#like a lot of that is what she puts out to the galaxy

[narfin-frood]

pivotal moment where wander "has to" integrate sylvia into the hivemind and it EATS at him and it's the catalyst for a great deal of his redemption arc

GOOD PROMPT!!!! VERY GOOD PROMPT!!! i'm sorry the captions and timing are a little fuckedup but i could not REST until i finished this. i do recommend pausing to read some of this, and if that ends up being tedious, i'll put the thumbnails with a transcript under the cut!!

TRANSCRIPT:

[interior, planet yonder. wander growls in distress, green lightning sparking around him]

MR. METEOR: peepers, we gotta get outta here! [he grabs peepers by the hand and takes off]

WANDER: N-N-N-NO! YOU WILL NOT UNDO ALL MY HARD WORK!!

[wander growls again. sylvia covers her head to protect from falling objects]

SYLVIA: WANDER! are you okay??

WANDER: I'M FINE!!!

SYLVIA: really?? cuz this place is lookin' like it might not hold up much longer!!

WANDER: NO!!!

[wander rubs his forehead with his fingers, grimacing with effort. the lightning dissipates. cut to mr. meteor and sir peepers, at a crossroads. mr. meteor is looking up and around the ceiling as peepers scampers around him, looking for the way out]

SIR PEEPERS: ohhhh where'd we park?? which way is out??? ohhh grop it all looks the same!!! we're trapped!!!

MR. METEOR: it stopped...

SIR PEEPERS: [glances upward] ...huh.

[cut back to sylvia and wander]

SYLVIA: that's some willpower you got there, buddy...

WANDER: sylvia?

SYLVIA: hm?

WANDER: i want you to go after them. and i want you... to hurt them.

SYLVIA: wh...what...?

WANDER: i believe i've made myself clear.

SYLVIA: [shakes her head] no. i'm not doing that. you don't want me to do that.

WANDER: AND WHO ARE YOU TO ARGUE??? FOR THE GOOD OF THE COLONY, SISTER, I ORDER YOU TO GET THEM!!!

[wander breathes heavily from the effort of screaming. sylvia looks disgusted.]

SYLVIA: [removing her cloak] alright.

WANDER: w-w-wait, what're you doing?

SYLVIA: i'm leaving. [she wads up her cloak into a ball] if this is the kinda operation you're running now, i don't wanna be part of it. have fun spreading kindness across the galaxy.

[wander stares at her, wide-eyed and baring his teeth in an intense frown, as she walks away]

WANDER: [reaching out to grab her with several arms] YOU GET BACK HERE RIGHT NOW!!!!!

[cut to mr. meteor and peepers, who are running down a tunnel]

MR. METEOR: are you sure we're going the right way??

SIR PEEPERS: i have NO IDEA sir

MR. METEOR: it opens up ahead! this might be the way out!

[camera zooms in and focuses on the end of the tunnel. something drops from the ceiling right in front of the exit, unfolding itself to take the form of sylvia. she has two mushroom arms sticking out of the sides of her head, connected to the ceiling, and her cloak is on again.]

MR. METEOR: UH-OH!

SIR PEEPERS: OH GROP

[closeup on sylvia's face. she snorts]

MR. METEOR: she doesn't look too happy, peepers!

SIR PEEPERS: why are you saying that like it's MY fault??

[sylvia mimics rolling up the sleeve she doesn't have and crouches, preparing to leap. peepers reaches for his sword.]

SYLVIA: GRRH!

[sylvia leaps into the air, screaming, aiming for peepers]

SYLVIA: YAAAAAAAAH!!!

SIR PEEPERS: ENGARDE, SHE-BEAST!

[shot changes to a flat shot from the side, and sylvia sails over peeper's head, crash-landing on the floor with a smack. she slides forward until she arrives at mr. meteor's feet.]

MR. METEOR: uhh...?

[sylvia shoots back to her feet, grabbing mr. meteor by the collar and winding back to punch him in the face}

MR. METEOR: WHOAWHOAWHOAWHOA WAIT!! NOOOOOO NOT THE FAAAAAAACE!

[sylvia's fist makes surprisingly gentle contact with hater's jaw. he looks at her in confusion, and sees her crying]

MR. METEOR: uhh. okay. um.

[he begins to scoot past her and away. sylvia crumples to the ground, shaking]

MR. METEOR: seems like you're goin' through a lot right now, and...if you're done, y'know, trying to kill us, or whatever that was...

[he trails off and makes eye contact with Sir Peepers. They dash off down the tunnel and disappear.]

[damnprecious]

I got my flat pretty much set up after the move and now I'm exhausted, can I sleep for a thousand years

[inkskinned]

no, actually, where is the whimsy?

my ex had a best friend named larry who asked me once: what do you think comes after irony?

we were at the bar where larry worked. it was a quiet night, and he'd hopped over to sit with us on the patron side. i swirled the lemon around my limoncello martini.

earnest positivity, i said, while my ex said, art self-destructs.

i stared at my ex. he stared at me.

his argument was the cinemasins argument: look how bad media is becoming! look at the loopholes and the dumb shit!

it was roughly 2011. galaxy print was still in. at the time, i had a favorite shirt that was a wolf howling at the moon. it got ripped in half in the wash and i honestly still mourn it. i dressed like effie stonem, because everyone did. and irony was the name of the thing. men liked MLP "ironically." the internet liked the kind of crass, "anti-mainstream" vibes of things like fuck romance, touch my butt and buy me pizza. we put cats in sunglasses everywhere, which was because we only liked things in irony.

and media had the same vibe in it: anti-hero white men would be "hard to love" and then storm off the scene. nobody was just earnestly trying to save the world: they were jaded, angry, unoriginal. mad you even asked them to try to help.

my ex ends up not being wrong. cinemasins becomes super popular. a lot of people start viewing media with this lens that is the cruelest, most jaded depiction. it's wrong for your character to have unexplained powers, even if the entire movie is about how strange it is she has unexplained powers - that is still considered a "loophole." characters make thoughtless, panicked choices? loophole. characters are actually kind people, despite hardship? loophole. features a woman doing literally anything without assistance? loophole. movies become hyper-aware of scrutiny, and now irony rules the media.

which means you go to a movie, and the character has to turn to the screen and say "beats me!!" or one of the side characters has to have some kind of quip like "are you seriously telling me that you think this is normal?" because nothing can happen in earnest. like a sitcom laugh track, we now anticipate the fourth-wall break: the moment that the media acknowledges it is telling a story. the media has to apologize for itself, or else someone like my ex rolls their eyes.

but here's the thing: i wasn't wrong either.

the difference might be that i am (and always have been) so soft-hearted that any crack in the light of this world will spear me into the ground. and i was the poet in the relationship. (he thought that was the same thing as being naïve and stupid). i was making things daily. i knew how all of us artists are driven by some strange desire to evolve. he notably liked to critique art, not to create it.

so yes, i've made things that are bitter and angry and even ironic. i've made long, sharp poems with all capital letters, and i've made poems about how the silence stretches out like a song. someone wrote once that we will spend our whole lives just circling the place we grew up. i think it's more that we spend our whole lives trying to remake a home. i think it's that as we age, it becomes less exciting to build the castle on the beach - we become aware of erosion, of windforce. we realize what we really want is to come home to our dog, castle or not.

and while art in the foreground is mired in white male violence and irony, and aggression, and not taking anything seriously - i don't think that's true of all art. i think more and more artists are leaning in to the things we love. the world has changed so much. they have taken so many things from us. the only thing we have left is love. at the bottom of the moving box - all we get is the faint sense that we have to appreciate what little we've got. i can't enjoy this stuff ironically anymore: what room do i have for irony? if it makes me happy, that is an amazing thing. there are so few happy places left for me. i want to be happy because of how leaves shiver beside each other like nestling birds. i want to be happy because of the color pink, and how magenta doesn't exist. i have spent so much of this life suffering, i have earned my right to a gentle ending. if nothing matters, i get to assign meaning to the nothing. i get to create meaning. i am an artist first and foremost, which means creation is my thing.

where is the whimsy? wherever i fucking put it. because if this is my last fucking chance to do any good in this world - i want to do it earnestly. i want to write things that make you happy. that make people feel heard and seen. what comes after irony has to be positivity.

it was close to my 21st birthday. in 7 years, i would end up writing a book about this relationship, which is hopefully coming out somewhere around May 2024. i come back to this bar scene in my memories a lot. i keep thinking of how pale my ex was. the look that crossed his face. how i looked back at him. how for a moment, both of us couldn't recognize the other person. like the gulf between us was a suddenly wide and cavernous thing. like we were alien to each other. he never took my opinion seriously, and he always seemed surprised whenever his manic-pixie-dream-girl ever broke free of the plot. like in the whole time we were together, i wasn't human enough.

this knowledge: where he said nothing comes after, my only instinct was what comes after is love.

[astraystayyh]

this is me reading btw if u wanted to know I LOVE UUUUUUUUUU I LOVE USER FELIXSBAKINGBUD I LOVE THEM 💓💘💗💘💗💘💗💘💗💗💘💗💘

Echoes of love

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

Chapter ii. to remember

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

pairing : minho x reader.

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

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

word count : 11k words.

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

chapter i. skz quotes series masterlist.

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

Day 33. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, just in time.”

Two weeks ago. 

Day 17. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knows you better than you know yourself. 

“Don’t blame yourself, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I miss you, Minho.”

“I know, I miss you too.”

Day 19. 

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

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

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

“So?”

“A situation may have happened.” 

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

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

“I do.”

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

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

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

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

“Pudding.”

“Pudding?”

“For you.”

“Oh.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really? They’re really ugly.” 

“It's my birthday gift, right?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 22. 

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

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

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

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

“I can try.” 

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

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

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

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

“Can you help me get the sea back?”

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

“Will you drive safely?” 

“Of course. I promise you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” he asks, confused. 

“I can feel you looking,” you clarify. 

“How so?”

“My right cheek is tingling.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did.” 

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

“Of course.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 26. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure, this is your home.”

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course, I-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How are you, Yn?” 

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

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

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

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

Perhaps the sun rays were by your side all along. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“N-nothing,” you stammer. 

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he loves you. 

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

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

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

Day 30. 

Minho is sick. 

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

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

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

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

“I think so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bedside drawer,” he breathes out.

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

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

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

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

“It's okay, I'll just sleep.”

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

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

“Yn… are you worried about me?”

“I am.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I take off your shirt?”

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

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

“Because I don't mind.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why is that?” 

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

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

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

“Anything.” 

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

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

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

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

“Did I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do you want him?

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

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

Yes. Yes, you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yours.”

Day 31.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He prayed you’d call his too soon. 

….

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

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

What does one kiss mean? 

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

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

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

“Pardon?”

“I said you seem preoccupied.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. 

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

“I actually have a question for you!” 

“Ask away.”

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

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

“That's the point of a date.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh wow.

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

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

“Hey, yn!” 

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

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

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

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

“Oh, um, yeah, I still live there.”

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

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

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

“I will.”

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

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

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

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

“Really? They were so cute though.”

“Yeah, it’s a shame.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It looked like you found your answer after all. 

Day 33. 

“Did I keep you waiting?” 

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

“How are you, today?” 

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

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

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

“What's your name?”

“Yn.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you totally forgot about it?”

“I did. It hurt him a lot.” 

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

“But how does that make you feel?” 

“Me?”

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

“I feel guilty for forgetting such a relationship.” 

“Why is that?”

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

“And you don't love him now?” 

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

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

“Describe him to me in one sentence.”

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

“Do you have a retort for everything?”

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

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

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

“What do you mean?” 

“Yn, he brought you back to life.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh and Changbin?”

“Yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Minho?” 

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

“What? Where to?”

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

“Minho... what-what are you saying?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want you. Please don't go.”

“Swear it, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only me?” he questions, tone fragile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 1.

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

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

“Why would they be?” 

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

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

[vxnuslogy]

— retail therapy. ft sunday

— warnings: slight angst if you squint hard enough

— author's note: self-indulgent stellaron hunter sunday after playing the new tb quest. ~2.4k words.

“is this…” sunday gestures with his hands, “also part of our script?”

you let out a laugh. balancing firefly and kafka’s shopping bags in your hands, you only shook your head at the angel-like man with an amused smile on your lips. 

“no, it is not.” kafka was browsing the dress sections with keen interest, blade was peering over silver wolf’s shoulder watching her as she played yet another video game, and firefly was looking over the rack of new hats. “but it’s a good change of pace. you all deserve to relax after such a hard mission.”

“i don’t think this really fits my criteria of relaxation, [name].” you only laugh at sunday’s sigh. offering him a small pat on the back and dragging him by his sleeve to where kafka was beckoning you over. “you’ll get used to it eventually. next time, we’ll do something that fits your criteria of relaxation.”

the silver haired man only shook his head. but deep down you knew he was enjoying himself – the wings behind his ears often betrayed him by openly showing what he actually felt. every now and then, they would flutter and puff up whenever silver wolf drags him to another section with new games or when he tries to deny kafka’s attempt at getting him a new shirt or coat (after his wings fluttered a bit too hard at this one coat kafka bought it immediately).

“what do you think?” you ask as you put down the bags that've been weighing down on your arms. “about us, i mean, are you adjusting well?”

you notice sunday’s hesitation, you always have when it comes to him – he often wonders how wise and knowledgeable you are to know how he felt. a hum left your lips as you sat down on one of the offered chairs at the shoe section while blade reached to the top shelf to get what firefly was pointing at. 

“i…” he starts, voice just above whisper. “don’t know.”

another hum escapes your lips. scooting over to make space for him and patting the space, urging him to sit besides you. sunday does, though reluctantly, sit beside you as you watch silver wolf giggle at firefly’s struggle to walk in heels. blade’s hands hover over her figure as she stomps her way over to the shorter girl to pinch her cheeks to which she protested.

“they’re nice people.” you say, gaze never leaving them. “the galaxies may say otherwise, but they're truly the kindest people i have ever met.”

“i… apologize.”

you raise a brow at him. “what’s with the apology?” 

“i have only ever thought of the five of you as bad people.” sunday admits with a heavy heart. eyes finding much entertainment on his gloves that you had gifted. “i… do not know how to act around you all, when i’ve only ever heard bad things about you. it feels wrong to suddenly be thrusted into your already tight knit group.”

you only hum in understanding. hand coming to caress the top of his head when you stood up when blade called you over.

“we understand, mr. sunday.” you gave him a small smile as you picked up the many shopping bags you had. “these sorts of things take time, just take it one step at a time.”

he only nods. and like the gentleman that he is, steals away the heavier bags in your hands with an awkward smile.

—

“do you miss the person you were before you joined?”

you wonder if blade has ever mentioned to sunday how you loved thought evoking questions like the one he had just asked. recently, the two have been paired up a lot for missions - you’re still on the fence on whether it's a good or bad thing, but you’re leaning more towards the former. you only gave a thoughtful hum as you spooned another scoop of ice cream into your mouth.

kafka had grown bored of the dresses and shoes and wanted to get something to eat. now here you were, outside a quaint little ice cream shop as blade orders for everyone - silver wolf and firefly hiding behind the man like two kids. 

sunday was sitting in front of you, laughing silently after catching a glimpse of the two tables across from you being filled with your shopping bags. you laughed as well and when your eyes met his, sunday quickly averted his gaze towards his own cold treat.

“do i ever miss the person i was before i joined…” you echo his question. “sometimes, in the middle of the night whenever i’m feeling a bit too sentimental, i do.” a fond expression was probably present on your face as sunday hummed in acknowledgement. “i miss the comfort of my bed as i scrolled endlessly on my phone. or how a certain little creature in red would bring me tea and biscuits when i let time pass in my little workshop. i miss them every chance i get.”

yes, every chance you get, you reminisce over your past life. missing your father’s quick temper, your brother’s indifference, your mother’s absence; you missed them all, despite all their flaws and the bitterness that swam in your heart. and of course, how could you ever forget your little escapades in different planets with a seasoned adventurer and his vast knowledge of animation and travel or the little waddling of a conductor as they scold you nearly not making it back. you missed them all very dearly.

“what about you, mr. sunday? do you miss penacony?”

“would it be wrong of me… if i said no…?”

admittedly, that was the exact opposite of what you thought his answer would be.

the six of you were now in the car with you and blade driving (firefly suggested you all take two cars so you won’t have to be squeezed together in one). silver wolf was fast asleep at the back seat, using the many shopping bags as her makeshift pillows. you and sunday sat at the front, keeping a close eye on blade’s red car in front of you as you pondered what you would say next.

“i don’t think that’s the whole truth, but it’s not an entire lie either.” was your only response. from the corner of your eye, you see sunday take off his gloves and lay them on his lap. “would you like to talk about it, mr. sunday? i’m quite the exceptional listener you know.”

sunday laughed at your jesting and that made the breath you were unconsciously holding escape you. 

“penacony, as beautiful as it was,” he fiddles with his fingers as his wings came to cover half his face - a habit you picked up on whenever he started to open up. “it was simply too much for me.”

staying silent and when sunday looked at you, you simply nod. urging him to continue.

“the flashy city lights, the ever echoing of upbeat music, to many, penacony is a paradise where nothing could go wrong,” sunday sags in his seat, “but i often wonder if it ever gets too much for them. even though i have lived my entire life in the land of festivities, i could not bring myself to enjoy the thrill and joy it offered.”

“no matter how many times i bury these feelings of guilt, they always resurface whenever…”

“whenever?” you slowly try to coax it out of him. like how a parent would to their child.

“they always resurface whenever… i find myself enjoying your company too much.” you try to hide your shock when you take a right turn. “is it truly alright for me to just leave all of penacony behind? as overwhelming it was, it offered a roof over my head. food on my table. a family.”

soft patters of rain as small droplets of water cascaded down the now slightly fogged up windows of your car. “would you like my personal opinion on this matter, mr. sunday?” the car skids to a stop as the traffic light glows red. sunday only nodded solemnly. “you have every right to not miss penacony.”

his gold eyes were furrowed in distraught. gaze boring into the side of your head as the car started moving again. “yes, penacony offered a roof over your head and food on your table, but everyone has that right. even us, stellaron hunters, the most wanted criminals across star systems, have the right to have a home. did penacony ever feel like home to you, mr. sunday?”

“no. not it has not.” sunday replies after a few moments of silence.

“just because a roof is over your head and food is served on your table doesn’t automatically make it a home.” your eyes hardened, grip on the steering wheel tightening ever so slightly. “a home is supposed to make you feel safe, not obligated to repay their so-called “kindness”. you don’t have to feel guilty for not wanting to come back to the place that had caused you pain.”

“and what of my sister, robin?” he suddenly counters. you knew from little snippets from kafka that robin was a bit of a sensitive topic with him. “am i really allowed to enjoy this new life of mine knowing that she’s still in the family’s clutches?” his voice hardened, but at the same time it quivered and broke. “what right do i have to this newfound happiness when she could be struggling? for aeon’s sake,” he messily pushes his hair away from his face. you try not to focus on the stray tears that fell from his eyes, “i’m her older brother, her protector. she should be the one here, spending time with you and enjoying the life she’s always wanted.”

“miss robin is destined for greatness and a happy life,” stopping at another traffic light, you look over to sunday, “but so are you. i do not know the pain and turmoil your adoptive father has made you go through, but you will never be free if you keep holding on to the past.”

“i don’t think being a stellaron hunter and a wanted criminal is what you call greatness.” sunday jokes with a low chuckle making you roll your eyes.

you trained your sight on the road again. “it’s not easy to break out of whatever gopher wood has taught you,” the way you spat his adoptive father’s name with such venom made sunday wonder if you had personally met him. “but if, theoretically, we had offered you to join us earlier and to sneak you out of penacony, miss robin would be the first person to urge you to take that chance. you are her older brother yes, and it's often the oldest’s job to protect the younger,” you pull up your car in the parking lot as blade, kafka, and firefly started taking the shopping bags out of the car. “but she is still your sister that wants what’s best for you, even if it means leaving penacony behind.”

the sight of blade, a man with a harsh exterior and few words, silently carry silver wolf with such care will always stir something inside of sunday. or how kafka would happily chat with firefly over the new clothes they got on today’s shopping list, promising to do a haul tomorrow morning after the older woman cooks everyone breakfast. but if there was something that pulled at his heart the most, it would be you. 

you who kindly respected his space and unwillingness to talk or socialize with the other hunters when he had been first recruited. the same you who had made him the metal wings that was now attached to his lower back - created with so much care and attentiveness sunday felt unworthy of it. you who would always be the first one to look for him whenever you were going out and extending a hand for him to take.

“everyone deserves to be happy,” you say beside him as you drop him off at the door to his room. “and that includes you, mr. sunday.”

sunday had always been treated as someone who was above everything else, that was the first thing he was taught after all. he was destined for greatness, the key to the revival of his dead aeon. so he never truly knew how to act when someone treated him as an equal. someone neither above or below anyone.

“i’m not very good with words,” sunday scoffs, thinking otherwise. “so i often convey my sincerity and comfort through actions.”

sunday feels your hand slither to the back of his neck as you slowly pull him down to your height. forcing his beating heart to still when he looks into your eyes that swam with understanding and fondness when you press both of your foreheads together.

“you can enjoy your time here, with us. you’re allowed to let go of the past and miss your sister.” your thumb rubs soothing circles on his nape, sunday feels the hairs on his arms rise. “and if you still think otherwise, then that’s also fine. breaking free from the shackles of your past isn’t easy, but you shouldn’t give up.” sunday feels the way your words leave a warm ticklish feeling on his lips, he had to fight the urge to lean into your space even more. “we want you to be happy, we want you to be here with us. so we’ll teach you how to let go. until you can do it yourself.”

sunday has seen you do this to others; after you patch up blade after a nasty fight, when you welcome kafka home, when silver wolf comes to you after a nightmare and when firefly bares her heart out to you. he finally understands why the others stuck to you closely, they showed their appreciation for you in forms of physical affections. 

involuntarily, his arms snakes around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer he feels you may decipher the way his heart beats your name. “may we stay like this for a while?” you only hum slowly when he lays his head on your shoulder. letting your comfort wash away all the guilt and frustration, even if it was just for a moment.

you catch a glimpse of kafka leaning at one of the dark walls with a knowing smile on her lips. rolling your eyes at the older woman, you bid sunday a good night with a small smile. knuckles brushing right under his eyes where phantom tears had fallen. in your mind, you can’t help but feel that your little idea of taking him shopping to brighten up his mood was a success.

© vxnuslogy 2024. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my works.

[steor-ra]

Yandere Superfam x Reader

The pregnancy was quite unexpected. Clark was so busy saving the galaxy this past month that he didn't have much time for Lois.

So when Clark discovers that Lois is pregnant after attempting to tell him several times and being ditched before she really had a chance, he feels terrible. How could he not have known his gorgeous wife was pregnant all along? Clark should have known, given his superhearing abilities.

He is also disappointed with Jon for not telling him sooner.

It's a given that as soon as he discovers of the pregnancy, he will pamper Lois to make up for every time she tried to tell him and to support her throughout her pregnancy.

Jon is thrilled to be a big brother; he has always wanted a younger sibling. It gets lonely when Damian isn't there to spend out with him, so the idea of having someone to hang out with every day is exciting. Jon has so much to teach his younger sibling.

When you are born, they're immediately in love. You look so cute and little in their arms, and they never want to let go. You've got them wrapped around your chubby little fingers.

Your nursery room is abandoned as soon as they take you home; you don't need it anyway, you could just sleep in your parents room, just cuddle in their arms safe. You would sometimes sleep in Jon's room if they'd let him

Their hearts fall into pieces everytime you cry especially if you get hurt by something or someone. It barely improved Superman's morale in the world and ensured that the planet would be the safest place for his baby to walk, if yk what I mean.

And don't get me started on the day you received your first shot as a baby. Jon was crying harder than you ever have, and Clark, who is holding you, is glaring so intensely at the doctor that if it's not the laser burning holes at the doctor, I don't know what it is, Lois is there to make sure that Clark doesn't actually burn holes at the doctor.

Jon is the best brother you'll ever have, and he will make sure of it. He dislikes sharing your attention with folks his age, save for his friend Damian, who may also be your friend! Just don't go too far and treat his friend as a brother figure, otherwise Jon will go insane. As I previously stated, Jon dislikes sharing his baby sibling; he is the only one you may refer to as brother; no one else.

Your father, Clark, will do everything in the world to make sure that his baby is happy at all times; if not, at least more frequently. He can't stay strict on your adorable face, especially when you make grabby hands to get what you want. It takes all to resist cooing and kissing your chubby cheeks, which he eventually can't take it anymore and just ends up doing anyhow.

Meanwhile, Lois is a little strict with you; she doesn't want you to grow up bratty, although she believes you will never be since her little cute baby is too gentle and nice to be that kind of child, so her strictness is not as frequent. She will also spoil her baby in the same way as the boys do; her baby deserves the best. Period.

They love you so much that they're willing to give up on everything if it means saving you from any danger

They also have all of the documentaries of your first time events, from the day you were held by your mother to the first day of school.

As you grew older, they became more paranoid

There are moments when you are put in a life-or-death situation, but luckily for you, there are many superheroes who are willing to save you because they are terrified of Superman, the man of steel, turning into bunkers.

The heroes connected to the league already know a lot about you, most likely because Superman can't stop talking about his baby whenever he's with someone or in a meeting. It's terrible, especially since the league is discussing some serious dangers, and then Superman comes in and says, "This is bad for my baby; I wonder what they're doing right now."

The joker kidnaps you one day, frightening your family to the core. Clark and Jon are both unable to hear or see you. They have no idea where you are. Lois was already crying when she couldn't find you in the house; she cried till her throat hurt, and that's when you understand something is serious when Superman calls Batman for help, dilated eyes, disheveled hair, and hyperventilating. Which Batman tried to calm him down and called for the league help him find you before Superman goes insane and starts flipping the world upside down. And when they finally found you, your family locked you up in the house forever.

Lois hugged her babbling baby who is unaware that you're never ever going to have a glimpse of the world ever again. It's the only way to make you safe, if you don't want them to lock you up in a bubble.

(A/n: send requests!)

[talesfromlissom]

Hello!!! Your inbox looked loney :). Spare HC's for Optimus, Megatron, Smokescreen and Arcee for a bot!reader who's bigger than them? 😀😀

Reader whose taller than OP, Megs, Smokes and Arcee // TFP || Could be seen as either romantic or platonic

WARNINGS/TAGS - None, enjoy :)

A/N - I go feral when someone makes the reader bigger/stronger than the character they’re shipped with. Guys, give me big af and buff readers; cmon!!!

MEGATRON

He will try to fight you, like 100%. It doesn’t matter if you’re even more loyal to the Decepticon cause than Soundwave. He will try to fight you and won’t stop until he wins. What’s worst is if you let him win, he’ll demand a rematch. 

He thinks your size is excellent for virtually everything except that people will sometimes mistake you for the leader of the Decepticons (if you’re nearby) instead of him. This is primarily the rare, isolated species that the Decepticons stumble across when they travel the galaxy that know nothing of the war. 

If you want to mess with him, put his stuff in high places. Depending on your relationship, he might use you for spare parts, beat the shit out of you, or just begrudgingly ask you to get the object off of the high shelf. 

If you’re strong enough and can pick him up, he’ll be the angriest mech in the galaxy (he already is, but even more so). He’ll flail around, swear at you, and everyone will be shitting bricks and looking away from your ass whopping. Scruffing him like a kitten will guarantee this, but again, depending on how close you are, he might become a grumbling idiot. 

He might ask you to mass displace to feel better about himself sometimes because he’s an asshole

Laughs when your forehead or frame gets stuck/hits doorframes before doing the same thing probably 5 minutes later because he’s also tall 

OPTIMUS PRIME

The shared pain of being tall af is the first thing he thinks of before being wholly weirded out

The only person taller than him on Earth is Megatron, but Megatron also turns into a jet, so he isn’t sure if that counts. 

He most likely gives you a map of the base, marking off doorways and other entrances that are either too big or too small. He’s a big bot and has this map on hand at all times in his own data banks. Its most likely pulled up in the many, many tabs on his HUD. 

Don’t scruff him either. He doesn’t have much plating on the back of his neck, and his back is extremely sensitive due to it mostly being kibble, wiring, and being hit in his back way too many times for comfort. Picking him up regardless will most likely just prompt him to ask you to put him down before he threatens cleaning duty for the next month if you don’t. 

He won’t put you on cleaning duty don’t worry 

If you tease him about it he’ll tell Ratchet and then Ratchet will put you on cleaning duty. Beware the doctor. 

ARCEE

everyone is taller than her, so she doesn’t really care. Is having to crane her neck to look up at you annoying? Yes. 

Imagine that meme of the police officer having to stand on his car to flip the taller person off; that’s her to you on some days. 

Don’t pick her up either; she’ll stab you; she absolutely hates that. She’s like an angry chihuahua when that happens.

She’s less likely to fight you if you are helping her. Sometimes, she likes to use you as a perch to climb onto things or just to be high up. Sometimes, she also likes to sit on your shoulders to pretend she’s tall. 

She’ll probably use you for shelter during rain, snow, etc. 

She claims she does it with everyone and you’re not special (you are) 

SMOKESCREEN

He’ll also perch on you like Arcee, but it's for silly reasons rather than a tactical advantage. 

If you have audio fins or something along those lines, he’ll grab those and pretend to use them like joysticks. Indulging him will encourage this behavior; do not fall for it. 

He likes to feel tall and will ask a lot of questions about what it's like to be tall, which is ironic given that he technically is of average height. 

Failing to answer these questions will result in more. 

Honestly, he’ll also hide underneath your frame while it's raining. He hates the rain because it gets mud all over his paint and undercarriage. It's annoying to clean out, and you’re the perfect umbrella, in his opinion. 

He can and will laugh at you for banging your head on doorways before he walks into the wall right next to you or trips over something. 

WORD COUNT - 686

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[fictionalmenxyn]

𓇽!𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡!𓇽

Pairing: dad!drew x daughter!reader

Reader’s age in this: 5

Also from my perspective I’m gonna do the reader as a tomboy. Mainly because I can see that reader doesn’t have siblings and only has Drew. So she’s mostly seen Drew and hangs around more guys than girl. Only doing this for the outfit and some things reader is interested. But feel free to picture it however you want!

☆𓇽𓇽𓇽☆

You were with the cast of Outer Banks. You never liked dressing fancy. So Drew asked you to wear your ‘best’ clothes. So that’s exactly what you did, you wore your favourite outfit. Your white tee, Jean shorts (jorts), your red high top converse and your Spider-Man zip up jacket.

You smiled as you stood with the cast. You looked around the room, seeing backdrops and director chairs and lots of cameras. You felt a tap on your head. You look up and smile to see Austin. You stick your arms up “Austin!” He smiled and leaned down and pick you up “hey sweet pea, you ok?” You smiled and nodded.

Drew came over with a small paper cup, holding it out to you. He spoke “baby, have this, it’s juice.” You smiled “thank you, papa.” You held it with two hands. You took a few sips, keeping it in your hands.

The director of the interviews walked in with some interviewers. The director spoke “alright all, we are ready to start up the interviews. Go ahead and sit in the seats.. preferably the guys at the second row, ladies at the front.” The cast all walked over.

Drew crouched down in front of you holding your head phones and iPad. He smiled “ok, bub, you gonna watch movies while I work?” You smiled and nodded. Putting the cup on a near by table. You ran back over to him. You put your headphones over your curly blonde hair. Taking your iPad from Drew, he smiled. “Ok bub, remember, you gotta stay quiet ok? Only wave if it’s an emergency. Or go get a crew member, ok?” You nodded. He smiled and kissed your forehead “ok, go take a seat over there..” he pointed to an empty couch. The couch was in his view when he sat in the interviewing chair.

You climbed up on the couch and crossed your little legs. Putting your iPad in your lap as you started up your first movie. Guardians of the galaxy.

As time moved on, you were watching the cast. Your headphones still on and your movie still played. But that wasn’t your attention, it was the cast, your second family.

The interviewer asked Drew “so you brought Y/n with you today?” He smiled and nodded “I sure did, she’s been really good too.” The interviewer smiled “does she aspire to be in the acting business just like you? Or does she have her own mind set on a future career?” Drew chuckled softly “would you like to ask her?” The interviewer smiled “of course, if that’s ok with you?” Drew smiled and nodded. Looking over in your direction to see your watching them all. He waved you over.

You took off your headphones and run over. You carefully walked past the cameras. You walk over to Drew. He smiled “hey, baby, come answer some questions with us.” You smiled as he picked you up and sat you on his lap. Drew pointed at the interviewer “this is Jesse. Can you say hi to her and introduce yourself?” You look up at him “like you do?” He nodded.

You looked to Jesse “hello, I’m Y/n!” Jesse smiled “hi! It’s so cool to be interviewing mini Starkey.” You smiled as she asked “so Y/n, what do you wanna be when you’re older?” You smiled “Spider-Man!” The cast laughed. Jesse’s asked “oh really? Is there anything else you wanna be?” Drew whispered something in your ear. You replied “I wanna be a zoo keeper! Wait- a..” I look to Drew “what?” He laughed “you said you wanted to be a musician, sweetheart” you smiled “oh yeah!”

Jesse asked “what’s it like with Drew being your dad? Do you go to set? Does he show you scripts?” You smiled. Drew answered “she does come to set most times. And she’s my little acting coach, huh? Y/n?” You smiled and nodded “I hold the papers!” Madison spoke “yeah, and you tell him what to do, don’t you?” You nodded.

Jesse asked “what’s it like going to Dad’s work? Is it fun?” You nodded “me and Rudy play pranks!” Rudy laughed “yeah we do, partners in crime, put it there squirt…” you fist bump him back. “And! I cuddle with everyone!” You wave your arms as a hug motion. The cats and interviewer awed. You added “and we steal garlic bread!” The cast laughed. Chase spoke “hey that’s our secret!” You giggled which earned eruption of laughter.

Jesse spoke “so I’ve heard from the internet and your father himself. That you’re a Marvel fan? Is that true?” You nodded with a wide smile “yes!” Jesse smiled “perfect! I love Marvel too, favourite movie??” You answered “guardians of the galaxy!” She asked “favourite character?”

Drew smiled, brushing some curls out of your face “you have two don’t you, baby?” You nodded “Peter and spidey!” Jesse laughed “ohh! So the two peters huh?” “Which spider-man?” You looked to Drew “which one again?” Drew smiled “Tom Holland, sweetheart.” You looked to Jesse “Tom.” She nodded and smiled. “Which avenger movie is your favourite, which one with all of them in?” You answered “the first one!” You hold up the number one with your index finger.

Drew smiled, pressing a kiss to your head then Rudy ruffled your curly hair. The fans were going to love that.

Jesse asks “ok everyone, besides Drew, who is the closest to Y/n out of the cast?” They all discussed. Madison spoke “I think Rudy, honestly.” Rudy nodded “yeah, like not to sound ya know, but we are close cause I’ve been in other movies with Drew too.” The cast all agree. Rudy patted your head “best of buds aren’t we, bub?” You smiled and nodded “yup! We make s’mores!” The cast all laugh. Rudy nods “we sure do! We cuddle and have s’mores, don’t we?” You nodded.

Jesse asked “who’s your favourite character your dad plays?” You shrug “I don’t watch him, daddy says I’m too young.” He smiled “yeah when you’re a little older I’ll show you..” he played with a curl of your hair. Wrapping his finger round a blonde curl. Jesse smiled at the action, she asked “what’s your favourite thing about your dad, Y/n?” You smiled “cuddles!” He smiled. Jesse asked “is he the best cuddler??” You nodded. Jesse’s heart melted “aww you’re such a sweetheart Y/n!” Drew smiled. Jesse asked “ok random question, but Y/n, what’s your favourite animal??”

Everyone on the internet knew you loved animals, very much loved animals. You held up three fingers “I have three!” Jesse smiled “ok, can you list them?” You answered “shark, red panda and chameleon!” She smiled “wow, that’s a very diverse answer! All good choices though, for sure.” Drew rested his chin on top of your head “tell her why, sweetheart.”

You told Jesse “I like sharks cause of jaws! And I like red pandas cause I have a plushie of one! Chameleons are cool cause they change colours!” Jesse smiled “they are great reasons! So Y/n one last one for you. Do you have anything to say to the fans? If you do look to the camera and say it.”

You followed to where she pointed. You smiled “hey! Uh watch Outer..Banks!” You give a wave and blow a kiss. As the interviewer and cast all signed off for the video. Drew wrapped both his arms around you. Bringing his face by yours he spoke “good job, y/n/n, you did so good.” He kissed your cheek. You smiled “can we have ice cream?” He chuckled softly “of course, but when we go home. How about a movie night and ice cream?” You squealed excitedly and nodded. He gave you another kiss on the cheek before setting you down on the floor. “Ok, let’s go say goodbye to everyone.”

Some time later…

You were now back at the comfort of your home. Wearing one of Drew’s T-shirts and your pyjama shorts. You laid on top of his chest. Drew laid on the couch, letting you lay on top of him. He subconsciously rubs your back as you both watch Jurassic World. You pointed “blue!” He smiled “yeah that’s blue, baby” you whispered “my favourite dino, daddy.” He smiled “I know, sweetheart, you tell me every time.” You added “and Owen, my favourite too” he chuckled “you tell me that too, doll.” You smiled, turning back to watch the movie again.

He kisses your forehead, brushing some of your hair out of your face. You both watched the movie.

By the end of the movie you started to feel tired. You started to fidget with his hand, a sign of tiredness.

He looked down “someone gettin’ sleepy?” You shook your head. He smiled, knowing how you are when you get tired “c’mon, let’s go brush our teeth and head to bed.” You shook your head, whining “nooo.”

He chuckled “c’mon, I’ll make a deal.. I’ll come cuddle with you till you fall asleep. And we’ll read two books tonight? How’d that-” you climbed off him and made your way to your room. He smiled, you never failed to make him smile.

☆𓇽𓇽𓇽☆

[gffa]

I'm going through my screencaps from Inquisitor: Rise of the Red Blade and it really kills me that I can't recommend this book to more people because it's from the point of view of a character falling to the dark side, so on the surface it comes across as very Jedi critical, but as someone who constantly keeps a hawk's eye out for what the other Jedi say and do so I can put it in my citations project, let me tell you, this book drives me absolutely up the wall with how much I was handed on a silver platter for how it's structured. It's a book that's set from the point of view of a troubled young Padawan, Iskat Akaris, and everything in her thoughts is about how she does try to let go of her anger, which she finds very difficult, but she also constantly craves battle and violence and seeks to find ways to justify that. She's offered by multiple people to find avenues to help her, but she always turns away from them, because they're not exciting enough for her. She never tells anyone directly of her struggles and any time another Jedi expresses support, somehow it's never good enough, she assumes it's not real empathy (because she thinks they wouldn't agree with her feelings--she doesn't want to be an archivist, she wants to fight, she doesn't want to take a regular position with the children in the creche--despite that she was really good with them and felt calmer afterwards--because she wants to be out in the galaxy fighting), and when she makes mistakes, she looks to justify why it wasn't her fault (she doesn't actually care about the civilians her actions hurt, she just cares that Adi and Yoda are telling her she has to be more careful). She's offered mentorship multiple times, by Jocasta, by Josk, Master Klefan talks to her frequently, Adi and Yoda make a point to tell her that two specific Masters are available to speak to, the Council offers her a position in the creche because they think she'd do well there--but that's not the excitement she craves, it's not the admiration for her battle skills that she wants, so she turns away from it. She's offered a position that's clearly very dear to them, it comes with multiple compliments and that they say it's meant to be beneficial to her as well (with the implication of how much it calmed her), and yet she sees it as a demotion, because it's not a mission with action and fighting. Everything that is the opposite of what a Jedi needs to seek. And it's done with such deftness to Iskat's point of view that, if you're not paying attention, it might seem like she is justified in these things. But when you look beyond her, you see how hard the Jedi are trying to help her, how many hands they hold out to her, and I want to write entire essays about this book but arrrghhhh I'm probably the only one who read this book in this specific way and who still has tolerance left for unreliable narrators who unfairly criticize the Jedi, but I can see the consistent pattern of how compassionate they are beyond it, so I feel I'd just be yelling into the void even more than I usually do, so instead I just sit with my feelings, like, I enjoyed this book through this lens, but it's a lens that scrapes a lot of people's nerves raw, so I can't blame them, but also oh man there's so much to chew on in this book and I just have to delete these caps as I make my way through my backlog. Arrrghhh.

[silkenedstars]

Meeting On A Whim

After a series of unfortunate and tiring events, he finally gets to see the messages you sent to him.

₊✦Honkai: Star Rail | Aventurine x gn!reader | Contains spoilers for Penacony!!✦₊

Additional Notes: Kinda self-indulgent, this one is for every single person out there who was as devastated as I was when they got his final message.

A sigh of relief left Aventurine's lips as his back hit the soft cushion of the couch in his room.

The things he had to deal with, from losing his cornerstone to being threatened by that Galaxy Ranger, not to mention the upcoming and unnerving meeting with Diamond, left Aventurine exhausted, to say the least.

Fishing out his phone from his pocket, he sighed again. If only the Family bothered to put proper beds in the hotel rooms instead of just a bathtub that guided people to the Dreamscape, Aventurine sure could use one about now to take a quick nap but alas, he'd have to go home first before he could get proper rest.

And since there was nothing else he could do right now, he might as well play on his phone, maybe even check to see if he had any new messages. He doubted it— he had just gotten out of a phone call with Jade, Topaz wouldn't text him unless it was related to a mission but even then she preferred calling, and Ratio likely wouldn't be messaging him for a good while. So that only left him with one option… which was to play on his phone and wait for time to pass.

…that was what he thought, at least, until he saw all the messages he got from you. With his curiosity piqued, as well as feeling a pang of anxiety settle within his stomach, he decided to see what you had in store for him.

NO NOOOOOOOOO AVENTURINE DON’T GO I DON’T WANT TO SAY GOODBYE COME BACK Aventurine….. Please come back you're my bestest friend ever I swear if it turns out you're dead I'm calling Ruan Mei to revive you I don't care I miss you

A strange warmth blossomed within his chest, a light chuckle escaping him before he even realized it. "I never took you for the clingy type," he mumbled to himself, rereading the messages you sent; all of which were punctuated with crying Pom-Pom stickers.

It was strange, really. He never expected you to be so devastated by his "death", not when the two of you still barely knew each other.

Not when he never had anyone be this worried for him before.

Still, he couldn't help but feel at least a little bit guilty. He may not know you well just yet, but he did consider you his friend — even if it might not feel like it at times — and his disappearance must've been hard on you, too, given all the messages and stickers you sent.

He was initially thinking of sending back a message telling you he was alright, but maybe you'd appreciate seeing him in person more instead.

And so after sending you a quick message, he stood up and stretched before promptly leaving his room.

Come meet me in the VIP Lounge, we have a lot to talk about.

[phoenixyfriend]

Tony Stark & Natasha Romanova, now in Star Wars

IDK if you folks were ever MEGA into crossovers but did you ever engage with the kind that can more or less be summarized as "isekai but the person 'hit by truck-kun' is a character from a different canon?"

Because that's what this is.

Tony Stark isekai'd into Star Wars (random planet) after dying in Endgame. He knows the movies, but not the supplemental material, as even by the time TPM came out, he was thirty and fucked up and making a name for himself in war. Bad times.

Tony wakes up sixteen and with Nothing to his name but his skills. He does not speak the language. Mostly gets by doing shit like skinning potatoes for a kitchen and pulling weeds and whatnot while he catches up on Basic. (He is apparently fluent, or at least conversational, in French, Spanish, Italian, Latin, and Dari. So Basic would be his Seventh language, and while four of those can be lumped into 'if you learn one, the next will be easier,' Dari is wildly unrelated, so I'd say he could pick up Basic a bit faster than average, especially with 16yo brain elasticity.)

A toddler, two years old with intensely red hair, runs into his shins one day and yells his name very clearly. He looks down, is a little confused, and then a nearby carer from an orphanage jogs up yelling "Nat!" The toddler is Natasha Romanoff. She remembers everything, including dying, but is about twenty-five pounds soaking wet and NOBODY will take her seriously.

It takes some… effort, to explain the situation to the carer. Yes, Tony knows Nat. He worked with uh…. her 'older brother, a man named Clint.' Tony does not currently have the resources for anyone to legally give him custody of a toddler but he's got some motivation to secure housing and a stable income.

He does that. Gets Natasha with him because of course he has to do that. It's the one person he knows. It's Nat.

Turns out she's Force Sensitive, though. A 'natural extension' of her more skillgrinding abilities to read/manipulate people. Tony is not Force Sensitive but he DID recently have a medical episode that took him to a thankfully-government-funded clinic that informed him he has a Bad Heart and will require a pacemaker despite being seventeen.

A Jedi finds Nat while passing through and they Discuss Their Options. This is when Nat is about four. There is a heavy discussion about how her mind is older than her body, so the Jedi would need to be ready for that, but also Tony needs to discuss this with Nat, who was like thirty-nine(?) when she died and thus more than capable of making her own decisions.

Despite fandom generally painting Tony as the most selfish of the Avengers and Natasha as the most coldly practical, they are still heroes who put in some Fucking Effort to become better people, and they come to the conclusion that Natasha would do much more to help this galaxy as a Jedi than as some kid in poverty on a no-name planet. So off she goes!

She's like five years younger than Obi-Wan, the story reveals.

Tony is a bit aimless and the work he's BEEN doing (probably laying down electrical lines or something at this point, IDK, he got into construction or something) gets sideswept by Damage To A Tool. He knows how to fix the tool, but he does not have a forge.

There is a forge in town. He goes to it and says that he can't afford to ask to have it fixed, but he knows how to do it himself, so could he borrow access for a small fee?

This is a Mandalorian armorer. They say no. In fact, they tell him, that would be significantly more expensive than just getting it fixed.

Buuuuuuuuuut for Reasons, the armorer decides that Tony (now 18-19 physically) can do it so long as the Armorer supervises. Tony is competent Enough that the Armorer gives him a datapad and tells him to read it and come back in a week to discuss the topic. Tony warns that Basic is far from his first language and he doesn't have a whole lot of free time, so he probably won't have read it by then. That's fine, they'll just discuss what he has read.

It's about Mando culture, in a mildly propaganda-y way, and Tony comes back to Argue About Religion more than anything. He thinks the Armorer is proselytizing, which they kind of are, but they are also more than happy to discuss the lines between the Mando culture as ethnicity and culture and religion and so on.

This becomes a regular occurence. Tony has made A Friend who has started offering him a side gig doing Basic Village Blacksmith Work that the Armorer deems too menial, like "horse"shoes.

Tony is offered an apprenticeship that he did not expect, on the condition of Becoming Mandalorian.

This is. A heavy decision.

However. Tony is a guy who is at least partly defined by his cool armor. Mandalorians are defined by their cool armor. He has been told, several times, that there are multiple ways to be a Mandalorian. So he accepts, because he decides it's worth for the chance to be somebody who can make a difference in a way he currently can't.

Ten years later, 'Initiate Romanova' goes up to Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon as they prepare to leave, and neatly informs them that she has a feeling they are going to have a Bad Time on their mission in Mandalore, and that if they need emergency shelter from enemies, to go to an Armorer by the name of Tony Stark, because that's her brother so she knows that he's going to be friendly to Jedi. (Tony has sent her a small handful of messages, through channels both official and not, about big life events.)

Of course, shit hits the fan and the two plus Satine end up finding Tony's forge and he hides them in his Underground Bunker, which actually has a tunnel to a cave system that is safer than the bunker itself. Because reasons. (IN A CAVE. WITH A BOX OF SCRAPS.)

He has helper droids! They are named indirectly after friends from the Past Life, things like Spangles.

On their way back after the mission they swing by to say hi and he asks them to bring something to Natasha and it's a matryoshka doll set he made based on the Avengers (it goes based on age so the outermost is Thor, followed by I think Bruce, Rhodey, Tony, Clint, Natasha, Steve, Sam, Wanda, Vision), as well as a plushie he had custom made by somebody in town of a Bird With Archery Gear, even though she's too old for that stuff.

Even among the Jedi, Natasha is WEIRD and SERIOUS and everyone's pretty damn sure she's going to be a Shadow, or at least do a HECK of a lot of undercover work.

IDK how this plays out but Tony is definitely keeping an eye on politics so he can figure out the Palpatine rise to power and remind Natasha in case she's forgotten because when they first split they didn't, either of them, know what to expect in regards to her memory given the whole Baby Brain issue.

"Why is Tony an Armorer"

Okay some more thoughts!

I think Tony's aggressively atheist and consistently watching whoever claims to be Mand'alor with a critical eye in case he has to step in, and does not take any references to ka'ra with any real seriousness. That said. He's an Armorer now. A weird one who refuses like half his clients for Ethics Reasons, but technically a cultural authority figure who's allowed to argue with the Mand’alor.

@penpalpixie:

fsr the initial meeting scenario with the armorer bugs me,like would they really just let him" but tbf Tony knows how to steamroll people and could probably dissect the forge in an instant.

Which, yeah, in my defense, I put this together in about two hours so some of it's a bit wonk? BUT. @threebea had a good suggestion for how/why the Armorer had Tony actually do things in the forge instead of telling him to scram:

Maybe Tony has been doing some 'crafting' on the side maybe droid repairs or modifications which is how the Armorer first sort of hears about him and then one day there's the kid that people have been mentioning the Stars aligned here's a pamphlet. He can't make a living off gizmos in his situation since most of what Star wars has is advanced tech and to do anything impressive he would need more resources and more of an understanding of the mathematics of this universe (Stares at ceiling one night trying to figure out if the law of relativity would be a thing here). That might slow him down just like… his math doesn't actually work here so on top of language he would have to learn things to do complicated stuff that he could already buy for a credit. But with armory it's concepts he knows well and adding weapons to armor especially no lethal ones is something he also knows. Mandalorian armor with UNI BEAM

When it comes to canon, he knows THE big thing (Palpatine is Sidious) and basically nothing else. He thinks he remembers the clones being Mando? but he's honestly not even sure he remembers the original Fett's first name correctly. He knows the guy is a Fett, because Boba was a cultural mainstay for Tony's childhood, so like, it was nice to have some backstory, but he's honestly not sure how likely "that baby Mand'alor that went missing" is to being Boba's plot-relevant dad. Could be an uncle for all he knows, or just a guy with the same last name.

@firebirdeternal:

I feel like to keep things fair Tony should be able to scale up a little harder than the average Mandalorian. Yeah all his tech knowledge is a bit out-dated and he isn't likely to get an arc reactor running in a way that'll be more powerful than anything locally available, but I feel like he'd adapt pretty darn quickly to available tech and start Improving Things Nat's skills all translate extremely well, once she's not got stumpy toddler body she's basically back to her old level PLUS telekinesis and wibbly force nonsense although I understand if that's also not the focus of the fic, being less "And now there's some Avengers Here (Powerset)" and more "And now there's some Avengers Here (Attitudes and Characters)"

Nat is very excited to Break Into Tony's Cave.

NGL this was initially going to be a Tony Raises Nat thing but I couldn't ultimately justify her NOT going the Jedi route after I realized I wanted her to be Sensitive.

There was also a discarded plot idea about her being a little older and having gone undercover in death watch, because Tony got kidnapped to work for them and got through to her, where she gets to use her Bites as a teen but I scrapped it.

I do think she successfully argues to her Master to visit him at 14 to get light armor though.

Nat's the sneakiest little initiate and also. Very, very controlled in the scary way during spars.

Bea:

Natasha as a Jedi is so good. Like, she would probably have a bit of dissonance between Jedi training and the training she received as a child, and it might help her work through some things. Nat: I've known Yoda for three days but if anything happened to him I would kil-- wait uh (pivots) I would be very sad. She would try to sneak up on council members. It is like a kitten stalking a cat on the outside, but also she's a grown woman and wants to be that good. (AU of this If Quinlan ever saw this he'd adopt her: Quinlan: Tholme I found a new padawan sister. Get training Tholme: [literally just finished with Quinlan. Had planned to take a vacation. Meditate. Drink. He loves his kid but needs literally a moment here] Tholme: She's seven. Quinlan: I was four. Tholme: … Quinlan: She has a secret tragic background toooo I know you like that 😄 Tholme: [Sigh] Nat: …wait is he supposed to be Sherlock Holmes. I think he's space Sherlock Holmes. Need to ask Tony if Star Wars had Sherlock Holmes? lol yeah Tholme just feels like he could blend well with an avengers story, and a Black Widow story in particular)

Not joking when I say I considered if I could squeeze Tholme into the timeline.

Tony sends her music files that he thinks sounds Particularly Ballet to her because he remembers how much she liked dancing, as the main or even only positive thing from her Red Room training, and how she once said that if she hadn't become a spy, she thinks she'd have liked to be a ballerina.

The first time they see each other in person in years is her visiting for baby armor at 14 and is hesitant to hug him because like. Yeah he's her "brother" and there were a few years where they were acting as such and he was helping her with Basic Tasks that she doesn't like to think about too much because it's embarrassing, and they cuddled THEN, because she was Physically Baby, but they're just coworkers in reality, right? Should she hug him? If only to sell the bit to her Jedi Master?

Tony is also not the most huggy person and isn't sure if HE should hug Nat because he remembers jokey stabbing threats from when they were Avengers and like. Does she still feel that way, now that she's not a bumbling like tot?

They are both unsure of if hugging is on the table and it's the Jedi Master who says "you know, you're allowed to hug, if you want" under the impression that they aren't sure if the Jedi would allow it. And then the hug is very tight and loving because at least subconsciously they DID both want that.

The Jedi Master takes a pic.

Bea:

Jedi master: (aw) It's one of those "we've been in life or death situations together and also grew up together kinda sorta and also we're trauma bonded," and the first opportunity to solidify Family as their dynamic they both jump in feet first. And both of them were like. Extremely lonely children probably. In different ways but still.

(It's why the Hawkeye plushie didn't make her CRY, per se, but she does start keeping it in her bed even though she's Too Old for these things.)

When it comes to hugging, Nat is understandably concerned about overstepping and like. "Taking" Morgan's place. (I'm going with Tony and Nat being friends (or at least friendly) from A1 to A2, and during the blip she stopped by for dinner once in a while. Nat doing her best to bring Child Appropriate Gifts for Morgan (she misses being Aunt Nat for the Barton kids).) Or as Bea put it: Tony: Are you spying on me or are we doing people things? Nat: Can't it be both?

Anyway, their dynamic is a weird little midpoint once they're in Star Wars but then they get to a point in the armor making where Tony takes a break on a bench and she slips in under his arm to cuddle and it's just Nice (even though he's kinda sweaty and gross from the blacksmithing).

Bea:

Tony: ….. so……. is Yoda… does he look like… is he…. Nat: …???? Tony: You saw the Muppets right? Is he still a Muppet? Nat: [totally has seen the Muppets] what's a Muppet? Tony: You're killing your brother, Nat ;A;

Also the comedy of having MULTIPLE "secret languages" that nobody can translate.

It's handy, too. Between her and Tony, but also lots of languages to give different uses to. Can teach one to a specific faction for communication. OH, the poor Threepio units! She got stuck in a room with one once, and don't get my wrong, they can pick up a language fast, but they need to hear long enough sampling of it. Nat: I'm not teaching you stop asking I do agree too that Tony and Nat no matter their circumstances would be working towards stopping Palpatine. Like is this a real space is this a dream is this another dimension that just happens to be like a movie in ours? Doesn't matter the dictator is going down.

The Jedi Master is somewhat aware of the whole 'used to be an adult, sort of' thing. I don't know that they believe she's linearly matured but probably they think it's something like what I did in Jedi Babies It's definitely more explicit with a mind healer she got assigned soon after arrival.

She didn't decide whether to play it straight and "get help" or just try to game the system until she was actually sitting down. But she'd been having screaming night terrors about things she experienced in her first life, so.

Pixie:

She meets Anakin after TPM (if it's not avoided) when Obi-Wan's trying to settle him in and goes "ah, I know how to handle this kid." At some point Anakin and Tony end up sending each other various schematics.

[trillscienceofficer]

I would like to clarify that when I say that Seven's situation on Voyager is fucked up (like in this post I wrote yesterday) I don't mean that Janeway should've listened to her demands and let her go in “The Gift”, or that Janeway and the Doctor had no right to start removing her implants (leaving them would've killed her after all). What I mean is that the fucked-upness is in the whole situation that made Seven's reclamation from the Borg possible but also put her in an environment (the USS Voyager) where survival is guaranteed by the close collaboration of everyone on board, which also means concessions of personal freedom and privacy. Other crewmembers entered this pact voluntarily (we can discuss some other time what choice did the Maquis actually have other than join the crew), but Seven unequivocally did not. Yet it's the only way she could've been reclaimed because we know, and the show drives this point home multiple times, that she was so young when she was assimilated that Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One alone would always choose the Borg. She knew of no other alternative.

I don't think letting Seven go back to the Borg in “The Gift” would've been an actually ethical choice, even if it's true that that was what she wanted. She was undoubtedly a prisoner, but I think that we forget (well, I do sometimes at least) that Seven, outside of any metaphor, can be very dangerous. She is strong and quick, she has Borg weaponry and technology at her disposal, she is relentless when pursuing her goal, and even as a drone she knows how Voyager works inside and out. Janeway took the gamble of disconnecting her from the Collective in “Scorpion, part 2” because they were expecting her to try and assimilate Voyager on her own, which she promptly tried to do as soon as the Species 8472 was no longer the main threat. So imho the ethical question posed by “The Gift” is, what do you do when an extremely dangerous individual asks you to be freed so she can rejoin the genocidal alien army of brainwashed zombies that terrorizes the galaxy? They will likely pursue you afterwards, but even if by some lucky chance they don't, you'll still have given back both a weapon and cannon fodder to the genocidal alien army. In addition to that, there's the concrete possibility that your prisoner might one day start living a different life once the brainwashing loses its hold on her.

So no, I really don't think that Janeway made a bad or even questionable choice in “The Gift”, even if it's painful to see Seven struggle against it. The complication has only just started at that point, imho. The fucked-upness comes from her having to “become an individual” in a highly-regulated and closely-surveilled community, one she could've never chosen on her own. On one hand this allows Seven to develop skills she completely lacked in a somewhat safe environment, but on the other hand it limits quite severely what she can or can't do. And while at first she rails against those limitations (she spends the entirety of season 4 doing just that), with time she starts understanding the value of living on Voyager. She manages to resist the Borg Queen's threats in “Dark Frontier” because she has learned compassion in the meantime, eventually choosing voluntarily to return to Voyager. It's a turning point that definitely does a lot to compensate for her lack of agency in “The Gift”. She thinks of Voyager as her new collective, which is equally a testament of how far she's come as much as it is a worrying admission that her new group identity is not that far off the Borg, in her mind.

By season 7 Seven is outright grateful for everything Janeway has done for her, but it still doesn't make her arc learning to ‘fit in’ any less of an exercise in shaping herself into the mold she was given as her only possible future. Is it better than being a murderous, mind-controlled zombie? Yes, it absolutely still is. Seven's independent thoughts and actions now matter, even when they clash with the rules, which is just not comparable with being a Borg drone in any way. Yet it's easy to see why her role on Voyager is also stifling, and that again she can't choose differently because she knows of no other alternative, and none are available to her anyway.

The fucked-upness also comes from extra-diegetical, production reasons, of course. The stupid ideas about what a woman is and what Seven should do to really be one (does she even want to be one?), the fact that a medical practitioner could control so closely how she presents and what she eats, the lack of actual clothes in order to make her a sexy babe for the 90s Trek target audience (“males aged 16-40”), the lack of locks on Cargo Bay 2 where she regenerates, and many other aspects that I'm sure I'm forgetting now... Ignorant, ‘default’ assumptions on how things ‘are’ that the show simply refuses to acknowledge. I know they only seem so obvious now because more than twenty years have passed since Star Trek: Voyager was on the air and the culture (in the US) has changed so much since then. This, I agree, is the kind of fucked up that I could easily do without and Seven's story would be better for it.

So in conclusion, when I say that Seven's situation is fucked up it's not so much because I think Kathryn Janeway should have chosen differently when it came to her; it's more that Seven's arc on Voyager is very complicated, for the most part, by design. Even if I think Janeway could've handled some things in a different way, in most cases it makes sense for her character to have taken those decisions regarding Seven, and I don't always think it would've made for a better story if she hadn't. Obviously I wish the production-level assumptions weren't there, and I think part of what Star Trek: Picard did right in its first season was flipping a lot of those assumptions on their head in just a handful of episodes where Seven appears.

Personally I find it valuable to keep in mind that Seven's storyline on Voyager can be complicated and fucked up without necessarily wanting to make it ‘better’. It still is interesting and effective because it's far from perfect, because everyone tried the best they could given the very difficult circumstances, because we've never seen the whole crew, much less the Captain, outside of survival mode. Yet Seven is also a survivor of almost unimaginable violence and coercion and it makes sense, I think, that her presence regularly poses ethical challenges to what other characters and even the audience might consider ‘right choices’ or ‘right behavior’. Survivors in real life, I think, often challenge our societies (none of them perfect, and where many also live in survival mode) in precisely the same way.

[galactic-rhea]

It's ranting hours sunday for me: Y' know, I think when people complain soooo much about Padmé getting with Anakin, they're failing to see a lot of things. BUT ESPECIALLY...That it was her choice, and if speaks a lot of her character and personality.

She was already done dirty by the movies by getting so many deleted scenes, but then if you try to take away the agency she had on marrying a human disaster or her choices, like her forgiveness/understanding, it's actually undermining and flattening her character.

The fact is that she's actually very similar to Anakin, she's stubborn, deeply traumatized, compromises a lot for the sake of others and loves beyond reasoning. We, the audience, know that Anakin will become Darth Vader and one of the most iconic villains of history; so everything he does can be seem as a red flag that really isn't there.

From Padmé's POV, Anakin has done terrible things, but it's capable of incredible acts of love and compassion. They're in circumstances that aren't normal at all, she was queen at 14, and he was born a slave and joined the space wizard monks and his normal is kill or be killed. Our modern and omniscient POV can't be applied onto them because there's no point of comparison in this sci-fi-shakespearen tragedy-soap-opera-fantasy.

Besides...she was actually right in the end, and I don't believe is "feminist" or progressive to take away a big part of her core personality, that actually had repercussions in the whole story, and make her out to be either unaware and naive of marrying a monster, or (the worst one, imo) being jedi-mind-tricked-brainwashed-abused by her husband.

The "right, correct, girlboss and queen" actitude does more damage than help, leave Padmé to be a person. A person who wanted to have a fairytale romance with some guy who would fight for her and makes her laugh.

Also, the hell why you wanna blame her for something Anakin does, come on. That's a whole other can of worms, though. My point is, that trying to avoid or re-work-or re-contextualize the fact that she chose Anakin despite him literally telling her about murdering a whole village, is actually changing a big chunk of her personality traits.

She was a child queen, then a politician at the edge of an inminent war, manipulated by the same guy that groomed Anakin into a massive murderer, saw her people being taken into camps, had assasination attempts weekly and had to rip off of her individualism by becoming a public figure, giving up her sense of being a person by having several almost identical decoys, she had to stop being just Padmé to be Queen and then Senator Amidala and she did all of that showing little to no emotion.

Then Anakin does all what she herself had to rip off of her in order to be a politician: Honest, passionate, and able to show emotions; like love or anger.

She has morals and she represents democracy and justice, in a way. But I fully believe that inside her she had the same passionate anger and love capable of burning the galaxy that we know Anakin had, which makes them different sides of the same coin, and I think she realized that. Anakin perhaps didn't , as he never stopped of seeing himself as a slave and therefore inferior, whereas he held Padmé very highly, but I think Padmé saw them both as equals. She didn't have a "I can fix him" mentality, she had a "We're the same, we're both lonely, confused, hurting and scared of losing everything. And if he's like me, then I know he can do the right thing for love."

In other words: She was as insane as her husband, she only seems normal because she wasn't put into the monk warrior order and groomed by the devil for over a decade. (And I don't mean insane as, 'she's crazy for loving a murderer' harley quinn style, I just meant it on a daring, hopeless romantic and tenacious way)

[frostbitebakery]

Nutshell.

“Let’s put you out of your misery,” Doom says, checking the charge on his blasters while keeping an eye on the stray droid crawling towards an abandoned E-5 rifle.

.

“You’re mine,” Doom grits out, gets his fingers around the leg of the droid making for General Tiplar. He pulls, rolls. The droid is on his chest and he clamps an arm around it, sinks his knife into its neck. Wipes the blood out of his eyes.

.

“I need answers,” Doom says, arms crossed so he doesn’t try to strangle the holo. “See that you get them.”

“I will get them,” Rex promises, voice stoic to resemble a Commander’s.

Doom doesn’t snort but it’s a close call.

“I’m sorry for your lo—“

He flicks the comm off. He doesn’t have the capacity for niceties.

Tiplee is slowly finishing the transport box for her sister. “We fought a lot growing up,” she says. “We were in separate crèche clans even.”

His jaw ticks under his bucket.

“We only grew close once we were both adults. People are in motion, always. In body, in spirit. Sometimes you are only meant to meet at later points in your life even if you’ve known each other since you were born.” She strokes a careful hand over Tiplar’s forehead. “I will let you say your goodbyes.”

Doom steps up to the box once Tiplee is gone.

Tiplar hasn’t gone grey yet. There’s a furrow burnt in her brows, the confusion over a clone shooting her carrying her to death.

“I will watch over her,” he states. Promises don’t mean anything in war. So he doesn’t promise. His heart skips a beat. He was meant to watch over Tiplar as well.

.

“Botany,” he slurs out, clinks his cup to Tiplee’s when she holds hers up. “I love sunshine. And plants. There’s so many!”

“I’m gonna,” she hiccups, booze sloshing over the rim of her cup when she points at him, “I’m gonna sneak you into the gardens in the Temple and show you the strawberry patch.”

“Sneak?” He thought everything in the Triple Zero Temple is free to roam for all Jedi.

“Totally,” Tiplee agrees with an enthusiastic nod and he realizes he’s spoken aloud. “But sneaking is funnierer— funner— funyun?”

He nods right back. “Funyun sounds right.”

.

“What do you mean, poisoned?” Doom asks. According to survival sim training, the strawberries look pretty unpoisoned.

Tiplee holds up a berry, turns it around a bit. “The Dark is ever growing. Spreading throughout the Galaxy, into the earth of every planet. It has changed the very matter of things.” She smiles up at him. “I remember them sweeter.���

.

“I will help your strawberries be the best they can be, I�� promise.” He wretches the word out of himself. Pulls and pulls until it’s off his tongue and out in the open. “Hold on until then, yes?”

Tiplee smiles at him, taps her thumb against his temple. “Doom, you have found a place where you feel you are meant to be. It will be alright even if my time has come.”

.

“Uhm,” he says. Blinks. Swallows.

Maxir leans back, hands disappearing into the robe sleeves. “I’ve read this wrong?”

Probably not? “I don’t know,” he almost says until instinct takes over to not show indecisiveness. “Yes.”

Maxir’s face colors. He doesn’t tend to get cute blush spots high on his cheeks but rather an all consuming flush that looks close to blistering. “I’m sorry. I misjudged. It will not happen again.”

Jedi are so graceful in their apologies, Doom has learned. It’s charming.

He holds up a ripe non-perfect strawberry. “You look like this.”

“I beg your pardon—“

.

“You’re safe,” Doom gasps, wildly looking at Maxir’s frozen figure. “You’re safe.”

“Come here. Sit down.”

The calm authority in Maxir’s voice has him on his feet and back on the ground before he knows it.

“You are safe,” Maxir reassures him for whatever reason, filling Doom’s spotty vision and leaving room for not much else. “May I touch you?”

It’s a new helper droid. Gangly limbs for reaching deep into the foliage without damaging it. Looking like a B-1. The clippers looking like a blaster.

Its head lies halfway across another crop’s field. The body stabbed with its own limbs and the clippers.

“You are safe.”

Doom doesn’t believe him yet.

.

“I don’t recognize you anymore,” Doom says to his reflection.

There’s laughter lines around his eyes, his mouth. He has freckles from the sun. Permanent dirt under his nails he recognizes as dirt, not blood. His body is covered in flowers.

Last night he met up with the last of the 962nd and Master Tiplee. Six, Mimic, and a few others had helped him haul around the huge crates of produce into the AgriCorps’ building and kitchen.

They’d blasted each other’s asses while peeling, tasting, cooking, and fighting over seasoning. They fell asleep under the stars, occupying chairs and hammocks dotting the terraces. Tiplee had drooled on his shoulder, the tips of her fingers still red with strawberry juice.

“I don’t recognize you anymore.”

“Mrnng,” Maxir mumbles, slowly shuffling his way past Doom to the shower.

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Doom says to his reflection.

.

“No,” Doom murmurs, wrings his shoulder against the doorframe to Maxir’s office.

The desk is cluttered with data pads and flimsiwork bearing the AgriCorps seal. Analyzing crop conditions and rotations has taken up most of what is left of their day after tending to the fields and labs.

Maxir looks at him over his glasses before pushing them up, ruffling the short hair just under one of the horns. “No? I surely thought there was caf left…”

Doom pushes himself away from the door, takes the three steps to the desk before sitting down on a free-ish spot. “No, you didn’t read it wrong,” he non-explains. “Also, for safety reasons I disposed of the last of the caf.”

Maxir glances at the clock above the desk. “It’s been five hours. The sludge level must still be within reason.”

Doom blinks blandly at him.

Maxir blinks back before it visibly clicks. “Oh!” He buffs the back of his hand against Doom’s thigh. “I told you I’m nearly always right. Also,” he parrots back with a mischievous grin, “the fact we’ve kissed and held hands and you let me dote on you—“

“Excessively.”

“Excessively,” Maxir agrees. “I broke all constraints when I bought you last meal that one time.”

Doom pushes Maxir away from him by way of the rolling chair he’s sitting in while Maxir recalls in detail and with a lot of hand gestures how Doom had gracefully accepted being cared for.

“Or when you let me clean all the petri dishes by myself,” Maxir says excitedly, seat slowly spinning in a circle. “You were snoring so adorably on the lab bench.”

“I regret meeting you.”

“Mimir shoo for half the night cycle!” The chair slowly rotates back towards Doom. Maxir’s eyes soften. “I, for one, am very glad we met when we did.”

WIP and backstory

[beauty-and-passion]

also yes i think you should talk about dipcifica i love the old man yaoi as much as the next guy but i also will always crave this kind of "coming of age" love story

Glad to comply! Here are my points about why Dipcifica is canon and endgame and everything:

1) Dipper and Pacifica are a walking "enemies to friends to lovers" trope. It literally started with Dipper saying to her face he doesn't like her, what's more clichè than that? When he said it, all I could hear was "We will definitely become a thing in the future".

And guess what? After a while, Dipper changed his mind: now he doesn't think Pacifica is the worst anymore. The next step is admitting she's great, asking her out and becoming a couple.

2) "Northwest Mansion Mystery" is basically a huge Dipcifica manifesto, thanks to the introduction of more tropes like:

the characters are put into nice suits

Pacifica fixes Dipper's clothes like a good wife

these two share an adventure together - which is universally something that would strengthen the bond between two people

their daring escape ends with a hug, given out of a sincere emotional reaction

the hug is followed by some cute awkwardness (especially from Pacifica's side)

Dipper and Pacifica share a heartfelt moment in which she reveals her insecurities, something we can be 99% sure she doesn't usually do. Also because... with whom can she share them? Her parents? Her supposed friends?

Dipper changes his mind about Pacifica after understanding her a bit more (which is always the interlude for the development of romantic feelings)

Pacifica finds the strength to do the right thing, only after Dipper sacrifices himself

the episode ends with them having fun together, laughing and enjoying their time. Also, it's implied they probably spent some time after the party to clean up the mess they made - so who knows? Maybe they shared some more time together and talked a lot more.

I mean... I've seen love stories start with less than that.

3) Dipper and Pacifica have another adventure together in Lost Legends. The formula is similar to Northwest Mansion Mystery: Pacifica has an issue (caused by her shitty parents), Dipper doesn't understand what her problem is, they share a heartfelt moment in which she reveals her weakness, Dipper tells all the right things, they hug, Pacifica does the right thing.

This is another way to reconfirm what the episode in the series already told us: these two have chemistry. They are meant to be. They are a walking enemies to friends to lovers trope - with a side dish of "slow burn" too. And we all love slow-burn stories <3

But this adventure shows us something else: how things have changed since Northwest Mansion Mystery and especially how Dipper's attitude has evolved towards Pacifica. In the episode, he is still very wary of her and makes it clear multiple times that he dislikes her.

Now he says this:

This is basically the Dipcifica equivalent of "I once considered him the center of my life, the sun in my galaxy", only with less toxic old men yaoi and more wholesomeness

it shows how Dipper's attitude is more mature

it implies he can and will develop romantic feelings for her. I mean, look at it: "I've noticed another side of you", "I see the real one and you're more than a pretty face"... gosh, if Pacifica hadn't fallen in love before, she definitely did after that.

it also shows Dipper's growth regarding women: my boy went from making huge, complex plans to talk to them, to lying to get random girls, to saying the truth in such a smooth way. He's great with girls when he doesn't try, he makes me so proud <3

4) Now I know what you think: great points, Bea, but does this couple have Mabel's approval stamp? Billford got it with Mabel calling Bill a clingy ex and telling him to get a crush on someone else's Grunkle. Does Dipcifica have Mabel's approval?

The answer is yes:

Do I have to say anything else? I think Mabel already said anything. Dipper and Pacifica are. A. Thing.

And yes, I know what you might say: they are kids! Sure they are, but that doesn't mean there can't be anything in the future. There is time for them to grow and for these feelings to develop. What we saw in the series and in Lost Legends are the crumbs, the foundation of something bigger that can evolve in the future.

And this is a great foundation because it's plausible and stable. Dipper and Pacifica's interactions never sound forced or out of character: on the contrary, they are built in a way that conciliates both personalities and justifies their changes and evolution.

If we can easily imagine a future for them, it's because their change is organic, it works in the long run - Pacifica can easily become better and better, while she works out her issue and shows the beautiful person she is. And Dipper can easily become more and more aware of what a great girl she is and start to develop deeper feelings for her. It's not impossible to imagine. It works.

And yes, this proves again how well Hirsch developed Gravity Falls and its characters, if we can easily imagine a future for them just out of a few, well-built interactions.

[ivystoryweaver]

No One Like You - Poe Dameron

Poe + Horseback riding

Fall Fluff Masterlist | Poe Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Okay so, this ficlet is a "deleted scene" from my unwritten "Poe crash lands to Earth" story I'm pretending will be posted in Poevember. For that reason, you will discover the slightest slivers of angst surrounding that concept, but I promise it's fluff.

Word count: 1.3k (technically not a ficlet, oh well!) || for @virtie333

Darkness faltered as the last stars danced against its covering canopy. Robins chirped dawn's arrival, their song scattering night's hold over the earth.

Booted footfalls fell on damp soil, carrying you out to the stables, where two magnificent animals waited for your attention eagerly.

Poe Dameron watched as you nuzzled your forehead against the fairer one, stroking gently and whispering, "Good morning, sweet girl."

The darker, redder horse beside her let out a slightly annoyed squeal, which made you chuckle before granting her equal attention, speaking so softly, Poe could barely hear you.

Polishing off the rest of his caf - or coffee, as Earthlings called it - Poe set his ceramic mug down, hoping to be of some use.

Weeks had passed since he'd come to be here with you - since his X-wing spun out of control, through a black hole to a galaxy far, far away. It took the two of you almost a week to successfully hide his nearly obliterated ship on your farm and make up a cover story, should anyone come knocking.

It also took quite a lot of convincing for Poe to believe that there was no one on Earth who could help repair his ship - not without drawing the kind of attention that would get him locked up or put under a microscope.

So, he decided to trust you.

You gave him a bed in your spare room, two warm meals a day, and in return, he helped out on your small farm. He wasn't sure how he could ever get home, but this place wasn't so bad, for now.

"Are there horses where you're from?" You asked Poe a bit later, brushing the coat of your sweet Annabelle.

"There were animals called orbaks one one of the moons of a planet called Endor. And I think there are your kind of horses on its forest moon. Never seen those myself, though," Poe explained, gesturing toward your animal.

A warm smile brightened your face. "So did you ever ride an orbak?"

"No," he cockily grinned. "I was too busy flying my X-wing. My best friend rode one in battle though. It was - what do you say? ‘Badass.’”

Giggling at the colloquialism, you finished brushing Annabelle's mane and reached for the fly spray. "I cannot believe you've been in actual battles. In space. You must think Earth is so boring."

He shrugged one shoulder. "Earth has wars, right? Battles, soldiers? It's the same thing."

"True, but no laser guns and laser swords and powerful wizards and talking furry...what did you call Chewbacca?"

"A Wookiee," Poe chuckled.

After spraying Annabelle, you fed her a quick treat and saddled her. "You be nice to Poe, sweet girl," you instructed her affectionately. "He's new to this."

"Are you sure you don't want to ride her?" Poe politely asked you. "I can try the other one."

You glared at him half-jokingly. "I promise you do not want to ride Arzola. She's not for newbies."

Dark eyebrows shot up at the challenge. "You know, I can fly anything."

"Fly, sure. Ride?" Pulling your bottom lip between your teeth, you winked at him. "Leave the riding to me."

Poe Dameron had never backed down from a challenge in his life, and two in a row had just been laid before him.

Arzola. And you.

"Her loss," he playfully shrugged, carefully approaching the moodier chestnut. "You don't know what you're missing, sweetheart."

"Are you flirting with my horse?" You swatted his arm with a pretend huff.

Trapping your hand against his bicep with incredible reflexes, his eyes locked with yours before momentarily flickering down to your lips. "Not with her."

Arzola nudged her way between the two of you protectively, breaking your temporary trance.

Clearing your throat, you nodded toward her saddle. "Come on, I'll show you how to do this."

Soon enough, you and Poe guided Arzola and Annabelle, respectively, out for an early morning ride.

As expected, Poe was a natural and quickly took command of Annabelle, showing no signs of nervousness and forming an instant bond with her. He seemed so good at it, you almost felt a mildly jealous pang at how she warmed to him. He'd tried out Annabelle a couple times, on quick walks around the paddock, but this was the first real ride.

Sunlight spilled over the horizon, illuminating the path before you, inviting you to rush headlong to where light kissed the earth.

You clicked twice, urging Arzola ahead into a full run, which Annabelle immediately followed.

Poe, of course, accepted the challenge and gave Annabelle a gentle squeeze with his legs. “Come on, sweetheart.”

Annabelle neighed out an affirmation, galloping ahead of the competition. Arzola possessed fiery spirit in spades, but Annabelle's legs were longer, and she preferred to think of herself as the favorite.

"That's my girl," Poe bellowed out a joyful laugh as crisp autumn air whipped through his curls, tossing them carelessly around his forehead. He chanced a look at you, flashing you a devastating grin, dark eyes bright and reddened by the sun's kiss, almost a twin color to Arzola's coat.

This was closest you'd come to seeing him in action, aside from a few projects he'd attempted with a hammer around the farm, and you had to admit, it was a good look on him.

Despite the joy surging through you at the chance to take both your girls out for a run, and with Poe, no less, you still possessed a competitive streak of your own.

With a powerful command you'd probably come to regret, you granted Arzola the permission she was impatiently waiting for, to run top speed and catch the stranger riding her adoptive sister.

Despite the vigor and exertion involved with riding a horse at a full gallop, the look on Poe's face as he stared out over the horizon could be considered nothing short of pure peace.

The two of you slowed and finally brought your animals to a stop. After walking them for a few minutes, you offered them a drink from a hose and trough near a ramshackle tool shed at the far end of your property.

You and Poe sat down on the creaky old steps leading up to the door, taking a moment to have a drink yourselves while the sun finally climbed all the way to full daylight.

"Thanks for this," he softly uttered, turning to gaze at your profile.

Although you felt him staring, you couldn't bring yourself to meet his eyes.

"You're welcome." Finishing off your water bottle, you glanced over at your horses. "Annabelle likes you. Really likes you. She usually can't be bothered to race Arzola."

"Why is that?"

"She's just gentle. She must've had a good reason to challenge her," You explained with a knowing wink.

Poe beamed proudly, following your gaze over to the magnificent creatures. "They're amazing animals. I know it doesn't make sense, but Arzola reminds me of BB-8 a little bit."

"Of a robot?" You scoffed. "For real?"

"A droid," Poe corrected. "Believe me, they can have spirit."

"He must be wonderful," you sympathized, knowing he was separated from the little guy.

Poe ran a hand over the stubble on his chin, eyes dipping as he contemplated a life so far away from everything he'd ever known.

Swallowing, he bravely scooted a little closer to you, meeting your eyes with the openness and sincerity you'd come to expect from him.

"He would be really happy to know that I met someone like you. Someone who helped me. Protected me."

Your lip trembled slightly under his intensity. You'd never met a man like him in your life. There couldn't possibly be anyone like him, at least not on this planet.

Laying your hand gently over his, you spoke from your heart. "I know you didn't plan on any of this, but I'm happy I met you, Poe."

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