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arcanewhoosh · 13 days ago

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Conversations and Lack of Consequences (Partners in Crime, Chapter 6)

4.2k words

Proofread? Y/N/Maybe

TW: Minor descriptions of injuries, minor mentions of trauma

The next few minutes, half-hour, hour? or so is fuzzy. You remember hearing people rush over to Ekko and Mylo. You briefly hear someone-it occurs to you that you didn't know a number of people at this party-Seriously, who are these people-muttering that one of them had to get taken to the hospital. There was a sharp pain on the right side of your head, but you were too busy trying to collect your scattered thoughts to check what was wrong. At some point, the cuff on your hand is removed- Who took that off?-your hand limply falls to the floor, and you're up, and escorted to a separate room.

It only registers that it's Jinx's room-messy, gadgets and trinkets strewn about, clothes haphazardly thrown next to her hamper-once you walk through the door. You're settled onto a bench at the foot of her bed, before being left alone. You scan the room, trying to get your bearings. A desk is on the left side of the room, with papers and books stacked onto one another, barely leaving any space to actually write, a bookshelf next to the right housing more trinkets than books, next to a bay window that you know she enjoys lounging on. The walls very tastefully decorated, not a speck of spray paint. They wouldn't let me paint anything you remember her say the first time she showed you her place.

Your musings are cut short when the door slams and Jayce walks in, a frown on his face, his brows furrowed. You're mildly surprised to see that there's only a hint of anger in his eyes, worry and confusion taking up most of his expression. The both of you are quiet for a few moments, as Jayce takes a seat on a chair by the bay window and sighs.

After ruminating on what you were going to say, you look up at Jayce, currently looking down at his clasped hands. "...Is it bad?"

He sighs again, and pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "Yeah... It's pretty bad."

You breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. "How bad?"

"Mylo had to get taken to the hospital. Ekko's face is swollen to hell."

Now it's your turn to sigh. "Fuck."

Jayce asks you what the hell had happened. You tense up, you had no idea. You've gotten angry about being teased about your birthday before, but never became violent.

"It's... I don't know if I can explain."

"Try." You look around the room, checking to see if you'd find any help from the random objects strewn about.

"My birthday, it's today."

"Yes, and?"

"You know how I don't celebrate it?" Jayce scoffs.

"Gods, please don't tell me you beat the shit out of those two because of that."

"It's hard to-You wouldn't understand, Jayce-"

"Well you're gonna have to help me understand!" He stands up as he says this, and starts pacing around the room. You swallow a lump in your throat.

"You threw the first punch, and two, two people got on the bad side of a beating. One got sent to the hospital, the other can barely open his eyes. Caitlyn's out there debating on whether or not she has to arrest you!" He gestures to the door, still pacing back and forth, quick strides along the carpeted floor, you stop trying to follow him with your eyes, the sensation of having to look left and right so quickly making you slightly dizzy.

"Jinx and Vi?" You manage. Jayce gives you a look.

"I just told you that Cait is thinking about arresting you, and you're asking me about Vi and Jinx?"

"I- I know, I just... This is dredging up a lot of things okay?"

"You're telling me." He takes a seat back on the side of the room. "What the hell was that? You've... You haven't had any trouble the past couple of years, then these two pop up and this happens?"

You shake your head. "It wasn't because of them, I don't think, not entirely. I just... I shouldn't have come to this party."

"You still haven't told me why this all had to go down."

"It's some old shit okay? Stuff with my mom when I was a kid." You refuse to look at Jayce, a dark spot on the carpet suddenly becoming incredibly interesting.

Jayce stands again, huffs, looks over to you, then out the window. "If you get in trouble-"

"I know what happens if I get in trouble Jayce. Hex Tech will get into-"

"It's not about Hex Tech, it's about you. I'm worried about you." You chance a glance up at him as he says this. He's facing you now. "You could get kicked off the company and be blacklisted from any other ones operating in Piltover. Everything you worked so hard for would be taken from you in an instant."

You look back down. Your knuckles are cracked, red and bleeding. "I know. I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me." You're sincere, because whatever justification entered your brain before the punch was thrown, or reason that made you keep going, is now conveniently eluding you.

"This place-" Jayce starts. "-it's not fair to people who come from where you do. It's such an outdated and shitty system, but it's the reality we have to live with for now. I don't know what's going through that brain of yours, nor can I begin to understand what kind of pressure you're under, but I need you to have your head on your shoulders, and your feet on the ground. You can't have these kinds of-" He gestures with his hand. "-lapses in judgement, and you certainly can't start beating people up because they pissed you off."

Your mentor, boss, older brother figure? walks over to you and gingerly puts a hand on your shoulder. "You can talk to me about all of this when you're ready. Just... Promise not to do anything stupid like this again."

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, still looking down at your hands. The adrenaline had long gone and they had started to hurt. Your knuckles were swollen, a good amount of scrapes and broken skin made it unbearable every time you tried to move them. The dull ache on the side of your head calls your attention. Reaching up a hand, you're met with a sticky sensation of slightly dried blood when your finger comes into contact with your temple. The skin above your eyebrow had broken. Funny, you don't remember being hit there.

"You look like crap." You hear Jayce speak up. You absentmindedly rub the blood between your fingers.

"Yeah, well, you should see the other guys."

A beat. Jayce's eyebrows furrow.

"Not the time, I know."

Before Jayce can lecture you on your poor timing, the door slowly opens, and you and Jayce immediately turn your attention to the new arrival. Caitlyn, ever awkward but poised, peeks her head in, and once confirming that it's only you two in the room, enters and shuts the door.

You can't tell what mood she's in based on her expression, but you're pretty sure she'll either lecture you, unleash a string of insults, or say that Vi was right about you all along and that you were a bad person to be around with, or she'd arrest you. Or all of the above.

You sit up straight, breath caught in your throat. She looks between you and Jayce, before settling on you, her blue eyes not giving anything away.

"How are you feeling?" She asks.

Like being swallowed up by the earth You want to say, but you already being on thin ice with multiple people, you opt in for the safe, honest answer. "Everything hurts." You say. She nods, then sighs.

"Well, I at least have some good news. The other two are fine, mostly. It seems like their injuries looked much worse than they looked." You and Jayce simultaneously let out a breath of relief. Cait ignores this and continues. "Besides the swollen face that'll probably hurt for a week or two, Ekko is good. Mylo has a broken nose and will have to get some of his teeth fixed… again. The biggest injury that they have is the one to their egos, which we should all be thankful for." She turns to look at you. You straighten up again.

"Vi spoke with Ekko, and went to the hospital to talk to Mylo. She assured me that they won't press charges, and that we'll all pretend this didn't happen, and move on." She says as she waves a hand around. Your brows furrow and you're about to speak, but Caitlyn holds her hand up.

"Granted that you stay away from both of them for the foreseeable future." You're not quite sure who looks more surprised, you or Jayce. You're half expecting Caitlyn to say sike and book you, but she doesn't. She does, however, raise one of her eyebrows.

"That's it? I get out of this with a slap on the wrist?" Caitlyn sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Believe me, if this was me we would've gone to the station and sorted this out there. But Vi was insistent and practically begged me to not arrest you."

Wait, what?

You stare at Caitlyn, mouth slightly agape. Vi, who had hated your guts for years, who cut off contact with you and completely removed any affiliation between her family and yours. Who, after seeing each other for the first time in years once you had started working for HexTech, had barely acknowledged your existence and did little to hide her disdain for you. This couldn't be the same person. Had she been kidnapped maybe?

"She did?" You and Jayce say in unison. You momentarily forgot that he was in the room.

"I tried to ask her why she was suddenly belong so lenient with you, but she said this," she motions around you, "was a personal matter that I wouldn't entirely understand unless I was there." Jayce gives you a look at this, Caitlyn catches it and furrows her brows. "I take it I won't be able to get it out of you either?"

"Already tried." Jayce says. She sighs.

"Alright then, we'll let it go, for now. I'll keep tabs on Mylo and Ekko, just for the love of God, don't try to contact them." You both look over to Caitlyn, already heading for the door. "No arrests?" You ask again, she shakes her head.

"No, I guess not."

"Good. Thank you Cait." Jayce says, emphasizing the appreciative tone as he thanks Caitlyn. You mutter a Thank you Caitlyn as well. The latter makes it halfway out the door before turning back towards you. "You lie low, take some time off until this blows over. At least until your hands heal. Alright?"

She shares a look with Jayce. To someone who wasn't familiar with the two, the look would've been dismissed as a simple expression of concern. To someone that was familiar with them, which you were, you could almost hear the silent conversation they were having.

No work for him in the meantime.

Got it.

You want to express your protest on the matter, but you bite your tongue and remain silent, already feeling like you've consumed all of your sympathy points with both of them. A thought crosses your mind.

"Wait, where's Jinx?" You ask. Cait simply says that she had gone with Vi to the hospital to try and smooth things out with Ekko and Mylo, as she ducks out.

Caitlyn shuts the door behind her, and a few beats of silence pass. Jayce walks over to you and offers a hand. "They cleared out the guests before I went in here to check on you. I'll drive you home. And for God's sake, do what Caitlyn said and get some rest, please."

You put your wrist on top of Jayce's waiting hand, the pain in your hands making it too difficult to move them. You're hit with a wave of dizziness as you stand up, your head suddenly throbbing again. Jayce seems to notice your discomfort and puts your arm over his shoulder-he has to lean down a bit because he's irrationally tall-and helps you towards the door. You make a mental note to thank Caitlyn and Vi-the concept of thanking the latter completely foreign and strange in your mind- for having everyone head out before you're half carried by Jayce out of the apartment.

------------

Two weeks had gone by before Jayce and Viktor deemed you rested enough to return to work. You're not sure what made them think you were rested, given you were going absolutely insane being stuck in your apartment with nothing to do. All of this exasperated by the fact that Jinx hadn't tried to contact you over the stretch of your Mandatory Medical Leave. You had tried texting, calling, emailing; hell, you almost considered sending a letter. You wanted to go see her, but Jayce and Viktor had kept close tabs on you and were serious about you laying low. Fortunately, it hadn't been four days since you heard of Jinx.

Jayce had kept in touch with Caitlyn, who is his direct link to Vi, and thus their direct link to Jinx. It wasn't much, but beggars couldn't be choosers. And so you asked Jayce nearly every day for any updates. To his credit, he tried to get any news he could from Caitlyn, but it wasn't a lot to go off of either.

Jinx had been uncharacteristically quiet the past two or so weeks, opting to-miraculously-go to work early and head home late. Anytime Vi asked what was keeping her busy, she'd mutter something about super-secret SilCorp projects that needed her undivided attention. Well, it couldn't have been that important, seeing as she had time to visit Mylo and Ekko. She actually visited Ekko quite a few times. This didn't bother you, of course, definitely not. The few times this week you'd accidentally punch a hole through the notebook you were writing in were definitely unrelated and definitely not because you remembered this particular fact.

You sigh heavily. The fifth sigh of the day, according to Viktor, who thought it would be funny to keep a tally on one of the whiteboards around the office.

"You know, you should just go see her." He says, adding another line to the tally. You shake your head.

"No, if she ignores you, it means she doesn't wanna see you, and if she doesn't wanna see you, it means she lets you know when you can come see her."

"And that is?"

"Whenever she tells you." You check your phone again for any replies. Nothing.

"It's a bit unfair of her, isn't it?" He says.

"It's a bit unfair of me to ruin a party she set up for me." You reply. Despite not having much to do while you were stuck at home, you did reach out to the party guests, offering up apologies and gift baskets. You'd never seen so many tins of fancy sardines in your life.

"A party that you didn't want, and she knew, if I remember correctly. Knew we'll enough that you'd have a bad reaction, so much so, that you became uncharacteristically violent."

You open your mouth to speak- "Which by the way, you haven't even discussed with neither me, nor Jayce. So even if she had good reason to ignore your reservations, there's no way I couldn't throw some fault to her." He adds quickly.

You sigh again,-Viktor adds another to the tally- you had known Jayce and Viktor for years. They were the ones that stood up for you when people doubted your potential. They were the ones that served as your family after Vi and the others had cut you off from theirs. They had shown you nothing but love, support, and kindness over the years. It shouldn't be this hard to tell them about your past. That many years later, it should be funny to retell how the last time you celebrated your birthday, your mother had died, and that you always thought that something bad would happen if you ever celebrated it. How it's actually silly how you associate such an extreme superstition to such a singular event. How every time you try to talk about it, you're taken right back to the harrowing scene laid out for your too-young self. How you had avoided going back to your house until months after, fearing that once you open the door, you'd see her dull-

"It's quite alright if you're not ready to talk about it." Viktor says suddenly, his tone lightly clipped, laced with a tinge of worry. You hear him recap the marker, "But if she's adamant on not seeing you to even discuss what happened, then you shouldn't be making a fool of yourself trying to contact her."

You look up to see Viktor looking at you pointedly with his arms crossed, clearly not impressed by your maybe pathetic display of desperation. You check your phone again.

"Maybe… I'll send one more message, and if she doesn't reply, I'm not gonna give her space." Viktor raises an eyebrow at you, clearly unimpressed. You type out the message anyway.

Look, if you don't wanna talk, that's fine. I'll leave you alone. You hit the send button.

"There. If she doesn't reply, then I'm putting my phone on silent, with the exemption of messages from you guys." You say as you lift your phone screen so Viktor can see. The latter seems somewhat bemused with this, and turns to go fidget with one of the workstations.

"As a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool repeats his foolishness." He says, shaking his head.

"Thanks for the support Viktor." You grumble. He makes a comment about you reaching a new personal best for sighing.

You toss your phone onto an empty chair and try to shift your focus back on your work, which is honestly what you should have been doing, given that it is still working hours. But you can't help but occasionally steal a glance at your phone's screen, hoping it would light up once you do.

A few minutes go by, then an hour, then three. You let out a frustrated groan and ruffle your already messy hair as you realize you haven't made much progress work-wise. This was getting out of hand.

So what if Jinx doesn't respond? She's well within her rights to do whatever she wants. She can work on her super-secret work projects, visit her childhood friends, and totally ignore you. But you shouldn't be letting her live rent free in your head and take over valuable time that you should be spending on your own tasks. You lasted years not hearing from her, what's maybe a couple more days?

You almost let out a sigh, but remember that Viktor is still probably tallying and you couldn't let what little pride you have left to be shattered. So you stand up from your chair a bit too abruptly, and mutter a quick goodbye to Viktor as you grab your phone and bag and head out the door. Your previous train of thought only proving to sour your mood even further.

The drive back to your apartment is quiet. Too consumed with your thoughts to even turn the radio on. You're so out of it that you don't realize that you're already up the elevator and heading over to your front door. The hallways is dusted with orange as the sun is setting outside. You turn a corner, and you swear up and down that a pang of disappointment doesn't hit you as you're met with an affrontingly empty front door. No, you weren't hoping that Jinx would do her once usual routine of randomly waiting for you outside of your apartment. I just felt like visiting she would say, and you would shake your head as you unlock your door and let her in.

---

"Mom! Look what we found in the creek!" You rush through the front door, as fast as your legs could carry you, excited to show your mother the gigantic toad you and the others had caught. It had taken all five of you-because Vi said she was too cool to be catching toads, whatever that meant, and had opted to sit and watch- to surround the surprisingly fast critter. You and Mylo had gotten completely soaked after diving head first into the water, and ended up crashing into each other.

You race to the kitchen where your mother was washing a few dishes, a smile already on her face. It momentarily disappears, her eyes going wide after seeing you holding a toad, before slowly returning. "Uhm, that's nice dear… look at the size of him!" She says as she wipes her hands on her apron, sidestepping away from you and the toad. You extend your arms and hold it out to her, and she very subtly hides her jump before standing her ground.

"Isn't he cute?" You say, still holding it out to her, waiting for her to take the toad from you. She doesn't, a beat of sweat dropping from the side of her face.

"That's nice, love. But won't Mr. Toad feel homesick? What if his family is waiting for him at the creek?" Your smile drops. You hadn't even considered if Malcolm-Mr. Toad- had a family he had to take care of back at the creek. You turn Malcolm's little face towards, his eyes unblinking.

"I'm sorry Malcom. I didn't know you had a family." Your mother furrows her brows in confusion, before realizing that you had named toad. "I should take him back home, shouldn't I?" You ask, looking over to her. Your disappointment allowing your mother's sigh of relief to escape your notice.

"Yes dear, I think you should. Mister-Malcolm probably misses his family. Plus, he'll be safe once he's home." You look back at Malcolm, and after a nod of determination, you start heading back out the door. You hear your mother shout out for you to hurry back home, before the door loudly slams behind you.

---

You sit up from your bed abruptly, woken up by a pounding on your door. You're stunned for a few seconds before reaching under your bed for the bat you kept for protection. The pounding at the door continues as you try to stand up as quietly as possible, tapping your phone on the nightstand to check the time.

02:41

You don't believe in ghosts, nope. But the thought of random banging on your door at this hour still sends a shiver up your spine. You take a breath-Ghosts aren't real, this is an actual person banging on my door- on second thought, a real-life person banging on your door is actually scarier than a ghost. People can touch you, ghosts can't. Your grip on the bat tightens. You could call the police, or the building security. Oh who the hell am I kidding, security's probably sleeping downstairs.

Bang bang bang.

Steeling your courage after listing down your options, you slowly, quietly, approach the front door. You're about 10 paces away when the traitorous floorboards of your room creak under your foot. You stop. The pounding stops.

A sigh, from outside. "I already heard your creaky ass floor." Comes through, muffled, exasperated.

You freeze. Suddenly, the thought that someone would be banging at your door at two in the morning doesn't seem so strange. Because of course there's someone in your life crazy enough to show up at your front door at two in the morning. Should you be surprised? Angry? Terrified? Pissed? Elated? Happy? Fuck. You shake your head, letting out a huff as you stand there, bat raised, looking a tad bit ridiculous.

"Bubs? Are you in there?" You hear the voice say. It's still muffled, but it's obvious to you that the previously annoyed tone is gone. Uncertainty, timidness, shame, maybe, replaces the usual haughty, and confident tone of Jinx. A few seconds pass. Your grip tightens on the bat, the previous fear of whoever was banging on your door, replaced by the terror of having to face who actually is at your door.

You take another few paces before realizing that you probably shouldn't be holding onto a bat before you greet Jinx at the door. You briefly consider still bringing it since you've become attached and assigned it as your emotional support item, but then her seeing you holding a weapon wouldn't be so welcoming. Besides, she's obviously here to talk-even though your brain only associates these kinds of late night visits for other motives-and clear things up. Nothing else, no sir.

Come to think of it, were you even ready to talk to her? Did you reach out to her several times, like an idiot? Yes. Did you spend the better half of the past couple of weeks hoping she's show up to talk? Yup. Spent way too long on that--You shake your head, trying to snap yourself out of your train of thought, you're getting distracted. You decide that the best way to get through this is to just rip off the band aid. So you steel your resolve, grab onto your door knob, and pull the door open. Ready-were you really?-- to face the impending conversation and the consequences of actions.

#arcane jinx #arcane #arcane netflix #arcane x reader #jinx x reader #arcane jayce #arcane viktor #arcane caitlyn #modern au

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aaronsrpgs · 1 year ago

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A Worksheet Manifesto (Rough Draft)

The Worksheet Manifesto is an attempt to explain why I'm moving my game design toward something I can print for free at the public library and give away. It's not a scold or a call to action; I buy full-color zines and hardcover books, and I support people charging for their work. This is a personal manifesto—an exercise in self-exploration.

The first reason I pursue this is ACCESS. I want people to be able to find and play my games. (Accessibility is maybe a better word for this, but I don't want it confused with the process through which something is made easier to use for people with disabilities.)

Some of the main barriers I've seen are financial (someone can't afford my games), technological (lack of computers and/or printers makes it more complicated to read my games), and international (shipping to someone outside the U.S. is prohibitively expensive).

Combining these three elements, I realized I wanted my games to be cheap or free. The common "community copies" solution on itch.io is much touted, and for good reason, but as I tried explaining the process to friends who weren't familiar with the site (or who flat-out aren't tech savvy), many responses were confused or frustrated. So I've set most of my games to pay-what-you-want with a suggested price.

Going from computer tech to printer tech, my most recent games were laid out in black and white, without ink-sucking textures (although some still have large spots of black in the art--something I continue to consider). Many American libraries offer limited free printing, and I always hope people will "utilize" the printers at their jobs or schools. I want people to be able to easily print out my games and share them at the table or pass them to friends.

And more selfishly, I hate dealing with fulfillment and shipping. It's stressful for me, it requires money up front to print things, and I'm bad at it, which means shipments go out slow, or not at all if someone lives outside of the U.S. Creating a file that's easy to print hopefully encourages people to create their own copies.

These cheap print copies also hopefully contribute to a feeling of DISPOSABILITY. I grew up with comic books, magazines, newspapers, and mass market paperbacks, and I think these cheap, short slabs of culture helped them feel like someone could engage with them without having to be fancy or educated or in the know. (A lot of us gatekeep ourselves!)

Prices for RPGs, like so many nerd collectibles, have steadily risen at least since the start of the pandemic. Crowdfunders often capitalize on FOMO, encouraging people to go all in on deluxe hardcovers with fabric bookmarks or whatever. And if my experience working at a used game store is anything to go by, lots of those fancy editions go right onto the bookshelf, unread. Don't want to break the spine or get fingerprints on it!

And I guess I'm just against consumerism? If someone wants a nice thing, I hope they get it, but a culture of games as luxury items and status symbols is not something I'm interested in.

So if someone has a game of mine and they don't want it anymore, I hope they pass it on, put it in a little free library, or recycle it.

And those dirty little printouts of my games? I want people to touch them and write them. I want TACTILITY. This is partially a usability issue: 300-page hardcovers are hard to find information in, and they're heavy if you have to lug them to a friend's house.

So I try to design games where everything a player (including the GM) needs is on, at most, three sheets of paper. I want them to be able to spread a couple pages out and take in the shape of the game they're about to play. I want them to circle things and make notes in the margins. Moving a pencil around does wild things to your brain, the same way that picking at a guitar or molding clay does. It focuses attention in interesting ways.

And in the end, you hopefully have a personalized article of play. And if you spill beer on it, no one's worried about replacing that $50 hardcover.

Speaking of beer, I want my games to be available to and contribute to COMMUNITY. As the pandemic started, I retreated into lots of online spaces, and those were absolutely vital to my survival. But I lost touch with lots of my friends and acquaintances in my city. I want to reconnect with them.

One of my favorite cartoonists, Mark Connery, is known for drawing little zines and just...leaving them all over. Coffee shops, art galleries, bathrooms. And when I think of him, I think of an artist responding directly to the places around him. Is it sad that some of this work is probably "lost" to all readers other than the person that happens across the zine? A little bit. But I think that comes from a bad part of my brain, the part that wants to own things.

I certainly don't want the entirety of my own work collected and widely distributed. Some of those things were specific responses to specific times that I've moved past. Some were bad! But I want to keep responding to my specific times and my specific place. I want to give things to friends (even if they just pass them on or recycle them). I want to give a game to someone at a zine fest and have them recognize my name from a zine they read in a coffee shop bathroom. And maybe they'll give me a zine in return.

My last hangup is MODULARITY. First, similar to tactility, I want to be able to give a player only the rules that matter to them. Character creation and basic rules? Here's a page. And once you're familiar with that and we've entered a downtime phase, here's a page with those options. You want to start a farm? Here's a page. I want it to feel like printing coloring pages for kids or ripping out my favorite magazine articles. These are the parts that matter. And if they stop mattering, you can get rid of them.

But I also want modularity on a system level. I want to add a subsystem to game as I think of it. I want to throw in an adventure pamphlet when it comes to me. I can keep them all in a little box, like a care package from my past self, and when it's time to run a game, I can dig around like a verminous animal and build my nest out of the best bits.

In CONCLUSION, I want to reiterate that this is a personal practice, and I'm not criticizing people who work differently. I used to work differently, and in the future, I'll probably work differently again.

This is simply the way I've identified what's important to me, set that up against the things that cause me to stumble, taken advantage of the privileges I have, and tried my best to bring that all together in a way that keeps me excited about my own work.

#ttrpgs #indie ttrpgs

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kiestrokes · 1 year ago

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goodsoop's couch and ramen recs: BTS

🗝️note: oh look, it's the list I started before manic deactivating back in march. rip to my og rec tag and all those lovely fics. Sadly, this is only new fics from my tbr and not my full collection 🥲 BUT this is for the fluff, slice of life and sfw readers! personally for the acespec babes who sometimes get icked out by smut.

SEOKJIN

my plus one by @btsgotjams27 🍜This is kicking the blankets, cuddled up on the couch, eating snacks with your girlfriends watching a new elite romcom worthy. I love this Jin so very much.

the one with seokjin, soju, and all the stars in the sky by @eoieopda 🍜 "Sojin has entered the chat," - when I tell you I screamed in laughter at this cuteness. You really nailed how a Sagittarius remembers the little things too.

YOONGI

the one with yoongi, netflix and zero chill by @eoieopda 🍜 “cum over?” - JADE 😂 omg, why is the embodiment of every casual relationship I have been in. The way that I felt every awkward and soft moment, deep in the crevice of my bones.

Just Between Us by @herecomesjoon 🍜 “I figured he would be safe with the bookshelf.” - Saturn nooo! You should have seen my look of alarm. We cannot trust Joon to build anything. The gathering of little moments in this is my favorite thing ever!

HOSEOK

And on the seventh day... by @moni-logues 🍜 it’s giving lazy Sundays, cuddled up with our own personal sunshine.

We'll Never Have Sex by @eoieopda 🍜 You were already melting into a puddle under that sunshine in his eyes - how this entire fic and your writing made me feel.

NAMJOON

Hungry (For Your Love) by @minisugakoobies 🍜The way that this gives me reversed Spike x Buffy roles, the setting immediately putting me in Sunnydale and with Namjoon of all people 🫠

just like riding a bike by @effortandmore 🍜 Listen...this is like walking through an OST music video, so colorful and whimsical.

JIMIN

pork belly by @yoongiphoria 🍜I love love love this, it's so realistic and Jimin's personality traits were captured beautifully. Have thought about this many times while I was away.

adonis by @xjoonchildx 🍜 if you love Ana’s provocative humor this is a must read, obviously I came for Jimin but I stayed for Mrs. Yun.

TAEHYUNG

Swoon by @minisugakoobies 🍜I'm pretty sure I blacked out after that description of THE Park Jimin dressed as Harley Quinn, and my jaw on the desk at Tony Stark JJK. Please this is every army x comic nerds wet dream.

Maybe by @leviackermanscleaningbuddy 🍜 Elite F2L, unrealized mutual pining and a little angsty, just how I like it.

JUNGKOOK

T-Shirt by @still-with-koo

🍜 “You trying to make me throw up or something?” - LO I laughed so hard at this that my eyes hurt from them crinkling. Oh, I adore this couple and their witty teasing.

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hopefulfuturenovelauthor · 2 years ago

Text

Panic Room

Crowley x reader (gn) part 1

about 5,000 words. I hope you all enjoy and please do not copy my work, thanks!

Warnings: read through at like 1:00 am once so probably many mistakes, canon violence, the supernatural, angst (I guess), and language. Also slight warning, I’m planning on making this a 3 part/ maybe short 4th part mini series, but I take forever to write anything, this has just been sitting in my drafts for a couple of months.

Panic Room

Hell Raising

Hair Raising

I’m ready for the worst

So frightening

Face whitening

Fear that you can’t reverse

Welcome to the Panic Room

Where all your darkest fears are going to come for you …

Seven and a half months. For you a total of 75 years of brutal, unrelenting torture. Hell did not treat you well and to call you bitter would not only be offensive but also the largest understatement of the millennium.

You loved humanity, you loved your life, and you loved those in your life. Despite this, anger was all you could feel toward the people that used to bring you the most joy. The ones that made you laugh, that made you a better person, and left you behind. You didn’t even know if they knew.

You died. You died and as your deal had stated; you were going to hell. Readying yourself for the worst did nothing to help in the end. The place was so frightening at first, but with time you became used to the fear. It was nothing anymore. Your only goal in life was to never be afraid again. You knew what you needed, but more importantly, you knew what you craved.

You wanted them to pay. You made the deal for them. You made the deal with his crossroad demons. You took the price when the one that fucked up refused to take responsibility for his actions.

You sacrificed everything. You lost your will to live and more. You didn’t want to hurt just anyone you wanted to hurt them. You wanted them to feel every moment of your torture and then some. You didn’t want revenge, you wanted justice.

“Belial, the wicked one, it’s great to finally see you, however, I had been hoping I’d be able to put a name to a face. Is the mask really necessary?” Crowley stalled.

“No, it’s not necessary, I just prefer it. After all, I did go back to get my face, and I wouldn’t want my old identity to get out there, now would I?”

“I suppose not,” Crowley led on, making his way around one of his numerous castle rooms in Hell, preparing the both of you a drink. “How do you like your liquor?”

“Well, more recently I’ve come to like a nice earthy aged scotch or whiskey neat. Whichever you think would be better. Either is much nicer than the cheap beers I used to drink. However, you still stick to the room temperature yeast water if I’m correct Dean and Sam. As for you Castiel, your grace makes it unnecessary to even try drinking unless you want a whole nother liquor store,” you turn slowly to look at the shorter hunter sneaking up behind you.

Dean had stopped his stride as you started to speak of him. Sam carefully made his way out from behind a bookshelf to your left. Castiel walked with his usual cadence from your right, out of the darkness.

Crowley gulped as you slowly moved back to look at the King of Hell. The brothers collected together on your left moving closer to the demon you were staring at. Castiel armed himself with an angel blade shifting to Crowley’s side.

“It’s nice to see I’ve sent you into such a panic, my King. But all four of you, here, in front of me, it truly seems all of my prayers have been answered.”

“What are your grievances toward us?” Castiel questioned, as he held his position as a warrior of the lord.

“What the hell did we do to you?” Dean asked.

You chuckled menacingly, “Hell is exactly right, Dean Winchester. As for my grievances, I simply can’t move past the fact that I was left here to rot.”

“We don’t even know who you are,” Sam said, trying to ease the tension of the situation.

“I assure you, you know exactly who I am.”

“What is it you wish to do to us for our mistreatment of you?” Crowley did not seem bothered by your accusations. He was in fact satisfied with his work, but only because he did not know whose face lay under the cover of your mask and hood.

“I’m simply going to take you to where all your darkest fears are going to come for you.”

Crowley scowled at this. Castiel raised his blade. “You can’t hurt me, angel, you promised.”

“I have only ever promised that to one-“ Castiel stopped speaking. The look of sudden and horrifying realization dawned on his face.

“Cas, Cas, what is it, who are they?” Dean asked as Sam tried to get Castiel to share the information he had just come to understand.

“Well, I don’t care who feathers promised to protect. This is my kingdom, no one threatens me,” Crowley pulled out his angel blade only making it a step forward.

“Really, Crowl,” your voice sounded as it used to, no longer holding the facade of an old and ancient demon, “when have you ever beat me one-to-one? We could make another bet, you’ll have to finally take me to that one restaurant you're always raving about and saying you’ll bring me to.”

His face fell immediately. “No,” it came out of his mouth with a hint of denial, but his eyes begged for what he was thinking to not be true.

It was your turn to smirk at the demon. You did so as you took off your mask and slowly removed your hood.

“Y/n,” Sam’s voice came out breathy. You were unexpected. Dean’s face whitened entirely, finally understanding Cas’s silence.

“We burned your body,” Crowley’s voice was breaking and eyes watering.

“You should have gone to Heaven,” Castiel stated.

“And I would have. If I hadn’t made a deal to save you lot from Lucifer,” your nostrils flared and your glare was directed at the Winchesters. “You were like brothers to me. I saved you! And you!” your gaze turned to Crowley, “I was given two goddamn years, by your crossroad demons. And my life ended up shorter than determined because I sacrificed myself to save all of you. And-and you, you let me rot in Hell.” Your voice broke on the last sentence you let slip.

Each of the men before you crumbled at the weight of your words. Not a single one of them could look you in the eye.

“Do it,” Dean said. No one spoke out against this. “Do what you need to do, make us pay. Just, please, let Sam out of this.” The begging was something your demon side liked, but the human part of you was sickened by it.

You walked forward, reaching out to cradle Dean's face in one of your hands. “No,” escaped firmly from your lips that were stuck in a hellish smile, fully displaying almost pointed teeth, like that of the many monsters you had all killed together.

The fear that followed your statement caught you off guard. Sam, Cas, and Crowley all flinched at your answer and Dean fell apart.

“Please,” the pleading returned. Dean looked about ready to beg you from his knees.

“I do not want revenge. I want justice. Congratulations, I don’t want to kill you any more than I want to kill anyone else at the moment. I want you to look at me and see what I am. I want you to know what you did. I want you to understand I screamed, and cried, and begged for each of you to save me. I want you to know that I held onto hope for so long,” the tears began to escape from your blackened eyes, “I thought you would come for me. I thought you cared! But you left me, never thought about me. You didn’t give any part of it a second thought. So this is punishment fit for the crime. I am a demon,” you looked at Dean, “I am not your friend,” you looked at Castiel, “I am not Y/n,” you looked at Sam, “and one day I rip this Kingdom from your grasp,” you looked at Crowley, and stepped back to view them all, “most importantly, none of this is personal. You left me behind, now I’m leaving you. You will forever recognize that you messed up and I will always be a reminder of your guilt. You are nothing to me, even if I am something to you.”

You began to walk off, reaching for the handle of the doors you had walked through earlier. You spared only one glance back before walking out, making one final blow, “goodbye boys.” After that, you simply disappeared.

—

“Your majesty,” the demon croaked out in fear.

“What?!” you snapped at your underling as you looked up from the scattered plans of hell and general paperwork. The demon shook under your gaze. It concerned you at times that your demons feared you so much. You were more of a force to be reckoned with than Crowley and he had been a demon for far longer than you had. The cruelty wasn’t what you wanted. You had hoped the damage done to your soul hadn’t changed you as much as it obviously did, but you supposed that was just your luck. “I apologize for my brashness, Anthony. I’m simply busy and stressed. Now tell me, what is the matter?” you looked at the demon before you with as much care as a demon can have for their personal assistant in a strictly platonic way.

“I’m afraid the Winchesters wish to see you. The short one is in the palace with his angel,” he told you still wary of your scrutiny.

“Here… in Hell?” you questioned. Anthony nodded, swallowing down his hesitance.

“They threatened to start killing your people if you refuse,” he said.

“Ahh, send them in then,” you told the demon, “make sure they know that if any harm comes to you I will be far less willing to even give them the time of day once they arrive.”

With another small nod, he walked off to collect Dean and Castiel. It had been a year since you had last seen any one of your old ex-friends. Hopefully, they would leave you alone if you showed little interest in their affairs.

As quickly as he left, Anthony seemed to return. Dean and Castiel were in tow, following behind the demon. You raised your brows at your loyal subject asking him if he was alright. As always Anthony kept it short with a brief nod before gesturing toward the door. You responded curtly back. Neither of you needed words to truly understand the other when it came to such dealings.

“You seem to be doing well down here,” Dean said, rocking on his feet, a telltale sign that he was uncertain and needed to calm his nerves somehow.

“Yes, I suppose us demons just have a knack when it comes to Hell,” Dean paled at the distance of your voice. It still destroyed him that this was you now. All he saw was your body, but it wasn’t you inside, not the you that had been like a younger sibling to him.

You asked Dean what he was doing here, but he did not respond.

“Dean,” Cas said.

“Yeah.”

“I asked what you wanted,” you said again, this time he was actually aware.

“Oh,” Dean was certainly out of it. Even Cas seemed to be affected by your voice. He tried to show it less, but Dean looked struck. If you had any empathy for them you would have felt bad. But you had none.

“Look,” you turned to actually face them, abandoning your work, “I’m not unreasonable, and I doubt this is a social call. I know that most of what you do tends to keep newer, larger, and more concerning players off the board. So what can I do for you so I can get back to my job and you can get back to yours?”

“We need help,” Dean replied.

“We need to find the angel tablet,” Castiel said. He seemed off somehow, even just slightly. He felt off too. It could have just been your new keen magic skills. You had recently been looking into seer magic and empaths.

“Oh,” you let out, leaning back into your throne, “Sorry, little above my level at the moment. I can get you a referral though. May I ask why you need this specific artifact?”

“So you’ve heard of it?” Dean pressed, stepping closer. Your eyes flitted black and he took a cautionary step back.

“I’m afraid I don’t let demon hunters and their angel friends too close, out of self-preservation. As for hearing of it, yes, I have. Let’s just say some information trickled down from Crowley’s kingdom.”

“Is this not all his Kingdom?” Castiel’s head cocked to the side.

“For the moment. It’s always healthy to have some respectable competition.”

“Who would this ‘referral’ be?” Dean used air quotes awaiting his likely disappointment.

“Ah,” you sighed, “I had a feeling you would ask that. Sadly, Crowley would likely know more than I would.”

“Crowley isn’t going to let us anywhere near him,” Dean argued.

“Well, that isn’t my problem. I’m not the one mucking around in other people’s business, now am I?”

“Y/n-” Cas started.

“It’s Belial or your majesty, angel,” you barked.

“I apologize, Belial,” Cas looked devastated. Fuck, what was that pang in your heart? Why did it hurt so much?

“He won’t talk to us. Not while he has the demon tablet,” Dean tried to present his case.

“Yes, and that has to be the one thing he is actually doing well at the moment, keeping it away from you, good for him. Now if that is all then respectfully, get out of my palace.”

“Thank you, Belial.”

“Cas we can’t just-”

“We can and we will, Dean,” the angel as always responded firmly and apathetically. Castiel placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder ready to fly out of your throne room.

“Castiel,” you said, your voice louder than it had been before that it echoed around the room.

The angel did nothing more than look at you expectantly. “Be careful, I don’t believe any of this is going to end well for you.”

“I will be fine,” he said.

“No, angel, I mean it. I have this feeling, watch out, please,” this was the closest you had ever been to who you used to be.

“Okay.”

—

“You, you helped me, why? I- you said you wouldn’t,” Crowley fumbled as you freed him of his restraints.

“Trust me, it’s not personal. You’re just easier to overthrow than Lucifer. So, as many say, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” The locks clicked, releasing the demon crouched beneath you. You dropped the chains to the floor and pointed back and forth between the two of you, “This little alliance will only last till Lucifer is back in his cage. After that, I will go back to ignoring your existence, other than me trying to take over Hell.”

“Well, I can’t say that isn’t logical. I suppose I’ll make do,” Crowley rubbed his wrists.

“There is no making due. Neither of us wants Lucifer in charge of anything. That would be bad for both of us.”

“Why is that so bad for you?” Crowley looked at you with curiosity in his eyes, “You want to ignore me forever. You wish the same for the Winchesters and Castiel. So why would joining Lucifer and letting him kill us to be so bad?”

“I-” your loss for words was concerning to Crowley when it came to this form of you. The demon you was hard to throw off their game.

“Well?” He egged you on.

“How could you ever think that I want you dead?” your voice was low, as was your gaze. You avoided looking at him. Keeping your voice steady was harder than you expected.

It was Crowley’s turn to be at a loss for words. From the start, he had thought you wanted revenge as much as you claimed you didn’t. You were a demon after all, and you thought he and the others had wronged you. He fully expected you to fantasize about each of their ends.

Finally, your eyes found his face. He never thought he would see them as broken and hurt. The glossiness of your tears was begging to spill over. “You scare me. But never, ever believe that I want you dead. I can’t trust you. I can’t be around you, because I am afraid. Because I know if I have to I’d do it all again. Seventy-five years of torture to make me hate all of you, and only three to make me care for you enough to screw myself again. Fear is an incredible tool for motivation. So yes, I’m afraid of what Lucifer will do to me, but I am just as afraid of what Lucifer will do to you.”

——

“So you're the little demon ex-hunter Fergus is obsessed with?” the red-headed witch mewled.

“If you are asking rhetorically then you likely already know,” the answer was monotonous.

“I see why he likes you so much, this body of yours is most certainly a looker. You’re also far more mature and intelligent than the other demons.”

“Back off posh female Ron Weasley.”

“I’m afraid I don't know who that is.”

You rolled your eyes as she followed you like a dog seeking attention.

“Now, as I’m sure you’re aware, your son and I are not on speaking terms. Whatever he says to you about me does not pique my interest or concern,” you turned to walk away from the witch.

“What about the fact that there’s a human pregnant with Lucifer’s child,” her voice was smug, but her words made you stand straight. “I see that caught your attention, darling.”

“You have 10 minutes to tell me everything I need to know before I leave,” you growled at her, your black eyes attempting to bring fear into her soul.

“Well, that should be more than enough time. Once I finish with all the boring stuff, we can chat. My name's Rowena by the way. You should probably know that considering how much Fergus talks about you. With his enthusiasm I’ll one day be your mother-in-law.”

“I doubt it, considering,” you mocked her and gestured to your eyes. “Either way, as much as Crowley may talk about me, he most certainly talked about you.”

“All good things I hope,” she smiled at you. It was as if every gesture of hers and every action was manipulative by nature. You understood his hatred for her, she didn’t have a genuine bone in her body. You hoped for Crowley that would change, but at the same time, you wished she would finally let him go. He was far too caught up on the woman that never loved him the way she should have. But you would never tell him that, or anyone for the matter.

“Nope, even if there was any good to share, it would never have mattered, not based on everything else he told me about you.”

“Well,” she looked at you, for once appearing less devious, “I hope I can change that.”

“You can’t, and even if you technically could, it wouldn’t mean anything, because once more, I don’t care and I never will.”

———

Juliet nudged your leg. You were situated at the table in the bunker’s library. For the past year, you have riddled yourself with vigorous research and learning. You had been impressive before all of this, but with the extra reading and practice on spells, you were more powerful than you ever really imagined. You were more powerful than Sam, Dean, or Castiel ever expected you to become. It wasn’t necessarily healthy, but considering the track records of each of your respective companions, you were doing much better.

The gorgeous black-coated supernatural dog whined a little to fully grasp your attention away from the article you were reading titled, He-Wolf/She-Wolf: a Study of Werewolf Transgenderism. You had honestly been curious about the intersectionalities of the two, but after a couple of pages in the read became more of one for pleasure than one for research. As much as you found it interesting it didn’t aid you in any of your studies. Still, you thoroughly enjoyed it, even bringing it up in conversation with the Winchesters and Cas when they talked to you.

Placing down the paper you looked up at the adorable now one-year-old you had taken under your demonic metaphorical wing. Jack was the sweetest little antichrist you had ever seen.

“Hey kid, whatcha doing?”

He didn’t look happy, in fact, he looked unhappy and a little guilty. It made you sad to see him upset, after all, he was your one and only nephew, and you loved him dearly. He was the only reason you stayed around so much. The others you could care less about, but you’d damn yourself again for the boy before you. Juliet could sense his emotions as well, and ventured slowly over to the son of Lucifer. She gently brushed against the kid's leg. Without a thought, the boy petted the Hell Hound.

“Jack,” your voice was laced with concern, “is everything okay? Did something happen?” The boy looked away with sad eyes and the slightest pout, “come on kid it’s your birthday, you can’t wallow in your negative emotions with me around, not today.”

“Do you blame me?” he asked, looking back at you with tears in his eyes.

“Jack,” your voice broke as you stood up to embrace him, “of course, I don’t, whatever would I blame you for?”

Before you could reach him, he stepped back.

“Jack,” with every second you grew more worried.

“Because it’s my fault. Crowley would be alive if I had never been-“

“No,” you said firmly. But Jack only flinched. You didn’t waste time this go around, immediately engulfing him in a hug. “Don’t say that kid, don’t say that. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. I could never blame you, and either way, it wasn’t your fault. It was Lucifer’s and mine and Sam’s and Dean’s and Cas’ and Crowley’s. We all knew what we were up against, but you kiddo, you couldn’t possibly be at fault for anything that happened that day. I just got a little unlucky alright, the best thing that ever happened to me occurred on the same day that one of the worst things that have ever happened to me did. I love you, Jack, I love you, and I can tell you without a doubt none of it was your fault, but most importantly, none of it was your responsibility.”

“I’m sorry,” he cried into your shoulder as he gripped you right.

“Shhh, shhh, you have nothing to be sorry for,” you patted his head softly.

“I just-I just know how hard today must be for you. I know how hard it is for Sam and Dean to look at me- I”

You pulled away, but only slightly. With precise movements you wiped the tears in his cheeks away, “It could never be hard for me to look at you, unless,” your voice cracked, “unless something happened to you, I- I love you, Jack. You're my nephew, you're the person I care about the most, okay? You could never make me truly mad or upset with you.”

Jack nodded the tears in his eyes finally slowing down, “I never wanted anyone to get hurt.”

“I know, Cas knows, Sam knows, Dean is getting there, and he should have already gotten there okay? Dean- Dean just- don’t let him get to you kid.”

“He has every right to-”

“He has no right,” you said clearly to Jack, “he has no right.”

“Thank you,” he sniffled.

“Always, kiddo.”

“I um- I found these,” he showed you the old photos of you and Crowley before you had become a demon. You carefully took them from his hands, avoiding looking at the photos of the two of you. It was a mystery as to how Jack found these, considering that you hid them away from prying eyes because you yourself refused to look at them.

———

“Get off my throne,” you growled at the witch.

“Ah,” Rowena smiled brightly, “Y/n, I’ve been waiting for you to show up. How have you been?”

“I was doing fine until I heard you're quite non-demonic arse was sitting on the freaking throne of Hell! You are not a demon, Rowena, what in the name of my goddamn sanity are you doing?”

“Just filling in the position. No one else took a grab at it,” her nonchalance was really starting to piss you off.

“Fuck off, Rowena,” the witch gasped shocked at you and your words.

“That is no way to speak to your, Queen, or a friend for the matter,” she held a hand to her chest.

“Get off the throne,” you spoke through gritted teeth, eyes blackened, and voice course.

“Darling-” Rowena had yet to move.

“Get off his Throne!” your voice amplified at your outburst. Dark magic encircled you, inky black coils, spreading out from your body. Tears escaped your eyes with the same fervor and enthusiasm as Lucifer escaping the cage.

Rowena wasted no time bounding from the throne and to you. You were so lost, so without focus.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, Darling. I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay, everything is going to be okay. Shush child, let it out, let it out,” she tried to soothe you. To your surprise, it somewhat worked. She had calmed your angered state, but you were still a sobbing mess on the floor. With careful and caring intent she gracefully brushed your hair with her fingers, humming sweet melodies.

It felt like hours, hours of Crowley’s mother combing your hair softly swaddling you and your grief. “It’s alright, Darling,” she cradled your face in her soft, deadly hands, brushing away stray tears that hadn’t been caught by the fabric of her skirt. “I suppose, well I suppose, Hell could always use another monarch, don’t you think? You would be a wonderful ally, you would make a wonderful leader.”

“Why couldn’t it be me? If I’d just- If I’d just told him that I, that I, that I lov-” your body broke down again, your throat aching for the sobbing to stop. Your eyes pleaded with you to stop mass-producing tears, but your heart couldn’t handle the hurt.

———

Your heart was doing better at handling it now. You sat beside, Rowena. Two thrones, two leaders of Hell, one King, and one Queen. All demons respected you, followed you, and were loyal to you.

You were the only demon that resented you for sitting on that damned throne. But that was only half the time. When you felt this way, it was often that those you still had around distracted you from those thoughts or blatantly told you how wrong they were. Sam often joined the both of you in Hell, enjoying his time with you and Rowena. Jack seemed to become like Rowena’s grandchild. She constantly taught him new things you had to reteach him about because of her adverse teaching style. Somehow out of the two of you, it was the demon that had the better grasp on morals. Castiel typically stopped by to grab Jack from your palace or frequented your palace with Dean. As always the two were as close as ever.

Those two and Sam were practically Jack’s three dads. Dean had finally moved on from what had occurred between Jack and his mother. The idiot even apologized to Jack after all the shit he put the poor kid through. Like the bright little ball of sunshine he was, Jack forgave him instantly, despite you telling him that he didn’t have to accept the apology right away or at face value. Jack let your concerns roll off of him, telling you he knew Dean was being sincere.

It took you longer to forgive Dean. The hunter even tried apologizing to you. It left you a laughing mess because you couldn’t fathom what warranted his empty words. You had heard Dean say it himself, that he often apologized to Sam without even meaning it. With time and patience, you moved past his ignorance, realizing some of your own. It was often demons get bitter, your negative emotions heightened, and your positive ones lessened. One day when he and Castiel had come to pick up Jack you extended the olive branch necessary to replenish as much of your friendship as possible. Dean gladly accepted your offer, stating he would love to have your help on cases, whether it be research or the actual hunt. With a smile on your face, your gaze moved to the incredible Nephilim you had helped raise standing beside his chosen father. Your only last hope for all of them being that Dean finally confesses to Castiel as well.

The smile remained on your face for the rest of the day. Despite not needing sleep you were preparing to go to bed. The cell phone you had been gifted by the hunter brothers rang throughout your room just as you were moving aside your covers. Reaching over you received a nice greeting from Sam. It seemed Dean had told Sam what you had said earlier that day. Snapping your fingers, your cozy fleece pajamas were swapped for your preferred choice of royal attire. A quick swoosh and you appeared at the library in the Men of Letters base.

———

You didn’t like this one bit. In fact, you dreaded this quite a lot.

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tf2-oneshots · 1 year ago

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may i request a freedom fries fic where solly giving spy random hug attacks and spy pretending to be annoyed by them but secretly loves them because he’s touched starved? ty in advance!

GOD YES

Warning: none!

Rating: General

“Commander Chomp, deploy yourself.” Soldier sets one of his raccoons onto the floor, and the snarling beast skitters away. He climbs up the furniture and leaps towards an unsuspecting Spy, who immediately screams.

The raccoon lands on her arm, crawling and climbing across his body as the man rises. Spy shakes and flails in an effort to toss the creature off of himself. He crawls down her back, over her head, and under his armpit with those devil claws.

With a powerful twist of the body, Chomp goes flying and lands on a bookshelf. He gives a disgruntled hiss before hurrying to a nearby nest. As she stares at the little monster, Soldier comes in from behind and hugs her. Bulky arms holding much too tight for comfort.

“MON D—Soldat, why was I viciously attacked by that thing?” He turns around, glaring at the American whose arms rest around her waist. Soldier simply looks up with his darling grin as if nothing was amiss. Even as the raccoon loudly hisses from the nest.

“A distraction so that I could ambush you with a hug! Oorah!” In his head, it was the perfect strategy. Send Commander Chomp in to get Spy’s attention then surprise her! What Soldier failed to realize was the fact that Spy would have to defend himself from a rabid animal. The foam dripping from the jaws enough to prove that she should absolutely not get bitten.

“Your little ambushes are obnoxious, juvenile, and utterly pointless in the grand scheme of simple PDA.” Soldier did not understand a single word that statement. He simply gives Spy another smile and kisses her lips.

“Hehehe. Silly Spy, PDA are the people who keep our great American food and drugs safe!” How desperately Spy wants to correct him for a number of reasons. Her balled fists still, and he simply huffs with disdain.

“Dearest, you know how much I hate surprise hugs.” And yet, Spy finds his hands cupping Soldier’s square jaw. His firm, all American features that make Spy fan herself most days. Still, she leans in for a kiss, arms embracing the man tenderly. Such a peculiar partner Spy has chosen for himself.

“And yet you are giving me a hug! The mission was a success! Medals for everyone!” Spy chuckles. Dear god, how could she have fallen for such a strange man? At least his hugs are warm, and his lips always in wait of a kiss.

“This is not a hug. It is a backstab.” Right as she aims the knife, Commander Chomp returns! He dives onto Spy, buried deep in her suit as she screams. The couple separate so that she can run frantically like an animal. Glasses and picture frames rattle as Spy slams his back against the wall.

Eventually, Spy removes her jacket and wraps it around Chomps. With the wriggling sack of raccoon in one hand, the other opens a window and tosses the animal outside. There, several of his companions sit in wait before returning to Soldier’s room through the vents.

“Soldier? My joyous light? I will kill you if one of your disgusting creatures touches me again.” Spy grimaces at her tattered jacket. She sighs, knowing how expensive it will be to replace. So much for seat warmers in his convertible. Maybe next year.

“You sound like you need a real, genuine American hug! Open your arms, maggot!” Arms outstretched, Soldier drags her in front of the fireplace. The two stand, Soldier happy to hug while Spy takes out a cigarette to smoke. What a strange man indeed. At least they missed the wine collection.

Gay people in my phone -H

#team fortress 2 #tf2 #tf2 requests #tf2 spy #tf2 soldier #soldierspy #freedom fries

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starlitangels · 1 year ago

Text

Somewhere with an Aurora

A couple days ago I asked for Avior one-shot suggestions. This one came from @pinksparkl 1.5k words

—

“Ah crap,” I muttered, shoving the gear shift into Park. “This place used to be open a lot later than this.” I made a face, staring at the abandoned, dark coffee shop.

“Probably because it’s New Year’s Eve.” Avior’s face was still tense, partially screwed up like the emotions from that attack at the academy was still weighing on him. It probably was. He was keeping it in, but that many emotions—that much pain—he had to feel dangerously close to falling apart.

“Maybe. That’s kinda frustrating. I knew I should have checked the hours on Google Maps before we left the academy.”

“It’s alright,” he said.

“But you wanted to come here and get something warm to drink and be able to think through everything that just happened,” I protested.

“I know. But we’ll have plenty of time to come here later. Right now I don’t care where we go.”

I bit my lip. We’d been essentially living together for six months in Hell. I swallowed. “Want to come back to my place?” I offered.

Avior cocked his head to one side. “If you need some space I’ll understand, starlight. What we’ve just gone through—I can go back to Aria for the night. The Hellscape, this Inversion nonsense. It’s a lot and I don’t blame you if you’re feeling overwhelmed and exhausted.”

“I am. Both exhausted and overwhelmed. But I don’t want to be either of those things without you, Avior. I want you with me. Just your presence comforts me.” I reached across the center console of my little sedan and took his hand. “Come home with me?”

His gold gaze bored into me. “You’re sure?”

I tried to remember the state my apartment was in. Had I left anything embarrassing out when I left to head on whatever errand I’d been running? My memories had come back like I’d never lost them, and it felt like I’d last seen my apartment six months ago. Was that pair of underwear that had been draped over the radiator to dry after they missed getting placed in the dryer and ended up still damp? Had I put those away? Were there still papers all over my coffee table? Leftover from grading at the end of the semester?

“I’m sure,” I replied.

Avior knew me better than anyone. My lover. Our relationship literally forged in Hell. He would understand if my apartment was a mess.

“Okay.”

I nodded and pulled the gear shift back into gear. “My place it is then.”

—

Creak!

“I really need to oil that damn hinge,” I muttered as I shoved the front door open. “Sorry it’s not much. I don’t really entertain. I never have guests, actually.”

Avior glanced around. Tension was still coiled in his shoulders and back from the attack—that was centered on the far other side of the city now. “No. No, it’s nice. Homey.” He let go of my hand.

I fidgeted with my keyring, not meeting his eyes. “Let me get you something to drink. I don’t know about you, but months in Hell have left me pretty parched. Even if it wasn’t real. It must be worse for you.” I slipped to my kitchen, bustling around to find a two glasses for drinks. I put them under the fridge’s spout and filled them one by one before returning to the living room.

Avior was standing at my bookshelf, examining several of the knick-knacks I had sitting between two bookends. “What’re these?”

I couldn’t look him in the eye. “That’s, uh… that my amiibo collection,” I admitted.

“What’s an amiibo?”

“They’re little figurines that can interact with certain video games. I… I, uh… I only have ones from The Legend of Zelda because it’s my favorite Nintendo series. I’ve been playing Zelda games since I was a kid and the first couple amiibo were gifts but after that I just started kinda collecting and… what? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Avior shrugged and shook his head, grinning slightly. “It’s nothing. Just… your eyes lit up, even as your emotions also tasted embarrassed.” He set the Wolf Link and Midna amiibo back down on the shelf. “You never told me which video games you enjoyed, although I do remember you mentioning you liked to play video games if you ever had enough downtime to do so.”

“Which is rare these days,” I remarked. “But I’ll dink around in Breath of the Wild for a couple hours on a Sunday night when I don’t have any assignments to grade. Sometimes my students ask why I assign less homework than the other professors—like they can’t fathom that I don’t want to grade as much homework as the rest of my colleagues assign.”

Avior snickered. “Amateurs—asking for more homework.”

I laughed. “Well, not exactly. But for any other professor questions like that could lead to more homework. Not for me. I love teaching—I just hate grading. I especially hate busywork. So I don’t bother. And that leaves more time for me to spend doing things I actually enjoy.”

Avior lifted a brow, suppressing a smile. I chose not to press for what was humoring him. I had a guess anyway.

When I didn’t take the bait, he cleared his throat. “Anything else I don’t know about you after living with you for six months?”

I glanced around my apartment. “Well… I collect comic books. Not even particularly valuable ones. I don’t do much with them. People just give them to me because I’m a nerd and I keep them. Because I’m a nerd.”

“Do you read them?”

“I would—but they’re all random issues in the middle of random storylines and none of them make any sense out-of-context.”

Avior chuckled. “Fair enough.”

“What about you? Anything I don’t know about you, living in Hell with you for six months?”

Avior drew me closer to him, resting his chin on my head. “I want to see an aurora one day,” he said. “I could have rifted somewhere with one whenever I wanted in the past thirty-six—thirty-four—years… but I never did. I always wanted to share it with someone who meant something real to me. And… no one ever did. I never figured I’d fall in love but… even a good friend. And I… never had one.”

I smiled. “We’ll do it, then. We’ll go somewhere with an aurora. Probably Alaska. It’s closest.” I reached and cradled his face in both hands. “I’d love to see the lights with you.”

He turned his head and kissed my palm, holding my wrist in his hand. “I’d love to see the lights with you too, my starlight.” He smiled softly. “Though, I fear they will pale in comparison to you.”

I looked away, ears turning hot. “Stop it,” I mumbled.

He hooked a finger under my chin and drew my head back to face him. “Never. I mean it. You are incredible. And I consider myself so lucky to have fallen for you as deeply as I have.”

This was the Avior I remembered. Not the dry, acerbic, sarcastic bastard who welcomed me to Hell after I lost my memories. The sincerity, the gentleness, and the depth of emotion was back in full-force—and I couldn’t have been more grateful. We had each other back after we both lost one another in different ways.

“I love you, Avior,” I whispered.

“I love you too, my starlight.” He leaned close.

We shared a long, slow, tender kiss. Unhurried. Easy.

I remembered desperate kisses in Hell, scrambling to remove clothing like we wouldn’t live to share more affection. I couldn’t be more delighted that urgent feeling was gone.

He pulled back just slightly, both of our eyelids fluttering open to meet each other’s gaze.

“Something else you might not know about me,” he said quietly. “You’re the first person I ever slept with—both literally and euphemistically.”

I choked on trying to suppress a laugh. “Really?”

“Truly.”

“Thirty-four years since you coalesced and you never—”

“Like I said, I never knew anyone well enough to want to try anything like that. And demons obviously have no physical form in Aria so anything that intimate is purely emotional. And I never had that either.”

“Given how smoothly you charm me, I find that a bit hard to believe.”

He kissed me again. “It just came naturally with you.”

I kissed him back.

We stood in my living room, kissing in front of my bookshelf, for quite a while.

Until Avior pulled away again. “So. My people’s ancient gods exist and have a mission for us to save the world. Where do you reckon we’re supposed to start?”

#Redacted ASMR #fic #Redacted Avior #Redacted Starlight #Starlit Fic #Redacted Audio

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the---hermit · 1 year ago

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jumbo reading challenge update #3

This post has been sitting in my drafts for months. I have procrastinated posting this update for so long. I still have no plans for the rest of the challenge and I am trying to fit in the books I am reading randomly, so I have no idea if I will complete the challenge by the end of the year. I surely didn't expect to be 75% done with it in the first half of the year. Here are the links to my first and second updates on this challenge.

The Priory Of The Orange Tree by Samantha Shannon for the high fantasy prompt:

I don't know where I got the courage to approach a 800 page book, but I am surely happy I did. This is one of the best books I read this year. Challenging my fear of big books is teaching me how immersive they can be, and how special the reading experience becomes. This fantasy book in particular is very well made, I would even recommend it to people who don't read a lot of epic fantasy. I cannot wait for the sequel to be translated so that I can get it (I know I could get it anyway but I want matching editions).

Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman for the main character of color prompt:

This was the last unread book in my Gaiman bookshelf (which means I have to look for the books my collection is still missing). For some reason I procrastinated reading this book for years. I am happy I finally picked it up, but it was definitely not my favourite novel by this author. I was expecting something along the lines of American Gods, which is not the case. It's an entertaining novel, but I prefer darker fantasy.

Daisy Darker by Alice Feeney for the horror or thriller prompt:

I listened to the audiobook for this novel, which was made pretty well. It's a story inspired by And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie, which is one of my all time favourite novels. I was a bit scheptical at first, but it wasn't as bad as I feared. After reading it I was a bit confused over my feeling for this novel, especially for the big twist at the end. It's now been a while and I can say that although the audiobook was very entertaining and well paced, I am not a big fan of the ending. I see what the author was trying to do, and I am prersonally not a fan. But it wasn't that bad.

Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton for the minimalistic cover prompt:

This book was surprisingly fun. While reading it I was a bit frustrated with a couple of things that felt very stupid, but to be honest after finishing it it made sense. It's one of those lighthearted adventurous books that needed a couple of silly things to work and it's fine. As I said it was really fun. I feel like it would be a great pick for a summer read, so much so that I am considering reading the sequel this summer.

Through The Woods by Emily Carroll for the clever cover prompt:

This was a rererad for me. I got this book last year and loved it, and since in the past month or so I have been in a big graphic novel rereading mood this felt perfect. I picked it for this prompt because the longer you look at the cover the more you notice some hidden detail. The art in this book is amazing, and it's overall one of my favourite graphic novels I own, it's the perfect gothic horror with fairytale vibes, I couldn't ask for more.

Gender Queer by Maia Kobabe for the non-binary author:

I am so happy to have this in my graphic novel collection. It's a very special addition, it was very insightful and emotional, and I know for a fact that I will be rereading this book more than once. I very much recommend picking this up. I felt like it did a great job at giving an idea of what it's like to question your sexuality and gender, how complicated and scary it can be, but also how joyful it is.

She Who Became The Sun by Shelley Parker Chan for the pun in the title prompt:

When I realized there was a pun in this book title my brain expoded. It's genious. The story of a girl who takes the identity of her brother to claim his destiny, becoming "the son", I loved it. I loved all characters. There's a light fantasy element that I hope will see more of in the sequel. Overall it's a very well done and engaging historical fantasy, and the gender in this is amazing. There's very interesting parallels, really strong characters that completment each other, it was a great read that I will be recommending a lot.

The House In The Cerulean Sea by T.J. Klune for the water in the title prompt:

This book has been often described as part of the cozy fantasy genre, and honestly it's a great way to describe it. I really enjoyed my time with this book, it was the perfect lighthearted read I needed.

The individual book reviews are linked in the titles above as usual.

#bookblr #booklr #studyblr w/ knives reading challenge #jumbo reading challenge #reading challenge update #book reviews #book recs #book recommendations #bookish #books #reading #mine #the---hermit

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dorakonia · 2 years ago

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GET TO KNOW THE MUN!

What's your phone's wallpaper: A fanart piece of Pantalone from Genshin Impact skdjfhsdf it's been there for the past half a year, and it's funny because I used to change my background fairly often before but nowadays I'm just too lazy to change it. So I guess he'll be there until I find something new that I really really like.

Last song you listened to: Idk man, I'm listening to music daily so songs come and go every 4-5 minute skdjhfsf But I guess I could put down the song I'm listening to right now while typing this - "You Are My Sunshine" by Johnny Cash.

Currently reading: Kuroshitsuji. I'm really bad at sitting down and reading books so I usually listen to audio books instead but I love collecting books for some reason skdjfhsdf, but keeping up with the Kuroshitsuji manga is easy since one chapter is released every month, and ngl, I would do the same to other on-going manga series but that would require me to... y'know, sit down and read a lot just to catch up skdjfhsd but I do have Vanitas no Carte in the backburner that I'll eventually get to reading in full. Same goes for the Sailor Moon manga, which I actually own the entire collection of, and I have read at least 3 volumes of it + the volumes with the bonus stories. But in general the collection is just... sitting on my bookshelf collecting dust 😭

Last movie: Uhhhh.... I used to watch movies so much but nowadays I'm too addicted to youtube content to really sit down and watch movies, because it's always such a hassle because every time a movie is over I'm sitting there like 'ok now what to watch' and then I get stuck in limbo of what I feel like watching skdjfhsd And youtube is endless. But I think that the last movie I watched was "Pokémon: Mewtwo Strikes Back - Evolution" with @jinanreona :3

Last show: ... Same thing here, I don't watch a lot of shows either. And if I do, I usually rewatch shows I'm already familiar with ksdjhfsdf I think the last show I watched in whole was The Walking Dead back in February. And a couple of weeks ago I watched a few Kuroshitsuji episodes with @dokitm! But I think that's about it skjdfhsdf

What are you wearing right now?: .... That is kind of a personal question, isn't it😏

Piercings/tattoos?: No tattoos, but I'd like to have one one day when I'm financially stable to get one skdjhfsd I've had plenty of piercings tho. I got my ears pierced when I was 7 and I still have those, and then when I was 15 I pierced them again so I had two beside each other on each ear. Then when I was 17 I got one for my nose but I let it grow away like 3 years later because I thought it always looked like I had a giant decorative zit on there skjfsd Then I got a navel one when I was 21, and I actually loved it a lot and had it for years. But then one day the jewelry came loose and I couldn't be bothered to get a new one and that one too eventually grew away. I've always wanted a tongue piercing, but it has just never really happened yet. Maybe some day~

Glasses? Contacts?: Reading glasses~

Last thing you ate: My lunch today - salmon in white sauce and boiled potatoes~

Favourite colour(s)?: For stand-alone colours my favorites are black and blue. For colour combos, my all-time favourite is black/white/red, and I also really like purple/pink/orange/yellow.

Current obsession: Uh... I'm very particular in the way I obsess about things skjdfhsdf I don't have a lot of things that I obsess over, but I have a couple that I keep switching between depending on what kind of content I'm exposed to and/or engage in at the moment. Like, for example, right now my current obsession is Breath of the Wild because I'm replaying it to get into the hype for Tears of the Kingdom that is coming out tomorrow (!!!!), and I've been obsessing about it for at least 2 months straight now just because of that. But like... even tho I've been playing a lot, I still don't play every day. And the days when I don't play, I'm obsessing over any of my other interests. And whenever I'm not obsessing over those, I'm obsessing over the one remainder thing. The other day I was obsessing over Warcraft lore because I was spending a whole day playing WoW, and before then I was obsessing over Genshin, and before then it was something else. I obsess over the same things but I do it in phases, and I rarely get new obsessions ksdjhfsdf And ofc, in-between all of these interests, I'm constantly (tho subconsciously) obsessing over Kuroshitsuji and Twisted Wonderland ( Sebastian and Malleus specifically ofc ) :'3 It's like when my mind isn't occupied with anything in particular, Sebastian and Malleus is always living rent free in my head, and I spend my time drawing fanart of them.~

Do you have a crush right now?: Nope. Thus is the life of a demi.~

Favourite fictional character: If I don't say Sebastian Michaelis here I cannot in good faith call myself the biggest Sebastian apologist to have walked this Earth.... but Malleus, Yuugi (ygo), Howl (howl's moving castle - mostly the book version because he's such a little shit there and i absolutely love it, but the movie version is what i was introduced to and it will forever hold a special place in my heart), Zhongli (genshin), Fiore (sailor moon), Mamoru (sailor moon - manga and smc have him much better fleshed out and i love it, but he 90s anime will obviously always have a special place in my heart because it is what i grew up watching ♥ ), Lady Mipha (loz: botw), and Harley Quinn (btas as well as the newer animated harley quinn series) are all ofc huge faves of mine as well ;w; There's absolutely more but.... we'd be here all day~

TAGGED BY: @gosutm , @jinanreona , @pomfiores (thank you guys!!) TAGGING: I think almost everyone has already done this one so I'm just gonna uhhhh tag some that I don't think have done it so uhhhh @casketdweller, @svmmoning, @niiveusx, @decayedhearts, @chxmpionofjustice, @universestreasures, && @ofcryptid!

#misc. / dashboard games #out. / mun related #long post.

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artofjim · 1 year ago

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5 Years of Drawing: Part 1

Originally posted on ko-fi.com/artofjim

July marks 5 years since I started learning art and drawing every day. As they say, time flies when you're having fun, and time has really flown! I want to use this blog post to reflect on some things I've learned, look at some old work and compare it to current, and emphasize my gratitude for all of the support I've received in the last half decade. This is a long one so I'm breaking it into 3, but it should give you a ton of insight into my journey as an artist that brought me here today, and hopefully help you carve out your own path!

Before July of 2018, I would occasionally get it in my head that I wanted to draw. This would be prompted by seeing some cool art online, or needing a way to pass the time on trips. I'd spend money on new sketchbooks and tools, and doodle for a weekend in them. That would be that, and my sketchbooks would sit until the next time I felt like drawing again, which was no more than a few times a year. I had a little natural talent at copying proportion and detail, but there was no methodology to my picturemaking and I relied heavily on replicating others' art. Because of the inconsistent schedule and lack of interest in learning, I usually say I started drawing after all of that. Here's some sketches from before 2018.

This is a direct rip of Nate Van Dyke, with a couple additions of my own. 2014? I learned about ink and decided that was the only medium I wanted to work in.

Around the same time. Every artist has been here at some point, I think. I found some photo portraits of homeless people on pinterest probably and took it upon myself to draw them. Lots to unpack there but we should move on (please we must move on oh God). Again, I wasn't trying to learn, I was just copying photos and other art with no rhyme or reason to it, and very rarely. I just loved that kick when people would look at it and say it was good.

2018

In 2018 I was working in Tacoma and there was a great little book store called Culpepper's across the street. Jerry Culpepper had ran that store for decades, and had no great love for comics. As a result, anytime he got graphic novels in, he'd hide them in an unorganized shelf and price them way, way down. This was also true of artbooks, but I wasn't interested in those (yet). Jerry and I had an amicable relationship, with him busting my chops about the coffee shop I worked at being too expensive, and myself ironically bringing him free drip on my breaks. I remember him going into great detail explaining how "Black Panther was absolute shit! Waste of my time seeing that film!" I probably went in there once a week and dug around, spending tip money on anything that looked interesting while Jerry peered down at the titles with a furrowed brow. My love for comics started at this time, and some of the first graphic novels I bought were from Jerry Culpepper. The League of Extraordinary Gentleman and A Small Killing, both written by Alan Moore, and drawn by Kevin O'Neill and Oscar Zarate, respectively (a great place to start, if you ask me!).

Still have them! Jerry always priced books with pencil on the first page. He'd usually charge me at least 30% less than this, and shave off sales-tax if I paid cash.

I bought so many comics and bothered Jerry so often that he started giving me stuff for free (again, he had no interest for comics and was intent on filling his store with civil war history and first edition antiques). I'd pay $20 and walk out of there with an armful of graphic novels, video game concept art, Japanese editions of collected Ukiyo-E plates, published artist sketchbooks, and all sorts of odd things I wouldn't normally look for. That's the beauty of local used book stores, you cannot predict what's waiting in there for you. Those early Culpepper finds were, and still are, very influential to me. I dig through my bookshelf for them regularly. I think it's very important for creatives to have a personal, physical collection of things that inspire and interest them, because they will bury into your style way more than temporary online influences.

"Culpepper Books: here you'll find a man struggling to get the hell home with as much money and few books as possible before he retires" -Jerry, during his last week of business when I asked him for a caption

In late-2019, Jerry Culpepper got an offer to end his lease early from a big developer and decided to retire right as the pandemic started to hit, which was definitely the right decision for him. While writing this, I searched his name to see if I could find his online collection, and learned that he passed away in 2022 at the age of 70. Here is his obituary if you'd like to learn more about my old friend at the bookstore who impacted my life more than I could have realized at the time. https://www.legacy.com/us/obituaries/tribnet/name/gerald-culpepper-obituary?id=32332566

My last purchase from Jerry

Now that I was reading comics a lot, I became hip to Jim Lee, comic art superstar of the early 90s known for his work on X-Men, Punisher: War Journal, and countless other titles soon after. Jim Lee streams on Twitch, and one day in July I popped in to watch purely out of curiosity and ended up following along with his live tutorial drawing Wolverine. There's a recording of this tutorial here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7wxoH_eZgrw I had never had drawing explained to me in the analogous way that Jim Lee did. Much of the concepts he was demonstrating are very fundamental no-brainers to me nowadays, but back then, despite drawing off and on my whole life, I had never been exposed to them. I specifically remember him relating the teeth to a can of soup, and the triceps muscles to parallel canoes. This was mind blowing to me, and sparked an obsession that is still roaring to this day. Here's my results from drawing along with Jim Lee that day.

A little heavyhanded on the spot blacks there, Jimbo...

Even though the idea of using simple forms like soup cans and canoes had been demonstrated so brilliantly by Jim Lee, I immediately went back to my old ways of rote copying. Only now, I was doing it for a few hours a day. I also started streaming art on Twitch during this time, and I'm amazed anyone watched because I was completely directionless.I was reading a lot of Frank Miller and the interest in ink was renewed, and I would just copy things straight out of comics, line-by-line. I didn't have the tools or direction to study in a more meaningful way, so I just copied and copied and copied, with no real improvement besides hand-eye coordination, and my ability to copy from image to paper.Jim Lee had also mentioned Bridgman, and I found a copy of his big book at Culpepper's and copied a few pages (poorly) before giving up.

Notes?? Why would I write down anything from the book? This is drawing!! Sarcasm aside, this was the extent of it. Whatever concepts I pulled from it, I didn't cement with mileage so it was all for not. Granted, Bridgman is not beginner friendly at all.

I also took part in Inktober for the first time in 2018, and actually attempted concept creation. I knew I was bad at drawing heads, so I decided I would twist every prompt into a helmet of some kind. Strange method. You can view the completed pieces here, if you really want to: https://www.instagram.com/p/BokqcKngdlz/

2019

In 2019, I began to become invested in history, and really enjoyed drawing historical garb. Japan especially grabbed my interest, and I bought tons of books about it from Jerry. I'm surprised I didn't try to copy more Japanese art, especially Hokusai's ink sketches. I was filling sketchbooks regularly by now, still just copying for the most part, and getting a little better at it! When I look back at those sketchbooks now, there's a common "Jim" thread present even if I wasn't being very original. I want to point out that I don't think there's anything wrong with copying references, ever, but especially as a beginner artist. The way I was doing it, though, was from a limited perspective: drawing straight to final linework and not considering anything but the 2-d image. I wish I had pursued fundamentals more, and varied my tools, but I just didn't have exposure to those things. I was still wielding a brush pen like a club on every drawing, and using expensive markers that bled through the page.

I learned about Karl Kopinski, and some of the other star artists from Super Ani, and didn't know about all of the mileage and proper practice between where I was and where they were, so I tried to just do what they were doing. Of course, KK appealed to my interest in historical costume, and I copied a bunch of his drawings in my sketchbooks. I also dug into Sergio Toppi, attracted to his painterly hatching and masterful ink compositions, and learned about Moebius. I picked up a Final Fantasy 1-7 artbook for $10 (thanks Jerry) with tons of drawings by Yoshitaka Amano in it, and tried to match his watercolors with my bleeding Copic markers. Because there was no method to my drawings beyond copying mark-by-mark, there was an element of luck involved that decided the success of each drawing. The artmaking journey, then, was just chasing that next lucky winner drawing, which is not sustainable long term! Sure, I might get lucky more often as I copied more accurately, but I wouldn't know why, and I had no lens to understand what made an image work.

Toppi copy

One of the lucky drawings

Kopinski copy

Amano copies. Notice the difference in quality between the Toppi samurai above and these; this is the element of luck I'm referring to. There was no repeatable process, just diving into the final lines and gambling on it.

Beyond that, I wanted to create, not replicate. I would watch Karl Kopinski, Kim Jung Gi, and Peter Han create worlds on the spot, with no reference, and have no idea how to accomplish that. I figured it was my poor visualization ability holding me back. All I thought mattered was drawing a lot, and drawing a variety of things. I would stream on Twitch and take requests to draw anything anyone wanted for ten minutes. I drew 20 different outfits from the Camp-themed Met Gala. I drew video game characters, Power Rangers, cartoons, and Kermit the Frog smoking a blunt. Occasionally, I'd try to draw people and places from life.

My first ever POV sketch

I knew that clothing was something academics studied, so I "studied" some drapery as well! All that meant for me was copying, line by line, a few reference photos. I downloaded Autodesk Sketchbook, a free drawing program, and tried my hand at digital art. If I wasn't just attempting photocopying, I did try my hand at some imaginative work, with a degree of realistic rendering. Here's those paintings, just so we can compare to my current paintings later.

I would paint over Bill Sienkewicz sketches, this is one of those

This funny little fellow is a Japanese God, Fukurokuju. The drapery is looking especially mushy.

In mid-2019, I decided I would challenge myself to making a comic for Inktober. I was very naive, but still took a lot of time planning for it before October started. I scripted out the pages, did some character "designs," and even worked on turnarounds. My thought was that if I took the time to figure out what a character would look like from any angle, I could just use that as reference when I needed it. This is true, and how animators do it, but I created this sheet by smashing together references and finding an image for every expression and angle I could need. I also sculpted the main character's head so I could use it as reference. I had not rediscovered the power of "form" yet, despite Jim Lee's great tutorial that started all of this, and the literal sculpted 3d form sitting on my desk.

Here's a few pages of my Inktober comic, Dog Days. I made it 13 pages in and burned out super hard, since I was working full-time still and spending at least 8 hours a day on the pages. The cyst on my wrist got massive and I was not sleeping at all. I took a break for a few days to go on a trip and just never came back to it. Surprisingly, I haven't ever experienced a burnout since then.

If you're interested in checking out the other 11 pages, they're available to Ko-Fi Members for $4.50/month, along with my other comics.

For my first comic, I am extremely proud of that work. There's a sort of energy that is now inhibited by experience and judgment. I was fearless and committed to every page, because I had no idea how long it would take me or what challenges I might face. I don't think I will or should ever finish it, because I cannot replicate that vibe.

I returned to drawing a few weeks after the burnout and dove back into Japanese historical drawings, becoming obsessed with the photos of Felice Beato, who brought photography to Japan right as it modernized. Some coworkers of mine were my first ever commissioners, asking for some work relevant to what I was already studying. The first was a family portrait taken in the early 1900s. The second was a 6 panel piece on the history of Taiko drumming. I think they spent more on the frame then what I charged them for the piece, which is hilarious to me now. I also experimented with some blacklight ink and collage, which was a nice change from all the inking I did in October.

I did these on expensive Awagami rice paper with ultra-archival Noodler's fountain pen ink. I was fooling myself into thinking that expensive materials were necessary for any sort of "professional" work, and that they would elevate it. In the end, it just made the process nerve-wracking and left no margin for error.

I will continue with years 2020 and 2021 in my next post to keep this one from getting any longer! Follow my Ko-Fi to get notified via email when that comes out, or tune into my social media: https://linktr.ee/artofjim

If you'd like to support my art career and get some goodies in return, become a Ko-Fi Member in exchange for art in the mail every 6 months, monthly giveaways, access to my comics, discounts in my shop, and more. Starts at $4.50/month, goes up for better rewards. https://ko-fi.com/artofjim/tiers Thank you to all of my members, past and current, for enabling me to pursue my greatest interest in life more comfortably.

#blog #art journey #art education #art level up #drawing #art blog #reflection #learn art #art study #art practice #tacoma wa #tacoma

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thebookdragonsden · 1 year ago

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We have upwards of approximately 3500 physical books crossing a wide variety of genres and formats so it mostly comes down to two factors:

1) how easy will it be to find a specific book... which rules any rainbow designs right out because I don't generally remember color of the spine on a book

2) what will best utilize space because I need to also be able to exist in said space, I move a lot, and I can't always afford a nice big house to put bookshelves galore in so I have 13 shelves. How can I make it all fit while also maintaining 1)

So aside from rainbow (pretty but useless for anything but aesthetics and omg the amount of work) we dash a little bit of everything in there.

Shelf 1: my tiny collection of translated Chinese novels because they don't really fit anywhere else and I bought a new shelf for it. It's small.

Shelf 2: all my wife's psychology books on top shelf, all the mythology and mythology retellings on 2nd shelf (wife's request and I hate this shelf with a burning passion because if didn't know it was a retelling I'm looking for it elsewhere), adult fantasy trade paperbacks (bigger than mass market and we have a lot fewer of them), non fiction, historical fiction, and mystery

Tldr this shelf is kind of a dumping ground shield for things we don't have enough of to fill a full bookshelf but also have too many of to put on one of the tall, narrow shelves

Shelf 3. Mass market adult sci-fi fantasy paperbacks

Shelf 4. Overflow for huge YA fantasy, paperback adult fantasy that is the same size as smaller hard cover fantasy (these are bigger than trades too... yes I know why God are there so many book sizes)

Shelf 5. Graphic novels

Shelf 6 and 7. Manga

Shelf 8 and 9. YA fantasy novels, all smaller sizes and couple of the huge ones that bleed over to shelf 4

Shelf 10. (Tall and narrow) artbooks, poetry, shelves dedicated to fav authors (Lynn Flewelling, Marissa Meyer, Terry Pratchett)

Shelf 11. (Tall and narrow) more shelves dedicated to fav authors or just authors we've a lot of books for- Mercedes Lackey, Patrick Ness, Neil Gaiman, Susanna Kearney, and biographies

Shelf 12. Huge adult Sci fi/fantasy hard covers

Shelf 13. A big shelf but with small broken up squares dedicated to... YA contemporary, Maggie Stiefvater, Leigh Bardugo, Holly Black, Tamora Pierce, historical fiction, and finally two long shelves of language learning books

For the genre shelves, they're arranged by author

Graphic novel shelf is arranged by some bizarre algorithm of my wife's and I just end up hunting through it all before I find what I'm looking for.

Manga is.... well.... one shelf is series I've completed, other shelf is series in still collecting, and both of those are organized by title except... the bookshelves have cool gliding front shelves so I can essentially double stack the manga and still have easy visibility on it all so the face shelf of completed manga is all of the larger manga volumes (perfectly sized) and the face shelf of the incomplete manga is all CLAMP... because I own pretty much every volume of everything CLAMP that has ever been released in English except X/1999 because I'm still salty CLAMP never completed it. And Suki, which I did own once upon a time but might be the only CLAMP project I actively disliked.

All of this is not including the random stacks of books pulled on top of the shelves or around the shelves that my wife swears she is reading and getting rid of but I genuinely have no idea what is.

For the record, not mad about the last bit. Being surrounded by books is my happy place whether I read them or not.

Anyway tldr I am probably not your intended audience for this and I hope you get/got an answer you were happy with but I find perverse amusement in sharing the utter lack of cohesive vision that is our library set up.

This is very important research so I can figure out how to arrange my books

#a little bit of all the above?#we have a metric crapton of books

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glasschain · 5 months ago

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God Bless You, Mr.V.

As a young teenager terrified by the prospect of having to grow up, loving Kurt Vonnegut came to me very easily.

Seeking emancipation and identity in the movies I watched, the music I listened to and the books I read were to me more than the sum of their contents. I was seeking to establish my own taste and personality to counter the fears caused by the teen discomfort I was experiencing daily. I discovered Slaughterhouse 5 in my parent’s bookshelf, a brightly coloured paperback my mom had bought during her time at university. The graphic on the cover, the promise of historical war-related content in the blurb, and of course the low amount of pages made it an attractive pick.

I was into it straight away - the satirical style, the historical motifs, the quirky narrative structure. (I often tried imitating Vonneguts writing style, failing every time.) The book was easy to read, stylistically and thematically captivating. With allusions to a kind of systemic and existential critique, it felt heavy and profound. It was so much less stuffy and taxing to read than the Dickens or Kafka my brother and school had pushed on me, but still felt significant and special. I continued with Breakfast of Champions and Hocus Pocus, both also part of my mother’s uni-era collection. I talked often of my affection for Kurt, to anyone I thought would be willing to listen. Cat’s Cradle may have been a bit too zany for me, but the fantastic Mother Night restored my faith. Puns based on the silly names of Vonnegut’s recurring characters serve as display names for various online accounts, “so it goes” was my graduation yearbook quote.

In the years following my graduation (which was, unfortunately, in 2020) my outlook on books - among other things - have changed. I don’t want to call myself mature, but the past years have been so rife with formative experiences (sometimes good, often bad) that my perspective has shifted. More cynical, maybe. I want to say less naive, but I fear risking making myself shake my head in case I read this back in a couple of years. I’m honestly not sure where I stand on my own maturity, which probably says more than enough. Anyway, the point is, when I picked up the copy of “God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater”, Vonnegut’s 1965 novel, I was not entirely sure what to expect.

Having not read anything by the author in years, I was not sure how I was going to feel about the book. Upon reading it initially, I was somewhat irritated. The seemingly trite story line, the simplistic moralism and the ridiculous character names and aphorisms made me skeptical. I feared I might react the same way I reacted upon recently relistening to Donald Glover’s earlier music. (Those albums were important to me once, but are frankly pretty bad and uncomfortable to listen to.) I finished the book as quickly as one must finish any Vonnegut paperback, and did not really now how I felt about it. It all seemed overly trivial, slightly too ridiculous to develop a sense of urgency.

Luckily, after only a couple of days, that feeling changed. It really hit me suddenly and left me disoriented. Kurt had played a mean trick on me. The slight irritation considering the deliberate quirkiness of the writing passed, the characters, the emotions and the tragedy stuck. It was like a slow-motion gut punch. Vonnegut is an unbelievably empathetic writer, his portrayal of mental decay, depression and despair are deceivingly light hearted and silly. It’s death and destruction wrapped up in candy, it’s like No Surprises by Radiohead is musically akin to a simple children song, yet is arguably the most emotionally potent song on the album. I really love this type of shit. Humour and honesty, a kind of heartfelt absurdity, not a trace of cynicism or irony in sight, that bitterness was all on me. Vonnegut put me back in my place. I did not want to accept the jovial tone he takes, it seemed he wasn’t taking the subject matter serious enough. I was wrong! I was really wrong! KV writes about existential themes, but he leaves out both the somber tone and the cynical sneer I have grown accustomed to. I know this is not really a review, for that I would actually have to write about the book. I just wanted to express some of the things I felt when thinking about this book and the role Vonnegut has played in my life. I’m really happy his name is so prominent on the spines in my shelf. I am sure it will stay that way in the future.

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godesssiri · 1 year ago

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I've got guests staying between Christmas and New Years and I've made myself a 7 page (and growing) To Do list. I know this sounds awful but probably 3/4 of the items on it are things like Scratch ticket (move the scratch ticket with $5 on it that's been sitting on my coffee table for 3 weeks into my handbag so I will actually have it with me next time I see a kiosk where I can cash it in) and Xmas tea-towels (take the Xmas tea-towels out of the linen cupboard and put them in the kitchen so we can actually use them during Xmas) and Flea the creatures (give all of our 6 cats and 3 dogs a flea treatment, I've put the treatments on the hall table and I'm grabbing one each time I see a pet I haven't crossed off my list yet) and Find a home for 'new' books (I collect antique books and I went to a fantastic second hand bookstore last week and acquired 5 new books for my collection that are still in my mother's car and need to be bought in and displayed on my bookshelf).

It's all little stuff but because of my ADHD it's stuff that I think "I must do that" then don't do it, because ADHD means forgetting to do something 500 times until you hate yourself. But writing it down means I remember and I get the satisfaction of crossing it off my list. Plus I've broken down all the big tasks I need to accomplish into their component parts to remind myself I don't have to do the whole overwhelming job at once, I can do a couple of parts of it, cross those parts off my list, and come back to the rest of it later.

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hyenadon · 1 year ago

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Sometimes I think "hmn, am I autistic or am I just fucking weird?" bc autism explains away a bunch of weird behaviors in my life. But also I just don't fit a lot of diagnostic criteria. In any case though I just remembered a couple cases of me being a Fucking Weird Kid

this is just a personal vent post idk

When I was a very young child (5-6, maybe 7) one of my favorite things to do was organize my family's book collection/library by my own personal like. Organization system. Which has been updated frequently to this day and I think about constantly. When I was v young it was just alphabetical by authors last name. Whatever subject it was, no matter, alphabetical by last name. I distinctly remember crying when family members would put things back on the bookshelf in the wrong place

Over the years this organization system HAS shifted into something more reasonable so when I was living w my parents again I reorganized their bookshelves (they have so many books. They have read 1/3 of them. I dream of that life) and my system was: Classics/books they will never read is top shelf alphabetical by last name. After that it's fiction alphabetical last name. Bottom shelves are reference books: one bookcase is cooking/food/wine, other one is home/garden/repair.

If I ever go home to my parents again I will immediately check those fucking bookcases bc they never put their books back where they goddamn belong. THERES A SYSTEM, GODDAMNIT

I have a very specific system I follow for my own personal library and it's not at all alphabetical by author but it's like. It's. There is a System. Okay. It's a system.

Another game I played was Dictionary. It was a game where I read the dictionary. I was very invested in this. I actually thought it was a fun game and not just me sitting in the corner reading the dictionary aloud to my parents. I loved the dictionary game. If I had a physical dictionary with me right now, I'd still love dictionary game. Maybe this is why I still sometimes read wikipedia articles to fall asleep? Mm, dictionary. My favorite of the A words was Abdicate.

not a childhood thing but when I started having friends that were openly autistic, about 6-7 years ago, I was open w my parents about it and described these friends struggles w communication, eye contact, etc, and my parents were like "...so that sounds a lot like you....do you think.......maybe....you might be autistic????"

oh brian oh sheila. I still have no idea if i am autistic but there is somethin fucked in my brain that shoulda been diagnosed when I was like, ten, at most. It's depression or adhd or autism or somethin the fuck else. But y'all. You missed out on your kid having some serious mental issues. The kind that cannot be fixed with a hug. The brain is broken the brain has been broken since I was a wee little lad.

this isn't a weird kid thing but just like something i'm still mad about after all these years:

When I was little I was hyperliterate. Not even a brag just a fact. I mean I can exemplify this in a few ways but like. I was definitelt hyperliterate. But I wasn't like. Smart smart? if ya know what I mean? Being good at reading and writing doesn't mean you're good at analytical thinking or math or science. But my mom thought that bc I was good at reading/writing I should be in the advanced program at my school. So I tested into the program multiple times and failed multiple times. I think I switched into the gifted program around 2nd grade?

And y'all? I was the worst student in that program. Consistently. I was awful at it. I cried in math class. I was constantly embarassed because everyone around me was smarter and better than me. I wanted to drop out of school, be homeschooled. I have had really bad self esteem issues bc of school since I was so so little.

And when I was like 17 I was going through my old report cards for like. research on a poem I was writing. And I found out I didn't even pass the test to get INTO giftie program. I never passed the test, my mom just called in a favor to someone who worked in admin at the school.

Wouldn't it have just been easier for like....everyone involved? to write up an IEP? I could have been very very happy if I struggled a normal amount in math science etc and just got shifted to another class for reading/writing. I think I would be in a better mental place if that happened, I think I would have learned earlier that like. I don't have to be good at everything.

anyway whatever I should have been asleep two hours ago. gonna make myself some toast and sleep

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maatryoshkaa · 4 years ago

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between the lines | lee minho

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐃𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐋 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒!𝐀𝐔

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

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

✑ PAIRING: student librarian!minho x bookworm!reader

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

✑ WORD COUNT: 9.7k

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

Ah, Valentine’s Day.

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

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

“Hey, watch ou—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, sure. Just my rotten luck.”

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

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

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

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

Talk about a reality check.

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

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

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

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

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

“You said he’d be in here!”

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

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

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

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May…’

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

“The library’s closing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hana’s not my girlfriend.”

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

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

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

“Oh, y/n! One more thing.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Looking for someone?”

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

“I—sorry?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I help you with anything?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s one of my favourite lines.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Give me my book back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N—”

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

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

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

“Would you be happy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a very good poem.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wh-wha—”

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

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

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

“Then why didn’t you—”

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

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

“'Again?'”

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

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

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

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

“A corner store card. With—”

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

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

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

“Shut up, Lee Minho, oh my g—”

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

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

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

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

“Wh—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit, ‘sung—did you kill somebody?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can it be a happy ending?”

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