling your face gently closer, and locking his lips wit yours.

It almost felt like a first kiss, it was messy, and there was a lot of overlapping. His hands raked down your sides, feeling the metal grid that kept your ribs upright, after the thing that lead you here happened. HYDRA had admittedly ruined the life you had once had, yet, now, against your non existent will, you were being treated like an abused dog. They had stolen you from the possible peaceful death and trained you to be nothing short of a killer.

Grasping onto the volume to the back of Bucky’s tactical gear, despite feeling slightly wavy in the head. You understood, the same as he did, that this would be the last piece of freedom that you would have the chance of seeing, under any context. This would also not be the first instance that you remembered giving into your carnal hunger for each other, but for some abrupt reason, it felt like the last.

It was an inevitable end, one that you were being sentenced to without so much as an argument from your side. There was no point in fighting back, for it always ended the same way, with your minds spun in that hellbent contraption, coming out as nothing more than an obedient slave, until the act had to be repeated. The cycle was never ending, there was no way out from the toxic lifestyle, it was what it was.

And thus, Bucky preached the bottoms off your legs, caring not about if he tore them, as he let them hang around the middle of your thighs. He stood closer between the section, doing some shuffling himself to relieve his hard cock from its strict confines, feeling a fluttering of pride swell in his chest as you looked down at his aroused appendage, and licked your lips.

The detail that there wasn’t enough room for foreplay within the gap of time that you were gifted was well apparent. You wanted nothing more than to come undone beneath the soldier in every single way that your body ceremoniously ached for, however, there just was not enough moments to spare, and instead, nothing more than penetration was offered on the table.

Wrapping his hand around his precum leaking cock, he stroked it a couple times whilst it was in his grip, before rubbing the desperate head around your exposed pussy. He could feel how wet you had become in such a short amount of minutes, and that factor seemed to do nothing more than fuel him further. And so, without a second though, he pushed into your entrance, giving you no time to adjust as his hips clashed with yours in colliding thrusts.

Animalistic and loud grunts escaped the soldier, for once, he was able to voice his pleasure, it wasn’t in the secrecy of the corner of the shower as he took you from behind, or in one of your bunks during the dead of night. He didn’t have to avoid being caught, because they were definitely on their way here anyways.

You didn’t hold back your noises either, gasping into Bucky’s open mouth as he rutted against you, causing a prominent squelching of your combined essences to fill the air. Not only was that prominent, but the room now reeked of sex, the hormones rolling off the starved pair of you in euphoric waves. His metal hand reached down, rolling your clit between his cold fingers, causing you to screech the name Bucky out into the air, loud enough for everyone within the compound to here.

“Cum y/n.” At that, the pair of you froze, staring into one another’s eyes as you took in the detail, prolonging the peak of your orgasm. It was undeniable, that was your name that he had just spoken in a breathy matrimony. The bar caused shock in both of you, but was quickly replaced as soldiers entered through the door.

Bucky couldn’t help himself, at their presence, he began to wildly thrust inside of you, trying to reach your edges before the pair of you were removed from each other’s lustful union. As one tried to peel him off you from the shoulder, he raised his hand to hit them from where he couldn’t see, and continued his administrations. He needed to empty inside of you, and complete this own personal mission of his.

You clung to him, trying to hide yet be stuck in his embrace, well aware of the men that were trying to separate the pair of you. The sounds of his skin upon yours, and his balls slapping against you reverberated around the room, only aiding you to come closer to your orgasm. “Bucky.” You moaned, almost reaching your climax, yet it was stolen from you, as a needle was injected in the back of Bucky’s neck, causing him to wobble for a moment, until he fell out of you, his dick flopping in the open from his forced exit.

You cowered at the sight, your walls clenching around nothing as you felt the emptiness. Though, there was not only an emptiness inside you, but there was one gleaming behind your eyes as you watched them hold the super soldier up, and drag him out of the room, not even having the decency to tuck him back inside of his trousers.

It was well assumed that you would be granted a similar treatment, and so, you did not fight as the dismissing injection was moved towards your pricked skin, welcoming the darkness that would accompany the side affects, but not the name that you would lose once they put you in that grand metal chair, and erased the slate of your mind for the unknown anniversary number.

[mae-gi-writes]

Obtuse | Bang Chan (Stray Kids) - PART ONE

Summary ☆ "I don't know. I want to be his friend but then again, I don't. I mean, how can you simply be friends with someone when every time you look at them, you're thinking about how much more you really want?"

Genre ☆ bestfriends to lovers au, angst, slowburn, suggestive themes, college au, fluff, soft Chan x oc (Micha)

Word count ☆ 6k ish

. ° ☆ ° .

PART ONE

. ° ☆ ° .

Micha hated being wrong.

Her fingers tapped an unsteady rhythm over her notebook as she stared at the block of text she had been supposedly studying for the past hour, her desk lamp casting a yellowish hue over her page as if the book itself was a sickly entity with the sole goal of rendering her mad. Attached to her ceiling, her fan kept on whirring in a noisy hum which -- while she normally managed to tune it out --  grated at her nerves. The world bustled outside, cars honking in the distance while soft rain splattered over her bedroom window as she sighed for what must’ve been the nth time that evening, slowly lifting her arms up in a stretch. 

It wasn’t in her nature to be so scatter-brained, for once she set her mind to something, there could be little to stop her. That was one of the qualities she could pride herself on considering that there was hardly any skill she could flaunt to the world -- surely there were far more interesting things than reciting off a long list of human body parts and their required functions? 

But this recent issue popping up in her brain was doing a great job at knocking her off her feet. Dear god, she felt the same sense of unbalance as when she was five and her mom had enrolled her into ballerina lessons. 

Long story short, it hadn’t ended well.

Micha’s eyes darted to her phone that she’d tossed onto her bed a few minutes ago. The cause of her restlessness, the cause of unease stirring inside her stomach like an angry beast prowling back and forth.

The words from his earlier message felt like they were etched into her memory: 

Chan: SHE SAID YES

Just three words. Three little stings that made her wince every time she thought of them. Three little needles that pierced at her heartstrings.

Why? 

Her grip tightened onto her pen. So hard her knuckles turned the colour of chalk.

Why didn’t she feel happy for him as she was supposed to? 

Micha’s tongue poked at her cheek. 

Why did it feel so wrong? Why did she feel wronged when she’d done nothing of the sort? 

Wasn't it just a few weeks ago that she had spurred Chan's obvious interest, urging him to hustle a little closer to that particular girl in question when she had caught the said young man casting her quick, shy glances over the rim of his drink?

"Just ask her," Micha told him when he'd sought her out looking like a lost puppy amidst the heavy bass of the music. It had been the summer right before their final year of University and on this special occasion, Minho had thrown a small party to which every high school classmate of their year had been invited.

"You know I can't. I don't know how...you know," he scratched the back of his head, dark locks ruffling as the summer wind. It was in those small, stolen moments -- where Chan was the most vulnerable, where he let down his guard to deploy his array of unspoken feelings -- that she remembered the young man for who he was: the familiar fullness of his full lips, the curve of his nose, the simplicity of his monolids.

"You won't know till you try," she took a sip of her rum and coke.

Truthfully speaking, Chan had never been in a serious relationship. He was friends with everyone, the kind of person that was easy-going and who could engage in any kind of conversation with anyone and everyone. The only consequence was that Chan was thrust into the friendzone without even trying.

But then again, he was a nice guy. And nice guys finished last.

“What’s the worst that can happen anyway?” Micha joked as she downed the rest of her drink, “she’s been eyeing you since we got here.” 

“Really?” 

“Really.” 

He leaned closer with squinted eyes as he tried to find the lie in her words, “you’re not just saying that to be nice?”

He was so close she got a whiff of his scent. Reaching up with her index finger to push him away, Micha proceeded to roll her eyes, “I don’t do nice, Chan. We both know that.” 

She shouldn’t have been surprised to see him slip away a few minutes later to seek her out. Ayeong was her name. Beauty, in Korean. And which suited her perfectly, what with her tiny waist and her big set of doe eyes that could make any man weak at the knees, her supple legs that seemed to go on and on forever and that cupid bow’s mouth that was always puckered in that innocently cute, yet sensual way of hers.

And if not for her physique, Ayeong was known for her kindness and for her outgoing, free-natured and confident spirit. That was the killer blow for any man that sought her out. 

Micha had known her since high school, hung out with the same friends and admittedly could classify her as one too, even though college life had pulled them apart like boats that had left the harbour only to find each other after a year.

Memories of Micha’s last night flickered behind her open lids and leaning back into her chair with a sigh, she gave way to the sudden urge of homesickness suddenly flowing through her heart. 

Their last movie night had ended and despite Micha’s frantic eye movements towards Ayeong’s figure, Chan had immediately volunteered to walk her back home. 

Micha kept her gaze forward, noticing how the golden glow of the street lamps did little to light their way. She turned her head to the right, where the road gave way to the landscape littered with golden lights, now bathed in deep hues of blue as light slowly slithered from behind the mountains. 

“So this is it huh?” Chan’s murmur sliced through with a hint of sadness in his deep alto, “you sure you’re not going to come back home for Christmas?” 

It was tradition after all. They had made it adamant to travel back at least every three months and up until now, they had kept that promise. 

Now though, with Micha’s piling workload and with Chan’s busy thesis schedule, this year might be the one exception.

“I can’t, Chan. I have my internship,” Micha didn’t dare look at him, fighting the tightness winding in her chest, “you can always drop by. My university is just a train ride away I suppose.”

"You’re not gonna kick me out if I turn up at your door one day?” 

“I can’t promise that.” 

He gasped, grabbing onto his chest in mock hurt, “Ouch. Okay, what if I turn up with your favourite bubble tea?” 

"Then we might have a deal.” 

They both laughed softly, pushing each other with their elbows as they walked up Micha’s street. At one point, Chan had looped his arm around hers before shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets and as they talked about their recent adventures and all the dumb things they’d done, it was clear that he was avoiding the pain of saying goodbye right until he stopped at her front door.

She turned to him and forced down the tears burning at the edges of her eyes. The morning light had slithered through the landscape now and hit the side of Chan’s face in a scarlet shade of golden, reflecting the caramel of his orbs pinning her down with a sadness that made her throat choke up.

“Stop it,” the words flew from her mouth without warning and Chan blinked, head tilting with confusion, “What? Stop what?” 

“Stop...looking at me like that,” she finished her sentence in a mumble while she averted her eyes in growing embarrassment.

“Like what?” 

“Like you’re going to cry.” 

“I’m not!” 

“There are tears in your eyes!” 

“N-No there aren’t!” And he quickly wiped at his face before angling his head to the side, “why would I cry for you?” 

“You tell me.” 

“Well I’m not!” He turned away to walk down the driveway in a huff, “bye now!” 

“Ugh bye loser!” 

Micha turned so quickly she almost smacked her face onto her front door, hurriedly trying to erase the image of Chan’s back walking away from her before she broke down into a pool of hot tears.

She didn't want to think about that. Didn't want to linger upon the way her throat seemed to choke up as she fought the emotion--

"Micha?” 

Chan’s voice. It floated between them, a lingering question. The said girl felt rooted in place, fighting the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. 

And when she turned, she was met with his arms lacing around her middle to pull her close. 

His chin on her shoulder, head pressed against hers. Holding her tight. 

“Video calls every week,” he murmured, “at least one text per day.” 

"What are you? My boyfriend?” 

“Micha.” 

“Fine, fine.” 

Chan's warmth felt like sunshine on her back. If she closed her eyes hard enough she could travel back to that very moment she allowed herself to be swayed back and forth in those strong arms of his.

In the weeks following the start of their final year Micha had plunged headfirst into her studies to avoid the slow build-up of homesickness crawling through her heart. And the more work piled up, the less she found time to update Chan on her life. What with her endless hours spent in the library and the small bursts of freedom that she spent with her course mates, it made it close to impossible to sit down and have a proper talk.

So when Chan video-called her one day, her burst of excitement was soon rendered to something akin to annoyance when the only reason was to tell her about Ayeong’s visit to his campus. She couldn’t ignore the slight sting of jealousy coating the back of her tongue as he blabbered off like an excited child, eyes shining and all. 

“I think I might ask her out at the end of this week,” he grinned with dreamy eyes, “I think there’s definitely something.” 

“Good for you.” 

He’d noticed her irritation, as if there was an itch under her skin she couldn’t quite reach, “You okay, Mi? I didn’t even get to ask--”

“I’m fine,” she snapped and softened almost instantly when hurt flashed through his face, “I’m sorry,...just stressed out.” 

“Hey,” concern immediately clouded his features over, “you gotta take care of yourself too. Are you eating well? Sleeping well?” 

A sigh of frustration escaped his lips when she’d shook her head reluctantly, “Don’t make me come over. You know I can do that.” 

“That would be nice,” came her mumble which didn’t reach his ears, for he asked, “What?” 

“Nothing,” she sighed, brushing off the wistful thoughts swimming inside her head and focusing back on Chan’s face at the other end of the screen, “keep me updated with the Ayeong thing.” 

She’s not right for you, her brain seemed to scream. 

But Ayeong did. She did say yes.

And Micha wasn’t sure why she was feeling so bitter about it.

. ° ☆ ° .

"Please sign here, miss.” 

Micha’s surprised orbs quickly flitted up from the large cardboard box to the postman’s clipboard being shoved in her face, “Uh--sure.”

She scrawled her initials, gave back the clipboard with a muttered ‘thanks’ before the postman shoved the box in her arms and walked away without even giving her a second glance. 

Had she ordered something online by accident? That wouldn’t be surprising. Since midterm season, time had been irrelevant to Micha, flowing like a ticking time bomb the more the days approached towards her final deadlines.

To say that she was a walking corpse on campus was not an understatement. 

She got her answer a few minutes later when she answered the phone from a very excited, puppy-like Chan. 

“Did you get it?!” he bellowed with barely contained excitement. Still wrapped up in his blankets with his hair dishevelled and his eyes barely open, Micha couldn’t help but grin at the comical picture he presented, “did you get the package?” 

“By package, you mean this big-ass box?” Micha turned the camera to the floor, causing him to squeal like a child who got his Christmas presents early. 

“Oh nice! Open it, come on!” 

“Chan, I swear if it’s something like one of those scary muppets you like so much--”

“You have so little faith in me.” 

“Can you blame me when you were the one who put salt in my coffee?” 

“It was just to experiment.” 

“That coffee was of good quality!” 

“Just open it." 

She tore open the package while grumbling under her breath at how bossy he was being, cracked open the box to blink at the different flavours of tea filling it up to the brim. 

“You--” she couldn’t help the laughter from bubbling up her throat, “you got me tea?” 

“Wait--unless I got this wrong -- you like tea right?” 

His panicked tone made her burst out in even more laughter, “Oh my god Chan!” 

“You always tell me to spill the tea--I was just trying to be punny.” 

“It’s--Oh my god--” she doubled over laughing and Chan joined in with giggles of his own, “Chan, you’re so bad.” 

“Admit it, it’s funny.”

“It’s lame!” 

She grinned back at her phone as warmth spread through her middle. It was admittedly in moments like these that she missed Chan the most. The longing to see him suddenly surged through her with such ferocity in the form of tears slowly brimming at the corner of her eyes and she had to turn away while changing the subject. 

“Got any plans this weekend?” she asked while looking over the various flavours of tea.

“Oh didn’t I tell you? Ayeong’s coming.” 

She almost choked on her own spit. Right. She’d forgotten about the whole Ayeon situation and Chan hadn’t updated her since then. 

"We’re spending the weekend together, I think I might bring her to the aquarium. Oh, I was gonna ask you -- what do girls like on their first dates?” his face was now alight with such a joyful glow, a spark in his eyes, that it almost hurt to look at him. 

“Does Ayeong like aquariums to start with?” Micha asked even if she secretly adored going to aquariums herself. It was admittedly a very romantic notion, to hold hands in the darkened rooms as you would watch the fish swim about. 

Chan shrugged on the other side of the screen, “dunno, thought it might be romantic.” 

You thought right, Micha’s subconscious responded, “what about just dinner?” she proposed, “maybe Ayeong wants to spend time talking. You know, getting to know each other.” 

"Hm, true. Yeah, I might look up a good restaurant. Girls don't like fast foods do they? Or anything that makes them gain weight?"

The angry creature was slowly rousing in her stomach, growling, "how would I know?"

"Well, you're a girl."

"That's exactly what the lame redheaded sidekick in Harry Potter said."

"FYI, his name is Ron and he’s not lame."

"That's not the point I was trying to make."

"Michaaaa~" Chan whined, wriggling his shoulders with a pout, "I gave you tea, stop being mean to me."

But it was useless. All the giddiness that had erupted through her at his sweet gesture was eaten up by a bitter taste on her tongue and with that she hurriedly made up a petty excuse about having class before quickly cutting off the call.

She brought her phone to her chest as she looked down at the tea boxes with growing tiredness. That was probably it right? She was in a bad mood because she was tired.

Right?

. ° ☆ ° .

"I still don't get why we have to watch it with you," Micha grumbled, plopping down beside Felix's lanky frame on the couch and careful not to jostle the bowl of salted caramel popcorn in her hands.

"Because I can't be the only one who can't sleep tonight," Changbin stated dryly like that statement totally made sense. He plopped down on her other side while Jisung settled himself against Micha's legs, "if I go down, you go down with me."

Felix snorted, "that's just a nice way to say that he likes bullying us."

Midterms were over, meaning that reading week would be a pleasurable moment of calm and serenity before assignments picked up again. It was a liminal space between deadlines, a gap that Micha and the rest of her course mates had gladly welcomed with open arms. Being the movie fanatic that he was, Changbin had jumped at the chance of hosting movie night, much to the group's displeasure for they knew that his taste in entertainment was rather jarring. Sometimes violent. And sometimes, brought about nightmares that lasted a week.

"What are we watching again?" Jisung twisted his head to look at the trio, causing both Micha and Felix to shoot Changbin accusatory looks.

"The nun," Changbin replied.

Felix whistled as Jisung jumped up crying, "Do you want me to die?!"

"No. But do you mind if we sleep in the same room tonight?"

"Fuck you I'm out of here," Jisung was already scrambling to his feet when Micha's hand shot out, clamping down on his forearm, "oh no no no, you're going down with the rest of us, Han."

"Do you know how scary that movie is?!"

"Yes, which is precisely why we're going to murder Changbin once it's ov--"

Felix's phone sprang to life amidst the conversation, "oh Chan's calling!"

The group wasted no time squishing up, limbs entangling and elbows pushing onto ribs as they all crowded around Felix's small smartphone that he held at arm's distance before sliding his finger over the green button.

"Hey mate!" Felix's Australian accent slipped out the moment Chan's face appeared onscreen and Micha would've lied to say it didn't sting a little seeing her best friend's face after so long.

"What's up Felix? Oh you're all here?" Chan's grin widened.

" Changbin's forcing us to watch the Nun with him," Micha said.

" Tattletale," muttered the said hooded-eyed man as he shoved her head. Micha laughed.

" And you? What are you up to?" Felix asked while Jisung was struggling to push Changbin's arm to get into the camera frame, " Bin, fucking move."

"Language."

" Oh I'm with Ayeong right now. Hyunjin and Minho are playing FIFA," Chan moved the camera around until Ayeong's petite face came into view, causing a knot to form in Micha's abdomen.

"Hello!"

" Ayeong! Lookin' good!"

" How's Channie treating you?"

" Has he farted in front of you yet?"

" Guys!" Chan's checks proceeded to flood with colour while the said young woman giggled in the background.

" As a matter of fact, he's been nothing but respectful."

Ugh. She was so sweet that it made Micha feel sick in her stomach. But as though Ayeong had read her mind, she immediately asked, "Micha, are the guys treating you well? How's your thesis coming along? Chan tells me you practically live in the library."

" What?” Jisung snorted, “that's not true, she--" 

Micha elbowed him before he could splutter out the truth when she had been lying to Chan all along and blabbered out, “Yeah I've been trying to finish my thesis in time because the first deadline is in two weeks. And you? How’s your internship at the hotel going?” 

Micha was thankful when Ayeong chatted on about her experience as a hotel management trainee at one of the best hotel chains in the country. It was a close call and she smacked Jisung some more for good measure, throwing him a narrow-eyed glare which he returned with a scowl of his own, rubbing the sore spot on his arm. 

As the conversation moved on to the topic of the holidays, Micha’s eyes automatically drifted to the diminished space between Chan and Ayeong’s shoulders, noticed the way he kept leaning back with his arm slowly crawling its way to Ayeong’s backside. Something tugged at her heartstrings, caused her to swallow hard. It was clear from the obvious grin on her best friend’s face that he was the happiest he’d ever been since...well, since.

All Micha wanted was to be happy for Chan. Genuinely happy. 

Not the kind of happiness that made her wish she was miles away and blind, not the kind that made her chest ache and her heart hurt as though someone had just gutted her insides out.

At some point, she excused herself and walked out into the backyard, hands shoved in the pockets of her hoodie as she looked up into the murky, cloudy sky above. How long had it been since they’d last spoken? There was no one to blame for that. They were both sprinting at a hundred miles an hour and she couldn’t blame Chan for falling so hard, so quickly, too quickly for a girl that was so easy, so loveable. Ayeong was the perfect match for him, now that Micha thought about it. 

And plus, Chan had been talking about her for ages.

But she still didn’t get it. Still didn’t understand why it constantly felt as though someone was slapping reality in her face. 

Over and over again.

“Micha!” 

Felix’s head popping out from the kitchen doorway made the said young woman swivel around, quickly rearranging her features in a cold mask of indifference, “Chan wants to talk to you.” 

“Why?” 

Even in the dark she saw Felix’s eyebrow quirk up, “you’re asking?” 

That was stupid, Micha’s subconscious rolled her eyes as she reluctantly trudged to the kitchen door and grabbed the phone from Felix’s hold. She waited for the door to close behind her before lifting the camera to her face.

“What?” 

Chan’s arms were crossed in an attempt to appear mad, though they both knew it would take a lot more to ignite that anger in him, “ Well hello there, stranger. Nice of you to show your face after weeks of going off radar. No messages, no phone calls. We were supposed to call every week. What have you got to say for yourself?” 

In any normal circumstances Micha would’ve shot back with a witty comeback without thinking as she usually did. That was the nature of their relationship after all; that endless bickering, that back and forth sibling relationship that made her feel so at ease in her skin that she sometimes forgot Chan wasn’t even part of her family.

Right now though, she felt her free hand twitch, index finger pressing onto her thumb as she nervously grated at her skin.

Biting onto her bottom lip, the only thing she managed to muster out was, “sorry.” 

Surprise flashed through Chan’s face. There was a heavy silence for a minute.

“Micha,” Chan murmured, “what’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” 

" Sure. Care to tell me what 'nothing' is about?"

"Chan, please," She rubbed a tired hand over her face, " I'm just not feeling it today."

He stared at her for a whole minute. Micha felt herself starting to squirm.

" Okay," he mumbled out, " Okay."

Regret instantly bit at her subconscious. She loathed the slight disappointment on his face and in a half- hearted attempt to lighten the mood, she quickly veered into another subject and ignored the poignant stare he kept sending her way. She'd rather be oblivious than try and extort some coherent sense out of the tangled ball of feelings in her stomach.

When they said goodbye though, Chan leaned a little closer to the screen, an undecipherable expression on his face, " call me when you feel better."

Micha nodded and swallowed thickly.

" I mean it Micha," his voice was stern, " call me."

Maybe it was the guilt whispering at the back of her conscience, maybe it was the way she saw a flash of his face in a stranger's every time she walked the streets that made her reach out to Chan once more in the next few days after that, willing herself to make as much effort as he did. Because Chan deserved that much.

They would text in-between classes, a mixture of casual jokes and an exchange of anime-related jokes that he kept sending her and causing her to burst out laughing in the middle of her classes. But while she was glad to see that Chan had no grudges to her lack of response, she still tried to steer clear of mentioning Ayeong.

That was starting to become more and more problematic.

Chan: Ayeong is allergic to crab. Did you know that?!

Micha: No

Chan: we went to eat at that snack stand, the one near the skate park we used to go to. She blew up like a goldfish.

Micha would've given anything to see that ridiculous sight. That was quickly overtaken by the stubborn pang of jealousy at the thought of them going to places she visited so frequently with Chan. 

It didn’t stop there. 

A few days later, Chan had texted her about their dinner to his parents' house and her stomach dropped like she'd just fallen down an elevator shaft.

Chan: They loved her. They actually loved her. I think my heart is gonna explode.

Micha had to force out a reply:

Micha: what did your mum cook?

Chan: guess.

Micha: pork ribs and braised beef?

Chan: yess omg! You actually remember. Ayeong loved it. She eats a lot for her size. And dad sat her down after dinner to show off his chess awards. The nerd.

Micha: cool.

Thankfully, her internship started a few weeks later, which meant that it was easier to ignore the glow of happiness in Chan's face and the way he seemed to be drifting away from her arms, slipping through her fingers no matter how much she tried to grasp at the strings of their relationship -- or what seemed to be left of it.

"You sure you don't want to come back home for Winter Break?" Felix asked once when he'd turned up at her shared flat uninvited just as she was closing the door to hurry for her night shift. He’d followed her down the staircase, long legs easily matching her pace as she took two steps at a time. 

“I can’t,” Micha replied breathlessly through her scarf, “I’ve got my internship.”

“Surely you can ask for a few days off? Just for Christmas?” 

"Nope."

Beside her, Felix grumbled, "You're no fun."

"Never said I was."

Micha had to admit that the reason why it hadn't been as hard to ignore the growing hole in her heart where Chan was supposed to be was all due to the three young men standing by her side. As childish as they were, they all had good intentions and it made Micha's heart fill with warmth whenever they did make it obvious that they cared.

Her phone buzzed suddenly just as the pair reached the bus stop. She quickly fished it out of her bag, eyebrows pinching in a frown upon seeing her father's name flashing across the screen.

"Hello?" She gave Felix a shrug when he mouthed whether everything was okay from her side. Nothing. 

She repeated, "hello? Pa? You there?"

"Micha."

Her frown deepened at the sound of her father's voice. He sounded breathless, a tone higher than his usual alto.

"Pa, what's wrong?"

"It's your mother. There was an accident."

. ° ☆ ° .

"What happened?"

Less than six hours later, Micha sat in the hospital corridor right outside her mother's room. She still had on her nurse uniform, completely dismissing all of her responsibilities and obligations the moment her father had informed her of her mother's accident.

If she were to be honest, she wasn't entirely sure how she'd managed to make it back without her knees giving away. But Felix had been there, a silent stone figure at her side as she'd thrown a bunch of clothes in a carry-on suitcase and grabbing the laptop from her shaky hands to book the earliest flight which was to depart in merely two hours.

Nothing had mattered then. Nothing but the need to see her mother and make sure that everything was fine. She didn't remember going through security, didn't even remember the plane taking off while gazing out of the window with a glazed look in her eyes and forcing down all the tears strangling her throat.

Micha's brain only came into focus the moment she was greeted by none other than her father’s face, heavy bags under his eyes and the tip of his nose red. 

Multiple lacerations. A broken femur. Heavy concussion that might result in potential brain damage. Words that Micha knew off by heart, could recite them in her sleep if she wanted to. Words that she’d spent months and endless sleepless nights poring over. 

Words that shot bullets through her, each one leaving an open wound. 

“She was waiting for the bus.” 

Her father’s voice, old and gravelled and shattered, brought her back to the reality of the hospital. His alto strung through the air of the corridor like a tightly coiled string about to snap. 

Micha took a shaky breath.

“I...I was late. At the restaurant. Too many people,” all the time that her father spoke, his gaze was glued to the operation door where Micha’s mother laid as if he could will her back to good health if he stared at it hard enough, “So she went back home first because she had to feed the cat. That stupid cat...If it weren’t--If it weren’t for him she wouldn’t have gotten hit--” he choked on his words, “--by the bus.” 

Cold dread threaded through Micha’s stomach and squeezed so tight she thought she would pass out. Her brain was already trying to put two and two together; finding the solution, figuring out the case, the damage. The solution, the--

“They said there’s little chance that she’ll wake up.” 

Reality struck like cold ice.

“What...” her mouth was dry, “...percentage?”

“fifty-fifty.” 

Her eyes slipped closed, squeezed tight. Silence trailed on with only the bustling sound of medical equipment and a hushed flurry of voices in the distance. 

Do something, her brain screamed at her, just do something! 

There was nothing she could do. Nothing. Her hands clamped into fists so hard her nails stung her palms. All she could do was wait.

So she did.

She must’ve dozed off at some point. Time seemed endless as the hours ticked by and by the time her mother was wheeled out, exhaustion was pulsating through her every muscle, her every limb. She stayed awake long enough to listen to the doctor’s statement, only to storm out in frustration upon realizing that there was no real answer and that the only thing that had been possible to do was stitch up her mother’s wounds as best as they could. 

In short, the doctor himself didn’t know when she’d wake up.

Micha was so intent on walking out for some fresh air that she barely processed a familiar alto calling her name in the distance, until a pair of arms snatched her shoulders back. 

She whipped around, “What?!--”

Her eyes fell upon Chan. 

Time stopped. Her mouth parted. 

Red-faced and with his beanie all the way down to cover himself from the cold, she would’ve barely recognized him if they were passerby’s on the street. But as he stood there with his runny nose and eyes that looked like they’d just cracked open, a wave of emotion hit Micha with such intensity that tears brimmed through her eyes. 

“Felix told me what happened. I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner, I--”

And that was when Micha broke down into ugly sobs, legs giving away only to be saved by Chan’s arms wounding around her middle to pull her against his chest. 

Amidst it all, she swore she heard her heart breaking.

She wasn’t sure whether it was because of her mother. Or because throughout it all, even in the worst of times, she had come to a realization that knocked the breath out of her. 

She loved Chan. 

. ° ☆ ° .

Tagging: @elysianxshepherd​ @maedesculpaeusoubi​ @missskzbiased​ @freckledquokka​ @allyg-onz​ 

[epicspheal]

Heya! I hope your doing well!

Ever since swsh gave the rivals something to do after the fact( something that I believe only happened to Blue), I can't help but think of the rivals prior who haven't. What do you think they end up doing? I know that Blue ends up becoming a gym leader, but would still be interesting what you plan for him too! :3

Hi there @ihopethisendswell! So actually, it's the norm typically for the rivals to have something to do, even if it's just continuing being a roaming trainers. Being a roaming trainer is still just as valid of a career path as other routes given the way the Pokemon world works, it's just not as solid of a career path as say gym leader or research assistant. Pokemon Sword and Shield is one of the only main games that really puts emphasis on the rivals' alternate careers paths as part of the plot outside of the gen 5 games. So like you have Blue who becomes gym leader and also helps his grandpa with his research by still be a roaming trainer (much to the frustration of anyone trying to challenge his gym). By the time of Sun and Moon/USUM he has ditched the gym to become battle facility which ultimately given his status as a former champion ends up being a much more fitting role. Granted he needed that time as a gym leader as long standing humbling exercise so it wasn't a bad call at all. Then we have Silver, who remains a roaming trainer, though he kind of mainly sticks around the Dragon's Den because he really wants to avenge that loss to Lance and show how much he has changed. Then we have Brendan/May (when not the protagonist) who end up going back to being full time assistants professor Birch. Wally on the other hand, is much like Silver in that he continue to be a roaming trainer, with him staying around the Battle Resort in ORAS with him eventually going to the Battle Tree by the time the SM/USUM events occur.

Barry also follows the roaming trainer route with him staying Stark Mountain in Diamond/Pearl and with Platinum he hangs around the Survival area.

Gen 5 is where the rival's future goals get the most attention, and was the best well done (SwSh in my opinion failed hard on the rival's goals bar Klara and Avery's). Bianca is still my favorite "how to do a future career path" ending in the entirety of series which is she really doesn't know. She ends up taking up a position as Professor's Juniper's assistant. However it's this linefrom Bianca in Pokemon Black 2/White 2 that I really enjoyed:

"Actually, I'm not sure being a professor's assistant is really what I want to do... But when I do the work, I have lots and lots of fun!" I really appreciated that they allowed Bianca to have doubts that this is her final career path. She's still a child and I can remember when I was her age (God, I sound so old) how many career paths I thought about in that time frame...and only one of those comes even remotely close to what I'm attempting to go back to school for. I liked how she's just trying to things and aiming for experiences while not trying to commit herself to one specific path. Now obviously this could theoretically be true for any number of the rivals as with the exception of Blue (and Wally although for some odd reason they didn't give him an aged up model considering he'd be just as old as Red and Blue are) we don't see them as adults and their ambitions could very well have indeed changed over the years. Then you have Cheren who after that scolding from Alder really begins to question his pursuit of strength and what he really wants to do. Cue 2 years later in BW2 where we see him as the Aspertia City gym leader as well a lecturer at the trainer's school. Fitting as it shows his desire and capabilities as a trainer but also allowing a more concrete goal than just pursuing strength but actually overseeing the future generations. And Hugh, another one of my favorite characters, concludes his story arc on forgiveness (since he had absolutely none for Team Plasma at the beginning of the story) ends up a roaming trainer but also helping the good side Team Plasma in Driftveil City reunite Pokemon that were stolen during the events of Black/White to their original trainers. So he has a goal and really touching one I might add, one of the few that doesn't revolve around battling or researching.

Then there's the XY rivals who were admittedly the most shafted. They all pretty much end up as roaming trainers except for Trevor who already had the aim of completing the Pokedex for Professor Sycamore and he continues to do so.

The no specific aim works the best, in my opinion, for Shauna as she really didn't have much of a goal to begin with outside of travelling/making memories, and much like I said with Bianca, it's okay for characters to not have a specific end game (although I personally see Bianca's route as better as although she isn't quite sure what she wants to do, she does take initiative and actively pursue a goal to gain experience and see if it's for her).

Serena/Calem (again when not the protag) having no set aim also works because they were most competitive of the group and continuing to be a trainer makes sense, but since they get hardly any development it just feels hollow and not satisfying. At least with characters like Wally, Silver and Barry who are roaming they all went through some major development. Lack of major development plus no end game just makes Serena and Calem unfortunately just not stand out.

Then Tierno...poor Tierno. He's my favorite XY character and I hate that screwed over so poorly. He actually a goal but the game doesn't allow us to see how a dance team would work. Kalos really could've benefitted from a Pokemon Contest/Musical like sidequest where Tierno shines in. So him being a roaming trainer is just...meh.

Now moving on to Gen 7 and best boy Hau (Hau's up there with Blue and Leon as one of my favorite Pokemon characters PERIOD). In both Sun and Moon and USUM he's a roaming trainer but I argue that Sun and Moon actually wrapped up his character better, despite USUM giving him much more in the way of development. By that I mean he explicitly mentions to the player that he wants become strong enough to find his father who fled Alola because the pressure of being the Kahuna's son was too much. So yeah he is still just a regular trainer, but he does have an explicit goal that goes beyond just trying to continue to measure up to the player. He also helps to train the reforming Team Skull grunts in the art of Alolan SuMo. In USUM this is erased for a more generic roaming trainer scenario unfortunately. Gladion's fate also changes depending on what version of the Gen 7 games you play. With Sun and Moon he ends up taking over as Aether's president but also still trains on the side as he is one of the challengers that can come for your title in the post game. In Ultra Sun and Moon he actually takes the "I'm going to Kanto" route instead of Lillie although he actually back and is essentially a roaming trainer since Lusamine's villainy was nerfed and therefore allowed to stay as Aether's president

Then there's Trace who ends up champion then loses it, but keeps on going in this endless circle of trying to reclaim it from the player. And then finally the Gen 8 rivals where we have Bede, Marnie, Klara and Avery all become gym leaders and Hop is a professor. Despite this cast having the most focus on their future paths since the gen 5 rivals I don't think they were done that well. Like Klara and Avery's worked, really well and they're probably the only rivals bar Trace and Blue who actually their goals (with them actually maintaining there dream status because their goal didn't involve becoming champion).

I've talked about Hop's on this post before but the lack of genuine foreshadowing just made his sudden declaration of wanting to be a Pokemon Professor just come out of nowhere. And honestly considering the fact that he had just come out of a depressive stage and still hadn't quite addressed his idolization issues I think he would've been served better with the Bianca route where yes he becomes Sonia's assistant, but it's clear that he's still trying to find his new path and that he's just open to trying out research rather than making a rather bold claim that this was his new career path. Either that or do better in the foreshadowing where he shows he has a much clearer interest in academia but feels like he needs to be a champion like his brother.

Then there's Marnie who I've also stated was kind of screwed over. Because she made it rather clear to Piers she didn't want to be gym leader (which makes sense given that she saw how that position screwed over older brother that she admires). She's pretty much doing this because she still has the motivation to save her hometown which is extremely admirable and mature. But also it's sad, like if she didn't have to do this, would she honestly still be gym leader. I think not, at least not immediately. Considering that gym challengers can still compete on the big stage with the champion's cup rematches and some even can be invited to the Galarian Stars Tournament, I think if I had of written that I would've focused on how with Leon as the head of MC he's going to actually work with Spikemuth to revitalize without shouldering the responsibility on one single person, especially a minor. And let her be a roaming trainer and live for herself and not continue to be Spikemuth's martyr.

Then there's Bede who quite vocally states when crashing the Champion's Cup that he was ready to retire. Like poor boy goes from being used as Rose's wishing star collector and fall boy to Opal's reirement plan. Like yes it's great that Opal actually remembers his name and gives him a support system and teaches him some discipline. But still it's kind of sad as he was very much okay with retiring but more or less gets goaded into staying because of the stadium audience.

So this post got way longer than I what it was going to be but hey that happens. But yeah too long don't read, all of the rivals do have a goal, even if a lot of them end up as roaming trainers. If I'm honest in most cases (bar the gen 6 rivals because they lacked developent) the roaming trainer thing works. Because they're kids and they still have their whole lives ahead of them and they don't need to have concrete job just yet. Especially because in some cases the concrete plan just doesn't always fit the character. It works best when it feels like an organic part of the story and not just trying to wrap things up for the sake of wrapping things up.

Finally, to answer your question about how I deal with Blue. Well in my Pokeverse (dubbed cactusverse in case you see me refer to my AU as this), I tend to be fairly canon compliant to the games. So after he loses his champion title to Red he becomes Viridian gym leader, slightly patches things up with grandfather by helping with the research and eventuallya head of the Battle Tree as an adult once he gains the Battle Legend Status (which is an actual legitimate title in cactusverse held currently only by him, Red and Leaf, although one of my OCs gets this designation as well). So nothing that really deviates from canon except for some offscreen events. Basically the battle legend status is bestowed if a major event happens that is taken care of by an already established powerful trainer. So there's a rather major plot thing the Kanto Trio gets involved in that once they take care of gives them their status.

Also for cactusverse there's the whole issue of the Viridian City gym. So it eventually it gets passed down to Trace as Blue has shown that he's become a bit too powerful to be a gym leader. He was honestly when he first got it probably still a bit overkill for an 8th gym leader, but he also really needed an attitude adjustment. And with Lance being a far better father figure to him than Oak could ever dream of, with the help of Agatha tried to rein in his egotistical and self important ways by giving him the position. Which worked very well. Still in cactusverse there's rules on the win percentage a gym can have and that's determined by position. Win too many for your rank and you get moved, vice versa if you lose too many, and sometimes you might even lose your position. The first and last gym leaders are always the most at risk of losing their status. This actually happens to Wallace, Iris and eventually Raihan because they just end up exceeding the strength of most challengers who try to challenge them. Hence why all three of them end up champions at some point cactusverse (Raihan does not become Galar's champion, but Johto's champion since I really like the idea of him spreading his wings beyong Galar).

Blue between the time of BW2 and SM had ended up getting to a point that no one had gotten a gym badge off of him in a couple of years which is unacceptable by league standards and he would've gotten booted out sooner had Lance not personally asked my OC Terra to come kick his butt and get a badge off of him. And cue possibly the most iconic and brutal gym battles to have ever gone down in a region of outside of Galar because two heartbroken champion tier trainers, who broke each other's heart is a recipe for a frightening battle. Lance happened to referree that match and might be a little traumatized. Terra won and he was able to give out his last badge before Red came back from his latest global trip and said let's go to Alola.

[wanderingwolfwitcher]

"Perhaps so. Though to be fair they have the naivete of youth, a misguided belief in chivalry, and have never been outside their sunny fairy tale land... while I have about a century of hands on, practical experience, wandering the Continent and meeting its worst folk. Perhaps Witchers are not the only ones who should walk the Path. Does wonders for insight into people and reality... if you survive the experience."

Eskel's deep, amused voice observed and reasoned, marred features smiling again faintly between further bites and sips of his breakfast. Memories stirring of the times he had been as naive as any knight in shining armor, when he had first set out on the path long ago. It hadn't taken long to gradually awaken him to what the older Witchers had warned him about where people were concerned, at Kaer Morhen, in their preparing him for the Path. They had proven as dangerous or more so than the monsters, in a variety of unpleasant ways. And that had been before even the pogrom, back when Witchers had been more or less treated better than they were now. The better part of his scars had probably come from people. Women especially, he silently noted, absently rubbing his itching, mutilated cheek. He had learned quickly not to underestimate them... not having grown up around any. He hadn't even seen one before until he first set out on the Path as a young man. All he had known was what the older Witchers had told him, which had admittedly been biased and not always helpful.

Then Syanna rummaged and brought out something he hadn't been expecting. The sight of the paper was entirely welcome, liable to save them a good deal of trouble, at least. Less complications on the Path, and another break by destiny. Assuming those they used the paper on swallowed the story, and word hadn't spread from Toussaint, the search for them expanding. Given the Duchess' reputation, she was liable to call for bounty hunters and such if her beloved knights in shining armor failed at their task. Though he welcomed the prospect, bumbling fools or not he had little desire to harm naive, well meaning knights. Not a moral restraint that would have to apply to professional, cutthroat bounty hunters. At any rate, it was liable to be enough to get them to Nazair, at least. She had certainly thought ahead for their journey, thankfully, had not fled without thinking it through. The Witcher chuckled under his breath when she tucked it back away, slowly shaking his head, taking another drink of his Mahakaman Spirit, raising it towards her as if in a toast, smiling faintly, before speaking again.

"Your little sister will probably blow a gasket for that alone, have another royal temper tantrum, if she finds out. Heard from Wolf how she can get. Never mind us vanishing suddenly. Still, there's a tool for every task, an old Witcher proverb, we'll make good use of that seal. Of everything we got. Might not have to mind control or erase as many memories now, at least. I do try to restrain myself, where using magic on others is concerned. Enough scheming bastard mages in the world running around abusing the stuff as it is."

@starwrittenfates

"Mmm. Lucky us. Always welcome to have something good to look forward to on a journey. Aside from the no less welcome prospect of dragging Stregobor from his tower and hunting down Eltibald, of course. Sounds like a plan then, pretty lady."

Eskel's deep, calm voice returned to the dark haired noblewoman with a nod and faint smirk on his marred visage, enhanced senses picking up her quickened pulse at his flirtation. Silently pleased to have such an effect. Well, at least the interest seemed to be genuine and mutual. Time would tell where it would lead, but he had a fairly confident feeling which direction, by now. He was no more innocent than she was. The wink didn't hurt the odds either. For now, he willed himself to focus on the present, taking things one matter at a time. He went to fetch some leftovers from the other night's stew while she prepared herself a breakfast, taking the time to heat up his stew before he dug in, along with eating some bread and having some Mahakaman Ale. Perfect early morning breakfast for a Witcher. From her past experiences Sylvia Anna was used to roughing it at least... he seriously doubted her lavish younger sister could undertake a similar journey without luxuries. Between bites and sips, the Witcher looked outward to the mouth of the cavern, focusing his senses outside to the early morning light. Sensing the weather and movements of the wind and animals amid the trees, before nodding with satisfaction, viper eyes returning to her lovely sapphire pair and low tone speaking up again between bites.

"Weather seems like it will be on our side, at least. For the moment. Should make good progress today. Hopefully be around human civilization by nightfall. Of course that will present other challenges... but never been adverse to those. Survived this long facing them daily. Though I'll grant this is unfamiliar territory, unfamiliar folk. Get the feeling my Axii Sign is going to see a fair amount of usage, in Nilfgaardian territory."

@starwrittenfates

[shyrose57]

Brothers anon, im gonna start combing the two separate submissions again cause its getting too short to have them separate I think?

1: His possession messed with memories Ranbob had before, so memories of school friends or playing with Ran were distant to erased. Though after Dreams possession it was also harder to make and keep memories. But thankfully as Ranbob was recovering from Dream and got futher away making memories came eaiser to him, though he'll never get back the memories he lost. 

3: Oh he would very quickly grow to regret his decision, but it would be funny. And Benjamin would later admit that while it was annoying and stressful, it was also fun and he was very happy to have his two families meet and generally get along. 

8: Everyone is just in shocked silence before Cletus just goes "YEAHHHHHHHHHH!" Oddly happy that Ranboo committed so much arson. Oh definitely, after all the outcasts of society where put there. Of course people would make such negative rumors about Mizu and treat the people as the scum of the earth. Though this also means, people don't know what happened in Mizu, and anyone who knows, view it in a more happy and a "Their finally gone" type of way, then viewing it as the tragedy it was. 

Spoons is a card game technically. A group of people sit in a group and everyone gets 4 cards, and you keep discarding at least 1 card of yours to the person on your left, who then does the same to their person on their left, the last person in the group puts a card into a discard pile. The goal is to get 4 of the same cards, and once someone gets 4 of the same cards, that person goes and grabs a spoon in a pile in front of them (let's say there's 5 players, theres only going to be 4 spoons cause there's always a spoon less than the people playing), once they grab one anyone can grab a spoon. And the person who doesn't get a spoon gets a S added to them, once Spoons is spelled the person gets out of the game, and a spoon gets removed to continue the game. Basically for flowers its played the exact same way but with flowers in the middle expect for spoons.

11: I just imagine Dream sulking in a corner as you yell at him and him going like "well I didn't know…" as he kicks a stone. And he wasnt sure what it was, but quickly jumped on the idea that maybe it was the fact that Ran was still alive somewhere, and that that's causing Ranbob to willingly let himself become weak and defy him. Causing Dream to become angrier at Ran and punish Ranbob harder. 

----

3: During the brothers fight in the storm, and after everyone runs off to find Ranbob, Ran is left alone. And he decides to just wander off into the storm, not protecting himself from the rain so he does get burnt. The whole time he's lost deep in thought and isn't really paying attention. He continues to wander for a whole day unfollowed (because after the Gladiators and Fishermen came back to the cave after finding Ranbob they are in no rush to find Ran and decide to look for him after the storm passes, which takes a full day) and at some point Raq finds him wandering. Which Raq then uses Rans distraction to his advantage and attacks him. At first only really the gladiators where concerned when they found Ran gone. But once they found him blinded and terrified everyone felt awful and a looming sense of guilt. And everyone continued to feel that way, even after they got the antidote and Ran started to see again.

4: They would just leave Ranbob alone and check in on him every now and again. But generally let him deal with it himself. They'd feel guilty leaving him alone, but they also know that they can't really do anything for him as their not prepared or briefed on how to help him in this situation. 

10: Oh definitely, even with Ran blinded they would've been kicked out immediately for fighting, without even a second glance. Dont forget, Ran still cares for his brother. And maybe, losing his sight made him face the side of him that wanted to become family again with Ranbob, maybe it brought enough to light that he just can't ignore it anymore. Mostly only negative potions can be permanent, like posion, blinding, wither, and nausea (I know the last like 3/2 are effects but they've also found a way to make effects into potions.). You already know what a antidote for blindness would be. A antidote for wither would be, a ghast tear (actually a basic ingredient for almost every antidote), blaze powder, and glistening melon to make a overpowered healing potion. Antidote for posion would be ghast tear, swiftness (so it acts fast to get rid of the posion), and the 3rd ingredient depends on what kind of posion it  was (posion that has a side effect of constricting or filling the lungs with water? Pufferfish and Turtle shell for last ingredients. Posion that has weakness? Blaze powder, and glistening melon) And antidote for nausea would be ghast tear, and potion of slowness to allow the person to slowly feel better, so their nausea doesn't hit them all at once before disappearing, which can cause them to throw up or have side effects. 

13: Thats exactly what they did. 

14: Jackie will 100% attempt to fight God and no one can stop him. :) (to be honest im not sure yet, I know I want to do more with Raq and have the idea that maybe he could be the person that finds Dream and gets him out of Mizu, but that's pretty often used in stories and I want to try to think of something more unique. Maybe I'll have it so Raq actually manages to capture the brothers or at least one of them and uses them as blackmail?)

15: When Ranbob was a child and Ran was just a baby Ranbob would often take Ran out of his crib and take him to go watch the fish swim by. When Ran was old enough he'd follow Ranbob everywhere, even a few times he managed to sneak into Ranbobs class room and almost wasn't caught. Ran got extremely clingy one day and managed to gather his haunting all up into his arms and carried them around, even though he was obviously struggling. And Ranbob used to complain about his teachers and idiotic classmates whenever he got home, which is funny when you consider Ran was very impressiable at the time and Ran started mimicking Ranbob, leading to him cursing, much to Ranbobs dismay. 

And im curious, do you have any questions that I havent answered? Or do you have any ideas for anything? I'd love to hear whatever you have to say about anything honestly!

Course! I dont have much lore wise other than they go to Kelalen and when they hear Dream is still around they decide to stay back to help fight him. But the idea I have is that Karl is just kinda hanging with everyone I listed, talking about allies or treaties when his time traveling clock/watch starts to go off, and he panics, but sadly in his haste to stop it he makes it worse and it grabs everyone, where they end up in the future. After hours of confusion and explaining they calm down. When 2 days later they find the Gladiator and Fishermen group, at first Karl is strongly against going to then for help, but everyone basically ignores him and go to ask for help. Hours of explanation and proof giving later the GF (Gladiator and Fishermen, got tired of writing it out) group sadly tells them that they cant really help. Until Ran (who was previously gone searching the surrounding area and making sure it was safe) appears high up on a tree (cause I just can't get the image of Ran on a tree and looking comfortable and confident as hell out of my head), and says that maybe Kelalen can help, if not going to Foolish may be a good alternative. Isaac, and Grievous are extremely against going back (at this time a 2 months have past since they left Kelalen)n saying it could be dangerous but Ran just aboustely shoots them down, along with Watson and Jackie agreeing with Ran, and Karls group agreeing to it. They head off to Kelalen. And Jackie is extremely excited at the potential of going to see Foolish finally. And it'd probably be like a sub au where the brothers au is the main backbone for it but at a certain point it separates from the au and becomes its own.

1: Okay, ouch. Can you imagine if Ran brought one of those memories up, and just had Ranbob look confused, or horrified, depending on how quick he realizes what happened? How would Ran react to that realization, both before and after he forgives Ranbob?

3: If nothing else, everyone got some laughs from it-even Benjamin, once his friends were far, far away from his family and not able to teach them more chaos. 

8: Cletus, why are you so happy? Do you just enjoy knowing chaos existed back then? Are you an arsonist? What’s up with you? 

Also, wow. Not cool, other city people, that’s very mean.

Spoons sounds like it’s interesting, I might try it sometime. Did the group just have those cards on them? What other games did they have?

11: Good, put Dream back in the corner, I’m gonna be yelling more. Because, seriously dude? I know you probably exist solely out of spite, but c’mon. Admittedly, from a certain point of view, it could be considered amusing that your first thought was that Ranbob was making himself weaker out of defiance/spite but like. From a more responsible and mature viewpoint, that’s incredibly stupid, and I-just. Buddy, hate to tell you, but I’m pretty sure that’d just be a you thing. Besides you were in Ranbob’s head, didn’t he think Ran was dead? It doesn’t even make sense. Good lord, I’m half-tempted to get the broom and chase you around like you’re a particularly unruly barn cat. 

------

3: First of all, that sounds really scary for Ran. Second of all, are we getting an overprotective arc?

4: Kind of sad, but understandable, they’re dealing with the situation as best they can.

10: Even if the group was provoked by the townspeople? Potions sound really cool, wish I could make those in real life, tbh.

13: W-what do you mean ‘that’s exactly what they did’? Anon, is your friend, like, a legit gremlin? I’m spooked. 

14: Foolish takes one look at Jackie, wearing a smile that exactly matched Tubbo’s when he was about to cause chaos, and immediately nopes out of that. He knows that face, and he will not be getting tangled into a fight with a goblin child today, no sir. I’m sure Jackie tries regardless though. (Also, that sounds like that goes horribly, do we get an overprotective ender-sibling, for whoever gets captured or used as blackmail, if that’s what you do?)

15: I love all of these so much, oh my gosh. Baby Ran seeing the fishes and following his big brother around. Poor Ranbob’s face when his baby brother cursed one day, Ran trying to carry all of his haunting. I’m in tears, honestly. 

Umm...I can’t think of anything right now, to be honest. If I ever do have a question or idea though, I’ll through it on the Brothers AU tag for you to check out, I guess. 

Oh, this sounds really cool. The part about them just ignoring their local time traveler when they’ve just time traveled particularly amuses me, as does Jackie wanting to see Foolish-I feel like Foolish may be a little more than terrified to see both Tubbo and Jackie back, honestly. Why was Ran willing to help them so much? What did they do to offer proof? How did Ranbob react once they proved who they were? How does all the group get along? Are they Ranboo’s haunting, and if so, if Ranboo gets close with his descendants, does he merge his hauntings with theirs? How does the time group feel about the Brothers fighting, and Ranbob’s possession?

[cyclone-rachel]

“You seem to be very close with your mother.” Brandon remarks, after finishing Kenny’s soup.

“Yeah.” Kenny says, Brandon not meeting his eyes. He ignores the soup thing- it’s petty, especially considering that Brandon’s risked his life just to get to Earth, and he surely has an appetite like Kara’s given how many chips he’s eaten so far. And besides, Kenny can always get more soup from the fridge. Brandon… really can’t. “I mean, of course, she’s my mom.”

(He didn’t elaborate on all the times that they’ve felt distant- when the strain of keeping secrets from her gets to be too much, when he has to keep making up excuses and pretending to be somewhere he isn’t. He’s just lucky that, sometimes, he and Kara actually do study- and that his mom likes Kara, and is glad that she’s in his life.)

“That... is not applicable to every mother and child relationship.” Brandon murmurs, from where he sits on the air mattress Kenny had made for him. (Well, to be fair, Brandon had helped move it soundlessly out of a closet in the hallway- with his ring, which Kenny was still incredibly curious about- since either of his parents would want an explanation as to why he suddenly needed the mattress, and he didn’t want to have to deal with that when there were so many other important things going on.

But they’d gotten it into the bedroom, Kenny had inflated it, and now they’re here- Brandon sitting cross-legged on his mattress, soft-looking black pants and a long-sleeved shirt with an upside-down triangle of circles on it serving as his pajamas, and Kenny on his own bed, wearing his own pajamas and still very much awake and hoping to talk to Brandon about… well, everything about him.

Or at least, as much as he wants to tell him. Kenny isn’t going to pry.

Too much.)

Kenny isn’t sure whether or not he’s supposed to have heard that- or whether Brandon wanted him to.

“Do you mean yours?”

Brandon sighs.

“Without getting into specifics... yes.” he says, twisting his ring around his finger- the ring that he still hadn’t explained, that was somehow able to lift a spaceship into the air while causing him no strain whatsoever. “Admittedly, I have not seen her in several years. And, by now, she may not even be a-“

He cuts himself off.

“There is still a chance that she could have changed, since we last saw one another. But I highly doubt it.”

“Why?”

“You want me to get into specifics.” Brandon notes, raising an eyebrow. “That is fair. Very well, then. My family... does not have a good reputation, across the galaxies. We- they- are collectors of entire worlds. Conquering them, simply to have them, shrink them down and hold them in bottles. Like... what is the Earth trinket... snowglobes.”

Kenny hopes that Brandon doesn’t notice how much he’s staring right now, trying to absorb all of this information, but he doubts that too.

“Really?”

“Yes. Trust me, it is far more horrific in person. And my mother...” Brandon continues. “She perpetuated that. Even when I was a young child, just about exactly eight years old, she expressed a need for me to follow in her footsteps, take my place alongside her.”

“And you didn’t.” Kenny answers. “Did you?”

“If you can believe it, there was a time when I wanted nothing more than to be like my mother. Becoming exactly who my f- who so many worlds feared. I thought that I had no other choice, so why not be who they expected?”

Brandon looks at him, an expression on his face that tells Kenny that he’s said those words before, in defense of himself- and makes him wonder what else he isn’t saying. Then, he continues.

“But eventually, yes, things changed. I saw that I could change, and use my abilities for good, in defiance of everything my family had done. I... became familiar with one specific hero, who gave me hope. They made me believe that even I had a second chance. And since then, they have been my beacon through the darkness.”

He smiles, looking past Kenny, like he’s Kara and using X-ray vision. But in an instant his eyes are back on Kenny, his face turned serious.

“What about you, Kenny Li?” he asks- and right then, Kenny doesn’t remember if Brandon was told his last name.

“What about me?” Kenny echoes, not sure what his guest wants to know. “My life is way less exciting. I mean, before Kara, I was just trying not to get pushed around by jocks, and accidentally learning their secrets to get them to do me favors. But then…she invited me to sit at her lunch table, we started talking, and I invited her to see my new telescope, out in the woods. That’s when everything changed.”

Brandon is looking up at him, intently, as he’s speaking- and when he pauses, Brandon seems to be waiting for him to continue.

“Or… actually, maybe everything changed when I got a picture of her- saw her flying. I always thought she was special, just never guessed she might be…”

“An alien?”

Kenny nods.

“And I thought for a while, afterwards, that she… if someone found out about her, and she knew, she would leave. Or someone would take her- the point is, I thought I would lose her. I thought she’d move away from Midvale and go somewhere she could train to use her powers- maybe directly to Metropolis, to Superman. And I didn’t think she would want to stay with me.”

Brandon looks up at him, resting a hand on Kenny’s mattress.

“Of course she would want to trust you. I’m… I’m psychic- I read her thoughts, she cares for you a great deal. And as much as you think she is the strongest girl you’ve ever met, she thinks similar of you- you make her feel like nobody else, and you are remarkable in your own right. Take pride in that.”

Kenny smiles, but soon turns serious again, looking at Brandon and remembering why he’s here in the first place.

“Brenda said that you guys were escaping from a dying world.” Kenny notes. “Was your family responsible for that, too?”

Brandon stares at him for a moment, then blinks, and looks up at him once more, with recognition in his eyes.

“As a matter of fact… they were.” He says, turned away from Kenny, fiddling with his ring again. “One of them, whom I thought was dead, in actuality was not. And he created a plague that would affect all… of our kind other than himself. Brenda and I were fortunate to escape in time.”

“Sounds like. Well, at least you’re on Earth now, and can go anywhere you want once we fix your ship, right?”

“Indeed.” Brandon says. “Thank you, Kenny Li. For taking me in, and helping me get what I need.”

“No problem.” Kenny answers, meaning it.

Anything to help Kara.

And it’s also nice to have another friend, at least for a little while. Especially when this one is an alien who looks more like me.

He smiles at him again, before lying back on his bed, and turning out the light.

“Night, Brandon.”

“Goodnight, Kenny.”

(Querl, for his part, considers telling Kenny everything- but he has already said too much, and knows that he will probably need to erase at least Kara’s memories of this encounter before they say goodbye to one another. Still, however, though even this conversation was probably unnecessary… it is at least nice to have someone trustworthy to talk to, in this time)

[otherworldly-healer]

Raine sat down at her office desk warily examining the envelope that held her name on it. She had placed it there earlier after checking the mailbox. Taking a shower and getting into clean clothes after trekking through the forest all day was a more pressing matter. Then dinner, lesson plans, and a few chores stole her attention. After everyone else had returned to their rooms for the night she finally got around to investigating the letter. 

She noted it didn’t have a return address. It was rare if ever that she got mail that wasn’t some sort of advertisement for a business or an announcement of activities at the University or other community hub. Most correspondence was much easier on the telephone or meeting in person, so whatever it was it must have been formal. She unfolded her reading glasses and turned on the lamp to begin reading.

Professor Raine Sage,

I've been told I'm better at expressing myself in written word than spoken, and I'm inclined to agree. Even so, I'm not looking forward to writing this; I haven't written a letter in some years, and our relationship is complicated enough in normal circumstances.

I'm writing several letters now as a contingency. In the event I should disappear from the island before I find the courage to say these things aloud, I've given instructions for them to be delivered. If you're reading this, then I am no longer in Spirale. I suppose it's possible that you're reading this letter while I'm still here, but as I've entrusted these letters to one of my dearest and most reliable friends, I won't bother entertaining the thought.

A part of me is grateful that I won't have to deal with the fallout when these letters are first opened. For that, and for everything, I am sorry. On the other hand, it's entirely possible that I will return tomorrow and have to face the immediate consequences. But there's no way to predict what will happen, and I'd rather have those difficult conversations than leave, potentially for good, without a word.

Out of all of Spirale's victims from our world, I chose to write to you because I trust you are the most capable of understanding my intentions.

In my wake, I've left a path of devastation almost as wide as Yggdrasill's. I can't excuse the things I have done, nor would I want to; to try would be an insult to every life sacrificed, and despite what you may think of me, I cannot accept such callousness.

And yet, I must try to convince myself that there is a way to atone - that I am not irredeemable. I must believe that I can make a difference. It's naive - childish, even - but if I consider my current actions as useless, what hope can I have to actually make a change?

If I can't undo the past, I will do what I can to better the future. That is what I believe. It has taken me six years since my arrival to put it into words, but I believe I have felt that way deep down for a long time.

Unfortunately, I won't be able to act on that belief in Spirale, at least for some time. And that brings me to the point of this letter: I want you to remind me of this.

When people leave and return, their memories are sometimes altered or erased. I believe it due to the nature of the differing timelines between the island and its targeted worlds, but that's all I can say. Ironically, I can't remember if I ever told you this. It's a very real possibility that, should I return at all, I will not remember any of the experiences here that have shaped me.

I can remember who I was when I first arrived. The thought of being like that again scares me.

That isn't to say I expect you to restore my memories, nor do I expect you to try. If I do return as the bitter, apathetic person I was before, I doubt you would be able to convince me anyway. I simply ask that you tell me what I have said here - that no matter how hopeless it must seem, I must try.

I won't burden you with any other messages, though you are free to tell the others what I've written here. I pray that we get the chance to meet again, even if it is while I am someone else.

Take care, Yuan Ka-Fai

She had to reread the contents a few times before fully processing what was written. Even then she felt a rush of conflicting emotion that she couldn’t quite describe. He was really gone? Just like that?

She couldn’t understand him. He would write to her because he felt she was the most responsible one? He didn’t say that he trusted her personally, just that he trusted that she could understand his intentions. It made some sense, admittedly, rather than burdening one of the younger members of the group. Still, she couldn’t help but feel weighed down by this task that he had given her. To always have to be the mature voice, to be composed and weigh all perspectives, felt a bit unfair. Yet she had never been one to ever vocalize that she was being overwhelmed. Yuan and her weren’t close. Would this task not be better served to someone else? Was she just a last-case scenario, in case others had disappeared as well? Surely that must be all.

She had had little reason to keep checking her phone during these eclipses. Ever since Genis had arrived, she had little reason to keep obsessing over who had come and gone from this island. And while she felt a stinging loneliness when Colette and a melancholy when Six had disappeared, they had come back the same people. In her experience it seemed to happen more often than not. She knew from prior conversations with Yuan himself that it was possible for people to come here differently—Mithos had once been from four thousand years ago, and many of her companions such as Sheena had come from different times in their Journey. 

Of course it was possible. But she didn’t want to think about it. If she allowed herself to, that bubble of optimism that she’d been trying to build would surely burst again-- as fragile as it already was. She wanted to enjoy her time here to just be herself. She wanted to have a home and not have to be a historical figure, a leader for her race. Despite setbacks she was happy here; at times more content than she had ever been in her entire life. But time and time again the reality of this place threatened to take that all away. How long would it be before someone she was closer with would be spirited away back to their home plane? What if they came back, but had no recollection of ever meeting her? 

No. No. No. I’m so damn tired of starting over! That’s all my life has been! Hit a dead end, regroup, turn on my heel, and set off again. Pretend that it doesn’t hurt. Pretend that it is inevitable. Right when I’d been foolish enough to begin to feel comfortable in this city.

Yuan had done it again. What a frustratingly cowardly man. Even going so far as to say he’d be glad that he wasn’t there to deal with the fallout of the letters. He would speak with her briefly and leave her with some worrying information while having no answers for what to do with said information. No plan of action. Just a looming threat to be wary of. Raine could feel anger welling up as she ran her hand through her bangs. Her fist pounded the table, rattling the cup set next to her on a coaster. 

Of course after four thousand years he had never had answers before, why should she expect it to be any different now? A man of inaction. Indifference. And yet he still insisted that he had changed. Waver had insisted that his past didn’t matter in this place, but she couldn’t agree. Experiences and memories formed who people were. Yuan had admitted to his mistakes but she hadn’t known him well enough to tell if he had really devoted himself to changing. Besides her, how many of her companions had he approached and expressed his desire to atone? To build that better future?

She still had so much to say to him. So much to ask him. She hadn’t had enough time. As infuriating as it was, Yuan had been incredibly helpful with acclimating herself to the city. He was a straightforward voice that helped dispel confusion. She wanted to understand him better, but to the professor it felt like he was always trying to hide from her and the rest. Complicated was right. She had respect for him. She hated his guts. They shared more commonalities as half-elves that she cared to admit. Raine could never forgive how he hardened his heart to overlook the damage he caused through negligence. How turning into an angel had tainted him and his view of mortals as expendable. She was conflicted. In another time and place, she could have even seen them as friends with their common interests. It was just too hard to divorce him from his past actions in her mind. Not completely.

Yet…she had to admit there was a heart there somewhere deep down. She’d seen it, briefly, on more than one occasion. The one time that Yuan had let a glimmer of his emotions show. That one argument they had at the club. He was desperate to make amends. He repeated that wish here in the letter. To acknowledge how much of a hand he had in perpetuating the cycle of violence and hatred in Aselia. Even if those things could not be forgiven, at least he was not running from them. That alone proved that he had changed. 

She didn’t want to believe that it was too late for anyone. 

She needed to have hope that people could change if they wanted to. 

She refused to ever let go of that plea.

In her eyes he wasn’t irredeemable. However, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still too scared to actually face any of them. Meetings were always sporadic, and they had spent a fair share of their time working in the same place avoiding one another. She’d said it time and again…adults were troublesome creatures, stubborn and often stuck in their ways. Deeply complex and entangled in their own doubts and fears. Her included. She had to have compassion for that.

“You better believe that I will hold you to that, Yuan,” she whispered. Raine let the letter rest on her desk, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her eyes stung as if forcing back tears.

No, I refuse to be upset by this!

...though it was much too late.

 The half-elf closed her eyes and took a deep breath, leaning back in her chair and staring at the ceiling. Her hands curled around the sides of the letter, causing the page to wrinkle. “To write me of all people a last message. What are you thinking? It sounds almost like a will.” She reached over to her phone to check the contact list and…sure enough, Yuan’s name had vanished.

“If you come back with all of your memories intact, you’ll truly be sorry.” She folded the letter back into its envelope and took her glasses off. 

“Whatever happens next, don’t ever stop trying. You’ve gotten too far to give up now.” But she was merely talking to herself. Her words would no longer reach him. Hopefully someday in the future she would have the opportunity to say that to his face.

[maskyartist]

Smoke Break (RWBY Necromancer Clockwork Orange)

yall @bowl-of-shortness REALLY got me with this new Necromancer AU content finally i have an excuse to write my favorite rarepair :D

tw: heavy descriptions of smoking, if that messes with u then tread with caution

=====

Ozpin was used to Roman's nightly breaks. Leaving their bed to head to the balcony to get some air. At least that's what he claimed, but Ozpin knew there was more to it. Most nights are fine. He can handle it. He can handle the warm left of the bed slowly growing colder until Roman came back to pull him right back into his arms. It was routine.

But tonight was...different, to say the least. Nightmares never play fair, and comfort doesn't come easy to cold sheets and a chilly back. So, Ozpin wraps the blankets around his shoulders and shuffles off to the outside where he knows his lover sits.

Just as expected, there Roman stands, leaning against the wall, sitting on the cold concrete. Winter in Vale can be cruel, but Roman either wasn't awake enough to realize how cold it was or simply didn't care. He sat there in his pajamas and brought the cigar between his fingers back to his lips. Ozpin stands in...not shock. It's not shock, but it's not...not surprise, either. He had a feeling this was what Roman was up to on his nightly breaks, but to see it in person felt more...obvious. A sign he chose to not seek out.

"Those are bad for you, you know." Is Ozpin's first word, making Roman jolt at the sudden interruption of his silence before letting his shoulders relax.

That stupid smirk Ozpin fell in love with graces Roman's tired face. "I wouldn't be doin' it if it were good for me." He teases. "Criminal mastermind here, Ozzy. What're you doin' outta bed, anyways? You look exhausted."

He feels exhausted, but that's not the point. Ozpin shakes his head. "Nightmare. Couldn't fall back asleep. Not without you, at least." He says quietly. When Roman opens an arm, Ozpin easily settles into his side, sitting next to him with the blankets covering his seat so he doesn't need to feel the concrete below. Even with the blankets around his shoulders, Roman's side, his arm, it's more comforting then anything else. Ozpin easily leans into his warmth and sighs.

"Well aren't you sweet." Ozpin pouts as Roman presses a kiss to the top of his head. One day he'll hit his growth spurt, then he won't be laughing anymore. "You wanna talk about it? It's fine if you don't."

Gods no he doesn't want to talk about it. If anything, Ozpin could kill to erase every single memory of Atlas he has. So instead, he simply shakes his head. "...not tonight, please." One day he'll tell Roman. About everything. About what he had to endure. But that day is not today.

Roman, thankfully, nods in acceptance. "Fine by me." He brings the cigar back to his lips, drags slow and deep, and lets the smoke bellow out of his mouth. "You don't gotta tell me anything. I'm always here for you either way." Ozpin always liked these moments. The rare private ones where Roman is able to be sweet with him. It warms his heart and makes him snuggle deeper into his side.

But his shoulders are still tense, and his back is still straight, and there's a shiver that doesn't come from the cold making Roman tighten his grip on Ozpin just a tad in hopes of scaring that fear away. It doesn't, but you can't fault the man for trying.

He knows Ozpin's like this after nightmares. All the time, he gets stiff and shaky until he's able to fend off his own demons. And since Roman can't just listen to him, hear what truly goes on in that head of his, he can at least try one thing.

"You want a hit?"

Ozpin whips his head over to Roman, who holds up the cigar expectantly. "...do I what?"

Roman smirks at him. "A hit, babe. A drag. Whatever you call it." He wiggles the cigar between his fingers teasingly. "Why do you think I smoke? Calms me down. Helps me relax so I can head back to bed. You look like you could use it." A pause as the smirk slips off his face. "You don't have to. I'm just offering."

Ozpin pauses, looking away as he thinks on it. Really thinks on it. All his life he was told smoking was bad. That's just to be expected. And Roman's coughs aren't...the best when he does have them. But anytime he comes back, he smells like nicotine and it's becoming so comforting to the silver haired Necromancer, and he always sleeps easy, barely even a twitch in the night. It clears his mind, at least that's what Ozpin's gathered. So maybe...

"How do you do it?" He asks, feeling a little stupid when Roman chuckles at the question. Though, that changes when he sets the cigar between his lips for him.

"Breathe in through your throat." He can do that. He can totally do that. Ozpin does as he's asked, slowly breathing in. The smoke feels thick and there's a tingle in the back of his throat. "As deep as you can." He keeps going until he feels lightheaded. Before he can think of coughing it all up, Roman uses a hand to close his jaw. "Hold it. Just a little longer, babe." The holding isn't all that fun, admittedly, but he can almost feel the smoke drift further down into his lungs. How unsettling.

Finally, Roman releases his mouth, letting Ozpin cough it all up into big cloud-like piles of smoke that drift off into the sky. Roman can't help but laugh, making Ozpin hit his chest offendedly as he tries to get rid of the invading feeling in his lungs. "You-!" Cough cough. "-are so-!" Cough cough cough. "-RUDE!"

Roman snickers still, even when Ozpin calms down. "Sorry! Sorry! I didn't mean nothin' by it, doll." He shakes his head. "Don't worry, I was the same way when I started. It gets easier."

That's...a tad unsettling. Your body adapts to the constant nicotine. It makes it easier for you to continue the addiction. The habit.

Even still, Ozpin sighs and holds his hand out. "Let me try for myself."

They spend a good ten minutes like that, Ozpin leaning against Roman, guarded from the cold of the world and the cold of his memories as he holds the cigar close to his lips, breathes in, and breathes out. It's a horrible habit, he knows that, but Gods only know if he'll ever be able to kick it. This is the calmest he's felt in years. And his sleep once they return inside, cuddled up together under the chilly blankets, is practically perfect. No dreams to be seen. Just a quiet, dark, empty sleep.

The next morning, Roman leaves a few cigars on the bedside table. An offering. A gentle nudge, but not a push. Not a force. Ozpin could always leave them behind for Roman to gather up for himself later.

Instead, he heads outside for a morning smoke and forgets his worries all over again.

[crushpdf]

I was tagged by @anoiseofgloriousdisdain to list my seven comfort movies. I’m actually going to use this as an excuse to practice my gif skills and make a gifset for each! Will do after I finish up the last of my TRC prompts (rip).

All of these movies I’ve seen at least three times! They’re definitely films that I put on when I’m sad and need a pick-me-up, and they make me feel all warm again. But full disclosure, some of them are actually super intense and morally fucked -- not all happy feel-good movies.

Tagging people up here and then putting under a read-more because uh, it got long. @dameferre @sunflowremoji @halflingkima @stamatis @betterbeehufflepuff @peoniesandsmiles

Not necessarily in order:

1. Kill Your Darlings, John Krokidas 2013

The portrayal of the events that inspired Jack Kerouac and William S. Burroughs’ And the Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks, when Allen Ginsberg attended Columbia and helped found The Beat Generation with Lucien Carr, who gets caught up in a nasty act of murder and homophobia.

A comfort film for me because the direction is exactly my aesthetic to a T. It’s the right colors, the right pacing, the right characters (fucked up queers making bad life choices!), the right time period, the right music, the right editing -- it’s just the exact kind of art I’d like to make, only I’d like to make it with less white men.

2. Matthias & Maxime, Xavier Dolan 2019

A French-Canadian film by my absolute darling Xavier Dolan who once again is a one-man show, writing, directing, producing, editing, and starring in this film. Lifelong friends Matt and Max share a kiss for a student film, and it unravels their relationship as they grapple with what they mean to each other.

Okay this film got panned but I love it. There’s such a dichotomy between ultra-realism, with this gang of friends all just talking over each other and actors fucking up their lines and stuff like that, and high art with these intense long shots of the landscape and dramatic music playing. It’s also one of those films where you cannot tell if it’s going to end happy or sad and I love the tension.

3. Pride and Prejudice, Joe Wright 2005

I mean. I assume everyone knows this movie. Rich brooding man falls for smart independent woman. Everyone is beautiful and haughty.

The score. The colors. The fact that everyone is beautiful and haughty. It’s funny, it’s vibrant and real, it makes me feel warm.

4. The Pirates of the Caribbean franchise, specifically Curse of the Black Pearl and Dead Man’s Chest

Everyone knows PotC. Swaggering pirate meets long-dead pirate’s long-lost son, who is in love with smart independent woman.

The high seas. The romance. Yo ho yo ho a pirate’s life for me. The ships clashing. The you best start believin’ in ghost stories Miss Turner. The skeleton pirates and their underwater march. Will Turner seizing his destiny. Johnny Depp is admittedly very good in the role and Orlando Bloom walks around with heart eyes and Keira Knightly does that thing with her mouth while wearing low-cut corsets. What’s not to love.

5. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Michel Gondry 2004

I’m actually not going to go into plot because this is one of those films that I believe should be watched blindly the first time, and then with rapt attention the second time. Essentially, Joel chooses to undergo an experimental treatment to erase the memories of his ex-girlfriend Clementine. It’s a love story.

The love story is achingly beautiful, and the characters are achingly real. So flawed! They have so many flaws! They have more flaws than virtues! And yet you’re rooting for them so badly. It gives me a lot of hope and maybe that’s why it’s become a comfort film.

6. The Social Network, David Fincher 2010

Mark Zuckerberg gets a new boyfriend and Eduardo Saverin sues him for damages to a broken heart.

I was obsessed with this movie when it came out and I have most of it memorized and honestly I just think that alone is why it’s such a comfort film - it’s just familiar and homey at this point. But Andrew Garfield and Jesse Eisenberg give amazing performances in all honesty, and the script is, dare I say, flawless.

7. The Harry Potter franchise, specifically Order of the Phoenix if I had to choose

I mean. If we’re talking comfort movies. Watching a HP movie is always going to feel like coming home <3

[starstruckpurpledragon]

So I watched WW84 last night and was very... underwhelmed.

Spoilers below the cut

So, in theory, the movie had an interesting plot and a decent message.  The whole thing revolved around the idea that things gained through lies and cheats are never as satisfying as things gained through honesty and hard work.  That’s the message Hippolyta tries to teach tiny Diana in the flashback at the start of the movie and it’s the message Diana uses the lasso of truth to convey to the world at the climax of the movie.

Unfortunately, the movie itself is riddled with problems.  The most noticeable being the gratuitous racism, which is part of the movie’s ham-handed attempt to tie into the Cold War.  The second most noticeable problem with the movie is that it’s boring.

Yup, it’s boring.  The pacing is terrible and if I hadn’t been watching with someone else I’d have stopped the movie about halfway through because the writing failed to draw me in and get me invested in the characters or in the plot or in... anything at all.

Diana is introduced into the movie proper, after the flashback prologue, flipping around on her lasso, throwing her tiara around (which I do love), and sliding around on her ridiculously heeled shoes like friction doesn’t exist on command.  It’s a shift in her fighting abilities - making her abilities not just superhuman but uncanny-valley unreal - that I had hoped wasn’t as big of a problem as the trailers made it look.  Unfortunately, it’s actually worse in the movie.  All the fight scenes are kind of unwatchable as a result, though none so much as that first fight scene in the mall.

After the mall fight, the illegal black market items the thieves tried to steal wind up at Diana’s workplace, one of which is to be identified by her new coworker Barbara Minerva, who’s sweet and nervous and seems to have a massive crush on Diana.  Diana is standoffish at first but is taken in by Barbara’s kindness and they end up having dinner together.

The whole thing reads as a really cute date - honestly, I’d have loved for her to be Diana’s new love interest, but of course the hero can’t be allowed to stop pining for Chris Pine.  It’s in his name, after all.

Anyway, the item Barbara is supposed to identify turns out to be a wishing stone of the jerkass genie variety.  It gets compared to the Monkey’s Paw at one point.  It grants a joking request for a cup of coffee for an unknown price, grants Diana’s unspoken wish to have Steve back for the price of her powers, and grants Barbara her desire to be more like Diana - powers and strength - in exchange for the kindness that made her so likable. 

And then comes Maxwell Lord who figures out how to loophole abuse the wish-granting system.  He wishes to become the avatar of the stone and it melts right into him, giving him both the ability to grant wishes and to decide what to take in trade.  And if other people make wishes for his sake, then they’ll also be the ones paying the price for his sake.

Meanwhile, Diana is trying to find the stone again.  She’s got Steve back and at least manages to realize that anything powerful enough to be granting these kind of wishes is going to have a major downside.  But neither she nor Steve are self aware enough to realize that there’s now a non-consenting third party in their relationship, otherwise known as that poor man Steve is possessing.  They go to the man’s apartment, look through his clothes, sleep in his bed, and yet can’t even recognize that Steve’s come back to life at this other man’s expense.  Either he’s riding parasite in someone else’s body, suppressing that guy’s consciousness entirely.  Or Steve swapped places, meaning the stone killed a guy to bring Steve back.  Either way, they’re using someone else’s body without permission and Diana’s only concern is making sure she gets to keep Steve this time.  Even he’s not too concerned with the person whose body he’s riding around in - it’s the potential nuclear war that makes him push Diana to reject her wish and let him return to being dead.

This whole thing is portrayed as romantic instead of morally and ethically gross.  Like... these are our heroes?  Seriously?  Are you sure???

The entire part of the movie that took place in Egypt could have been cut and the movie would have been significantly less racist and the plot would have made significantly more sense.  And we could have skipped the nonsensical theft of a jet that Steve shouldn’t be able to fly - which I take as foreshadowing he’s not the real Steve, but a lie based on Diana’s memory of Steve, but is somehow really just an excuse to have the invisible jet show up and have Steve inadvertently tell Diana all she needs to know to unlock the ability to fly later on in the movie.

O_o

Back to our villains.  Barbara’s powers are going to her head.  The stronger she grows, the more her personality is warped.  She fixates on her desire never to be hurt again, but in doing so begins lashing out at others eventually harming those she’d previously been kind to, including her homeless friend and Diana herself.  She views Diana’s attempts to rekindle her compassion and rationality as condescension and insults, leading to Barbara eventually rejecting her humanity entirely by giving up her initial wish in favor of becoming something new, a never before seen apex predator stronger and more capable than Diana.  This leads to her transformation into Cheetah.  (Not that Cheetahs are actually apex predators, but... artistic license?  Whatever.)

Ultimately, though, Barbara isn’t really the most interesting villain of the movie.  She’s kind of a tired trope.  Mousey white woman who’d be gorgeous if she took the time to follow society’s beauty standards envies the seemingly effortlessly beautiful and ambiguously foreign Diana Prince, turns into a bitch when granted the power and beauty she craved, and is eventually defeated because there’d never be enough strength and power in the world to satisfy her - because the safety it represented for her was never real and it could never make her happy because of that fact.  She’d always want more.  

Maxwell Lord, however, is a very interesting villain.  We get some of his backstory at one point.  He grew up ostracized and alone due to abusive parents and peers who bullied him for being Hispanic.  As an adult he tries to erase everything that marks him as not-white, giving into the peer pressure racism exudes on him to blend in.  But his attempt to create the American Dream for himself and his son is falling apart (and heavily implied to be a con job these days) and he’s so focused on being what he thinks his son needs that he doesn’t realize that everything he’s doing is taking him further and further away from the one person who matters to him the most.

It’s rather understandable that he doesn’t care about the negative effects the wishes have on other people because other people have always treated him badly.  And he doesn’t care about the negative effects granting wishes has on him personally, because he always believes with a little more time he can fix everything.  It’s the realization that his son is out there alone and in danger of being killed that makes him reject his powers and his wish - and probably doing a lot more to reverse all the subsequent wishes than anything else - because the one thing at the core of who he is was his love for his son.  His desire for his son to have a better life than he has and to be a better person than he has been.

Honestly, Maxwell Lord might be the only likable character in the movie.  Admittedly, he’s played by Pedro Pascal who is super adorable and I may be biased as a result.

Anyway, there are the bones of a good movie in there.  It’s unfortunate that the whole thing suffered from bad everything else. 

[theshopkeepofremnant]

For JanuRWBY day 19, I present (sort of) a missing scene. I wrote this a while ago; it’s my take/expansion on what Yang went through after the Fall of Beacon. I would say enjoy, but it’s admittedly kind of heavy...

I’m not dead. Part of Yang knew this was an odd assertion to need to make regularly, yet it was one she found that came to her mind unbidden most days. It wasn’t something she used to do before. Before everything had changed such a thought would have made her laugh at its melodrama, would leave her shaking her head and wondering where such nonsense had come from. But that was before her world came crashing down. Yang rarely laughed now, and certainly not at that thought. Where once the spark of her life was undeniable, a thing of such heat and intensity that people often commented that the room felt a few degrees warmer when she entered, now she struggled to find evidence that her body had ever held such a spark at all. In that absence, a reminder was needed to ensure that Yang kept going through the motions of life. In part this was for her dad; he would see her moving around and putting on the facade of a living person so he would feel reassured that she was healing. This was pure farce, but the part of Yang still capable of caring didn't want to cause him any more harm than necessary. Beyond that was habit; years of tending to the endless needs of a mortal body had carved grooves into Yang’s mind deep enough that even her current malaise couldn’t erase. In death, Yang would be free of the Sisyphean task of bodily maintenance, but for better or worse she was stuck with it for now. Thus the reminder. Not exactly a mantra, certainly not a defiant declaration, simply a statement of truth. At first, she had felt like she was answering a question, a plea, but that puzzle belonged to memories too delicate to explore, so it was quickly dropped. Regardless, the statement had taken on a meaning of its own through repetition. Some days she tried to use it as motivation to pick up the shattered pieces of her life and body, to attempt to put them back together into some semblance of a living person, to move on. Those were the good days. Most days, like today, it was merely a fact, empty of joy or sorrow. Today was not a day where she made her declaration aloud. Today it was merely the whisper of a thought. Intentionally formed but lacking the momentum to make it to her lips as she let out a long exhalation. She noticed herself doing that a lot. It wasn’t a sigh. There was nothing wistful in it, no emotional release. It was just a realization that she was holding her breath. Waiting. Not ready for the next to come and signal that the world was still spinning and nothing she did could stop it. She let go of that train of thought. Today was a normal day, normal by her new standards anyhow, and she didn’t want to ruin that. While days like today weren’t worth celebrating they were important not to waste. For there were days when she worried about herself. Days when she felt bitterness and inertia build inside her and in an attempt to fight it off she would take a breath and say it: “I’m not dead.” And all she heard was disappointment. No. Today was not one of those days. She’d had so many of those right when she got to Patch and so many more right after Ruby had left. But Ruby was long gone, and Yang...well Yang was still here. Best not to dwell on the dangers real and imagined Ruby may be facing while Yang struggled to simply exist. There was nothing she could do about them anyway, not anymore. She had always done her best to protect Ruby, to protect her team. Look how that had turned out. No, no dwelling. Not today. Too easy for a day like today to head in the wrong direction. Too easy for memories to drag her down like anchors to the depths of her mind. A place once filled with light and easily navigated, perhaps with a shadow or two on the fringes but nothing fearsome or dangerous, it was now a place she hardly recognized. It stretched infinitely in every direction, an ocean with a capricious sky and no sign of safe haven on any horizon. Even in times of stillness, there was a constant tension, an anticipation of the gentle breeze growing to become a gale as the gray clouds quickly swirled to black and for the momentary respite to be lost in the crash of thunder and waves. Yet the ever-changing surface was not the worst of it.  The true danger lay below those swirling waters as barely seen shadows; leviathans prowling the deep, waiting for her to descend to their realm, knowing that she would find her way there eventually. If not during her waking hours then inevitably during her fitful sleep. Their siren song was at once terrifying and terribly seductive, and Yang did her best to ignore the promise of pain so intense it could bring oblivion. No. Consciously unclenching her hand, realizing that the life raft it sought was not in her bed, Yang forced herself to get up and get dressed. Yang had always enjoyed mornings, before. The air felt fresh and the light seemed purer, there was so much potential. Nightfall was all about endings, conclusions, but mornings were about beginnings. Or at least, they used to be. Now there was just nothing, day bleeding into tortuous night fading back into another identically empty day. All of her beginnings apparently behind her. Yang let out yet another held breath, tied back her hair, and padded out of her room. As she passed Ruby’s door she couldn’t help but feel an ember of shame smoldering in her chest. She still didn’t know if she had done the right thing. She had known Ruby was going, she even took it upon herself to hide it from Tai while Ruby was very unsubtly planning it. At first, she didn’t know quite why she was helping. She certainly didn’t think it was a good idea, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to let it fall apart. Eventually, she realized it was guilt. Not guilt over not going with her. As far as Yang could see those days were over. No, it was guilt at her own seething anger. Deep down, in that place that she didn’t want to recognize as her own, was pure, raw fury at those around her who could just keep living as though nothing had happened. How dare Ruby and the others go off on this quest, full of hope and light, like the world wouldn’t do everything it could to smother that... But Yang couldn’t let herself act on that dark emotion. She couldn’t be spiteful, even then. So maybe she overcompensated. Maybe the right thing to do would have been to let Ruby’s machinations fail, let Tai find out and put a stop to it before it got out of hand, got her hurt. But she couldn’t give into that petty part of her that wanted Ruby to fail, so she hid the coming and going of letters, concealed the very obvious supplies Ruby was collecting, and quietly made sure her little sister would keep that innocent hope for a little longer. Yang may not have felt that hope herself, but she would be damned if she let that darkness inside snuff it out in Ruby. Unfortunately, keeping the monsters at bay had used up so much of her meager store of energy, once so vast she could hardly contain it, that Yang failed in the most basic ways. She was distant, cold, hardly acknowledging either Ruby or Tai during that time. Part of her knew that, but she thought that her efforts should speak for themselves. That she was up and moving at all seemed such a miracle to her that it never occurred to her that those around her would be hurt by her seeming indifference. Yang still regretted that time. Still regretted not telling Ruby that she still loved her, still cared. But she had been so tired at the time, so weighed down by all that had happened, all that now would never happen, that she just couldn’t muster the will to say the words. She hoped her deeds, meager as they were, would speak for themselves. Empathy is so hard when one’s heart is consumed by pain, and Yang had been blinded by pain in all of its forms to the point where she didn’t know how to navigate even this relationship, the most stable she had known in her entire life. So instead of satisfaction that she helped her sister toward her goals, she was left with this shame. Shame at letting her go alone, shame at wanting her to succeed. Shame at wanting her to fail, to come back, defeated. To keep her company in her misery. Yang shook her head, trying to pull herself to the present, tenuous as her grasp on it was. Ruby was gone now, no amount of shame would change that, and it certainly wouldn’t bring her back. That left Tai. Yang felt a fresh wave of guilt every time she thought of her father, once among her closes confidants he now seemed utterly lost faced with the walls Yang had erected around herself. He had never had to deal with defenses before and found himself without any tools to overcome them now. Yang had always intentionally promoted a “what you see is what you get” narrative with most people; obviously there was more below the surface but she found others were more comfortable around her if they thought she was simple, one dimensional and symmetrical. Her dad actually saw her, the real her, so with him, it was the truth that she was what he saw, and Yang always appreciated how easy it was to be herself around him. Ever since she was a teenager and she and Tai had grown close enough that she never bothered with walls or masks, she just told him what was going on inside. Part of her felt bad when she saw his look of pained confusion now when she shut him out; he wanted so badly to help fix his broken daughter, but couldn’t even get close enough to try. The connection that he was so used to simply wasn’t there, and there was about as much hope of fixing that as the CCT network. Part of Yang wanted to console him, to apologize for putting him through this torture rather than letting him patch up her wounds like he would a skinned knee when she was a kid. But another part, that dark pit of rage and hurt, was all too happy to cause misery. She tried to crush those emotions deep within her; tried to compensate as she had with Ruby, but it wasn’t enough. Tai didn’t want anything from her, nothing concrete. He just wanted to help her, but she couldn’t bring down the walls, so he was stuck at arm’s reach. So close but so impossibly far away, and Yang was alone. Alone with her grief, with her darkness, but most of all, alone with her pain. —— Pain. That was the first thing she was aware of when she regained consciousness that night. Pain so extreme she couldn’t locate its source. All-consuming, nerve-rending pain. It was only when she tried to curl up in a ball and felt a weird sense of asymmetry did she look down and to her right. What she saw wouldn’t register as real for several days and at the time she had larger concerns. She looked around frantically and saw chaos. People ran in all directions, loading survivors onto airships that were being brought in from all directions. She looked for her team, her teachers, anyone who could tell her what had happened; if everyone had made it. She didn’t understand how she had come to be here alone, and through the fog of pain could swear that her left hand felt warm, that the air around moved as though filling a void that was occupied but moments ago, echoes of tearful apologies ringing in her ear, of a single pleading command issued from a delicate mouth beneath golden eyes: “You...you can’t die. You can’t.” But those impressions were dim, and the fierce pain from her arm wouldn’t allow her to escape the immediacy of the moment, try as she might.  So instead she searched the chaos around her for a lifeline, anything familiar. It wasn’t long before she saw a shock of blonde hair and realized Sun was striding past where she lay in a makeshift cot, looking about frantically. She reached out with her left, and now only, arm and grabbed his hand, apparently more forcefully than she intended as it nearly took him off his feet. “Where’s Blake?” Yang said through gritted teeth, every motion a fresh agony. Time slowed as Yang watched emotions flash across Sun’s face: surprise, grief, fear, and resignation. Had she known what was coming next she would have savored this moment, pain and all. For though every movement was excruciating, though she had lost so much, hope still burned bright in her chest. “How are you even conscious Yang? You should rest, they’re going to get you on a ship and take you home to...” “WHERE. IS. BLAKE?!” The last was said through gritted teeth as Yang pulled Sun down until his face was inches from her own. She knew that Sun could answer the question, that he was trying to dodge. While part of her was terrified of the answer that guttering spark of hope flickered on. The last thing she had seen before passing out was red. The red flames dancing through the building where she had heard Blake cry out, the red hair of that demon from Blake’s past, his red blade extending from Blake’s torso. She had never felt a rage like that, and through that crimson haze barely even saw him move, didn’t register the severing of her own limb or spilling of her own blood. All she knew was that she was failing, falling. As her whole world came crashing down she found herself in a pool of blood, both hers and Blake’s, with the terrible knowledge that they were going to die and it was her fault. But she was here, alive, so there was more to the story. As she stared at Sun she was certain that Blake’s death would elicit a different response. He would have just told her, right? He’d be heartbroken, a mess, barely able to hold it together. Sun’s feelings for Blake were no secret and he had never concealed a thought in his entire life, so why this hesitation? “She left.” Sun looked stricken, and not solely on his own behalf, Yang could almost see herself reflected back in Sun’s face, could feel her light going out. “...What?” “Once she saw that you were ok, she got patched up and then took off before I could stop her. I don’t know where yet, I’m sorry.” Yang tried to press him further but the blood loss was finally catching up with her. She tried to formulate a thought, anything, but it was all so much, too much. As she lost her grip on consciousness she felt her soul shatter, making a mockery of her body’s condition; her last little spark of hope remaining flickered and went dark along with everything else. ——

The time following was all fractured images and too-loud noises. People coming and going seemingly at random. What seemed like moments after Sun had left but could have easily been years Qrow found Yang, and gently laid a frail girl in a red hood on the cot next to hers. It took Yang a moment to recognize her own sister. It had been so long since she had thought of her like this; for the past few years Yang had seen her grow into an impressive warrior, and seeing her laying so still and quiet reminded Yang that she was still a child, that they all were. Or had been, at least. Yang looked imploringly at Qrow. “Is she...?” She left the question hanging in the air, unable to finish it. Qrow reached out and rested his hand on Yang’s left shoulder, trying not to let her see him inspecting her right side. “She’s ok, you know how tough she is. How are you holding up, firecracker?” The look in his eyes was too much for Yang, she couldn’t answer truthfully and couldn’t bring herself to lie. The pity she saw there ate at her, and she looked away. “What’s going to happen?” was all she could manage. Qrow sighed,  saddened but also slightly relieved to not talk about the goliath in the room. “I’m taking you and Ruby home to recover, there should be an airship available to take us out soon.” “What about Weiss?” Yang asked, noting the odd look in Qrow’s eye. “Her father’s airship is on approach, he’s taking her back to Atlas while things get sorted out in Vale. On our way over here I could have sworn I saw your other teammate in the crowd...” “I only asked about Weiss” Yang cut in. Somehow, despite the copious blood loss her temper still managed to flair enough for her eyes to flash briefly red. “Ok kiddo. I’m going to step out for a bit to check on some things, I’ll be back when it’s time to get you two on board” Some time later Weiss came in and roused Yang. She kept looking over her shoulder as though she wasn’t supposed to be there and despite her best efforts couldn’t stop a renegade tear from sneaking past her guarded eyes. Not much of substance was said, but even on a good day it was tricky to get past her icy defenses, and today was not a good day for either of them. Weiss kept glancing quickly at the tiny, inert form of her partner, concern escaping despite her attempts to remain composed. It was clear to both of them that they were talking to the wrong person, but neither could reach the one they sought.  In the end that knowledge bridged the gap between them more than anything they could have said, and Yang actually took some small measure of comfort when Weiss uncharacteristically, almost tenderly, laid her hand on her forehead and looked her straight in the eyes as she promised that they would all be together again. For a moment Yang almost believed her, and then she, too, was gone. Leaving Yang alone with her grief; alone with her pain. —— Yang’s memories faded out suddenly and she found herself in front of her bathroom sink, the water running for some unknown period while she drifted, her teeth long since brushed. Grimacing at herself in the mirror Yang turned off the tap, replaced her thoroughly rinsed toothbrush, and headed downstairs. Tai was no doubt out and about, running errands or gardening, being painfully normal. Most days Yang didn’t mind the quiet. It gave her space to move around in her solitude, to try to find peace in it if not joy. On days like this she focused on her chores, trying not let her mind wander (with mixed success) so as to avoid brooding. This focus brought about an emptiness of self that Yang savored. She wasn’t Yang Xiao Long, monster hunter defeated at Beacon. She was Yang, the girl figuring out how to use a blasted broom with one hand and doing a wonderful job, thank you very much. If she focused enough she was less even than that, she was an anonymous hand pulling up weeds, or cleaning dishes. Until she wasn’t. Until something interrupted her focus and brought it all back. It could be anything, the flashing red wing of a bird flying by the window, a dark cloud obscuring the sun, or a dropped glass. Whatever the cause, she would suddenly snap back to that night when everything changed. When first her body, and then her spirit were shattered. Scattered. Scarred. Those memories always left her with the sound of her own blood pounding in her ears, the same blood that not so long ago was pooling beneath her, mixing with that of another. And that was when the real pain came. This was the part she couldn’t explain properly to anyone, not really. Her bodily pain had largely passed, doctors and pain killers had seen to that, and even the fear brought on by her new sense of vulnerability was nothing next to reliving that soul crushing truth over and over: Blake was gone. Yang would have gladly given both arms, both legs, her life, anything to keep Blake safe and by her side. According to Sun she was indeed safe, but she was gone, and that fact ate at Yang in a way she couldn’t verbalize. She knew she should have been able to, it was yet another vacancy in her life left by a loved one, but this felt different. Maybe it was because she had honestly thought Blake was different, or maybe it was because she hadn’t realized the depth of her own feelings until that night. The crush had started innocently enough, just a gentle flutter in Yang’s chest as she dragged her sister over to make friends with the quiet girl sitting alone in the corner. No love at first sight, no sign from the gods, just a feeling like a warm breeze on a cold night as a pair of dazzling golden eyes looked up from a book. Then seeing those same eyes hovering above a smirk in the forest, so clearly directed at Yang, choosing. Again that faint heat, like the sun poking out from behind a cloud, just for a moment. It was nice, but it wasn’t something Yang was going to lose her head over. They were partners, that was what mattered, and soon that bond became such an integral part of Yang’s life that she didn’t even notice it most of the time. They could read each other’s bodies in and out of battle so well that they could predict an attack or need for an assist as well as a changing mood or thought. It never occurred to Yang to put a label on it because it didn’t need one. What they had was so natural, so real, even if it was unspoken. Then came that night. Suddenly in a flash all of the words she hadn’t sought came rushing to her mind. Words like forever, like promise, like need and want and cherish. Words like love. And in the moment she saw all that could be and all that could be lost and she acted without hesitation. Better to die trying to defend such things than live without them. But here she was, living without them despite her efforts and well aware that her assessment had been correct. Better to have died. But she hadn’t even managed that, had she? Slamming her fist on the counter Yang brought herself back from memories still fresh, still razor sharp on the edges, still tinted red by blood. Looking down she saw the shattered glass that had triggered this flashback and scowled, more at herself than at it, and went to get the broom. —— Dinner with Tai was quiet, as usual. He did his best to make little jokes and get Yang to banter like they used to. She appreciated that he tried, and told him so, but it rarely yielded any levity. After mostly pushing her food around the plate for a half hour Yang excused herself and went to watch TV. Much of her downtime was spent watching television, especially in the evenings. Not that she really cared what was on, but she could only do so many chores and when she wasn’t moving or doing something it helped if there was some background light and noise to distract her from thinking. Thinking for too long rarely did her any favors. Her nightly ritual was to stay up watching until her dad mentioned once or twice somewhat pointedly that it was late and he was headed to bed. Eventually Yang would go to her own room to appease him but with no intention of sleeping. This was another of those things she couldn’t fully explain to anyone: her hatred of sleep. Even if she had wanted to she could hardly fall asleep before one or two in the morning now, her mind simply too full of unsettling images to allow for rest. And beyond those thoughts lay the dreams. Every night she relived the attack in one form another. Relived her fear, her pain, her helplessness. And at the end of every dream the same thing, a pair of golden eyes, cold where they once were warm, turning from her and disappearing. The dreams were nothing compared to what came next. What Yang dreaded more than almost anything was waking. Every morning, without fail, she would open her eyes to the golden light streaming through her window. She would blink, and yawn, whatever dream had startled her awake fading in the morning light. And then, after two or three heartbeats of life being completely normal, she would remember. Her sleep addled mind would clear and all of weight of the past several months would crash down on her. She would look down at her arm, remember her injury, her defeat. Her loss. Blake. Every day she fought the tears. Some days she actually won. This was the thing no one mentioned to her when they tried to talk about her loss, maybe they didn’t even know. Why couldn’t her traitorous mind just wake her with the knowledge intact? Why that moment of peace, of normalcy, just to have the wounds ripped asunder again and again. Even on her good days these first moments of the day were always the worst. These were the moments that inspired her darkest thoughts. Though she knew she would never do herself any harm, these moments made her wish she could go to sleep and never wake. The words came unbidden, almost mocking, straight to Yang’s lips and out into the air above her head. “I’m not dead” She listened as they quietly echoed through her empty room, felt them resonate harshly in her ears. This was not going to be a good day. —— Most of her days were a blur, with little to differentiate one from another. Yang found that she didn’t necessarily mind feeling disconnected from time, but she noticed that it made her interactions with people somewhat awkward, as if they no longer inhabited the same world, and perhaps they didn’t. Yang found herself referring to the “other day” and talking about something that happened months or years ago, while dredging up memories from minutes or hours ago left her head spinning from the enormity of time in that span. Had she lost her arm mere moments ago, or was she always just a lost, broken, scared girl wandering aimlessly around her childhood home? Was she a ghost, a wraith long dead, going through the motions of a human life and not accepting her own non existence? This was a common musing for Yang, but one particular instance was thrown into sharp relief when it was interrupted by one of the few harsh points of clarity in a time otherwise bereft of temporal landmarks. The first was Ruby leaving, an event that signaled a definite turning point for Yang, a final separation from her old life. The second was this: a package brought to her by a beaming Tai. The arm. Maybe it was his excitement at something that was so emotionally loaded for Yang, or maybe it was just a bad day, but the arm was the last thing she wanted to see. It was a mimicry of what she now lacked, a symbol of all she had lost, and did not have the intended effect. She did her best not to show her anguish, knowing that her father truly meant well and thought this would be exactly the thing she needed to get her back to normal. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that normal was so far outside of her current reality that she couldn’t even conceive of it. Besides, the only way even try to get to normal was back through those dreaded memories, and those were already being forced on her every morning and every night. Why spend any more time with them than absolutely necessary? Even if the arm was perfect, better than the original, did that undo the damage that had been done? She was broken, her body was a puzzle that would always be missing a few crucial pieces. This arm wouldn’t bring her back to a time when she was invincible, when she gladly took damage not only to fuel her semblance, but to prevent those she loved from needing to take it in her place. Now she knew all too well how breakable she was. Worse, she knew how inadequate she was. She had given her body and soul and been found wanting. Now she was alone. Alone, and broken. She looked up at her father’s expectant face. So many emotions warring within her that it was all she could do leave the room without running, fleeing as much from memories of the past as this thing that was supposed to be her future. At the last minute she remembered her father was still standing there and made the appropriate noises of thanks before retreating to her room. Yang could feel a storm blowing in, and as tears formed in response to the thunderheads in her heart she buried her face in her pillow, surrendering herself to the tsunami of emotion that was washing over her. Several hours later exhaustion granted her a temporary respite, but it wouldn’t last. The arm waited patiently for her in its box, unmoved by her reaction. It was a beautiful device made with the utmost attention and care to its form and function, yet somehow not a single thought had been given to what it would represent to the girl who actually had to wear it. —— Eventually, to appease Tai, Yang forced herself to retrieve the arm from the living room. She didn’t know how long that horrid reminder of her failure sat on her bedside table, staring at her, taunting her. Maybe it was a day, maybe it was a month, maybe a lifetime or more. She only knew that abhorrent mockery of everything she lost was dragging her from her self imposed purgatory down to hotter depths. Right as she was reaching a breaking point, ready to stamp a return address on the box the abomination had come in with a note scrawled in her still unsteady left handed writing telling General Ironwood where to shove this miraculous piece of technology, another arrival changed her plans. Changed everything, in fact.   Ever since that package had shown up sleep had been nearly impossible. It was as if the arm sucked up all the air in the room, leaving Yang to suffocate as she tossed and turned, measuring her time spent asleep in minutes rather than hours. One day her exhaustion was too much to stand. Without a word of explanation to Tai she got up from the dinner table and staggered up to her room where she dropped into a deep, if not dreamless, sleep. Some hours later she woke in a cold sweat not to the bright light of morning and chirping birds, as she was accustomed, but to the softer glow of the moon accompanied by uproarious laughter from downstairs. Knowing that sleep wasn’t going to find its way back to her any time soon she decided to head down and seek comfort in the sound of other’s voices. Hoping they would be loud enough to drive out the sound of her memories, that the gravity of their beings would cancel out the pull of that cursed device she pointedly ignored on her way out of her room. Unfortunately for her the sources of that laughter had other plans. She was surprised to find her father in the kitchen with Professors Port and Oobleck, both of them occupying roles in a life she only half remembered these days. They welcomed her warmly, however, and it was nice to see familiar faces that didn’t seem burdened by her condition. Unfortunately, her comfort was to be short lived. It didn’t feel like they had coordinated it, but the discussion became very pointed very quickly, and Yang could tell they weren’t going to let her be. Talk of normalcy, of fear, it was all well and good, and sharing a genuine laugh did lighten her heart somewhat, but none of it penetrated those walls; so sturdy in their first construction and seemingly getting stronger every day. It wasn’t until the men were leaving that everything came crashing down. Ruby. Words said directly to her hadn’t really landed, but the name of her wayward sister spoken when they thought her out of earshot found its way through her defenses, losing no momentum as it struck the very center of her being. She had let her sister run off to Mistral on her own, believing her own fight to be done. At the time it seemed that there was nothing to do. Ruby was their leader, a capable warrior, she was going on a mission and Yang couldn’t stop her. So she let her go, helped her even. At the time it had seemed a noble act but now she saw how wrong she was. Worse, she had hamstrung her father’s ability to help Ruby. Tai couldn’t go off and protect her stuck as he was babysitting his other, broken daughter. She rolled all of her excuses around in her mind, tasted the lies for what they were: Fear. She had been afraid, so she let her sister run off without her. She had been abandoned by Blake so she abandoned her duty to watch Ruby’s back. Her dad had been right about one thing this evening: she was Yang Xiao Long. Two arms, one arm, no arms, it didn’t matter. Her whole life she had been good at two things: taking care of her sister and kicking ass. Ok fine, it mattered a little. Having two arms was probably preferable. She looked at the arm, reflecting the light of a shattered moon into the eyes of a shattered girl from its perfect surface. It was so smooth, unbroken. Unnatural. Horrible. Wonderful. She put it on. The sensation of the connection driving home was uncomfortable, to say the least. She had been warned it would be, and that while she would have sensation in it she shouldn’t expect it to feel like the original. In that moment she didn’t care. This arm wasn’t a replacement, she didn’t need it for anything delicate, tender. It was a weapon. An extension of herself like her gauntlets were, but a weapon nonetheless. And though she was so far from ready, part of her reveled in it. Her weight instinctively shifted back to center as she realized she’d been crooked all these months compensating for her imbalance. Her knees bent slightly, and she could feel a touch of that fire, the power she had thought forever lost. She threw an experimental jab with the arm, noting similarities and differences to how it used to feel. Without thinking she reached back to brush a stray hair behind her ear and felt the cool metal run across her temple in place of warm skin. It was too much, too soon. She felt something within her crack. The next thing she knew she was on the floor, sobbing and wrenching the arm off. It took her a few tries to figure out how the stupid release worked, but once she did she threw it as far across the room as she could given how hard she was shaking. The tears streaming down her face burned trails of fury down her cheeks, her ribs heaving so hard she worried she would throw up. When she stilled herself enough to think at all images started flooding her head. Blood, fire, blades and terrified eyes. With a colossal effort she pushed those aside for the one that mattered: Ruby. Ruby, on her way to Mistral and gods knew what danger with the remnants of team JNPR. Yang wasn’t ready. She wasn’t, but she had wasted so much time already, too much. She knew this was like any other injury, aggravating it before it was healed might mean it wouldn’t heal right, or wouldn’t heal it all. But that didn’t matter, she didn’t matter. Finding Ruby, protecting her, that was what mattered. For Ruby, she would pick herself up, right now, and do what needed to be done. Golden eyes burned in her mind, welcoming, afraid, then cold, then gone. Yang shook her head. Not for her, never for her. Not again. For Ruby. She walked across the room and picked up the arm. Releasing the breath she was holding, the breath it felt like she had been holding for months, she spoke with as much determination as she could manage with her still shaking diaphragm, staring herself down in her mirror. “I’m. Not. Dead.” Suddenly that statement carried with it something she had set aside shortly after returning to Patch: obligation. She could put down her burden when she no longer drew breath, but that day wasn’t today. She braced herself to try again, knowing she was in for a long night. —— When she walked outside the next morning she had half a mind to depart immediately, but her father was right, she needed to train. Without time to adjust to the arm and regain her fighting stamina she’d be less than useless to Ruby and the others, she’d be a liability. So train they did. The first thing she noticed was how stiff she was. Her joints creaked like they had rusted over sometime last century and were being forced to move despite being quite happy in their immobile state. The second was how much more like herself she felt in combat. The flow was even better than her focused chores. When she was in the middle of it she had no fear because she had no memories, no self. She was the fight and nothing else, until her father landed a solid blow or something distracted her, then she found herself shaking, fighting back tears. In those instances Tai would quickly stop the fight so Yang didn’t hurt herself and could simply collapse until her traitorous mind and limbs could be trusted again. Eventually she learned to mostly control those episodes, to let herself use the rush of combat to tamp down her more extreme emotions. If she was lacking her former joy in battle, she more than compensated with focus. Finally, she noticed the arm. In some ways she grudgingly had to admit it was an improvement. It’s strength and durability were undoubtedly better than flesh and blood, and she learned to make use of those. She did find that she had to adjust to its movements, which weren’t quite as fluid as her natural arm. Over the weeks she was proud to discover that this, too was becoming a strength. What little unnecessary flourish she had ever had in her fighting style was gone, her movements had become precise without becoming predictable, and it was showing. Add to that guidance from her father, welcome or not, and it was all coming together to make her even more formidable than she had been back at Beacon. Tai may have lost a step (or three, or four) when he lost Summer, but he was still one of the best hand to hand combat specialists Yang had ever met, and she was winning. At first she suspected he was going easy on her, but she started to see him push himself harder and harder and still she won more and more frequently. Never with ease, mind you, but she was undoubtedly getting stronger. One of the things Yang was most grateful for during her training was the sheer physical exhaustion of it. Sleep was coming easily by pure biological necessity, and she could hardly process dreams in the depths of her slumber. Mornings still held their terrible moment of peace, but she found that having something to do helped her power through her daily remembrance. She even found herself joking more than mechanically over meals and during breaks with Tai. In some ways the temporary nature of this time was a blessing. There was a goal, something to strive for, and that gave her a clarity and focus she hadn’t felt in months. Knowing it would soon be over also made that time feel somehow lighter, as though weightier matters were being saved for another day. There were no decisions to make, just training. But the temporary nature of this phase meant that all too soon it came to an end. After beating him three times soundly in a single session she knew it was time. Any longer and she would be stalling, buying herself time for a someday that would never come. She knew she was still broken, that doing what she was about to do would guarantee her mental scars would be with her forever, but this wasn’t about healing, it wasn’t about Yang at all. Ruby needed her, nothing else mattered. Well, almost nothing. In a moment of self indulgence that Yang didn’t even know she had left in her she decided that the Atlesian scientists, while gifted at mechanical engineering, didn’t know anything about color schemes. At this point Yang had already taken apart the arm and inspected it , learning it like she would any weapon. She had even modified it to match her remaining gauntlet with a cleverly hidden muzzle and dust rounds, but all of these things were practical. She was pleased with herself as a bit of the old Yang peaked through and she found herself stripping the arm down once more, this time to give it a paint job that would leave a bit more of an impression. After all, she thought, I’m not dead. For the first time this brought a smile to her face. A half smile, a crooked smile. Maybe more of a grimace. But still, it was a start. She shook the spray paint can and got to work. —— Decision made, the time to leave came with startling speed. Before she knew it Yang was hugging her father goodbye. They had talked about it at length, and despite his reservations Tai was allowing her to make this trip alone. He grudgingly accepted that Yang needed to strike out on her own or risk hiding behind him, negating all the time she had spent training to regain her confidence. Yang also suspected he wasn’t too keen to take part in her plan. She was going to Raven. After years of searching she was finally seeking out her mother when she finally couldn’t care less about finding her. According to Qrow Raven’s camp was dug in and large enough to be readily found. Easier than a handful of kids in an entire continent anyway. From there it would be a quick hop to Qrow via Raven’s semblance, and hopefully he would be with Ruby. Easy. Ok, not easy, really hard actually, but simple. That’s what Yang needed, straightforward and efficient. The look on Tai’s face when she told him her plan made it clear that had she not argued so vehemently for her need to go alone already he would have started looking for excuses. After months of feeling that he couldn’t possibly understand her pain Yang saw it’s twin in his face and felt like a fool. Of course he would understand, if anyone could it would be the man who was abandoned by one love and lost another shortly after. But it was too late now for more than an unspoken moment of understanding to pass between them. Maybe someday Yang would find a way to open up to him and give him space to open up in return. But the days from that realization to her departure passed in a blur with no time for a heart to heart, and then it was time to go. Air travel was still in shambles, even after all those months, so the only real option Yang had was to go by sea. Fortunately the trip from Patch to Anima wasn’t far, but she was going to have make good time across the continent, it was a long way to Raven’s camp. She had plenty of time to plan though, the voyage was quiet and people seemed willing to keep their distance. At first Yang didn’t notice, but eventually she saw a few people, usually men, approach her only for their opening line to die on their lips. She wondered at this until she caught a look at herself in the mirror. It wasn’t how she was dressed (though she had intentionally gone for a less flirty and far more practical look in her new threads) it was in her eyes, the set of her jaw. It was in every line of body. Before, Yang had been incredibly approachable, when she wasn’t angry of course, and she liked to be that way. Inside and out she was all gentle lines and inviting curves. Attractive to some but more importantly to those who knew her best she was soft and safe, like a warm blanket you wrap around yourself to keep out the chill as well as the monsters under your bed. Physically she hadn’t changed. Well, most of her hadn’t. The arm was new, but that wasn’t the real difference. Not the one that mattered. One look at Yang revealed little that could be described as soft. The process of reforging her broken self far too quickly had left her jagged and raw, all sharp edges and hard points. She may still be useful at keeping the monsters at bay, but get too close and you would find her to be anything but soft. Yang saw that and part of her, a distant memory of girl she once was, wept. But she was the past, and the present Yang saw those hard lines and was proud. They were a sign that while she wasn’t invincible she was resilient. She could be broken and put herself back together because she had to. The world could do its worst, she wasn’t worried. She nodded her head appreciatively, if somewhat grimly, pleased with what she saw when she looked in the mirror. This was not the face she had grown accustomed to seeing, the broken girl who needed to convince herself she wasn’t dead. She was no ghost, she was a phoenix rising from her own ashes. The resurrection was far from perfect, she was jagged and crooked where once she had been smooth and symmetrical, but those details paled in the face of the power bursting forth like flames from every pore. So what if anyone standing too close got burned? That wasn’t her problem. Needless to say, she had plenty of privacy for the remainder of the trip. The only company she couldn’t escape were her dreams.  On the ship there limited opportunities for Yang to exhaust herself. There was a meager gym below deck but she had to be careful not to destroy the ancient heavy bag that swung with the motion of the waves, and there was little else of interest. Yang never could stand exercise bikes or treadmills. She wasn’t a hamster, and even those poor creatures deserved more interesting forms of exercise than they got. So her dreams came back, but in a different form. The waves had an oddly soothing effect on the contents of the dreams. At first Yang was grateful to not have to relive her dismemberment every night, but she quickly began to fear her new batch of dreams nearly as much. Every night was Blake. Mostly memories, strikingly detailed for things Yang had tried to bury. The way she would quirk an eyebrow when Yang had made a especially atrocious pun or inappropriate joke, pretending not to laugh but so obviously wanting to. The subtle motion of her mouth nearly reading aloud when she was particularly absorbed in a book. If Yang watched carefully enough she could almost follow the story in the movements of her lips. The play of muscle in her lithe figure as they fought side by side. Yang becoming intoxicated with the sight of her to the point of giddiness. Seeing a matching smile on Blake’s face, wondering if she felt the same elation. Wanting so badly to pause the fight so she could lay her head on that lovely chest, listen for the heartbeat that she knew would be in perfect time with her own. Those eyes. Too often the dream turned to darkness. Blake would be wrapped in shadows until all that was visible were her burning eyes. Turning from beacons of a home that Yang didn’t even know she was seeking to stony indifference, and then turning away to vanish forevermore. Yang wished these dreams would leave her in the morning, wake to find herself muddled and oblivious like she used to, even if that meant wading through the crash of emotion that followed. But these dreams were too gentle, lasted too long, faded too slowly. She inevitably woke to see those eyes turn away, leaving an aching hole in her very core that she was beginning to accept was simply part of who she was now. Eventually that emptiness was just another reminder that she wasn’t the girl she used to be. Sure, her step no longer bounced with underlying optimism, but she also wasn’t that fragile shadow rattling around her father’s home. So when her dreams were particularly haunting she would take a breath to steady herself, and go searching for that girl with a look that could cut, who stood strong on her own, was built to protect others and needed nothing in return. She tried to pretend she didn’t see the rest, the parts of her still broken, still crying out to the void for the one who shattered her to return. No, that was the past. Despite her constant protests to the contrary, that girl was dead. Her world had ended and she with it, so every morning Yang would stare in the mirror until she couldn’t see her shadow anymore, and if she found herself wiping away tears she didn’t think anything of it. They didn’t belong to the person she had become. —— It was a relief when she finally got off the boat. No more moving at a pace set by others; it was time for her stand on her own two feet. Tearing off from the port on Bumblebee Yang felt free in a way she hadn’t in months. She had the wind in her hair, a full tank of dust, and miles to go before she reached her goal, but she was finally doing something that mattered. The right thing. It felt good. Pulling out onto the main road she was reminded of team RWBY’s first real mission, out to Mountain Glenn. Professor Oobleck had slyly asked all of them but Ruby pointed questions, digging into what drove them. At the time she had found it annoying, invasive, and unfair when she found out Ruby hadn’t been grilled, but now she saw the genius of it. He had seen right through Yang, through all of them, and what he saw was a group of girls who thought they knew what they wanted and had no idea. Yang hadn’t been lying when she replied, she had sought adventure, novelty. But why become a huntress instead of literally anything else? When she searched her mind for the answer now she found only one that felt honest: she was good at it. It was a simple, boring, blunt answer, but it was true, and she saw that now more than ever. She wasn’t surprised that Ruby had found another mission so soon. Ruby wanted to be a huntress, that was her driving passion, just as it always had been. Yang had always envied her that. They had spent their lives being told to follow their dreams, discover their purpose in life, and Yang never could find that thing. Sure, she felt strongly about a lot of stuff, but there was never any one thing that was obviously her calling. So she went with the flow; she was good at fighting, it was in her blood, and it was a respectable career that let her help other people. Plus, it was fun, what’s not to love? Of course, that was before. How nice would it be to be sure? To know that all she wanted to be was a huntress, to never question it? Yang assumed it must be comforting for Ruby, to know without a doubt that she was doing the right thing with her life. Still, Yang realized as she was riding down the beginning of a long and lonely road, maybe her way was what was keeping her going now. She was broken, and honestly unsure if she would ever feel desire or passion for anything as she had before. But she didn’t need passion to direct her path, she chose for herself. And right now she chose to get up every day, no matter how much the simple act of rising out of bed hurt, and put one foot in front of the other. She would find Ruby, she would undo her mistake of all those months ago and say words that should never be left unsaid. Most importantly, she would protect her. If she got wrapped up in some grand mission as a result, so be it, but that wasn’t what mattered. Yang was not seeking the heroes path, she didn’t want fame or fortune or even adventure anymore. She sought only to protect those she loved. That thought, so simple and pure, brought a smile to her face. Not a grimace, not a sneer, a smile, small and true. Maybe she had more edges than she used to, maybe she wasn’t soft or innocent or whole. Maybe the shadowy corners of her mind were haunted by golden eyes, but maybe that was ok. Yang inhaled the country air as she leaned through a series of turns and shouted into the wind: “I’m not...” But her breath caught, the feeling was suddenly different, the words all wrong. At first she was worried that the tears in her eyes were a new form of sorrow, for in the strange sweetness she felt a trap. But sorrow was not the feeling she was struck with, it was more like the pain of taking your first breath after nearly drowning. Looking around, Yang saw a world full of color and life unlike the one she had inhabited for so many months. Danger still lurked just out of sight both within and without, but life went on and that realization was almost painful in the startling clarity it brought. Yang found her voice again and and with a smile on her lips she whispered, somewhat in awe of the truth of it: “I’m alive.”

[omegangrins]

A Treatise On the Doctor

I don't know how to start this. Because I think of Peter Capaldi's words when he said that the only thing required to be a Doctor Who fan, is kindness.

I like 13 and think Chibnall is doing his best job writing the show.

So I struggle to write this because I am engaging against that very unkindness in the Doctor Who fandom, and trying very hard not to be angry back. "Allways try to be nice but never fail to be kind." But I've begun to wonder more and more if those who speak so loudly against the show really know what the show itself is about.

Enough of talking about other people though, cause frankly they're only important as set-up for this conversation. And again, I'm working kind.

So here's what you're gonna learn from this lifelong fan (and the best Tl;dr you're gonna get):

1. The Doctor sucks. From the very beginning. People complain about character traits now that have been around as long as the show.

2. Due to the Doctor's suckage, they tend to do more harm than good. (And because of this, most of the Doctor's "friends" along the way have been, well, let's leave it at the air quotes for now cause it's a damn big list of "BOOOO!!!".)

3. All of the showrunners and writers and actors and editors and everyone else has allways knows this and has played it this way.

4. And last but not least, since this is a time travel show. If you wanna know what and why stuff is happening now, look it up. Everything that happened before is allways in play.

5. None of this is bad, and in fact, it makes the show morally grayer. It's about kindness at all costs. Even your own.

A. First things first, the hard thing. The Doctor is not grrrreat. I mean, sure they try, but they fail a lot more often. In Extremis, a majority of those fatality index counts come from people the Doctor failed to save. That's why it's worded so specifically as "cause of death". All the death's caused by the Doctor's very interaction with time and lack of saving those around them. And part of it's not their fault, but more often than not, the Doctor says I can save you, and can't, won't, or chooses not to.

And that would be alright, but it took them over 1000 years to realize they should start letting their companions lead lives outside of theirs so THEY DON'T DIE. A bit too long as someone who claims to be better.

Not to mention how many times the Doctor is dismissive of their companions and the people around them only to use them for their help and just bug off again. If they truly cared and wanted to help, they would stay and listen in between adventures. Their lifespan is near infinite anyway. What's a few extra Earth hours with some friends you made along the way. You know, maybe fix some of the psychological and emotional damage created by encountering things behind a human's original scope of reasoning. But nope, we gotta go adventure more, byyyyeee!!

So when people talk about these qualities in 13 in a negative aspect I have to laugh because I'm not sure if they understand the joke. Cause we're talking about an alien that grew up around a species calling themselves Time Lords. I try not to blame them too much for it. 1 had to learn how to be hospitable to humans and it's been a bit of a slow learning curve ever since.

B. After the Doctor survived the horrors of the Time War and happened upon a human companion they felt worth connecting to, what did they do? They took Rose to watch her planet burn in front of her eyes. Great, first date, amirite?

And that's a little bit of companion damage. Do you know that the Doctor is responsible for the almost complete genocide of the Silurian race across multiple occasions. I am legitimately surprised there are any left after all of the ones the Doctor has killed. Like before, they cause destruction either purposefully or accidentally or simply by force of being there.

Remember before how I said that the Doctor just flies away. Yeah, they leave a lot of problems behind when they do (something that I can see Chibnall is planting the seeds of). If you had a time and space machine and practically unlimited capabilities and you choose to just leave after a situation and not check up on them from time to or see if there are any other underlying crises to be solved. But oh no, "gotta follow that rule of time and keep going even though I stopped in the first place because of how interested I was.". This is why 9 has a great arc about this. He thought he killed all the Daleks. They came back. He thought he'd gotten rid of the Slitheen. They came back. He thought he saved Satellite 5 from aliens. But opsies, they came back. And look! They're Daleks. Which he "finally" got rid of.

The Doctor just bounces around all carefree and without an ounce of care for themselves, their companions or consequences unless there's consequences for themselves or their companions. Then they get indignant.

Is that really kind of the person you want flying around fixing things in time and space? Who knows. But at least they are trying. Most of the time the T.A.R.D.I.S. lands somewhere and the authority figures are the most pretentious bull-headed pigs you can find. To me, I laugh cause it seems like both sides end up getting a taste of their own medicine. Usually with the bull charging to death in a sad glory while the Doctor wiles on metaphorically about not being as good as them.

But again, as a "superior" alien with "advanced" technology and "culture" you'd think they'd just know better already. But that's all part of the character. The Doctor may be in flux, but true change is difficult. The real hero of every story is the other people BESIDES the Doctor.

Cause the title is Doctor *Who* . The Who being half of the title, despite having less letters. It's the constant question of "What and why and who is that crazy person that's trying to help?" Why do you think they keep flying back to Earth? (Besides set construction reasons.) They've grown as attached to us as we have to them. And at this point, a lot of their saving us is guilt and embarrassment at having a hand in our timeline.

This is also the same reason the Doctor dumps companions in a fluff. Baggage. Every time a companion gets too heavy to carry the memories of... off they fly.

Except for 13. She's stayed. To this end, we can see how the Doctor changes. Not on our smaller, human timelines, but on the timeline of a god with way too much power.

D. With that in mind, we go Classic. It's the Who you need to consult if you wish to make any critique on what's happening now. Because how can you know how a part operates inside of a whole without seeing the whole part?

Cause I don't know if you've watched it but it can be rough, and I don't mean in the sense of production value (which admittedly they do a fairly decent job of using what money they had. A problem the BBC plagues to Doctor Who to this day.). The 3rd Doctor shits on every one they call friends constantly and then turns around expecting help. 4 did the same. Then 5 masked that contempt with a plucky face and a cheeky word. But it was still there, bubbling out of 6 and 7 as the inability to suffer fools gladly and using their own righteousness to enact change in their companions. A trait that kept going til an entire war and regeneration was used solving the question of "Doctor Who?" Only for them to try and forget twice more by putting on their pretty grinning faces and running away from it.

And I'm only talking from a companion perspective. Each of the Doctors has enacted their own form of genocide on countless species. Sure, it's to "save humans" but at the end of the day you'd have to ask yourself if we're really worth that blood. And this is all in the Doctor's history. As much as they claim better, they're hands are still gushing red.

The Doctor left Jo because she fell in love. They drove Adric to put their life on the line in order to feel adequate. The entirety of the Silurian race has been wiped out fivefold under their watch, with one time by their hand itself. Same for several other singular and unique species you won't be able to find elsewhere in the universe. 7 used time travel to enact a personality change in Ace while simultaneously using her as a pawn in an interdimensional war. The Time War itself. Sure it got erased but the Doctor still did those things ("War" Doctor or whatever nonsense titles they feel necessary to delude themselves). The entirety of Amy's childhood was destroyed by their presence, and Rory got erased. Twice! Sarah Kingdom. We know the list. Hell, the Doctor whisked Barbara and Ian away because they wanted to teach the snobby humans some lessons.

They may have a time machine, but we have the bill of their actions. This is where 13 excels. Because they're trying to be better than themselves. They've learnt the lessons of all those years traveling and the failures they wish they could reverse but don't as a way of keeping a scoreboard of pain. It's not perfect by any means, but look at 12 needing cue cards to understand and react to human grief under duress. They've come a helluva long way. After 50 years, I'm inclined to believe better. After all, it's what the Doctor would want.

E. You know how people like the ASOIAF series because it offers up morally complex characters existing in a morally complex world where black and white are harder to define than grey? Have you ever thought of Doctor Who as the same? Strip past the fairytale and adventure and "wibbly wobbly timey wimeyness and it's just people reacting to situations. We're just harder on the Doctor because they're hard on us. You could go round and round on who's the bigger killer, but at the end of the day Time Lords and humans fight and feel about the same things. It's allways been a joke to pretend otherwise.

That's why I love the Timeless Child. Not for making the Doctor anymore special but for saying that even despite having all of their specialness ripped away and repurposed to create a lie of a society then having the memory wiped of said event, the Doctor broke out of their mold, stole a TARDIS and told the Time Lords to fuck off. That's not a Captain America/Superman hero. That's Batman in space with a society of Lex Luthor's. Gotham and Gallifrey. The Doctor saw what they were a part of and broke free, without even knowing the more horrifying truth. Cause it's the thing I see many fans missing because they're so preocuppied with the Doctor being special. The thing that made the Doctor different was their ability to know the difference and walk away to find better. Now, the Doctor has a reason to go back and find out why they never stopped running.

The Time Lords might be the greatest monsters in the universe. It is in the name. "Lords". Those who would lord over us and impose their will with a banthium fist.

And this is a children's show.

C the thing is, the people who made and make this show all collectively rail against one thing: Hate. Kindness is the way of Doctor's. Even if they're sawing off your leg, it's to do the kindness of saving your life. This is because the people who make this (United Kingdomers) have seen centuries of war and conflict and oppression enacted by their own country in the name of progress. And they want to see it no more. Look no further than any of the Doctor's adventures with UNIT. Allways advocating for peace and being ignored for the comfortable war-cry. It's why it's hard to blame the Doctor when we do very similar and often worse (though we don't have time travel.... yet). The creators of this show know better, see better, and wrote better, to know that the powers that be nipped would nip their creations and sanitize them. So they wrote their messages so strong that you can feel them from the future. They're powerfull enough that even across eras they have all collectively moved me to write this.

That's another point I have to laugh at people saying Doctor Who has never been in your face about progressive politics. The Green Death. Survival. Trial of a Timelord (Yes, all of it. Sit down and power through.) The Happiness Patrol is one of my all time favorite episodes for going there in this regard. People may poo poo but history has its' eyes on you. Doctor Who loves taking potshots at the issues of the day. As long as you don't make the aliens black of course. Make them all the colors of the rainbow but never make them black. That'd be too on the nose (That's something they used to say back in the day! Crazy how far we've come).

So bravoa to Chibnall for continuing the legacy of Doctor Who. From where I'm standing, he's not doing anything different than any other showrunner before him. Cause if you want to argue canon, you at least have to know what created it. This show owes what it is to those Classic eras. And if you think Chibnall is shitting on those years and your childhood.... well, then why did you read this whole thing?

[subasekabang]

Past Nova - Chapter 01

Title: Past Nova - Chapter 01

Rating: T

Word Count: 12,665 [Ch 01: 3976]

Pairings/Characters: Neku Sakuraba. Beat. Shiki Misaki. Rhyme. Sota Honjo. Nao. Joshua Kiryu. Sota/Nao. 

Warnings: Past Character Death mentions. 

Summary: Neku and his new friends find that they’ve been brought back to life, time wound back as if the three weeks had never happened. It’s something that they don’t have time to adjust to though, as Neku realises that Sota and Nao are still alive, with no guarantee that the two won’t end up back in the UG. Even without a timer on his hand, time is ticking down - but Neku isn’t going to let Sota and Nao disappear without a fight. Not again.

Partner: @licobleps & HB Kit

Author’s Note: Tadaa! I was having trouble coming up with what I wanted to write for the Bang but just before we had to submit the idea I remembered this old plot bunny and said ‘yes, this is it!’. I struggled to get this moving at first because I kept overthinking details but it was fun once I got going. A super huge thank you to Lico and Kit for choosing my fic to work with - look out for their artwork, I’m sure you’ll be just as impressed as I am!

“The stars are out tonight!”

Despite this proclamation, if one were to look up at the sky, they would not spot a single shining star. The lights that kept the city alight past sunset maintained disappointment for anyone with enough optimism to have a glimpse. Even if stars were visible in the city, they were a touch far from nighttime; the sun was barely past the horizon.

Nao, however, showed no signs of her spirit being dampened. On the contrary, she seemed invigorated, arms spread wide as if she was about to welcome falling stars into them.

He couldn’t see anything in the sky himself but if Nao saw something more up there, Sota sure as hell believed that they were really there.

Even as she stumbled slightly, stretched too far on her tiptoes, with Sota moving in to catch her by her shoulders, he was sure of this.

“You manage to catch one?”

“Like, I tried. But no.”

“I’m gonna get you one.”

She giggled - wondering aloud if they could really catch one.

“We will, promise.”

After all, they had all the time in the world to chase stars.

Didn’t they?

Chapter 01  - Urban Nebula

Ramen.

Just a while ago, Neku would have carried on eating this dish without a second thought. It was something that he could find anywhere, something he would consume unceremoniously. Yet here he was, finding himself genuinely appreciating how good this bowl of ramen was.

Nothing can beat a warm bowl of Shoyu.

“Yo, you’re trippin’. Tonkotsu’s where it’s at.” Beat said this in between messy slurps of his own.

Neku didn’t realise he said that out loud.

“I’m more of a Miso person myself,” said Shiki.

He also didn’t expect this to be where their conversation went.

“I actually prefer Miso too,” Rhyme piped up.

The volume in the small ramen shop increased twofold as Beat noisily argued why exactly Tonkotsu was the best of the best when it came to ramen. Shiki countered with reasonings of her very own, while Rhyme added her thoughts every few pauses.

It all seemed so trivial. So normal.

As if it hadn’t been a week since he had last seen them.

Though, he supposed Beat did tear up when Neku met him and Rhyme by Hachiko a few hours ago. So it wasn’t like he was the only one still reeling from the Game. Still, Beat bounced back pretty quick and once Shiki arrived, they were all just happy to be reunited.

Honestly, he welcomed this normalcy but at the same time, it was a new kind of normal for him.

Before this, he hadn’t had any friends to actually just sit down and eat together with. Not for a long time. During the Game, once he figured out that eating actually affected his performance in fighting against the Noise, he became pretty careful with what he picked and he was still a lot more…prickly than he was now. He was sure that during his first few days with Shiki, they spent the majority of their time while eating in silence. Well, she did make an attempt to make conversation though he admittedly brushed her off. With Joshua, as Shiki’s life was on the line, Neku didn’t want to waste his time with too much small talk. Beat inhaled his food, just as he was doing now, so they didn’t really stop to chat during meals either.

Now, however, they didn’t have to rush off anywhere. No timer burnt upon their skin to urge them onto their feet. They were just four friends eating ramen Shibuya. Who would’ve thought?

“Neku, I know your fave is Shoyu but give it to us straight - Miso or Tonkotsu?” Shiki nudged his arm to get his attention. She must have realised that he was spacing out.

“I think that - ” Uh oh, this looks serious. Both Shiki and Beat’s expressions said that victory hinged on his answer. Rhyme was looking between the two with concern, hand against her mouth as if to prevent herself from intervening. “I think that they’re both ‘okay’. Shoyu’s the best.”

Beat groaned while Shiki let out a cheer. “Rhyme agrees with me, so that makes the score for Miso, Tonkatsu and Shoyu to 2-1-1. I win!”

“What exactly do you win?” asked Neku.

“Hmm.” Shiki tapped her finger against her lips as she pondered the question. “Aha, I know! You guys can pay for my lunch.”

“‘That ain’t gonna work Shiki, I’m broke.”

Shiki peered at his sister instead, who begun to smile sheepishly.

“Neku?” Shiki looked at him expectantly.

“What? Hey, don’t look at me! Why should I get dragged into this?”

At that moment, the owner of the shop leaned over the counter and slid across his receipt. It had both his and Shiki’s orders on them. Wha - he can’t do that! Can he do that?

He opened his mouth to object when he spotted that Beat and Rhyme had their receipt, cash already on top of it and passing it back to the owner. When did that happen? Neku suspected the ramen owner had been listening to their conversation and had picked a side.

“Okay, okay, I get it Mr. Doi, I’ll pay.” He sighed, forking over his cash.

“Oho? So you’ve heard of me, young man?” He crossed his arms and nodded triumphantly. “As I thought, I’ve still got it in me to reach young folks like you too. Always appreciate getting new customers who follow the news of good ramen. You kids enjoy the rest of those bowls! Don’t take too long, though!” He gave a hearty laugh before rushing off to serve another customer.

Just like that the steam that wafted throughout the restaurant suddenly seemed to contain more heat, the smell becoming sharper to Neku’s senses. He pulled at his collar, feeling the stuffiness start to overwhelm him.

“He doesn’t remember us, huh?” Shiki said quietly, voicing what all of them were probably thinking.

Guess we’re going to talk about it, after all. It would be stranger not to.

“During my second week, we helped him out,” Neku murmured. “He should remember us.”

“Yo, I just wanna ask so that I know I’m not goin’ crazy. The Game did happen, didn’t it?” Beat whipped out his phone. “So how come Day 1 is supposed to be…tomorrow.”

Beat was right - which was a weird thing in of itself - the date shown on his phone was the date that they had their first day in the Game.

Neku had woken up in the middle of Scramble Crossing last week and he knew that wasn’t where he died. When he had rushed home then, though, there was no sign of him having been gone for more than the few hours from when he went out that day. He was left even more confused as to when he checked his phone and saw the date, it was a little over a week before he was to start his first Game. Not only was Shibuya not Erased but he had been brought back to life as if nothing had ever happened. Unlike the first time he woke up on the streets, all his memories, even of the Game, seemed to be intact. Some of which, he thought he could do without.

“It was the same for me,” Shiki said after Neku described what happened for him. “I remember everything but…my parents don’t remember me…dying.”

“Our folks don’t remember that either.” Beat grit his teeth, “but they do remember me an’ Rhyme runnin’ outta the house.” A familiar look flashed across Beat’s face. It was the one that he had every time he talked about Rhyme during their third week.

Before Neku could find any words of comfort, Rhyme said, “I think it makes sense that they don’t remember. Otherwise, I don’t think the Reapers having double lives would work.”

“Really?” asked Shiki.

“I think so. I heard about Def Märch before the Game because they were getting more famous. But wouldn’t there be a problem if someone who knew 777 when he was alive saw him? Since he should be dead?”

Neku was sure he didn’t find out about Reapers being able to appear and disappear whenever they wanted until Joshua told him, but Rhyme was observant so he wasn’t surprised that she caught onto that. She did have a point about that; if you become a Reaper, something probably needed to be done to the memories of people around you. “The Reapers, or at least the Conductor and the Composer, definitely have the power to change memories. I learned that the hard way.”

“Right, so if they do if they change up memories of people for Reapers it would make sense that they do it for Players that go back to the RG too,” Rhyme reasoned.

It did make sense…but was something about it bothered Neku. “How come we’ve got back a few weeks, though?” If they could just change memories, why were they also back before the start?

“Mr. H told me and Neku that the Shibuya we saw wasn’t real, so maybe it’s kind of a reset for us?” Shiki suggested though she didn’t sound so sure.

“He did say that. But Joshua, was saying the opposite,” Neku recalled.

“I dunno man, how’re we sure he wasn’ lyin’?”

He couldn’t answer Beat. He wasn’t sure exactly how many of the things Joshua had said to him during their week together were lies but he definitely knew that there was a lot.

Seeming to notice Neku’s change of disposition, Shiki carried on, “So let’s say we were reset. Does that mean everything was reset? You guys went on for another two weeks after we won our game, right? Does that mean that everyone who played those games have come back to life?”

“I’m back and I got Erased in the first week.” Neku wondered how Rhyme could say that in such a matter-of-fact way. “Maybe that means the other Players that got Erased were also brought back. There weren’t any other Players in the third week but Beat and I saw some in the second.”

Other Players in the second week…- wait!

“There were…there were two Players that I made met - that I made friends with - during the second week.” It was the couple, the ones who reached out when he felt himself slipping back to his old self. They were kind and wanted to help other Players, even if it might have put their own reincarnation at risk.  “They were Erased when I was Partners with Joshua and I couldn’t do anything to help them.”

The memory of it, of the Taboo noise attacking the two, of Neku arriving too little too late, flooded through him. What made it worse, though, was that he hadn’t thought of them again until now.

A tentative hand rested on his shoulder. He looked at Shiki, to find her eyes searching his. Although it was the first time he had seen this on her real self, her worry was something he recognised.

While Shiki seemed to try and be a calming presence, Beat was anything but.

“Phones, I don’t wanna freak you out but,” Beat hesitated and Neku had the feeling he would end up freaking out, “when I was a Reapers I was talkin’ to Shades.”

“The Conductor?”

“Yeah, that dude. I asked him a bunch of questions about tryin’ to get Rhyme back and how comin’ back to life works an’ he gave me half-assed answers for most of ‘em but I swear he said that if a Player came back it wouldn’t bring back anyone who’s supposed to die with ‘em.”

“Right…which is why you wanted to become Composer to change the rules,” Neku recalled.

“And Rhyme’s only back ‘cause - ” He exchanged a look with Shiki, who seemed to understand what Beat was going to get at.

“‘Cause we were all there…at the end with The Composer.”

‘At the end’. It was a moment that had been playing in Neku’s mind more times than he could count in the last week.

“We couldn’t move Neku, we couldn’t stop him from…from shooting you.” Shiki’s voice started to tremble. “I was scared for you Neku. But he didn’t Erase you but you were out cold and he said he would bring us all back. And the next thing I knew I was in the middle of a road. It was a few moments before I died. Except I knew that it was so I didn’t get hit by the car in the end.”

“Us neither. Beat stopped running away so we didn’t get to the middle of the road,” said Rhyme. “So it wasn’t that our parents didn’t remember, it’s that we never did die.”

So, Joshua kept all of their memories intact then…For Beat, Rhyme and Shiki, he made it as though their deaths never occurred as they had the memories they needed to stop it from happening themselves. In Neku’s case, it seemed Joshua had to undo things completely since he was the one who killed him. If it was only the four of them that had their memories from the game, though…

“That could mean that…they - those two -  would still die and enter the Game.” Neku’s blood ran cold at the thought.

I don’t know for sure. It was entirely possible that he was simply taking leaps in logic. It wasn’t like any of them were certain that they were the only ones that were ‘brought back’.  Still, if there was even a small chance of it…They didn’t win the Game that Neku played that week - there was no way of knowing whether they would win if they were the play again. If he was remembering correctly though, he was sure he saw them earlier than the Tin Pin tournament.

“Shiki - remember when we were helping that Makoto guy give out the red pins? And he managed to give them out a couple? Both of them had blond hair.”

“Their outfits matched, yes I remember! That was them? That was our second last day…so then - “ Shiki realised it the same time as Neku.

“If time reset then they’re still alive now,” said Neku. ”And not because they were brought back but because they hadn’t died yet in the first place. “So we could - “

“We could stop them from playin’ the Game in the first place!” Beat punctuated those words with his hands slamming down on the counter and jumping off his seat.

“Hey, keep it down. Are you kids not done eating?” Ken Doi’s voice snapped Neku back to attention. He had completely forgotten that they were in such a public place.

It was a good thing Beat had shouted ‘stop them from dying’ because that would cause eyebrows to rise from the other customers, no matter how few of them there were. Neku had to admit that it sounded crazy. But it also sounded crazy enough to work, considering everything else he had gone through in his time in the Game.

“We done. C’mon les’ go.”

“Beat, hold up,” Neku said, trying to get his friend to slow down. “I don’t even know where to begin with this. We’re not sure if they’re actually still going to die. And if they are we don’t know if there’s any chance that we could stop it.”

“Yeah, so les’ just go ask.”

“Ask who?”

Beat grinned.

“The coffee man, who else?”

xxxxx

Neku had thought about it.

There was a small window of consciousness that Neku had, between getting shot and waking up at the crossing. He was sure that during those few seconds, he saw Mr. Hanekoma and Joshua standing side by side. They were both smiling down at him.

The Conductor didn’t seem to know who Mr. H was. Joshua had told Neku himself that he was the Composer, otherwise, he wouldn’t be here right now. So then, who was Mr. Hanekoma? He told Neku to think of him as a ‘guardian’ of the Game. Did he mean that he was there to oversee the Game that Neku was playing or the one that Joshua was playing with the Conductor? Was it his job to do both? Was that why he was there at the end?

Questions like these had plagued Neku’s mind since the day he got back. The reason that Neku started to let his guard down around Joshua was because Mr. H was helping him out. If Joshua’s goal was to cause Shibuya’s destruction then Neku could only conclude that Mr. H was helping Joshua do that. But that can’t be it. If Mr. H was really CAT, he couldn’t believe that. His art, his words, they didn’t call for the end of the city but the constant renewal and growth of it.

With his doubts on Mr. H it wasn’t as if taking a trip to WildKat hadn’t crossed his mind. If Mr. H was actually there…he didn’t know what he would do. He didn’t know if he was ready to hear the truth of it, if Mr. H was going to share it at all.

At least, he wasn’t ready to face it alone.

The Shibuya streets weren’t exactly appropriate to be running through, not when they couldn’t pass through people anymore. Nevertheless, Beat bulldozed his way through the urban crowds, parting them as people jumped aside to get out of his way. His sister tried to keep up with him, always several paces behind, offering a quick ‘sorry’ to anyone who might want to hear it. Shiki lagged behind slightly, stopping every now and then to catch her breath (“did I mention that I’m also not as athletic in the RG?”). Watching them run, for his sake, for the sake of putting his mind at ease - it made him feel ready.

Their arrival at the cafe’s storefront highlighted their reset, as Shiki called it. It stood, as unassumingly simple as it did when Neku first saw it. That was to say, there was none of the damage that Minamimoto had inflicted on it during their last week.

“Mr. H owns this? Funny…I’ve never noticed this shop before,” Shiki said, squinting at it.

Maybe it was by design; if not a lot of people visited because it was a ‘simple’ shop in Shibuya’s plethora of unique offerings, then it gave Mr. H a lot of time to be doing…whatever that he was supposed to be doing in the Game.

Beat had stopped right in front of the door. He looked back at Neku. “Yo, you aight?”

Neku blinked at Beat, taken aback by the sudden question. “Yeah, I’m - ”

“We don’t have to go in yet,” Shiki said, “if you don’t want to.”

They noticed, huh?

“Thanks guys.” He really was touched. “But I’m okay, let’s go in.”

Even as Beat pushed the door open, however, Neku took in a deep breath. He could do this. He followed behind Shiki, feeling the weight of every step forward.

The shop was empty.

Not completely, there were still pastries in the display, ones that looked fairly fresh. There was no sign of anyone being around though. Neku couldn’t help but start to feel disappointed. For all his apprehension of coming here, Hanekoma wasn’t actually around. Being here when they wanted to see him would be too easy, wouldn’t it?

“Seems cosy,” said Shiki, if for nothing else but to fill the silence that had set between the four.

Neku pulled out a chair, sinking down into it. Might as well sit down, while he thought of what they could do next. If they were going to help Sota and Nao, they should probably go look for them. It might be possible if he could still scan people, but how was he supposed to find them in a sea of people that he couldn’t read? If they did need help, in the first place.

Lost in his thoughts, once again, he only registered that Beat was snooping around when he heard a tearing sound. He sat straight up, recalling that this was where Hanekoma had hidden the note for them, leading their way to the Shibuya River.

“Huh? The hell is this?” Turning to show the others, Beat had his fists clenched around two feathers, grip a tad rough for such delicate-looking items. They gave off a glow as if hinting that they would not be harmed no matter how Beat handled them. “Why’d Coffee Man leave these here?”

“Maybe he’s a bird keeper on top of a cafe owner and working as CAT,” Neku said, drily. “You sure you didn’t find anything else in there?”

“Nah, nothing else in there ‘cept dust,” Beat confirmed. He came back around the front of the counter, looking to hand the feathers to Neku.

Sighing, Neku got up and took them from Beat, making sure to be gentler with them than he was. While they looked like feathers, they weren’t exactly ‘normal’ looking feathers.

“Did those come from a Noise?” Shiki adjusted her glasses, taking a step close to inspect them properly. They did look like they could have come from one. “Maybe you actually got it Neku, maybe he’s some kind of birdkeeper…for those bird-looking Noise. Or just in charge of the Noise in general.”

“He did know how to make Noise,” said Rhyme, also taking a closer look. “That’s how he kept Beat and I in the game, after all.”

“Maybe.” That was one possibility. It was just a gut feeling but Neku didn’t think that was it. Though he didn’t think that Hanekoma was a Reaper either. Whoever he was, he must have been pretty important if he knew the Composer so well. Knew him a lot better than I did.

Bzzt.

The buzzing came from one of his pockets. It was his phone. He fished it out of his pocket and stared at it.

“What’s wrong, Phones?”

The only people who would message him were in this room. Except for the two people that he couldn’t seem to find.

Flipping open his phone he clicked on the message, sent from an unknown number.

–

I’m devastated that I couldn’t make it today. I have a few things to attend to.

You’re probably all at WildKat Cafe right now, aren’t you? Predictable.

I’d rather not come back and find you running around Shibuya aimlessly again so I’ll give you a little hint -

Sota Honjo and Nao Akahoshi.

Entered Shibuya’s UG on the 2nd of August.

6.48pm

I can’t provide you a timer in the RG but it’s safe to say your time limit is within seven days.

Have fun saving the tin pin champions.

–

Neku considered reading it out loud but he wasn’t confident in how his tone would come out right now. He passed his phone along, allowing the others to read through it. The message gave Neku so many more questions. Ones that he wouldn’t know how to voice properly, even if Joshua had been standing right here with them.

Yet that was as good as a confirmation that he was going to get that he had to do this. No, he didn’t have to - he wanted to.

“Look at the time,” Shiki said as she passed Neku back his phone.

6.48pm

“Seven days, exactly.”

And to think, only this morning Neku had been looking forward to spending time with his friends without having a time limit hanging above them.

This time, though, they were alive. Alive along with the rest of Shibuya, brimming with life day in and day out.

“You guys sure you’re alright with trying to do this?”

It was a question that didn’t need to be asked.

They were with him.

[itsclydebitches]

RWBY Recaps: “ACE Operatives”

We’re back, folks! I have to say, I think overall this is one of the strongest episodes we’ve gotten since “The Lost Fable.” Are there still concerns? You know it, but on the whole I’ve got to give credit where credit’s due. So with that unexpectedly optimistic mindset, let’s dive in.

We open right on the group’s first mission and for a moment I was worried that, like with Oscar’s shopping, this time skip would be passed right over. Especially after we hear Pietro apologize for “holding onto your weapons for so long,” telling us that between the Academy tour at the end of last episode and this mission today, at least a few weeks have passed. Long enough for one guy to re-design multiple combat outfits and weaponry, plus an additional boost here and there. Luckily, the first part of the episode cuts among three distinct times: when they got their weapons, when they first heard about the mission, and this present day flight/landing, which as a technique I like quite a bit. It gives us a sense of each time while keeping us moving forward. No one is thinking, “Ugh. Do we really need to hear a mission briefing when most of last episode was learning about this plan in the first place?” because we already know this is taking place in the past. Just sit through the snippet and then the rest of the info will come through voice-overs while the group jumps out of an airship. Good balance of exposition and action.

What we learn in these flashbacks is that Ironwood wants to use an abandoned dust mine for the satellite’s launch. Only problem? It’s inhabited by a very old, extremely dangerous geist. Kudos to the writing team for the Volume Two callback. I’ve always been intrigued by Oobleck’s comment that grimm are capable of learning if they continue to survive and here we finally see an example of that. This geist isn’t just strong, it’s smart enough to hide in the mines themselves.

Shot over all this we see Atlas military personnel taking out the everyday grimm in the surrounding area, proving that their weapons can handle that task in most situations. Why doesn’t Ironwood’s robots have that then? Or as others have pointed out, something even more powerful like Penny’s lasers, or some of the upgrades the team gets? Chock it up to lack of funds... or simple plot setup. If the robots had been able to take out a bunch of grimm easy-peasy then there wouldn’t have been any cool premiere fight for our group. Then again, all of this casts their snarky comments about Ironwood’s defenses in a new light. Clearly they’re a force to be reckoned with when the plot actually allows it.

We likewise see the group receiving their new gear and... okay. Here’s where the griping starts. Though it’s admittedly small compared to most of my criticisms. First off, why is Jaune receiving a random scrap of Pyrrha’s outfit? Logically this makes no sense to me. Pyrrha’s body disintegrated into a bunch of dust. I can buy Jaune incorporating other armor and fabric into his gear because they were living together and Pyrrha must have spares, but where did this come from? Did Pietro go ask a family member for a random memento for the (from his perspective) equally random teen that showed up? It’s entirely possible that I’m missing something---I’m sick as a dog at the moment and am probably one fever degree away from mild hallucinations---but the whole setup seems incredibly weird. We see Jaune open his box. We see his look of shock. He see him fingering a torn piece of Pyrrha’s skirt. But how does all that come together in any logical way?

More importantly... why? Why is this still a thing? I get it, Jaune is grieving, but to be frank this has been his one-note characterization for over three volumes now. More importantly, everyone else is grieving too. This is another case of the writing prioritizing what the audience knows over what characters know. Meaning, we got to see how close Jaune and Pyrrha were. We know they were in love, but outsiders like Ironwood and Pietro see them as a unified team. Why not give a scrap to Jaune, Nora, and Ren? Really, that’s what rankles the most: this continuing focus on Jaune over the rest of his team. Especially when that focus just leads us in circles of the ‘Jaune is sad’ variety. I thought we were supposed to be learning more about Nora this volume, so why not give her something to remember Pyrrha by? I realize we’re only through the third episode, but in a series that averages twelve each volume, that’s a fourth of our material gone. Please. I’m begging you. Enough about Jaune. We’ve watched him cry and rage and lash out for three years now. He’s gotten to move through every type of grief the writing could throw at him. Let someone else take the spotlight for a change.

(It’s also just all around weird because Jaune is smiling sadly, implying he’s moving on, but then we have Clover narrating about how they’re “going to kill this thing...” which reminds us of Pyrrha’s murder in a way not really conducive to the whole ‘moving on’ vibe... it’s just odd.)

Second gripe: why doesn’t Oscar get anything? I’ve written before about how overall the group still treats Oscar as the outsider and boy oh boy, do we see that trend continuing here. I’ll speak about this more in a moment when we get to the Ozpin situation, but for this scene in particular there’s no reason he shouldn’t be included. If Jaune can get a cool addition to his shield after updating his own outfit, Oscar can get a cool addition too. Take five seconds to have Pietro point out that, as a random farm kid buying combat gear for the first time, he didn’t totally hit the mark. Here are a few things to keep you safer. Hell, you could even have Pietro---who we have established goes above and beyond in his inventions---pull Oscar aside with an updated weapon and Oscar could have gotten all quiet, examining his cane, eventually thanking Pietro, but emphasizing that he doesn’t think he should change things just yet. Or without anther’s input. Or, if Atlas doesn’t want to waste funds on the farm boy let him get a haircut like literally everyone else! We could have allotted Oscar a few seconds of screen time instead of getting what we always get: the team banding together and him nowhere to be seen.

He’s a part of this mission. He’s integral to this mission. He is a main character now. It’s about time the writing started acknowledging that.

The final flashback, at least, includes Oscar a little more. I realize my screenshot isn’t the best, but the expressions here really do say it all: Ruby mindlessly geeking out over new tech while Oscar stands sadly in another doorway.

We hear him say, “Hey... Ruby?” before he’s cut off and we return to the present.

We’ll get back to him in just a moment. For now, the airship opens to reveal everyone’s new look, which isn’t actually a reveal because this scene dominated the trailer. 

Ah well. I have to say though, from here on out one of the main reasons why this episode feels strong to me is because of the overall dynamic among the characters. First, it was smart to break everyone up into different teams to search for a hidden grimm. If they’d tried to cram twelve characters into the same shot for the rest of the episode it would have been a disaster. Second, these smaller teams allow for the sort of teasing/comfort/playfulness we’ve grown used to among these characters, but have largely lost over the last two volumes. One of my favorite moments is when Yang is caught staring at Blake’s new haircut and we get a look at this massive blush.

Not to ship on main, but please note the parallel between this moment and Nora/Ren, two characters who are more firmly established as a canonical couple. Although... here when Nora compliments Ren’s hair he shuts her down pretty hard. There’s none of the casual indulgence we’re used to from him. Since when does Ren insist that Nora take a mission seriously, outside of making those requests in an equally teasing manner? Nora notices as much too, clearly upset, and Jaune is just... dense. It makes me wonder though if this is the direction they’re heading in for Nora. Give her romance troubles in the form of Ren pulling away now that their relationship has had a chance to sink in.

Not sure I’m a big fan of that. Granted, it depends on how they handle it, but on the whole I’m not really invested in reducing Nora’s rare and much needed development down to a cliche ‘Oh no. A boy doesn’t like me’ plot-line. We’ll have to see though.

I also really liked the moment between Weiss and Blake a little later. This is how you tackle racism in your story. Not by having the group risk their world-saving mission by Weiss impulsively throwing civilians into the trash, but by having an incredibly privileged woman acknowledge her privilege. Weiss mentions how angry this mine’s failure made her father, but she doesn’t use the abuse she suffered as any sort of excuse, like she would have in the earlier volumes. Instead, Weiss acknowledges for herself how hard that time was and then apologizes not only for what he’s done to the faunus, but also for “all my complacency in it.” Weiss was a child. We can’t hold her to the same level of responsibility as Jacques. But as a privileged woman in this world Weiss’ complacency does perpetuate her father’s active sins. So it’s fantastic that she admits as much to Blake. In front of all the others, no less. To me, that’s a far better sign of growth than what we got last week.

It’s also during this time that we see Blake eyeing the SDC boxes with anxiety. It could just be bad memories. It could imply that she had some hand in this particular attack. I hope it implies that she’s thinking about Adam because... is anyone going to bring him up? Seriously? Two teammates killed a guy. The self-defense aspect doesn’t erase the fact that they each rammed a piece of a blade through his stomach and watched him topple over a waterfall. We should be dealing with this! Not reducing it to one hug from Ruby right before a major battle. Hopefully this is setup for some (now long overdue) reflection.

Meanwhile, an interaction that doesn’t work as well is when Ruby comments on how freezing she is and Weiss notes that without proper equipment or aura insulation you can freeze to death in an hour. So... is that what the group is doing then? Wasting precious aura whenever they’re outside because Blake wants her arms unzipped, Weiss wants bare spots around her chest, and Yang needs to artistically keep one leg and one arm totally unclothed? The issue is not, “How does the group stay warm?” because plenty of stories have logistical questions like that and unless you’re a fan overly invested in the minutiae, you shrug it off. When is the group going to the bathroom during these endless missions? Who’s carrying pads for when three of them hit their periods at once? No one cares. Rather, the issue is that the writing draws attention to the question and then fails to answer it. Just like they did when suddenly death via cold was something that had to keep them in the creepy town when death via cold was never a concern up until then. Where was hypothermia when Yang insisted Ozpin hash out all his secrets in the snow? It’s a rather convenient ‘Sometimes it’s an issue, sometimes not,” situation. Obviously aura isn’t doing much to keep them toasty though if Ruby feels the need to comment on how cold she still is. And that attention then invites further questions like, “Why then are they still dressed inappropriately for the weather? Should we expect them to fall more quickly in battle because aura is going towards making sure they don’t freeze to death in under an hour?” Better to just leave it alone.

Talk of the cold leads into Oscar though because Yang comments, “I suddenly don’t feel so bad about leaving Oscar behind.” Which... no. You did leave him behind. Don’t try to make that palatable with stupid upsides like, ‘Well at least he’s warm!’ Worse, the group does nothing to justify that decision. Realistically I can buy why they’d leave Oscar out of this mission. We’ve established that this particular grimm has already taken out a lot of people and, without Ozpin, Oscar is still a newbie fighter. With the exception of the train and one grimm in the premier, I don’t think Oscar has fought many grimm at all. So really, it would take two sentences to establish this. Tell us that this mission is way out of his skill range and throw out that he’s training with Ironwood or something. That’s it. That’s all it takes, but the writing bypasses that and leaves us with, ‘The group left Oscar behind... for reasons?’ Which, in the context of his entire time with them looks really, really bad. Because they left him out of the dinner in Haven. And the hunt for supplies at the farm. And in retrieving the relic. And left him alone at the Argus house. And left him out of the upgrade joy. We’ve now established a trend of the group outright ignoring Oscar, whether it’s during bright celebratory moments or agonizing traumatic ones. Doesn’t matter, he’s left out of the loop, and now we see the same thing happening here. Rather than a simple and logical, ‘Oscar isn’t ready to fight a super old geist,’ what we’re left with paints the situation as, ‘Oscar is left behind because Ruby disagrees with him.’

Because without clarification, that’s the context. We get another (very short) flashback where he (thank you, thank you) points out that what they’re doing to Ironwood is precisely what Ozpin did to them. (Although Oscar tries to soften this by saying it only “feels like” the same thing.) Ruby looks guilty for a second... and then that’s it. We’re back to at least a day later where they’re on this mission, they’ve left Oscar behind, and Ruby is re-explaining why her morals are sound.

I’ll admit I’m pleased that Yang points out that they agreed no more lies and no more half-truths. I honestly didn’t expect her to say even that much against her precious sister. But still, on the whole this dilemma isn’t much of a dilemma at all. It’s reading precisely like the airship debacle: a few characters giving token disagreements but when push comes to shove whatever Ruby wants, Ruby gets. You know how above I pointed out how much I like the split present/past business so that we can have a balance between talking and action? Yeah, that only works if the talking is generic exposition. We don’t need a long-winded discussion about the details of this mission. We do need a substantial discussion about the absolute hypocrisy the group has fallen into. That split between past and present is important. Are you honestly going to tell me that over all these days---if not, arguably, weeks---the group never once had a conversation about this? That we don’t get to see that downtime filled with some actual growth? And we could have easily achieved that with the current setup. Extend Oscar’s flashback into something significant, leaving the geist battle for next week. Let him be angry for once, furious that after all the shit they put Ozpin through, and by extension him, they’re just going to turn around and do the exact same thing without even an apology? An acknowledgment that they were wrong? Or create space to have that discussion now. Harriet comes out of the mine saying a part of it has collapsed and they need time to clear it, giving Team RWBY the chance to really hash some things out and disagree for once. Instead, as expected, secret keeping is framed as the right decision without anyone but Oscar acknowledging the hypocrisy in that. They even go so far as to say, “Why don’t we play along for a while before me make any major decisions.” Newsflash:

Graphic design is my passion, all.

Overall it’s not quite as pro-protagonist as it could have been, but it’s not great either. We’re left with the fact that the group has this time sitting with their own lies and apparently, after all that, what they’ve settled on is denial. Great. Fantastic. I hope Oscar finds new friends at the Academy who encourage him to really call them out on this later.

We also learn that Ruby gave the relic back to Oscar. So the writing is self-aware enough for her to acknowledge that carrying it around on her belt is a horrendously bad idea, but not self-aware enough to keep her getting it back in the first place? Imagine you hired someone to transport a priceless painting to your super safe vault and then when it finally arrives you go, “Actually, you did such a good job getting that here I think it’ll be safer in your hands as you go about your life. Rather than the vault I specifically built for it.” Except the painting is a magic relic, the vault is also nearly impenetrable via magic, and the transporter is now a 14yo who, as established, is the weakest fighter of the group. For the love of Ironwood’s characterization, please let that relic be a fake.

Really, on the whole that moment could have been touching... but again, context. ‘Here’s the relic back that I basically stole and then ripped all Ozpin’s trauma from him by wasting an invaluable question.’ Yeah. All the while everyone is still talking as if Ozpin isn’t even there. Ironwood, in his ignorance, has been the one person to actually address him, despite the fact that the entire group knows he’s listening in. You know that feeling when you’re sitting with a bunch of people you’re not particularly close with and it’s clear they’re deliberately not including you in the conversation? Yeah, it’s like that only a thousand times worse. No wonder Ozpin still hasn’t tried to come out. No one cares about his vessel, they still actively hate him, and they’re all hypocritical to boot. I’d stay hidden too.

Anyway, back to the actual plot. Qrow has been paired off with Clover and at first we get a really excellent conversation about teamwork. We as the audience know precisely why Qrow prefers to work alone, but when he slips and Clover manages to catch him, it functions as a fantastic counter. See? Qrow might have bad luck, but this is precisely why he does need to be around others. They can help him when things get tough.

However, that message is severely undermined when it’s later revealed that Clover’s semblance is good luck.

Not only does that remove the previously stated wonderful message---because now it’s not about Qrow learning to accept help, it’s about how Clover’s semblance just conveniently cancels his out---it’s just an iffy stretch of my suspension of disbelief. Really? Out of all the people they could have met, that Qrow could have been paired with, he happens to find the one guy with the exact opposite semblance to him? Clover is an incredibly handsome and charismatic guy. He’s the leader of the strongest kingdom’s strongest team. He just happens to have the best version of Qrow’s greatest weakness. I know I said I wanted more passive semblances, but I would have preferred something other than this heavy-handed introduction.

Although... are they passive? I had to pause the episode for a moment when Qrow throws out, “sometimes I can’t keep it under control” because excuse me?? There are times you can keep it under control? Since when? How? I know we’re loose on our semblance rules here, but c’mon. Is Qrow’s entire life governed by a trait outside of his control or not?

We see a similar issue cropping up at the end of the episode when Harriet informs Ruby that there’s “something else” going on with her semblance. Look. RWBY isn’t Dragon Ball Z. The characters don’t need to tap into unheard of powers every season to keep things interesting. As Yang herself points out, Ruby already has super special silver eyes. 

Her semblance is speed and transformation and transforming other people along with her. Weiss is already a super special Schnee with a super special hereditary semblance that creates glyphs and summoned fighters of whatever she’s killed. Blake is already a super special Belladonna with ties to the world’s biggest resistance group. Yang... okay, Yang is admittedly an ordinary girl with an ordinary background and that’s one of the things I still love about her. She grows stronger through more training, better strategy, and turning any weaknesses into strengths---like her arm. It’s so much more powerful to give characters that kind of arc than to fall back on, “[gasp!] You were secretly special all along.” So who knows what else they’re going to add to Ruby’s semblance. Whatever it is, it’s not needed.

I will say though that semblance issues aside, I’m liking the Ace Ops way more than I thought I would. Given that introducing five more characters was, objectively, a bad move. But they’ve got real personality attached to them. I appreciated that Clover thanked Qrow for the save (they could have made a guy that ‘perfect’ way more arrogant) while the rest spent a good portion of the time teasing RWBYJNR like they’re little siblings. Which I adored. For the first time in volumes we got to see our heroes portrayed exactly as they are: teens in training. Nora says that it “feels like we’re an actual huntsmen team,” acknowledging that they’re not yet. They’re the students following the professionals, helping out without getting in the way. It stood out to me that the geist fight is identical to the one we got in Volume Four, with the exception that it’s way, way better. They come up with Jaune’s strategy to remove the limbs in an instant, rather than taking the entire fight trying and failing to do damage. I don’t think a single member of the Ace Ops took a hit, despite the fact that this geist was a huge threat to the rest of the Atlesian army. Like Team RWBY at times, there was seamless communication, perfect execution, and the one time they made a mistake? Ruby was there to help them out. I really appreciated that the writing had RWBYJNR sit this one out until their particular skills---in this case Ruby’s speed---was actually needed, as opposed to an arrogant, ‘How dare you not let us fight!’ where they endanger themselves and others by insisting that they know best. 

This is the RWBYJNR I want to see more of. Ozpin remains a huge, glaring issue, but if the writer’s can keep this sort of attitude in mind we’ll be making good strides away from the horror that was Volume Six. No more, “We don’t need adults,” please. As a bunch of adults just demostrated, they’re way out of your league.

Finally, we end the episode on Tyrian again. Showcasing RWBY’s new love of horror tropes, he appears beneath the flickering lamp light (complimenting the jump scare we got with Blake earlier on). He approaches Forest, the activist from the airship, and we end with Tyrian’s tail coming his way. Did he just poison him? Did he kill him? What’s the end goal here? Just sow chaos by leaving a bunch of bodies lying around? It’s unclear, but whatever is going on, Tyrian sure is busy.

Also, RIP #FRWBY.

Until next week!

Minor Things of Note

I like that Jaune and Blake both looked at their hair before we cut to them with new looks. Still not over Jaune’s style though. He’s french fry head now and no one will convince me otherwise.

It looks like Blake’s blade has been welded back together with a bit of yellow something-or-other...

Bad execution on an otherwise cool introduction to Marrow’s semblance. That was epic how he managed to stop both centipede grimm at once, but then Harriet just... slams them? Awkwardly? They don’t even disintegrate? Idk. Her end of that team attack didn’t live up to Marrow’s.

Team JNR has a very “headfirst approach.” True enough. Although, it’s not like they had an easy way to stop like their Ace Operative teammates. They did the best they could under the circumstances lol.

Jaune also has a landing strategy! I would have rather the writing just acknowledge that than give us that weird moment with Pyrrha’s fabric.

Not sure if I like Qrow’s new outfit or not. To be fair, that man would look stunning in a paper bag, so I’m not sure I’m an objective judge of any change here. Also to be fair, my own fashion ‘skills’ leaves something to be desired. So I think I’ll just bow out of this particular conversation.