#If you saw the amount of references i had to both search and make for this...

[morag-renart]

I've been following such a beautiful aerti fic that i just HAD to draw them. This image stuck to my mind and wouldn't leave until it was done. That scene was absolutely fenomenal!!

Tried a different shading style, the perspective was a hell to draw and probably it doesn't make too much sense, but something is better than nothing when you want to create!

You can support my work with a Kofi I'd really appreciate it c:

[thebadboyfanclub]

She Is A Lady (Ivar x Targaryen Reader)

Ivar has always been such an interesting character to me so imagine how delighted I was when I got my first request for him. Also I would like to announce that I will not be accepting any more requests for daemon Targaryen as of right now cause i have written so many and I have also others that I must write. Enjoy!

Y/n) had always been an adventurous character, ever since she could walk she would wobble away from everyone, curiosity fuelling her little chubby legs, when she got a little older and was able to get on her dragon, Rhaenyras's heart raced as she waited patiently for her daughter to come home.

She was her father's daughter, stubborn, brave, and resilient, “the noble she-dragon” was her title when she would often be referred to in the songs of barbs, she would smirk under her cloak as she would often cover herself to visit the small taverns.

When war called for her (y/n) defended her mother with the fierceness of a dozen warriors, however, the pain of losing her brothers one by one, her dear Daemon who taught her so many things, her grandmother Rhaenys, she could not risk the death of her mother.

“We can still fight dear”

“Mother our troops have fought fiercely for so long, most of our men are dead, we need an alliance”

“What if they kill you?”

“Then I’ll let my brothers know how much you love them and we will be waiting for you, my queen”

Rhaenyra overcomes with emotion fell into her daughters' arms in desperation, her precious little girl was now grown up. (Y/n) hugged her mother back with the same amount of love, she hated the fact that she had to leave her mother's side, but this was their last resort.

Rhaenyra pulled away slightly, her fingers reaching for the few strands of Dark hair that were entangled between her Targaryen silver hair, a small token she had inherited from her late father.

“Promise me you will come back to me”

“I won’t come alone, I’ll come with an army to protect you”

-

(Y/n) had searched for inhabited land beyond the wall for a full day, the sun had been tucked away and replaced by the moon when she noticed a land lit by torches, it would unwise to make a haste landing without a warning first, for all she knew this land could be home for cannibals or demon worshippers.

(Y/n) commanded her dragon to fly a bit lower, circling the city to make her presence known, not only did the people notice her, as they had gathered around for supper to celebrate their victory, they rose from their seats to follow the beast that appeared to make landing a bit further down.

“I am unharmed, well… except the dragon”

“Who are you?”

“Princess (y/n) Targaryen, I come from kings landing”

The men came to a standstill with the princess, both parties waiting for a sudden move so they can “defend” their own, you could only hear the sound of the fire from their torches and their breaths created a mist from the cold.

“I understand this is sudden for you but I have come in peace, I have been traveling on dragon back since dawn, it would be certainly easier for me to explain after I get some type of food if you could be so kind to offer one”

The dim light was not enough to reveal the contraption Ivar was using to stand up on his legs, his eyes piercing through hers in such intensity that (y/n) felt like the man was trying to look into her brain, still she did not waver, she challenged him with her strong look she beheld on those intriguing hues, her flame could be identified from a mile away, this was not a meek princess, she came flying in a beast and stood by it proudly, she was a true warrior sent from the Gods.

“Fine, princess. Leave your sword and dragon here and then you can follow us”

Of course, he knew she was lying, he saw the sword that rested on her hip the minute she got on the ground, intrigued by the astonishing beast she came with he decided to offer her sanctuary.

To his surprise, the princess took out her sword before she came on one knee with it laying flat on her palms.

“This has been given to me by a beloved family member, I do not wish to leave it unattended but I trust you with it, Ser”

“Ivar, Ivar the boneless”

Her face showed exactly how puzzled she was by the nickname the name claimed that he was holding, howbeit she did not have time to question it for long since from the first step Ivar took (y/n) picked up on the metal sound and observed just how stiff his walking as she realized that the man was probably barely able to stand up, his entire weight was supported by a delicates design of metal that went all the way up to his thigh.

Ivar smirked at the sight of the woman offering her sword, she seemed smart enough according to her calculated moves, the sword felt light in his hand as it shined under the moonlight, arrogantly he pointed the tip of the sword directly under her chin, his ego allowing him to consider that he had the upper hand.

(Y/n) gently placed the weapon away from her face and rose to her feet, she had been nothing but gracious she would not allow herself to be disrespected.

“Lead the way, my lord”

She simply suggested, she concealed her facial expression well though the devil was always in the details, Ivar could see her hands forming into fists.

“Welcome to Kattegat princess”

He turned his back on her while she took small steps to stay behind him, she did not want to offend him by walking faster so her pace was slow enough to let him walk.

(Y/n)s eyes traveled around everything, people’s faces, their clothing, their tables, their homes, it seemed like everyone was living a simple life, it reminded her of the roads of kings landing.

Ivar could hear the whispers from his subjects, they were all taken back by Ivars sudden kindness, and they all expected him to kill her on the spot, he had to admit that the idea did go through his head, yet something in him told him to let her join their feast, maybe it was the fearsome dragon, maybe her alluring appearance.

Alas, (y/n) took a seat next to him, and quite swiftly the servants gave her a plate full of food and a goblet with ale, the chicken was warm and the ale did the trick of warming her up as everyone danced around the fire, a faint smile played on her lips while Ivar observed her.

“So what brings you here princess?”

“War I am afraid”

“War?”

“In my homeland, we have one king that rules over the land, my family has been been in that position for over a century, yet it is the very first time that a woman-my mother- is to assume authority, that did not go well with her half brother”

“So you ran?”

“I certainly have not, my brothers were killed, my stepfather, my grandmother… all gone”

Ivar felt sadness rush through his chest at how the princess's chin quivered, her hushed tone trembling as she uttered the last two words, her doe eyes misting in the firelight, Ivar was not known for his empathy, still, he reached for her hand under the table to give it a slight squeeze.

“My mother was killed by my father's first wife, she released an arrow while my mother was walking away”

“How did you respond?”

“Oh I’ve tried to kill her several times”

“It is quite macabre, how the family is always the one that causes the biggest pain”

“I suppose, if you are not running then what brought you here?”

“Desperation, countless battles have taken most of our men, I was hoping to look for allies”

“You described it perfectly, desperation is the only thing that could make someone believe that another army of men would come to die for you”

“My mother is all I have left, wouldn’t you do anything to bring your own back to life?”

“Definitely”

“It might sound cruel but forgive me for saying I do not crave to understand your pain”

She was honest Ivar gave (y/n) that much, they sat there gawking at one another, she stood tall, she did not waver under his eyes as most people did, she showed no signs of fear, she did not care about anything, and let’s not even start of how ambitious she appeared to be.

Ivar took a swig of his ale without looking away from those distinguish violet hues, he recalled how the prophets have whispered to him of a queen of a faraway land.

“Your queen will help you fly amongst the clouds, you’ll know lands beyond the eye”

He had brushed it off as a riddle, but now he started to understand that it was the only time the prophet meant every word, could she- princess (y/n) Targaryen- be his queen?

There, for only the briefest moment and for the first time he felt the warm sensation of his heart thumping at the mere sight of her smile, like Freya had come from the clouds to place her cloak around the two youngsters. For so long Ivar had brushed off the idea of love or marriage, sometimes he would even the joke that the goddess herself has cursed him or turned his back on him, cruelly denying him the blessing of a true loves match.

“I cannot throw my men to a war over lands I know nothing about”

“I figure that we will ride tomorrow”

“Ride?”

“We can strap you up on Daylight and you will be safe as a passenger”

“You mean I go up in that?”

“Hey, she is a lady”

Ivar cackled at her correction regarding her dragon. It had been a while since one was so casual with him, that treated him with kindness without fearing his outbursts, sure her ignorance of not exactly knowing his antics had something to do with it, albeit Ivar thoroughly enjoyed her presence, her wit and pride complimented her.

As (y/n) bit her bottom lip her gaze went over to his legs, she wanted to ask as silence overtook them, but she debated if it was the right decision.

“It’s not an injury, I was never able to walk”

“Brittle bones, the masters in my land had informed me of such condition. Back in the day, they used to kill babes that seemed to hold such an illness”

“Oh that is what happens here as well, my mother forbade it”

“She sounds like a lovely woman”

“She was”

(Y/n) could deeply empathize with the look that took over Ivars handsome face, how his expression clouded for just a moment, how his jaw tensed and his lips stiffened to a thin line, she could tell that Ivar was not looking at anyone particularly, he was reminiscing as moments that they shared passed through his ice blue hues.

Ivar was pulled back to reality by her gentle hand resting on his thing, usually, he would shove away anyone that dared to touch his legs, but surprisingly he just allowed his hand to find hers and rest on top of it, a part of him yearning for the warmth of her touch, her genuine interest and zest.

“I am certain she is very proud of you, I understand you two probably shared a very close bond”

“We did, but let’s not dwell on such events, you must rest I do not want the rider of such a large beast to fall asleep while they hold my life in the reigns of a dragon”

They smiled at one another, a grin that behind it was resting countless words left unsaid. Ivar was a stranger to the goodwill of people, although with her, as his eyes rested upon her features he felt like his anger vanished, like a wave that held her name washed through his experience with cruelty and even his brothers belittling him was now gone.

“This feels strange”

“I agree princess, but I do not want it to go away”

“Me neither”

She whispered, her eyes lowering down to the ground to avoid the foreign sensation that was Ivars presence. Ivar allowed her to retreat, as he looked around it dawned on him that a few of the others had also taken it to become viewers of their encounter, he could not blame them.

With some difficulty he rose from his seat with the goblet of Ale in his hand, demanding the attention of everyone to realign with their leader.

“It is with great honor that I present to you the princess (y/n) Targaryen, the future queen of her land, she has come to us with a request for an alliance, to fight alongside her army for a land we do not know. Tomorrow I will ride with the princess to see for myself that foreign land, as well as to marry her”

“What?”

“To unite our kingdoms, to rule by her side in her homeland and for her to rule by my side in mine, to give us a reason to help her. Raise your glass, to your future queen”

Requests are open!

[cacti-are-like-flamingos]

Living Waters...

Gojo Satoru x Reader x Geto Suguru

The Cursed Trio | Desert Oasis

...

Before setting off for the day, you made sure to grab an extra hairband, anticipating that Geto might need one if his broke. As it turned out, he had the same foresight, which wasn't all that surprising considering the amount of times you'd lose them.

Another curious fact, for some reason, everyone came to you whenever their uniforms got a tear or two simply because you had once mentioned liking to sow things back together

You swear Gojo would do it on purpose considering he always had his stupid fucking infinity on. Geto, on the other hand, likely made sure to be just a tad bit more reckless with his uniform before turning it into you.

He actually liked to watch you work, eyes entranced by the way your hands move and manipulated the fabric --- all while you hummed some tuneless melody under your breath

Moving on

Did you know that Gojo accidentally revealed to Yaga that you had a fondness for unique plushies? Since that day, Yaga began surprising you with a new plushie every day. Sometimes he'd toss them straight at your face, while other times, he'd leave them outside your door.

As the days passed, your room became a plushie wonderland, and you realized you needed to have a serious conversation with Yaga about this overflowing collection.

Despite your talk, the "plushie issue" remained unresolved. However, every Friday after class, Yaga started setting up the classroom to teach you how to knit as a way to compromise.

With this newfound skill, you took matters into your own hands and began creating mini-plushies of everyone around you.

For Kento, you designed a stylish cream business suit that perfectly complemented his rather bland calm personality. You also created a matching outfit for his best mate, Habaira, but in a sleek black color. Habaira was overjoyed with the gesture, though he playfully joked that he looked like his mini-plushie was ready to attend a funeral. Kento couldn't help but chuckle at the comment, a rare small smile gracing his lips as he softly muttered a heartfelt 'Thank you.'

For Ieiri, you crafted a unique plushie, dressing her in a doctor's coat and adding her trademark little cigarette, capturing her essence beautifully. She was absolutely thrilled when she saw it, expressing her excitement with a lazy smile as she kissed you on the cheek.

Yaga received a miniature replica of his current look, which he proudly displayed by placing it next to his computer monitor in his office. Sometimes, you'd catch him smiling at it.

Gojo's plushie was a fun challenge, with a spiky-haired version of him sporting a blindfold instead of sunglasses. Gojo playfully teased you about making a second version because you just couldn't get enough of him. You threatened to take it away, and he protested, holding the plushie just out of your reach. Lanky bastard.

(You never did see that plushie ever again tho, wonder what happened to it)

As for Geto, you searched the internet for some fashionable outfit inspiration and dressed up his plushie accordingly. He later humorously referred to it as his mini shaman (the fashionable outfit was a shaman's attire. Sorry not sorry) , but he assured you that he genuinely loved it. In fact, he liked it so much that he transformed it into a keychain for his bag, carrying it with him wherever he went.

I should mention that by now, your fluency in Japanese had improved dramatically. However, out of a sheer habit, both boys had the tendency to order for you. Then again, they also ordered for one another. Everyone in this fucking three-way has memorized each other's orders like the back of their hand.

You know their coffee orders by heart; Geto knows both of your favorite meals by heart, and Gojo knows both your and Suguru's favorite sweets by soul. (Sorry not sorry)

You all take turns treating one another, but often it's Gojo who insists on paying for you and Geto, given his big-boy bank account. (You will never reveal to them how somehow Mei Mei has become your sugar mama and pays you for simply existing, on the daily)

Geto can't ever drink your or Gojo's coffees because they're just too sweet. It's so sweet it could put a diabetic into a coma. So the two of you happily share taste-sips with each other.

On the other hand, Gojo couldn't handle the intensity of your and Geto's meals due to their overwhelming spiciness. Just the aroma wafting around would bring tears to his clear sky-blue eyes. As for you, vegetables weren't your preference, so Geto would kindly slide his plate close to yours, allowing you to discreetly transfer the unwanted veggies onto his plate without creating a mess on the table.

Gojo would then tease you for your preference, mocking you as he likened you to a small child. So properly, the only adult response was to engage in a game of footsies with him under the table until, accidentally, Gojo hit you a bit too hard, causing you to flinch and squeak. Geto noticed your reaction instantly, and he gave Gojo a piercing glare, silently warning him to be more careful. Gojo, feeling a bit awkward, focused on stuffing his face to avoid eye contact with Geto.

Ah, nothing like a protective mama Geto

Whenever you're trying to avoid Gojo and his endless taunts, you have a clever strategy: hiding in his dorm room, a place he never imagines you'd willingly go. As he spends the entire day searching the school high and low for you, you're actually inside his room, peacefully resting or just relaxing. Oftentimes, you snoop. Hehe

You possess like some Gojo-detector, giving you the ability to sense when Gojo is about to return to his dorm room. The moment you feel he is messing you, you swiftly sneak out unnoticed. He never manages to catch you, and the mystery of why his bed sometimes smells like you remains unsolved for him. That is until one night, he stumbles upon your favorite bracelet tucked under his pillow, the clasp broken.

You can't escape him anymore

Geto finds solace in your room, partly captivated by its enchanting fragrance. The persistent presence of an oil diffuser emanates an aroma that seems to be woven from the fabric of dreams. Its sweet and gentle, a lingering scent that holds a subtle allure, almost addictive in its embrace.

Lost in the allure of the ambiance (doesn't help that you like to keep your room dark and cold with blue lighting) Geto spends literal hours nestled amongst the plushies, lulled to sleep by the whole scenario. Whenever he departs from your room, the decent clings into his clothing. Leaving a trail of flowers behind that informing others of his presence in your room.

Speaking of him

Sometimes, you wake up in the dead of night, feeling something off. It's as if you possess a strange, innate ability to sense when someone is going through a rough time. Perhaps it's connected to your Cursed technique, or maybe your soul simply has a way of recognizing their distress. Regardless of the reason, you find yourself instinctively reaching for one of your pillows and following the invisible trail of energy.

Tonight, your focus settled on Geto's room. He had entrusted you with a key long ago, allowing you to enter his private space when desired.

You approached the door with a gentle, single knock (you have this specific way of locking that involves lightly tapping on the door with your nails. Much like a cat would) before letting yourself in. And there he was, sat up on his bed, his blankets tangled around his lap as beads of sweat trickled down his face. A haunted look in his eyes.

Geto prided himself on being able to maintain a stoic poker face, but even he had to admit. Out of your little trio, you were the one most attuned to their emotions. You could read the warning signs long before they fully manifested.

You slipped into his bed, performing your nightly ritual of unraveling his locks from the right bun he wore to sleep. Quietly, you would always mention how it wouldn't do any good for his hair and how it might give him more morning tangles (knowing well that you yourself slept with your hair loosely tied). Yet, with tender care, you gently massaged the palms of his hands, hoping to bring him back to the present, back to you.

And he came back to you, blinking his lovely onyx eyes as they lightly widened at the sight of you in your nightgown, sitting right next to him, his hand in your grasp as you cooed him back to safety.

No words were truly exchanged; that was for the morning routine. So, for then, the two of you simply settled back into his bed. His hand never left your own as you slowly placed it onto your chest, just where your heart would be.

Your heart beat, calm and strong, lulled him into a dreamless sleep.

...

(A/N): As I was writing this, you fuckers kept blowing up my phone with the amount of likes you were giving my shit. Like damn, I see now we have some early risers here. Goddamn.

I have such a headache rn it's not even funny.

The idea of being a Gojo-detector is rather humorous, isn't it?

Wonder what Geto dreamt about that had him so distressed. Is it the start of something or just your everyday PTSD?

Drop a comment

Feel free to buy me a 🦩

Hope you enjoyed!

Edited: 7/24/2023

[annawayne]

I know this might sound really weird but I'm just curious, have you tried rendering with another style? Not saying this out of malice, I'm just curious because I really love your sketches and I'd love to see more art styles other than just retro filters/colors (which I really like btw! Don't take me wrong your works are truly amazing)

Hello anon!

Thank you for your question, and to answer this, I would like just to say that "rendering in different style" is not easy at all. People find/work on their styles for years; someone - search for it their whole life, never finding one; someone desperately watch a lot of videos "How to find your style" etc etc, and to have your consistent (in terms of recognizable) is truly a blessing, the result of hard work. We go to the art museums, sometimes, specifically to see the particular artist's work for a reason, don't we? Because their style is recognizable, something we can distinguish in allusion and reference somewhere else - like in the cinema, or, for example, merch, or some clothing/jewelry brand.

A style is a culture code that makes you different and special from others, building a strong association with an artist, so even if you don't remember their name, you can just go like this with the "Ah! I saw it! I remember this artist!"

Of course, it's good to remember a name, but it's far more easily lost in the amount of information we have around everyday - and to remember someone's style, it's more of emotional connection which leaves more impact.

Juggling between various styles is also hard, because a lot of styles requires specific knowledge and time commitment to achieve some decent level. I try to improve my usual style with every work I work - starting with composition, rendering skills (because there weren't that good; only recently, I'm more satisfied with the way I render my characters faces, for example), with story narration, work with lightning, and I'm also glad to say that I managed to have some progress with working with different colorization since I don't use filters, made by someone else, but I do everything from scratch. To achieve what I have now I work for years, both for practical side and for studying art as a discipline, analyzing different epochs and artists approaches. We know these artist's names from the past exactly because they had their distinguished style, isn't it?

So every style - it's a commitment, emotional, practical, time-consuming and even exhausting.

I understand what you mean here, however, I think that each artist's styles are wonderful exactly because they have their specific traits that distinguish this particular artist from many more. This is why AI sucks so much - it just consumes other artists hard work and produces lifeless products, not arts, and all of them just the same, a dull copy past, stolen from thousands and thousands real artists - emotions, time, commitment and dedication.

[slow-writer]

TMAGP Episodes 7 & 8 Reactions

That was totally my face during both episodes, I swear.

Spoilers below!

Okay, I'm freaking out on a cellular level, it feels like.

Episode 6 had the introduction of new OIAR employee, Celia Ripley, who is voiced by Lowri Ann Davies. Those of us from the TMA fandom recognize her as the voice of Lynne Hammond who later became Celia because her name was taken from her after the Change. There have been speculations on whether she is playing the same Celia (even though this is a separate universe) or if this is just a little wink from Jonny and Alex behind the scenes. But then came the next 2 episodes.

The sheer amount of lore that was dropped in these 2 episodes has the fandom REELING. So, let's get into what we've heard!!

EPISODE 7: Right off the bat, Celia not only references that the dated computer system is basically better than "wrestling with tape recorders and manila folders." This feels like a TARGETED MISSILE at the TMA fandom. But right after that, she asks if any of the spoken cases have anything in common, and if there's a way to search the cases that have common threads, like, "Oh I don’t know. Every case about being buried alive or meat or… whatever." And if that wasn't enough, she recognizes the voice that Alice calls Chester (AKA, John!).

Those statements alone have me thinking with 99.99999999% certainty that this is the SAME Celia from TMA (or at least, she's tapped into her memories in some way).

Apart from Celia, we have Hilltop being referenced in a case, which could very well mean that it's a similar situation from TMA. Very possibly a rift in space-time or whatever. Some nexus of power or something.

Then Sam received a supposedly internal email from someone called "John" that contained an address and a name. Does this mean that John is truly trapped in the computer system like we've all been theorizing? Is this his attempt at making contact and warning Sam not to follow in his footsteps? AGH!

And then we have poor Colin, driven mad by whatever's corrupting the code he's been trying to maintain, taped over his webcam, and full on refusing any electronics to enter his office (that weren't already there, and he must have clearly tampered with them so they cannot spy on him). He even attacks Sam when he pulls out his phone. That man has a lifetime subscription to Paranoia Plus, if you ask me, poor thing.

Lastly, we get confirmation that Lena at least tried to kill Klaus, but may not have succeeded, and Gwen's blackmail of her puts her in a new role of "External Liaison," whatever that may be. (Oh boy, oh boy.)

And if that wasn't enough, we have today's episode....

EPISODE 8: No preamble on this one, just straight into a case. And man, are we having fun with the whole liminal horror plus Stranger vibes in this one! But the GOOD SH*T comes after the case ends.

Poor Colin's been put on Mental Health Leave, so I'm really hoping that wasn't the last we'll 'see' of him. And the banter between Gwen and Alice has much more of an edge now that Gwen's been promoted. But!!!

Sam and Celia went off together after they ended their shifts early (ooooh), and who did they meet?

GERRY EFFING KEAY AND HIS 'GEE-GEE' GERTRUDE!!!!

And I checked, yes, they are 100% voiced by their TMA counterparts, Jon Gracey and Sue Sims (Jonny's mom).

Gertrude calls Gerry her grandson (though I'm curious if this means Gerry's actual mother is dead here too, and when Gertrude stepped in as a surrogate, or if she's actually his grandmother).

When Sam and Celia ask about the Magnus Institute, they both kind of go quiet, like they don't know what they're allowed to say or if they can trust these strangers who randomly showed up to their house. Sam reveals that he was part of their "gifted kids" program (hello, ARG info!) and saw Gerry was also listed and wanted to "swap stories." Gertrude seems to want to push them away, all protective, but Gerry just says he doesn't remember much.

Did Gertrude blow up the Magnus Institute in this universe and adopt Gerry after she found him there?!?

And finally, after Gertrude kind of rushes them out, Celia makes a deal with Sam. They agree to keep track of anything that falls under each other's mystery interests. Because she's "doing a favor for Georgie" (HFGJHFD!), she needs to look into "Weird physics stuff: time travel, other dimensions, teleportation, all that good stuff."

Was Celia sent here from the TMA dimension to do recon?!?

Anyway, there's so much more to dive into, but those are the things that are currently making my brain buzz. How has your Thursday been?

[raveneira]

Know whats dumb? the insane amount of questions about this reveal that'll never be answered but hear me out.

KK says in this timeline B0ruto & S@rada both die when she tried to help him that day, then Kawaki would go on to lose to a much stronger Code, be sacrificed, yatta yatta

This makes no sense however for a variety of reasons, for one where is Ada and Daemon in this scenario? but first lets address the fact that Kawaki somehow loses to Code when theres no way he should've even had the opportunity to get to Kawaki in the first place

Point A- After Kawaki would've supposedly killed them both, he would've been ambushed by the other shinobi, even if he wasn't, they would've hunted him down and forced him to exhaustion chasing him like the canon timeline, so how tf does Code kill him?

Point B- Ada immediately flies to Kawaki's rescue, her charm making everyone unable to harm him as long as shes with him, lets say thats why Kawaki wasn't immediately executed by Konoha in this timeline, how tf does Code kill him with Ada and Daemon backing him up?

Point C- KK says in this timeline B0ruto and Kawaki never switched places, which means omnipotence never happens, how would it not happen if Ada still went there to try and comfort and save him from this situation?

If omnipotence doesn't happen & Code wins then where the hell was Ada during all this? if Konoha spared him cuz of her backing him then how does Code succeed? if omnipotence doesn't happen then did she even go help him in this scenario?

because from the way KK describes it, there was literally no intervention in this timeline, he just successfully kills B0ruto & S@rada, somehow escapes the others without Momos help, & somehow goes on the run away from Konoha where he is eventually found and killed by Code.

In order for this future to happen, you literally have to remove everyone who intervened after S@rada, which is ironic considering ppl are saying this panel proves she saved him when it actually proves the opposite but thats another topic. Point is this makes no sense.

What makes even less sense is this goofiness, so your telling me KK saw them both dying in this timeline, but Momo saw exactly what happened in the canon timeline? S@rada is alive there, whether their referring to B0ruto or Kawaki is irrelevant, whats relevant is shes alive.

The only way you can read this is that Kawaki successfully killed B0ruto before fleeing to the forest where he is then confronted by everyone searching for him, most likely killing whoever he needed to in self defense, I dont see him going all out if he wasn't bein pressed hard

Obviously Kawaki would lose in that situation, he'd be outnumbered, overpowered due to running low on chakra, so exactly how does KKs vision fit in with Momos? because according to KK Code wins, but according to Momo Kawaki was done for if he got no help here

This is why when you introduce this type of plotline, literally ANYTHING to do with time, you need to put ALOT of time and effort into planning it out, otherwise you'll create a bunch of contradictions and inconsistencies like this.

Momos vision makes sense with the info we have of the canon timeline, he foresaw pretty much everything that happened, the only difference being Kawaki actually killing somebody, most likely B0ruto, which explains why he helped him escape when he did to save his own skin.

So in Momo's vision essentially the panel we see of Kawaki is what would've happened if nobody intervened in time to save B0ruto, but Momo also saw the outcome of if they did intervene, OR that would've played out the same way regardless, Kawaki would lose, roll credits.

What am I getting at? simple, just that this introduction of KKs prescience has only appeared for one chapter but is already causing a ton of contradictions, inconsistencies, plot holes, retcons etc and its only gonna get worst. Whenever shows mess with time, its always a mess.

And if you think prescience wasnt pulled outta nowhere to justify the inevitable changes their gonna make to the FF? what more convenient way to explain why the FF doesn't happen as originally shown than to say 'oh that was just one of the bad endings KK saw where B0ruto gave up'

If you dont see the writing on the wall with this, your intentionally closing your eyes to it.

Obviously theres a possibility I could be wrong as could all theories, but if your someone that believes Kishi is writing, then there's no way you don't see the pattern here.

If Im wrong Im fine admitting that, but after this chapter its a very strong possibility Im not.

[imaginethatneathuh]

Cold as Ice: Cait - Fallout 4

Cait & Sole Survivor, platonic.

Cait comes across a warehouse filled with chems and finds out Sole is the one responsible. Her reaction is rather rash.

TW/CW: References to addiction, chems, anger.

Word Count: 2.2+K

Inspired by @danses-with-dogmeat

•

A dull light easily broke through the branches as Cait made her way back to Sanctuary Hills from killing the small raider encampment to the North. Her shotgun hung loosely in one hand as the other stayed on the strap of her pack. Her thick red and white plaid flannel kept her warm, but even so, a cold wind was a powerful thing. Dry twigs and leaves crunched beneath her dirty, mud-splashed boots as one such wind whipped past her. It sent a shiver down her spine, reminding her of what she'd felt after withdrawals set in, but just barely so.

Cait tensed at the thought.

I ain't goin' through that shite again. I'm fine.

Taking a deep breath, Cait closed her eyes and centred herself before letting out the breath and opening her eyes.

It hadn't been that long since she'd been cured. Since you'd helped her get clean. The memories were still fresh, yet the urge was nowhere to be found. Still, the pain from the withdrawals was always the first thing to surface.

You'd said it was some form of PTSD.

Cait wasn't sure what that was even after you and Curie tried to explain it.

As the dark grey of her eyelids disappeared, Cait watched as a puff of wispy, white air twirled in front of her before disappearing.

As it faded, a building came into focus. It was off in the distance, but Cait could see it was cobbled together and unfinished.

"What the Hell?" She asked, mumbling to herself.

Cait frowned as she got closer. She slipped her free arm through her pack's other strap and handled her shotgun with both hands rather than the lazy one-hand position. Cait checked the chamber, ensuring she wasn't going in without ammo.

As she got closer, Cait realised it wasn't some random building and, while cobbled together, wasn't unfinished. The massive main door was just open. The tall, wide building looked like a warehouse she'd seen before, similar to Wicked Shipping Fleet Lockup, rusted, broken glass and all.

What the Hell is this doin' out here? Did Sole make it?

Cait keeps getting closer while keeping her shotgun up, ready for a fight.

Though it did seem like one of your constructions with its proximity to Sanctuary and Vault 111, Cait had been around these parts hunting and clearing things out for a while. Not even you, with your uncanny ability to build like a magician, could have erected such a massive building without Cait noticing. Not to mention, you hadn't been around for several days. You'd have gone to Sanctuary for supplies if this was what you were doing.

As she got closer, Cait heard nothing. Not the sounds of robots thumping around and guarding whatever is inside, not the humming of turrets or lights, not even the sound of raiders or bugs. The place was eerie and quiet, far too quiet to be normal.

The building itself was fine; it was just a little rusty and had broken windows. Otherwise, it seemed sturdy enough, perfect for raiders, animals, ferals, or even settlers.

As Cait climbed up on a ledge, she peered down at the short drop and thought to herself. If something's in here, should I risk letting it know I'm here for the sake of speed?

Shrugging, Cait jumped down with a slight thud. She exhaled as she crouched from the small jump before shooting back up; even with the small amount of noise she'd made, not so much as a radroach crept out. In fact, as she peered past the massive doors and into the warehouse, she saw dead ones strung up, cut into and torn apart.

Immediately, Cait went into cautious mode and aimed her shotgun around as she searched for any living thing.

Those roaches had to have had some interference. Without someone doing it, they wouldn't have been cut and strung up like that, dangling the length of the loading door.

Mentally, Cait began crossing things out.

Not super mutants. They don't come out here.

Can't be ferals or robots, either. Ferals would have ripped 'em a part where they lay dead, not string 'em up. Bots wouldn't give a damn after they're dead.

Settlers are out of the question. Maybe one or two would have been out here, but in that case, they would have gone to Sanctuary or Abernathy Farm. Those places are safer than some random building in the woods.

Raiders then? A new group, maybe? Fucking dumbarses would pick someplace close to a settlement.

Cait noticed something odd as she stepped through the door and under the roaches.

No, not more dead animals strung up. And no, not dead people.

What she noticed were boxes. Lots and lots of boxes. They were everywhere. On every shelf all the way to the top and in every corner. Some open and some not.

But other than the seemingly neverending amount of fucking boxes that are just everywhere, there wasn't much else. Not even a candle.

You could count the roaches, but they're in a halfway spot; therefore, they're off the table.

Cait allowed her shotgun to drop to her side and loosely held it again.

"What the fuck?"

She looked around, confused, and stared at the boxes of all shapes and sizes.

There were crates, ammo boxes, trunks, suitcases, lockers, file cabinets, cardboard boxes, and every other type of container and box you could possibly think of. There were even several coolers.

Speaking of which...

Still erring on the side of caution, Cait approached one of the boxes, well, not boxes, but containers. Specifically, a cooler sitting closed on one of the shelves. She looked around it, ensuring it wasn't trapped with a tripwire, bathroom scale, or anything of the like.

"Clean," she said to herself, nodding.

Despite nothing being attached, Cait still slowly lifted the lid. And, as she peered into the cooler, she scowled.

Silently, she moved to another container and opened it. Her scowl only grew. She moved to another and another and another. She even cracked a crate open, only to be met with the same thing every time. Well, not exactly, but it might as well have been.

And before you ask, no, there weren't body parts, animal or human/ghoul/whatever. No, nothing so simple. Instead, there were chems of every type and lots of them.

The place was a damn warehouse filled with chems, not even a 30-minute walk from where she lived.

Cait stepped away from the disgusting things, the things that had nearly killed her more than a few times, the things that had driven her into a massive hole so deep she couldn't get out alone.

She didn't know if she felt like throwing up or lighting this place up and letting it all burn away. This many chems all in one place? It was a junkie's paradise, but Cait wasn't one anymore, not after 95. You had made sure of that; you'd saved her.

I should tell Sole, Cait thought. They'd never allow something like this to exist.

Cait recoiled away from it all and backed up. As she turned to go back the way she came, she was met with the silhouette of someone. The person had set down a bag and picked up a clipboard, a can of water in their other hand.

If you were close enough, you could hear the woman growling as she found the creator of such a disgusting pile of shite. She stormed over to the person, seeing red and her trigger finger itching.

"Oi! Fuck face!" Cait shouted, getting the perpetrator's attention. "What the fuck is this?"

They turned, and Cait was greeted by the face of the piece of shite who did this.

And it was... you?

Cait slowed as she watched you slowly lower the clipboard and drink. Her mouth hung open, and she just stared.

You, the ever kind, ever caring Sole Survivor of Vault 111, were the one stockpiling dangerous and disgusting chems like Buffout and the shite that had nearly killed Cait, Psycho. The very same person who'd helped Cait through her withdrawals on their way to 95. The same one who'd saved her life a thousand times over. The same person who'd risked life and limb and their own mental wellness to lend a hand to her, to randos, and to everyone they came across. You were the kind of person to take time out of your day to play with kids and teach them things they never would have learned otherwise. Shite, you'd go tend to the sick whenever you could.

So, why? Why would you have such a massive stockpile of the worst sort of things? Alcohol, Cait could understand. And she could understand extra Med-X, the Radaway and Rad-X, and the Stimpacks, but everything else? The Buffout, Mentats, and, worst of all, Psycho? What could you be using that shite for?

Cait, in all her time knowing you, had never seen you take anything but stims on the fly. You always went to the doctor for help if you needed it. You had never self-medicated unless it was an extreme emergency, and there was no other choice.

Cait could still remember you talking her through the withdrawals and the fight in Vault 95. She could still feel you embracing her tightly and grinning after Cait was cured.

How could you? How could you throw all that away? How could you lie the way you did and pretend to be such a good person?

The questions merely infuriated Cait further.

"What the fuck is all this then?" Cait growled. "You got any sort of explanation for me?"

You simply raised an eyebrow, cool as a cucumber. Before you could speak, Cait stopped them.

"No, ya know what, I don't care. I don't give a singular fuck!" Cait pointed toward the door. "With that door open like that and no protection, it's obvious you're jus' fucking waitin' for some kid to come across this place and end up like me. It's fuckin' sick, Sole. This entire fucking place is sick!" Cait got closer, gripping her shotgun and glaring into your eyes. God, she wanted to blow your head off for this. "You are fucking sick. So, if you want to keep me around, you will get rid of all of this. And I mean, get rid of it, not just sell it to some poor soul. So, either these go, or I do."

To your credit, you didn't budge or interrupt. In fact, you seemed relatively unbothered by Cait blowing up at you.

As calm as ever, you slowly, without breaking eye contact, brought the can up to your mouth and drank from it. When you lowered it, your face made no change, no sign of hurt or even relief. You simply said, ice in your voice: "Then go".

The thing about you is, as kind as you are, you ain't the type to take people's shite, and you sure as Hell don't do ultimatums. If Cait wouldn't even let you explain what's going on here, you wouldn't give her the time of day. Simple as.

Cait paused momentarily as she stared at what she thought was her friend. But her shock was quickly overcome by anger. "You are a– Fuck you, Sole! Fuck you! I can't believe I ever trusted you," she spat out. Cait shoved you aside as she made her way past and back outside.

•

Back in Sanctuary, Cait stomped over the bridge between the island and the Northside. Dirt, leaves, and twigs fell as she stormed.

She mumbled to herself, mostly about you and the chems. For a moment, Cait had considered telling people about your stockpile of chems but decided against it. When Preston or Codsworth found out... Well, thinking about that gave Cait everything she needed.

The sun still beamed down. Even with the overcast, the day felt far too happy. Especially after the recent revelation of who you truly are—a drug-dealing piece of shite.

A few settlers pass Cait by as she scowls at the ground and walks back to her flat. They say nothing, too afraid of her to try.

•

In her flat, Cait looked around at the random stuff she'd gotten in her time with you. The teddy bear you had jokingly given to her. The weapons you had modded and named for her. The fresh clothes, bedding, and an actual bed had been given to Cait when she moved to Sanctuary proper. Codsworths' housewarming present: a new pair of boots Cait never wore, not wanting to ruin them. The jacket Curie had given her to keep her warm. And, of course, the Minutemen hat Preston had gifted Cait as a way of saying "thank you for everything you've done" and a "you're always welcome with us".

Despite feeling this emptiness inside, Cait refused to feel sorry for herself or fall back into that hole. No, you wouldn't do that to her.

Cait grabbed a few things and a bag, stuffing some things into said bag.

If you wanted to ruin everything you'd created, you could, but Cait wasn't having any of it.

[twdmusicboxmystery]

My Re-Watch of Ghosts

So, I may or may not have watched Ghosts again last night. I don’t know that I have anything to say that we haven’t discussed before, but here are some thoughts I had.

I wanted to watch it again because I looked back through my edits and found one that just pointed out the final, weirdo dream Carol has where Daryl is making breakfast and Henry sits at the table wearing the compass rose t-shirt. I had the thought that he simply must represent Beth in this dream. Henry was a major proxy for Beth anyway, and in this episode, Carol is very much “searching” for him, but never really finds him. He’s the most obvious “ghost” of the title.

And then I started to wonder if everything that happens in this episode with Carol in the school is a callback to Grady in some way. Not necessarily what we know of Grady, but specifically what we don’t know and didn’t see.

Of course, I also think it’s probably a foreshadow to when/how they stumble upon Beth. Carol is so totally entangled in this whole situation, in ways we don’t yet understand. I think it probably stretches back to something we didn’t see at Grady, which I’ll get into in a minute, but she’s also going to be key to helping Beth return to Daryl.

It also made me think of various things we saw in Diverged in the Carol/Dog/Rat situation. And I kind of think that that, and what happens in Ghosts, and what we saw in 6x13, all point to the exact same thing. They just use different symbols to foreshadow it for us.

So, with all of this top of mind, I re-watched Ghosts.

We start, of course, with the waves of walkers that Alpha claims are not her doing. I think we can all agree that this probably represents the CRM and all their walker shenanigans in some way. It could also call back to the 800 walkers we didn’t see in the missing scenes of Coda, but chances are the CRM is responsible for both, so it all amounts to the same thing.

Then we have them drinking coffee in the woods, which we’ve discussed extensively. Per Paula in 6x13, the coffee changes the nature of the water itself. So, to have them drinking coffee in the woods here, makes me think of two things.

I think it’s a callback to 6x13. And if you remember, there were tons of Beth and resurrection references in that episode as well. Blond walker (though not animated) on the ground, holding a rosary, much like Beth did at Grady. The set of the Saw movie, at the end of which the “dead” person who’d been shot in the head stands up and is actually alive. All that jazz.

But I think there’s a specific reason they use this as a Carol symbol, and that they explained to us what it meant through Paula in S6. The point is that the coffee didn’t just change the format of something or tweak it a little. It changed the nature of the thing itself.

So, I really think Carol did something back in S5 that changed the nature of TF’s world. What? I have no idea. I thought on it for a bit, and I think the best bet is that it happened during the missing 17 days. After all, she ended up with Beth’s knife and we have no idea how or what brought that about.

And I don’t by any means think Carol did anything heinous. She’d be the first one to fight for Beth if she had any suspicion at all that she might be alive. So, whatever she did, she probably doesn’t realize she did it, or else didn’t realize how significantly one of her actions changed things, and led to wherever Beth ended up.

This is further bolstered by what happens next in Ghosts. Carol sees something that no one else does. In this case, three whisperers. Even though we don’t see direct evidence that they were real, the fact that the gal at the end who wakes up as a walker was real, and AK confirmed that, shows that Carol was seeing something real, but no one else saw it. And no one, including Daryl, truly believed her.

Could that be an analogy for something that happened during the missing 17 days? Or will that happen when she finds Beth first and no one believes her when she says she saw Beth alive?

Meanwhile, I’ll only touch on this once or twice, but in this same episode, we have the Aaron/Negan situation, that smacks heavily of Beth and Daryl in Still. There are green-covered walkers (think Cherokee Rose), hogweed, they go to a shack, it has diamonds, Aaron loses his sight, etc. To me, those callbacks are another way for writers to suggest there is a second, symbolic story being hinted at here.

So then Daryl, Carol, and co go to the Burnett academy, which has a huge dog on the side. (Sirius).

This is the part I felt might have been indicative of Grady or, dually, a foreshadow of the CRM. There are plenty of random clues, such as Daryl telling the story of the disappearing girl, the clock with no hands, which suggests “time escapes,” as the grandfather clock in Still did.

But to me, it feels like Carol goes looking for something here. She hears strange noises and sees shadows, and follows them. This is when she first sees the creepy walker girl that looks like Somara from The Ring. But it’s also the first time she sees Henry’s ghost. I feel like Carol was looking for Henry here, whether she realizes it or not. After all, she just came face to face with his killer, and Alpha said something about him dying screaming or something. That’s bound to dredge up some major PTSD.

So, I kind of feel like she goes looking for one thing (Henry) and finds another (this creepy whisperer girl). The walker/whisperer girl isn’t super like Beth, but I still think she may represent her in many ways.

Before I get to the climactic scene in the gym, a couple of other themes I noticed. Daryl kept telling her not to take the “coffee” pills so she could sleep. Though they never directly verbalized it, the idea is that, without sleep or rest (he says “you need to rest” at some point) you can’t see clearly what is happening and what is going on.

So, we could go lots of ways with this. Was TF asleep in some manner in S5, and so they couldn’t clearly see what happened with Beth and what was going on at Grady? TD has said similar things since Coda aired. Was Carol more awake and observant, and so she somehow saw something significant, even if she didn’t then and still doesn’t in the present realize how significant it was?

Again, these kinds of theories have been discussed before, but I feel like at some point, Carol will realize how significant whatever she saw was, and it will make her realize Beth is still alive.

The other thing I thought of with the talk of rest was what Maggie said to Daryl in 5x10. “It’s okay to rest now.” That always struck me as significant, though I wasn’t sure why. It’s almost like TF was asleep for a lot of S4 and S5, and they didn’t truly wake up until 5x10 when the music box also woke up. And of course we have the wake up theme around plenty of characters, including Denise.

Oh, one more thing. Before she goes to the gym, when she takes her final coffee pill and Daryl tells her to sleep, she says, “one more hour.” It’s part of the “one more” theme of the Aaron and Gabriel episode, which ALSO had tons of callbacks to Beth and Daryl. Just saying.

So, then we get to the part in the gym. I’ve tried to go take by take in this scene, and nothing really jumps out at me when I think of it that way. It works better with generalities.

So, in terms of this being a callback to Grady, Carol goes in, gets captured (in this case, by the rope trap) and then something really weird and surreal happens. The way they film it, we don’t *truly* see what goes down. But it results in Carol being badly injured, and the same girl Carol was in the place with (the whisperer gal) suddenly waking up at the end, when she should have been dead. That sounds awfully indicative of what happened with Beth at Grady.

It's probably also a template they’ll use for how Beth reappears. Carol is searching for something, just as Daryl was searching for Rick, and stumbles upon something she did not expect. Kinda like in Diverged when she stumbles upon Rat. She spends all this time and effort facing off with a rodent, kind of like all the time and effort she spent facing off with whisperer girl and looking for Henry.

In the end, she somehow frees herself from the trap, but she’s badly injured, and TF takes her to get medical care. At Grady, she was hurt badly, and TF took her with them, caring for her along the way.

So, just spit balling here, but if I had to guess, I’d say Carol is going to come into contact with the CRM, independent of anyone else in TF, and see Beth there. Carol will obviously try to talk to her or help her or whatever, depending on what the situation is, but much like rat, or the elusive ghost of Henry, Beth kind of runs and hides from Carol. Carol eventually gets free of the CRM, but she’s badly hurt, and somehow gets home. TF takes care of her of course, and that’s when she tells them what she saw, but none of them believe her. Just like in Ghosts.

This also feeds into what I’ve always thought about the end of Diverged. She doesn’t go around proclaiming to people that she’s seen a rat in that episode, lol. That wouldn’t have made much sense. But she was still the only one to see it. And the part where she’s looking for it in the dark and tears down the wall just looks a lot like the darkness of this school and specifically the gym. But in the end, when the rat finds its own way out, she and Jerry react with utter shock, even saying, “is that….?” Is that what? What’s so shocking about a rat running between your shoes? I’ve made the joke before it’s like they’re star-struck by a celebrity rat or something.

But if this is symbolic for them seeing Beth, that would make a lot more sense, wouldn’t it?

So, before I go into the dream, there are a couple of other small stories to touch on here, only because they both have Bethyl themes and callbacks to them. We get Rosita and Eugene talking and him finally coming to terms that there will never be anything romantic between them. I know we’ve talked about Bethyl themes and dialogue there. But what we couldn’t have realized when this aired, is that that scene led directly to Eugene finding his true love, Max. If he hadn’t finally understood how things were with him and Rosita, he wouldn’t have left and started a radio relationship with Max. The rest is history.

Then there is Siddiq and Dante drinking together. Again, just alcohol callbacks and such. Also, Dante talks about Afghanistan and Fallujah. I can pretty much guarantee that back when this aired, we had no inkling of the Afghanistan stuff. Just saying.

Okay, so then we get to Carol’s dream where Daryl makes breakfast and Henry sits at the table. No matter how you slice it, it’s a weird dream that makes no sense. Other than Henry and the compass rose, the biggest thing that jumps out at me is that Carol is wearing the watch with no hands, same as she saw in the Burnett Academy, which again calls back to the “time escapes” theme.

But what if the whole point of the time escapes theme is missing time that the audience hasn’t seen? After all, the hands on the clock aren’t running around it super-fast. They’re missing altogether. So, we’re pretty sure we had missing time at Grady, we definitely had missing time (17 days) after Grady. In this episode, we have missing time when whatever happened in the gym went down. And the dream seems to indicate it’s about what happened during one of those missing periods.

The other thing about this is that, even though Henry is sitting there, neither of them really acknowledge him. So, it *seems* like Carol sees him, but she has absolutely no reaction to him. If she suddenly saw Henry, she would definitely have an emotional reaction, whether joy or sadness or whatever, but she doesn’t. So, it’s almost like they don’t see him. Perhaps another indicator that Beth is there, but they just don’t see her.

So maybe this is about the future as well. The two of them bopping along together, but they don’t see that Beth is there, calling out to them. And Carol’s watch seems to indicate that something about this has to do with missing time.  

So then, of course, at the end, the walker girls wakes up. AK said it really was a walker, not someone waking up as a live human, but the point is, Carol did not hallucinate this person. And having her wake up is symbolic of Beth’s resurrection or awakening. Bottom line, Carol was in a very Grady-like place with this person, and then we see her “waking up.”

So, one might ask who this whisperer person was, why we never saw this again, why it was never explained. Because, it terms of Carol’s storyline, it doesn’t matter. It was never going to extend beyond this episode, which makes it feel nonsensical. But it was just there to parallel Beth and foreshadow some future storyline with Carol.

And again, I think we could go two ways for how this might play out. On the one hand, it represents Beth’s symbolic resurrection for TF and the GA at large. But I also think it could possibly be indicative of something I’ve conjectured about the Carol/Rat situation before:

Maybe when Carol first meets Beth, she won’t have all of her memories intact. Even if she had some images or flash-like visuals of Carol, she doesn’t *really* know who she is. Maybe that’s why she runs from Carol, because having these images and memories come back frightens her.

All I’m saying is that maybe the girl waking up at the end represents the “reawakening” of Beth’s memories. That’s all.

So yeah. Those are all my thoughts after rewatching. Kind of want to rewatch 6x13, now. Not sure if I will or not.

I’ll probably use this for my theory tomorrow. You know, since I bothered to write it up and everything. ;D It’s been quite a while since I did a big writeup like this. Even though none of it was groundbreaking, I had fun.

[lawlznet]

The crushing of bone, flesh, and sinew sang like poetic hymns to Gargoranath the White Dragon as he tore apart the hapless human's sting-arm and spat it asunder. Normally the greater dragon would have roasted the arm whole before consuming it, but he had had enough of the human's shit by this point.

“TREMBLE, MORTAL!” He growled in the human's own language, vocal cords languishing as it forced itself to speak the inferior tongue. “BOW YE TO YER BETTERS, AND I WILL YET GRANT THEE MERCY of a SWEET DEATH.”

“Er, SWIFT death,” Gargoranath corrected himself. When tales of its mighty and expected victory over the lesser being were retold, he expected to be depicted as having full knowledge of their superiority over humankind, even knowing their common phrases. The mighty dragon allowed itself a deep, thrumming laugh, before looking downward at the puny human to gaze upon its insurmountable fear...

...only to find that said human was crouched over its bag, rooting away at its insides with its lone arm, paying absolutely no heed to either the dragon, or its missing arm.

“Er,” The dragon spake, smoke gently escaping its chiseled, scaled lips, “Perhaps I did not make myself clear enough for your inferior ears,” The dragon said, “I asked you to BOW to yer BETTERS, so that I may GRANT THEE MERCY of a SWEE-” The dragon caught itself, “SWIFT death. SWIFT. As in, QUICKLY. FAST. IMMEDIATE.”

The dragon mouth curled into a self satisfied grin. He LOVED his more than textbook knowledge of human vocabulary. Not that dragon textbooks were all that long to begin with.

The dragon watched as said human, instead of responding, took the entirety of the knapsack and dumped its contents onto the ground. At first a few items of little worth fell out, including an entire bundle of hay and prematurely grown carrots, but it didn't stop there- the contents of the bag quickly covered the ground surrounding the human's feet and a large number of empty bottles, gems, gold, random farming equipment, and even chess pieces followed suit, bouncing off of those items already on the ground and rolling away down the ruined streets.

The dragon blinked as this continued for some time. He almost didn't catch the several weapons and clearly magical items tumble out in the process, transfixed as he was by the sheer amount of garbage that escaped the pack's vast innards. Eventually, the pack did stop producing contents, however, and with it the dragon breathed a sigh of relief, snorting a short belch of flame. It ignited a few scrolls of little worth that had rolled to its feet, forgotten by the armless human.

“AT LAST,” the dragon said, eyeing some of the choice parcels that had now littered the ground, “How considerate of you to clean yourself prior to consumption,” the dragon spoke with a low, half growl, half laugh, “Your digestion will be all the much smoother- what are you doing?”

The human continued to ignore Gargoranath and searched through the numerous items for something. The dragon snarled- it was obvious to him that the human was looking for a weapon of some kind!

He reared on his hind legs and prepared to pounce, but as he did a short leap, he watched as the human clamped its meaty, remaining fingers onto an enormous wheel of cheese. The dragon skid to a stop, nearly tripping itself upon the minor mound of both treasure and garbage that had accumulated on the ground before him. The human rose to a standing position, but only seemed to stare forward- and with a mighty chomp, consumed the entirety of the cheese wheel in one bite.

The dragon blinked.

The dragon blinked again.

The dragon blinked a third time and saw an empty tankard of ale in the human's remaining hand. Liquid dripped from the tankard, and beneath the human, the dragon saw at least three recently consumed apples, only their cores remaining.

“Are you...” The dragon started, his eyes squinting, “Are you... is this... what humans refer to as 'marinade'?” The dragon said, trying to relieve its confusion with humor. He watched as the human gripped a watermelon, easily the same size as a cow's skull, and eliminated half of it with an impossibly large bite. The rind crunched loudly under unseen lips, the pink juices of the fruit leaking out of the opening underneath the human's helm, vaguely resembling blood leaking from a famished hound's maw as they tore into prey.

It was when the human suddenly produced an entire roast bird, which was still steaming as if recently prepared, and swallowed one of its legs in a single gulp, that the dragon began to scream internally. So terrible was the terrible Gargoranath's terror that by the time he noticed that the human's once disarmed arm had regrown itself, he was six feet in the air, his frantic wings billowing the collected refuse of the human's pack all over the place, scattering bills of sale, stolen private notes, and tales of the whore queen (volumes three through nine) asunder.

“WE WILL NOT SPEAK OF THIS, HUMAN!” The dragon roared as it reached keep-height, “I WILL NOT SPEAK OF YOU, YOU WILL NOT SPEAK OF ME! IT IS EQUIVALENT!”

In a way, Gargoranath was not incorrect- he wouldn't speak again, but he did not realize this as a storm of crossbow bolts tore through the sky and into his wings.

In the midst of combat, the villain watches in terror as the hero swallows an entire roast chicken, two cheese wheels, and a whole watermelon at once.

[myers-meadow]

Michael Myers x ofc/you

Title: Care for me, part 2.

Part 1 is here.

Part 3 is here.

Part 4 is here.

Part 5 (final) is here.

Warnings: therapy, obsessive behaviour. References to past murder. Obsessive behaviour increases in this part. Some possible dubcon touching near the end (id rather be safe than sorry with warnings).

Contents: Rob Zombie's Michael Myers in Smith's Grove meets a new therapist with unconventional ideas. Michael x you/ Michael x ofc. 'You' have a name, since i find y/n somewhat awkward for longer fics.

I am also proud to say that this fic is heavily inspired by Michel Foucault's ideas on power difference and how this comes into play in the anti-psychiatry theories. Also: 80s fashion. I'd love to have feedback on this.

“Marion,” he started, before you even properly reached the entrance. “I heard there was some sort of mishap last week, the guards reported it. What happened?”

“Ah, it was nothing,” you shook your head. “The door fell shut and I didn’t want to interrupt the session too much.”

“They also said you walked out right after, that you were inside for less than half an hour,” his tone was sharp.

You dared a look at Loomis, while both walking through the corridors. His expression softened at seeing your face. “I just realized how intimidating Michael could be. And… the drawings. You consider me unconventional, but I don’t know what to do with– with that.”

“Ah, I see, you’re certainly not the first to think that.”

You arrived in Michael’s corridor. “Nothing to do but continue the sessions. To see what will happen.”

Dr. Loomis waved at Michael as the guards opened the door. You stepped in, leaving the doctor to walk away.

“Good morning again,” you started. The amount of drawings on the wall had increased. In some you could recognize yourself. Some were even more experimental than you had seen the time before. “How have you been?”

No answer. Michael was sitting by his desk, so you took a seat in the other chair. They were not fastened to the ground, but were heavy and awkward to move around, and it lead to the two of you sitting closer than you anticipated. Perhaps it was because of the size of him, how wide the span of his legs were. You never noticed when sitting next to Loomis. A small tremble in your hand as you shrugged off your blazer and pushed it over the back of the chair. You leant an elbow on the desk, angled towards your patient.

“Last time was rather interesting as far as therapy sessions go,” you said, after taking him in for a while. “So, I would like to discuss some more theory today. The relationship between therapist and patient is a very interesting one. The therapist is the face of the institution of psychiatry, and therefore holds the reigns. Dr. Loomis carries responsibility for you, and he is the one with the power to sign off on your release. This dynamic… The doctor has power over the patient, and this power is what can be abused.”

You trailed off, gaze no longer on Michael. The drawings scattered on the desk were making your head swim.

The chair creaked, Michael reached for a sheet of paper, searching through them with slow movements. At that point you barely cared if he was listening to you or not, you were just glad to be out from his suffocating gaze.

So you continued, speaking slowly, measuring each word: “However, as we saw last time, I have no power over you. Rather the opposite, although that is not what is the point of this session. However flattered I may feel that you seem to have taken our sessions well, please remember that I am still, technically, in a position of power over you.”

You were interrupted when the man placed a drawing in your lap. Your favourite flower. The one you had drawn time and time again, using many different mediums.

The seriousness from before was broken, instead you let out a breathy chuckle. You looked up at him. “That’s very sweet. A cornflower. Did you learn this from my journal? Impressive.”

You attempted to hand it back, thinking he was merely showing it to you but he placed it back in your hands. “Thank you. I’ll put it on the fridge when I get home.”

You did not notice the eyes that followed you on your way out.

.・*・.・*・.・*・.・*・.

October 18th. In the late afternoon, Michael was once again pulled out of his cell. The destination was clearer to him then. And it was the strangest feeling to know who to expect at the table, waiting for him.

The procedure was the same as before, although you did not stop the guards from attaching his bonds to the table.

“Happy birthday,” you said, smiling pleasantly. “This is an even more informal visit, but I thought I should because it’s your birthday. Here.”

You slid a large yet thin package over the table, stacked on top was another thin but much smaller present, and bend down to grab a bouquet of flowers. It had sunflowers, cornflowers, some greens, some baby’s breath and a few white daisies. After a loaded moment of sitting opposite one another silently, his chains rattled. Slowly, he unwrapped the first present, not caring for the wrapping paper and tearing at it almost clumsily.

A sketchbook. Think pages, textured and pleasantly bright paper.

“Thought the size would… fit you better,” you said.

He flipped open the cover and touched the paper. A nod and the rattling of chains was all you received as thanks, but that was good enough. The second one: a pack of different pencils.

You took one of the pencils, pressing it to the paper to show the difference between them. “This one is very hard, and this one is much softer. The harder ones are better for sketching, since they look cleaner I think. The softer seems less saturated, but because of the texture, very useful. My dad always used to use one of these middle ones for everything, but I thought having a few to try out would be fun.”

While at home, Monday 22nd of October, a loud ringing interrupted your evening. You are slow to pick up the phone.

“Marion, yes, hi, this is Samuel,” the voice on the other end of the line sounds hurried.

“Is anything wrong?”

“Well, not really, but this morning I saw some more of Michael’s drawings and…” his voice trailed off, before he cleared his throat and continued. “I am afraid it is no longer in your best interest to continue seeing Michael as your patient.”

“What do you mean? His drawings?”

“I fear he has grown unfittingly attached to you. Even though he seems to be more open and responsive, I worry that this change in his behaviour has more facets that we cannot see yet.”

“So, what you are saying is that he is dangerous? We knew this from the start. Is it not worth pushing through, especially since a good decade and a half of therapy has not done anything to help him?” even if your words sounded confident, doubt was gnawing at your chest.

“Marion, with all respect, but no. This is not a risk I am willing to take. You have not known him as I have.”

“I could say the same,” you shot back, then thinking it over more. “But I trust your judgement, Samuel.”

The doctor let out a sigh. “Thank you. I would not want anyone else to get hurt.”

“One last thing,” you said, “could I perhaps meet with him a last time to say goodbye? I fear it would cause more issues if the connection was torn away without proper closure.”

“Yes, very well. I will supervise the visit then. Perhaps Thursday? I have a meeting tomorrow during the normal hours.

“Alright, see you then.”

.・*・.・*・.・*・.・*・.

It was Thursday in the blink of an eye. You had indeed put the drawing of the cornflower on the fridge, and both endearment and restlessness swirled in your stomach as you opened the fridge for your regular oatmeal breakfast. During the drive over to Smith’s Grove, you were too nervous to put on music. However trivial it may seem, you could not forget your art journal, which you would prefer to have back. That would be a bad idea to bring up to Loomis, so you resigned to just leaving it with Michael.

Dr. Loomis once again awaited you, smoking by the entrance. Mostly in silence you walked to your destination.

“Good morning, Michael,” greeted Loomis. Both of you sat down. The patient was on his cot, as usual, staring daggers at you.

“Hello,” you start, “sorry I wasn’t there on Tuesday, it was not intended, but Dr. Loomis called me the night before to let me know he thinks it’s best to end our sessions. Whenever he needs a second opinion or someone to talk to about unconventional treatment methods, he knows where to find me. ”

For Michael, the days leading up to that last meeting in the sanatorium had been different as well. The guards who had first spotted the plethora of drawings of you had not let up their bullying. Eventually, under orders of Loomis, they had taken most of the ones that he put up on the walls down, leering at him all the while.

“Does Mikey have a little crush?” they laughed. “Better forget about her, she won’t fall for a guy like you. Not with that ugly mug.”

The other one piped in, with a challenging stare at the killer, “What if we were to throw these out, huh? Ruin that precious therapist of yours, what would you do then?”

Michael only raised his head when he heard the tearing of paper. They were lucky his patience was inhuman.

.・*・.・*・.・*・.・*・.

A few days go by without anything of note. Dr. Loomis made you complete paperwork, and after that, you debate whether to visit Michael informally. Just perhaps to get your journal back. Eventually you headed to your car instead, to go home, to clear your head. The drawing he made of you haunted you, your feelings incoherent.

Halloween loomed ever closer. Preparations go smoothly, except that you kept eating the candy intended for trick or treaters. Your mum sent you some wintery snacks from back home, and despite your best efforts to make them last, they didn't.

.・*・.・*・.・*・.・*・.

On the 30th, a loud ringing throughout the living room. You answered the phone.

“Marion, it’s happened! He’s out!” yelled Dr. Loomis, out of breath.

“Samuel, calm down, what is going on? Who is out?”

At that moment, heavy footfalls echoed through the hall. You stare at the open door. A large figure stepped into the living room.

“It’s Michael, he’s escaped. He killed the guards.”

You made eye contact through the mask, noticing the knife in his hand and his mechanic overall.

“That’s bad news,” you say, voice flat, hoping that if you kept staring at him, he wouldn't move closer. “Have you called the police yet?”

“We did. I just- I worry about you, especially considering his earlier… attachment. Stay safe, and call me when you see anything suspicious.”

“Alright, I’ll let him know you called,” and with a glance at the knife, “if I see him. Bye, Samuel.”

You let out a sigh after putting the phone back on the receiver. “Michael, I didn’t expect to see you here, is there something you’d like; tea, something sweet? Are you are exited for Halloween?”

He simply stood there, only taking a smaller step inside the living room. You pointed him to the couch, babbling on. “Have a seat, I’ll put the kettle on.”

You busied yourself in the kitchen, putting water to boil, getting teacups, choosing a tea, putting some cookies and other snacks on a plate. Bringing those to living room, before returning to make the tea and taking that over as well. You moved past the figure on the couch to the chair, but a hand caught your arm. You looked back at him. His intentions soon became clear when he pulled you to the couch, there was some strength behind his grip. So you sat down, tucking your legs underneath you, to have some extra height, some extra space between your organs and his knife. Speaking of the knife, he put it down next to the cookies.

With slow movements, he let go of your arm. He reached inside a pocket, then he handed your journal to you, eyes never leaving yours. Something fluttered in your chest.

“You remembered,” you said, allowing a smile, “thank you. Have you come all that way to give it back?”

That did not seem to be all, as he nudged the book once. Without thinking, you opened it, a page fell open somewhere in the middle. It was one of your original nudes, it had a pairing. The face of the male was crudely scratched out. You leafed through. He had provided commentary on some pages, most things were practical, about the types of pencils used, or on perspective. The English names of the flowers. Then the pages you barely remembered were empty when you gave it – a bad habit of never finishing a notebook. He had filled them. There was the bouquet of flowers you had given him on his birthday. The next one was you, sitting in his cell, details of the masks on the wall behind you visible. You stole a glance at Michael, who sat so closely next to you that you could feel the warmth from his tights radiating to yours.

Another page, that was you alright, pinned on a bed, hair spread out on the pillow, hand around your throat, eyes shut, lips parted. Something prickled hot and uncomfortably on your cheeks. Fingers trembled as you turned the page, too nervous to meet his gaze. The first page was fine, just studies of his own face, in several masks, and of cornflowers, very small. But the right page… You, with thick, dirty fingers in your mouth, once again a hand on your neck, but lower this time, almost on your chest. A much smaller hand, yours, held the larger one. Scribbles next to the drawings, but you pressed a hand to your face and snapped the journal closed.

A hand landed on your thigh.

“Is this how it ends? Have you come to murder me?” you asked, even though you knew that wasn’t the case. The tremble in your voice was real, though. Only then did you meet his gaze, having to loop up despite him sitting down. There was that same intensity to him that you remember from the time he shut the cell door. The same warmth too.

His hand on your wrist, pressing hard. He took the book from you, opened it again, on the last page you saw. He tapped the words. Dr. Loomis would have a field day with his communicative behaviour.

‘Look at me, I want to see her, see into her, show her into me’, underneath the drawing: ‘as a monster I am, so as a monster I will devour’.

You raised your head, furrowed brow, opening your mouth to say something, but in an instant he pulled you closer, into his chest. You braced yourself with hands on his shoulders.

“Michael,” you had intended it as a warning, but it came out as a breathy gasp. His hand on your back, the other on the back of your neck. You could smell the glue of his paper mache mask. The fabric of the coveralls was rough. You settled on his lap, a leg on either side. The heat was not just where he touched you, it was also in the pit of your belly, something primal. Michael traced a bloody finger over your face, from lips to the curve of your nose, over your eyebrows, cheeks and back to your lips.

“I’m afraid that if I let you devour me, there will be nothing left,” you whisper, swallowing thickly. In his eyes shone a promise. You shift your posture, leaning back and attempting to stand up, but he prevents it. The hand moves to your neck, squeezing softly, but you whimper as if it hurts. A warning?

The warmth of his body was not all softness, as something pressed against your pubic bone. A hand pulled your blouse from your skirt, undoing buttons with filthy fingers. The response to such hot contact, his hand on your throat, on your chest, was almost instant. Feeling his breath on you lips. The blood flaked of his fingers, instead fell in your blouse. There was no disgust, strangely, only desire and short gasps from you as he kneaded your breasts. It was only instinct to move your hips. Only instinct to imagine how good he would feel-

The doorbell rings. Persistent knocking on the wood of the front door. “Miss, are you in here? Police.”

He let go, and you got up, hurried to the front door and opened it.

“Hey, is there something wrong?” you ask, when you stare in the faces of two officers, both women.

“Dr. Loomis gave us a call, said he was worried about your safety, so we were just checking in,” said one of them with a friendly smile.

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you. I’m alright, I haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary.”

“Alright, sorry to bother you, have a nice day, ma’am.”

And with that, they left. When you returned to the living room, there was no trace of Michael, but many of the cookies you put out were missing.

[aita-verytired]

Hey, it is I, the anon planning sleepovers in the living room. Saw some questions and such, so I figured I'd answer some.

Myself, A, and B are all legal adults. Since it came up, I'm the oldest, followed by A, then by B, so it goes 24, 22, 20, then C who is 13 and juuust starting puberty. He hasn't even gotten to voice cracking yet, he's still in "my proportions look like a pubescent puppy with big ol' paws" mode. He is, however, taller than me and has been for months now, and I will forever make a stink about it <3 it should be illegal to be roughly half my age and already significantly taller than me <3

Since submitting this, I have confirmed that the Issue™ has been brought up to B. He just got pissed and slunk off to the shared bedroom. He has not made any concerted efforts to dial it back in the following weeks.

Why don't A and B share a room instead of B and C? Well, you see, A was diagnosed with Aspberger's at a young age. (Our parents (mid-to-late 50s, if it matters) are always very insistent that it's specified that he has Aspberger's, not just autism in general, when the opportunity to be specific comes up at all, even in the year of our Lord 2023. it's the autism speaks brainrot i think) This means that those of us who were diagnosed with some form of ADHD (myself and B) or nothing at all (C, who has not been officially tested for it yet to my knowledge) do not get away with nearly the amount of stuff A does, and A gets allowances to do things like "snarl threats at dishware that would be absolutely terrifying to overhear in reference to another human being" because he's "wired differently." Even though we're. we're all "wired differently" in this house. we all have different needs can we please stop catering to "Ideal Children™" and "A, who is Different but we Will Love Him Despite This (Or Else)" and acting surprised when treating us as A Monolith and The Other doesn't pan out please please please-

It also means that a massive rift grew between A and the rest of us "kids" and it shows no signs of stopping. A's an asshole for other reasons that aren't really relevant to The Sleepoverening, but I've had to tell B to stop making "jokes" about not saving any snacks/non-food treats for A or leaving A behind numerous times. I'm pretty sure there would be several fights/snide arguments a week if they had to keep bunking together without C there as a buffer who deserves better than being a buffer.

(Sidebar- I've noticed several symptoms in myself that, through serious research and not just a few Google searches, have shown me that I'm probably AuDHD, but since it was never officially diagnosed, I must always defer to A in things like "saving safe foods we both enjoy when we're running low" because Those Are A's Safe Foods, Why Can't You Just Eat Something Else? Remember how I said I have a separate room for gender reasons? My percieved gender regularly has autistic members go undiagnosed. I'm also 95% sure C is ADHD in some manner as well, in a "recognition of the Self in the Other" kind of way, but, again, no official diagnosis means any issues he has with school are Clearly His Own Conscious Decisions. Or, in this one specific case, a side effect of B keeping him up at night.)

Why don't our parents get involved instead of leaving us to our own devices? Well, again, three of us are legal adults, and then the fourth is Mature For His Age™. Allegedly, we should be able to figure it out without going to our parents like little children every night. Clearly, this is Not Working, but it Should Be, so We need to Make It Work.

Why do I fear the wrath of B? Well, I've had A chuck a heavy Thomas the Tank Engine suspension bridge clear across a hallway directly at my head before and then claim I attacked him (though this was years ago) and I've seen B punch multiple walls/fridges over the years with enough force to leave rather large dents, so I'm just assuming I have some kind of internal hangup over incurring the wrath of younger brothers. Don't particularly want to get Threatened Like They Do In The Movies ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I'm just trying to work around the cowardice at this point.

Why don't I just tell B to his face to quit this BS, screw the consequences? Easy- he'd escalate it into a loud-ish argument, our dad would wake up, and we would all get yelled at for…I dunno. Dad would figure out a reason to yell at us. Maybe he'd get pissed at me and B for ruining his chances at a good night's sleep (and myself again for not Being The Bigger Person All The Time) and miss the irony- he's good at missing irony irl. He may also put words in our mouths and get angry over those. Regardless, I don't wanna put C through that. Dad's yelling is still terrifying to me as a 24yo, even when you're not the target, and it sure wasn't any more fun when I was C's age.

Why can't C just say no? Well, I have no place to guess what goes on behind closed doors, as I'm told I am a bit of a known catastrophizer, but I have witnessed scenarios where B "asks" C to hang out with him, C either declines or doesn't respond fast enough, and B's voice just gets all low and threatening for a split second as he "asks" again, which gets C to follow him. I'm pretty sure this originated when C was still an infant, when we would all go "ok now say this word!" to help teach him to speak. It was adorable when C was 1, 2, and even 3 and 4 years old. It stopped being adorable several years ago, and it became worrying (to me, at least) when it started turning into B orchestrating whole conversations via "ok now say-"ing C. Then again A did the same to me when we were little so maybe I'm just connecting dots where there are none.

This isn't necessarily me answering a question, but…dang, I'm seeing multiple people talking about being close with their siblings. Plural. Yall don't just rally around the ideal of your youngest as the one (1) thing you can all agree on and would probably kill and die for, possibly to the detriment of those around you (including your youngest)? Can't relate, but God I wish I did. This family's dynamics honestly feel like a dumpster fire sometimes.

Anyway, with the response I've seen to this, I think I'm just gonna tell Dad to suck it if he sees me and C sleeping in the living room one of these days. If he doesn't want me going to Looney-Tunes levels of planning just so me and C can sleep, then he can be the one to get on B's case instead of foisting it off on me and expecting everyone to be fine with it.

B might still escalate to an arguing match and draw in Dad's ire if I try, though. Hopefully I'll be successful. Fingers crossed.

WIBTA for pulling my younger brother from his bedroom for "sleepovers" in the living room in the middle of the night?

I hate how clickbaity that is, but it really is the most succinct way I can try to paraphrase this. I have submitted here before for similar reasons, so this setup may or may not sound vaguely familiar, but this is pretty self-contained as a separate issue, I think. Quick preface- I am one of four siblings. Ages aren't particularly important for this, save for the fact that the oldest three are within a handful of years of each other, while our youngest is several years our junior. I was 11 when he was born, for reference. We'll call him C, and the two middle brothers A and B.

We somewhat recently (within the past few years) moved to a new house with a few more rooms, which shook up our previous sleeping arrangements. Now, instead of A, B, and C sharing the same room while I had my own for gender-related reasons, A gets his own space while B and C continue sharing a room. This means that my room no longer immediately across the hall from all three. A has a bit of a history of being loud in the middle of the night and getting mad when others ask, request, or tell him to be quiet, so this was a relief.

However, my new room is still just a few feet away from B and C, and now B is doing loud enough things to keep me awake- mainly playing video games and either not using headphones, constantly humming loudly along to the music playing, or saying something about the game. As a "bonus," he insists that C has to watch him play the entire time.

Even though this runs well into the early hours of the morning most nights.

And C still has early-morning school to worry about.

Previously, I'd just resigned myself to shutting up, jamming earplugs in my ears each night, and dealing with whatever weirdness is making one of my ears painfully itchy on a daily basis as a result. However, recently our parents started giving C flak for staying up late. They also made sure we knew they wanted B to stop keeping him up, but I'm not sure B actually knows or cares.

C and I did a bit of kvetching about unrelated topics today, this subject came up, C told me he doesn't enjoy being kept up that late either, and I had the idea that, should midnight come and go without B quieting down, I would interrupt whatever they're doing and "ask" C if he wanted to come sleep in the living room with me. I'm putting "ask" in quotations because I voiced this idea almost immediately, and C agreed this would be helpful just as quickly; me asking would serve solely as a way to have me interject into whatever B's doing and give C a quick way out.

At the same time, B can get touchy if he thinks C is brushing him off or I'm "butting in." I mean, C and I kinda will be doing both those things if we wind up needing to do this, but B seems intent on monopolizing as much of C's time and actions as he can get away with. I don't really think they need to fully stop interacting, but maybe B needs some time to himself instead of constantly wringing attention out of the baby of the family.

Then again, B is an adult. Like, legally. He'll be able to drink in a few months. He doesn't need to act like I'm interrupting his playtime with his favorite action figure whenever I remind him C isn't required to pay attention to him 24/7.

Idk. As far as sleeping arrangements in the living room would go, there's enough furniture to go around. I'm just not entirely sure if butting in would be an asshole move. Justified? Almost certainly, I think. An asshole move? That, I don't know. Whatever the case, I'm hoping these things work out quickly enough that we don't lose much more sleep. We're tired of finally managing to get to sleep at 3 AM.

What are these acronyms?

[maatryoshkaa]

between the lines | lee minho

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐃𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐋 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒!𝐀𝐔

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

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

✑ PAIRING: student librarian!minho x bookworm!reader

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

✑ WORD COUNT: 9.7k

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

Ah, Valentine’s Day.

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

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

“Hey, watch ou—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, sure. Just my rotten luck.”

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

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

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

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

Talk about a reality check.

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

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

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

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

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

“You said he’d be in here!”

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

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

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

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May…’

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

“The library’s closing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hana’s not my girlfriend.”

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

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

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

“Oh, y/n! One more thing.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Looking for someone?”

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

“I—sorry?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I help you with anything?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s one of my favourite lines.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Give me my book back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N—”

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

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

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

“Would you be happy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a very good poem.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wh-wha—”

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

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

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

“Then why didn’t you—”

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

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

“'Again?'”

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

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

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

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

“A corner store card. With—”

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

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

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

“Shut up, Lee Minho, oh my g—”

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

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

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

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

“Wh—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit, ‘sung—did you kill somebody?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can it be a happy ending?”

[shmaptainwrites]

Conserving Warmth [Aaron Hotchner]

Pairings: Aaron Hotchner x fem!Reader

Characters: Aaron Hotchner, Derek Morgan, Emily Prentiss, Jennifer "JJ" Jareau, David Rossi, Spencer Reid, Penelope Garcia

Words: 1.6K

Summary: When the power goes out in the small hotel the team is staying in middle of nowhere Alaska you convince Hotch that the best way to stay warm involves one bed and lots of cuddles

Warnings: none :)

A/N: These were two blurb requests I got kind of combined to make this cute short fic that I've always wanted to write so I hope you all enjoy it! Note: this takes place in S5 E21: Exit Wounds

GIF belongs to @dudeitiskarev photos from Pinterest, header created by me

“There are not enough rooms for all of us so we're going to have to double up,” Hotch explained, “And it doesn’t look like the power’s going to come back on until morning so bundle up for the night,”

“Alright, but I am not sharing a room with him,” Derek teasingly pointed to Spencer.

“Then I call you,” Penelope grabbed Derek’s arm and you laughed at their shenanigans. Everyone had seemed to easily pair off grabbing their keys and heading off, leaving you and Hotch with the last key.

“At least there are two beds,” you tried to joke with him and he nodded his head with a small smile.

“Come on, we should probably get some sleep,” he gently placed a hand on your back, leading you towards the rooms upstairs.

It wasn’t your first time sharing a room with Hotch. Oftentimes when there wasn’t enough space you would be the two to volunteer to share a space and take one for the team. As a result, you had developed a routine between you both, first, he’d take the washroom and get ready while you used the room space to do the same. He’d always check-in and make sure you were decent before coming back out and occasionally you would discuss some points of the case before bed to see if any last revelations came to you.

This time was a little different, however, because thanks to the cold Alaskan air and the fact that the power was out, no amount of tossing and turning could warm either of you up.

Hotch could hear your teeth chatter slightly as you hugged yourself, trying to conserve whatever warmth you had. He could only take hearing you so uncomfortable for so long so he grabbed the flashlight next to the bedside lamp and flicked it on, searching for his go-bag.

“Hotch what are you doing?” you asked, sitting up and observing him as he dug through his bag. Finding the things he was looking for he came towards you pointing to your legs, curled under the blankets.

“Give me your feet,”

“Give you my what? Excuse me?”

Hotch showed you the large wool socks in his hand and you understood what he was referring to now, sliding your feet out from under the blankets and letting him bend down in the space between both your beds. He slipped the socks on your bare feet with the flashlight in his mouth, and then he grabbed a sweater lying on his bed, helping you slide it on over your pyjama top.

“Thanks,” you said quietly.

“Don’t mention it,” he shrugged.

“Hey Hotch?” you said before he turned around to go back to his bed.

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you just stay here,” you patted the bed you were sitting on. “The power won’t be back until morning and it’s freezing. We can conserve heat if we stay together,”

“I-I mean, I guess we could,” you could see him visibly swallow. “Um, are you sure though?”

“Seems like a logical next step in our room sharing relationship,” you joked a little and you could have sworn you saw his cheeks go red under the warm hue of the flashlight, or was that just the cold?

You moved back to the other side of the bed, freeing up the side closest to him so that he could slide in under the blankets. He moved around a little to get comfortable and once he was settled you came in closer to him, taking his arm and wrapping it over your body, coaxing him to hold you tighter and closer while you pulled the blankets up more.

“Warmer?” you asked.

“Mhmm,” he nodded, his nose practically buried in your hair. You could feel his heart practically beating out of his chest and you couldn’t help but laugh a bit.

“Hotch your heart’s beating 100 miles a minute. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he said, but it was rather unconvincing.

“Well then this is a lot nicer than what we used to do,” you hummed, basking in the warmth radiating off him.

“You’re comfortable?” he asked.

“Very, you know there’s a bit of a running bet on who nicer to spend the night with, you or Derek and I think I have to say you win,”

“You slept with Derek?!” Hotch sounded more alarmed than you had ever heard him and it made you throw your head back in laughter.

“Not like that,” you rolled your eyes. “We had to share a room on a case once too,”

“O-Oh,” he stammered and your eyes went wide while you lifted your head to look up at him.

“Oh my God, Hotch were you jealous?” you asked.

“Well I-I don’t know if-this is a highly inappropriate conversation to be having,” he tried to save himself, but it was painfully obvious that you were right.

“Aaron you were jealous, admit it,” you pressed and pushed yourself up further on the bed, your head now laying on the same pillow as his.

His eyes drifted away from you for a moment before finally settling on looking down at the sheets.

“(Y/N), if I say what I want to say it’s going to change things, and I don’t want them to,” he said quietly.

“You don’t?” you asked softly.

“Well… I do, but not in the way that this will change them,”

You lifted your hand slightly, your cold fingers coming to gently touch his cheek, coaxing him to look up at you.

“You won’t know if you don’t say anything,” you shared. “Come on, try me,”

He still looked hesitant and didn’t say anything, so your fingers held onto his face more firmly before leaning in and pressing a strong and assured kiss to his lips. His hands slipped to your waist, pulling you in and turning around so you were on top of him.

When you finally broke apart, slightly breathless, you asked,

“How about now?”

“I was jealous,” he finally admitted. “But not just because I wanted that. I-I’ve wanted you, all of you for a while now,”

“Well, I’m glad the feeling’s mutual,” you smiled, but a yawn escaped past your lips.

“We should sleep, talking can wait until morning,”

You nodded your head and let it rest against his chest, noticed how his beating heart still hadn’t steadied completely, but nevertheless, provided enough comfort for you to fall right asleep.

—

The next morning there was no alarm to wake either of you up so Derek had decided it would be a good idea for that to be his job, stealing an extra key from downstairs and barging into your room only to find you and Hotch snuggled under a large pile of blankets, fast asleep.

Before he woke you up he took some pictures for proof then called everyone else in so they could see the embarrassment on both your faces once you realized that you’d been caught.

“Hey sleepyheads,” Derek chuckled, “Time to wake up,”

“Hotch, turn off your alarm,” you groaned tiredly, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

“That’s not-,” Hotch yawned and opened his eyes, mouth staying agape. “My alarm. (Y/N) get up,” he nudged you quickly and you awoke to find literally the entire BAU team inside your room with cheeky knowing smirks on their faces.

“Would you believe me if I said we did it because we were cold?” you asked and JJ snorted.

“I believe it started that way,” Emily nodded. “But yeah definitely didn’t end like that,”

“You guys suck,” you whined, throwing a pillow at them feeling a familiar warm sensation coming to your cheek and ears.

“Come on lovebirds, we’ve got work to do!” Dave chorused as they all left your room so you could get ready.

“God, I cannot wait to go home,” you laughed a little looking over at Aaron who seemed to raise his eyebrows in agreement with you, but nevertheless, got out of bed and walked over to your side, pressing a sweet and gentle kiss to your lips.

“Don’t worry we’ll be back before you know it,”

And he was right, you only stayed there one more night before flying back home, but somehow on the way home, the teasing got worse.

“If someone makes one more comment I will literally explode,” you whispered under your breath, looking discreetly over at Hotch who was sitting next to you.

“Hey (Y/N)-,” Spencer started, but you stopped him, putting your finger up.

“Fine, go ahead make a comment,” you said, “Is this what you want?” you asked turning over to Hotch and before he could ask what you were going to do you kissed him in front of everyone else. “Is that what you wanted, Spence?”

“I-I was just going to ask if you wanted a coffee,” he said while trying to hold back a bit of a chuckle while the rest of the team went berserk. You swore quietly under your breath then regained your composure before sitting up straighter in your seat and nodding your head.

“Yeah, coffee would be great Spence,” you said quietly while Derek patted you on the shoulder.

“You lasted two days (N/N), that’s a record,” JJ teased you and you just rolled your eyes.

“Whatever Jayje, I’d just be careful cause I am kind of going out on a date with all your guys’ boss and I think it’s fair to say he likes me enough to give you all extra paperwork,”

“She’s not wrong,” Hotch added quietly while flipping through his book and you put out your hand for him to high five which he did. Maybe the teasing wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Comments and reblogs are very much appreciated!

[storiesforallfandoms]

oh captain ~ jack sparrow;pirates of the caribbean

word count: 2488

request?: yes!

“Can you do a Captain Jack Sparrow smut where the reader has a kink of calling Jack her captain”

description: in which she loves to call him her captain, even in the most intimate of situations

pairing: jack sparrow x female!reader

warnings: swearing, smut

masterlist

It all started as a joke.

I came aboard the Black Pearl in search of my sister, Elizabeth Swann, and her secret lover, Will Turner. It was no secret that they were travelling with notorious Captain Jack Sparrow and, although my parents did not exactly like Will Turner, they had sent me as a way to tell Elizabeth that they were giving her their blessing to marry Will.

Of course, the moment I - a single, young maiden that had often been described as “beautiful” by my suitors - stepped on to the ship, the captain himself couldn’t keep his eyes off of me. There was many a moment in which Elizabeth had to actually tell Jack that he was being too forward or too crass with me. I liked to play along with his games as well and would tease him back. My favorite way of teasing him was to call him “Captain” in a sarcastic manner.

The first time I said it was in response to Jack’s very bossy tone as he told Elizabeth and I to do something. “Oh, of course, Captain.”

I could see a fire light in his eyes even then as he looked at me. “What did you say?”

“Well, you insist that we on the boat here refer to you as your supposed title,” I had told him. “I was just saying it. I thought you would like that.”

“The way you said it,” he pointed out. “It wasn’t very...crewman like.”

“Oh, my apologies, Captain.”

The fire ignited in his eyes again, but he decided to leave it be this time and to go on to yell commands at his other crewmates.

That’s how it all started. It was just a joke, a way to poke fun at Jack without being too harsh. I used the nickname almost every time I saw him, and almost every time I could see a look on his face that was hard to understand.

That was, until I found myself bent over his desk moaning the original teasing nickname repeatedly.

I never expected to find myself falling for Captain Jack Sparrow. Elizabeth had told me many a story about his attempts at courting beautiful maidens, including herself despite her love for Will. The stories led me to believing that Jack was just a man who wanted to use then leave a woman. I wrote him off as nothing more than a scoundrel, a pirate captain. Oh, what a fool I was.

No one on the ship knew of our love affair, especially not Elizabeth. I loved my sister dearly and I knew she would never judge me for who I had fallen in love with, however I also knew she couldn’t keep a secret from our parents for the life of her, and the last thing I needed was to break my parents hearts by telling them that their youngest daughter had fallen in love with a pirate.

That’s why I continued to use the teasing nickname in such fashion in front of my sister, but every time I used it, I could see that spark of desire in Jack’s eyes.

There was one day that we were on course for some sort of treasure that Jack was dying to find.

“It’s been lost for hundreds of years,” he was explaining to Will. Elizabeth and I were trying to help some of the crewmen and overheard the conversation that both men were refusing to tell us. “Wealth and riches beyond your wildest dreams. You could buy over Elizabeth’s parents with that sort of money.”

“I don’t think anything could buy over Elizabeth’s parents at this rate,” Will joked. “But do you really believe it to be truth? I’ve heard it’s nothing but a - ”

“A pirate’s tale,” Jack finished. “A way to lead pirates to their deaths? I’ve heard those stories, too. But there’s only one way to find out.”

“Mad man is going to get us killed,” Elizabeth whispered to me. “He only cares for the riches he may get, he doesn’t think of the countless lives he’s risking.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” I responded. “Anything that will shower him in gold and recognition is his top priority.”

“What are you two talking about down there?” Jack called from his perch at the steering wheel.

Elizabeth and I shared a teasing glance before Elizabeth responded, “Just about how smart you are, my dear captain! This journey can only go right!”

Jack raised an eyebrow at the obvious sarcasm in Elizabeth’s voice before his eyes landed on me.

“We were discussing how much recognition you will get once you find this totally real treasure you’re looking for,” I said. I paused a moment before giving Jack a brief smirk as I added, “Captain.”

He shuffled a little, trying to make his lust seem like he was just annoyed with me and Elizabeth. I couldn’t help but smirk triumphantly at him before turning back to Elizabeth, who was also giggling.

“You both doubt me,” he finally said after a long stretch of silence, “but I’ll show you both, and this whole boat, that I am right and this treasure is real.”

He came down from his perch and walked into the room that was designated as “his office”, his eyes meeting mine for a split moment. “I’m going to study the map for some time, please do not disturb me.”

What he really meant was, No one else come disturb me, I will be fucking (Y/N)’s brains out.

I felt myself becoming tingly between my legs, a regular sensation that Jack was able to get out of me. I tried to keep a light look on my face, but it was hard to do so when all I wanted was to follow him into that room.

“You two should be kinder to him,” Will said, although he, too, was laughing. “He’s been kind enough to let us travel with him.”

“After trying to get under mine and (Y/N)’s skirts for a few months,” Elizabeth added. “He knows that we like him and that we are grateful for him. It’s just so easy to tease him sometimes.”

Tell me about it, I thought to myself.

“Maybe we should leave the captain alone to his mapping for a while,” Will said, wrapping an arm around Elizabeth’s waist. It was his only silent way of asking Elizabeth for what Jack was trying to get from me.

“Perhaps we should,” she responded and gave her husband to be a light kiss on his lips.

The two left without another word to me, which was alright by me. It meant that I didn’t have to make up an excuse as to why I was “disturbing” Jack when he asked me not to.

Once I was sure they were too busy with one another to notice me, I turned and raced for the door. I hastily did mine and Jack’s secret knock before shoving the door open. I was shocked to see that the room before me was empty - the desk where Jack usually sat waiting for me was empty, and there was almost no sight of him at all.

Before I could even consider why this had happened, the door slammed behind me and I felt someone take hold of my throat and shove me against the closed door. Jack’s lips met mine and I felt the familiar explosive feeling I had whenever we kissed. His hands were already roughly pulling at my skirt, trying to pull it up around my hips.

“Someone is impatient,” I breathed against his lips. “You told everyone not to disturb you, remember? You don’t have to be so fast and so rough.”

“But if I take you quickly once, I can take you again before anyone notices that we’re even gone.”

His dirty words ignited a fire in me. I giggled as he picked me up in his arms and laid me down on his desk. The poor thing had seen more of our action than any actual work that Jack had ever done. I was surprised that it was still standing after all this time.

I took hold of the back of Jack’s neck and pulled him in for another kiss. Our lips moved so perfectly with one another as his hands trailed up my bare legs, his cold rings leaving shivers where they trailed. I pulled at his pants, trying desperately to get them off. He chuckled against my lips, the vibrations running through my entire body.

“Who is the impatient one now?” he asked.

“Not like the great Captain to leave a girl waiting in her desire,” I teased, hoping the nickname would be used to my advantage.

Lucky for me, I knew that was the one thing that could break Jack. He roughly pulled at the strings around the back of my dress, causing it to loosen and fall off my body completely. Once my dress was a heap on the floor, Jack pushed me onto the desk so I was laying on my back. I watched as he undid his pants and pulled them down just far enough for his hard member to pop free. Just seeing how hard he was from the little amount of teasing we had been doing was enough to make me start dripping in anticipation.

I gasped as I felt him pushing himself into me. No matter how many times we had sex, I still continued to be shocked by how big he was. He made my eyes roll into the back of my head just by filling me with his hard cock.

His hand found my hair and he roughly pulled me up so my body was pressed against his. “What’s my name, love?”

“Captain,” I breathed, dying to move my hips against his to get some sort of friction between us. But I knew that would only result in him punishing me for being naughty.

My response earned me a few slow thrusts. I bit my lip as to not moan too loud, but it was hard to keep quiet during one of our rendezvous. They were often few and far between, leaving the two of us very pent up and needing of release when the time came.

“Say it again for me my pet,” he purred.

“Captain,” I moaned, wrapping my legs around his waist to pull him as closely as I could. “Oh, Captain.”

The grip he had on my hair tightened as he began to thrust into me more, now going at a quicker and more steady pace. I pressed my lips to his to try and muffle my moans, which were now starting to become loud enough for anyone who would be passing by to hear.

I moaned out the name a few more times, which led to me being laid back over the desk yet again with Jack leaning over me, his thrusts so rough now that the desk was being moved. I arched my back against him, trying to get him as far into me as he could go. One of his hands was gripping my thigh while the other was wrapped around my throat, pressing slightly against the sides every now and then, and causing me to feel lightheaded.

Jack was always able to hit a spot in me that made my brain turn to mush and my eyes roll back into my head. I could barley think straight when he was pounding that spot relentlessly inside of me, especially at that moment when the only thing I could feel was waves of pleasure rippling through my body.

I managed to pull my thoughts together enough to utter out a sentence, “I’m so close, Captain.”

“Let me feel you come undone around me, my pet,” he said. I could feel him twitching inside of me, indicating that he was close to finishing himself.

My fingers curled into the desk as I felt myself hitting my climax. My entire body seemed to curl in some way as I felt myself contracting around Jack. His hands slipped under my arched back, pulling my body up to press against him as he did his final thrusts and finished inside of me.

The aftermath of our love making rarely lasted long in fear of being caught. Jack held me for a short amount of time, kissing the top of my head and whispering sweet nothings into my ear, before he finally had to pull away from me and begin to redress himself. I pulled my dress back up.

“You mind tying me back up?” I asked him, turning around to present my still bare back to him.

He laced the strings through their proper holes and tied it tight enough that it would stay up, but not too tight to cause discomfort.

“Do you really think you’ll find that treasure you’re on route for?” I asked him once he was finished. “Do you think it’s real?”

“I choose to believe every treasure is real until proven otherwise,” he responded. “I know everyone on the ship thinks that I’m leading us to our deaths, but I truly believe there is something waiting for us at our destination.”

“Well, if you believe it then I believe you,” I said. “What do you plan on doing with your riches once you get them?”

“I’ll share them amongst the crew,” he started. “There’s supposedly enough to keep a dozen men from having to work for the rest of their lives, and I have just a little over a dozen men on this ship. What I keep for myself I’m going to use to get a better ship. The old Black Pearl is starting to see her end I’m afraid. And, with whatever is left, I intend to buy you a rock so big and so stunning that any royal woman would be jealous of it.”

He lifted my hand to his lips and gave my knuckles a soft kiss.

“You intend to marry me?” I asked him.

“Of course I do. Why do you seem shocked to hear that?”

I chuckled. “Well, the stories I’ve heard about the great Captain Jack Sparrow, none of them made it sound like he would ever settle down with a woman.”

Jack smiled and wrapped his arms around my waist, looking lovingly into my eyes. I could get lost staring into those beautiful eyes of his.

“A man must know when the right woman has come along,” he told me. “Especially a pirate. And the moment you stepped foot on my ship, I knew you were the right woman.”

“You sweet talker,” I said before pressing my lips to his. “When you do get me that ring, just know that I will say yes.”

“Of course, my love. And I cannot wait to have you to sail the seas with for the rest of my life.”

[ro-botany]

So I'm brushing up on my web dev lately. Learning how to use ES6 modules and stuff.

I was having trouble deciding on an effective organization scheme to keep all my modules in a row, so naturally I took to the internet to see if there were any common project structures folks use that I could try out. Either I'm bad at internet searches or there is shockingly little on the subject of file organization in javascript. I suspect a bit of both, because search engines keep getting worse, and because javascript is an old, haphazardly-constructed homunculus that offers approximately zero suggestions on what the hell to do with it. Unless you feel like learning one of the several heavy duty popular JS frameworks, which are complete overkill for my dinky little practice project anyway, so no thank you, I just want a leash for this beast.

Metaphor got away from me a bit. Anyway.

I clicked on one link to an article which promised a convenient way to organize one's javascript in a modular fashion. After all the time fruitlessly searching on github and duckduckgo, I was weary and desperately hopeful for something that actually seemed useful.

Friends, it was not helpful in the fucking slightest.

-----

The article title, which had thus far been partially cut off by the search engine and read "Advanced Code Organization Patterns", now revealed its subtitle in full:

"The Case For One File Per Function"

...Excusez moi?

A single function gets its own file? Every single file, One singular function?

I started to breathe a sigh of relief as I saw the writer start to explain the article title is a bit of a joke, right in paragraph 1. The sigh quickly turned into a disbelieving wheeze as they revealed that no, it's just the "advanced" part that's the joke. Their file organization scheme is actually QUITE simple.

The example they give is a small math module. Rather than, say, have a "math.js" file with functions for "add", "subtract", etc within it, the article writer insists that you should make a "math" FOLDER and have files "math/add.js", "math/subtract.js", and so on.

Now see... part of web dev is trying very hard to make page load times fast. We minify and compress our files to hell, for one thing, to minimize how many bytes of code your browser has to download and execute. And we also, generally, try to minimize the number of HTTP requests a page sends out, because HTTP requests take time.

I am, at this point, imagining a large web app trying to implement this absolutely bonkers organizational scheme. A handful of files for different purposes quickly becomes several dozen, even a hundred. Chaos reigns. Your browser fires off seven billion requests just to load the goddamn javascript for one page.

The author brings up several bullet points in favour of this madness, and at no point am I certain whether they're having a laugh or are actually serious.

--

Point 1: When you're unit testing functions, its so much easier to see what functions you're importing at a glance if there's just one function per file!

Counterpoint:

import { add } from "./utils/math.js"

You can't fool me, writer, I saw the article date. This was written last year. ES6 modules, destructured imports and all, are fully supported and have been for ages. What the hell are you talking about.

--

Point 2: It's easier to see when individual functions where changed in the commit history! Easier to make sure they all work!

...Ok, I do have to cede a bit of ground there. The commits WOULD be buttery smooth and easy to understand that way.

But you know what wouldn't be nice and easy? My screen real estate. My amount of time spent coding. If I have a module with like ten tightly related functions and I need to be working on them all at the same time, my IDE physically cannot fit all those tabs onto the screen comfortably. I can't have docs or other references on one side and code on the other anymore because of endless IDE tabs. I keep having to click different tabs to look at different functions instead of just... scrolling a bit or using Ctrl+F. Everything needs a zillion import statements. I am hypothetically exhausted and joyless.

You haven't made the dev process easier, you just moved the frustration from one place to another! And gave it a megaphone!

--

Point 3: It's SO much easier to figure out your codebase's organization scheme from the import statements alone! You can always tell exactly where each function is!

I REITERATE:

import { add } from "./utils/math.js"

Buddy. Pal. Why do you want to spend 50 http requests and 50x more characters in import statements loading your utility functions one by one so badly. There is no difference in import clarity.

--

It has been only a scant few paragraphs and already my eyebrows are helping each other into their space suits so they can safely shoot off my forehead and into the stratosphere.

But there is one small glimmer of hope that I will be able to convince them to stay with me: a heading which reads "Drawbacks". Surely this is where the author acknowledges how fucking bonkers this is. Surely this is where they bring up some of my same counterpoints, or even ones I haven't thought of. Hell, when I scroll a little I even start to see an example code block with a destructured import statement!

The glimmer fades. They are only doing this to show off that, well, your code linter will probably format a destructured import as multiple lines, and if it does, doing four imports from this hypothetical math module is A WHOLE LINE SHORTER than a multi-line destructured import for those same four functions!! ...Yeah, one line shorter and like 10x more characters, with little hope of minification helping you. Instead of blasting off, my eyebrows have now scrunched up as far down on my face as possible, as though trying to mine for reason. Lines aren't the POINT in javascript, its CHARACTERS. And you can just... configure your linter to not make it a multi-line import if you care about lines. What are you TALKING about.

And the crowning jewel. The grand finale to this steaming pile of batshit advice iced with a thick layer of arrogant phrasing and condescension.

This guy closes out the article saying that if you are doing OOP, and you find you are writing too many private methods in a class, it is a sign you should break some of that logic into another class to improve maintainability. And naturally, that means you break it out into more files and more import statements, for all the benefits his extra simple super obvious file org structure brings.

Break the private code from one class out into another class that anyone can just go and import.

Either you're referring to the concept of inheritance in the most inscrutable way possible, or encapsulation means nothing to you. If something is private that means no one else accesses it as a rule, I just. I don't know what the hell is happening anymore. But damn, bud, you sure did say it confidently.

--

To be clear, I am not actually mad about this. And if this organization scheme works for the person who wrote that article, great! I'm happy for them, genuinely.

I just also hope I never come within 50 feet of a code base like that because I cannot begin to describe what a nightmare to my workflow that shit would be.

Fuckin. One less line after a poorly configured linter run and twelve trillion files. Get outta here.

At least it confused me so much it buffer overflow'd my confusion and made me decide on a directory structure, finally.

Finding some real unhinged coding advice tonight

[lucky-clover-gazette]

For the Vio/Shadow prompts: how about something with either or both of them interacting with an animal? Like Shadow trying to make friends with a cat, or Vio introducing him to the horses at the castle, something like that.

I set out to write fluff and it became hurt/comfort again... still, hope you enjoy! Threw in the vidow head bonk just for you!

pinecone (1757 words, general audiences, vio x shadow)

They found the cat in the woods near their cottage. An impossibly small kitten with a brilliant tortoiseshell coat, injured leg, and big yellow eyes. The story told itself—most likely, it had been left behind by its mother and siblings. In wordless agreement, they promptly scooped up the kitten and brought it to Zelda. 

The princess was able to magically amputate the injured leg, leaving the kitten temporarily wobbly but in perfect health. She also determined the cat’s gender—a girl, like most tortoiseshells—and asked if Shadow and Vio had a name for her. They did not.

Zelda said that she and Green would contact Erune about finding the kitten a home, but requested that Shadow and Vio oversee her healing process in the meantime. Not quite ready to depart, Vio found himself frantically pulling cat reference books from the Hyrule Castle library’s shelves while Shadow cradled the kitten in his arms. Despite Vio’s apprehension, one look at the pair told him everything he needed to know. He made a list of all the things they’d need and told Zelda not to contact Erune. She didn’t seem surprised by this in the slightest.

read the full piece on ao3 or under the cut...

They found the cat in the woods near their cottage. An impossibly small kitten with a brilliant tortoiseshell coat, injured leg, and big yellow eyes. The story told itself—most likely, it had been left behind by its mother and siblings. In wordless agreement, they promptly scooped up the kitten and brought it to Zelda. 

The princess was able to magically amputate the injured leg, leaving the kitten temporarily wobbly but in perfect health. She also determined the cat’s gender—a girl, like most tortoiseshells—and asked if Shadow and Vio had a name for her. They did not.

Zelda said that she and Green would contact Erune about finding the kitten a home, but requested that Shadow and Vio oversee her healing process in the meantime. Not quite ready to depart, Vio found himself frantically pulling cat reference books from the Hyrule Castle library’s shelves while Shadow cradled the kitten in his arms. Despite Vio’s apprehension, one look at the pair told him everything he needed to know. He made a list of all the things they’d need and told Zelda not to contact Erune. She didn’t seem surprised by this in the slightest.

━━

Leaves crunched beneath their boots as they followed the tree-lined path home. 

“We should name her,” Vio said, trying not to make the physical strain evident in his voice. He carried a large box full of books and supplies while Shadow transported the kitten, who was so tiny that she fit in the front pocket of his flannel shirt. She seemed to be asleep, undoubtedly exhausted from her injury, abandonment, and subsequent magical healing. Vio shuddered to imagine what would have happened if they hadn’t found her.

“Probably,” Shadow answered, his voice uncharacteristically calm. While the day’s events had caused Vio a fair amount of stress, this cat seemed to be something of a missing piece for Shadow. Inevitable. Peace was not something Vio often saw in Shadow’s disposition, but it was palpable here. 

If the name was up to Vio, it would take weeks to decide. He’d search legends, dictionaries, and dead languages for the perfect word or words for this strange creature. He doubted there was a perfect answer, but if there was— 

“Pinecone,” Shadow said, glancing fondly down at the black and orange ears peeking from his pocket. “Let’s call her Pinecone.” 

Vio smiled. “Perfect.” 

━━

Pinecone wasn’t a kitten for very long. As Shadow and Vio went about their lives in the cottage, leaving occasionally to help heal the earth they once scorched, Pinecone quickly outgrew any reasonably-sized pocket. She became long and poised, three-legged but possessing the pure force of will to cause just as much chaos as she could with all four. 

Vio loved Pinecone very much, but it was obvious she and Shadow had a special connection. According to the literature, this was fairly common with cats—they found Their Person and held a certain amount of patience and affection for them exclusively. It made Vio think about Shadow in what felt like a past life, singling him out from the others and inviting him into his dark troubled world. Except this time, it was him and Shadow inviting Pinecone into the light. 

She didn’t seem traumatized, if that was something cats were even capable of being. Maybe she didn’t remember kittenhood, at this point so accustomed to her safe comfortable life in the cottage. Vio liked reading in her company, inviting her to curl up on his chest and even allowing her to partially obscure the pages. She seemed perfectly aware at all times that Vio would never move her from where she wanted to be, unless she wanted to be somewhere dangerous, in which case he wouldn’t hesitate for a second.

According to the books, cats purred loudly to indicate their pleasure. Pinecone’s purr was very quiet, but a gentle touch to her throat always proved that it was there. Vio appreciated the honesty in that. Shadow had his tells, too—a certain sideways grin, increased clinginess, the words “I love you”—but nothing quite as simple as Pinecone’s purr. 

It wasn’t always so simple, though, with their newest family member. Despite their immediate connection, Shadow admitted to Vio early on that Pinecone was bringing up some difficult emotions.

“I’m guilty,” Shadow had told him as Pinecone slept in his lap. He seemed almost afraid to pet the cat, creating a distance between them Vio hadn’t seen before. 

“Why?” Vio asked, reaching over to give Pinecone’s ears a scratch. “We saved her life.” 

“It’s not that. It’s…” 

And then Shadow was tearing up, and Vio raised his hand to cup his face, startled by the sudden outburst. “Hey, hey, shhh, what’s going on?” 

“I’ve been thinking about this for days. We—I—never hit the human towns. But there must have been animals, right? That I… killed?” 

Vio’s heart sunk. It was the truth and they both knew it.

“Yes,” Vio said. “I’m so sorry.” 

Shadow stood up abruptly, startling Pinecone off his lap. He looked down at the cat as tears ran down his checks, words clearly on the tip of his tongue. His eyes met Vio’s and he turned on his heel, gone before Vio could even stand. 

━━

Vio found him on the forest trail, having abandoned the path for their favorite scenic overlook. Vibrant red, yellow, and dark evergreen trees punctuated the landscape above a crystal-clear mountain stream. Shadow sat on the ground, head in his hands, as his hat blew in the gentle breeze. 

Shadow’s body tensed at the sound of Vio’s footsteps. Vio froze, suddenly unsure. “If you want to be alone, it’s okay.” His voice carried faintly over the sound of rustling leaves. “I’m sorry, I—” 

“No. Stay.” 

Vio nodded and sat down beside Shadow, who finally lifted his head in favor of the view. “I could have destroyed all of this,” he said, voice dripping with disdain. “Eventually, I would have.” 

Vio covered Shadow’s hand with his own. “Probably. I’m not going to lie to you. But I’m still here, and I love you, and so does Pinecone.” 

“She shouldn’t. Neither should you.” 

“Not up to you. Isn’t that a relief, at least?”

Shadow shook his head. “You and I… we’ve talked. We’re working through everything. But she’s just… she’s just this little baby. She doesn’t know anything I did, she wasn’t there. She has no idea who I really am, and if she did, she wouldn’t—” 

“Pinecone is a cat,” Vio interrupted. “The only times in her life she experienced cruelty were before we found her. The world failed to make her feel safe and loved, but you succeeded. It’s as simple as that.” 

“I don’t deserve any of this,” Shadow said, a sentiment often uttered during his most vulnerable moments. “You, Pinecone, our home, this second chance at life… none of it.” 

“Do you think Pinecone deserved to be abandoned or injured?” 

Shadow turned his head sharply to match Vio’s gaze. “Of course not. Why would you even ask that?” 

“What if she got injured while fighting a sibling, or her mother? What if she won the fight?”

“That’s ridiculous, she was just a—” 

“Shadow,” Vio interrupted, “you know what I’m saying. You would love her anyway, you would have saved her anyway.”

“Of course.” 

“Then it shouldn’t be impossible to believe that we love you. You’ve hurt me in the past, sure, but I’ve hurt you too. We will always be in the process of forgiving each other, and that’s okay. There’s no one I’d rather be doing this with than you.” 

“Vio, I—” 

“And as for Pinecone, you’ve done nothing but dote on her from the moment we found her. Maybe… maybe if she was able to comprehend your past, and the things you did, she would struggle with it. You know I have. Not everyone is forgiving by nature, and that’s okay, but I refuse to deny myself a life with you because of things that happened in the past. I can’t speak for Pinecone, because she’s a cat, but why wouldn’t she be the same?” 

Shadow’s scowl broke like a dark mirror, its shards running down his cheeks. “I love you so much.” 

Vio stood up, brushed the dry leaves off his pants, and offered Shadow a hand. “Let’s go home. Someone there misses you.” 

Shadow shook his head, a sad smile on his face as he rose to his feet. “I’ve only been gone for twenty minutes.” 

Try months, Vio wanted to say as he trailed behind Shadow on the path. Months mending the mirror and perfecting the ritual, because I wounded you, I abandoned you, and I was never going to feel peace until I got you back. 

Maybe it was wrong for Vio to love Shadow, knowing in great detail the many terrible things he did. But Vio was no saint, either. He could have prevented countless acts of cruelty Shadow blamed himself for entirely. He himself had been cruel, his actions calculated and completely sober, towards his closest friends and the love of his life.

There was this attitude Vio often noticed in the sacred texts he read, this insistence that amends could only be made alone. That in order to truly be pure, a person would have to suffer for their misdeeds. That any happiness or peace they experienced would taint their good intentions, up until the day they finally Made It All Right.

Truthfully, Vio didn’t think that day would ever come.

Truthfully, he didn’t care. 

━━

Vio made his way to their bedroom around 10 PM, pleased to see Shadow already sound asleep. Even more pleasing was Pinecone, who laid on his chest as she typically did whenever Shadow wasn’t curled up in Vio’s arms. 

He’d let them have this, tonight. 

Vio got under the covers and gently ran his hand down Pinecone’s back, watching her rise and fall as Shadow inhaled and exhaled. He held a finger to her throat and smiled; there it was. Of course, there it was. 

Vio turned onto his side, close enough to Shadow that he could nuzzle against his head. This was something cats did, apparently, an action hotwired in their brains to say, simply, “you are mine.” 

And I’m yours, Vio thought as he closed his eyes. He didn’t mention it earlier, but he could recall another time, before Pinecone, that Shadow found someone lost in the woods and loved them in the only way he knew how. 

And it was amazing, really, to Vio… how lucky they both were to have been found.