#new icon incoming btw.

[nonbinoclard]

my second attempt at drawing myself in the de style 😁✌️

[norrisainz33]

Bittersweet || LN4

☆ summary: you, lando’s long time partner, attend the 2024 hungarian gp and have some strong feelings afterwards

☆ pairing: lando norris x reader

☆ fc: none

☆ warnings: slightly suggestive - you control the content you consume.

୨୧┈୨୧

yourusername made a post

liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1, and 670,897 others

yourusername: date night before hungary

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landonorris: my gorgeous girl 🤤

yourusername: my handsome man 🤤

user1: i want you both

mclaren: looking forward to seeing you in Hungary y/n!

lilyzneimer: marry me

yourusername: i’ve already got the rings 💍

landonorris: whoa whoa whoa

oscarpiastri: landonorris no point fighting it anymore mate

user2: lando is gonna COOK in austria

oscarpiastri: where was my invite

yourusername: we had dinner with you the night before oscy

oscpiastri: so ???? instagram post or it didn’t happen

user6: OSCY?! NEW NICKNAME ALERT

User7: i love how y/n and lando keep making up new nicknames for oscar

user3: ln4 domination

landonorris made a post

likes by yourusername, mclaren, oscarpiastri, and 709,856 others

landonorris: Pole and P2 for Osc. Babaooooom

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user2: LETS GO LANDO

user3: THATS MY GOAT

yourusername: you are incredible lan. let’s get that p1 tomorrow baby

landonorris: gonna get that win 💪🏻

yourusername: LANDOSCAR FRONT ROW LOCK OUT LETS GO

user11: y/n is the president of landoscar nation

user3: LANDO AND OSCAT SUPREMACY

oscarpiastri: there’s gonna be a front row lock out tomorrow too 😉

mclaren: so proud of you both 🧡

yourusername added to their story

[story 1: woke up excited for a lando masterclass 🧡]

view story replies

landonorris: oh i wanna get back in that bed with you

yourusername: you’ve got a race to win first 😈

landonorris: ok 😔

landonorris: btw get your butt over to the garage i want a kiss before the race

yourusername: on my way 😫

lilyzneimer: cheer on our boys for me 🧡

yourusername: i wish you were here but i’ll cheer enough for the both of us 🧡

lilyzneimer: i have a good feeling about today

yourusername: im crossing all my fingers

logansargeant: don’t forget about the incoming logan masterclass

yourusername: how could i forget! you’re gonna do great too rahhhhhh 🦅🇺🇸🦅🇺🇸🦅🇺🇸🦅🇺🇸

yourusername has made a post

liked by logansargeant, maxverstappen1, lilyzneimer, and 890,746 others

yourusername: lando, i am so unbelievably proud of you and the man that you are. you consistently give it your all and give this team everything even when they don’t deserve it. you are an unstoppable force - i love you

oscar, congratulations on your first of so many race wins. you’re going to be champion one day, i know it

mclaren, i’m in your walls 🧡

view all 1,256 comments

user14: admin about to throw y/n’s phone out the window between this and her tweets

user15: YOU TELL THEM Y/N

landonorris: i love you 🤍

yourusername: i love you more 🤍

user16: your honor y/n is an icon

user18: never thought a mclaren 1 - 2 would feel like this

oscarpiastri: thank you, y/n 🧡

mclaren: y/n, please answer your phone

yourusername: no 🧡

user14: oh she’s about to get cooked

user16: free my girl she ain’t do nothing wrong

yourusername posted a story

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☆ a/n: today was bittersweet so i decided to write about it. don’t get it twisted tho i am so happy for oscar!!

☆ likes and reblogs appreciated!

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© norrisainz33: please do not rewrite, translate, or copy any of my works posted here on to any other platform

[faithfromanewperspective]

I can’t stop thinking about the expectation ingrained in culture that women will be the emotional supports and de facto therapists for their (male) partners. I can’t stop thinking about how I saw it in my (female) friend’s marriage and how good it is if bittersweet to see her free from that. I can’t stop thinking about how I saw it in my flock, they’re just birds, surely this isn’t a thing, but it is clear as day and the aging widowers in the flock, many of them are proof of that and I wish I did better by my girls. I can’t help think of a (male) friend who I’m usually really close with but I feel like I’m losing him, I’ve felt that before, I can’t help seeing how free his ex gf seems since they broke up and I wonder if she’s another one of the bisexual girlies I know who’ve sworn off men and this gives me such a new way to look at my queensland best friend and I hate it I want to throw up because I know he’s better than that. and there’s nothing I can do because he has to do the work himself and it’s the same isn’t it? with my other friends ex husband and my old birds and how do you even do the healing work when you’re a bird?? maybe I can do something there. but how many generations has this happened? have my great grandmothers gone to their graves believing they’re good for nothing but emotional support? have yours? good on my mum for never being that for anyone. her children did the work ourselves, didn’t we? and I can’t even grieve for us, we’re too stubborn anyway just like my dad, we were always made to make it through the world through observation and art and may we never bleed down the generations or just shut out that softness like our grandparents. may we always rebel against gender roles the way we do, may we be the queer icons that we are always, may we show the world somethjng else. when did my sisters grow up to become this?

but while I celebrate us I also look at gender roles again, I’m not usually one for them, I’m just against being told to do things that don’t work for us and aren’t natural already but I’m obsessed with finding the good in everything and I think that I can, not these kinds of gender roles, not the provider and the therapist that became two incomes but one still provides the emotional labour. I look at lines like ‘love your wife as Christ loved the church’ and ‘respect your husband’ (which btw are about mutual love and submission and anyone who twists that is trying to hold a sense of power over someone and they’re Officially Wrong) but maybe the weird and potentially sexist wording had a point?? self sacrificial love of a god who dies for a bunch of people many of whom hate him: that’s something that women through history have done naturally, people pleasing, connection seeking, fear, it’s not actually natural but something we’ve been socialised into. and isn’t the gospel about liberation, what a better way to be liberated than having a mandate that the men in our lives do the exact same thing?? so much giving, that no one can take more than their fair share when they need that love? builds the connection we all seek that can heal?? maybe that’s the reason behind it idk who am I to say?? and maybe respect is refusing to treat a man like a child who can’t meet his own emotional needs? maybe it’s saying you can do this, but this is something you have to do yourself. you have to step up. you can’t bleed out on your partner and kids and expect them to clean it up, if you respect yourself you get your shit together yourself and it doesn’t mean you’re mentally well all the time just that you take responsibility? and I respect you enough to know you can do it and I don’t have to do it for you. so many of us as women do it for the men around us and it doesn’t work. I only hope it isn’t too late for my loved ones (human) to see this. of all genders. and all take responsibility but also have access to healthily given love to let in. It’s the same thing for all genders. but the backdrop is different. for cis men and women. for trans and nonbinary folk or anyone of any gender who just refuses to go along with any of it. and so watch me randomly deconstruct (Christian) bible passages one anti-sexist privilege and culture-aware hot take at a time. may you find any good that’s in this if there is any there, regardless of what you think about these texts or religion

[justsomeweirdbandkid]

New header and icon incoming btw

[chaninfused]

I . literally don’t know where to start oh my god.

before I start rambling under the cut: IF YOURE READING THIS GO AND READ EVENING STAR I BESEECH THEE 🗣

ok OK you know how excited I’ve been for a new installment of es and let me tell you- IT DID NOT DISAPPOINT !! like when I woke up yesterday and saw the post about posting part two I SHRIEKED (silently) I will forever lose my mind over this series there’s nothing you can do about it 😌

anyway time for real feedback let me just say. Kat. I am OBSESSED with your writing like you don’t understand. I am obsessed. And this fic reminded me of that cus omg !! YOUR STYLE NEVER MISSES 🗣 from the very start like the way you described mc waking up. the disorientation the confusion the panic it’s just so scrumptious 😙👌🏻 I was truly so engrossed in reading and that was evident in my STRESS omg I wanted to physically reach in and grab those two and just SPRINT out of there 💆🏻‍♀️ it was truly getting serious.

The suspense !! mc running through the forest and then reuniting w chan !! it was all just written so beautifully <3 and oh my goodness that part where chan finds mc in her room ✋🏻 I was stressed as HELL but im glad it all went well in the end sdhjksld I said this in my feedback for pt 1 and I must say this again—reading this felt like watching a movie. Perhaps the bg music played into it but I know that it was all thanks to the way you went about writing those scenes. You paid so much attention to detail and it shows cus every sentence was crafted so beautifully. There’s a certain flow ?? dynamic ?? to your words that just pulls the reader’s mind through the scene it’s like seeing something through a camera. I’m trying to say that your camerawork is excellent ig 👁 LMFAO SDHJFKSLDFS

There was this line, “stories of heroes could be immortalised by ink and tongue, but things like safety were only temporary” that I just really really liked. Nothing particular I just think it’s nice so i’m drawing attention to it 😌

Speaking of lines I also liked this part “No; Chan wouldn’t just be pointing fingers - he’d be pointing a sword at whoever’s name you let slip” cus it’s 1) funny 2) clever 3) sums up chan’s character pretty nicely GHFSDJKLSD

I must say minho’s first line is the most iconic tho I IMMEDIATELY knew he was gonna be my favorite character and I know I’ll suffer because of it 😔✋🏻 but that’s okay everything for mister snarky mage

Pardon the incoming minho rant btw I JUST REALLY LIKE HIS CHARACTER DGHFJKSD 😭 him helping mc from a distance and then his introduction—just immediately threatening the One Guy With A Sword. Absolutely a moment for the history books I must say. Also his backstory ?? whatever history he has with mc ?? I am utterly and absolutely shaking with curiosity I need to know 1) what happened 2) WHO LEFT HIM SO HURT 🔪

I may have been all heart eyes over knight chan but it seems that my agenda has changed 😔 as it often does when minho appears.

ALSO WTSFDFGSDHGSDJ I NEARLY FORGOR

HYUNJIN ????????????????????????????????????????????????/ HYUNJIN I KNEW IT TJHKDFSHDJFKSLD;KDSJGHSJDK he was suspicious from the very start smh I can’t defend you for this one bestie 😔 I say this fully knowing I’ll be over here kicking my legs if he shows up again it’s just the hyunjin stan in me I cannot stop her she’s embarrassing ✋🏻

Oh also I said something that I want to elaborate on/clarify further—that the way you described minho shows the familiarity shared between him and mc ☝🏻 this could just be the overthinker in me but like you focused on how his features had changed and matured rather than introducing them (if that makes sense 💀) so like, as readers, we got a general description of him, but then this focus nicely depicted the relationship he and mc have. They haven’t seen each other in years but still he’s familiar yk familiar enough that mc would notice the growth in him after so long- IDK IF ANY OF THIS MAKES SENSE BUT I JUST WANTED TO EXPLAIN CUS !!!! YOUR WRITING WAS WONDERFUL OKAY 😤

Anyway idk what else to say cus my brain is just a big ol’ keyboard smash atm 😔 im so excited for what comes next (MORE MAGE MINHO !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) and now I honestly feel inspired to go revisit my wips and finish writing so sdfhgjsdf thank you :P

This was overall an amazing wonderful exciting installment of the series thank you for blessing us, kat 🤲🏻🤍

☾⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: evening star ; two *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

⋆*･ﾟ story preview. ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:

pairing(s): knight!chan x princess!reader, mage!minho x princess!reader featuring: prince!hyunjin and others. story summary: you were soon to be married to a well liked and nobel prince from one of the wealthiest kingdoms. however, when the engagement ball takes a turn for the worst, you’re to try and reclaim your kingdom with the help of your knight and best friend chan, as well as the mage who you have a secret history with.

⋆*･ﾟ part two ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:

wordcount: 13.9k chapter warnings: blades, mild violence, some injuries note that these warnings are specific to this chapter. if you read something you think should be tagged, please send me a message/ask. a/n: hihi! sorry for the long wait but she's here!! i did have to repost this for reasons which i won't get into, but anyhow. happy reading! taglist: @kpop--etc / @freckled-felixlee / @foivetimesacharm / @tremendousminyoongi / @wearethethunderousones / @chrisishungry100397 / @freckledquokka / @starrylino / @soulssung / @scarsnfevers / @sahazzy / @djeniryuu // unable to tag some :(( --- m.list | one | two | tbc...

It's cold.

That's all you can seem to think about as you slowly come to, the heaviness in your head tempting you to keep your eyes shut. Your ears are ringing dully, and your limbs feel heavy, the way they had years ago when you had first tried to swing Chan’s sword.

The memory blurs in your brain as you try to push yourself up. Your shoulder is killing you - you must have fallen asleep with your arm at a strange angle, but for how long? How long had you been on the staircase for your shoulder to hurt like this? There was nothing to indicate the passage of time that had passed, though the moon was viewable through a small cutout in the staircase. It shown down through the gap, cold moonlight casting an eerie blue glow over you

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Repeat.

As the ringing in your ears start to die down, an unsettling feeling overcomes you. It was quiet. Too quiet. There were no footsteps, no distant chatter or sounds of the quartet playing. There didn’t even seem to be any nightlife - the sounds of crickets and owls that you were positive almost always accompanied the night were no where to be heard. Had it always been this quiet?

As if the world was desperate to prove you wrong, the sound of clattering footsteps makes its way to your ears from below. There was the familiar footfall of the palace servants - more rushed and skitterish than normal, but the sound of their shoes on stone was one you had grown up with.

And then there’s the heavy sound of boots, creating a dull thud with every step.

“To the ballroom! Now!”

It was an unfamiliar, gravelly voice - none of the guards you knew sounded like that. None of them sounded that demanding. As the steps come nearer, you can make out panicked whispers and muffled crying.

Pushing yourself up, forcing your weak legs to hold you up, you scramble up the staircase, away from the noise. With each forced movement, whatever power had fatigued you seems to wash away.

Some part of you - the part that had grown up on adventure stories and fairy tails of princes saving princesses - wanted to run down and help whoever was crying. But you knew that wasn’t the smartest of ideas - and the castle staff, knowing their kind hearts, would tearfully scold you for putting yourself in danger for them.

The sound of your shoes on the stone stairs reverberates in your ear. Kicking them off, you continue barefooted up the staircase.

It was a good idea - not only were your steps quieter, but the cold floor beneath you was grounding. It shocked the drowsiness out of your system, heightened your senses.

And thank god for that, fpr had you continued on with your shoes, you may not have noticed the voices from the second floor until it was too late.

“Find her! She can’t have disappeared into thin air!”

Were they talking about you? So whatever had happened had been to target you?

The thought makes your blood run cold, a sudden wave of dizziness hitting you. To your knowledge, you had never been made the sole target for anything, and all the drills and procedures that you had been taught- they all revolved around someone escorting you away, someone protecting you.

But right now? You were alone, unsure who the enemy was and had no way to contact the only person you trusted. You didn’t even know where he was.

Your mind jumps to your mother - where was she? Was she alright? The last time you had seen her, she’d been in the ballroom. There had been plenty of guards in the ballroom. Hopefully, she was alright.

“Have you checked her room?” A new voice - familiar, but not enough that you can put a face to it in your panic.

“Yes, sir. She isn’t there.”

You wait, holding your breath and pushing yourself flat against the curved wall of the staircase as you wait for the men to move away - anywhere but down the staircase. It seemed an eternity before the one in charge replies.

“Fine. Go find some men and comb through the forest. If she somehow escaped, she can’t have gone far. Not in heels and a ball gown.”

“Yes, sir!”

Hearing their footsteps fade, you take the last few steps up to the top. To leave the temporary sanctuary offered by the darkness of the staircase seems like leaving the only safe haven you know, but you also know that almost nothing was ever permanent - stories of heroes could be immortalised by ink and tongue, but things like safety were only temporary.

Your bare feet pad across the cold floor, the lack of echo each time your feet hit the ground alien to you.

It was tiring and absolutely terrifying to look over your shoulder every few steps - what if, in that split second, someone appears in front of you? Or what if you look back, and someone is there? You weren't sure who the men were, who they worked for (if anyone at all), nor were you sure what they wanted.

Despite there having been men above and below the staircase, you manage to make your way down the hall without being spotted. When the door to your bedroom finally comes into view, the adrenaline increases in your veins - this was it, this was the last sprint. As soon as you're in, you can lock the door and then figure out your next move.

Taking a deep breath, you set off on a run to the door, feet falling hard against the ground.

Just as you reach the door, the sound of footsteps from down the hall reach you. You start fumbling the door handle, hands suddenly uncooperative and breath erratic and heart beating in your ears and the footsteps are speeding up, getting closer, closer, closer-

The door opens, and you barely manage to push it shut behind you as you stumble in. Spinning around, you throw yourself back against it, fingers struggling to lock the door based off of muscle memory.

You can hear the lock slide home, the click calming your nerves ever so slightly.

Finally, you were safe once again, your room providing temporary solace. And familiar, it could have been, had your room not look like it'd been torn apart.

The blankets on your bed had been pulled off, and the wardrobe doors thrown open. Closet doors had also been opened, and you could see the gaps in your clothes where someone had pushed them apart. And at the center of your room - the flowers you had been gifted earlier in the day, spilling over the edge of the table, the vase knocked over.

Whoever had come looking for you had really looked through everything, you thought, face warming despite all. But it should be the last thing on your mind, you chide yourself. There were more important matters at stake - like your life, and whatever on earth was going on.

Running to your open wardrobe, you rummage through the mess that had been left behind for something to change into, grabbing at the darkest thing you could find - a dark, velvet dress. You quickly undress, letting the stained tulle gown fall and bunch around your feet. Stepping out and kicking it aside ungracefully, you struggle to pull the velvet dress on while simultaneously digging around for something that wasn’t heels - it takes longer than you had thought to locate some riding boots. You crouch down, pulling at the laces.

How long would it be before someone was going to return to check your room? If you were still here, what would happen? Could you fight them off by yourself? ...No, probably not. You might be able to fling a few measly knives, but you had never been in combat of nay kind. If anyone returned, if anyone found you, you’d be helpless.

And then what? Would they take you to the ballroom, where it seemed they were gathering everyone, or would they lock you in the dungeon? Or would they ki-

Like a deer who had heard a twig snap, your body freezes when you hear your door rattle. Every joint in your body feels like it’s been locked in place, and your breath unable to leave your lungs. Had you overthought this all and imagined up the door rattling? Or was someone really outside, trying to get in?

It rattles again, a catalyst for movement as you crawl to your bed - an unsightly scene for a royal, but you couldn’t care less - and reach under the bedskirts. Your hand grasps at nothing until finally your fingers wrap around the string of the drawstring bag you had handed Chan earlier that morning. Pulling it out, you could hear the metal daggers sliding against one another, the harshness of the sound amplified against the stone even through the fabric of the bag.

Click.

Your breath is caught in your throat, trying so hard to force its way out that you feel like you’re about to puke. The drawstring bag seems to be stitched shut, your fingers prying helplessly at the string and the material.

Over your raging heart, you can hear the door shut softly.

Someone was in your room.

Hands shaking and sweating, you finally manage to tug the bag open, and you pull it wide, not caring for what noise it made - if someone was in your room, they were bound to find you anyways - and you reach inside, hands sliding against cold metal that sends shocks up your your arm.

Like some twisted nightmare, all you can see is a pair of black boots before you feel yourself being pushed over onto your back, the stranger putting his weight onto you and pinning your hands above your head with one hand, the other covering your mouth.

Eyes squeezed shut, you thrash around, kicking and twisting, yells muffled despite all your effort. The grip around your wrist was secure, preventing you from even twisting your hand around and nicking the person’s hand with the small dagger you had tried to hard to retrieve.

“Shut- Shut up, y/n, it’s me-”

Your body stills at the all too familiar voice. Eyes snapping open, You find Chan leaning over you, face flushed and eyes wide. He was panting, as if overpowering you had taken all the strength from him.

He releases your wrists, bringing a finger to his lips. Be quiet.

When you nod in response, he lifts his other hand from your mouth.

Without another thought in mind, you reach up and pull him down on top of you, hugging him tight despite your shaking limbs and burying your face into his shoulder. He smelled of the forest at night, the smell of earth and wood mixing with sweat and Chan.

“Chan, I thought you were someone else-”

Your breath rushes out, words barely squeezing past the sob in your throat.

Seeing Chan’s face made you want to cry; you wanted to be held, to be cradled in his arms and have him whisper words of comfort in your ear, for him to stroke your hair and tell you hey, everything’s alright, this is all just a bad nightmare and you’ll wake up soon.

He does stroke your hair - you feel his hand come under you, holding your head to the crook of his neck. He pats your head, hand running over your hair rhythmically until the adrenaline in your veins dissipates.

The smell of forest and night and Chan, the feeling of fabric between your nails and your palm, the sensation of being held by someone safe - it grounded you, each rattling breath shaking out the fear from your mind.

Slowly, your hands open and release his shirt. Even with your arms loose around his torso, Chan continues to hold you, and then you feel it, adrenaline leaving the room for your senses to recover.

His arms around you are strong - you’ve always known that he was strong - but they’re tense, as if he was restraining himself from holding you any tighter than he already was. You can hear his breaths, forcibly steady and controlled, and his hands are shaking against your hair as he calms you down, leaving an onlooker to wonder who it really was that needed the comfort.

He gulps, and you think he’s about to say something, but he pulls back. Still on top of you, he looks down, his bangs hanging and brushing against your forehead. He seems to be scanning your eyes, your face, for something that you couldn’t quite figure out. Injuries, perhaps? Or was he trying to see if you were still scared?

With each passing second, you can see his eyes soften. Simply looking at you, it seems, was enough to ground Chan.

“Did- Did you lock the door?” you break the silence after a while, and Chan blinks rapidly.

As if suddenly remembering that he was straddling your hips and leaning over you, he throws himself to the side, rolling into a kneeling position. He nods minutely, glancing across the room to the door. Though it stands silently, though you can't help noticing the feeling of impending doom it seems to radiate.

You push yourself up from the floor, retrieving the dagger you had discarded upon recognising Chan. The metal is unnervingly cold against the palm of your hand, and you quickly drop it back into the bag.

"What happened?"

Chan is across the room, peering out one of the two windows in your room. His eyes flick to you, and quickly back out the window when he catches you staring at him.

You shake your head, still trying to piece it all together yourself. "I don't- I don't know. I was going back to my room-"

"Why?"

"To change my dress - There was an accident-"

"Accident?"

"Yes, I knocked into someone- No, they knocked into me- Oh, I can't remember, but my dress got stained, so I was told to go back to my room and wait for a new dress. I was- I was on my way to my room, and then everything started getting all... weird, and it was like the castle was moving - I couldn’t - I couldn’t walk fast enough, and I was scared, and the torches kept moving and-" It was all mixed up in your brain. You could picture it all happening, could see yourself talking to the maid, could see the hallway, the fire and dancing shadows on the wall-

"Breathe, your highness. You're safe right now. I'm here." Chan had, at some point, made his way over to you. He had his hands on your shoulder, his thumbs rubbing circles into your skin. "Now, have you been in your room all this time?"

“I-” shuddering breath in, shuddering breath out. “No. I only made it to the stairs before I... before I fell asleep.”

Once you had calmed down, Chan starts the questioning. What do you remember seeing? How long were you asleep? What did you hear? You had expected this to happen, and tried to recall all the details.

The story, though short, slowly unravels, and Chan shares his side too. He had been making his rounds, ensuring everyone was stationed where they were supposed to be when he noticed the change in the atmosphere - everything had gone quiet. He’d found one of his men on the ground - unwounded, but asleep, and Chan couldn’t wake him up. He would have kept trying, but then he saw the group of men approaching the castle.

“There were too many for me to try and beat. And I didn’t know how many more there were, and it was just- there were too many risks.” Chan had regret painted all over his face. You knew how much it must have hurt him to walk past his men, all on the ground, and be able to do nothing to help them. “But they said it had worked. And I don’t know what it is, but from the looks of it...”

“Magic.”

The word hangs in the air, a dark cloud that could bring anything from a light shower to a thunderous storm. No one really knew what the nature of magic was - after so many years of separation between the magical and non-magical, there was little interest in educating the non-magic folk of what magic really was. Magic was wild, something you nor Chan could fully comprehend.

“What I don’t understand,” Chan starts, pacing around the room, “Is why you were the only one who woke up. I mean - I assume I was outside of the spell’s perimeter, but you, your highness... Everyone was asleep, when I made my way here. No matter how hard I tried to wake them, no one would open their eyes. They were all breathing, though.” A reassurance, for himself or for you, no one knows.

You had an idea about why you were awake. A voice, a memory, a boy from long ago. You were sure he was connected to this somehow, that he had somehow tried to protect you - he had told you to run, had he not? That had to have been his voice.

But you knew that mentioning him to Chan right now wouldn’t be the best of ideas. Chan - always protecting you, always ready to cut down anything that could be a risk to you - was already sure magic was the root of whatever trouble you were now in, and to tell him that the reason you woke up was most likely because of someone’s magic?

No; Chan wouldn’t just be pointing fingers - he’d be pointing a sword at whoever’s name you let slip.

So instead, you shake your head. “But what now? We can’t stay here and wait the spell out,” you reason. “Besides, I heard the men moving everyone to the ballroom. We- We can’t even stay here.”

The realisation settles in your mind, a cold blanket that seemed to freeze you in place.

You had… never spent a night outside of the castle before. Chan had, of course, but he had been out with people who were able to protect themselves, able to take care of themselves.

But what were you, if not a princess who had grown up sheltered by the castle? And sure, you theoretically knew your way around a blade, but you could barely do more than hit within two meters of your target.

"...And I know we don't have time, but we'll figure this out, okay?"

You would be nothing more than a burden on Chan; extra baggage that he had to carry and take care of, whether he wanted to or not.

"I won't let anything bad happen to you or our kingdom. I promise."

Sometimes, you simply wished for a life free of the responsibilities you and Chan had.

"Your highness?"

It was hard to shake the thoughts from your head, though you tried - too much was at stake right now for you to get lost in your own shortcomings.

"Y/n," comes Chan's voice, closer and softer than it had been a moment ago, drawing you away from all the possibilities of the past, present and future. "I know this is overwhelming, but I need you here with me, okay?"

He raises a hand, palm cupping your cheek and thumb swiping under your eye - had you been crying? You hadn't even realised.

"I'm here," you tell him, and despite your voice betraying you, you really were present. Wiping away at your tears, you take a deep breath. "I'm here," you say again, more confidently this time.

"Good. Now,” Chan takes a breath that seems to rattle his body as much as you felt rattled. “Go grab that dagger from above your bed."

It takes a moment for your feet to move; once they do, it was like everything was being sped up.

You had to get up on the bed to reach the dagger. You go to step on your pillows, almost falling as they move under your weight, and kick them out of the way. They fall onto the floor with light thumps, and you reach up for the dagger.

“What about the prince?” You ask as you unhitch the blade from where it was mounted. The light catches on the star etched at the hilt, flashing as you move off the bed and back to Chan. “Him and his men aren’t familiar enough with the castle to-”

“With all due respect, my only responsibility right now is you,” Chan replies. He isn’t cold or dismissive, but his tone tells you he wasn’t going to compromise your safety for anyone else. “There are too many unknowns right now for us to try and find him.”

He’s standing by your window, peering out of it from the side. You sneak a glance out, curious as to what he was watching.

Nothing. He was watching nothing.

All was still outside your window, which overlooked the back of the castle. The forest was dimly lit by the moon, though you could see the shadow of clouds inching closer and closer. The only thing that seemed to move - even the trees seemed like they were still, unmoving against the wind that moved the clouds.

“Are we… Are we going?”

He nods silently, solemnly, before turning on his heels with what seems to you like newfound determination. Had he been thinking all this time? Trying to come up with a plan?

Well, you’d probably know had you not been so caught up in your thoughts before.

“Now listen, your highness.” Chan is busy rummaging through your bag of knives as he talks. “It’s just the two of us, so I should be able to fight should anyone come at us. But in the case that someone gets to you, you use the dagger, all right? And if you don’t have your dagger, use your body. Fists, elbows, knees. Connect with the throat, with the eyes. You might not be strong enough to faze an armoured person with a hit to the torso."

You nod, repeating the words in your head. Dagger, fists and elbows, throat and eyes.

“These will be too loud if we’re to carry them around, and we don’t have any harnesses on us.” He balls the bag up, sliding it and the daggers across the floor and back under your bed. He turns to you next, hands on your shoulders and looking into your eyes with a fierceness that almost shakes you. “If we get separated, you run into the forest, okay? You aim for the forest, and get as far in as you can. I’ll find you.”

Brows furrowing, you shake your head. “You- You say that like I’d leave you behind.”

“You have to, if I get caught- If I’m fighting someone. If you have the chance to run, you run, okay?”

You continue to stare at him, at Chan, who had been by your side all your life, who was asking you to leave him behind if the situation called for it.

“Promise me, your highness. If I tell you to go, you go, okay?”

He’s looking at you with such seriousness, with so much will and determination and need for you to to promise. And, were you to look closer, look longer, you’d see the fear in his eyes.

What was it that he knew, that he had thought about that you hadn’t quite comprehended about the situation yet? Surely it wasn’t so bad that Chan would have to… sacrifice himself, right?

“Y/n, I need to know you’ll be safe if I-”

“I promise.” The words manage their way up and out your mouth, leaving a vile taste behind. It was both a truth, and a lie. I promise I’ll be safe. I won’t leave you behind.

—

The plan had seemed simple when Chan had talked you through it, and perhaps it was naive of you to take his words at face value. You definitely thought so now, as you almost run into Chan for the third time as he stops abruptly at a corner.

Ahead, you can hear the sounds of voices - not hushed, but far enough that you can't make out any of the words. They slowly grow louder, louder, footsteps drowing out the words, and then all the sounds fade out all together.

“Okay, let's go.”

After a moment of silence, Chan moves again. You follow closely behind, glancing back every few seconds to make sure that no one had walked around the corner.

You were near a staircase, you knew. Another small spiraling one, not unlike the one you had fallen asleep upon.

Chan stops before the entrance. He pokes his head in, cocks his head slightly to the side - you wait, heart beating in your ears until Chan gives the all clear.

The pair of you descend the stairs, the cold entrapped in the small, stone-walled space sending shivers down your spines. You spare but the smallest thought to curse yourself silently for forgetting to bring coats - but this wasn’t a planned outing, really. Who had the luxury of time to remember coats?

As yellow torchlight can be seen reflected on the walls of the staircase, Chan turns his head to speak to you in a hushed voice.

“Once we exit the staircase, we’ll head straight for the back door. Once outside, head straight for the forest. If we get separated, meet near the clearing where you practice-”

Chan disappears from your sight, thrown to the left with a grunt of pain.

“Chan!”

You quickly descend the last few steps, turning to find Chan on the floor, an arm over his head protectively. As you go to take a step towards him, mind gone in your panic to see if he’s alright, your feet leave the ground.

“Let- Let go of me!”

The person behind you has a hand around each wrist, pushing your arms against your chest as they lift you off your feet. You’re kicking and yelling, the dagger in your hand useless with what little range of motion you have.

As if you were but a pillow, the person - a man, you guessed, from the grunts in your ear and the thick, muscular arms around you, - carries you over closer to Chan.

“It wouldn’t do his highness any good to leave someone so devoted to the princess alive-”

You freeze as dread feels your veins, your mind, every part of your body, filling you in a way that seemed to offset your balance.

His highness? He couldn’t mean- no-

The man moves you to the side, jerking motion pulling a cry from you. He pulls his leg back, prepares to kick Chan. You shut your eyes tight as you can, turning your head away - to see Chan in pain right now, to see him be hurt, would crush your spirit.

“Don’t worry, some of your buddies will be joining you soon,” the man says, before bringing his leg forward and-

A sharp curse is yelled into your ear before you feel yourself fall, eyes staying shut until you feel the body behind - no, beneath you, make impact with the ground.

The man’s arms loosen around you just enough for you to pull an arm free. The dagger, held so tight in your hand that you feel like it’s hilt would be imprinted into your palm, swings behind you blindly. There’s a shout of pain before the tip skids along the stone ground.

Whatever damage you had done was enough of a surprise for the man to release you.

You roll off of him, being sure to keep the blade of the dagger away from you, and scramble to your feet. Eyes wide, you take in the scene before you.

Chan, still on the ground, was pulling the man towards him by the foot; had he stayed on the floor on purpose to pull the perpetrator down with him?

“Chan-”

“Go, y/n!

You stare in horror as the man, getting dragged slowly but surely towards Chan, starts to come back to his senses and recover from the initial shock of the fall. Chan, while not lacking in the muscle department, looked like he would be done for if he took another few hits.

And yet he wanted you to leave him.

It was his job, you knew, but still-

“I’ll be right behind you! Just go!” Chan yells, half frantic and half commanding, eyes jumping haphazardly between you and the slowly awakening man. “You promised!”

You had, and yet you had also promised yourself you wouldn’t abandon him. But what use were you if you stayed?

Chan wouldn’t be able to use his sword, not at that close a distance. You knew enough about battle to know that. So you do the only thing you can for him in that moment.

“Here!”

Before Chan could even look at you, you slide the dagger in your hand towards him, hilt first. It glides across the ground, metal against stone filling your ears, and as it passes the man, a brief image of him grabbing it and diving forward at Chan flashes in your mind.

But he doesn’t grab for it, and the dagger comes to a stop at Chan’s knees. He looks at it in shock, confusion, then back at you and nods.

Now, go, his eyes seem to say.

A strange calmness had settled in Chan’s face, as if he had come to some final decision, had accepted something.

A pit of newfound discomfort makes its home in your stomach, but you do, this time. You go slowly at first, one step back, two, and then you turn your back and run.

You can hear grunts and yells as you run away from Chan and the other man. You can hear him yelling to let anyone nearby know that the princess was getting away, but you don’t turn back to see if anyone’s following you. Part of you feared you would lose your footing if you did, the harsh sounds of your running steps a driver to keep you going, and the other feared the potential scene you had left behind.

It was awfully difficult to run in the velvet dress. Though no where near the heaviest dress you had worn, the way the skirt’s layers moved against your legs seemed to act like a barrier. You fought on, pulling it up to free your ankles of the resistance. The echoes of your steps fill your ears, heart beating against your chest, in your ears, as the wooden door you had come through this morning finally becomes visible. As if in response to your near success, you can hear the sounds of more men coming - the clunking of armour, of swords being unsheathed, of incoherent orders being yelled.

You push the door, the velvet of the dress catching on the old wooden door; though reinforced with iron bars, the door itself had stood sturdy for as long as you can remember, and though well maintained, time had brought forth a few chips. It stood strong, even now, and your face scrunches up in effort - had it always been this heavy? - until finally, finally it groans open.

Cold night air slips through the gap, drying your eyes and piercing your already pained lungs further. You step out, one foot, then the other, and the door slams shut behind you.

The vast silence that greets you is deafening.

Despite the breeze that had slipped through the door, the air was still. Lack of wind didn’t make you any less cold, and you feel a shiver run through your body as you scan the horizon.

The forest behind the castle seemed frozen in place, and had it not been for the eerie way the clouds floated above the trees, you’d have no trouble believing someone had stopped time in its place.

Draped in the blues and purples of night, the stone stairs that lead down the east side of the castle and to the stream that separated the castle grounds from the forest looked colder than ever. You had fallen on them once when you were younger, the cold biting into your palms when you had gone to brace yourself. To fall again now might mean more than just scratched up hands and knees.

You hands fist at your sides when you feel the unnerving thoughts fill your mind. Into the forest, Chan had said. As far in as you can go, and he’ll find you.

He’ll find you. He would always find you, unless-

You take a deep, bone-rattling breath in and let the pain of cold air in your nose ground you. Pulling your skirts up once more, you make your way down the stairs.

Steady but fast, you descend the stairs. Each step reverberates through your body, the sound of your own breathing in your ears.

You didn’t dare to concentrate on anything other than placing one foot before the other and not missing a step - a tumble would be detrimental to everything, would put you at risk, would make Chan’s sac- would mean that Chan had stayed behind to fight for nothing.

Your boots make contact with grass, the soft surface of the new ground unsettling to your legs. One step, two, a glance behind. The door stood dark and unmoving - had the men not seen you leave it, or were they occupied elsewhere?

It mattered not - you take a deep gulp, cold air filling your throat, your lungs, before you start running towards the stream. Just past there, and you would be at the forest. While you had yet to explore the entire forest, you knew most of it, and you were certain that at the very least, you knew it better than the men who were attacking the castle.

The men who were attacking the castle… His highness, the man had said.

You were in denial, you knew, but there was only one person that you were aware of that held that title.

Your throat seemed to close up at the thought - the prince had been nothing but kind to you and your servants, had done nothing but try to get to know your land better… and it all could have been an act.

Yet some part of you wanted to believe he was better than that - better than someone who acted kind and gentle, who spoke fondly of their men, their friends, just to sympathise and get on your good side. But he had said it himself, no? That with the lives of their people in their hands, there are things that royals need to sacrifice?

The maelstrom of thoughts is pushed from your head when your feet meet new ground once again. The stream is shallow and unmoving, and yet dragging your feet through the water seemed to require a great deal more energy than ever before. It’s cold, the width from one side to the other large enough that despite your boots, your feet seem numb by the time you reach the other side. Your skirt, though you had held it as high as you could manage, had been caught by the river in the crossing and now seemed to drag behind you as you trudge through the last stretch of land to the forest.

And just in time.

Shouts from the castle reach your ears as you step between the trees, and you turn to see silhouettes of men, flames from their torches lighting up the sides of their face. Too far away for you to make out if the three of them were your men or not, yet close enough that they could see you should they descend the stairs.

So you push aside the small slimmer of hope that these were Chan’s men and scurry into the forest.

It was dark, twigs and leaves on the ground catching on your dress as you make your way in, and yet you found an odd comfort in the shadows of the trees. If the people chasing you were in fact from another land - you refused to even think that they might be your people - then being in the forest that you had explored since you were young would, theoretically, put you at an advantage. You might not know the entire forest inside and out, but you knew it well enough that you were confident you would be able to evade the pursuers.

At first, you follow the path you normally take when you go off in the early mornings to practice your knife throwing. Down between the two trees, perfectly lined up with each other, past the boulder that Chan had once chased you around - Chan- no, don’t get distracted - and down the steady slope, the well-trekked path obvious for it lacked foliage and branches in the way.

It was obvious.

So without a second thought, you turn to your right and dash madly in between the trees, losing yourself in their shadows.

No one had really ever travelled off the path, especially not this close to the castle grounds. The ground was far more uneven than the path before, sticks catching on your skirt, hitting the leather of your riding boots - you could feel the small thumps. Even your sleeves, though not wide, caught on the lower branches as you tried to push them out of the way. There was little to light your path but whatever moonlight managed to slip past the trees, highlighting the odd patch of forest ground. Leaves and rocks, roots and fallen branches. You tried to avoid what you could, tried your best to keep your footing, but it wasn’t long before you tripped.

Hands met the ground and a jarring pain shoots up your left arm. You try to stop the cry of pain from escaping your lips, your mouth opening in pained silence as your left hand gives way and you fall onto your side.

The ground is rough through the velvet of the dress, rocks digging into your shoulder as you cradle your arm to your chest. You give yourself only a second, two, to collect yourself. Your wrist hurt, the initial sharp pain dulling down to a strong throb that made you feel like your veins were about to burst with each pulse.

You push yourself up, forcing your legs to carry you further across the forest.

It feels an age before you finally come to a stop, hand against a tree to support yourself as laboured breathing hurts your chest, your head almost woozy from the adrenaline, the exhaustion, the panic and the confusion and the fact that you just didn’t know what was going on and if Chan was even-

Snap.

You force yourself to hold you breath mid-inhale, force your muscles to freeze and your mind to quiet down and your ears to listen.

Snap. Snap.

it wasn’t coming from directly behind you. You gulp, turning your head to your right, squinting against the darkness in some hope it would make your vision clearer.

There’s someone there, and even silhouetted from a distance, you can tell they’re in bad shape - one hand held a sword, the other their side, and with each step forward, a limp becomes more noticeable.

They raise their sword hand in greeting and it takes you a second to process.

Chan*.***

You trip in your haste to get to him, barely managing to regain your footing before your next step propels you forward. You’re stumbling across the ground and you feel the twigs get caught in your skirt, feel your feet kick them out of the way, but you don’t bother to hold your skirt up. The pain in your arm was holding you back from doing so, yes, but the sheer fact that Chan was alright and was here and that you’d found each other - that fact was enough for you to push forward.

You seem to reach him before he does you, your eyes drawing instantly to his left side - a hand was holding a piece of fabric to his side, and as your eyes scan him, you notice he had only one sleeve; he’d torn one off, using it as temporary gauze to stop what you can only imagine to be bleeding. The sword was held loosely in one hand, and to his thigh, your dagger was strapped.

“You’re a mess,” you whisper into the night, heart aching. Your fingers reach out, first for the wound at his side, then to cup his face, but they move ever so minutely that when you stop yourself - you’re a princess, damn it, and Chan was your knight; such acts weren’t befitting of your positions at all - Chan doesn’t even realise you had moved at all.

He chuckles, despite his appearance. Chan drops his sword and lifts his hand to your head, pulling something from your hear and flicking it away. “You’re one to talk.”

You pout, suddenly self conscious and try to clean off whatever dirt had clung to your dress. “Well, you could hardly expect me to look presentable, given the situation.”

“Ah.” Chan grimaces, as if suddenly reminded of the present. “The situation. We- We should get going, deeper into the forest and find somewhere to hide for the mean time.”

“Will you be okay? How bad is the wound?”

He nods, face set in a smile. “It’s nothing life threatening - just a graze,” he comments. “Just a bit of blood-”

He’s cut off as you reach for the dagger strapped to his leg.

“What are you-”

Reaching for the hem of your skirt, you drag the blade across the fabric. It rips with a satisfying sound. Dropping the dagger onto the forest floor, you continue to tear the fabric from the bottom of your dress. Your face burns - standing in front of Chan with your skirt pulled almost to your waist to tear the fabric… you somehow still had the mind to feel self-conscious.

“You can’t just hold that the entire time,” you explain with a final tug to the skirt. It falls back around your legs, higher than before. With a gulp and furiously burning ears, you wrap your arms around Chan’s torso, pulling the fabric around his waist twice before securing it with a knot. “There. Now your hands are free.”

Standing back, you smile at your work.

“Okay, let’s go,” you say and turn.

Though you were ready to move, Chan doesn’t budge. Your muscles relax in confusion, head cocking in question.

His eyes are on you. They’re dark, shadowed by his features, silhouetted by however much moonlight manages to trespass the trees, but you can feel his gaze.

“You’re not…” He gulps, taking in a shuddering breath that causes him to wince, and slowly exhales. “You’re not injured, are you?”

Eyes softening, you feel the urge to cup his cheek again. You shake your head gently. The pain in your arm was easing - it was nothing worth him fretting over.

But how could he, bleeding as he was, still be concerned for your wellbeing?

“I’m fine.” A gentle smile tugs at your lips, and you eye the makeshift bandage around his torso. “Start worrying about yourself more.”

Chan's concern falters and he scoffs. “It's my job to worry about you, your highness.”

He was right, you knew. It was his job, had been his job for as long as you could remember.

“We should get moving, though.” Chan breaks the silence that had fallen between the two of you. “If I were in their shoes, it won’t be along until I either loop back around or send out a full search party to cover the entire forest.”

“So what do we do?”

Your question is met with silence. Chan’s eyes had fixated on a spot on the ground, though you knew he wasn’t really looking at the ground. He had zoned out, the way he does when he gets lost in his thoughts.

Giving him his moment to think, you collect the dagger from the ground. It’s clean, void of any violence it may have taken part in. The blade shone in the night, edges sharp and though cold, the weight of it in your hand brings you an odd sense of comfort.

It reminded you of a time in your childhood when you’d carried an identical blade through these woods.

“I think I know where we can go.” It’s a rush of words as the idea fills your mind, as your brain tries to figure out the kinks in your underdeveloped plan. “He would help us. I know he would.”

An incredulous look passes Chan’s face, so theatrical and comedic that you almost burst out laughing despite the situation.

“’He’? Who is ‘he’?” Chan, so perplexed by the fact that you were acquainted with a boy outside the castle, is frozen in place. “Do I know this person? Why- How do you-” He clears his throat, composes himself, and tries to regain neutrality on his face. “I apologise, princess, but I… have been with you for years, have barely left your side when outside the castle walls… so please forgive my confusion at the moment.”

Though you’d not seen him since that night long ago, you knew he was here. Knew he had stayed in your kingdom, and knew he resided on the outskirts of the town. Any and all businesses who dealt in or with magic were to send official notice to the castle regarding the purpose of their business. Along with a variety of other contracts, it was a method through which the use of magic could be indirectly monitored. The practice had been picked up by all the kingdoms, and any one found to profit off of their magic outside of what they had agreed to would be punished.

You had spied Minho’s name, once, in one of the books that kept such details. An address had been scrawled next to it, and though you had read it out of interest, you had never expected to remember it, especially in a situation like this.

But a mage, you realise, would be the last person Chan would turn to. And how were you to explain how you knew him? How were you to explain why he would help you, without having Chan go off at you about how stupid your decisions had been?

So instead, you take in a slow, deep breath. Tilting your head back to look up at the moon concealed by trees, you exhale. It shone bright, a beautiful sight in the treacherous night.

“Do you trust me, Chan?”

He doesn’t miss a beat, voice filled with absolute certainty as he crosses an arm over his chest and lowers his head into a bow.

“With my life, my princess.”

You and Chan were fortunate enough to not run into anyone as you made your way around the castle grounds. The adrenaline pushes you, keeps your legs working and your ears on high alert. Many times, he had pushed you against a tree, his arm or even his body pressed against yours at the faintest possibility of running into anyone.

You held your breath in these moments. The proximity at which he held you left little space for you to even inhale as deeply as you needed to calm your breathing, and besides - the sound would be too loud to hear anything over it.

When the trees finally start thinning, your legs are heavy and your lungs feel something akin to having had inhaled a thousand thorns.

The forest ended at the top of the hill. To your right, the gates to the castle, the long road up hidden by the night. Before you, the town lay spread out. The houses clustered, divided at intervals to form the many streets. Lit windows were few, and yet you thought that you could almost, if you tried hard enough, hear the hearty laugh of men at pubs.

“Your highness, are you alright? On the edge of the forest may not be the wisest of places for us to rest, perhaps we should-”

Shaking your head, you gather your skirts once more and lift your head. “No, no rest. I was simply sentimental, for a moment. I apologise - such feelings will do us no good right now.”

An expression of confliction crosses Chan’s face, so brief that when you look at him, he looked impassive.

“So, where does this… this person live? Where are we headed?”

The address tumbles from your lips, pulling from Chan a strained look.

“That’s on the other side of the town-”

“But we’ve few, if any other choices,” you reason. “We can’t possibly return to the castle nor can we try and make it to the next town over with nothing on us. We don’t even have money, Chan.”

“Then the people of the town-”

“Will insist on helping us, I know, but I will not take advantage of their kindness when such a thing could put them in danger.” The words come out with much more force than you had intended, the subtle escalation of your conversation with Chan having taken the better of you.

But Chan is seemingly unaffected by it. He regards you with a thoughtful gaze, eyes dancing with both amusement and respect. “Very well. Across town we shall go, your highness.”

Tonight was a night of many firsts for you. The first time you had ever had to flee your home, the first time your life had ever been in danger, the first time you had ever genuinely feared losing Chan.

The feeling had been so alien to you, so impossible to ever fathom, so unnecessary to even had imagined in the past, that as you walked through the sleeping streets of the town you had grown to love so much, you had to resist holding onto Chan like you had when you were a child. It would be silly now, to hold his hand as you had in the past whilst sneaking around the castle. This wasn’t a game anymore; the consequences of being found by the wrong people wasn’t forced study in the library. It was worse, much worse.

So why not hold his hand? Keep him close, know he’s safe - not that you would be able to do much of the protecting, you knew.

But as it had been in the past - when one was in trouble, so too would be the other.

Your fingers flex at your side now, itching to reach out and hold onto Chan as he peers around the corner to ensure no one was there.

He tenses, the same time the sound of a girl's laughter reaches your ear. Footsteps are fast to fade, alongside the quiet murmurs of a man, loud in the soundless night. Lovers, perhaps, heading home together as the night grows old.

A quick gesture of the hands from Chan indicates that it was safe to move. The two of you dart out of the small alley you had been hiding in and enter the town square.

Another first to add to the list; never had you seen the town square bathed in the silver light of the moon, street lamps flickering orange and crossing at the center of the square. Perhaps it was your circumstances, but the emptiness of the town square leaves an uneasy feeling in your stomach.

Chan leads you around the edge, behind empty stalls and shrubbery. Your footsteps echo off the walls of the buildings, playing back into your ears as if to emphasise the emptiness of the town.

“Half way there,” Chan mumbles as he enters a dark alley.

Had that alley always been there? Had any of the roads you’d taken always been there? You knew, realistically speaking, they had been - and yet you could not recall ever having seen them before. Perhaps the street that the bakery had been on, you’d seen before - but the alley that smelt of old blood and meat, the alley that had crates of empty glass bottles stacked by the door. How did Chan know of these roads, of these many paths? Had he memorised the map of the town, the many streets that had never existed to you before now?

It was his job, you supposed, to know these things. And yet the sheer ability to know his way across the town amazed you. Had he ever walked these roads before, or was he simply relying on his mind’s eye, on the chance of an accurate mental recall of the many maps he’d studied?

The scenery had changed - houses were few now, the paths between buildings more dirt and stone than they were stoned tiles, like they’d been in the town square. As you and Chan make your way down the street, Chan a hand on his sword the whole time, you can’t help but marvel at the contrast present in just this one town. Had you not walked here with your own two feet, you would have believed this to be a whole new place. The town you were familiar with had tiled floors, had flowers blooming on the balconies and children in pinks and blues, greens and purples. Not the browns and creams that hung from laundry lines at the front of the houses in the night.

“Up ahead,” Chan breaths, and your eyes scan the distance.

It wasn’t hard to spot, really. The only lit house in the dark street, windows warm with yellow light. There was a sign hanging by the window, but you couldn’t make out the words - weather had gotten the better of the paint. It swung feebly with a passing breeze.

“I trust you, your highness.” Hushed words leave Chan’s lips, followed by a resigned sigh. “I just hope your own trust isn’t misplaced. If they so much as look like they’re going to hurt you, I’ll-”

“He won’t, Chan.” You place a hand on his arm. After a moment, you feel his muscles relax, and Chan moves towards the lit house.

He… won’t, right? You believed he wouldn’t - The last time you had seen him, he had been afraid. He hadn’t hurt you, though you knew he could have. He had listened to you, and you to him, and he had accepted what little help you could offer. You wanted to believe that people were good - that kindness would be remembered.

And yet, back at the castle, his highness-

“There’s someone inside.” Chan, nearing the lit window, holds a hand out to stop you. “I can’t be sure, but it seems to only be one person.”

It’s him. You swallow nervously.

How had the years changed him? Had they even changed him? Would he recognise you at all?

Chan was right. There was someone in the house, their silhouette faint against the window. They were moving around, though it was near impossible to tell what they were doing.

“Are you sure this is the house, your highness? And if so, are you sure this person can be trusted? We don’t know what will happen in the next few hours-”

“Well, we’ve little other choice.” Your statement is all you manage to get out before you push past Chan’s hand. It was now or never - dawdling by his door wouldn’t change the current situation.

Chan makes a shocked sound of protest as you push past him, but he doesn’t move to stop you - only to follow you, and you’re aware of his hand securing it’s grasp on his sword.

Standing in front of the door, you could make out the sound of running water. You raise a shaking hand, fingers curling uncertainly before you squeeze them into a fist and rap on the door. Three quick knocks, breath caught somewhere in your throat as you wait for a response.

Chan speaks up from behind you, voice urgent. “Your highness, please step back-”

The door swings open abruptly, causing you to flinch back in shock.

The heart is a funny thing, really. How can it hold so many emotions at once?

Looking at Minho after so many years was strange. It was like he hadn't aged at all, and yet he looked like he had matured twice as fast as you. His face, though as angular as it had been that night so long ago, was now more jawline and cheekbones, as opposed to malnourishment.

“Lower your weapon, knight, or else I’ll blast you from my door.”

He speaks with a tired drawl, though you see the way his eyes quint in suspicion.

“Minho, it’s me-”

“Yes, I saw you,” he cuts in, eyes still trained behind you. “Not as flashy as your friend’s sword, unfortunately.”

It’s a cold response, not at all what you had expected, but you turn all the same and glare at Chan.

“I told you he wouldn’t hurt us, so-”

“He just said he would blast me from the door-”

“Because you’re waving a great, big sword around, idiot,” Minho says with a roll of his eyes. He’s leaning against the door, body blocking the rest of his house.

“I’m her highness’ knight,” Chan states defiantly, as if challenging Minho. His gaze lingers on Chan for a second longer before he looks at you - really looks at you.

It feels like ice piercing through you, his eyes reading every thought in your head. He knows why we’re here, a small voice in your head tells you. But how could he possibly know that?

“’Her highness,’ huh.” Minho lets the words sit on his tongue, lets it mull over in his head as he regards you. His gaze falls briefly to the dagger in your hand. “Well, I don’t suppose that after all these years you just decided to spontaneously come by in the middle of the night to see how I’m doing, so it’s probably best I invite you in,” he concludes with a sigh. “Tell your knight to sheath his sword, or it’ll be as existent as his sleeve there.”

“We- We don’t have sheaths on us,” you explain hesitantly. “Or anything, really. Just his sword, and the dagger. Not even any money.”

Minho looks down at you - he was taller than you and held himself with such an air of indifference that you couldn’t bare to maintain eye contact. Were you right to come here at all? To ask for help, and, despite your position, have nothing to offer in return?

A defeated sigh leaves him before he steps aside. “Whatever. Hurry in, then.”

He steps aside and after a moment’s hesitation, you make your way into his house.

It was cozy, unlike the great stone walls of your home. Sure, the library fireplace was warm and comforting, but the sheer size of the castle and all of its many rooms were nothing compared to the small space Minho lived in.

Dried plants hung over the window, each bundle a different kind. The table was laid not with the remnants of a meal well eaten, but with more plants and glass bottles, books opened with feathers marking different sections, and a range of things you barely had time to try and identify before you were ushered further into the house.

A fire blazed low in the corner of the room, opposite a messy looking kitchen. The sink was filled with unwashed dishes and more glass bottles, which you had only ever seen in books before. Few chairs were scattered around the room - wooden chairs that you assumed to belong to the table out front were occupied by books and blankets, and a long, two-person sofa had been turned into a makeshift bed. In the corner between the sofa and the fireplace, two wooden doors lead off into unknown areas of the house.

“Well, do sit down,” Minho says with a wave of his hand. Static seems to fill the air as items move from the chairs to the floor, neatly stacking themselves upon one another. “Having the princess and her royal knight standing about my living room is making me quite… anxious, for lack of a better word.”

You watch in amazement as the blankets fold themselves up.

“You’re a magic user?!” Chan whirls on Minho, eyes wide in shock. There’s an edge of something akin to fear or anger - you can’t quite place it, distracted instead by the way the room accommodates for two more people.

“What, your princess didn’t mention that I’m a mage?” Minho retorts, amusement in his eyes. “Shame. But that seems the least of your problems, if you’re coming to my door at this hour. Now, sit.”

An invisible force maneuvers you and Chan down into the sofa. Chan falls with an indignant sound - was this his first time encountering magic? You’d never talked to Chan about magic, before. Nothing beyond stories of faeries and witches, curses and potions.

“Minho,” you begin, before Chan could say anything to worsen a relationship you were surprised had started off on such bad footing. “We- we need you help. I need your help.”

You meet his eye, and for the first time that night, Minho holds your gaze with a seriousness that felt befitting of the situation. Was he aware, after all, of the situation? You were sure that the voice you had heard earlier that night had been his. But no matter how you tried to rethink the situation, there was nothing you could think of that would explain why he had told you to run.

Perhaps you had imagined it, in your drowsed, sluggish state, but you search his face all the same, for any sign that he had sent you the message, had been aware of the potential danger you had been in.

He turns away, a shrug of his shoulders the only sign that he had heard your request at all.

Minho moves to the sink, and in a surprising act of normalcy, picks of a sponge and turns on the tap. He begins to wash his dishes.

Chan glances towards you - this person who you had believed would help obviously showed no care about whatever predicament you were in.

You fidget nervously at the velvet of your dress. Minho places a soaped up plate in the adjacent sink.

“I was hoping-”

“If you knew where to find me,” he suddenly says, his back still towards you and Chan, “Then you’ll know I run a business. Magical assistance in exchange for payment. And, as I recall, the pair of you are quite penniless at the moment.”

“Her highness is still the royal princess.” Chan sounded like he was speaking in court, stating facts as if to argue their case. His voice was clear, rock solid despite your wavering faith in Minho. “Whilst we may currently be in a difficult situation, rest assured that your assistance, should it be provided and adequate, will be rewarded fittingly.”

Minho doesn’t reply to this. He continues to wash his dishes. In the silence, you look around the living space.

Unlike your own home, the walls of Minho’s house were bare of any intricacies. Simple wood, with no grand photos of family members hanging - though, knowing Minho, you’d be surprised if he even had any. Across the fireplace mantel were jars of what seemed to be dried up herbs, sticks of what you recognised as cinnamon, and- were those egg shells? A strange assortment of things, you mused.

“Your highness,” Chan whispers. He leans in towards you, sofa shifting under him, and raises a hand to cover his mouth. “Perhaps your trust- Apologies. Perhaps we are unwelcomed here. It may be best we leave as soon as possible, if this boy refuses to help us.”

“He’s the same age as us, Chan.” Well, you think he is, anyways. “Please - just give it another minute.”

Despite your hopes, Chan seems to be right. The only thing dissuading you from the belief that Minho wanted nothing to do with your recent events was the fact that he hadn’t blatantly turned you away.

The sound of water eases and shuts off. Minho busies his hands - with what, you couldn’t see.

“Was there trouble? At the palace?”

You’re surprised by his question - so he was willing to help? Or, at the very least, hear you out?

“Yes, how did-”

“What makes you say that?” Chan says, and a jolt ran through you. Never had Chan spoken over you so forcefully before. He doesn’t meet your eyes and instead frowns at the back of the mage’s head.

Minho doesn’t answer immediately. He continues whatever other task he had started, back to you. After a few seconds, he turns and grabs for a tea towel. He leans back against the sink, wiping his hands.

“Well, is it not the most obvious thing to have happened?” With a forced smile at Chan, Minho discards the towel behind him. “Why else would you and the princess be at my door, penniless and on foot, at this hour? If not for trouble at the palace, surely you would have opted for a horse or two, and if you knew I ran a business, surely you would come with some form of payment.”

The points, while well made, seemed to do little to ease whatever suspicion had overcome Chan - it didn’t take much to guess what those suspicions were concerning, and you turn to Chan with a resigned look.

“It took you some time to formulate such an easily deducible answer,” Chan muses aloud.

“Well, then why ask such an obvious question?” Minho retorts and all of a sudden the temperature in the room seems to drop. The air seems to fizz, and a stroke of fear enters your body as he returns Chan’s glare with his own pointed look.

He pushes off of the sink and walks forward.

He doesn’t carry the same angry threat that you’d seen come from Chan when his men were out of line. No glowering, no fists at his side, no long strides to advance upon his opponent. He seems to simply walk across the room instead, his head held high and jaw clenched ever so subtly, never breaking eye contact with Chan. He stops half-way - he doesn’t need to make the full distance. Chan abruptly stands up and makes his own advance.

“Chan, honestly*-***”

“I don’t quite appreciate the way you’re regarding me, knight.” Each of Minho’s words seems to be accentuated by the flicker of the fireplace flame. They’re spoken clearly, carefully - not quite a whisper, but then again, it didn’t take much for him to be heard in the silence. “The implications you’re making, while subtle, are not left unknown to me, human.”

The two of them, knight and mage, are in the middle of Minho’s living space, the tension so high that you didn’t know who to fear for.

“I’ll have you know something, mage*.***” Chan snarls. “I don’t trust you. Not one bit; not at all.” He’s breathing down Minho’s chest, a snarl you’d never seen before turning the face of someone you’d grown up with into someone almost unrecognisable. “I’m only here because her highness believes strongly that you will help us.” He jabs a finger into Minho’s chest, though the latter only raises a brow. “However, it is my job to keep her safe and even if I respect her opinion of others, it does not mean that her and I are of the same mind.”

He’s breathing heavily by the end of it, the tips of his ears red. You had risen from your seat at some point, the waves of unease in your stomach turning turbulent. Your eyes dart back and forth between the two of them.

“And I’ll remind you that it is my house you are standing in and it is my assistance that you are seeking.”

Minho is no where near taller than Chan. The two stand face to face, and yet it was like the mage was looking down at Chan. The scary calm that had taken over him, the careful control of his emotions and his magic - you could feel it in the air, feel the static you had felt earlier, only this was cold. Cold, chilling static, like that of winter waters or thick snowfall.

He doesn’t break eye-contact with Chan. He blinks, he takes steady breaths, he keeps his chin raised, but he doesn’t falter.

After what feels like an age, Chan turns and walks past Minho. You take a step after him, fearful that he was about to leave out the front door, but he simply places himself on one of the vacated stools. He was out of Minho’s point of view, and though the latter was still in his, Chan crossed his arms and closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall.

It seemed impossible for you to exhale fully, much less take a deep breath. You had expected some resistance from Chan when he inevitably found out that Minho was a mage but whatever had happened in the last few minutes was beyond anything you could have imagined.

“Minho, I-” You turn hastily away from Chan and to Minho, who had not moved. He looks at you now with troubled eyes. Gulping, you take in the deepest breath you can manage and exhale through pursed lips. You try again. “Could we perhaps take this elsewhere?”

A tired, resigned smile makes its way to Minho’s face. “Perhaps that would be best.”

It turns out, you discover, that one of the two mysterious doors led out to a garden.

The door shuts quietly behind you as you breathe in the night air. Minho’s garden, while no larger than his living space, seemed to house a variety of plants. Flowers of differing colours, shapes and sizes filled the majority of the space, alongside some recognisable vegetables - tomatoes and lettuce, though few, seemed fresh and ready to harvest. All the plants, you notice, seem to shine in the night. Taking a step closer, you almost let out an exclamation as one, two, three glowing creatures dart in and between the flowers.

“They maintain the garden for me,” Minho says, as if it explained everything. You turn to him, having forgotten for a moment that he was with you. “A marvelous help, they are, especially when I’m away on business.”

He picks up a basket, hanging it off his arm and walks up to a purple flower. You watch as Minho inspects it before pulling a pair of scissors from the basket and cutting the flower off its stem.

“Minho, I wanted to apologise for-”

“There is no need. I don’t seek an apology from you - nor the knight, I might add, before you berate him for his behaviour.” His basket was quickly filling with flowers, though you note there’s no more than two of each kind. “It is not uncommon for me to hear such things, for it is not easy to place your faith in things you do not understand. Though, I confess, such things are less common now. Do you mind?”

He hands you the basket - now filled with so many things that you wouldn’t know where to start if he were to ask you to remove a flower from the lot - and picks up another. This one he begins to fill with produce.

“But he is still my knight, and I ask for your assistance not just for myself but for him as well. Tonight-” You break off, and Minho spares you a glance over the shoulder before he returns to his carrots. “It is perhaps unfair of me to ask you for your help, after all these years,” you finish, an increasing hopelessness somehow making sense of itself in your mind.

A decade, perhaps, it had been since you last saw him. You had every possible means to seek him out after parting, had an abundance of ways you could have assisted him - for you knew, even if he had rejected help the first time, that to do something was better than nothing, and yet you had kept quiet about your encounter. For his own safety, one may have reasoned, but in hindsight it seemed a child’s selfishness was what kept him a secret. Something for you to know, and no one else. Not the maids who tended to you every day, or the queen who asked you what you had done that afternoon, or Chan who was by your side whenever possible.

Minho had returned to stand before you, the second basket full of tomatoes, lettuce, and a range of root vegetables. The hem of his pants were speckled with dirt, and a smudge of it ran over his cheek.

“You saved my life, y/n. I think you underestimate the consequences of our meeting far too much.”

It was like the child you had met so many years ago was back before you, a vulnerability in his eyes that you couldn’t quite understand. You, who had always been sheltered, had always had your safety assured, prioritised, and the child who had been covered in dirt and bruises, twigs sticking out of his hair and so tangled up that you’d had to sit him down and carefully undo all the knots.

The way Minho looked at you now almost scared you - if your request had been not for help, but for his life, you were sure he would have said yes.

Unable to hold the truth in his gaze any longer, you busy yourself with readjusting the basket in your hand, carefully easing the petals away from the rim as to not crush them.

“The last thing I wish to do is to hold that over you, Minho,” you say softly. “It was wrong of me to come to you for help when I fear that asking it of others would endanger their safety. You too are part of this kingdom, and I cannot simply treat you different because of the past.”

“Can’t you?” He sounds wistful, you think, the words almost musing, so soft and quiet that you weren’t sure if they were meant for only your ears, or for no one’s at all.

Then, as if there had been no sentimentality at all, Minho flourishes his hand and the basket of flowers levitates out of your grasp. “I’ll help you - but first, it would seem a good night’s sleep would do you well.”

The door swing opens as Minho nears it, and he gestures for you to enter the house first. The flowers follow you in, Minho bringing up the rear.

Chan, who’d been pacing by the fire, looks up abruptly when he hears you come in. Relief seems to wash over his features, and you give him a strained smile.

“Minho said he’d help us.” You lay a hand on Chan’s arm, and the tension seems to leave his body at the confirmation of your physical presence. “We can rest here for the night, and figure everything out tomorrow.”

“On that note - here, to help you sleep.” A small opaque bottle floats its way to you. “Just light a match, drop in there and leave it in the room. I’m sure the night’s events will leave your mind running when given the chance.”

You take the jar in your hands, feeling its weight as the magic disappears. Peering inside seemed pointless - the opening was just small enough for your finger to fit in; barely enough light could enter the jar for you to see its contents.

“And a salve, for any minor wounds you may have.”

This time, a red jar lands by the sink. It’s even smaller than the bottle, barely the size of your palm. Though Minho doesn’t look at him, you know that he had taken note of the wound at Chan’s side.

“You can take my bed, y/n. The knight can sleep on the floor, or something. I don’t really care.”

“You little-”

Minho ignores Chan, moving to grab a satchel from the table. Your eyes follow him, the way he truly seems to disregard Chan’s presence as he walks past him and towards the front door.

“And you? Where will you sleep, then? I insist you keep your bed-”

“Oh, I won’t be sleeping tonight.” Hand on the doorknob, he turns to you with a glint in his eye. “The moon is full. It’d be a waste to do something as mundane as sleep tonight. I’ll be close by, and there are protective charms on the house. Worry not.”

The door shuts behind him before you or Chan can even protest.

—

Chan’s wound had stopped bleeding. Though he had played it off as a simple graze, you were relieved to see it wasn’t too much of an understatement. The initial redness that surrounded the wound had frozen your mind with fear, but after taking a wet cloth to it, you discovered that it was mostly dried blood that had spread.

The salve Minho had given you smelt resinous, like wood that had been left out in the rain. Your face scrunches up as you scoop a small amount up with your fingers. Setting the jar down next to the chair Chan was sat on, you steady yourself with a hand on his knee and run the salve over his wound. He flinches at the sensation, muscles tensing under your fingers, but keeps his shirt held up.

“You don’t think he’s tricked you into poisoning me, do you?”

You spare a glare at Chan.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you say, though you know he was just trying to ease the tension.

Though Minho hadn’t returned since he’d left, you could still feel Chan’s discomfort with the situation. He too seemed to sense that you wee troubled - you had caught him shooting you anxious glances as you’d prepared to treat his wound.

“You know, he told me not to berate you.” Having finished applying the salve, you push yourself up from the floor and dust your skirts off. Chan avoids your eye, fixating instead on straightening his shirt and picking at the torn fabric under the flickering light of the fireplace. “Just because he says he doesn’t seek an apology, doesn’t mean that he shouldn’t get one.”

Chan’s jaw clenches, and he looks up you through furrowed brows. “Are you ordering me to apologise to him?”

Your jaw drops at his words, helpless against the hurt that they bring you. For him to bring status into this, to make it seem like he would rather be anywhere but here - his words from earlier echo in your brain: I’m only here because her highness believes strongly that you will help us.

“Chan, that’s not at all what I-”

“I don’t feel like I’ve anything to apologise for,” he says, voice edged with annoyance. “I don’t trust him. I have spoken my truth - but I won’t interrogate you for yours.” His voice is gentler, resigned. “Though, I admit the mage is right. You should rest, your highness. It has been an eventful night, and you will need your energy for tomorrow.”

It felt wrong, to leave and rest without resolving the tension that had formed between you and Chan. A part of you didn’t understand why he had been so aggressive towards Minho, why he was so against the idea of his help… and yet you knew it was wrong of you to expect Chan to understand your thoughts and feelings when you had given him nothing to help form an understanding of your relationship with Minho. To Chan, you realised, Minho was simply an unknown stranger who possessed the abilities to have aided the night’s chaos.

But it felt wrong to reveal your and Minho’s shared history with Chan. Afterall, it wasn’t only your story to tell.

So you take a deep breath, try to catch Chan’s eye one more time, before murmuring a small goodnight.

Minho’s bedroom, located behind the second of the mysterious doors, was dimly lit by a a candle sitting on the corner of his desk. There was a single, unmade bed next to it, and a set of drawers at the other end of the room. Another door (which you presumed led to the bathroom, for you hadn’t seen one in your time here, and what home had no bathroom?) stood in the corner, next to the drawers. There was a window,

It was a small bedroom, void of anything unnecessary.

Placing the bottle Minho had given you on the table, you search for a match. His desk was covered in books and papers, and it’s not until you brave a small box on his desk that you find the matches. You do as he had instructed - striking one, you watch as the corner you stood in lit orange before dropping it into the bottle.

You had been skeptical that dropping a match into such a small space would work - surely, the fire would be extinguished, right? - but you’re mildly surprised when a soft, sweet scent arises. It reminded you of home, of late nights spend in the library reading stories of knights and princesses, witches and curses. A familiar drowsiness overcomes you.

It doesn’t take long for you to find yourself sliding under Minho’s covers. Your mind spares a moment for you to feel embarrassed at the act of sleeping in not only someone else’s bed, but in a man’s bed, before it lets the exhaustion take over.

This time, you don’t fight the heaviness of your body like you had so many hours ago.

This time, you let it consume you.

---

a/n: hi hi! thank you for reading. comments, throughts, feedback, questions - all of these (and more) are appreciated! if you want to be added to the taglist (or alternatively, removed) please let me know &lt;3

[kirillmarchenko]

jakedbeans -> peekeepers ;)

[overanalyzing-scoob-and-shag]

Chapter 25: Stranger

Here we are. This is the first chapter with more than 4 panels and it uses that prestige amazingly. Admittedly, it is only 5 panels and we still aren't fully out of the 4-panel era, but we're close.

For the first time since chapter 1 I'm gonna go panel by panel for this. Warning: text wall incoming.

The first panel is nothing special, Scoob had turned away from Shag at the end of last panel, so now he's turning back.

Second panel shows that both Shag and the whole door are just gone. I'll be talking about this more in several later chapters, but let's quickly touch on the holo chamber. So this place is holograms, but when we the holo chamber is later shown as this pretty square room, so all the hallways and doors, can you just walk through them? Are they the halls of the ship and the holo chamber can just affect the whole ship? But we also see Shag later throw a rock made by the holo chamber, so can it make solid stuff? That's OP. I think I'll save composing my full crackpot theory for a later chapter, but for now know it makes absolutely no sense.

The next panel is a little overshadowed by the last of this chapter, but is still really good. We see this new character, creeping in the shadows, but he's not just some amorphous silhouette. He is a character that even at this difference stands out. One doesn't have to squint to see he resembles Mickey Mouse, but he's not quite right. His limbs are far too long. On top of that even his text bubbles are different. The letters are all over the place elevation wise and there's even a word scrunched up on the side. This all makes it look very scribbly while still remaining legible. All of this builds this character to exceptionally eerie. If this chapter was just 4 panels and we just didn't get the 5th one, this panel alone would have made this chapter stand out as something unseen of by this same. (Also this is the panel where I got my mail blog pfp)

Panel 4 is just a reaction panel of Kerm and Scoob witnessing this newcomer.

This panel very well might be one of the most iconic of the whole comic, and for good reason. It's important to remember what the artstyle was like at this point. Lines were loose and sometimes wouldn't connect fully, and none of them have had harsh blacks.

And then we get this. He isn't a scribble, he's solid. He's shaded! He contrasts so so much with every single panel up to this point. And he has those full on dark blacks that make him look so much harsher, as well as making him blend in with the shadow.

And that's not even mentioning his design. The characters so far have been pretty standard caricatures of cartoon characters, but this... isn't Mickey Mouse. Like said earlier, his arms and legs are way to long, and he's covered in rips, he even has some sort of damage on his head. His eyes though are the most obvious evidence. He isn't Mickey, this is a moment in a suit. This raises questions like "who is this person" and "why the hell are they in a mickey mouse suit" I even saw people in the comments speculating that the person skinned Mickey and are wearing his skin. We know that isn't what's happening, but this is such a mysterious panel that it gets people wondering stuff like that.

On a separate note, I am not someone who reads this in all the characters voices in my head (with one exception) and I wonder what voice people who do give this guy, who for now I will call Pseudo-Mick to avoid spoilers. Which BTW, if you are for some reason reading this and HAVEN'T read Scoob and Shag at least to the end of the first arc, do that. Don't read any more posts from this blog until you do that.

Conclusion: If you read this series blind this is the chapter that makes you realize that this is more than just some goofy nonsense comic with cartoon characters. While we are not quite yet in the part of Scoob and Shag I would call "great" this is the first great chapter.

[shera-dnd]

Aight I just ran into this while scrolling the Princess Principal tag and no, that's absolutely fucking not what it is arguing????

Like it's about how the problem with this whole mess is the lack of control the workers have over their own situation. The fact that they have to actively choose between making the money they need to survive and risking serious bodily harm

Thankfully the girls choose their own health over money, but like as the series shows multiple fucking times, these children wouldn't be working if they didn't need the money

(Actually the horrific reality of child labor comes up a lot in the show, what with the amount of poor children having to do whatever they can to survive, and like even our protagonists are by definition child soldiers and do a lot of child labor themselves)

So what options does Team Principal have?

Well they could close the place, but that would just mean those kids would have to look for work somewhere else (because getting rid of this place wouldn't get rid of their need to make money to survive) and that would also make their mission objective impossible, which btw is to find the identity of a terrorist before he has the chance to kill a bunch of people with chemical weapons

They could also fix the problem at the source. Abolish child labor, improve the living conditions of everyone and make sure this can never happen again... except they don't have the power to do that, right? Charlotte is a princess in name only and has zero power, not to mention how much attention this would bring to the team.

Also that's already Charlotte's end game. Like she's planning on becoming queen so she can unfuck the kingdom and then either abolish the monarchy or get assassinated trying. She even says "one way or another I'll be this kingdom's last queen"

anyways

OR they could just do what they did in the show. Kick out the manager/slave driver, improve their working conditions and safety, guarantee a continuous stream of income with new contracts and jobs, and then (and that's the key part that happens as the happy ending to the episode) HAND OVER CONTROL OF THEIR WORK PLACE TO THE WORKERS SO THEY CAN DECIDE WHAT THEY WANT FOR THEMSELVES

THE EPISODE LITERALLY ENDS WITH THE PROTAGONIST HANDING THE WORKERS CONTROL OVER THEIR MEANS OF PRODUCTION!

ABSOLUTE COMMUNIST ICON!

*ahem*

In all seriousness I'm always here for some sexy sexy political analysis, and people should voice their issues with pieces of media, especially the ones they like (because hey disliking something a series does doesn't mean you dislike the whole thing)

buuuut I feel like this one comes from a place of genuine misunderstanding, and I wanted to voice my own take on that episode

No shade to you tho, OP. Hope you're having a nice day, besides me starting shit under one of your posts

Did this anime just imply that the problem with child labor is all the machines are so run-down that the kids can’t work hard enough??

I love Princess Principal, but this episode has got to be one of the strangest takes on capitalism I’ve ever seen in media. Let’s just run down the sequence of events real quick here:

Our gang has infiltrator a laundry mat and have to work there for a while to swab army uniforms and try to find a killer. Chise quickly gets irritated at the girls who work there saying they take too many breaks. Seems like she’ll be learning a lesson about knowing her limits when disaster strikes:

A wire ignites and lights this girl on fucking fire. They quickly put it out, but she is literally scarred from the burns. Reminder: this is a laundry mat with children working at it (one child literally says she needs to pay her mother’s hospital bill and will go bankrupt if she loses this job). This place is fucked.

In the next scene we get a little more context as to why this place is fucked when these gangsters come to hassle the foreman to pay off his enormous debt. Thankfully, our titular Princess is swoops in and saves the day by buying the entire business, debt and all.

Not only that, but the girls are secretly going to work to restore all the failing equipment. Someone just casually drops that the foreman was “lazy” because he never repaired these machines himself which, that’s not how having a mountain of debt works but okay. Then we get the absolute bombshell. The master plan for buying the laundry mat:

Fixing the machines will finally let everyone work nonstop without needing to take breaks!

Everyone loves the idea! The washing is moving quickly, everything is safe and everyone’s putting in their 110%! They’re so fast that they finish a whole weeks worth of clothes in just a few hours! For a brief moment the girls are ecstatic that they’ll be able to take a long break until its revealed:

We just need to go find MORE clothes to wash!

You see, the more clothes we wash the more money we make and thus the more you get paid! Its time to work from day til dusk until you die! (And also in the process imply that a bunch of worker men are so seduced by the girls wearing makeup that they instantly strip at the prospect of them washing their clothes. This is a real scene and I refuse to elaborate further).

What an absolutely baffling episode. I actually think its a really fun episode if you don’t think too hard about it, but I really can’t help myself when something is this out of touch. 

So, yeah you heard it here first:

The issue with the unsafe working conditions of the industrial revolution is actually that it prevented the slave drivers managers from pushing their workers even harder, because there’s nothing a worker wants to do more than work work work! 

[fuyunoakegata]

mini-rant about Chuck Dixon, incoming, because it's come up several times recently...

I remember when I started reading DC Comics really seriously, 11 or 12 years ago. If you asked a group of readers the best, most influential Nightwing writer, it was a better than good chance that most of them would mention Chuck Dixon up at the top, and god forbid you badmouth him. I went along with that at the time, because he was certainly prolific, and he wrote so much that I just internalized as iconic Dick characterization, then.

Thankfully, we all grow and change as we read more and more and think about things and dig deeper and see the end results of things that could seem minor or ignorable at first.

Take Nightwing 25. The Boys. Or as most of you probably think of it as "The Trainsurfing Issue." It's definitely an iconic story. And what's not to like? Dick and Tim, together, bonding, and doing it in such an over the top Batbrother way, right? And for the bonding and working together, the sheer brotherly vibe they've got going together with Dick being a tiny bit of an ass with teasing Tim and Tim being the bratty little brother, yeah. We all loved it. But how many of you remember what they were talking about during the trainsurfing?

Women.

Chuck Dixon writing about two guys talking about women... what could go wrong? /sarcasm

They say show, not tell, so I'll share a few relevant pages.

Tim lists no less than 6 “love interests” for Dick, making it sound like that’s an unreasonable amount of women to have been with. Not all of them were the same level of importance, and some weren’t even notable enough to bring up except as trivia for the diehard fans or plot points, and some weren’t even relationships to begin with.  And then, the way Dixon has Tim and even Dick describing them... Kory “answered a need Dick had for affection.” Really? They were a hell of a lot more than that to each other. If not for some technical snafus in the Titans office at the time that led to the absolute mess that was New Titans 100 (and the subsequent Deathwing *sigh*), they would have married. So yeah, Kory is a bit more than filling a need for affection (and knowing Chuck’s moralistic views, it was the physical affection he was referring to and decrying there). 

Dick and Donna are platonic soulmate besties forever. Period. So no, not a romantic relationship there, even though it’s framed differently by both of them -_-

Miggie and Emily didn’t even need to be brought up. What happened? Tim went through old files on the batcomputer but then didn’t even read the whole files to realize they weren’t significant partners for Dick? *sigh* Please try to write something believable and not insulting to all the characters involved and us as readers. Please.

And then Clancy. Dixon is the one who wrote that to begin with, and then nixed it before it even got off the ground, unless he was trying to purposefully add in the confusion of “will they or won’t they?” 

As for Babs... they didn’t officially become a thing until a bit later. Cover date on Nightwing 25 was October of 1998 and cover date of Birds of Prey 8 (and Dick and Babs still aren’t dating after that; and btw, that’s also a Chuck Dixon tale) was August 1999. So I’m not even sure they should even be in the will they or won’t they stage yet for the purposes of the conversation. 

And then they toss in The Huntress. First off, why would Dick willingly bring that up to Tim when it was so very short-lived, anyway. It gives off “hey, little bro, guess what/who I did?” locker room talk vibes to me and just... yeah. None of this was necessary or added to the story. Neither did Tim’s and Dick’s conversation about Steph.  Have I mentioned yet today how much Dixon and especially his portrayal of women pisses me off? (though I will admit one more thing to thank him for, unintentionally. I don’t think I would have shipped Babs and Dinah as much as I do if not for that scene in Birds of Prey 21, the Hunt for Oracle storyline, though that’s probably mostly the Butch Guice art).

Anyway. This is definitely one of the earliest examples I can think of with Dick being portrayed negatively as a ladies’ man, and along with the fallout of the whole Mirage fiasco in Teen Titans and Nightwing Annual 2 by Andreyko, are probably the 3 biggest reasons for that “Nightwing is a manwhore” idea that pops up again and again and should never ever have been a thing. 

[margaetyrell]

incoming love train! I appreciate you and recognize the amazing presence you have on this site, thank you for contributing to our community! 🌷 send this to all the blogs you love! don't forget to spread the love. 💌

YOU CUTIEEE <3 tysm for being so nice to me omg, same back at you!! btw i’m absolutely obsessed with your new header and icon

[kbstories]

impression//expression

“It’s not like Kirishima had come all this way to U.A. to immediately break the promise he made to himself upon arrival.

It’s just that Bakugou is as feral as they come, and the moment Kirishima recognizes it’s fear he felt crawling up his spine that day, he makes it his personal mission to face it head-on until it’s gone.”

(Or: Being friends with Bakugou Katsuki is anything but a linear experience. Kirishima Eijirou would have it no other way.)

Tags: Kirishima POV, Developing Friendships, First Impressions, Slice of Life, Character Study

No additional content warnings apply. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Chapter 7. Chapter 8. Chapter 9.

***

Kirishima Eijirou had stared at the grin on Bakugou’s face when he pulled the pin in his gauntlet and thought: Holy shit, this guy is insane.

Over multiple screens, a good chunk of Ground β went up in a blast so strong the floor trembled with its aftershocks even here, miles away. Concrete and steel and glass were incinerated in a gust of fire and debris until all that was left was Midoriya’s crumpled form amidst plumes of smoke and Bakugou standing tall in the ruins.

The cameras shorted out once, twice before the image stabilized; the transmission remained silent. There was no sound needed to see how Bakugou’s grin got an edge sharper in the wake of the explosion.

Insane and absolutely deadly.

It wasn’t Kirishima’s first impression of him, per se. Certainly he’d had some sort of reaction to the only name ranked above his own after the Entrance Exams and the total sum of zero rescue points listed beside it. He can even remember the twinge of something in his chest after seeing that infamous quirk in action on day one – be it awe or envy or plain curiosity, that innocent question of How does it work, though? that accompanies most encounters with a new power.

Still: In those first few days, when Kirishima thinks of Bakugou Katsuki, he thinks of the mad glint in his eyes as he went above and beyond in his attempt to murder their classmate (or seriously maim him, at the very least).

In hindsight, having him play the villain was perhaps less coincidence and more fate, given the optics of what could reasonably be described as a shitshow. And, okay, Kirishima knows it’s not exactly fair to judge someone based solely on fleeting observations. His parents taught him better than that. Crimson Riot showed him better than that. It’s not like Kirishima had come all this way to U.A. to immediately break the promise he made to himself upon arrival.

It’s just that Bakugou is as feral as they come, and the moment Kirishima recognizes it’s fear he felt crawling up his spine that day he makes it his personal mission to face it head-on until it’s gone.

Endure and overcome, just like any other obstacle looming over the difficult path ahead. Kirishima smiles around the pencil he’s chewing on as Aizawa drones on, eyes trained on the uniquely tense set of shoulders across the room.

Yeah. Bakugou won’t even stand a chance.

*

It takes many cold shoulders, rebuffed lunch invitations and countless glares – and a villainous intervention Kirishima could’ve honestly lived without – for a rough voice to say:

“You there. Shark Teeth.”

The sun is starting to peek into the room as it hangs low and lazy in the sky. Class 1-A has just been released into a well-deserved weekend: Kirishima is very much aware his mothers want him home as fast as possible after what happened at U.S.J., and he’s throwing his things into his bag at peak velocity. Only after a tap on his shoulder and a subtle nod from Sero does he register it’s him Bakugou is talking to.

Perhaps ‘growling at’ would be a better description, but… semantics. Kirishima throws the guy a look and a smile over his shoulder either way, “Hey! What’s up, man?”, and given Bakugou’s eyes only narrow a little, he’s about 70% sure he’s not done something to land on his shit list.

Yet.

All Bakugou does is direct a decidedly less neutral look towards Sero, who jolts and stumbles over a quick “Um. Gotta– Yup, okay, bye!” before he books it out the classroom. Kirishima watches him go with some bemusement and a muttered “Dude”, not that Bakugou reacts to it in any way.

“Spar with me”, Bakugou says instead – demands, really – and Kirishima feels his brows tick upwards before he can stop himself, hands pausing in his quest to cram his notepad next to his books without wrinkling its cover page too badly.

“Uh. Like, right now? ‘Cause I can’t. Well, I could but I’m about to miss my train as is and I’d have to tell my–”

A slow blink, and even that is threatening when it’s coming from Bakugou. “No, asshole. This weekend, or something. I don’t care.”

Oh. Kirishima blinks. Something about Bakugou approaching him out of his own free will must be causing a substantial lag between different areas of his brain because– Oh.

“Wait. You wanna hang out?”

Maybe he could’ve hidden the clear surprise in his voice a bit better, that emphasis on you that sort of slipped in there without him really wanting it to. Kirishima’s heart sinks at the twitch to Bakugou’s brow that pretty much guarantees whatever he actually meant to say is forever lost to the ire perpetually simmering in that red gaze.

Well, it was nice knowing what going to U.A. is like. At least none of his classmates are present to see Kirishima’s inevitable – if incredibly untimely – demise.

Then Bakugou… rolls his eyes, exhales a harsh tch for good measure. “Whatever.” He shoves his bag further up his shoulder and, without a glance back, walks out the room–

Oh no, you don’t.

Out of all foolish thoughts it’s that one that shoots through Kirishima’s head before he grabs his stuff and goes after him. Bakugou somehow manages to maintain that no-fucks-given air to his gait despite how fast he walks, and Kirishima falls into a light jog to close the gap.

“It’s a great idea, man. Can’t have us going soft over the weekend! Plus Ultra, just like All Might said, right?”

Bakugou gives him a withering glance of a side-eye for his trouble. Kirishima notes the distinct lack of explode-y manslaughter, though, and allows himself to settle right into Bakugou’s pace.

“Besides, it’s been like a week and we’re already having villains crashing our lessons. I mean, we showed ‘em what’s what and all, but still! Some extra training can’t hurt.”

It’s not like Kirishima minds being the one to carry a conversation yet the fact that he hasn’t been told to shut up is… something? Not enough for Kirishima to point out, it’s just a thing he notices, just something, so he keeps talking. Past U.A.’s gates, down the stairs and onto the busy sidewalk they go, and Bakugou’s hands never leave the pockets of his pants as he marches past clusters of people in an unflinching line.

Head held high, eyes dead ahead. Cutting through the crowd with his presence alone, and in his wake Kirishima follows.

The afternoon light is hitting that glow-y hue that paints even the most mundane of things in shades of gold when Kirishima realizes they’re headed to the train station. He draws up short, slows his step in the split-second it takes to ask himself if the other even takes the train home or–

Bakugou’s eyes are on him, “What?”, that one word barked so impatiently Kirishima throws the thought right out the metaphorical window and keeps walking.

“Nothing!” A flash of his home screen proves: Five minutes left. They’re making good time. Which, actually– “So what time were you thinking for our sparring sesh? I’m good whenever, unless it’s super late at night. Overprotective parents, you know how it is.”

That gets a huff out of Bakugou. That, and a gesture that’s sort of a grab, sort of a wave that has Kirishima a little stumped until Bakugou sighs gruffly. “Your phone, dumbass.”

“Oh, sure! Here.”

The device changes hands. Kirishima contemplates feeling embarrassed about the obvious crack that takes up half the screen; he’d designed his hero costume without his delicate tech in mind, and with the whirlwind of starting and then surviving week one of the new school year, he hasn’t been able to spare a minute to get neither the phone fixed nor the costume amended.

Bakugou doesn’t comment on it – in fact, he pulls his sleeve down to hold the thing as if to cushion it, and when he taps the screen it’s with his knuckles. Before Kirishima can ask, the pre-installed voice control AI chirps its distinct jingle and Bakugou tells it to make a new contact, rattling off a long string of numbers.

Even before the AI has confirmed the input, Kirishima is catching the phone chucked rather carelessly at his head. “There”, Bakugou says, starting to climb the stairs to the tracks two steps at a time.

Kirishima doesn’t have much time to process any of that before the telltale rattling of an incoming train sounds above them. “Oh shit”, he breathes, hurrying onto the platform and to the closest door just in time to see the last passenger get out. Once inside, he pumps his fist.

“Hell yeah! Dude, we–”

The person next to him, who is not Bakugou, looks rather startled. What the…? Kirishima turns a full 360 degrees before a knock just inches from his face startles him and he meets Bakugou’s smirk, firmly on the other side of the window.

Not a moment later, the train starts pulling away. Kirishima presses close to the thick, faintly scratched glass to watch Bakugou turn and walk right back where they came from. His hand is raised, the light catching white and glinting on something in his hand.

A phone. Oh, right!

Kirishima swipes across an image of Crimson Riot’s iconic pose to unlock and reads Bakugou Katsuki, having left the tab open in his haste. First things first: With a soft snort and a few swift taps, the name is changed before Kirishima hits the speech bubble icon next to it.

Baku💣💥

bro what the hell (sent 17:14)

but thanks (sent 17:14)

it’s kirishima btw (sent 17:15)

just text me the details whenever 💪🏻 (sent 17:15)

He watches the tick next to his messages turn blue almost immediately and waits. One station passes, then two. By the third Kirishima is sure he’s been left on read and laughs, shaking his head. Of course.

The rest of his way home is spent assuring Sero he has not, in fact, exited life in a flurry of explosions as well as letting his moms know he’ll be home in a few. The next time Kirishima checks his phone is between brushing his teeth and climbing into bed, two unread messages waiting for him.

Baku💣💥

[link] (received 19:35)

6AM tomorrow, don’t be fucking late (received 19:35)

The link leads to a location which his phone matches to a quirk-friendly gym pretty close to the U.A. grounds. Kirishima scrolls through a few images of the facilities with some interest before his brain registers–

6AM. On a Saturday.

Baku💣💥

/dude/ (sent 22:08)

srsly?? (sent 22:09)

😩😩 (sent 22:19)

f @ my sleep schedule but ok (sent 22:25)

Minutes later, Kirishima stares at the near-painful sight of an alarm set to 5AM before he sighs and flops face-down into his pillow. The things he does in the name of friendship.

>>Chapter 2

[samirant]

The Good Place Primer

Now that The GOT Place has gotten into the parallelogram aspect of the story, I thought it would be helpful to provide a primer of The Good Place. Spoilers are below the cut, but if you get a chance to watch the show, I really, really hope you do! It's a wonderful series that I'll recommend until my last breath.

But if you want spoilers, well, here are your spoilers:

The Good Place is a story about the afterlife and all its complications. In the original television series, we follow four humans (Eleanor, Chidi, Tahani & Jason), who have all died and made it to a neighborhood in the titular Good Place, as opposed to the Bad Place, where people get tortured for eternity.

To keep everything in order, the residents of the the Good Place are placed into neighborhoods that cap out at 300ish people. The separate neighborhoods are built by afterlife architects. The one that Eleanor, Chidi, Tahani and Jason end up in was made by a Good Place architect (Michael) and maintained by a walking Alexa/Siri/Hey Google not-a-robot (Janet).

The problems begin when Eleanor realizes that somewhere along the way, mistakes were made and she was mixed up with someone else. She doesn’t belong in the Good Place and the entire first season encompasses her attempts to covertly earn her place, as to avoid unending torture. Naturally. Chidi, who was an ethics professor, teaches her on how to be a good person when she confesses her real identity.

Ethics are a HUGE part of the show, with Kant and Plato and all these major philosophy icons getting mentioned, as well as discussions as to how people should do their best for themselves and for each other.

Here’s the thing - THE BIG SPOILER -

(last chance to back out)

Okay.

They’re all already in The Bad Place.

It’s a torture experiment, specifically made for the original four humans aka the eventual Soul Squad. On Earth, Eleanor was selfish and unkind, Chidi indecisive and wracked with self-doubt, Tahani elitist and concerned only with her status in the world and Jason had many issues, but being from Florida alone doomed him. Everyone else in the neighborhood is a demon in disguise, including Michael.

Janet is Janet, a kickass cinnamon roll who was stolen and meant to function in a real Good Place neighborhood and decides to stick around to help the four humans when she learns the truth. She’s wonderful.

So, as it turns out, every action a living person takes on Earth accumulates afterlife points. Those who meet a high threshold make it into The (real) Good Place. Very, very few make it in - which is a fishy thing they twig onto later.

Through shenanigans and banding together, the Soul Squad convinces Michael and Janet to join with them in an effort to earn spots in the actual Good Place. This takes some time, and it includes them meeting the Judge of the Universe, Hydrogen. Gen, for short. (Played perfectly by Maya Rudolph, btw.)

Michael, who always despised humans, and believed them incapable of change, learns the opposite is true and that all four people became better versions of themselves during their time in his torture neighborhood.

Because of this, he suggests to Gen that the Soul Squad get sent back to Earth, to get a chance to improve their point totals. They do, circumventing their original deaths and moving on with a new lease on life. None of them remember their time in the afterlife, but they each make great movements in becoming better people.

Of course, everything goes wrong.

It all comes down to the fact that no one has gotten into The Good Place in five hundred years. Turns out that the point accumulation system is broken and you can do one good thing (aka bring your mother flowers) but lose points for all the things that are associated but you can’t control (the effect of long distance transport on the climate, the pesticides used, the underpaid workers who cultivate the flowers, the crooked CEO who runs the company and is getting your money - you get the gist). Your good and kind choice ends up leaving you in the negative digits.

In the end, a decision is made to completely reboot the afterlife system itself.

The architects from The Good Place and The Bad Place join forces, paired up to run individual simulations on every person who has died. Everyone gets a chance to improve themselves in the afterlife, away from all the caveats and unknown factors on Earth that would otherwise doom them. Only then are they sent to either place for eternity.

The original four, Michael and Janet save the universe, basically.

I do hope, despite these spoilers, that you watch this show. It is heartwarming and so incredibly funny and the series finale is absolute perfection. Perfection. I sobbed so much when I first saw it and it still makes my chest feel all funny. The way this show makes you think about what humans are to one another, the beauty in the world and doing good for the sake of goodness - there's absolutely nothing like it.

Notable Characters That Show Up In The GOT Place:

Tahani Al Jamil - Former It Girl, Heiress, Model, Best Friends With Beyoncé, texts with the Dali Lama, etc. Her talent for name dropping is unparalleled. In the afterlife, Tahani learns to actually care about other people because it’s the right thing to do, as opposed to making her look good. In reflection of that, she chooses to leave The Good Place and become an architect for all the incoming souls, the ultimate way to selflessly help others.

Gen (The Judge) - A higher being unconcerned with the ins and outs of what is right or wrong, but will hear you out if you’re entertaining enough. Obsessed with Timothy Olyphant. I cannot emphasize how spectacular Maya Rudolph is in such a small role.

Shawn - Demon. Formerly Michael’s boss and current frenemy, but he will never, never, ever ever ever everevereverever admit to a soft spot for anyone.

Vicky - Demon. Takes over as Head Architect from Michael when it turns out she’s surprisingly well suited to the job. Drama queen. Terrible singer, but doesn’t let that discourage her.

Glenn - Demon. Hapless, goofy, the second demon after Michael who is willing to say that maybe humans aren’t entirely garbage. Kind of a sweetheart. Shawn’s favorite whipping boy. Bad Place Architect who helps train Tahani and (in the story) becomes her partner in afterlife tests.

Beadie - Angel and Good Place architect who trains Tahani. V nice. V bland, as The Good Place staff tends to be.

Todd - Demon/Bad Place architect/Lava Monster. Pretty chill dude, though.

Jeremy Bearimy - Often referred to as a Bearimy. Not a being, but a concept. Time in the after life does not run in a straight line with a strict beginning and end, but in a series or loops and twists that circles back upon itself. It looks like this:

The dot above the eye is not a typo. Don’t try to fully understand it, though. Chidi briefly broke his brain in his attempt to do so.

Thank you for reading and I hope you give the show a chance! ❤️

[idreamtofmanderleyagain]

I enjoyed some of the VTM: Bloodlines characters and it’s atmosphere/world before playing the game myself. After having almost finished the game first-hand, I can safely say that I honestly kind of love it? Like it might just be a new fandom for me.

To be honest, there are some major, glaring issues with it regarding sexism and racism. Much of it’s problems are a product of it’s time (it’s very...early 2000′s edgelord nerd culture at times) and of existing issues with VTM on the whole (this bitch really leaned into the Kuei-Jin problems. Like it has zero self-awareness about it and just dives in.). All of which is far from an excuse, just giving you guys a glimpse at the vibe, here.

 I’ll probably do a deep dive into a critical examination of it’s issues at another time, but this post is mostly just about my hype for now.

The overarching story is so good? Like it’s legitimately got something going for it, has memorable characters, iconic moments, etc. Even characters that I hated or cringed at initially because of problematic issues I ended up loving, despite their problems. Like it’s really a testament to the heart put into the project that it was able to sell some of the characters to me that it did.

Even the soundtrack is great (mind you, I have Clan Quest Mod installed rn so some music has also been added. I don’t think Type O Negative is on the original tracklist, but I could be wrong. Mixed review of CQM also incoming in the future btw.) 

I completely get why this is a cult classic tbh, because it absolutely feels like one.

Honestly, this was a surprisingly immersive experience as well. I’m kind of sad it’s almost over because I want to play in it’s world some more.

Like I really want to play with this world. I have a fanfic idea on the backburner about this game but after actually playing it, I’ve got a much better grasp of it’s narrative and I’m excited to dive in.

[crownin-thestars]

Nightmares

Grian shot up from bed, groaning after realising it was a dream. Grian meets Taurtis and Sam, PVP with Mumbo and Iskall, they all get killed by those two, Grian wakes up. He still wonders if that Taurtis and Sam were even real. This wasn't the first time this happened. Ever since that time he went into a coma from the phantom, he had been getting repeating nightmares and visions of his two best friends. . . Well. . . I think you know.

He still has yet to tell his fellow Architechs about all of this. He had been holding back as to not worry the two, and they may end up calling the Ice Queen herself as well. Grian didn't want to trouble any of the Hermits, so he just. . . Tried to forget it, but everytime he did, it would always return.

Grian had ended up getting used to having these 'small' nightmares and was now more irritated by getting them rather than afraid. You know, it's kinda like how someone can cut their wrists so much that they get used to the pain. He looked at the clock.

4:18a.m

He had to get sleep, there was a Sahara meeting later that day and he would hate to be late, or even pull a Mumbo by missing it. Before Grian went back to bed, he went to grab a bottle of water from one of his chests, his throat was dry, and it would hurt if he went to sleep with it like that during the meeting.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

It was different. . . Grian's heart was racing as he panted from the fear he had experienced. He quickly took a look at his arms. Still alright. Sam and Taurtis weren't there, just the horrible Mumbo and Iskall. . . And it was on Hermitcraft as well. . .

In this dream. . . In the nightmare. . . The whole server. . . Gone. . . Just the three Architechs alive. . . They had left Grian alive till the end to savour his pain and sadness, just before setting him ablaze.

Just then, Grian's communicator buzzed. He was getting a call from Mumbo.

Wait. . .

What time was it?

Grian quickly sighted the clock.

11:41a.m.

The meeting started forty-one minutes ago. He checked his calls, 28 missed calls from Mumbo, 31 missed calls from Iskall, 9 missed calls from Xisuma.

Crap. . .

Grian quickly picked up the incoming call.

"Mumbo! I'm so sorry I'm late! I'll be right there!"

"Are you kidding me? Forty-one minutes! What have you been doing for forty-one minutes?!"

"Grian, get your butt here this instant. Or else Mumbo and I are downgrading you."

"Yes I know! I'm coming over right now!"

He hung up. Grian immediately got out of bed and changed into his iconic red sweater. He buckled on his elytra, bringing an extra in case the one he was using was about to break, not checking the durability. With that he took off.

He flew overhead of Sahara. Well. . . That's when his elytra decided to break. Luckily he wasn't to far from the ground, but he landed. . . Ungracefully with a bit of a face plant.

"Did he just spoon?" Mumbo questioned rhetorically, quickly going to help Grian back up on his feet.

"Something isn't right with you today, Grian." Iskall stated. "First nearly missing the meeting, second literally landing face first from a broken elytra!"

"Guys! I'm okay! I swear." Grian lied through his teeth. The last thing he wanted was for those two to worry, he hated when the Hermits get worried about something, especially when it's something to do with him.

"If you really do say so. . ." Mumbo smirked. "You know, Grian. . . We can't always be having a leader. . . . A lumpatious leader. . . Being late. . ."

"That's right. . . G. . ." Iskall agreed.

"Wh-what? B-but I'm really sorry! I promise it won't happen again!" The blonde whimpered.

"Now, dear Oli. . . Would you feel any pain in getting rid of him?" The Swedish asked, pulling out a sword.

"Not at all, Iskall. . ." The moustached man replied, pulling out his shiny new bow and arrow.

"G-guys! We can work this out, r-right?" Grian fretted, tears quickly forming. "K-killing me won't do any good! P-please!"

"Grian!"

He flinched. Grian looked up, to see the fellow Architechs looking at him with worried glances. It. . . It was just a vision? It felt. . . So real to him.

"Grian, we're not gonna kill you. . ." The Demise king told him. Grian's face was flushed.

"Y-you heard everything?" They just nodded.

"You started crying too. Is it all because of that one dream you had?" Mumbo asked, getting a light nod from the young blonde.

"I. . .I'm sorry I'm so annoying to you. . ." Grian apologised. "I'm sorry I'm such a mess up too. . ." Iskall and Mumbo looked at each other, then back at Grian.

"Let me guess, evil me called you lumpatious?" Mumbo surmised. "I'm pretty sure you and I are the only ones that understand that word."

"And Grian, you're not a mess up," Iskall stated. "not counting the fact that you fell from the sky just now." Grian giggled.

"I guess I derped, huh? Not checking elytra durability."

"That's more of a thing a spoon would do." Mumbo admitted. "Everyone has their spoon moments, I have more than the average person but still."

"By the way, how long has this been going on for?" Asked a worried Iskall.

Oh dear. . .

What was Grian gonna tell them? If he does tell they're definitely getting worried, but lying might break their trust.

There was one option.

". . . I'm sorry for not telling you guys earlier. . ." Grian looked down, letting the tears fall. "It's been going on since that first time. . ." He conceded.

"What??? That was a few months ago! Why didn't you tell us?"

Grian was so right.

"Well I didn't wanna worry you guys!" He waved his arms in the air. "You're already working so hard fixing redstone for Sahara, I. . . didn't want to give you guys more things to put on your shoulders. . ." Grian looked down, disappointed with himself. Two pairs of arms wrapped around him, making the shorter Hermit tear up.

"Grian. . . We would never be too busy for you. . ."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Word count: 1044 words

THIS WAS CRINGEY BUT I NEED PROPER CONTENT REEEEEEEE-

Oh btw this is a part 2 from All In His Head!

[whetstonefires]

So I made notes when I read Pride and Prejudice because I had so many spoilers for this book thanks mostly to tumblr, and yet here are some things that took me quite off guard:

The narration just dips into anybody’s head whenever it feels like to give us a summary of who they are as a person and what they care about. Very straightforward. Very effective. Very much not the modern approach.

This extends to telling us straight out, like half a chapter after the iconic Darcy-snubbing-Elizabeth scene, that he had now developed a massive crush. This comes as a great shock to Elizabeth quite a bit later, but the audience spends much of the book enjoying the layers and/or dramatic irony. Who knew!

Elizabeth on the other hand had a crush on Wickham.

Wickham is genuinely good at being likeable not an obvious sleaze and the fact that he’s a bad guy was an actual plot twist, though I’m sure plenty of people saw it coming even when the book was new.

As much as the book attends to women’s concerns, being as it is a book very much about a woman, the greatest explicit thematic force of the novel is the question of class.

Specifically, that great and renowned engine of Anglophone egalitarianism, the conviction of the upper middle class that they are every bit as good as the true upper class, or that if they aren’t it’s only a question of opportunity.

Seriously, the fact that the ultimate symbol of emotional resolution the story closes out on is that the new Darcy family has over for Christmas Elizabeth’s aunt and uncle the Gardiners, who are in trade and don’t even live in the nice part of London but are nice and sensible and not at all people it is mortifying to be related to, even though Darcy assumed as much without having met them, while avoiding both her tawdry shallow mother and his awful smug aunt, who are very similar people for all one is a wretched social climber and the other a minor aristocrat obsessed with her own consequence...that’s it, that’s the book.

Additionally the fact that this novel is from the end of the 18th century , when in England the Industrial Revolution was gaining momentum but no one knew what it meant yet, including I’m pretty darn certain Jane Austen.

(Though since she waited 16 years to publish it she may have had a better sense by then, and even made amendments to that effect.)

So everyone’s sense of what is real wealth and security and thus valid social status is still vested in land ownership and income specifically from agricultural rent, and yet you can feel the change coming, because the desire to write this book in this way arises from the cultural forces that were at that time in play, particularly the question of upward mobility.

Elizabeth’s grandsons will have to get into trade in some sort of way, or their children in turn may not be able to keep Pemberly in adequate repair.

 By loosening the stubborn Darcy/Fitzwilliam pride in this particular regard Elizabeth may in fact have saved the house from dissolution.

Btw the thematic import of Mr. Darcy having his mother’s maiden name as his first name, in part because she actually ranked his father, as wealthy and respectable as the Darcys may be. His family legacy is literally his whole identity and part of what Elizabeth brings to the marriage is having helped him understand that it doesn’t have to be.

Seriously how did I not hear about any of this.

[wings-of-indigo]

So, Waitress is closing and Why I am Happy about that: An Exceedingly long essay Rant about Broadway

Look. Nobody's gonna read this, most likely, but it's 2 in the morning and my brain's been obsessing over Broadway (more than usual, anyway) since communing with my people at intensive this week. So, in the interest of getting some sleep before 8 hrs of dance and shitty high notes tomorrow, here goes.

I love classic, high-school-and-community standard musicals. I love new and experimental musicals. I love Disney film-to-stage musicals. I love institution musicals like Chorus Line, Cats, and Wicked; I even have a soft spot for Phantom. I am eagerly anticipating West Side Story next Christmas (seriously, I have a calander).

BUT.

As I said to one of my fellow dancers during post-class stretch (after noting his insane flexibilty and making yet another resolution to stretch more) I am Sick to GoDAMnEd DEATH of revivals, franchise adaptions, and restagings taking up the Broadway and greater theater markets.

I get why it's happening; I do. Musical theater, even shows that never make it out of Regional productions (Be More Chill, btw, I'm so proud of you bby :'-D ) are REALLY FREAKING EXPENSIVE, not just to stage, but also to develop. Broadway productions nowadays regularly go upwards of TENS OF MILLIONS OF DOLLARS in costs.

Those costs are more and more frequently being met through funding by large groups of wealthy investors, who can expect basically little to no return on that investment. Only a select few shows that make it to the Great White Way do well enough to turn a profit (let alone the kinds of numbers that Hamilton, DEH, and Wicked continue to make), and more and more shows are closing in defict or once they break even. (Coincidentally, this is probably why we're seeing more and more straight plays on Broadway, especially in limited engagements. They're quicker, cheaper, and still have the same level of prestige.)

It makes sense then to assume that a show linked to an already successful property has a better chance of reaching that break-even mark, or perhaps generating a small return, than a more original idea. It's a surer bet, and we've seen it a lot these past few seasons. Anastasia, Beetlejuice, Pretty Woman, Moulin Rouge, Mean Girls... we get it. We promise. Investors want some security in an extremely and notoriously insecure market before they're willing to lay out the dough.

I get it. Everybody gets it.

And, to be fair, some of those shows are and continue to be GOOD. Tony nominees and award winners, even. But here's the problem: it's boring.

And not because I know how Act 2 ends without getting spoilers on tumblr. Unless they're younger than ten, the population of Broadway-and-musicals fans generally has a good handle on where a show's relevant plotlines are going. It's really not the wanting to know the end that keeps your butt in your overpriced red velvet seat and your eyes on the stage. It's the score, the words, occasionally the choreography, and most importantly the magicians on, off, and backstage bringing those things to life in a new and interesting way.

The antithesis of this, then, is having to watch slavish recreation of iconic scenes, lines, and characters from iconic films, presented Onstage! (TM), now with Bonus Songs! for your reconsumption. (Yes, Pretty Woman, I'm looking at you.)

Hey, I love Pretty Woman the Movie, slightly dodgy messages about feminity aside. I love it as a movie, and I really don't need to watch the knock off version of it, even if it comes in a shiny Broadway package.

Anastasia, and Beetlejuice, on the other hand, work extrodinarily well as musicals because they are NOT carbon copies of the original, somehow miraculously transplanted onto the stage.

Ironically, musicals based on original ideas are actually some of the most successful and well reviewed recent productions. Hamilton, Dear Evan Hansen, Come From Away, and Hadestown this season are all original works, and well, look at them. (Fishy, huh? Coincidence, I think the fuck not.)

Recently I got to see The Prom on Broadway, the day after I saw Pretty Woman. The contrast between shows and my enjoyment of them was well defined. I couldn't look away from The Prom, despite many of the major story beats being as obvious as our Cheeto-in-Chief's spray tan. I and the entire rest of the theater were completely engaged by what was going on onstage, both comedically and dramatically. At Pretty Woman, I found myself checking the Playbill to see how many songs were left for me to make it through and anxiously comparing the size of my thighs to the dancers onstage to pass the time (ah, pre pro Body Issues, welcome back! We all thought you'd retired!)

Three guesses which show I'd choose to see again.

When I read that Waitress was closing, the first thing I did was panic and start marking pre January weekends where I would both be free and possibly have disposable income (I've never gotten to see the show, and frankly I would like too). My second reaction was, yes, to mourn the closure of a wonderful show, but it was mixed with hopeful anticipation. Waitress had a good long time in the sun, and just like a well lived life, eventually it must and should end. It's better, in my humble student opinion, to live with memories and cast albums (and regional productions) than the stodgy life of a show that's jealously clung to its Broadway berth through the tourist-and-date-night trade (*cough*Phantom*cough*). It's sort of like your 40 something mother taking selfies in booty shorts in an effort to prove she's still 'hip' and in her twenties. Cringe.

Ephemera is the nature of live performance, and probably part of its allure. And just like in the natural world, old things have to end so that new things can become. Waitress closing is a vital part of this cycle.

Broadway has a limited number of theaters. That's a hard and absolute fact. Maybe a quarter of them are effectively taken off the market for new shows by productions apparently cursed with immortality. Waitress has just opened up another spot both physically and creatively for a new project- hopefully something we haven't seen before- and I hope to God, Satan, and Sondheim that it doesn't get filled with another franchise spinoff, celebrity jukebox musical, or -Lin Miranda forbid - yet another revival.

Why the revival hate, though? Aren't revivals an major way to revisit the landmark and important musicals of the past and bring them to a new audience?

Well, yes. They are, especially when they're staged and presented with the emphasis on letting the music and words speak for themselves and giving the actors leeway to work with the material, without the typical levels of Broadway Extra (TM) and creative meddling from the producers. (The recent Lincoln Center staging of A Chorus Line is a good example of the stripped down style I'm talking about.) But even if they have their place, once again, revivals (while valuable and cool and all that) are Something We've Already Seen.

Let's take Newsies for example. A show with a huge fan base (mostly teen, mostly girls) who I frequently see wishing for a revival.

Now, I am a raging Newsies fan. Newsies is the show that got me started on attempting to make a profession out of dance and theater. I can sing both the OBC and Live albums back to front. I may or may not have had embarrassing crushes on certain cast and characters that I will take to my grave (I'll never tell and you'll never know, mwahhaha). So, do I love and worship ever iteration of this show? Yes. Do I wish I had been able to see either the Natl Tour or Broadway productions? Hell yes, with all my heart. Do I wish the Gatelli choreography was in any way accessible for me to learn? More than I want Broadway tickets to cost less than my soul, kidney, and hypothetical but unlikely first born combined.

But do I want a Broadway revival? Hell FUCKING No.

It's over, it's done, and it lives on in reinterpretation in regional and junior productions. Good. That, to be quite honest, is where it should belong.

It doesn't need to be rehashed on the biggest stages, and to be frank, neither do most of the ultra popular revivals that have been happening. (Yes, Ali Stoker is awesome and deserves the world, but Broadway does not need Oklahoma. If you need to see it that bad, go find a high school production somewhere. I recommend the midwest.) Broadway does not need 1776 (even though I am looking forward to it). Broadway does not need a Sweeney Todd revival (even though I want one like I want ice cream after suffering through jazz class in an un-air-conditioned studio on a 90 degree afternoon with no breeze. Seriously, I might be making sacrifices at my altar to this cause in the back of my closet).

Broadway needs musicals that are at least nominally original, and if not, come from something obscure enough (Kinky Boots, Waitress, Newsies) that they can make their own way. Barring that, investors, writers, and directors, please have the courage and decency to take established content in a new direction. Please, I'm begging you. I'd honestly-and-truly much rather sit through something that didn't try to shove the better version of itself down my throat even as it bored and annoyed me to tears. If I'm going to pay $80+ to sit through two hours of something terrible (and less engaging than my dancer body image issues) at least let me get my money's worth in unique horribleness.