#cc: dearest little brother

[lilallama]

What's the cc opinion on Y/n stepbro?

I have horrible news, my writing block caught up to me. But since I don't want to leave you guys with nothing, here's part 1 of this ask. I'll write the other part soon.

Hoseok respects Kai, but hates his guts. He understands that Kai is important to Y/n and that they value him. So it is very important to not mess with Kai too much. At this point in his and Y/n's relationship they're still unstable. He cannot be sure they won't leave him all of a sudden. Thus, he needs to play his cards right. The disappointing thing is that Kai is also possessive over his little sibling. Automatically Hoseok is perceived as a threat to Y/n, even by just standing next to them. Even worse, he once caught Hoseok sneaking into Y/n's room. That day he broke his right leg and wrist, due to falling out the window of their apartment. Luckily it was only the second floor. When Y/n asked about it he had to lie, and told them he broke his leg and wrist because he landed wrong during dance practice. They didn't look convinced, but didn't ask further. Hoseok can't wait for that bastard to graduate and go to college.

"Kai? Oh~ I don't know him that well. But he seems nice enough. It's really sad that he has to graduate this year..."

As the king of the school (and Y/n's heart) Seokjin does not view Kai as serious threat. So what, he's their step-brother and can potentially influence their perception of him? Pah~ Seokjin is their soulmate! Even if they don't want to admit it. Seokjin, unlike some of the other members, sees no point in breaking into their apartment or stalking Y/n. Because guess what, once they're officially announced to be dating he can go there whenever. And, really, it's just some average, poor person living space. Why would he go there? Truthfully, Seokjin is too full of himself to even consider the possibility that Y/n doesn't yearn for him 24/7. Had the rules of the club not forbade it, he'd have long told the whole school that Y/n is his lover. Kai hates Seokjin so incredibly much, but there is another member worse than him...

"Who? Kai? Uhh... no, I've got nothing. Who's that again?"

Poor Yoongi is seriously scared of Kai. Well, part of him is, the other wishes nothing more than to tear out his intestines and leave them for the rats to devour in some back ally. But.. he doesn't like to talk about it. For the first time he was honestly thankful that he seems to be invisible to others. He was sitting in the tree outside of Y/n's window, enjoying how peaceful they look while sleeping. He almost wanted to snatch them up and run away, leaving the entire building aflame and never returning. Obviously he couldn't do that... right? But then, suddenly Kai walked in and caressed their cheek, kissing their forehead and making sure to place the phone next to them on the bedside table. He didn't notice Yoongi. To this day, it's like he doesn't even know Yoongi exists. How easy it would be to just sneak up behind him and choke the last breath out of him. To push the sharpest raisorblade over his lips, untill they're just a fleshy, bloody mess... Oh, what is he thinking! Aren't intrusive thoughts just the worst..?

"Uhm.. Y/n's brother, right? I don't know... he- he's okay? Just very... I mean he's uncomfortably physical with... nevermind."

In all honesty, Namjoon hates Kai's guts. Though unfortunately for him, his dearest Y/n actually likes their stepbrother. The last thing Namjooon would ever want to do is ruin his chances with Y/n, so he approaches this issue strategically. In school he treats Kai with a healthy dose of respect, which he mostly reciprocates. Always making sure to never allow that pathetic- sorry, I mean, Kai to see the true extent of his obsession over his Y/n. The idea is to make a good impression on Kai. Since he's not delusional, he is well aware that Kai's opinion might sway the object of his obsession. It's best to portray himself as a responsible, mature person who's well off. I mean, who wouldn't want someone so intelligent and filthy rich as their in-law. Unfortunately Namjoon still is affiliated with the other members of the cooking club. That automatically makes Kai distrust him. No sane person could stand being around that bunch. Admittedly Namjoon agrees, though he hates to agree with that weird theatre kid. It's apparent that Kai and his lovely Y/n are not blood related. He in no way matches their kindness, their grace, their beauty, their intellect! But he'll have to live with it if Y/n's going to be his future spouse which they will.

"Yes, I am acquainted with Kai. I'd like to say we're on decent terms, but other than that..."

[skullkid1410]

"We are in this together Brodie. Just you and me"

Brodie and Paxton met each other on an orphanage where they spent a big deal of their lives together. The orphanage was far from being the best one, and Brodie isnt the kind of kid you can tame easily. Reckless and too independent for his own good, He always lived by his own rules and decided it was time to leave.

“I don’t need a stupid family to come and save me. Nobody wants to adopt teenagers and you know what? I’m no fuckin lady in distress and I dont need them, I can take care of myself - Always did and always will”

Paxton was the funny little kid that would follow him around, everywhere he went. Brodie would be annoyed at first, but somehow in his heart, feelings of love and care started to grow. He would watch out for him and protect him from the bullies of the orphanage. He would give him his meals when the food was too little. He would embrace him in his chest when the nights were too cold, and sing him to sleep when he woke up from nightmares. Brodie loved Paxton as if he was his younger brother - the closest thing he had from a real family. And Paxton knew that, as dangerous as the streets could be for two young and unprotected kids, with brodie by his side he would be safer than anywhere in the world. So he decided to runaway with him.

"You must be insane to think that I'll let you go alone Brodie. Never in a lifetime! I'm with you man, wherever you go I'll follow. We are in this together"

In order to eat, they would search for scraps. Any valuables they could find, would be changed for some coins.

Sometimes they would also try to beg. That was the worst scenario tho, since they knew chances of getting food for free were too low.

And of course, begging was WAY easier for Pax. Who in the world can resist those puppy blue eyes?

But luck drains out sometimes, and the main course of the day would be an empty stomach

“Man, those nachos seems to be delicious. Why people deny helping others even when they can?”

But life in the city is not just about starving or missing a roof above your head. Paxton and Brodie are troublemakers by nature, and they were always pranking and goofing around, in order to keep themselves entertained.

“Here’s the plan Pax: see that bald dude over there? Ask him for directions and keep him talking. I’ll sneak behind and pull his underwear”

And some beautiful surprises could be found all around, in every single corner

But the nights on the city are cold

and tough

and cops are not really fond of homeless kids, especially troublemakers like them.

"I swear if i see you both trying to steal on the spice market again JESUS CHRIST I'll BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF YOU TWO, fuck it that you are just kids. San Myshuno is not a place for scum like you".

Brodie started feeling very upset with how bad things were going for them on the city. It was their third stop since they fled from the orphanage, and he started missing the things they left behind, like his warm bed, the hot showers, even the bullies and the undercooked food.

But paxton reminded him of an old man they met on the subway once, telling them about the place of his childhood - a small and idyllic town, nestled between rocky shores and tall green mountains, where people are warm and always willing to share a plate of food. Brindleton Bay

"Wasn't your dream to see the coast Brodie? We can make it! Of course, things won't be easy on us, they never were. But come on, there's got to be a place in this world for us"

"You know what Pax, I think you are right. Screw San Myshuno. Maybe we could find a spot in the woods, start farming you know? Build us our own place. Just me and you. How does that sound?"

"That would be a dream come true Brodie. We got this...

...I can tell”

they would have to be brave once more and take a chance. There's a boat leaving the docks on the first hour of the next morning. That would be their golden ticket to a new chance of starting over

"Us against the world my man, us against the world"

"Wild at Heart" evolves around the lifes of three families from completely different backgrounds, whose paths end up crossing on the highroads of life. A story of love and hope, but also pain and sadness.

I started writing mainly because I love to write AND to play. I would only share them with the dearest Dunkin at first. But he really motivated me to go ahead and share them with the world. So here I am!

I have ZERO pretentions of this becoming big. I don't even expect anybody to read them besides me and D. But if you found my simblr and gave my stories a chance, gosh, you already made my day.

The sims I'll use in this story, some are my creations, other Dunkin's (You can even think of my story as a "Spin Off" of his world haha). Unfortunatelly I won't be sharing any for download. BUUUUUT you can check Dunkin's GOOOOORGEOUS creations right on the link below. You might even find some familiar faces there ;)

Link to Dunkin's CC - https://creamlattedream.tumblr.com/

Link to Dunkin's story Simblr. Some people just have it all you know. And Dunkin's writing is AS GOOD as his creation skills are - https://asliceofcakesimblr.tumblr.com/

Now, enough of chit chat. Let's jump straight to the chapter 1

[beclynn-herondale]

Things Jem has said or thought about Jace

(all of it belongs to CC and is from City of Heavenly Fire and Ghosts of the Shadow Market)

"Herondales." Zachariah's voice was a breath, half laughter, half pain. "I had almost forgotten. No other family does so much for love, or feels so much guilt for it. Don't carry the weight of the world on you, Jace. It's too heavy for even a Herondale to to bear." - Jem

"Jace Herondale, once more a Herondale is the bringer of my deliverance. I should have anticipated." - Jem

When the boy landed on deck, feet spread wide and staff twirling between his hands, he was laughing. It was not a child's sweet laugh, but a wild exuberant that rang out stronger than the sea or sky or silent voices. He sounded young, and defiant, and joyful, and a little mad. Brother Zachariah had thought earlier in the night that he did not hear laughter often. It had been an achingly long time since he had heard a laugh like that. - Jem

"if you pretend to feel nothing, the pretence may become true. said Jem. "That would be a pity." - Jem

"Never fear, said Brother Zachariah. "I am fighting with you."

Zachariah could see the boy's thin back. He seemed braced to be a disappointment.

Robert said, "I am sure you're a good boy." Jonathan did not look sure. Robert saved himself the awkwardness by conspicuously examining the controls. The boy left the bridge, graceful despite the lurch of the boat and how weary he must be. Zachariah was startled when young Jonathan advanced across the deck to where Zachariah himself sat.

Jonathan carried Brother Zachariah's staff back to him, balanced flat as a tightrope along his palms, and laid the staff with a respectful bow on Zachariah's knees. The boy moved with military discipline unusual in one so young, even among Shadowhunters. Brother Zachariah had not known Michael Wayland, but guessed he must have been a harsh man.

"Brother Enoch?" the boy guessed.

No, said Brother Zachariah. He knew Enoch's memories as his own. Enoch had given the boy his first mark, though his own memories were gray with lack of interest. Brother Zachariah briefly wished he could have been the Silent Brother who oversaw the rite of passage for this child.

"No," the boy repeated slowly. "I should've known. You moved differently. I just thought it might be, since you rolled your staff to me."

He bowed his head. It struck Zachariah as a sorry thing, that the child would not have expected even the smallest mercy from a stranger

"Thank you for letting me use it," Jonathan added.

I am glad it was useful, returned Brother Zachariah.

The boy's glance up at his face was shocking, the flare of twin suns in what was still almost night. They were not the eyes of a soldier but a warrior. Brother Zachariah had known both, and he knew the difference. The boy took a step back, nervous and agile, but stopped with his chin high. Apparently he had a question. Zachariah was not expecting the one he asked. "What do the initials mean? On your staff. Do all Silent Brothers have them?"

They looked together at the staff. The letters were worn by time and Zachariah's own flesh, but they had been struck deep into the wood in the precise places where Zachariah would put his hands on them when he fought. So, in a way, they would always be fighting together. The letters were W and H.

No, said Brother Zachariah. I am the only one. I carved them into the staff on my first night in the City of Bones.

"Were they your initials?" the boy asked, his voice low and a little timid. "Back when you were a Shadowhunter, like me?"

Brother Zachariah still consider himself a Shadowhunter, but Jonathan clearly did not mean any offense.

No, said Jem, because he was always James Carstairs when he spoke of what was dearest to him. Not mine. My parabatai's. W and He. William Herondale. Will.

The boy looked struck yet wary at the same time. There was a certain guardedness about him, as if he was suspicious of whatever Jem might say before he even had the chance to say it.

"My says—said—a parabatai can be a great weakness."

Jonathan said the word "weakness" with horror. Jem wondered what a man who had drilled a boy to fight like that might have considered weakness. Jem did not choose to insult an orphan boy's dead father, so he arranged his thoughts carefully. This boy was so alone. He remembered how precious that new link could be, especially when you had no other. It could be the last bridge that connected you to a lost life. He remembered traveling across the sea, having lost his family, not knowing that he was going to his best friend.

I suppose they can be a weakness, he answered. It depends on who your parabatai is. I carved his initials because I always fought best with him.

Jonathan Wayland, the boy who fought like a warrior angel, looked intrigued.

"I think—my father was sorry he had a parabatai," he said. "Now I have to go live with the man my father was sorry about. I don't want to be weak, and I don't want to be sorry. I want to be the best."

If you pretend to feel nothing, pretense may become true, said Jem. That would be a pity.

His parabatai had tried to feel nothing, for a time. Except what he felt for Jem. It had almost destroyed Will. And every day, Jem pretended to feel something, to be kind, to fix what was broken, to remember names and voices almost forgotten, and that would become truth.

The boy frowned. "Why would it be a pity?"

We battle hardest when that which is dearer to us than our own lives is at stake, said Jem. A parabatai is a both a blade and shield. You belong together and to each other not because you are the same but because your different shapes fit together to be a greater whole, a greater warrior for a higher purpose. I always believed we were not merely at our best together but beyond the best either of us could be apart.

A slow smile broke across the boy's face, like sunrise bursting as a bright surprise upon the water.

"I'd like that," said Jonathan Wayland, adding quickly, " To be a great warrior."

He flung his head back in a sudden, hasty assumption if arrogance, as if he and Jem might have imagined he meant that would like to belong to someone.

Except Jonathan was a child, still trying to make a distant father proud even when death had made the distance between them impossible. Jem should be kind.

He thought of the boy's speed, his fearless strike with an unfamiliar weapon on a strange bloody night.

I'm sure you will be a great warrior, Jem said.

Jonathan Wayland ducked his shaggy golden head to hide the faint color in his cheeks.

Jonathan scuffed his shoe against the deck and peered up at Jem, and Jem realized he was trying to see his face beneath the hood. Jem drew the hood, and the shadows, close. Even though he had been rebuffed, Jonathan Wayland offered him a small smile.

Jem had not looked for any kindness from this hurt child. It made Jem think that Jonathan Wayland might grow to be more than a great warrior. Maybe Jonathan would have a parabatai one day, to teach him the kind of man he wanted to be.

This is the link stronger than any magic, Jem had told himself that night, knife in hand, cutting deep. This is the bond I chose. He made his mark. He had taken the name Zachariah, which meant "remember" remember him, Jem had willed himself. Remember them. Remember why. Remember the only answer to the only question. Do not forget. When he looked again, Jonathan Wayland was gone. He wished he could thank the child, for helping him remember.

[aces-to-apples]

Written for Day 1: Hurt/Comfort of Codywan Week 2020 @codywanweek

Here on AO3

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Category: M/M Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi, Alpha-17 & Obi-Wan Kenobi Notable Tags: Blood and Injury, Concussions, Mandalorian Culture, Blunting Teeth

“daze of our lives”

“You’re an idiot,” Cody said bluntly, manhandling Obi-Wan onto the ‘fresher sink like he weighed nothing more than a bunch of Alderaani emerald grapes. A feat made even more impressive by the fact that Obi-Wan was fully kitted out in a standard set of trooper armor and the commander wasn’t even wearing his own blacks.

“Yes, Cody, thank you for reminding me.”

The look he shot Obi-Wan was normally reserved for misbehaving children—or shinies, as the case may be.

Obi-Wan attempted a reassuring smile only for it to turn into a grimace as the movement pulled at his split lip, renewing its sluggish flow of blood once more. For reasons known only to himself, Alpha-17 had focused rather heavily on causing his face as much damage as possible, rather than seeking to neutralize him efficiently. Of course, Alpha-17 was a bit of a bastard with a vicious streak a parsec wide, so perhaps he’d simply nursed a grudge against Obi-Wan all this time.

Two years and change was a long time to hang onto said grudge, and seemed more than a little extreme, but he supposed anything could happen. Whatever the reason, it made pacifying his commander nearly impossible.

Scoffing, Cody wetted a rag and began furiously cleaning Obi-Wan’s face of… well, gore was perhaps an accurate description. His movements weren’t rough, by any means, but they were perfunctory and Obi-Wan didn’t need to be an empath to feel the low-grade burn of his anger in the tight quarters of the refresher. “Complete fripping moron,” he growled, as more and more damage was revealed beneath the blood.

“Cody,” Obi-Wan began, bracing himself as best he could. He knew that tone of voice well. “There’s no need—”

“How does a Jedi,” Cody cut him off, voice dangerously mild, “cock up so badly that he ends up in a punishment spar with the only Alpha who can nominally stand him?”

“Now that’s hardly fair to Alpha’s age-mates,” he protested weakly as Cody shoved his head and began examining his possibly-broken nose. “I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting any others from the Alpha class.”

“Seventeen warned them all away. Calls you a menace.”

Cody’s voice was serious—dark, even—but Obi-Wan snorted. “Of course he did,” he said, fond without worry and accepting the notion without doubt. “I do regret the number of grey hairs myself and Anakin have no doubt given him over the course of our acquaintance.”

“The stress doesn’t even have the decency to slow the bastard down,” Cody muttered darkly in reply. “Let alone kill him.”

There was a worrying shift in his ribs as Obi-Wan wheezed but he ignored it because, damn it, the idea of something so mundane as stress being the thing to kill Alpha-17 was unbearably funny at that precise moment. Cody shifted back on his feet and watched him impassively. It took a moment for him to realize that perhaps what he was feeling was what the troopers referred to as punch-drunk.

The corner of Cody’s mouth tugged up. “Yep,” he drawled, “that’s what happens when you let one of the Alpha class get their hands on you like that.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan said, frowning. “Did I say that out loud?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Dear me. I believe I may have a concussion, Cody.”

The commander did not look impressed by his powers of deduction. “I told you that ten minutes ago, General.” He scowled and rinsed off the cloth in his hands before turning to Obi-Wan’s split and battered knuckles. “I peeled you off the mats and you said you were ‘happy to see my pretty, grumpy face’ and I said ‘you definitely have a concussion if you’re admitting I’m pretty in mixed company.’ And then you tripped over your own boots and tried to blame Anakin for it.”

“Mmm.”

“Still with me, sir?”

Obi-Wan hummed again, feeling more and more like he was floating as the adrenaline filtered out of his system and pain filtered in. “Always, my dearest commander. Always.”

He sighed but said nothing again for a while, tisking over the damage Obi-Wan had managed to do to himself without the aid of Alpha-17. “What even happened to your gloves and gauntlets?” he wondered aloud, and scoffed when Obi-Wan cheerfully admitted that he hadn’t a clue. “Still haven’t told me what you did to deserve a punishment spar from an Alpha. Don’t think I’m going to just let that one go.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Obi-Wan enunciated with care. “I simply don’t wish to tell you because then you’ll be disappointed with me.”

“And that’s a valid reason to piss off your marshal commander instead?”

“Oh, not at all! I’m just far better equipped to deal with you being angry with me than disappointed.” A punch-sober Obi-Wan would likely not have admitted that, but the Obi-Wan of the moment was perhaps not as wise as he. All he wanted was Cody’s continuing single-minded care and to all the Corellian hells with his dignity. “You have a remarkable talent for making me feel utterly worthless when I’ve disappointed you.”

The silence that followed that statement went on long enough that Obi-Wan had nearly forgotten it by the time Cody responded. “I don’t mean to make you feel like that,” he said with a gusty sigh. “That’s not what that look is supposed to mean.”

Of that Obi-Wan had always been certain, but disappointment had always been inextricably linked with feelings of personal failure and worthlessness, ever since he was a child. Coruscanti Jedi initiates were a cutthroat bunch to start with and his age-mates in particular had been even moreso than the average.

“It’s all right,” he said absently, when he realized Cody was waiting for a reply. “It pushes me to do more, do better, always has.”

“That’s not very reassuring, jetii,” Cody grumbled, swatting away the hand that attempted to clap him on the shoulder. “Quite the opposite.”

“Oh, I’m a jetii again?” Obi-Wan attempted to rouse himself from his post-beating lethargy. The return to the uncomplimentary epithet that Alpha-17 had passed on to his commander before their meeting boded ill. It’d taken months for Cody to finally wheedle out of him why he always chuckled at its use and several more for him to cautiously switch to the less aggressive Traat’ad. “You only use that when I’ve done something to deserve, well…”

“A punishment spar from Seventeen?” Cody supplied, deceptively innocent. “I can only assume you have, if you’re letting him turn your face into paste like this.”

“I—”

“When I’m disappointed in you, it’s because I know that you’ve made your decisions based on faulty logic and you’re not dumb enough to buy into faulty logic about anyone but yourself,” he continued, unconcerned with Obi-Wan’s attempt to defend himself. “When Alpha-Seventeen is disappointed in you, it’s because he knows you’re not stupid and thinks you’re acting like it anyway. So, what’d you do this time?”

Obi-Wan sighed and let his head fall back against the mirror. “Have you ever been through a ‘punishment spar,’ as you call them?” he asked, feeling very tired.

“Fortunately, I’ve managed to avoid pissing any of the Alpha class off quite that badly.”

He smiled, winced, and soldiered on, as it were. “It’s based on an old Mandalorian ritual: pelir edee. Went through it when I was on Mandalore as a padawan.” Cody hummed, well-aware of its history as well as his own. “Usually it’s because a clan member has lashed out at another, disproportionately so, or deliberately brought harm to the clan.”

“You take a swing at Seventeen?” the commander said, joking, but also curious. “Because if you did then I take back calling you an idiot and will be much nicer at your funeral.”

“It’s also—” Obi-Wan swallowed “—unofficially, you understand, used when a leader ignores the advice of their clan members and so brings harm to them through incompetence.”

Cody doesn’t respond for another long while.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“It was.”

“Our intel was faulty—”

“—and if I had listened to your concerns then we wouldn’t be on this planet you all despise so much, collecting shinies to fill the empty spaces where loved ones once stood.” He had nothing to say to that, knowing full well that Obi-Wan had the right of it. “Alpha got his hands on the mission report that brought us here and asked me to explain what happened. I obliged. And he suggested a spar.”

“With Blitz, Colt, and Havoc.”

Obi-Wan inclined his head. “Naturally. He suggested, as well, that we all armor up for it. Apparently he doesn’t approve of my choice to return to wearing Jedi tunics.”

“None of us approve of that,” Cody muttered. He’d finished cleaning and bandaging Obi-Wan’s hands long ago, now just holding them in a gentle grip. “You don’t listen to us about that, either.”

Well and that was fair.

"Ni ceta, Kote," Obi-Wan said, not meeting his eyes. "I should have listened to your council and now your brothers are marching far away because of my…"

Pride, arrogance, conceit.

"… mistake," Cody finished, quiet, gentle. "It was a mistake. One that cost us, but you're not omniscient, and you did the best you could. That's all any of us can do."

"You knew better."

"Then learn from this time and listen to me the next."

Obi-Wan nodded and allowed himself to be tugged out of the 'fresher and stripped of the death-white armor. Each piece of plastoid was tugged out of magnetic alignment by sure hands and piled out of the way, until nothing remained but his blacks. Those hands then pushed and maneuvered until Obi-Wan was lying on his side in the commander's bed, Cody's chest pressed right up against his back.

The two of them rested like that for a long time, settling together until their hearts beat nearly in sync. Then Cody, his arms wrapped firmly around Obi-Wan's body, clasped their hands together.

"What did Seventeen want you to see, Obi-Wan?"

He linked their fingers together more securely before answering.

"As a Jedi, I have a responsibility to all life in the galaxy. As a general, I have a responsibility to the lives under my command." He took a deep breath. "As a partner, I have a responsibility to treat you with honor and respect. When I ignored your council, I failed in all of those responsibilities, and your brothers paid the price. Alpha-Seventeen wanted me to see those failures and understand that I need to trust you, and the rest of our comrades, in order to keep such a tragedy from occurring again."

"… Sounds quite kind for one of Seventeen's punishment spars."

Obi-Wan smiled as best he could. "Well, I'm sure he'd phrase it differently were someone to ask him. Regardless, I should have done better and will endeavor to do so next time."

"Good," Cody murmured into the back of his neck. "I love you, Obi-Wan."

"And I you, Cody."

[gaythingliker69]

Not to Me

Inspiration

CW: descriptions of duelling, violence, mentioning of wounds

Read on AO3

Wolffe had been left in charge of the outpost, with a couple of squads at his disposal. As the squad he commanded moved through the outpost, more men turned up lifeless, necks broken or with wounds that went straight through their chests. Wounds he’d only ever seen inflicted by the Jedi. Then the power went out.

The lights on their helmets offered little help with cutting through the darkness, and he was running from memory to the generator room. Then he heard light footsteps to his right, and a snap. One of his men collapsed, and the hallway lit up with blue bolts. Nothing. No one.

Him and the two remaining men kept moving, until he heard the same light footsteps, this time behind him. He span around, only to see a helmet fall to the floor and his brother’s scream abruptly cut short. The man slumped over, but Wolffe couldn’t stop. Not to check on him, not to mourn. Then a choking on his left, cut short by a red saber appearing in the dark. Then nothing.

He changed course for the armoury. They wouldn’t have the base, he’d blow it sky high before he let the Seppies have it. As he entered the armoury he stopped. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

“Good evening, my dearest Commander, I’ve been expecting you.”

The voice was almost too harsh to be feminine. It felt like sandpaper in his ears, as if it hurt her to speak and she wished to share that pain in any small capacity she could. The voice made his blood run cold with fear. Then, she was lit up in a deep, red glow, her terrible smile covering her hairless features. Her eyes piercing through the sun, red light at the clone, like a predator does before the kill. Wolffe grabbed an electrostaff from the wall and tried desparately to remember the training all that time ago on Kamino.

She sprung forward, screeching with shrill hatred. Wolffe was forced back through the unlit corridors, blocking and parrying as best he could, but his size and strength advantage wasn’t proving much use here. But he knew this outpost, and used a turn round a sudden corner to knock her blade away.

Before he could take his opening, the assassin drew her second weapon, and pushed him back like the Jedi could. She called her disarmed weapon to her.

“Mistake.”

She launched herself at him, and Wolffe knew it was only a matter of time. The constant strikes were near impossible to block. There was more light in the corridor, but only from the cuts she was making in the walls. One of her strikes was so powerful, it knocked him back a few paces, and she landed a high kick, knocking his helmet off. Next, a hard kick in his midsection, doubling him over. She flipped over the top of him, and as Wolffe, now blinded tried to turn to face her. She struck diagonally downwards with her right saber, into his face. Into his eye.

Wolffe collapsed to the floor, screaming and clutching the right side of his face. His screams were cut short by a boot at his throat and a saber hovering above his other eye. He heard the sound of a conlink activating, and the harsh voice spoke again.

“Commander, send in the commando droids to secure the outpost. And send a transport - we can learn more about the Republic’s intentions here from CC-3636.”

—-

“General, we may have an issue at the outpost.”

Plo Koon looked up to see Sergeant Sinker jogging towards him. Though he couldn’t see the cline’s face, the concern was clear in his voice.

“What has happened, Sergeant?”

“Not sure sir. We’ve lost contact with outpost command. None of the men there are responding, not even the Commander. We’re not being jammed.”

The Kel Dor seemed to flinch slightly, and was silent for a second. Wolffe wasn’t responding. This was bad. Very bad. His concern was replaced by a new, steely determination. He would not lose his men, not Wolffe, not after all they’d been through.

“Abort the mission. We must relieve the outpost and rescue any survivors.”

They began the quick match back through the foliage to the outpost, Plo’s strides making it so his men struggled to keep pace. On reaching the base, he saw a gunship dropping off commando droids, and a shuttle which appeared to be leaving back to Separatist command. Plo thought of simply rushing the droids, but he stopped himself and breathed. Emotions were clouding his judgement. He must not fall prey to desperation, fear, or anger-

What if Wolffe was on that shuttle?

Plo flew forwards, cutting the head from two droids with a single cut. His men began raining bolts from the treeline, chipping away at the enemy numbers. Plo cut and swept them aside, easily dispatching more than half himself. He then stormed through the doors and through to the command centre. Four droids. He simply elevated them with the Force and crushed them.

“Was that the last of them, sir?”

Sinker sprinted through the door, panting slightly.

“Yes. Losses?”

“None, sir. But We found the Commander’s armour in the east hallway,” said Sinker, holding up Wolffe’s helmet as proof.

“There are no other men here. Stay here and make it look like the droids still have control.”

Plo turned to leave.

“General, where are you going? The other men are gone.”

Plo looked back at Sinker, his helmet now removed, head lowered in the acceptance of defeat. The Commander was on his way to a painful interrogation. They’d never get authorisation for a rescue in time. He was gone.

“Not to me, Sergeant.”

Sinker watched the general run to the landing platform, presumably to look for a ship the commandos hadn’t got to yet. He sighed heavily and sat down at the control terminal. He remembered the pod in Abregado. The Jedi had shown the same determination then, and it had been ok. Sinker could only trust his general’s instincts were correct again.

—-

Wolffe came to with his arms chained above his head. He wore no armour - only his body glove, which offered scant protection from the cold that gripped the shuttle cabin. He strained as he heard the hum of an electrostaff but saw nothing. A commando droid emerged from his right hand side. And then he remembered. He was blind. Wounded. Maimed. He had failed.

“Sir, the prisoner is awake.”

The commando’s deep and hollow tones summoned an awkward and boxlike frame into the light of the cockpit door. Blue screens piercing through the dark at the clone. The tactical droid advanced slowly, and, even without an exoression, emitted a smug air of superiority.

“CC-3636, I will ask you this once. What are the intentions of the Republic on this world, and who are the oersonnel involved?”

The droid’svoice was a low pitched electronic warble, cutting through Wolffe’s ears.

“Wolffe,” he spat.

“So you refuse to answer, 3636?”

“You’ll regret this. They’ll come for me and make you suffer for what you’ll do to me.”

“I think not. You are only a clone, no matter how skilled. Unit 47, continue to stand guard.”

The tactical droid returned to the cockpit and shut the door. Was the droid telling the truth? Would they leave him? He shut his eye, and saw an escape pod window coloured deep red. He felt the pressure slowly leaving the only thing keeping him alive. Abregado. Over the coms, he heard another crew sucked to their deaths. He knew the same fate awaited them.

“…just clones… supposed to be expendable.”

“Not to me.”

He opened his eye. General Plo would come back for him. He’d cared then, and he’d care now. He just had to hold out long enough to see the masked Jedi again. He scowled and gritted his teeth. He suspected this could be a long few hours as they scrambled crew.

He took further stock of his surroundings, realising there were five B1s as well as the commando. One in each corner of the canon, and one stood opposite him. The commando was stood in his blind spot, at his right shoulder.

As he drifted toward the edges of consciousness, he heard another engine. A Y-wing engine. The tactical droid opened the door, showing no signs of nerves that they’d come for the prisoner already. But how could a tactical droid show nerves?

“That fighter is carrying a Jedi. Terminate the prisoner.”

He heard a thump on the roof. The commando adjusted the electrostaff to lethal voltage. Wolffe bowed his head. The room suddenly lost the little heat it held and wind whistled through a rapidly forming circle in the ceiling. A blue lightsaber was cutting through. The circle fell through and the Kel Dor dropped in, engaging the commando. He quickly cut the droid apart at the waist then neck, and turned his attention to dispatching the five B1s.

The Jedi held his saber to the droid’s neck. The droid, seemingly forgetting it was so awkward and unsuited to combat, tried to pick up a blaster dropped by one of the B1s, only to be beheaded. The Jedi then beheaded both pilots with one cut. It had hardly been fifteen seconds since he cut through. He quickly typed in a new deatinstion, and freed Wolffe from his bonds.

Wolffe let his arms flip to his sides, exhausted. The Jedi knelt down in front of his commander.

“General, I-“

“Save your breath commander. You may rest.”

And Wolffe simply allowed himself to drift.

—-

Wolffe had fleeting memories of the next few hours. Being lifted into the copilot’s chair, being stretchered off the ship, a bacta tank, and being sat here, on a gurney, with a medical droid looking at his eye for what felt like the thousandth time. The droid placed a new bandage, another layer of bacta patches, over the right side of his face.

“Rest, and avoid touching the afflicted area,” was the droids advice. It was the thousandth time he’d heard that, too.

He allowed it to waddle away, hearing the doors open and shut. He heard new, heavier footsteps. One of the boys come for a look at the famed gruesome saber wound, most likely. He wondered if he could muster the typical commander’s bark in this state. He felt a gloved hand on his shoulder, and realised the figure was slightly taller than one of his brothers.

“General?”

There was silence for a moment, as if the Jedi was waiting for him to speak.

“Didn’t… didn’t tell ‘em anything sir. I didn’t compromise the mission. I did my duty, I’d never betray the Republic. No matter the cost, never sir. But I…”

The clone trailed off and looked down across his chest and arms, littered with scars and cuts. Some new, some nearly as old as Wolffe himself.

“You may speak freely, Commander.”

“I know you care for the lives of your men, sir, I just…”

Wolffe paused again. A single year dropping from his eye. He turned away from the Jedi, who put a hand back on the clone’s shoulder. Wolffe collapsed into the Jedi and cried. Sobs racking his muscular frame as he reeled at the impossibility of it all.

“Not to me, son. Never to me.”

[coldlittlecuties]

Kidnapped

First Post! Let's see how this goes....

Becky kidnaps Sam and Dean: Sam to try and make him fall in love with her by using a cliché fanfiction trope, and Dean to make sure he stays out of the way.

Word Count: 3704

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The first thing Sam noticed as he woke was that it was cold. Very cold. He heard his teeth rattle and felt his body quiver moments before he finally opened his eyes. He scanned the dark room for any sign of his brother. Sam could see a few barred, hole-in-the-wall windows near the ceiling that let in some moonlight and some falling snow from outside. That was when he noticed he was directly under one of those snow showers.

He was too cold to move much, but he was able to curl into himself. That's when Sam heard the chains clinking around him. The younger Winchester shuddered brutally as the icy metal hit his skin. He moved his hands under his armpits, hissing as more of him touched the chains. Sam groaned at the realization that everything but his boxers had been removed. Awesome.

"D-DDD-D-D-D'nnnnnn?" He mumbled. No response. The hunter let out a very shaky "brrr" when a gust of wind pushed more snow onto him. It was piled up all around and on him in little mountains, some of it melting then freezing back on him to create icicles. A door somewhere to his left opened just before he could call out again. Sam prepared to fight.

"Sammy?" a female voice called. Sam looked over as a small figure, completely bundled up in winter gear approached him.

"B-B-B-B-B-B-B-Be-eck-k-k-ky-y?" he chattered. The fangirl crouched in front of her idol, placing a gloved hand on his trembling jaw.

"Aww... Poor thing, you're frozen! C'mere: let's get you warm," Becky cooed, wiping the snow and ice off of the shivering hunter. Sam couldn't help but lean into her warm touch, even unwrapping his hands to hold zir arm. Becky beamed as she ran her other hand through his hair to clean out the frozen water. Once she was satisfied with it, she put her warm hat on his head, then wrapped her scarf around his neck, unfolding it to cover his shoulders too.

Becky gently uncurled the hunter's frostbitten fingers from her arm, kissing the knuckles on both hands before setting them in her lap. Sam's hazel eyes peeked out from behind the scarf to watch her pick his chains with a pin.

"Wh-Wh-Wh-Wh-Whe-ere's*huh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh* DDD-D-D-DD-D'n-n-n-n?" Sam pleaded.

"He's safe, honey. Don't worry," Becky assured. Sam's arms curled around himself and tucked under his armpits once the chains were off. "He's staying at a motel until the roads are cleared for driving. Until then, you're gonna stay with me and I'm gonna take care of you."

Now that the chains around his ankles were gone, Becky wrapped her arms around Sam to help him stand. His numb feet and shaking legs forced him to lean on her for support. Becky murmured soothing encouragements every time Sam took a step. Together, they ascended the stairs from the basement into the main room of the house. It was much warmer compared to the concrete wind-chilled cellar he was in, but just as dark.

"Stay right here while I go find some warm clothes," Becky instructed, setting him down on a couch in the living room. Sam actually whimpered as her heat moved away. He somehow managed to shudder even harder now that it was gone. Something soft wrapped around his shoulders. He weakly clung to the edges, trying to pull it tighter around his quivering frame. By the time his sluggish brain realized it was a blanket, another was draped across his legs.

Sam curled his knees up to his chest so he could overlap the blankets more. He then tried to blow on his hands to chase away the numbness. The little breath he could force through the scarf was weakened further by how much he chattered. Sam let out another whimper as a particularly strong wave of cold wracked his bones. All he could do was hug himself until it stopped. Thankfully, that was when Becky finally returned.

"How are you doing, Sammy?" she checked, sitting beside him on the couch. The fangirl wrapped her arms around the hunter and he instinctively huddled against her.

"S-SS-S-S-So-SSo-So-o-o-o c-c-cccco-co-old-dd," he forced out. Becky rubbed his back and shoulders, being very careful not to move the blankets too much.

"Don't worry, baby, I'm here," she soothed. It took a few minutes of coaxing to get Sam to uncurl his arms long enough for her to dress him in the thick and heavy down parka. He refused to take the blanket off, so he put his arms through the sleeves with the blanket tied around his shoulders like a cape. Becky pulled his hood up, then adjusted the hat and scarf so only his eyes peeked out. Then, she let him lean on her as she helped him into the sweatpants she found. Finally, Becky put socks and tennis shoes on his feet.

She couldn't stop herself from taking a moment to admire the scene in front of her. Her favorite character seemed so small and helpless as he sat there, all huddled up in the warm winter gear, shaking so furiously that she could still see his shoulders and arms quake. He kept making these little shivery whimpers and mumbling about the cold. This time, the only person who could help him was Becky. Not Dean, Becky.

"Okay, honey pie, we're gonna go a few blocks down to my place, sound good? Just lean on me and take it one step at a time!" She encouraged, helping Sam to his feet. Things were going well until Becky opened the front door. The rush of cold air and snow made Sam tremble so hard he fell over.

"Sammy!" Becky exclaimed, rushing to him.

"T-T-TT-T-T-To-o-o cc-ccc-co-o-o-old-d-d...," he protested, curling into himself and vigorously rubbing his arms.

"I know, baby, I know," Becky sighed. His rescuer quickly reached over to the other blanket, wrapping it around his upper arms so it could cover his legs too. Becky finally got him up and walking again. She didn't bother to close the door as they left. She was too focused on keeping Sam as warm as possible while they walked down the sidewalk.

Despite Becky's best efforts, he shivered and chattered unendingly. Each gust of wind nearly made Sam collapse into a trembling ball in the snow. He was so cold that every inch of him ached or was too numb to feel it. The young hunter wished his brother was with him. Dean, like all Winchesters, ran hot like a fire. He was also strong enough to carry his baby brother if need be.

"D-DDD-D-De-De-ean-n*nnn*...," Sam cried.

"It's okay, honey. Dean's going to come later when the roads are safe," Becky assured.

"... wwwwwa-an'm-mm-m'b-b-bbb-bb- *brrrr* -o-o-oth-thth-ther*rrrr*...."

"Shh.... You'll see him soon. I'll get you warm just as soon as we make it to that house over there," Becky promised. Sam didn't seem to hear her. He kept trying to call out for his big brother. Although, in his weakened state, the cries were more like quite pleas.

Becky and Sam arrived at her house after a few more minutes that seemed like hours. The walk didn't help Sam warm up at all; it just made him feel even colder. The hunter was shaking so hard that Becky had to rest him between herself and the wall while she unlocked the door.

Sam didn't wait for Becky to guide him in. He was so frozen that he'd nearly forgotten what it felt like to be warm. He unceremoniously fell across the doorway. The younger Winchester didn't bother trying to move. He just folded himself into the tightest ball he could make and allowed full body shivers to consume him.

He was so focused on the cold that he barely noticed when he was pulled into Becky's lap. She let his head rest on her shoulder while she unzipped his coat. Then, she pulled her idol close, wrapping her arms around him and resting her cheek on his head. Sam gravitated towards the warmth, and even burried his arms in the back of her sweater.

"How are you, my dearest?" Becky checked.

"FFF*FFFFFFF*-F-Fro-oz-zz-z-zen *bbb*bu-bbu'b-*bbbbb*-be-ett-t-t-terrrr...," Sam sighed. Becky massaged his back and shoulders as the violent shudders made him whimper in pain. The hunter relaxed into the touch, almost purring as his shaking began to slow.

"Y-Y-Y-Y-Yo-ou're ss-*sss*-s-so-o ww-wwa-warm-mmm *huh-uh-uh*," he commented while trying to bury himself deeper into his rescuer's warmth. Becky giggled, nuzzling his hair and planting a few lingering kisses.

"You're so cute, Sammy!" She cooed as the tall man kept trying to cuddle closer to her smaller frame.

"*SSSSS*-So-Sorry.... m'c-cc-co-old-dd...," he stammered. Becky giggled again.

"Do you wanna stay here or go to the guest bedroom upstairs?" She offered.

"BB-BBB-Be-Be-ed-d-d...," he requested. Becky gently helped Sam get to his feet. Even though the stairs seemed daunting, it was much easier than expected because Sam could hold onto the rail and Becky. Once they made it to the guest room, Becky lead him over to the desk chair. She quickly peeled back the covers on the bed before helping Sam over. She took off his shoes and parka before tucking him in.

"*thththth*-Tha-Thank yy-y-yo-ou...," Sam smiled. Becky nodded as she smoothed the covers over his quivering form. Despite the fact that the blankets were only a thin sheet and light blanket, Sam burrowed under them gratefully.

"Just lay here and focus on getting warm while I make you something hot," Becky insisted, tucking another throw blanket over the hunter. Once he seemed content, the fangirl made her way downstairs and into the backyard. She opened the shed door to smirk at the shackled man in front of her. Though he was fully dressed, his shirt and flannel offered little protection from the cold.

Becky watched the hunter with great interest. Unlike Sam, he kept pacing back and forth with the little room the chains permitted. His jaw clenched to stop his teeth jittering, but there was an obvious quake in his shoulders. No amount of blowing into his hands or rubbing his arms made a difference. Finally, he noticed Becky's presence.

"Wh-Wh-Wher-r-re's *SSSSS*-Sa-ammm?" He demanded, stepping forward despite his limbs being pulled behind him.

"Now, now, Deanie: Sammy's just fine. He's a little chilly, but I know just how to get him warm," Becky taunted.

"D-DD-D-Do-on't *tttt*-to-ouch 'immmm!" Dean threatened, struggling to reach her.

"Oh, please! What're you gonna do; turn into an ice sculpture?"

"I-II'll k-k-k-ki-ill y-*yyy*-yo-ou."

"You tell yourself whatever you need to keep warm. I'd love to stay and chat, but Sammy needs me," Becky sang. Dean muttered something that sounded like "bitch" as she skipped away.

Now that she didn't have to go out again, she removed her winter gear. She kept on her leggings and low cut midriff shirt as she began to boil water for a hot drink. Becky was startled by a loud *THUMP* upstairs. Abandoning the hot tea, she sprinted up to check on Sam. She skidded to a stop in the doorway to find the young hunter kneeling on the hardwood floor and trying to burrow under the blanket still around his shoulders.

"Sammy, what are you doing out of bed? I told you I'd bring you something soon," she chided, sitting beside her idol. Sam didn't respond. He stayed huddled in a ball, keeping his blanketed arms crossed over his otherwise bare chest. Becky realized his teeth were chattering too hard to get a word out. She was surprised they hadn't chipped yet!

"*huh-uh-uhhuh-uh-uh-uh*ppp-pa-pa-pa-pa-*ppppp*-pa-pa-pa *ngh!-huh-uh*...." After struggling for nearly a minute, Sam finally drew a trembling hand out from his cocoon to point at what he was trying to reach.

"Oh! You want the parka?" Sam nodded.

"Sorry, sweetie, but the parka's too thick. You aren't producing enough body heat to warm it up, so it would just make you colder. That's why your blankets are so thin: so the outside heat can warm you up," Becky explained. Her reasoning was little comfort to the hunter.

"Come, on! Back to bed," she grinned, moving to help him up. This time, Sam actually moved away from her.

"What's wrong, baby?"

Sam gave her his best puppy eyes which were even more effective with how much he was shaking and shivering. Becky felt her heart melt at the sight. She helped him onto the bed before enveloping him in a tight hug, snaking her arms under the blanket so she could feel his back. Sam melted into the hug. He was almost purring as Becky's heat helped his trembling slow. The hunter nuzzled into the crook of her shoulder, burrying his face in her hair, breathing in the smell of sweet coconut shampoo.

He was so sore from the shivering and so tired from his freezing experience that he began to drift off. It didn't matter that he was still quaking; all he could think about was that he was finally getting warm. Becky rested her head on his, gently rocking them from side to side. Sam closed his eyes and allowed the delicious warmth to lull him to sleep.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_

His hands were numb. His feet were numb. Hell, even his face was numb. The rest of his body burned painfully in the frigid night air. Dean shook uncontrollably as he continued to fight against his shackles. He'd been kicking and pulling and thrashing ever since he gained consciousness. But the wood was young and refused to give easily.

With one last powerful tug, Dean broke through the beam that held him captive. He maneuvered the chain around his ankles over the broken wood before retrieving the key left just out of reach to taunt him. Dean had to blow into his hands and rub them together for a few minutes. Once the tingling sensation began to revive his feeling, he unlocked himself. He hissed slightly when he saw where the chains dug into his skin, and even created some freeze burns.

But that wasn't important. What was important - or rather, who was important - was Sammy. Dean didn't notice how the snow slithered into his boots as he trudged up to the house. His only concern was his baby brother. Becky hadn't bothered to lock the door after she went in, which saved Dean the trouble of kicking it down.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. The only sounds the older hunter could hear were his chattering teeth and stuttered breathing. Looking to his left, he found a tea kettle on the lit stove; he turned it off, hoping to remain undiscovered until he got Sam warm and safe. He could make Becky pay later. Dean held his numb hands up to where the fire had been so he could defrost his hands completely. Then, he began to search the house for his brother.

The bottom floor was an open floor plan with a bathroom and den to the right. Sam must be upstairs. Dean bit his tounge while he walked up to snuff out the sound of his chattering teeth. Even though he could easily take out Becky, he didn't want to push her to hurt Sam.

Dean walked down the hall, peering around the corner and into each room before moving on. As he stood in front of the last door, he heard muffled whimpering and tiny cries of pain.

Sammy.

Without a second thought, Dean stormed into the room. He was met with a very surprised Becky who had Sam curled up to her like an infant. Dean ripped her away from his brother so harshly that she flew off the bed. Sam let out a mewling cry at the loss of heat, but it was quickly replaced by joy.

Dean was here!

"DDD-DD-D-D-De-De-," Sam tried. Dean was sitting on the bed in front of him with his hands on his soulders.

"S-SS-Sam-m-m-my...," Dean replied, pulling his baby brother close to his chest. Even when he too was freezing, Dean radiated warmth. Sam wrapped his limbs around his brother, cocooning them in the blankets. The older hunter hefted him up with one arm, using the other to grab the parka on the chair.

Becky took advantage of his occupied state. She ran out of the room, closing and locking the door. As an added precaution, she jammed the dresser from the second guest room between the walls and in front of that locked door. No way they were getting out.

But Dean hadn't planned on using the door. He was going to carry his brother out through the window on his back. Now that Becky was gone, Dean could take more time to make sure his brother would stay as warm as possible for the trek back to the Impala. He set Sam down on the bed to bundle him into the parka. He added gloves, a scarf, hat, and the sneakers as well. The task was nearly impossible with how much they were both shaking, but as always, they managed.

"Wha-Wha-Wha-Wha-Wha-a-a 'b-b-bb-b-bou *yyyyyy*-y-," Sam asked.

"Y-Y-Y-Yo-ou *fffff*f-f-fi-irsttt," Dean insisted, wrapping him in a blanket as a precaution. He opened the window, shivering wildly when the snow and wind attacked him.

"*DDDDDDDDDDDDDD*...," Sam protested. Dean, thinking his kid was still getting colder, brought him another blanket. Sam shakily grabbed the blanket and pushed it back. Dean nodded, tying the blanket around his shoulders so he could help Sam up.

"C-C-CC-Co-om*mmm*me o-onnn," he encouraged. The brothers embraced one another as they shuffled towards the open window. Dean hoisted Sam up piggyback style, hoping it would be easier to carry him down. Sam wrapped his limbs tightly around his brother. He burried his face in the blanket as another powerful shudder rattled his teeth.

"C-CC-C-CCC-C-Co-o-o-old-d-d," he murmured.

"Ha-Ha-Ha-anggg o-o-onnn," Dean pleaded. He held onto his brother's legs with his left hand so his right hand could support their descent to the ground. The snow was thick enough that it cushioned their landing. But it was also cold enough and wet enough to soak Dean up past his knees. He had to cling to the fence post as shudders tore through him. It was a testament to how cold he was when Sam managed to slide down without him noticing.

Sam unhuddled from his blanket to wrap it around his big brother. Dean shakily pulled the blankets around him. His teeth were knocking together so furiously that he couldn't get more than a whimper out. Sam decided to bundle him up in the hat and scarf he was wearing. He unzipped the parka, hugged Dean close, then started leading them away from Becky's house.

He thought he saw the Impala parked a ways away, but it was too snowy to see properly. The brothers were so cold and so shaky and so frozen that they collapsed in the middle of the road. They huddled as close together as possible to conserve any remaining heat. The duo stayed there for several minutes when a pair of headlights shone over them. The boys were too frozen to notice.

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"Dean!? Sam!?" Bobby gasped. He ran over to the frozen brothers to check on their heartbeats. They were weak, but they were there. "Balls! C'mon, boys, let's get you warm!"

It took a lot of effort, but the older hunter eased both Winchesters up and into the passenger side of his truck. In the light, he could see how pale and almost blue they looked! Despite how out of it they were, they still clung to one another. Sam nuzzled into Dean's neck and he burried his face in his hair. Bobby wrapped the emergency blanket around them.

"Hang on, boys! I'll get'cha warm in no time!" He promised, cranking up the heat. The brothers just shivered in response.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_

Dean woke up slowly, nuzzling into his pillow and snuggling into the warm covers. He still felt cold and shivery, but at least he could feel his extremities. Glancing up, he saw his baby brother --still a little pale and chilly-- but recovering. He reached under the covers to gently grab onto his hand. He was about to fall back asleep until he realized he had no idea where they were.

The older brother groaned as he tried to sit up. His muscles were so sore from the shaking and escaping that he flopped back down onto the bed.

"Hey, hey, hey! Take it easy, son! You've been through a lot."

"Bobby?" He asked, recognizing the nickname and tone immediately.

"How're you doing?" He asked.

"Is Sammy okay?"

"He's got a bit of frostnip on his fingers, toes, nose, and ears, but it wasn't severe. No damage at all. He's still pretty cold, but not nearly as hypothermic as earlier." Bobby explained.

"Thank you... for taking care of us," Dean said, tucking his brother under his chin as he starts to drift off. He heard his brother's breathing get a little staggered as he wakes up, then he shakes his head a little.

"*huh'NNSHH!*"

"Hey, there, Sammy," Dean smiles.

"Hey." Sam sniffles. "You ogkay?"

"Still cold and sore beyond belief, but better." Sam coughs and Dean hears the congestion moving around his lungs.

"You catch a cold or somethin'?" Dean asks, feeling his forehead.

"*heh-heh-PSHH! hih'GSHH! HEPSHhuuh!*" 

That was all the answer Dean needed.

"Hey, we made it. We're okay now. Bobby rescued us!" Dean assured. Sam nodded then sneezed again. He shivered.

"De, I'b stdill code."

Dean doesn't have much time to come up with a solution. Bobby bundles a few warm coats around them since all of the blankets and towels are being used to defrost the poor chilly boys. Sam shifts, then sniffles.

"That's better, huh?" Dean checks.

"*heh...heheh...heh'SHHH!* Ngh... Cuddhul?"

"Don't think we could be much closer baby brother," Dean explains. That doesn't stop Sam from wriggling into his brother's chest. Dean sighs, making sure the covers are secure, then hugs his brother.

"Yeah, kiddo. Let's get you warm," he agreed. Sam hummed, then coughed, then started to drift off.

"That's it Sammy. Soak up the warmth."

[xzadionselfships]

Okay, S O , 

I played with a Weiss house for a little bit. Figured out how I want his “backstory” to go. I’m still going with a lot of The Old Laws in terms of naming people. But I played with it for a stupid long time. Long enough to put Weiss through college (I think he majored in a Science??) but then my game bugged out. I had to start over, no saves, no anything. 

So I’ve got all the CC back and I need filming practice anyway for a Super Secret Project. So I’ll be either screenshooting or filming the whole thing this time. 

Also might reveal my Nero design. Its not as good. As hard as Weiss’ hair was to find, finding something suitable for Nero has been ten times harder. Like, nothing works. He’s impossible. I love you, brother dearest. but anyway... 

Prepare for my ultra self-indulgent snapshots or whatever. Including sad pictures of The Boys growing up, or what I call Misery Porn. Is that what whump is? Like, sad shit that you wallow in? I’m so tired. 

[nozomijoestar]

1-10 for an oc of yr choice (since i don't know any of yrs (yet))

meme here

I’ll use my FFXIV OCs bc I’m finicky abt sharing anything on my manuscript OCs in public

Vaste/U’ralhana Odh:

1. What is/are your OC’s nickname(s) and how did it come about?

Her name situation is a little messy but theres a reason behind each one both canon and non-canon! The game by default gives the WoL many titles across the game to reflect your progress to NPCs like eikon-slayer, Azure Dragoon, khagan etc. all tied to feats or positions earned in the MSQ. 

For non canon titles and nicknames I’ve given her Desert Dragon due to her origin of birth from a desert tribe and their guardian animal being Drakes (as well as the fact that she’s a Dragoon and DRGs are traditionally a class associated heavy with dragons), Nine Lives because of the Echo preventing her from true death which also fits with her being a cat race etc. For more personal nicknames one of her younger brothers calls her Rala after her Sun Seeker name being U’ralhana Odh, dearest is also the most common pet name Yugiri has for her, aside from having the privilege of calling her only by her first name for her Sun Seeker side

Her formal naming convention gives her three viable names,

U’ralhana Odh - name the Sun Seekers gave her when she was born to them, the U designates tribe affiliation, followed by her given name, the surname is her father’s first name indicating he sired her (official FFXIV Sun Seeker naming convention) together the name means Ralhana of the Drakes, daughter of Odh

Osha Tayuun - this is the name her mother gave her before she left to rejoin the Moon Keepers in The Black Shroud, she never learned it was hers until the day they finally met well into her adulthood as the WoL, because Moon Keepers are matriarchal unlike Sun Seekers, the last name is also her mother’s while the given name is a normal girls name (i also made it start with O and try to sound similar to her mother’s first name, Oghii)

Vaste Valescoere - she gave herself this name after once being taught a few ancient Garlean (irl Classical Roman Latin) words by a traveling scholar from what little outside contact the tribe saw, once she made the decision to leave to be an adventurer forever she was banished for forsaking tradition, thus she felt she died and needed a new name - this was the first name i gave her because when i first started playing FFXIV i didnt know the races had naming conventions so i just wanted something that sounded like a fantasy name ( i literally just looked two words up in my latin-english dictionary fddjfd)

2. What is the color of your OC’s eyes/hair/skin?

Blue hair with natural black highlights, green eyes, light skin but not pale- all generally Moon Keeper traits but when i was starting out i knew none of that and did what i wanted, her bizarre appearance once i decided she was from the U tribe influenced her being half Sun Seeker and Moon Keeper 

3. How tall is your OC?

5′2 but only because i thought the CC slider meant 5′6 (cuz it lists height in inches and i didnt bother to check ujhghugj shes sometimes embarrassed by her height especially standing next to much taller people, shes still taller than Yugiri though so she enjoys the slight height advantage

4. What is a noticeable physical attribute of your OC?

Her hair, then her eyes

5. What does your OC normally wear? What would your OC wear on a special night?

She’s usually in her armor with her current spear glamoured to appear weaker than it actually is because the simple style reminds her of what she used as a teen before leaving home:

^^ necklace and earrings are different but the second necklace is more typical

im weak for the one arm/shoulder armored while the other isnt or not as much aesthetic

For more special/formal occasions w/o armor she likes wearing this:

6. What is one word you would use to describe your OC’s appearances?

Every time she shows up there’s something dramatic (but not always over the top) happening

7. Does your OC have any markings, such as a birthmark or a scar?

She has the usual pinkish red stripes on her cheeks all Sun Seeker women are born with, in addition to a scar across her nose bridge she got during her huntress rite of passage when a sundrake struck her face (this rite is also how she got the black marks under her eyes afterwards, originally i just liked how they looked and made a backstory for them because the game lists them as tribal tattoos in CC)

The scar i gave her in CC as a ref to Guts from Berserk cuz his is similar (she obtained hers very young like he did as well):

8. How does your OC talk/what does your OC’s voice sound like?

i chose the CC voice 2 option for female miqo’te (you can kinda hear what it sounds like here and here @2:10 since i cant find a video with just vc2 range) and im happy with it (to me it kinda sounds like Rie Tanaka? as far as i know the CC voice VAs have never been revealed so i cant say for certain, i know shes done voicing for FFXIV as Kan E Senna and Sadu and plays it as a huge fan tho) as far as how she talks all Miqo’te are said to have their own racial language unique to them that no other race can accurately pronounce or understand due to all the hissing, purring, and spitting of certain sounds (bc theyre cat ppl lol) so she’ll roll/purr her Rs, hiss her Hs etc.

On top of this system i imagine the U have their own dialect accent too which i hc sounds closer to Xhosa and Zulu mixed if a cat tried to speak it,so it gets complex! Her native accent however becomes slightly toned down the longer she spends away from the U as the WoL, but its still present and obvious enough

9. What does your OC’s bedroom look like?  His/her living area?

the only description valid for this is an organized mess lmao

10. What does your OC keep in a special drawer?

anything small enough to fit given to her by people from her past or those she cares about that linger on her mind, shes somewhat sentimental sometimes

—-

Gan Arulaq

1. Lizard boi has no nicknames that stick outside of being called Bataar playfully by his parents esp his mother bc he liked playing pretend as a heroic figure when he was little (i was aware when i made him in CC that Xaela use Mongolian names and are based a lot on Mongol culture of the 14th century so he follows this convention)

His first name is Mongolian for Steel, his last name denotes his tribe following the game’s convention, simple

2. he is a tan/reddish brown color for skin with black hair and natural red highlights in a short swept back style (his eyes are also green bc i wanted to see what Vaste’s eye color would look like on a Xaela model, tdlr they glow!)

3. Gan is 7′1! the tallest of my characters period, he sees everything from up there and it creates some hilarious and awkward situations (poor guy and most doors, rip)

4. his eyes and his big curved horns

5. he loves wearing primarily clothes that expose a lot of his chest and skin in general because thats most natural to what he wore on the steppe valley back home (as well as being a little vain about his physical appearance and liking the feel of freedom in less clothes) however he can and will wear regular clothes, though in this case his fashion sense is terrible

6. when he appears you can associate him with change (succession is another word that comes to mind given his role to Vaste)

7. with the exception of minor scars from martial training and small accidents he’s the picture of normal for a Xaela

8. i actually cant remember what CC voice i gave him by number, but he does have a somewhat deep, rough voice fitting for a boisterous young man while also being capable of sentimentality and some wisdom, he has a handsome voice, he speaks bluntly but full of feeling and often truth

9. his room would be very organized and everything is neatly assigned to its place as well as being primarily spartan in layout/decoration, he’s used to practicality and function from his childhood on the steppe, lots of trinkets from nature, weapons and trophies of victory etc.

10. a ring given to him by his mother carved from sheep bone, it was her archery thumb ring

[araliyaintheskywithdiamonds]

Dust to Dust - A CrissColfer Fic

Summary: A World War Two AU. Chris goes to fight, and Darren waits for him. 

For the anon who asked for CC in a different decade. I think you wanted something along the lines of some happy hippy 70s fic, so I hope this is okay! I couldn’t help myself!

Word Count: 2431 AO3

*Title from Dust to Dust by The Civil Wars

(Also, set in England.)

January 3, 1940

Neither of them register at the recruitment offices. The boys who do it- the younger ones, at least- do it to impress a girl or to chase the thrill of war. Newly eighteen (some, younger, if they can get away with it), they queue up, eager to serve and earn the pride that comes with it.

Chris pretends he isn’t old enough. He could pass for seventeen, or even less, and the recruitment officers don’t call him out as he passes by the queues. Darren, however, doesn’t need to pretend. He isn’t fit to serve; a blow to the leg from a horse when he was younger shattered his knee cap so severely it was nearly unsalvageable. He walks with a limp, staggered enough to deter the officers.

Neither of them believe in the glory of war. Neither of them want to leave one another. Neither of them think, as telegram after telegram arrive from the front lines, that they want to be the recipient, falling to their knees before they even read the message; already knowing.

***

April 28, 1942

There is a call-up letter in their mailbox addressed, Christopher Paul Colfer. It is Darren who finds it. He wants to hide it, wants to throw it in the flames of the fireplace and watch it burn, letters shrivelling up and turning to incomprehensible dust.

In the end, he leaves it on the kitchen table. Chris has just turned 20 and Darren is kidding himself if he had thought they could ever escape the war.  

***

Chris looks painfully beautiful in the uniform, although he had laughed, and said that the khaki washed him out. Darren had kissed him, and told him otherwise.

He watches as the train leaves and feels like an idiot amongst the crying girlfriends and wives and mothers. He should be there with Chris. He should be protecting him.

Chris hadn’t told Darren that he was scared- not even that he was in the slightest bit apprehensive. But Darren had known better. He had known it in the way Chris’ hands had shaken as they smoothed Darren’s lapel (the most intimate they could be in the light of day, people swarming around them). He had known it in the way Chris’ fingers turned white on the windowsill as he waved goodbye.

He had known in the way, the night before, Chris had clung to him- helpless.

***

August 27 1942

To my dearest D,

                         Libya is so hot that I can hardly stand it. Isn’t it just my luck that I would be sent to the North African Desert? If the Germans don’t kill us, the heatstroke surely will. Not to mention the disease. And the food. And the scorpions.

I’m sorry, I’ve not been out here for even a month and I’m already boring you with my complaints. There’s not much else to talk about, you see. The desert is just that- desert. Sand and shrub as far as the eye can see, tanks (the bloody eyesores) scattered all over the place, and tents to ward off against the night wind and the occasional spray of bullets. Dive bombers if we’re particularly unlucky.

I know I’m scaring you with all of this talk. I’m sorry. I wish you didn’t have to worry about me so much, which I know you are.

I keep a photograph of you in my breast pocket. If the others ask, I tell them you’re my brother. I’m quite sure they don’t believe me, (what with my voice, and you looking about as much like me as one of the Indian soldiers), but no one really cares. In fact, I’d be surprised if they did- we’re constantly being lectured against ‘fraternising’, for fear of venereal diseases like gonorrhea and syphilis. No matter how hard they try, the lectures really aren’t doing much against the scores of infected men that keep cropping up.

There, I’ve got you laughing now. Or more likely, wincing.

I really hope you’re well, darling. I won’t torture you anymore with my complaining- you hear enough of that from me at home. Speaking of home, how are things at the farm? Has Charles come down to help you with this season’s crops? I hope he has- you work yourself too hard.

I must get going soon- we’re doing a practice advance today with the Australians. They’re all used to the heat- damn them.

Anyway, goodbye my love. Rest easy and give the dog a cuddle from me. I’ll approve him getting on the bed just this once if it means you’re not sleeping alone at night.

Always yours,

C

***

November 17 1942

My darling D,

                  We had a ghastly sandstorm last night. Thankfully we were all in our tents, but when we woke in the morning, everything was smothered by a layer of dust about three inches thick. I feel terrible for the poor soul who had to guide one of the American fighter planes that landed in the midst of it. I’m sure he must be still shaking the sand out of his ears.

I asked one of the officers about leave. Bad news, sweetheart. I have to serve for at least fifteen months, and even then, most of the time they give me would be spent on the trip there and back. They tell me it’s not worth it, but I would give everything for even an hour with you.

I miss you, D. With every fibre of my being. I don’t feel whole most of the time, and out there, I hardly feel anything at all. I hate it. I am told I am a skilled fighter, but to use that skill to murder? They are still humans, like you and I. They have parents and siblings and husbands and wives and lovers.

We were right. This is all for nothing.  

Yours, with a thousand kisses to make up for the ones I haven’t been able to give you,

C

***

March 22 1943

My beloved D,

                  You are my first thought as I wake, and my last thought as I fall asleep. You are my life in love, and war and death. The knowledge that you are safe, away from this hell, is keeping me sane.

I love you.

Your only,

C

***

May 29, 1943

There hasn’t been a letter in two months. This is the longest Darren has gone without the comfort of fine paper pages between his fingers, coming with them the knowledge that Chris is alive. Not safe, but alive.

At home, in a village which has more sheep than people, an overwhelming sense of helplessness overcomes him. Darren doesn’t have the distraction of the air raids, heart perpetually panicked, things packed and ready to flee. He doesn’t have the sirens and the fire engines and the gas masks hanging off wrists.

He can only sit there as time flows by, as slow and viscous as treacle. Cooper, their sheep dog, knows something is wrong. He props his head up on Darren’s knees, eyes imploring.

“He’s coming back,” Darren assures him. “He’s coming back.”

His voice wavers, and Cooper doesn’t look convinced. Darren feels as if he is going mad. Sleep escapes him, and he does his work on the farm in a trance. The quiet, rolling hills and the cream plaster walls, which had at first, been an escape for the two of them, now feels like a cage. He feels trapped- trapped by his own dead leg, trapped by the farm, trapped by the overwhelming inability to get to Chris.

***

News has come from the North African front that the axis powers have surrendered. Chris was fighting on that front. He should be home soon, if not already.

Darren avoids the telegraph boys, also known as the ‘angels of death’, like the plague. Instead of relief at the knowledge that Chris is no longer in danger, he feels an inexplicable sensation of apprehension. It grows like a tumor in the pit of Darren’s stomach, unfurling and infecting the rest of his body.

He sits at the kitchen table in a daze, staring at Chris’ letters. He counts every I love you like they’re the sherbet sweets that Chris likes so much, letting them melt on his tongue. They taste like kisses.

***

Charles, his brother, is here.

Darren thinks he’s going to go out to the fields, like he always does, in case there’s something that needs doing that Darren can’t. Instead, Charles comes to the table where he sits. In his hand is a letter.

“You got rid of the letterbox,” he says in greeting.

Immediately Darren is up. “What is that?” he asks, eyes drawn to the scrap of paper. His voice shakes minutely. “Chuck- God, please don’t tell me-”

“No! Jesus, Darren, it’s not that,” Charles says, quick to dispel the vague hysteria in Darren’s eyes. “Listen to me- it’s not that.”

Darren expects the tension in his chest to dissolve, but it doesn’t. “Then what? I knocked down the damned letterbox for a reason-”

“-Chris is coming home.”

“...what?”

“Chris is coming home,” Charles repeats carefully.

“Why- why are you saying it like that?”

***

May 31, 1943

The train heaves into the station, sounding as if it may collapse at any moment, wheels screeching to a halt. Darren thinks it sounds rather like a pig before slaughter. Chris had always let Darren take charge of tasks like that- he’d blanch at even the sight of the carcasses at the butcher’s.

The doors slide open, and passengers start to pour out, some of them uniformed. Darren notices, with building unease, that all of them are injured.

He stands there stock-still, as people around him greet their loved ones.

Then, a familiar figure climbs down the steps.

Chris is leaner than Darren remembers. His face is a little scruffier than usual, hair cut choppy, bruises lingering under his lower lashes. His uniform sits tighter around his right arm and right leg, and he walks with a slight, uncertain waver.

But then he looks up- looks right at Darren- and the world is a clear blue.

Suddenly, all Darren knows is the feeling of Chris in his arms; pulling him close, pressing his lips to the sliver of his exposed neck and drinking in the heady, familiar scent of Chris, Chris, Chris. Warm and real and alive.

He doesn’t realise he’s been repeating Chris’ name like a mantra until he hears, “Darren.” The words are soft, and just a little bit admonishing. “People can see us.”

Darren steps back, not letting go of Chris’ shoulders. “I love you,” he says.

Chris’ eyes soften. They are bright in his otherwise weary face. “I love you too.”

***

The spoon clinks against the china teacup rhymically. It is loud and musical in the quiet of their kitchen. Chris uses his left hand to stir the tea, the action unrefined and shaky. He is right-handed.

“Lover,” Darren says quietly. He’s sitting close to Chris, itching to be even closer, to make up for every touch they were deprived of. “What’s wrong?”

Chris doesn’t meet his eye, instead putting the spoon aside slowly. He watches the tea swirl like a whirlpool until it settles into a calm, flat plateau.

“I am so sorry,” he starts quietly, “that I couldn’t write. I’m sorry that I had to worry you. Not knowing where I was- or even whether or not I was alive- must have been torture.”

Darren reaches across the table to cover Chris’ trembling hand. “I never really let myself think about it,” he admits. “In a fit of insanity I even knocked down the letterbox.”

A smile quirks the corner of Chris’ lips. “I saw.”

He takes a breath, and pulls up his right hand, which had been sitting in his lap. “I was shot,” he says, and Darren’s stomach drops onto the kitchen floor. “In my right leg and my right arm. I was lucky- had my arm moved even an inch, the bullet would have gone right through my side and done a whole lot more damage.” The hand holding Darren’s squeezes. “My leg fared alright. I mean, I still can’t move it without wincing, but I’m told it will heal. My arm, not so much. The nerves are apparently so damaged that I most likely won’t be able to regain movement in my right hand.” He looks up at Darren, smiling a little. “It’s quite convenient, I think. I’m of no use if I can’t even do so much as pull a trigger.”

Darren laughs, shortly and wetly.

“I’m back, Dare,” Chris says softly. “They can’t take me out there again. I’m staying right here with you.” He pushes his chair back to make to get up, but Darren is there first, wrapping his arms around Chris’ neck. He clings on tightly, feeling the tears slip down his cheeks. Darren unwittingly slides to his knees, laying his head in Chris’ lap.

“Without you,” he whispers, “I was not whole either.”

Chris’ fingers come up to cradle Darren’s head. “My beloved,” he whispers.

***

April 28, 1949

Darren wakes to a scream. Chris is sitting up beside him, eyes unfocused, breathing in deep, rasping breaths. A thin sheen of sweat lingers over his skin, seeping down his chest and across his shoulders. Darren pushes himself upright immediately, laying a cool hand on the side of Chris’ face.

He turns Chris’ cheek towards him carefully, until the glassiness dissipates and his pupils come into focus. “Love,” Darren calls out softly. “Are you with me?”

Chris swallows, nodding shakily. “Yes.” He brings up his left hand to cover Darren’s. “I’m with you.”

Darren presses a kiss to Chris’ temple, drawing him into his arms. “Do you remember what it was?” he asks quietly.

Shell shock, coined after the Great War, for the men who still had a war raging inside their heads long after the fighting was over. War Neurosis, Battle Fatigue, Combat Stress- new names surfacing for the same, debilitating terror. They all meant the same thing.

“Flashes,” Chris whispers against Darren’s shoulder. “You were there. Your l-leg, it had been blown right off. I had to pick pieces of shrapnel out of your thigh.”

Darren feels vaguely sick. “I’m alright,” he says instead. “We’re both alright.”

After a while, Chris stops trembling. He pulls back, apologetic. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“I’ve always told you to wake me, Chris.”

Chris smiles and presses a kiss to Darren’s lips. He smooths the crease between Darren’s eyebrows, albeit shakily. “I’m alright, lover.”

“We’re alright,” Darren repeats.

[lilallama]

ALRIGHT HELLO!!! uh I'm not really sure how to do these things but imma try ngkskfk💀 if you're busy rn, just ignore this! Buuut like I promised, I came with an art club ask hehehe😈 okok, so basically I'm wondering how would both the clubs react if y/n began hanging out more with the art club during school and after school, which leaves them slowly drifting away from the cooking club👀 would the cc threaten the ac or just start hogging all of y/n's attention? (also if it's fine with you, I'll be sending some more ac asks in the future since I wanna know more about them hehehe <3)

Oh, no you don't! The cooking club will be absolutely livid, especially Namjoon. Of course only at the art club, never could they be mad at their beloved. Namjoon would confront his younger brother. Spending time with his dearest Y/n, stealing them away from him, is the gravest mistake he could've ever made. While he will not hurt any of the members, he'll likely threaten them. It started off as minor things, such as; if you don't stop, I'll throw your consoles out. But that didn't work. At that point, the seven boys had to discuss what they should do now. Jeongguk suggested torturing them untill they cannot remember their names anymore. But the club quickly discarded that idea, for safety reasons. Yoongi suggested not foing anything. If Y/n's happy with them, they should allow it. Taehyung agreed, with the addition that they should first test the art club, to reassure that they'll be good servants. Of course, never as great as Taehyung. But the other members weren't too keen on that idea, so it was also discarded. Jimin suggested kidnapping Y/n, but they couldn't agree with whom Y/n should stay. It had to be scrapped in the end. Seokjin was too busy admiring himself in the mirror to even listen. He was not worried at all because, I quote; "I'm my Prince's/Princess' favourite anyway. It's such second choice energy to try and eliminate literal toddlers, you know." The others were not happy about that. By then, Hoseok was just done with these idiots. But then he remembered, what kills a friendship faster than misunderstandings and rumours! Namjoon, Jimin and Seokjin are now tasked to spread rumours about the art club. Namjoon politely refused, as it would taint his image which was already wonky due to him spending time with strange commoners. At first Seokjin was annoyed, but he doesn't mind a good gossip every once in a while. Jimin was fully on board, gossip is his middle name. He would fully enjoy ruining the reputation of that pesky art club.

The art club would stay unbothered to everyone around them. The super awesome Y/n Sunbaenim is hanging out with them, can it get any better! They would love spending time with the coolest person on the entire campus! They all rush to get to your classroom first, as soon as the bell rings. Even if it's just for the five minutes inbetween classes, they would love to help you carry or get your books. You praising them is just so fulfilling. Everything they do, they first have to get your opinion. "Sunbaenim, do you wanna watch the new Spiderman with us?" "Sunbaenim, do you want to get ice cteam with us?" "Sunbaenim, what do you think? Should we get Gasi a new hat?" Now that we're talking about Gasi, the little hedgehog will always be with you. You seven are the ultimate team. Nothing can defeat you! "Don't worry Sunbaenim, Gasi will protect us! Right, Gasi?" "...." Namjoon threatened to kidnap and abandon Gasi, if they don't stay away from Y/n. But they couldn't let that happen. Gasi could never survive out on their own in the wilderness (their garden)! So they all agreed that Gasi would skip Soobin's turn of taking care of Gasi, to keep them safe. Kai will whine to Y/n about the cooking club being mean to them, to hopefully get sone sympathy cuddles from them. They didn't know about the rumours the cooking club spreaded, but also didn't really care. Like, people stay away from them? OMG! That means they've really intimidated them! Now they're just as cool as the cooking club, if not cooler! They really think they're now the coolest guys in town, because people think they killed someone. Which they haven't done! Yet.

If you liked my work please reblog! 🍑

[lunagoths-ghost-obsession]

Papa 0 is the sweet grandfather wjo gives children candy. Papa 1 is the elder brother whos protective yet seemingly aloof. But papa 2 is the narcissistic asshole. 3? Hes a saint. Amd a total darling even turning straight men. Cardinal? Goofball and a dork. Dearest Sister? Stern and motherly yet a driving force behind the church

Ah but I love the cannon relationship between 2 and 3. They’re like a classic comedy duo where you need the “straight man” and the clown. I don’t think 2 is all that bad, just a little socially awkward and misunderstood. 0 and CC have a bit of the above comedy duo ship to their characters but on a more high stakes level. Good thing CC is Sister’s golden boi and she’ll keep him safe from getting zapped by 0’s laser eyes if he gets too out of line.

[kyungwonrp]

+ ... // STUDENT PROFILE ... LOADING

UHM MINA, also known as JUNE, is 23 YEARS OLD and currently enrolled in kyungwon university. she is in her 3RD YEAR of the UNDERGRADUATE PROGRAM, majoring in PHARMACEUTICAL SCIENCE with a minor in ANTHROPOLOGY. she is notably part of the TAEKWONDO CLUB as VICE PRESIDENT, the KYUNGWON TEA CLUB and is a STUDENT GOVERNMENT REPRESENTATIVE FOR THE DEPARTMENT OF PHARMACY. she works part-time ON-CAMPUS in the PHOENIX BAR. you may find her in the WEST WING (ROOM #1).

                           + ... // LOAD STUDENT BACKGROUND . . .

tw: mentions of body image

[to: uhmjunghwa@outnet.kr]

[bcc: lee.kino@gmail.com]

[subject: a belated update!]

[sent: 20:21, 04/06/2022]

dearest grandma, 

hello! it feels like a lifetime since i could last sit down and write to you; it’s certainly been a busy semester so far. 

the heat is sweltering but in an attempt to save energy, we’ve decided to forgo air conditioning in our dorm. strangely, i’ve found myself preferring to sweat out the day’s stress. it seems to be the little repose i can salvage from such a full schedule.  and if nothing else, i’ve certainly become more grateful for the clouds!

on especially nice days, my friends and i will try to get out and spend some of our time basking in the sun (avoiding any sunburn, of course). those moments are so like how summer feels at home. bare feet in the grass, surrounded by the smell of beer and people chattering away. if i close my eyes, i can imagine the outline of granddad’s barley fields and their glow. ah, how poetic these inner-city slicks are making me…

the summer breeze also manages to provide relief from the city’s congestion! seoul is so polluted, but at this time of year, it doesn’t occur to me so much. all i see is the crisp, blue sky and the glittering skyscrapers covering the cbd. 

in my appreciation of the hot weather, i’ve not forgotten my purpose. you’ll be pleased to know my two latest assignments received full marks and i’ve been elected as department representative for the student government. 

i know how important connections were to your career, so this feels like a significant step forward. i’m now mingling amongst the best of the best with proof of my place. its not yet been confirmed, but there’s a rumour my vote count was the highest amongst all the current reps. i think we both know who raised me as such a proficient politician ;)

anyway, i hope you and granddad have enjoyed this heat. i had a look and it seems to be even warmer down south! i’d love to come visit and experience it myself sometime soon. 

all my love and thanks, june

[from: uhmjunghwa@outnet.kr]

[subject: re: a belated update!]

[received: 11:00, 05/06/2022]

just sent allowance through — don’t spend in one place.

checked kyungwon site and saw your photo. don't wear your hair up, makes your forehead look big.

best, grandma

[to: uhmjunghwa@outnet.kr]

[cc: lee.kino@gmail.com]

[subject: re: re: a belated update!]

[sent: 11:05, 05/06/2022]

dearest grandma,

thank you so much. as always, i’m so grateful for how you provide for me and my brother’s education. i will make sure to be frugal. 

thank you for the advice, i will be sure to remember it. 

all my love and thanks,  june.

[poppo911]

You’ve Got Mail! (Chapter 3)

Read it on FFN here

Word count : 3000-ish

Chapter 3 – Troublemaker(s)

.

.

To : All contacts

From : Christopher Vinther

Subject : Money Proposals

All teachers and staffs,

Please refrain from making unnecessary requests for money. Any unanticipated proposals submitted within the next two weeks will be denied. With, or without the Principal’s signature.

With the triennial accreditations ahead, a decent portion of the institution’s annual budget will be allocated for its preparation. Your understandings and supports would be truly appreciated.

Regards.

Okay, enough with the formality.

Seriously though, up to twenty six thousands centz in less than a week? What the hell! Why should I give you guys money for a shitload of pasta I did not eat? Or desks I did not break nor use? Go on destroying this school’s infrastructures and it will eventually close down even before we reach the accreditation terms.

Which means there would be less problem for me, now that I think about it.

P.s Dearest Miss Riza Hawkeye, if that lovely student of yours is keen enough to break a fire extinguisher, just like what he did last semester, I will grant you some cash just enough to refill it with lemonade iced tea. They can also put out a small fire, right?

Stay greedy for money,

Christopher Vinther

Staff, Treasurer

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

.

.

To : Riza Hawkeye

From : Miles

Subject : Re: Money Proposals

It’s alright, Ms. Hawkeye. He also said that to me last semester when I was Edward’s homeroom teacher.

Suck up to Mr. Grumman a bit and the expense will be fully covered by the institution. You of all people would know better about his… peculiar taste.

Been there done that,

Miles

Teacher, Physics

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

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To : Roy Mustang

From : Heymans Breda

Subject : Alphonse Elric is surprisingly lovely

Before you take this mail’s subject the wrong way, I mean Alphonse is a caring, obedient student loved by his classmates, in contrast to his elder brother. Plus point, he also managed to achieve perfect score on my math pre-test.

You were right, though—three days into this, and I don’t think being a homeroom teacher is that bad.

Chess during lunch break?

Heymans Breda

Teacher, Mathematics

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

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To : Heymans Breda, Roy Mustang

From : Jean Havoc

Subject : Abort mission (continued)

So long story short,

I came to her as she was reading an online newspaper (in Dutch, my best guess) while sipping her coffee. Then I took a seat beside her. And then she eyed me curtly—hell, I hadn’t even said a thing!

Of course I was confused. After a few seconds of intense glaring, she told me, “Speak.”

So I did. I introduced myself—a little bit stuttered there coz who on earth can sit through her piercing blue eyes and stay collected?

Her response?

“Spit it out clearly. I don’t have all day to listen to your blabber.”

“Jean Havoc. P.E coach. Nice to meet you.”

“And?”

“Wha—err, you’ve got nice curves, there.”

The following events were a blur, and suddenly, I was laying on one of the beds in Knox’s room. With a cold ice pack on my crotch.

Yet Miles, who had spent years teaching in North, said that I’m apparently ‘lucky enough’ for getting ‘just that’. Well, luck my arse.

I repeat—abort mission. Those bada-boom breasts do not worth your (and your offsprings’) life.

Jean Havoc

Coach’s Aide, Physical Education

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

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To : Jean Havoc, Roy Mustang

From : Heymans Breda

Subject : Re: Abort mission (continued)

If stupidity could be expressed in graphics, yours would be graphs of exponential function y = 2^x when the base is greater than 1—smooth, continuous, and increases without bound as it approaches positive infinity.

Heymans Breda

Teacher, Mathematics

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

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To : Tim Marcoh

Cc : Yoki, Buccaneer

From : Roy Mustang

Subject : Who on their right mind refilled the chem lab’s fire extinguisher with expired lemonade iced tea???

A small-combustion-went-wrong and when we tried to put it out, it was fckn lemonade iced tea inside! Good heavens we installed automated water sprayers in the entire buildings last year in case of fire. (None was injured, fortunately.)

I’m going to make a formal request for a thorough inspection.

Drenched in water for the second time this week,

Roy Mustang

Teacher, Chemistry

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

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To : Roy Mustang

Cc : Buccaneer

From : Tim Marcoh

Subject : Re: Who on their right mind refilled the chem lab’s fire extinguisher with expired lemonade iced tea???

Sorry for the inconvenience,

I believe there has been no reinstallment for any of our fire extinguisher units recently. And considering that the last inspection was right before the winter break, whatever happened here afterwards, chances are it took place during the vacation, if that is even possible.

And yes, please proceed with the inspection. I will let the Principal know.

Regards,

Tim Marcoh

Staff, Head of the Laboratory

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

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To : Heymans Breda

From : Jean Havoc

Subject : Spring breeze had never felt this hot

Holy fuck bro, have you seen Ri’s outfit today? Mustang’s gonna regret this for his entire life if he missed the view!

Covertly admiring that suave thigh from afar,

Jean Havoc

Coach’s Aide, Physical Education

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

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To : Jean Havoc

From : Heymans Breda

Subject : Re: Spring breeze had never felt this hot

(You just never learn from past mistakes, huh?)

Beware. Ms. Armstrong could bust your nut. I bet she could do no less.

Can’t find myself disagree, though. Just make sure you don’t get caught by anyone. I mean anyone—that guy could set your ass on fire and make it looked like a small lab accident.

Heymans Breda

Teacher, Mathematics

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

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To : Roy Mustang, Tim Marcoh

From : Buccaneer

Subject : Re: Re: Who on their right mind refilled the chem lab’s fire extinguisher with expired lemonade iced tea???

Right away, Sirs.

Buccaneer

Staff, Head of Security Personnels

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

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To : Alex Louis Armstrong

From : Maes Hughes

Attachment : Elysia_photos_collaged .jpeg

Subject : Permission request for not attending your class

After a looong day of works, at last, I present you, A COLLAGE OF ELYSIA’S PHOTO COLLECTIONS! LOOK AT HOW CUTE SHE IS, ALEX!! Thee art mine life, mine every breath, little angel.

Anyway, I’m requesting permission for one of my homeroom student:

Windsor, Amadea (class of 2015)

for not being able to attend your P.E classes at least for the next two weeks due to an unfortunate accident leaving her with sprained ankle. In the mean time, could you give her written assignments instead? Thanks, Alex.

Which reminds me, have you seen Roy this morning? I know he will be busy in the lab today, but he’s not one to miss Sciezka’s Free-Brunch-Wednesday especially when quiches are involved!

I’m gonna spend the rest of the day being stuck here in my desk grading the kids’ essays. So if you managed to meet him, please inform him that today, for the first time in forever, Rizzie wore a high-slit pencil skirt to work today—bet you my monthly paycheck that he’d be way more than elated.

My heart belongs to Gracia Hughes but—deeeemn dude, those long, slender legs.

P.s The gossips regarding your sister are getting out of hand! I mean knocking Jean Havoc out in one kick? Come on!

Gracia’s hot hubby,

Maes Hughes

Teacher, English Literature

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

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To : Knox

From : Alphonse Elric

Subject : Medicication Request from Mr. Mustang

Good afternoon, Doctor Knox. I am Alphonse Elric from Mr. Heymans Breda’s class.

I was making my way to the boy’s restroom when I saw Mr. Mustang rushing to one of the stalls with drenched outfit and massive nosebleed. Miss Riza, whom he had been talking to only a few seconds before, admitted that she knew nothing beside his unfortunate water sprayer incident. He also won’t tell me the cause of his nosebleed, and told me to contact you instead to ask for some medications for him.

Does it have something to do with his beet-red face, Doctor? Since I did not see any signs of head trauma nor recent rigorous physical activity.

Best regards,

Alphonse Elric

Student, Class of 2017

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

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To : Alphonse Elric

From : Knox

Subject : Re: Medicication Request for Mr. Mustang

There’s no cure for his current nosebleed. Just tell him to shove some fabrics up his damn nostrils and stop thinking of inappropriate images of a certain coworker of him.

Coincidentally, your brother is here in my room. You might want to pay this brat a visit and give him a long-ass lecture as well.

Knox

Staff, Physician

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

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To : Edward Elric

Cc : Maria Ross

From : Riza Hawkeye

Subject : Detention Notice

The student Edward Elric will be detained during the lunch break on March 8 from 12:00 p.m until 12:45 p.m for the following reason(s):

- Mocking someone based on their racial features

- Being engaged in a physical fight resulting in mild injuries for both parties

Signed,

Riza Hawkeye

Teacher, Biology

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

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To : Ling Yao

Cc : Maria Ross

From : Riza Hawkeye

Subject : Detention Notice

The student Ling Yao will be detained during the lunch break on March 8 from 12:00 p.m until 12:45 p.m for the following reason(s):

- Intensely mocking someone based on their physical features

- Being engaged in a physical fight resulting in mild injuries for both parties

- Trespassing into the Curtis’ kitchen, consuming half of the prepared pasta and taking the rest of it home on Monday, March 6th 2017 (evidences were collected during the ongoing thorough inspection by the security personnels)

Signed,

Riza Hawkeye

Teacher, Biology

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

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To : Lan Fan

Cc : Maria Ross

From : Riza Hawkeye

Subject : Detention Notice

The student Lan Fan will be detained during the lunch break on March 8 from 12:00 p.m until 12:45 p.m for the following reason(s):

Encouraging a physical fight by being actively involved in it

Signed,

Riza Hawkeye

Teacher, Biology

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

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To : Riza Hawkeye

From : Maria Ross

Subject : Re: Detention Notice

Things are getting out of hand. Got a plan in mind?

Just got summoned to the Principal’s room for the first time in months,

Maria Ross

Teacher, School Guidance Counselor

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

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To : Riza Hawkeye

From : Eugene Grumman

Subject : To my beautiful granddaughter

My precious Queen Rizzie,

You know I support every choices you make in life, as long as you’re happy with it. That includes not majoring in organic chemistry (much to your father’s dismay), living on your own, and also teaching in the school I lead.

It saddens me to say this, but today, I couldn’t say I approve your choice of articles of clothing. Sure, they are still within the rules, and your friend Rebecca had been wearing even more revealing outfits for more than I care to count. It’s not that you look horrible in them, Honey—it’s the exact opposite. And such thing could make us men delighted, in a certain way. But no, when it comes to you, I am anything but delighted.

In the future, could you please do your old grandpa a favor and avoid wearing such clothing at all cost, both within and outside work environment?

Because I am the principal. And you will do as I say.

Lots of love,

Eugene Grumman

Principal

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

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To : Solf Z. Kimblee

From : King Bradley

Subject : Warning

Is there any reason for you skipping works for two days in a row without any notification? Are you that eager to become jobless?

King Bradley

Staff, Head of Administrative Affairs

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

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To : Alphonse Elric

From : Riza Hawkeye

Subject : Introduction

Hello, Alphonse.

I’m sure I had entered your class once before, but in case you forget, I will introduce myself first. My name is Riza Hawkeye, and I teach biology. I got your mail address from Mr. Breda, your homeroom teacher.

Don’t worry, Alphonse. I only write to tell you that I would like to discuss a few things with you regarding… your brother.

Could you please meet me after school at the teachers’ room on the third floor? My desk is at the far left (if your back is facing the hall) near the windows.

Thank you very much.

Regards,

Riza Hawkeye

Teacher, Biology

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

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To : Alex Louis Armstrong

From : Olivier Mira Armstrong

Subject : All those East City chickens are getting under my skin

Now I understand your reason for being the family’s disgrace despite having the same blood as mine running through your veins. Surrounded by these idiots doesn’t come without consequences after all.

First, that guy from the Administration Affairs who thought it was funny to joke on my first name since it is, apparently, a ‘masculine name of French origin’. If that means my name is way more masculine than the unmanly squeak he let out as I slammed his desk, I’m fine with it.

Grumman’s far-fetched goofiness is not something I like to deal with, but his secretary—Cataline? Caitlyn?—is way worse. Someone’s got to teach her proper manners to interact with someone who’s her senior by a couple of years. How did she make it to that position, anyway? Or does that old man got a disgusting affinity to low-cut blouses?

Don’t even make me start on that fuckin blond whose mouth was uglier than his face. Boy had to be reminded that his balls are not big enough to approach a stranger that way. I just wasted my two minutes I could better use for breathing peacefully yesterday.

Also that bespectacled technician who won’t let me have my bandwith yet. If only he worked faster and stop saying that lame you-just-arrived-here-today-ma’am-there’s-no-way-I-can-set-it-up-for-you-in-less-than-a-day excuse while trembling visibly as he entried my data, I would’ve had it by now. Using my smartphone for internet makes me less productive than normal.

I kinda see that old man’s reason to transfer me here—so that the accreditation board (mainly ran by the Armstrongs, yes) will ignore the fact that his school is lagging behind. Behind the North, at least.

And the worst of all—I now have to share an office with that guy? You heard my story about when I was one of the board’s members in the last triennial accreditation. The one where I got into a heated argument with a Xingese-looking teacher. Heck, I can’t even recall what we were arguing over—what I remember is his displayed ‘politeness’ during the bargaining. It was a fckn accreditation, Alex. And he conceitedly tried to make a concession. Do I also have to remind you that he did NOT do it the ‘clean’ way? Well maybe his ‘charismatic’ smile could woo most girls whose brains are smaller than their compact powder cases—but for me? It only made me want to punch him in the jaw. His smug face had been contaminating my mind ever since—and now I also have to learn that his name is Roy Mustang. And share a goddamn teacher’s room with him.

Summary: Stop making me ashamed by telling people that we’re siblings. I’d rather keep that one as low-key as possible.

Olivier Mira Armstrong

Teacher, Dutch Literature

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

Sent from mobile

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To : Maria Ross

From : Denny Brosh

Subject : I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, I just happened to be there

Do you know that Ms. Riza could be so… persuasive? I was collecting some files from the teachers’ room and accidentally (well not so accidental, I did do my job slower on purpose) overheard her conversation with a freshman. Didn’t get what they’re talking about, tho. I just knew that Edward was involved. Are they trying to blackmail that kid? Heaven knows.

Anyway, I have done making the recaps of last year’s senior students’ grades. Would you like me to print it out for you or just the softcopy will be fine?

At your service,

Denny Brosh

Staff, Administrative Affairs

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

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To : Rebecca Catalina

From : Riza Hawkeye

Subject : Your skirt gave me more trouble than Edward did

See? I told you it would be better for me to wear that you-so-called ‘boring’ trousers!

Riza Hawkeye

Teacher, Biology

East Amestris Senior High School | 75 Sycamore Lane, East City

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To be continued

Yes, Mustang’s infatuation to the biology teacher is something that everyone knows. He’s only too afraid to admit that to himself lol.

Pretty sure each places have their own rules, but here in my place, that kind of relationship between civilian coworkers is allowed as long as they are not placed in the same ‘unit’ or structural positions that would allow them to practice favoritism (for example, in fact, some of my college lecturers are married to each others). Of course I don’t mean to paint every places white with this, but let’s just assume that here, in East Amestris Senior High School, such thing is not against the rule! XD I do apologize if there’s anybody bothered with this matter…

Aaaand also this fic got more royai I initially planned. Should I apologize for that, too, being a royai trash I am?

Starting a fic is a thing. Keeping it interesting for several chapters is a whole different challenge. Your thoughts would be very appreciated for my improvements—reviewreviewreview! Do tell me if there’s any character you find OOC, or too inappropriate, or such.

Thanks for reading!