#the fact that there are so few panels of him smiling makes it Worse

[amoirsetpacis]

★ --;; "Only 'cause you always fall asleep whenever I try and put one on," Vash nearly pouts. He doesn't, though; likes being able to card his fingers lazily through dark strands as Wolfwood dozes, being able to trace patterns on his skin. To that end he presses up against Wolfwood in turn, glad to trap the warmth between them until the warmth of the cabin supplies it in their stead.

The jolt of the cogs turning only serves to jostle their shoulders together, Vash's oversized prize sitting on the bench across from them. After take off it smooths out again; the enormous wheel is slow, its mechanisms devoted to keeping them even and steady.

"Awe, I can't go tellin' ya' all that," he smiles quietly, as if any louder would disrupt the bubble they've found themselves in-- never mind its physical shape of the carriage. "Then you'd know about my whole master plan." His cheek leans into the warm palm against it, not bothering to hide his own softened gaze; he's with the singular person he trusts the most to lessen old masks to begin with, and even if he gets teased for it he can't particularly find it in himself to care.

The thumb held up to Wolfwood's face traces the line of his nose, the curve of his cheek. He'd memorized them a long time ago, knows their angles by heart, but hell would freeze over before he ignored a chance to remap them. The flashing lights from the rides close to them bounce off the glass of the carriage and across the planes of Wolfwood's face, shine red and blue and green against the hair at the crown of his head. "All night, huh?" Vash hums as he does so, matching lazy grin on his face. "You tryin' ta' be sweet on me or somethin', mister?"

Despite his teasing, Vash is the one to close the already small gap between them, thighs and hips pressed together, lips soft. It's as easy as anything, now, and the thought still makes him feel warm on the inside. It's just shy of being a chaste thing, and he pulls a hair's breath away to go back in-- before pausing, as if remembering something, then turning to their stuffed companion.

It has two cute little eyes stitched on one side-- and just happens to be looking at the both of them. Vash's free hand reaches over to grab it and twist it around to face the other direction. It's when he glances up again that he catches sight of bright orange pinpricks in the dark now quickly seeping into the sky, almost complete in its assent; they're little fires, interspersed on the beach below, just far enough away from the lapping of the waves that they wont be touched. The ones closes to the pier are lit up just like the inside of their carriage, but the further away from the rides they are the more the orange dots seem like beacons in the dark, inky black silhouettes flitting between them.

"Nick, look," he points, leaning forward just barely as though it would give him a better look. "Let's go! Before we head home. It looks like fun!"

It still doesn't feel real sometimes, this life they've found themselves in. There are still so many times where Wolfwood needs to sit down with Vash, hold his face, and just look at him. Map out the curve of his nose and the strong edge of his jaw, his rosy cheeks, strong eyebrows, that little mark under his eye with his fingers. Because he's real, they're both real. His heart beats strong and true in his chest.

When Vash pulls Wolfwood along with him Wolfwood's staring at the back of his head with wide eyes, like he hung the moon and stars. He doesn't even really afford the Ferris wheel much of a second glance, too focused on the man who holds him like he's something precious.

He drops the moony eyes the second Vash looks at him again because he is not going to be teased for that, no way. Vash would probably tell him he had a funny look on his face, and then remember the first time he said that to him, and then there would be realizations, and then the realizations would not stop coming.

"I don't watch rom-coms, y'know that." Wolfwood lightly bonks their heads together, like a cat asking for attention. If he could, he'd probably be purring like a cat, too, and then he'd get embarrassed about purring. "We're gettin' a cabin all by ourselves, I hope."

Would suck to be stuck in one with some random people they don't know. The line steadily shuffles forward as people leave their cabins and make room for the next small family or couple or group of friends. With the night, the temperature drops harshly. He's finding himself pressing closer to Vash, who runs so much warmer than he does.

They're finally ushered into one of the cabins. The door shuts and locks, and they can look out through the windows. He finds that the cabins seem to be climate-controlled—so it's warm in here, while it's chilly outside. He grunts as it jolts a little bit as the wheel begins to turn again.

"How long've you wanted to get me on this thing?" He says, turning at the waist so he can look at Vash fully. His hand reaches over to Vash's face, turning him to look at him gently. "I've been waitin' to get ya alone all night."

His hand drops to Vash's, curling around it, bringing it up to his lips so he can press his lips to his knuckles, maintaining eye contact the entire time. Wolfwood smiles, with a hint of teeth, and turns Vash's hand so he can nuzzle into his palm.

[shooting-love-arrows]

Your aesthetic is just so beautiful dear!! i love how you organize everything, how pretty you write !!

Can i request maybe a yan! mortician? I don't really know the word in english waaa (⁠´⁠;⁠︵⁠;⁠`⁠)

kisses. mwah mwah take care of yourself ok?? 🎐

Dear Anon,

Thank you, dear. It’s really nice of you to say. Your english is very good so no need to worry. Sending you lots of kisses and thank you for the patience.  P.S I’m reminding myself to drink water regularly :)

@shooting-love-arrows

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐍! 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐍

PAIRING: 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐕𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐧 x reader [gender not mentioned/specified/implied] SYNOPSIS: General headcanons/some concerning habits of his. Tw. yandere walking red flag, creepy yandere, intentional poisoning, delusion, attachment issues (?), nudity but not nsfw. 

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Who treats you like a corpse rather than a living, breathing, human being. 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐕𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐧 is so used to being surrounded by dead that sometimes he forgets you are in fact alive. It shows during those moments when he starts doing most simple things for you, like dressing you up before you wake up; when you stay still for to long, he’ll carry you around bridal style because he forgets that you can move on your own or forgets to prepare you a portion of food, because corpses don’t eat. Those moments scares you the most, because you’re never sure if he snaps out of it.

“Hm…? Oh dear…” 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐕𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐧 muttered and tilted his head when he realized he’s been carrying you around the funeral parlor for a while. “It seems like I have done that again.” Not that he was complaining. After all, he’s got to hold you in his arms.

Who regularly poisons you. He adds small doses of the earlier crushed pills he originally brought in the pharmacy to your food. Just enough to make you sick, weak and confused. 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐕𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐧 feels his heart squeezing painfully everytime time he sees you in this state but at the same time, he believes that what he's doing is for a good cause. You must stay in the house. It’s not safe in the stress! Not to mention those people who could harm you (or worse, take you away from him!). This just can’t and won’t happen. He’d rather be the one to bring harm to you and nurse you back to health. Your place is here, in your shared house, with him.

“It seems like you are ill again, sweetling. Lay down, you need rest.” 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐕𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐧 proceeds to tuck you in and kiss your sweaty forehead lovingly. “Let me take care of you, sweetling. I will make everything better.” He whispered into your skin decorated with glistening pearls of sweat, smiling softly. 

Who always has to carry a piece of you on him. He just can’t part with you. Be it before or after you’re officially his. He has a silver locket with a coil of your hair in it, a ribbon that fell out of your outfit tied around his wrist or a photo of you (especially the one he took of you). Those are few examples but anything that belongs to you he’ll gladly take to carry around. This way you can always be with him.

“What beautiful hair you have, sweetling.” 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐕𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐧 laughed in glee. He was in his funeral parole, staring at the coil of your hair he secretly snipped off when you were asleep. It was placed neatly in a pure silver locker he always carried around his neck. “The prettiest.”

Who has a habit of photographing your nude body. It depends on his mood whether it’ll turn sexual or not, but what doesn’t change is that he’s always in awe of your body. 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐕𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐧 saw many naked bodies, more or less beautiful. But you…you are perfect in every way. He feels like it’s his obligation to document that beauty. So usually, you’ll find yourself lying in the coffin panelled with silk, naked as the day you were born. And so the photo session continues. And when he’s done…? 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐕𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐧 will lean over you, looming like a grim reaper ready to whisk you away into the underworld, and whisper sweet nothings, prizes and compliments to you while his eyes admire every inch of your body.

“Keep still, sweetling.” 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐕𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧! 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐧 adjusted his trusty camera so it’ll focus on you.  You kept shivering from the cold that keeps nipping at your skin. Not even the silk you were laying upon helped to ease your worries and shame for you had no choice but to be vulnerable and exposed towards your captor.  “Perfect. Close your eyes and stay in this position.”

Who kisses the spot on your chest where your heart beats. It happens first thing in the morning and the last thing at night. When you’re laying in bed, in your nightclothes, he’ll lower the front of yours and gently place a kiss above your heart. He imagines that it’s his way of pouring his undying love straight into your heart. It always sends a pleasurable shiver down his spine.

“I was born to love you…” kiss “I am breathing for you…” kiss “I am living for you…” kiss 

All of the published posts on this account/blog belongs to @shooting-love-arrows. I do not consent to my works being: translated, stolen, published or reposted on this and other sites. Likes, reblogs, comments are highly appreaciated. Thank you.

[electrozeistyking]

I definitely had a lot more fun behind the scenes with Never Be Alone than I did with She's Gone. So here's the sillies, and some notes.

This is a guide video I made in cause I either forgot how I was rendering it, or I want to make a comic using this style again. I used Panel 3 because it was the original first panel. There is no audio, so you don't need to worry about unmuting it.

I did this with the flats for Panel 2 because it reminded me of a drawing featured in one of my earliest MD posts. This quote has had me in a choke-hold ever since I made it (by the way, I named that drawing I mentioned: "Heyyy Biiitch!").

I wanted to make sure a few panels in this comic looked right, so I drew them with my finger (because I wanted to and I felt like it). N's face looks so derpy here and that's by choice.

I made this because SolverUzi looked like she was accusingly pointing at N. The Solver does seem petty to me, so I feel like It'd do this. Fun fact, that's why It's wearing Uzi's face and why It didn't heal her hand: just so It can rub salt in N's wounds and call him "big brother" like Cyn does to SERIOUSLY fuck with him.

Pre-Gaussian Blur on the dialogue! This is another panel I drew with my finger to ensure it'd look right later on. The "BASICALLY HIGH AS BALLS" note was added because of his face. It's actually sad in context of the comic, seeing as this is one of the few moments where N genuinely smiles.

TESSA FOR THE WIN, BABY! I made this because I said "Whoa, suddenly Tessa!" at one point while working on this panel. As for the "Chekhov's stabby stick" part... I mean, come on. There was a closeup of that blade for approximately two seconds. If that's not a surprise tool they can use for later, I don't know what is.

There is no reason for this one beyond "I thought it was funny." It just exists and there's nothing we can do about it.

Imagine if I actually went with either this quote or "Well, that could've been a whole lot worse." I had to pick between them for a sillier take on this panel, but imagine if Tessa ACTUALLY said "Well, shit" after all that?

Anyway, that's all the sillies and the notes! :D

[clu-ven]

A Curious Mind

summary: Hunter has always treated you slightly different and Omega is determined to find out why

word count: 2.1k

!reader goes by she/her pronouns!

The bright suns of Plurax make you wince, your arm instinctively coming up to shield your eyes. Shuffling out of the Marauder, you’re about to follow Echo down the steps when a hand suddenly appears in front of you. 

“Oh!” you abruptly stop, almost colliding with it. Looking over to identify the owner of the hand, Hunter comes into view, an amused smile playing at his lips. 

Already on the ground below, he stretches his gloved hand up to you, offering some support as you exit. You give him a grateful smile “Thanks Sarge”. 

Slipping your hand into his, Hunter gives you a small, reassuring squeeze and you continue your descent down. 

You’re not sure why you were so surprised by the action, after all, this isn’t a rare occurrence. In fact, it’s the opposite. Whether you have to jump a few feet from a ship or simply walk down a landing platform, Hunter always offers you his hand. 

Every. Single. Time.

Once your feet reach the ground, he nods his head and reluctantly lets his hand fall from yours. His grip on his helmet, placed neatly underneath his other arm tightens for a moment as he wonders if he should have said more to you. 

Oblivious to Hunter’s internal worries, you walk over to the rest of the batch and listen to Tech’s recap of the plan.

Turning back to the ship, Hunter taps the command panel and watches as the Marauder begins to close. Sensing eyes on him, he glances over his shoulder to the rest of the batch, only to realise none of them are paying much attention to him. 

Casting his gaze downwards, his eyes meet Omega’s, who peers up at him curiously.

“Why do you always do that?” she asks.

“So we won’t get raided,” he shrugs as if the answer is obvious “or worse, if someone sees a ship like this unlocked, they’ll steal it and get a few thousands credits for it, especially with the amount of upgrades it has”. 

“What? No, not that” Omega rolls her eyes, returning Hunter’s ‘that should be obvious’ tone. 

When Omega says your name, Hunter’s eyes go wide, his posture becoming stiff as she elaborates “You always help her off the ship… why?”. His eyes flick over to you as Omega talks, hoping you didn’t hear her say your name. 

Thankfully you’re too busy listening to Tech, who’s explaining your part of the mission to you.

“Just to be nice, I guess” he mumbles his response, trying to keep his voice low. 

“But you don’t do it for Wrecker or Tech or Echo… hey, you don’t do that for me either!” she exclaims, a tinge of annoyance in her voice.

Hunter shakes his head, his mind turning to mush as he tries to think of an easy explanation “Well, that’s because you don’t need help getting off the ship”.

It’s like he can see the cogs turning in Omega’s head, already cringing at his answer as she questions “... but she needs help? She can’t get off the ship if you don’t hold her hand?”.

Oh Kriff. 

“Well, no, that’s not what I meant-” he starts but Omega quickly talks over him. “Is she not good with balance? Is it like how Wrecker doesn’t like heights?”. 

Before Hunter can form a response, Wrecker loudly interrupts them, the mere mention of his fear getting his full attention.

“Heights?!” Wrecker repeats, drawing everyone’s focus to Hunter and Omega. Throwing his head back, Wrecker lets out a whine “Oh please tell me this mission doesn’t involve heights”.

“Plurax is a relatively flat planet,” Tech interjects, his eyes still fixed on his datapad “and considering our main objective is to extract the bacta pods found in the small medical facility, I doubt heights will be involved”.

Wrecker lets out a sigh of relief, his shoulders deflating. “Phew, you almost got me that time, Hunter” he chuckles. 

Hunter nods, hoping to quickly brush past this entire situation. “Right, well let’s get this over and done with” taking his helmet from underneath his arm, Hunter places it on his head.

“But what about my quest-” Omega starts but Hunter cuts her off, acutely aware that you as well as the others are still listening “Later, Omega. All that matters right now is the mission”. With a sigh, she nods her head.

***

After successfully retrieving the bacta pods, the Marauder is quiet… for once. The hum of the ship speeding through hyperspace fills the silence as everyone gets some much needed rest. 

Peering out of her room, Omega holds on to Lula the tooka doll as she scans the bunks. Wrecker sleeps in one, his arm obscuring his face and thankfully muffling his snores. On the other bunk, Tech is fast asleep and judging by the pile of blankets on the upper bunk, you’re asleep up there.

Tip-toeing past, Echo comes into view. He’s seated at the table, head resting on his arm as he mumbles in his sleep. Continuing on her journey, Hunter is the last person for Omega to see, his seated form visible when she approaches the cockpit. Slowly, she nears him.

From the corner of his eye, Hunter notices Omega, subtly watching as she quietly walks forward. “You should be asleep” Hunter’s voice cuts through the silence, making Omega stop in her tracks.

She sighs, giving up her attempt to sneak “But I can’t, I’m not tired”. Hopping up on the seat beside him, Omega keeps Lula close to her, curling up on the chair. 

Hunter doesn’t reply. He knows how hard it is to go from being on high alert on a mission to being told to get some rest, adrenaline still coursing through your veins.

He remembers the first few missions he ever went on and how hard it was to rest, his senses too overwhelmed to even comprehend the idea of sleep. 

“You did it again, y’know” Omega says, pulling his attention back to her.

“What?” Hunter has a suspicious feeling he knows what she’s talking about but he hopes if he feigns some kind of ignorance then hopefully she’ll drop it.

“You helped her back onto the ship,” she explains, some sarcasm in her voice as she teases “when we were leaving Plurax… she must have really bad balance if you have to help her all the time”.

Head dipping down, Hunter’s hair obscures his face. “Omega,” he groans “she doesn't have balance problems, it’s just… look, it’s better if you let this go, ok?”.

“But why?” she drops her legs down, leaving them dangle freely.

“It’s… complicated”.

“How?” she presses, shrugging as she mumbles “I’m just curious”.

“Yeah, too curious,” Hunter says with an affectionate scoff and shake of his head.

Trying to simplify it, Omega begins listing out “Earlier you said that you do it to be nice but you only do it for her, nobody else! She doesn’t need you to do it since she doesn’t actually have any balance problems, hmmm and it’s pretty obvious you don’t like it when people point it out”. Hunter grimaces the more Omega goes on. 

Thinking out loud, she furrows her brow “I wonder if she notices, I mean it’s pretty obvious so she must have by now…maybe I should ask her”.

“What? No!“ Hunter is quick to sit on the edge of his seat, facing Omega fully “You can’t do that, that’s a direct order”. Despite his pleading look, Omega simply raises an eyebrow, knowing she’s got him right where she wants him.

“Okay, I won’t ask her,” she complies before adding “but you have to tell me why!”.

Hunter sighs. A part of him is impressed, equally proud of her determination as well as cursing it. Sighing, he avoids her eye contact as he tries to explain. 

“Well, since she’s not… uh, a clone… I just want to make sure… that, um… that she feels welcome” yes, Hunter is making this up as he goes. It’s true, of course but not his main reason. 

Omega is not convinced, her face the epitome of disappointment. Not giving in, she replies “Yeah, that’s nice and all, Hunter but I don’t think that’s why”. 

Hunter’s body deflates, putting his face in his hands. Even if he wants to, he doesn’t think he can get the words out. This is something he’s never had to verbalise before nor is it something he’s had to admit to anybody.

With his face still covered, he hears Omega’s voice “Can I tell you my theory?”.

He doesn’t reply and yet Omega continues “I think you like her”. Hunter can hear her smile in her tone, removing his hands to confirm his suspicions. 

Watching for his reaction, Omega beams up at him. “And I mean like like her” she adds with the wiggle of her eyebrows.

Hunter keeps his face still, unsure how to react. 

“I mean, it’s not a bad thing if you do,” she shrugs, offering some reassurance “I think it’s kinda cute, especially since she like likes you too”. 

He freezes. 

What?

Judging by the stunned look on Hunter’s face, Omega explains “I overheard her saying it to Echo, she said something about her heart racing whenever you’re around and being paranoid over it. I didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing at first but every time you do something nice for her, she gets all lovey-dovey so I think it’s a good thing”.

“Lovey-dovey?” Hunter scrunches up his face, not quite believing what his sister is saying.

“Yeah, like this” clutching her hands together, Omega tries her best to bat her eyelashes as she lets out a comically loud sigh before giving Hunter a goofy smile.

With a grin tugging at his lips, he dismisses “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her do that before”.

“That’s because you always look away!” she exclaims “ooh, I’ll have to add that to the list; you’re really bad at keeping eye contact with her”.

He rolls his eyes but the idea that maybe, just maybe you like him too distracts Hunter from properly deflecting Omega’s addition to her list. Even the idea of their being some hope that you feel the same way is enough to send Hunter’s head spinning. 

Yawning, Omega hops down from her seat “I’m just saying, it would be a shame if you both like like each other but never tell one another”. 

Hunter stays quiet, though he knows she’s right. “Anyways, I’ll try to get some sleep, night Hunter” giving him one last smile, Omega leaves him alone with his thoughts.

Taking a deep breath, Hunter leans back in his seat, resting one of his legs by the command panel as he looks out at the whirling blue lights of hyperspace. Hunter closes his eyes, trying to centre himself. Only you could daze him as much as this and make it feel so damn exciting. 

Were the signs that you liked him back always there? For a guy with heightened senses, he presumed he would have picked up on it… but Omega is right, he doesn’t exactly hold eye contact with you. And whenever he hears the loud beating of a heart when you’re near, he hurriedly assumes it’s his own.

Speaking of his senses, he can tell Omega is still there, hovering by the doorway. He waits a few seconds, giving her the time to speak but she doesn’t.

Hunter knows where this is going, presuming she’ll either ask him to carry her back to bed or try to convince him to get her a snack. He takes his time opening his eyes again, turning his upper body to look at her.

Hunter can feel his stomach drop. His body automatically freezing as if you won’t see him if he doesn’t move. 

You give him an equally bewildered look, a twist of anxiety in your gut. “Can we talk?” you ask, the words coming out quieter than expected.

Hunter has one main question on his mind: how much have you heard? And yet he doesn’t ask that question, instead blurting out “But I thought you were sleeping?”. 

Is that a question? Or a statement? Hunter has no idea, his brain utterly scattered.

You smile nervously. “I was getting ready to go to sleep,” you reveal “I was just in the refresher”.

Pointing to the door to the refresher, Hunter’s heart lurches at how close it is to the cockpit, knowing you’ve definitely heard everything.

Clearing his throat, Hunter nods “Yeah, let’s talk”. It’s better to talk this through now, while everyone else is asleep. 

He isn’t sure how this will go, still doubtful that you could actually like him back. But there’s only one way to find out. Hunter gives you a small smile as you sit where Omega was minutes ago. Once you’re comfortably seated, Hunter takes a deep breath and begins…

[cocogum]

The Great Wave - Chapter 3 Review

‼️ SPOILERS FOR THE CHAPTER ‼️

Warning(s): extreme use of foul language.

Aurora is not pregnant.

I don’t believe it for a second, that cow is lying through her teeth. I already mentioned in the second chapter review that she just couldn’t be pregnant because there are three major reasons that easily disprove her claim.

First, it’s the amount of time that passed by. It has been a few months since Season 4 and the manga, around four months to be exact. And yet, Aurora’s stomach appears to be completely flat. How is this possible? Shouldn't there be a visible bump by now?

Second, season 3’s artbook already confirmed that Aurora was a manipulative woman and wanted to reflect it with her design (by having her hair covering one of her eyes) so who’s to say she’s telling the truth right now??

Third, @kilfeur pointed out in this post that if she was pregnant, Armand would not have allowed her to fly high up in the cloudy sky to gain knowledge about the Eliatrope goddess' eliaculus. Armand was already worried about Aurora when she went up, and the thought of her flying high while carrying their future child would have made him refuse the idea entirely, as he feared it could put their unborn child in danger.

So yeah, this skank is clearly lying her ass off just to manipulate the sadidas so that they could take her side. She’s so fucking petty omg I cannot deal with her. And her father is even worse my god wipe that ugly ass smile off your face you fatass.

This man clearly wants power that’s outside his kingdom. He just wants more even if it doesn’t belong to him and it painfully shows because he won’t stop making this fart face.

But it’s okay because as soon as Amalia opens her mouth, he immediately stops looking like a dumbass and immediately FROWNS because he knows she’s spitting FACTS.

And this is the only reason why I loved this moment. Amalia literally put him in his place and shut him up.

Amalia on the first panel: “What right do you return after you have shamelessly abandoned us? The osamodas kingdom, the nations of Bonta, Brakmar, Amakna, Astrub…”

Amalia on the second panel: “We asked you to come help us!”

Amalia on the third panel: “BUT NO ONE CAME! It was the future of the world that was at stake, not just the Sadida Kingdom!!!”

LIKE YES GIRL YES FUCKING DESTROY THIS OLD WASTE OF SPACE!!!

She literally dragged him on the fucking floor with all these facts omg I can’t she’s such a queen I love her so much. 💖💖

But then, instead of just taking it all like a good boy, this old bag of furry bones only had one thing to say and it was:

Osamodas blue cow king: “You give honor to your egocentrism, Amalia…”

Bruh what.

What are you talking about, you crusty old bat?

She drops so many facts and events that happened and this guy’s only comeback is “you’re being selfish 🥺😡”. Like what the fuck was even that???

Dude if you’ve got nothing to say, then don’t say anything but don’t just blurt out the first thing that comes out of your mouth??? Like what??

This is the equivalent of a detective who presented all the proofs that you committed the crime and the only thing you have to say is “your mama”.

Then, as if things couldn’t get any worse for this guy, he says:

Osamodas blue cow king: “My soldiers would have beat these creatures just as efficiently as yours.”

Oh yeah, where were they then, you fucking liar??? The worst part about this is that you didn’t even try hiding the fact that you would’ve been ‘ready’ but you’re so dumb you have no idea how brain-dead that makes you sound right now. You’re saying you could’ve sent your men BUT YOU DIDN’T DO SHIT. WHAT’S WORSE IS THAT YOU KNEW THE SADIDAS NEEDED HELP CUZ UR STUPID DAUGHTER FLED TO GO BACK TO YOU.

Also didn’t you once claim that Armand’s army was weaker than yours but then all of a sudden you’re now saying that your army could’ve beat the necromes like theirs did???

(oh oop- Armand don’t kill him yet 😭)

Bitch doesn’t even know what he’s talking about anymore. I doubt he even knows wtf he’s saying half the time.

Are you dumb???? Are you actually suffering from constipation????

You’re implying that you were free to help and that you knew they needed help. YOU’RE INDIRECTLY SAYING THAT YOU KNEW AND DIDN’T HELP DESPITE HAVING THE TIME TO DO SO.

While the old fart is yapping, Yugo’s face is just so 🫤😑 I’ve been staring at this panel for 2 minutes now and I love how fucking out of it he looks while listening to the cow 😭 Actually, I’m not even sure if he’s listening, I think he’s just hearing him from one ear but it all goes out on the other side. He looks like a god who’s about to squash an annoying ass ant lol

He’s literally like “is this bitch fr?”

Like Yugo is 100% confident to say that the osamodas king had no idea what the hell he was talking about when he thought his troops and he would’ve been able to fight off the necromes.

Yugo: “You have absolutely no idea what we saved you from!”

Yugo’s making that face cuz he knows the king has no clue what he’s barking about. (Also can’t Yugo just use his wakfu sensing abilities to check if Aurora is actually carrying another twelvian?? Or is he not able to do that because an unborn child does not have wakfu yet?) Little blue bro doesn’t know what necromes even are cuz Yugo never told him about them so how the hell was he supposed to know if his men would’ve stood a chance???? No seriously is this cow okay? Why is he talking? Is he talking just for the sake of talking?? Is he that self-conscious that he’ll make up lies on the spot just to protect his image??? The cow king doesn’t even know that the necromes had a leader. Yugo and Amalia are dealing with a fucking grown-ass child omg.

Osamodas blond cow: “I left because I made the promise to my dear Armand.”

This is a lie. Armand never heard of any promise. An analysis conducted by @geekgirles even indicated otherwise, supporting that the claim made by Aurora was fake. According to the analysis, Aurora was more inclined towards her family than her new life with Armand, and the claim that he made any promises to her was baseless. If you wish to read the detailed analysis conducted by @geekgirles on this matter, you can find all of it in this post.

I’ll now explain to you, in my own words, why her bullshit is hot donkey ass. Keep in mind that the whole reason why she left was to protect “the child” aka “the future heir”. As I said before, Aurora couldn’t have promised Armand anything because he knew she still held a bit too much on her osamodas family. From what we’ve seen, Aurora had the time to go back to the Osamodas kingdom to check up on them because of the eliaculus in the skies, had sided with her osamodas family during the meeting with the eliatrope goddess, had tried to marry off Amalia to one of her brothers and cousin, deliberately brought some of her relatives to Armand’s coronation to….stand around, and even keeps her father around in the Sadida kingdom when he should either be ruling his own kingdom or go back to his cave. Armand is not a moron. He knows that she constantly brings her own family to a place that doesn’t need them. So when he’s about to sacrifice his life unbeknownst to Amalia, he tells her this:

“The future is yours.”

Armand had passed the torch to Amalia.

It's worth noting that this is a crucial moment because he chooses not to pass the leadership to his own wife, Aurora. This decision is based on the fact that Aurora is heavily influenced by her family and is unable to make independent choices. At the same time, he also chooses not to give it to someone else who is just as important.

And that is the imaginary baby that Aurora is carrying.

Remember that the baby doesn't exist, and that's an important fact to keep in mind. Armand, who still loves Aurora, doesn't trust her enough to give her the leading role, or any role for that matter, especially not one that involves a child they could potentially have together. Instead, he gave the role to his sister. Aurora knows this and is fully aware that her promise to him was never even a thing. In Armand’s mind, it wouldn't have mattered if she ran away because he never intended to give her a part of the kingdom’s responsibilities in the first place, even though her getting away like that would have hurt his heart.

And Aurora is over here saying that her dad will help her lead the sadidas while she’s pregnant, girl sit your ass down no one called for you. Hoe thought she was in the same group as freaking warriors, shut up. You clearly want your father to rule for a much longer time literally wtf.

Osamodas blond cow: “During my pregnancy, my father will help me lead the kingdom…and I also count on him to train the future heir.”

It's concerning that her explanation might make sense to the sadidas. I'm not sure how she managed it, but that skank made it sound like her father would automatically assist her in ruling the Sadida Kingdom (despite them being Osamodas) since she would be pregnant and without aid due to Armand's demise. And after her baby would be born, her father would train him under his guidance to make him become strong and successful. She made it sound like a simple plan with no problems attached to it. She hasn’t even mentioned if the “baby” was an osamodas or a sadida. She only mentioned the gender, that the baby was a male (in French, when she calls the unborn child “the heir” she says it by using male pronouns).

Hey, Aurora what happens when your lie doesn’t work anymore because your stomach will still stay flat after eight months? You’re gonna tell the people that you swallowed the baby or something? That it fell down? What happens when you can’t keep up with your lie anymore?? Huh? Ever thought about that, you dumb bitch?

I have an idea, Amalia: how about you throw Aurora to the other side of the world and then try to get yourself pregnant by using Yugo so that you can also have a better reason to stay? Or better yet, you can tell her to prove her pregnancy because again, HER STOMACH IS FLATTER THAN A WASHBOARD AFTER ALL THESE MONTHS. Make her suffer from her lie and try to make her work hard for it.

You know when a dog lifts his tail and head up while he’s walking away from something cuz it shows just how sassy and confident they are? I see no difference with this crappy blue cow ‘family’ except that it ain’t cute when they do it.

They just ignored everything Amalia and Yugo said, looked the other way from every proof and situation that they were currently in, and only brought out Aurora’s pregnancy as a trashy uno reverse card, then decided to dip out before blurting out that they were gonna wait NEXT TO ARMAND’S FUCKING TREE GRAVE SO AMALIA CAN PREPARE HER STUFF TO LEAVE.

Osamodas blonde cow: “We are going to pray at Armand’s grave tree, while you make your arrangements.”

The fucking nerve to say that.

I don’t give a shit if she’s crying while saying it, this bitch is supposed to be a professional manipulator.

She and her family have no shame whatsoever. They genuinely thought they did something there. The only thing they had as “leverage” against Amalia and Yugo was Aurora’s stupid “pregnancy”. And even if she was actually carrying Armand’s kid (for whatever reason), her reason would still be shit cuz Armand already declared in his final hour that Amalia was going to take his role.

Osamodas blond cow: “Your presence here is no longer desired, sister-in-law. Just do what you’ve always done…Go explore the world!”

Like-

Who are you???

Blond cow had the audacity to exist.

Not only do we know that the royal osamodas family are liars and manipulators, but we also now know that they’re complete dumbasses for even wanting to rule the Sadida kingdom of all kingdoms. The Sadida kingdom is not built like theirs. The Sadida culture and its customs are extremely different and very much the opposite of the Osamodas since these two races are polar opposites. The Sadidas care about plant life while the Osamodas care about wildlife. It would be extremely hard for the osamodas to fully accept a culture that preaches everything that opposes what they preach. Not only that, but the Sadida kingdom is the literal embodiment of nature. If anything tries to hit its source no matter how big or small, then there would be dire consequences to the entire ecosystem of the world. The Tree of Life is such a big deal in fact that Armand even nicknames it “the lungs of this world”.

And to protect it, you not only need to be one with nature, but that also means you need a SADIDA to guard it which is a person that can literally SPEAK FOR THE TREES. Aurora you NEED Amalia, not only because she’s a Sadida, but because she’s also a royal AND has the strongest connection to the tree more than any other sadidas. You’re not just ruling a kingdom, you’re taking care of the world’s core.

And Aurora’s father doesn’t seem to understand that very important detail. When Armand reveals to him that the sadida kingdom keeps getting targeted at all times because it represents the lungs of the world, this fucking dumbass cow thinks that it’s because the sadidas are weak and can’t protect their own home which is why it keeps getting attacked.

Aurora’s father is such an idiot that he doesn’t even understand why the kingdom is so precious when he’s just been TOLD THE ANSWER DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF HIS FUCKING FACE.

At this point, even a iop would get it. BECAUSE THE PERCEDAL FAMILY ACTUALLY UNDERSTOOD THE ASSIGNMENT-

This is why imagining an osamodas ruling the Sadida kingdom is a literal death sentence. Because an osamodas, someone who only takes care of beasts, shouldn’t be able to properly take care of the sacred tree that links every single living plant in the world. For fuck sake, Aurora, why do you think they call it “the Tree of LIFE”?????

If the Tree of Life doesn’t have a proper guardian (aka A FUCKING SADIDA), then it dies. And if it dies, that means the ecosystem dies. Aurora, you dumb blond, let me explain it in osamodas language: if every green that you see outside disappears, that means that your stupid animals won’t be able to properly eat, shit, reproduce, drink, breathe, and live. And yes, Aurora that last one also means that they won’t have a surface to walk on, aka death.

You don’t have a brain because you keep listening to your egocentric manipulative fat father every time he opens his mouth and you keep making constipated decisions without thinking about the later outcomes because you think you’re in control of the situation.

The only thing you can do, and I’m being generous here by giving you a “talent”, is to shut the fuck up and sit there looking pretty. You did a good job doing that in Season 4 and I want you to do that again. And while you’re at it, go make me a sandwi-

Not only does Aurora need Amalia, the sadida who has the strongest link to the Tree of Life, but the Osamodas king also needs Yugo. I’m not sure why these blue people didn’t catch the fact that there’s a gigantic ass necrome dragon that’s only been PARALYZED and is currently standing in the fucking Sadida Kingdom’s backyard. The dragon is very easy to spot and the only reason why Yugo still keeps the eliatrope dofus on him at all times is to prepare himself for when the dragon gets out of this state. Because yes, Armand did beat him, but he didn’t kill him. Again, you are not able to kill a necrome. If the royal Osamodas family somehow takes hold of the Sadida kingdom, how the fuck are they gonna beat a fucking dragon, one of the most powerful fucking entities of this world who also had been necrofied to NEVER FUCKING DIE??? The osamodas cow king never saw a necrome, never beat a necrome, doesn’t know how it became a necrome, and doesn’t know where it comes from. Since he doesn’t know shit about the necromes, how is he gonna be able to fight a fucking necrome DRAGON?????

Sweeties, do you get it now?

Staying in the Sadida kingdom isn’t for power-hungry clowns. Staying in the Sadida kingdom means that you’ve gambled with your life more than once and you know the taste of adventure and combat. Staying there means knowing that your life can be taken away from you by either the enemies who try to take the literal lungs of the world, or the paralyzed undead dragon who can wake up at any time if he simply wanted to.

You bozos NEED Yugo and Amalia to the point where you can’t even be the ones to stay there, let alone own the place. You can’t stay there because there is so much to keep guard of, to be aware of, and to be ready for. The sadidas have practiced this dance for centuries now and they’ll keep doing it even harder because of an additional menace that is living on their grounds, the dragon being that very threat. Now, not only do the sadidas have to be vigilant of the outside, but they also have to be vigilant of the inside.

So yeah, the royal osamodas are a goofy ass family and I hate the circus.

(i love how the French commentaries on Allskreen and the Krosmoz app are clowning this family lol everyone understood the assignment)

[jedidryad]

WIP: Absolutely none of this had been a good idea...

The climactic battle sequence in Champions of the Force involves an abundance of superweapons including a reappearance of The Death Star (I guess The Force Awakens had to get that plot point from somewhere). Mara, Han, and Lando watch in horror as it destroys the Garrison Moon over Kessel. While Han and Lando are experts, this is the first time Mara has witnessed a Death Star in action, and it's tough on her. When they decide they need to fly inside it to destroy it, all does not go as planned...

“She’ll hold together.” Solo insisted although it sounded more like an affirmation than a statement of fact. He agreed he needed to check on the engine and do repairs but we couldn’t do that while actively flying.

“We’re going to have to settle in for the ride.”

“Settle in?” Settle in how, where? Being buried in the middle of this Imperial nightmare was getting to me. I should have done something years ago to stop this thing. What, I didn’t know, but I hadn’t imagined it could do this.

“Don’t get all bent out of shape" Solo continued, misinterpreting my shock as disapproval. He demonstrated his landing claw then and attached us to one of the stable girders so he could power down and go investigate the damage.

Frozen in place, I  gazed down at the power core below us. Everything about it suited Palpatine: ultimate destruction at a whim, the mere tug of a lever.

I smiled tightly. At least this power core had killed him in the end, with some help from his “loyal” enforcer. I’d been no help.

I took a deep breath trying to find my own stability again. Like this ship to the girder, I needed to anchor myself to something. No, I hadn’t prevented the existence of the Death Star, but we could do something about this one now. So long as I held myself together enough to come up with an idea.

Solo seemed far more sanguine about the whole thing than I was.

“We’re secure here for now,” he informed me. He eyed me closely as he headed for the rear, “but if  they plan to go back inside the black hole cluster, we could be in for one wild ride.”

He wasn’t kidding. We were bumped and jostled so much, it made it hard to do the diagnostics and repairs Solo needed the time to do. 

Absolutely none of this had been a good idea. And I had no better ones, just worse ones. I stared out at the reactor core, glowing like Palpatine’s evil heart, infinitely worse ones.

Solo’s news was also bad. The hyperdrive was a mess and the damage to the auxiliary thrusters meant our maneuverability had taken a hit. Even if we did blow the core, we wouldn’t be able to get away from it fast enough or be able to make it back through the Maw.

“Not to mention we don’t know the way out.” I glanced around at the various, unsound passageways around us. Panels had caved in and girders had collapsed with every rattle this half built mess had made, “My Jedi instincts aren’t strong enough for a job like that.” 

And with the damage Solo was talking about, we would need a straight run at it to make it out in time.

“We’ve got to do something.” Calrissian insisted, “If the Death Star’s come back to the Maw installation, it’s bound to be up to no good.”

And that’s when Solo dropped the information that Chewbacca was in the Maw with a Republic occupation team. Instinctively I sent my Force sense out to scan the area and picked up on the presence of not just the Wookie, but also Luke Skywalker. As his presence brushed against mine, I could sense a wave of relief that we were alright.

For now.

His sense seemed to shimmer in agreement.

Great, everyone was in danger and we had no time.

“So it’s obvious,” I said, getting to my feet and choosing the worst of the terrible ideas  that had come to mind in the last few  hours, “we’ve got to deactivate that super laser, as long as we’re here.”

“But the hyperdrive engines - “

I cut Solo off and announced my plan to buy him time by using our portable detonators to destroy the power core. We could place them strategically and then use the timer settings to give us a chance to get away. Classic sabotage. 

It was unbelievably risky and entirely unlikely to work, but we were running out of options.

Calrissian’s jaw hit the floor as I volunteered the two of us to don enviro suits and set the charges while Solo fixed his ship.

“You want me –?”

I swayed my hips just a bit and let my eyes flash as I asked him if he had any better ideas.

He looked me up and down and I suppressed the desire to tug my neckline up again as  he grinned suggestively.

“It would be my honor to escort you.”

[domoz]

Had the thought that I rarely saw Itama incorporated into blessed eye AUs and it spiraled into a whole thing (fic)

They send Hikaku to tell him, because Hikaku is the only one of them who knows how to deliver bad news with anything resembling tact.

They've never acknowledged the awkwardness of the situation to his face. He's a Senju, he's their born enemy, and they're supposed to keep him safe and happy and content while at the same time keeping him away from his family, who they're constantly trying to kill.

Well -- they were trying to do that. Now they're trying to make peace with each other, and part of that had involved admitting that they'd had a Senju living, chakra sealed, in their compound for years. He would have loved to be a fly on the wall for that conversation, but he suspects he's only going to get any freedom after he gets moved into the village they've been building, and that really depends on how this reveal goes.

"I'm so sorry Itsuki-san" Hikaku bows deep to him, hiding a face that had, for a moment, twisted in genuine sympathy, "We informed them of your survival and they did not remember your name, nor the names of your family. Tobirama-san said he would look into the records, but in all likelihood --"

"It's alright." He cuts Hikaku off, turning to hide his own expression because he doesn't know what it will look like right now, "I suspected as much."

They think his brothers are dead, and they're not really wrong. Kenta and Jiro have never existed. Technically Itsuki doesn't either, though he's been using that name for so long that he thinks of it as his own more often than he doesn't these days.

His brothers are fine, and he knows it, because Hikaku just mentioned one of them and he certainly would have heard if something had happened to the other. The Uchiha had thrown a whole celebration when they'd killed his father, he doesn’t doubt that someone would at least come tell him if they'd killed Hashirama, too.

"I'd still like to see my clan again." He lets his voice shake, though its nerves, not sadness like he's sure Hikaku assumes, "Is there any way you could get me to see the head?"

He could probably tell them who he really is. In fact, he probably should, but he can't perfectly predict what their reactions will be. They probably won't stop him from seeing his brothers again, but they could, so it's not worth the risk.

Everyone will be mad anyways, waiting probably isn't going to make it any worse.

"Oh that's no problem Itsuki-san," He looks over and finds himself matching Hikaku's weak smile with one of his own, "he practically insisted."

---

Everyone had been reasonably sure that the Senju weren't going to harm one of their own, but 'everyone' only includes Izuna rarely, and never when he's being paranoid and nosy. His demand to act as an escort is as annoying as it is familiar, but it does have it's benefits. For one he doesn't even have to ask Izuna to try and get them there unseen, and for the other Itama is going to get to see the look on his face when he realizes exactly who he is.

The house doesn't look anything like he remembers it, but it shouldn't, considering it's an entirely different building. There are a few similarities in style, though, and he'd bet that they brought over the old shoji screens and fusuma panels -- but he can't say for certain. All the wood looks new, and it makes his throat close up; not for any nostalgia, but because he can see all the little flourishes and details, and Hashirama had hardly been capable of growing the flower that he'd been meaning to when they were kids. He knows that people apparently call his brother the God of Shinobi, that a house isn't even on the low end of what he's capable of now, but they'd all been just stories. The house is real and his brothers are inside and somehow he's only realizing just now that he's got no idea what he's going to say to them.

Itama runs his hand over the wood of the nearest post and swallows hard, looking helplessly at Izuna who has his arms folded, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"I'm sure he knows we're here." Izuna grouses, "…Tobirama, I mean."

"...I know who you mean." Itama's response comes out a little to weak to be a tease.

Izuna reaches out to knock on the wall and announce their presence regardless. He's was right, though, because the door slides open only a few moments later.

To his great shame, Itama doesn't recognize his brother on first sight.

Time has apart has eroded away at his memories. Hashirama was always kind to him, even when he wasn't patient, and he smiled a lot, but Itama can't remember his face. He can't remember Tobirama's either, but his mind always conjures up a smear of white and red. The man who opens the door isn't colored like that at all.

Tobirama never used to wear the disguise he'd made for them at home -- a deceptively simple seal to darken their hair and eyes, the first one he'd ever mastered so they stood a chance of leaving the compound and being as useful as everyone else. He would always complain about the waste of chakra and deactivate it as soon as he deemed it safe. With it on, he looks like a perfectly generic Senju man: tan skin, dark brown hair and darker brown eyes.

Those dark eyes flicker over Izuna for a brief moment before landing on him and going wide. Izuna chastises him about something -- genjutsu? Something Tobirama just did with his chakra, which Itama still can't feel thanks to the seal on the back of his neck. They don't acknowledge him.

Itama hesitates because it truly takes him a moment to recognize who he's looking at, because his mouth has gone dry and his heart too fast. But even then, he recovers faster than Tobirama, who's gone deathly still.

"Hey, Tobi-nii." Itama's voice comes out rough. He tries for a smile, but in return Tobirama makes a choked off noise, he reaches out, but drops his hand before they touch, fingers twitching. He could have just been run through with a sword and the expression on his face wouldn't look out of place.

"Tobi-nii?" Izuna's voice interrupts them, high and shrill. Itama glances over and knows that he doesn’t really get it yet, doesn't believe it, or doesn't want to. Tobirama's eyes snap to him too.

"Whatever you're doing to seal his chakra, get it off him right now." He's furious. His voice cracks but it makes him sound more like the moments before a glacier breaks apart and starts and avalanche than anything weak.

Izuna whines in response, high pitched and confused.

"Tobi-nii?" He asks again, but does actually scramble to obey, for once. Obey Tobirama, which Itama knows will be a novelty to remember. He bites his thumb deep enough to draw blood and Itama easily bends his head forward enough to allow access to the seal. It's only a temporary solution, Itama knows, he'd managed to convince some Uchiha to do it for him a time or two, when the seal was still new and the sensation of having his chakra bound was still uncomfortable, but it's enough, for now.

The unfamiliar feeling of someone else's presence floods back, a sensation so nostalgic it makes heat prickle behind Itama's eyes. His brothers always had so much more chakra than him, and the disparity has only grown worse since he hasn't been able to train with his in years.

The feeling of Tobirama's chakra wrapping around his, prodding at it, checking it over, is as overwhelming as it ever was. Comforting, too.

"Itama." Tobirama breathes, jerking forward, "Otouto."

They're nearly the same height now, but Tobirama's hug engulfs him all the same. Tight enough that Itama can feel the tremble in his limbs, can feel the damp seep through his clothes where his older brother has buried his face in his shoulder and -- oh, he knows his memory has holes, but Tobirama never cried, did he? He always seemed so strong but the sight of him is enough to have him shaking apart and --

Itama feels the guilt creep in. He missed his brothers, he really had, but…

He'd been under surveillance, yes, and chakra bound, but deep down he knows that he didn't try to get back to them as hard as he should have. It was just… Easier. The Uchiha treated him kindly, for the most part. They didn't expect him to kill anyone, didn't try yell at him for feeling sad in front of them. The longer he stayed with them, the harder it was to think about leaving and going back and having to fight them. And then -- they'd managed to make peace, and he didn't have to, which is great, it really is, but up till now he'd been telling himself that his brothers were so strong that they could get by without him. That they'd grieve and move on and probably be better for it, not having to defend their weak baby brother all the time.

But all the time he'd spent in that plush cage, he'd known they were alive. And they'd thought, really thought, he was dead.

His tongue is too heavy behind his teeth to find the words for it, and before he can try there's another voice.

"Hey, Tobi, is that our guest or --"

Hashirama stops mid sentence, cutting himself off with a low, wounded sound.

He's gotten stupidly tall, Itama notes absently, and he grew out his hair, and even has the beginning of wrinkles around his mouth and eyes.

Itama didn't recognize his voice.

Itama swallows painfully, works his throat enough to croak out, "Hey, Hashi-nii."

Izuna whimpers. No one pays him any mind.

"Itama?" Hashirama says, looking and sounding faint. "I thought --- we didn't hope --"

"When they told us they had a Senju we didn't dare hope--" Tobirama's voice, still muffled in his shoulder, catches. "Even once we found out about the eyes, I knew that you were in disguise. I thought--"

He breaks off, somehow squeezing impossibly tighter.

Itama's eyes are locked over his shoulder on Hashirama, who's tears are already starting to run over his cheeks and onto the ground.

"It failed when I ran out of chakra." Itama's voice has fallen to a hoarse whisper, "They uh -- stopped. When they realized. Captured me instead. I--"

Hashirama been approaching him slowly, as if he were a frightened animal, but he's finally close enough to reach out and cradle Itama's face in his hands. The burning behind his eyes finally gives way and Itama sobs.

"I'm sorry." He wheezes, "I-- I'm--"

"Oh, otouto, no." Hashirama circles around and pulls them both into another hug, but his voice is wavering too, "Whatever it is, you don't have to apologize for surviving, okay?"

None of them resist when Hashirama pulls them all down to sit on the ground right there on the engawa. He's buried his face in Itama's hair, and Itama can feel his lips moving over and over again in some silent prayer.

It's not the first time they've sat like this, he remembers now. The night after Kawarama's funeral--

He stops paying attention who how long they sit there, content and comfortable with the way they've surrounded him.

Itama thinks Tobirama must have gotten control of himself first, he's stopped trembling, but he seems content not to move just yet. Hepulls himself together with a few heaving breaths -- his arms are too pinned to wipe his face, so he does it on Tobirama's shirt instead, and doesn't get a single complaint for it.

They have… A lot to catch up on, he thinks. Them more than him, because his days tend to blend into a lot of reading and crafting and poking at Uchiha -- he stopped pretending he was looking for weaknesses years ago too, but he's a little less ashamed about that. He never wanted anyone to die, even before he got caught.

He glances up from his brothers shoulder and locks eyes with Izuna. He's not remotely surprised that he's stayed but the picture he paints, stiff and uncomfortable, leaning on the wall of the house and looking as far from casual as a man can get. It is, admittedly, a funny image.

"You're name isn't Itsuki." Izuna accuses, frown etched deep. Tobirama turns his head, and whatever look he shoots Izuna has him looking faintly green.

"…I don't think you can go by a something for a decade and a half and not have it become your name, at least a little." Itama ribs tiredly. But gods, he's so exhausted already, and he hasn't even gotten to any of the arguments he knows are going to happen, "But, I know that's not what you're asking, so… Uh… No. My name is Senju Itama."

He doesn't explain anything more. His brothers are still wrapped around him, so he's pretty sure he doesn't have to.

Surprisingly, it's Hashirama who speaks next, voice so controlled and even that it sounds threatening.

"Your clan," He says, "Has been holding my little brother prisoner for years. I really don't know what to do about that, to be honest!"

"He's --" Izuna sputters, going all prickly defensive in the face of the head and heir of the Senju clan staring him down with murderous intent, "We told you, alright? We protect people like him, even from their own clans who think sending out a kid to run messages in a war zone is a smart idea!"

Tobirama actually growls in response, and Itama sighs. He had been hoping to avoid this for a while longer at least, but…

"No one do anything stupid." He punctuates his point by knocking his shoulders into each of his brother's in turn. "They didn't treat me badly after taking me, and they didn't know who I was."

He'd had nearly all of the freedoms of any other blessed one by the end of the first year, and no one had been particularly unkind to him even before then. Most Uchiha considered him a victim of the Senju more than they did person from the clan.

"They sealed your chakra!" Tobirama protests.

"He was still a Senju!" Izuna insists, "Of course we couldn't let him--"

"You're not helping!" Itama cuts him off cheerfully. "My point is, that since the clans at peace now, I'm not a prisoner anymore, right?"

Izuna really doesn’t have the authority to make that decision, but putting him on the spot to flounder over it is as funny as Itama hoped it would be.

"Uh." He says gracefully, "Uh, I--"

"We're not giving him back." Hashirama announces, forcefully enough to shake Izuna from his stupor.

"Wh-- Now hold on." He scowls, "He's still our responsibility, you can't--"

"He's our family." Tobirama all but snarls, "Who you took, you're the one who can't--"

"I think," Itama starts and marvels at the way everyone's attention turns to him, "That this is a great argument for why I should get to move into the village, no?"

Hashirama laughs, loud and booming and still wet with tears. He leans over to rest his cheek on top of Itama's head.

"Yes." He agrees, "Yes, I think it is."

[multi-fan-dom-madness]

Chapter 27: Eyaytir (Second Chances - Hunter x reader)

Eyaytir. v. to flee, to escape.

Chapter Summary: You escape the mountain base, but you're still stuck hiding on-world.

Chapter Warnings: fear, anxiety, being chased/hunted, Crosshair being a snarky little shit, angst; if I missed anything please let me know!

Word Count: 3,313

< Previous chapter | Next chapter >

By the time you’ve limped Crosshair to the nearby lift, you’re sweating and your legs shake with the effort, muscles screaming in protest. As you round the corner, the troopers on guard all freeze for a moment, before snapping into action. Two blasters raise in your direction. 

Mustering as much anger as you can—of which you have plenty to draw on, the heated emotion always simmering just below the surface, you spit out, “What are you doing!? I was assured that I would have a stretcher for this clone when I arrived to retrieve him.” 

The two troopers glance at one another and, after a moment, lower their blasters. 

“Well?” you snarl, straining under Crosshair’s dead weight. 

Crosshair stirs at your voice. “Wha—” 

You shush him, silently praying that he remains quiet for another few moments as one of the troopers rushes off. The remaining trooper makes no move toward you to help support Crosshair, a fact for which you’re grateful. No karking Imperial will get their hands on him again so long as you can help it. 

The trooper reappears a minute later with a floating stretcher. You ease Crosshair down onto it, not bothering to snap the straps into place across his body. Fixing your cap, you straighten your shoulders and give a silent nod to the troopers. One of them presses the lift button; when the door opens, you push the repulsor-lift stretcher into the enclosed space.

Only when the doors whir shut do you let yourself breathe. 

Keying in level 50, the ground floor, you slump against the curved, cool durasteel wall as the lift effortlessly descends. A pounding headache has begun to take up root at the base of your skull, throbbing dully in time with your pulse. Thoughts whirl through your head. What did they do to Crosshair? When did he try to escape? How long has he been here? How long have the other clones been here? 

How the kark are you going to get out safely? 

You want to stay and help the other clones escape, you really do, but as the lift trundles downward, no ideas come to mind. The Marauder can’t possibly fit all of them—even the Redthorn would be hard pressed to squeeze the hundreds of clones that must be imprisoned here. You’d be committing these men to another firefight and probably even worse punishments when they are inevitably recaptured. A deep pain blooms in your chest as you accept that you can do nothing for them. Not right now. 

Crosshair croaks out your name. 

You flinch, jolting out of your emotions. Crosshair’s eyes crack open to peer blearily at you. Confusion and fear pinch his brow. With a tight smile, you reach tentatively to hold the back of your hand to his forehead. He recoils before taking a deep breath, then leans his head forward to touch your hand. Concern bolts through you. His skin is cold and clammy; you curse yourself for not bringing any medical supplies. 

“I’m getting you out,” you say. 

“You— You got my message.” 

“Sure did.” You retract your hand, idly wiping away the dewed sweat there. “The boys are gonna pick us up.” 

His eyes widen a bit at that, searching your face. You’re not sure for what, but as he slumps back against the stretcher, his expression relaxes a fraction. 

“I might need your help getting out,” you say. The digital panel above the doors steadily ticks down the numbers, counting the floors. “I stunned a woman on my way to you, so I’m expecting other resistance.” 

“Did you see a doctor?” Crosshair asks, voice still weak, but the note of dread rings clear.

“I don’t think so.” 

“Good.” The quaver in his voice gives you pause, but you’re only a few floors from the  bottom. You’ll have to get that story another time. 

“Listen.” You sigh, repositioning yourself at the foot of the stretcher. “I’m going to get us as far as I can. There’s a landing pad about a mile out from the base; there might still be a ship there, or we’ll hide out and wait to get picked up. And that’s best case scenario.” 

He cracks a faint, sarcastic smile. “It won’t be best case.”

“I know.” 

You straighten as the lift comes to a halt. When the doors glide open, you half expect a whole battalion of armored troopers waiting for you—but there are no guards. Rather, the entire hangar bustles with activity, Imperials scurrying every which way as they go about their tasks. Most of the figures here are clad in gray uniforms identical to the one you wear, but you do catch sight of a handful of groups of armored soldiers, white buckets gleaming. 

“Stormtroopers,” Crosshair breathes as you begin to push the stretcher. 

“What?” you murmur. You don’t dare move your mouth too much; your eyes stay fixated on the path in front of you. 

“The new soldiers,” he explains. “They’re Stormtroopers. Nat-born soldiers. Our replacements.” 

You know he means the clones’ replacements. A grim, chilly sensation settles in your bones. That could have been you behind that imposing, skeletal plastoid armor once upon a time. With a shudder, you shove that thought away. The massive blast doors to the hangar are still several hundred feet away. If they’re activated, you won’t have much time to react. 

To your bewilderment, you’re nearly halfway there before a voice calls out to you. “Hey, where are you taking that prisoner?” 

“Medical transfer,” you lie over your shoulder, not daring to stop or even look back. Picking up the pace, you lock eyes with Crosshair for a moment. Your breathing comes in shallower gasps. 

The person behind you scoffs and audibly hurries to catch up. 

“Her name is Emerie Karr,” Crosshair mutters. At your flash of confusion, he elaborates, “The woman you stunned. Had to be.” 

You nod in thanks. When your pursuer catches up, their legs working to keep pace, you stare straight ahead, eyes fixed on a point beyond the blast doors. The sunshine outside has begun to fade—you’ve spent most of the day here. Kriff, you don’t want to have to outrun the Empire in the dark. 

“Unless I am mistaken—” they pause, and in your periphery you catch them inspecting your badge where it bounces on your hip “—First Lieutenant, I am your superior, and you will look at me when speaking.” 

You glance briefly. Nondescript, wearing an officer’s uniform. Standard regulation blaster on their far hip. But you keep walking, again lengthening your stride. “Apologies, but I have emergency orders from Emerie Karr to transfer this clone immediately.” 

The officer stumbles at that. “I—”

You cut them off, three-fourths of the way to the blast doors and so close to freedom. “There’s a transport waiting at landing bay one-seven-six-five. Shall I comm Dr. Karr for you, sir?” 

“That won’t be necessary,” another voice, clipped, smooth, and cold, cuts in. 

Suppressing a shiver at the dead tone of voice, you risk a glance over your shoulder. Stalking in your direction, hands clasped behind his back and a calm look on his face, is an unfamiliar man with skeletal features and graying hair. His uniform identifies him as high-ranking—your eyes widen at the grand moff designation pinned to his chest. Snapping your head forward, you push harder against the stretcher. 

“Tarkin,” Crosshair mutters, eyes narrowed.

Fear jolts through you, slick and ferocious. You’d forgotten about him, his name uttered in a Coruscanti prison cell not that long ago; every nerve in your body screams at you for keeping your back turned to the enemy, but you can’t stop. Stopping means death.

Tarkin calls your name, your full name, and rattles off your chain code. Breath feeling frozen in your chest, you grit your teeth as you continue forward. Around you, Imps in uniforms and armor alike have stopped. Most stare. Some fidget with blasters. None of them get in Tarkin’s way. 

“Such a shame we must meet under these conditions,” Tarkin says. “I was most displeased to hear when you escaped Coruscant. I was quite hoping that this conversation would be a pleasant one. As it is, unless you halt right now, I will be forced to take drastic measures.” 

Locking eyes with Crosshair, you see the same terror and anger clashing in him that wars within you. He shakes his head imperceptibly. You set your jaw and break into a jog, shoulder muscles aching in protest. Ahead, the fading sunlight glimmers and warm, humid air kisses your skin, beckoning you forward. 

“A pity,” Tarkin says, in a tone that makes you certain he’s never felt less pity in his life. “Kill the clone. Capture the imposter.” 

Red lights flash as the klaxon blares. You stumble, flinching at the sudden piercing sound. Around you, the hangar comes alive with shouts of “stop them!” and “seal the blast doors!” Blaster fire, hot and intense, screeches in every direction. 

You bolt. 

A grinding of metal on metal screeches; your ears ring. The blast doors are closing, and they’re gaining speed. You’re only a few dozen feet away now. 

“Give me your blaster!” Crosshair snaps. He props himself up on one elbow, dodging a red blaster bolt that goes whizzing past both of you. 

Acting purely on instinct and reaction, you yank free your blaster from its concealment at your waistband and pass it to him. The stretcher begins to fishtail. Stabilizing it, you push your feet harder. The doors are closing fast, faster than you first anticipated. 

Crosshair takes aim over your shoulder. When you don’t hear any cries of pain, you know he either missed—unlikely—or he found his mark with deadly accuracy, just like he’d been engineered to do. 

He calls your name in warning, glancing back at the doors. 

The world seems to hold its breath, leaving only your own harsh panting to ring in your ears. You shove. The stretcher hurtles across the door’s tracks, spinning. You leap. 

Searing heat burrows into your shoulder. A moment later, the massive metal doors slam shut behind you with a resounding crash.

Smoke curls from the gray fabric of your disguise. Gritting your teeth, you attempt to take a step—but you’re held in place. Panic clawing at your heart, you tug. Your jacket is snagged between the doors. Reaching with your uninjured right arm, you use the hole burned through the jacket to tear it open. You slip out of the tattered garment, leaving you only in a similarly-singed black undershirt. 

Against your sweaty, heated skin, the humid air nearly feels like a balm. But you can’t take a moment to catch your breath. Instead, you catch up to the stretcher as it drifts down to a slower glide. You grab the edges with your good hand and yank it to a halt. You cradle your left arm close to your body; that blaster shot struck a nerve, and you can only feel electricity tingling through the limb. You force yourself to think past the numbness. 

Crosshair groans, clutching his head in one hand, the other still gripped around your blaster. 

“Can you walk?” you grit out. 

“Give me a minute.” 

Overhead, familiar, deadly screams of TIE fighters roar. “We may not have that.” 

“Where are we going?” he asks as you resume pushing the stretcher. 

“Landing pad,” you say. You jerk your chin in the direction you think is correct, but suddenly you can’t recall which way you need to go. Brain refusing to cooperate, you recall in pristine detail what the area looked like, but not where it is in relation to your position. Besides, it’s nearly sunset; the shadows stretch in voidlike, gaping maws. Nothing looks familiar. “Kriff. We’ll just have to hide in the jungle.” 

Crosshair shoots you a burning, skeptical look. Then his eyes focus on your shoulder. “Dank ferrik. You got shot.” 

“S’not the first time,” you snark. “I’ll be fine. C’mon. You’re gonna have to walk from here, Cross.” 

You pull the stretcher to a halt. Behind you the blast doors begin the slow grind to open once more. 

“Don’t call me that,” he snaps. But he sits up fully, swings his legs over the edge, and stands on unsteady feet. 

Choosing to ignore his statement, you scan behind you to gauge you close the hunting parties are. Satisfied that none seem to be heading directly for you, you kick the stretcher as hard as you can to one side, then grab Crosshair’s bony wrist and pull him in the opposite direction. You forge a blind path into the darkening jungle. 

“What’s wrong with the landing pad?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” you reply, face burning despite the dimming light. “I just...lost it.” 

You can practically hear his smirk. “Impressive.” 

“Stow it,” you snap. “If I’m lost, then it means I have nowhere they can check to find us. They’ll have to exhaust every option.” 

Completely ignoring you, Crosshair tugs his wrist free.

“Can I at least have my blaster back?” you ask, not caring that you sound whiny. 

“I’m the better shot,” he says. 

With a scoff, you roll your eyes. He’s right, of course, but that doesn’t mean you have to like it. You reach in front of you with both hands to make sure you’re not walking into anything sturdier than a few bushes. 

After a few long moments of crashing through the underbrush, Crosshair huffs a quiet laugh. Anger flares in your veins. 

“What’s so funny?” you snap. 

“You’re good at it,” Crosshair says, voice low. 

“What?” 

“Lying,” he says. You can’t see his face, but a smirk coats his words. 

“I’m not lying to you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” you say. “The others worry you might have been setting another trap, so you’re lucky I even convinced them to come.” 

“And what made you so certain I didn’t set that trap back there?” 

You dig your heels in and halt so suddenly that Crosshair nearly runs into you. Fixing him with a flat stare, you scoff. In the dark, you can only see the faintest outline of him against the even deeper shadows of the trees around you. Very little starlight pierces the heavy canopy. He remains silent as he returns your deadpan gaze. 

You finally shrug, sighing. “Because you didn’t tell the Empire that the squad survived Kamino, did you?” 

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, so softly you almost miss it: “No.” 

“That’s how I know.” 

He doesn’t have anything to say to that. 

You’re uncertain how much time has passed since you escaped the mountain base. You’ve spent the entire time trying to confuse the tracks you know you’re leaving. As your vision adjusts to the nighttime darkness, you’re able to make out more and more shapes ahead of you, most of them large trees. Sometimes you backtrack, quite literally walking over your own tracks; sometimes you climb one of the larger, sturdier trees and descend its neighbor. Anything to throw off Imperial trackers.

You even have the good fortune to come across a stream. Crosshair suggests walking in the water for a while, a trick Hunter taught him once, to mask your scent for any pursuing massiffs or bloodhounds. 

And now, finally back on solid ground, your boots and pants soaked through, you come to a small hollow. Gnats buzz in the air, and nearby, a cricket sings its plaintive tune. Crosshair grumbles as he ducks past you into the rotted tree trunk, but even in the low light, you spot the sheen of sweat that coats his forehead. He needs the rest, and so do you. The numbness in your left arm has faded into a constant burning static, no matter how you hold the limb. 

Crosshair leans his head back against the dry, dead wood and closes his eyes. Satisfied that he’s at least pretending to rest, you crouch in the hollow’s opening and fish through your pockets for your comlink. 

Pressing the button, you draw a shaky breath. “Havoc-home, this is Havoc-6 with Havoc-7 in tow. Location unknown. Requesting retrieval.” 

“Oh, thank the Maker,” comes Hunter’s voice immediately, pinched and low with tension. “We can’t move in just yet. Too many birds in the air. Anything we need to know?” 

“Tarkin’s here,” you grumble. 

“Sithspit.” In the background, Wrecker growls something unintelligible. Hunter sighs, then says, “Copy. Keep this line open. Keep moving.” 

“Copy.” You can’t help the smile that has crept onto your face at hearing Hunter’s voice. You’ve been gone less than half a day, if that. Despite the brief confrontation with Tarkin, your luck with this mission has been beyond anything you could have hoped for. 

It makes you worry. 

But you don’t have the energy to worry about what-ifs. Leaving the comlink frequency open as requested, you peer at Crosshair. You’re unsurprised to find him already looking at you. Through a gap in the canopy, faint starlight glows, illuminating the twin sparks that are his eyes. The thin contours of his face stretch as he raises one eyebrow at you. 

“What?” you say. 

“Nothing,” he says, incredibly unconvincingly. “Never heard him sound like that before.” 

“He’s happy you’re safe,” you say. You know Hunter is; they all are. But you also know it’s only a partial truth. Hunter is happy you are safe. 

Crosshair cocks his head, like he’s following the same line of thinking, and then shakes his head twice. “I suspected a lot had changed since I...left.” You sense that he’s choosing his words carefully. “Omega, for one. But you. A nat-born.” 

You can’t read his tone. Frowning, you offer a half shrug. “That’s me.” 

He snorts and pushes himself to his feet. “We should get moving again.” 

Nodding, you fall in beside him. As the darkness deepens once again, you risk a glance backward. The mountain leers above you still, tall and illuminated from within. If you never have to visit another mountain in your life, it’ll be too soon. 

After a while more, the comlink clicks once. Tech’s voice comes through. “Havoc-2 to Havoc-6, we are unable to find an opening. We will try again tomorrow night, when the search has died down.” 

You and Crosshair both freeze, eyes locking. With numb fingers and numb lips, you raise the comlink to speak. “Copy, Havoc-2. Stay safe up there.”

“You both stay safe, too,” Hunter says, voice crackling with static. Interference. “We’ll see you soon. Comms still on.” 

The line goes silent. Around you, the jungle’s inhabitants continue their nightly routines, bugs trilling, owls hunting on whisper-silent wings, mammals nesting down for the night. But the space between you and Crosshair is tense, ready to shatter. 

“We can’t stop moving,” Crosshair says, voice low, like he expects Imperials to be close by. And perhaps they are. “Need to keep going.” 

Shaking your head, you give him a hard look. “We both need to rest.” 

“I’m fine,” he snaps. “I’ve slept enough. All those sedatives.” 

Your heart twinges, but you persist. “Sedation and rest are two different things.” 

“Whatever.” He turns on his heel and trudges into the darkness, the brush swallowing him whole. 

“Crosshair!” you hiss, hurrying to catch up. 

He doesn’t acknowledge you. Reeling from the emotional whiplash, you glare at the back of his head, trying to burn a hole through his stubborn skull. He quite literally called for help, and now he’s surly about being helped? 

But you know better than to press him right now, recognizing the cagey way that his shoulders are drawn up, the way his grip on the blaster has not once relaxed. He’s scared. 

“Hey,” you call softly. 

He grunts in acknowledgement. 

“We’re gonna make it off-world, you know that, right?” 

“Yeah,” he says, but his voice is hollow. 

You sigh. This is going to be a very long cycle. 

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[iiep-wop]

Red Dwarf AU where both Rimmer and Lister survive the leak via stasis

981 Words, not edited at all so probably a fair amount of grammatical smeg ups, I literally wrote this as the beginning of a possible fic late at night the other day, I've got a vague idea where I want it to go but atm this is all I've got and knowing my past with keeping things updated don't expect much more any time soon 💀

Anyway enjoy :D

George McIntyre had died, he'd taken an exam and Lister had been put in stasis; generally speaking, everything was absolutely tickety boo. That was disregarding the fact that George had been brought back as a hologram, he had fainted and failed his exam an eleventh time and Lister would be brought back in eighteen months however. He'd tried to appeal to the captain in order to get Lister given a longer sentence, but to no avail. Now he only had these precious few months without the smeghead, and it was certainly not enough. Rimmer didn't actually know what Lister had done to be put in stasis, but nonetheless, he one hundred percent deserved more time.

Rimmer smiled contentedly as he pushed the maintenance trolley down the halls. Today had been a good day.

As he made his way to the next vending machine, he noticed a faint, unnerving rattling sound coming from a small corridor to the left. He frowned, pausing a moment as he craned his head to see further down the passage.

"That's rather odd... I don't actually remember there being a vending machine down here."

Petersen had told him that there was a blockage in the vending machine on the engine levels of the ship and only now was he realising that he'd been pranked. He scowled as he began to painstakingly maneuver the trolley around in the cramped corridor, how had he been so gullible as to believe Petersen of all people? The Danish moron had barely two braincells to rub together how on Io had he managed to dupe him?

The rattling seemed to get louder as Rimmer fumed in silence, cursing the thin walkways of the lower decks as the corner of the cart hit the wall with a soft thud and decided to become unchangeably stuck. Rimmer felt like sobbing. In hindsight, today had not been a good day; none of his days ever were. Again, the rattle got even louder, an awful, clanging, repetitive noise which was absolutely not helping with Rimmer's mood.

And then a thought hit him. The noise had almost certainly been annoying the engine mechanics, so if he were to fix the issue then surely they'd be grateful. He could see it now, his memoirs stating this as his defining moment which lead to his ladder of success. It would read:

"Commander A.J Rimmer began his journey as a lowly mechanic, his excellent repair job of the annoying noise in the engine room providing a one hundred percent increase in productivity and all round wellbeing of engine workers. Because of him, Red Dwarf was propelled to new feats of greatness-"

Clang

Right that was it. No more daydreaming, Rimmer was going to sort out that sound right now. His journey to greatness would finally begin.

He abandoned his jammed trolley in the hallway, grabbing a small spanner, screwdriver and notebook as he made his way towards the sound. The notebook was less necessary, but if this was the beginning of his story, he was going to make sure he documented it properly for the future generations.

All his delusions of grandeur melted away as soon as he saw the problem, he wasn't entirely sure what he was looking at but it didn't look good. The smug grin that had been plastered across his face dissapeared, replaced with, first, a look of confusion and then despair. He wasn't entirely sure who he'd been kidding when he thought that he could fix the problem, after all, he had failed the engineer exam eleven times. He wasn't even sure where the noise was coming from inside the panel but maybe if he loosened a few of the bolts it would stop.

It did not stop.

In fact it got much, much worse.

The rattle became an almighty clang as the pressure that had built up behind the panel began to rush out faster, the noise slowly building up to a crescendo. But this was not what worried Rimmer. He had already began to run before the sound started to get worse.

The trolley lay on its side from when he had leapt over it, a single wheel spinning quietly, blissfully unaware of the danger that had just fallen on the ship.

What did worry Rimmer was the scuffed old sign next to the panel that read:

"Danger! Do not under any circumstance loosen this panel, will result in death"

He had only seen this after he'd loosened the first 4 bolts, but he hoped desperately that he'd have enough time to get out of there.

Rimmer would say that he regretted not warning anyone of the soon to be lethal leak that was about to happen across the ship, but that wasn't entirely true. He only had time to save himself and he'd accepted that. Besides, really it was the others fault for not knowing that it was going to happen.

Breathing heavily, he sprinted towards the stasis chamber where Lister stood, frozen mid wave, smiling cheerily through the viewing window. With a huff of effort he heaved open the door and threw himself inside, practically landing half on top of the confused scouser.

"Rimmer? What the smeg are you doing? I just got in-"

"No time to explain, Holly, lock the door"

It took a minute for the stasis to set back in again. A terrifying, awful minute.

The chamber was cramped, only meant for the one person. The pair were pressed against each other in the space, practically nose to nose. Rimmer tried not to gag at the scent of Lister's breath as they stared uncomfortably at each other.

"Did y' really miss me that much already? I know I'm terrifyingly handsome but y' could have just asked-" Lister joked awkwardly.

"Shut up. Its not that."

And then the stasis set in, freezing them in time as the carnage began outside.

[mrssimply]

I wouldn’t miss an opportunity to give you a prompt!

Because I miss them:

UWMA JxKerxV spending their Christmas Eve together

(NSFW is fine obviously)

Dear friend, I'm so happy to be able to offer a vision of their lives one year after the end of the adventure. It was an adventure for them, but it was also one for us, and I'm really overjoyed about celebrating it so close to Christmas!

Writing this felt like meeting an old friend, and I'm very thankful you made this happen cause I wouldn't have otherwise! Si thank you so much, for your prompt, and for everything else!

I have to say the mood stayed cute and tender this time for them. I let them have their intimacy off screen ;)

23th: Home

V steps out of the elevator, followed by Rogue and her guest of honor, Michiko Arasaka. He resolutely faced the door as they made their way down, because looking at them exchanging heated glaces makes him very uncomfortable. V can’t even complain: Rogue withstood a lot of elevator rides with him, Johnny and Kerry, and the young King of the Afterlife knows they're actually worse. Michiko, at least, has poise, whereas Johnny and Kerry have none.

He’s still relieved when the doors open and he can walk to the other end of the corridor. The panels blocking the entrance slowly slide open, and as they do, heavy chrome rock fills the air. Glancing back with a grin, V catches Michiko Arasaka’s amused expression. Rogue gestures at her to follow V, and he leads the way into the bunker.

Designed to withstand a nuclear attack and house most of the Afterlife’s affiliated members for months, the round theater-like room has been temporarily repurposed into a gigantic underground club. Tonight they celebrate one year of freedom, of Night City not only being separate from the NUSA, but being free of Arasaka and the rest of the corps. Well, it’s not really true: they still have to work with the corps, but now it’s mostly on their terms. On V’s terms.

The fact it coincides with Christmas is certainly symbolic, Misty said it was a sign their work was blessed and V took it to heart. He’s living proof there are things beyond the rational, beyond what the eye can see, and those things are stronger than anything.

Their entrance is unnoticed, as everyone is focused on their drinks, their dance partners, and most of all, on the stage in the middle of the pit. On each level of the coliseum, people are dancing, laughing, sometimes just chatting by shouting loudly over the deafening music. Bars have been installed on the top floor, where V and his two friends — if he can call Michiko that already — have arrived.

They take to the right, to the nearest drink station, and V finds Claire, looking disheveled but happy.

“Hey boss,” she greets him, ignoring other customers to prepare his drink. Her call out makes a few of the gathered patrons look toward the young man, seizing him up and down with surprise. V winks at them, something of a tender smile on his lips. He knows they always expect someone at least fifty years older, someone like Rogue. He doesn’t mind, his soul is that old anyway.

The small crowd falls silent as Claire finishes preparing his drink, a Goro Takemura, and hands it to him. The moment he grabs the drink seems to be some sort of signal, life resumes and a few mercs come his way to greet him. V makes small talk with them, tries not to squirm at the obvious admiration, and accepts the praises and thank yous with as much dignity as he can. He doesn’t really like this part of his position, he would prefer not to be treated as a messiah. For the last year he’s come to understand that’s how he appears to many eyes: the guy who defeated Arasaka, who made the corp heel to his will, who brokered a deal with the rogue AIs from beyond the Black Wall. The one who defeated death itself.

Continue Reading on A03

Sorry for this, but I'm traveling so i only have access to the app and it doesn't let me add the "continue reading" option and since the prompt is quite long i didn't want to make you scroll too long so I'm redirecting you to AO3.

[autumnalwalker]

Empty Names - 2 - Back From The Looking Glass

Author's Note: The second chapter rough draft and second core cast intro for Empty Names. The previous chapter can be found here. Masterpost with table of contents here. Word Count: 3,043 Content Warnings: Violence/combat in the form of a wizard duel. What might qualify as mild body horror as a part of said wizard duel. Frostbite. Probably nothing in here that would be worse than a PG-13 rating. Once again, if anyone reads this and sees something that I should have included a content warning for, let me know and I'll go back and add it. Here goes my first attempt at writing a fight scene.

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“I hate anime,” Ashan grumbles to himself for the second time that day.  

No, that was not quite fair.  He had some vague recollection of enjoying some show or another as a child.  What was it called again?  Something with magic cards and a girl on roller skates.  An interesting concept for quick casting of spells, but unlikely to be practical with its reliance on bound spirits.  There was also the one with the talking hamsters.  That one had been fun.

Perhaps it is not so much anime itself as anime conventions that bother him.  Even after being back on the world of his birth for a few years now, he is still not used to the sheer density of the crowds.  And the novelty of convention goers stopping to ask him who he is supposed to be wears thin quickly.  Even worse are the ones who mistake him for a favorite character and ask for a picture.  And while he is used to being mistaken for a woman - and even finds amusement in it so long as the mistake is not repeated after correction - the well-intended compliments mistaking his white robes for a dress are beginning to test his patience.  

All that is secondary though to the fact that such concentrated escapism and suspension of disbelief makes for a Masquerade breach waiting to happen.  Coupled with the sheer number of cosplayers making it easy for outsiders to blend in, it was no wonder that there is nearly always an incident at these events.  

An incident like one in one hundred event pamphlets listing an event in a room that the other ninety-nine in one hundred mark as not being in use.

At last, he finally extracts himself from yet another group wanting a photo - this one with costumes unsettlingly similar to his own raiment - and waves them off with a practiced smile.  Almost always best to play along and blend in.  Alone in the crowd once more, he double-checks the pamphlet.

Room 322.  2:00pm. Get Isekai’d!: An interactive panel to kickstart your magical journey to another world (without being hit by a truck).

Just around the corner and several minutes to spare yet.  

Turning said corner feels like stepping into a new building.  Empty and unadorned, save for two doors flanking the terminus of a dead end hallway.  Through some quirk of acoustics the constant background noise of the crowd fades to a distant murmur after only a few steps down the hall.  Even the lighting is perceptibly dimmer without the floor-to-ceiling windows of the main concourse.  Room 322 has no sign outside to proclaim the event yet the door remains cracked open enough to catch a glimpse of the small audience already seated inside.  

After a quick glance to verify no one else is coming down the hall, Ashan stretches to touch a finger to the top of the doorframe and begins tracing esoteric symbols.  Wherever he touches, the surface takes on a glassy sheen.

Tapping the center of his work a final time, his breath mists in the air as he makes a quick chant with no literal translation.  The drawn symbols shimmer in response then fade, now invisible to the untrained eye.  

He blinks, observes his ward, finds it satisfactory, and rubs some warmth back into his hands before stepping into the room.  

The room is a small one by convention standards.  Only a few dozen plastic chairs lined up facing a small stage set against the far wall.  Less than half the chairs are occupied, making for a lower attendance than Ashan had feared.  Good.  Fewer people to worry about getting hurt.  

Up on stage a tall man in a turtleneck that strains against his bodybuilder proportions paces in front of a freestanding wooden door with a polished white stone inset into the top of its frame.  The stage rattles with the weight of his every step.  As Ashan takes a seat near the front the presenter checks his phone then walks over to a podium with a laptop.  A projector comes to life and throws the title of the panel across a screen next to the stage.  

As the presentation begins, Ashan only halfway pays attention to the words being said or the slides on the screen.  Watching for signs of hostile spells and workings takes up too much of his focus for that.  And besides, the history and greatest hits of a genre about normal people going on adventures in other worlds can only hold so much interest for one who has actually lived it.  Although in his experience the real thing involved significantly fewer women of dubious proportions in impractical and revealing outfits.  

Twenty minutes into the scheduled hour-long panel, Ashan begins to wonder if this is simply a case of a magically-inclined nerd using his abilities to skip out on paying the panel booking fees.  True, the presenter’s body is obviously modified, but it would hardly be the first time a new mage transmuted himself in an ill-conceived attempt at “improvement,” and he has not really done anything incriminating yet.  Still, the “interactive” portion of the panel’s title is worrisome and the door’s function remains forebodingly elusive.  

“Show of hands: who here wishes you could get away from this life and start over as a hero in a new world?”

The sight and sound of a score of hands going up around him jolts Ashan’s focus back to the speaker’s words.  

“Well then, do I have the chance of a lifetime in store for all of you.”  The presenter saunters over to the door in the center of the stage and leans on the frame.  A murmur of anticipation goes through the crowd.  With a theatrical flourish, the presenter knocks four times and the door swings inward.  

The door does not come out from the backside of the frame.

On the other side of the doorway everyone in the audience can see a trail coming out of a forest and meandering over rolling grassy hills.  A castle can be seen in the far distance, white walls gleaming in the sunlight.  A breeze blows into the room carrying the scent of flowers.

Several people gasp.  Others start whispering, asking what is going on.  Someone starts clapping at what they think to be a clever trick.

“Yes, yes, it’s amazing, I know,” the presenter says.  “And to answer the question I’m sure you’re all asking yourselves right now,” he steps in front of the door and begins walking backwards, “this is very real.”  To drive the point home he steps to the right, disappearing out of sight entirely before coming back into view from the left before coming back through the door and walking a circle around it on stage.

“So, who wants to go first?” he asks with a smug grin.

Hands shoot up.  Chairs get pushed back as audience members jump to their feet.  The questions of what is going on get louder.  A couple of people with stronger survival instincts start edging toward the door.

Ashan sighs, gets to his feet, and calmly climbs onto stage before any of the over-eager fools can beat him to it.

“Now that’s what I like to see!” the presenter says as Ashan approaches the door.  “Can I have your name miss…ter?”

“My name is mine to keep,” he replies, “but perhaps you would not mind answering a few questions?  I imagine it would set the rest of the audience at ease to know more precisely what awaits them.”

“I’d be delighted.  Although I assure you all that this is perfectly safe.”

“As we saw with your demonstration, I am sure.”  Threshold wards rarely affect their casters.  “But what about language?  Will we be able to understand the people we meet on the other side?”

“Obviously.  The portal auto-magically applies the standard multiversal translator spell used by all  travelers.  Would you believe I’m not even speaking English right now?”

“Fascinating.”  Ashan mentally runs through the signs of the seven different translation practices common in this local cluster that he can recall off the top of his head.  This man is showing none of them.  “And what of the Autogenesis Principle?  Do you have any advice for those here wanting to escape their failures from physically manifesting their own internalized inadequacies?”

The presenter’s smirk falters.  “I’m not sure what fandom you’re roleplaying at right now, but that’s not anything anyone here needs to worry about.  So either go on through or get out of the way so everyone else can get their adventure underway.”

“Just one more question, if you would kindly humor me.”  Ashan places a hand on the doorframe and closes his eyes for a moment.  He opens them and asks “Does this essence siphon function on infernal or necromantic principles?”

The presenter’s smile disappears altogether.  “How did you - ”

“Necromantic then.  I cannot imagine a patron willing to aid a novice who would fail to even recognize another mage in this blunder of a Masquerade breach.”

The necromancer regains his composure and shrugs.  “Okay, you got me.  But hey,” he snaps his fingers and spikes of bone erupt from the floor, barring the mundane exit from the room, “it’s not a Masquerade breach if the witnesses are all dead.  So what do you say we split the haul seventy-thirty and you look the other way.”

The room goes silent for a moment before the dawning realization of the situation finally breaks and the audience starts shouting and rushing the barred exit, trying in vain to escape.  Except, of course, for the handful of stubborn skeptics mocking them for freaking out.  

Ashan looks at the crowd pressing themselves into the bars of bone and makes a tsk sound.  He should have noticed that on his way in.  Returning his gaze to the necromancer he says “I shall never understand people like you.”

“Fine, sixty-forty and that’s the best you’re getting unless you wanna help me herd the sheep in here.”

“I shall never understand those who believe the possession of knowledge and power makes the lives of those without expendable.”

The necromancer begins to back up.  “So that’s how it is, huh?  Fancy yourself some kind of hero?”

“No one has yet been hurt.  I shall give you one chance to leave now and never try this again.”

“How very generous of you,” the necromancer replies.  The words drip with sarcasm and venom.  “With an offer like that I can only say…” he reaches the edge of the stage.  “Get boned!”

The surface of the stage splinters and cracks.  With a flick of the wrist Ashan has his pearlescent wand in hand.  An ivory spear hurtles up at him from below.  A quick looping motion with the wand and a transparent shield appears in the air.  The spear is deflected through the portal.  As are the next three after.  Ashan follows up with drawing another, larger shield over the door.  It would not do to fall in himself.

That precaution proves timely as the necromancer lets out a bellow of pain and rage and his right arm explodes into a tendril of muscle and bony spikes that darts across the stage before slamming into Ashan’s side.  He manages to get his free hand up, palm out, in time to keep the tendril from making direct contact but now finds himself squeezed between two of his own barriers.  Stabbing the wand into the barrier holding back the tendril he wills his conjuration away and up.  The tendril swings away from him and out over the heads of the audience before retracting back into a semblance of an arm.

The audience is screaming now.  Even the most skeptical have been made believers.  The bars on the door still hold.  Ashan’s breath mists in the air grown cold around him.

The necromancer wastes no words as he charges the wizard.  As he runs, his other arm shreds its sleeve as it bulks up and grows talons over its fingers.  A morbid parody of dance ensues back and forth across the stage.  The necromancer rains down crushing blows and Ashan casually deflects them with shields that flicker in and out of existence.  More spikes erupt from below and Ashan gracefully sidesteps.  The necromancer’s face twists in rage and Ashan’s remains placid.

Eventually, the necromancer grows frustrated with this game and changes tactics.  He extends the tendril of his right arm once more, sending it plunging toward the one audience member still seated.  Ashan makes a slashing motion with the wand followed by an upward flick and a wall of what looks like glass rises to cut the stage off from the rest of the room.  The tendril crumples on itself as it slams into the newmade wall.  

The fact that the seated man in the yellow vest did not so much as flinch at nearly being impaled distracts Ashan enough that the followup swipe from the left claw manages to graze his cheek.  Enough playing around to wear the brute down then.

Wielding his wand like a brush, Ashan visualizes the chains running from the floor to the necromancer’s limbs and then paints them into being.  The next blow comes to a rattling halt midair.  The necromancer has just enough time to look at his wrist in surprise before Ashan makes another gesture and the chains pull him down, forcing him to his knees.

“You have lost,” Ashan says in an even tone.  He is no longer the only person in the room whose breath is condensing into mist.  Every surface in the room now bears dewdrops from the rapid drop in temperature over the past few minutes.  Ashan resists the urge to shiver before continuing.  “And still, no one has been hurt.  Come along quietly and I imagine you can still negotiate a lighter sentence than you deserve.”

“Who the hell are you?  Some kind of cop?” The necromancer pants heavily, pausing for breath between sentences.  “How did you even know I was here?  And why is it so damn cold in here?”

Ashan cocks his head at finally hearing a question from the novice mage he might deign to answer.  “Tis but a slight twisting of thermodynamics.  Absent a local concept for ambient energy such as aether or mana, one must needs improvise.  Only the inexperienced and the foolhardy draw from their own metabolism,” Ashan nods toward his shaking opponent, “as you seem to be.”

“Oh really…”

“Indeed.  Although I would not advise such a technique to the untrained.”

“Cocky bastard, bragging about your secret techniques when you think you’ve won.”  Frost begins to form on the stage around the necromancer.

“It is hardly a secret.  And really, you should not attempt it.  Especially in your current state.”

“You know.”

The spikes of bone scattered about the stage begin to shake.

“Where you.”

The necromancer begins shivering violently.

“Can take your advice.”

The spikes rise into the air.

“And shove it?”

The spikes all turn to face Ashan.

“‘Cause I’m about to show you!”

The spikes begin to move in on Ashan, gathering speed.

The necromancer falls over with a thud and the spikes clatter harmlessly to the stage.  Ashan walks over to him and notes the white and blue patches of frostbite covering the fallen man’s skin.  He bends down and checks for a pulse.  He finds one.  Unconscious, but alive.  Beginner’s luck.

Ashan stands back up, exhales, lets his remaining conjurations dissipate, and allows himself to shiver.

A slow clap from the sole remaining audience member disrupts his reverie.

Wait.  Sole remaining?  When did the screaming stop?  Where did everyone go?  He whips around to see the man in the yellow vest leaning against the wall next to the exit door.  The bars of bone now lay shattered on the ground.

“You certainly live up to your reputation, Ashan Glassheart.”  The man stops clapping and looks around the ruined stage.  “Well, maybe a little more collateral damage than I expected, but credit where credit is due, the rookie knew what he was doing with stashing unenchanted raw material for his trap.”  He pauses to stroke his goatee in consideration.  “Or maybe just dumb luck on his part.”

“Do I know you?”  Ashan asks.

“I should hope not,” the man replies.  “I try to keep out of the spotlight.  The name’s Sullivan Bridgewood.  At my service.”  He gives a flourishing bow as makes the introduction.

“I thought the sorceress Bridgewood was a woman.”

“That would be my dearly departed wife, Void rest her soul.”

“My condolences, but that still does not explain what you want with me.”

Bridgewood puts a hand to his chest and feigns an offended gasp.  “So suspicious.  And after I helped and set all the normies free while you were giving your lecture.  Nice job on the amnestic ward by the way.  Always fun to watch them go from running for their lives to milling about confused.”

“You are avoiding the question.”

“Oh, lighten up will you, I’m getting to that.”  He walks over to the stage and leans an elbow on it, looking up at Ashan.  “Have you ever heard of the individual known as Road?”

Ashan arches an eyebrow in surprise.  “The guy who runs around in purple armor fighting subway dragons and saving goth kids from vampire cults?”

“Among other things, yes.”

“From what I have heard they are a noble fool who just happens to be skilled and lucky enough to back up their reckless actions.  But a fool whose heart is in the right place.  Supposedly they used to be a big deal before disappearing several years ago.”  Ashan stops himself and gets back to the still unanswered question.  “Why?”

Bridgewood chuckles.  “Because,” he drags out the word, “said noble fool just so happens to be an old friend of mine and recently got back to town.  They’re looking to put a team together and could use a proper spellslinger.”  He smiles just a little too widely and reaches up a hand.  “So, interested?”

Ashan feels a shiver go down his back that is only partially related to the cold.

“Help me clean up in here and get this villain to the authorities in Crossherd and I shall consider it.”

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[kurt-wagner-official]

Post #118: UXM issues 235-238

God I forgot how good the Outback era is. Broodfall was great and this issue starts A Green and Pleasant Land, another standout arc, which heads right into Inferno. It's the most creative and interesting the book has been since From the Ashes. This arc is maybe the most politically overt story Claremont does, with a blatant allegory for South African apartheid, which was a huge global focus at the time. The opening line of narration reads "This is the present. This is the world," which is a really bold stance to take in Marvel's biggest book at the time. It's not something Marvel would have published a few years before when Jim Shooter was still in charge, and it's not something you'd see now with Disney as the parent company. We open with a man sneaking through what looks like a military installation to hide his toddler son on a plane about to take off. Some soldiers take notice, so he runs off to draw them from the baby, and we learn that he's a mutant. They call him a genejoke, I think the first time that slur has been used. The soldiers, Magistrates of Genosha, pump him full of bullets, and in his last moments, he smiles because his son can live free. Cue a brutal jump cut to the next morning, where some Genoshans, are given the assignment to go collect the baby from an Australian hospital. First, though, they're ambushing another runaway, an adult mutant named Jenny who is living in Australia as a traveling emergency doctor. When her plane lands, the Genoshans try to arrest her, but luckily Maddie has picked up some shifts as a service pilot and was flying with Jenny. She sends a distress signal before being arrested herself by the Genoshans, who are not in Magistrate uniforms, call themselves the Press Gang, and have powers themselves. They tell Jenny that she fled from her duty and zap her with a scifi ray that digitizes her and sends her as a phone signal back to Genosha, before doing the same to Maddie. The X-Men arrive soon after and track the kidnappers scent to the hospital, where they're kidnapping the baby. They get into a fight, but one of them uses the fancy zapper thing to summon a bunch of Magistrates. They take out Logan and Anna and zap them away with the baby while the rest of the team engages in battle. Alex, who could barely bring himself to kill Brood last arc, is shooting to kill against mysterious enemies who hurt Maddie, which is a telling detail both about that relationship and the character. In a weird little detail, the final panel of the issue is some Aussie cops arresting the Magistrates that got knocked out by Logan and Anna. They tell them that they sure hope whoever beat them up to save the baby is doing well in the fight, which is a weirdly supportive and hopeful note to end part 1 on. Maybe it's to contrast with how evil and oppressive Genosha is in the next few issues.

This issue opens with Anna and Logan battling their way through Genoshan Magistrates until a man named Wipeout uses his powers to turn off theirs. We're then introduced to the Genegineer, a mad scientist who does experiments on mutants, whose name is Dr. David Moreau, and his son Phillip. David gets called into work by some Magistrates who pick him up in like a little rocket helicopter thing, and Phillip has a slave zap the lawn with superpowers to fix it. He arrives to study Logan and Anna, who thanks to Roma's spell are invisible to all the fancy scanning devices. He's shown the prisoners in their cells, Logan sedated and Anna curled up in a ball. He asks what's wring with her, and the head Magistrate mentions that some of the guards sexually assaulted her. He's so casually cruel and dismissive about it. If possible, it's made even worse by the fact that Anna has never in her life had a sexual experience. Her first kiss activated her powers, and since then no physical contact. She loves making jokes about it, flirting with everyone and wearing sexy outfits, but with the understanding that she'd never actually have it. And now, for the first time, she may be able to touch someone with her own hands, and that choice is immediately taken away from her. It just makes my skin crawl in a way that this book never has. Jean was violated in the Dark Phoenix Saga by Mastermind, but even then it was telepathic, which gives it at least a little distance from real life. Sexual abuse was also heavily implied in the Magik miniseries, but not as directly in your face. But this is something explicit that's happened to people I know and love, treated as lightly as real life monsters treat it. Back in Australia, the other X-Men telepathically interrogate the Magistrates in the prison, and after Betsy does a little psychic torture they're off to rescue their friends. The Press Gang, Hawkshaw Pipeline and Punchout, arrive soon after to free the Magistrates. Side note- the fact that Genoshans give their mutant slaves superhero style codenames is so insidious, especially through the lens of modern X-books, where those names are a sacred part of mutant culture. Even that gets twisted and mocked. Before we get back to the action, we cut to X-HQ, where the demon N'astirh shows up on the screen. Is this his first appearance? I can't remember. That's such a Claremont demon name. I like N'astirh. He's really polite and has a pretty humany speech pattern, which is a fun contrast against S'ym who's more the classic Christian demon. In Genosha, Phillip sees Magistrates arresting the human family of Jenny, which freaks him out. A Magistrate is rude to him until he recognizes him as the Genegineer's son and tries to apologize, saying he was only following orders. Every time that phrase pops up in X-Men, it's a very intentional Holocaust reference. Claremont, a Jewish man, equating the Magistrates to Nazis feels like a show of solidarity to those suffering under apartheid. Anna, meanwhile, has withdrawn so far into her own mind that she sees the psychic residues of all the people she's ever absorbed. It's a neat concept with a ton of potential for character exploration, which is why later writers keep coming back to this mindscape with her. Most of the residues want to attack her, except for Carol Danvers, who's as real as Anna herself. Since Anna is breaking down, Carol offers to take over the body and get them out of there. There's something very interesting about the fact that Anna, who's just had her autonomy take away by force, is now giving it to Carol, who despises her. This confident, brave hero has been so traumatized that she's afraid to face what may be her last days on Earth. And while it is scary to think there's another person inside of you who could take over, there's also a bit of wish fulfillment here, the idea that when you can't go on anymore this other part of yourself can take over and protect you. And she does; Anna!Carol (probably gonna just call her Carol) beats up two guards who Anna absorbed earlier who want revenge.

One of the guards is a woman, which I think is telling about how other marginalized communities will ally with the majority group if it can protect them. Carol then rescues Logan, who without his powers looks like a shitty old man. They look for Maddie and Jenny, but they've already been taken away. It's here that we finally learn the full, sickening truth of Genosha. Every mutant child is take away at age 13 and altered by the Genegineer. He rewrites their brains to make them obedient slaves and then alters their genetics to change their powers to whatever is the most useful for their slavers. This is called the mutate-process, turning people from free mutants to slave mutates. Suddenly the Press Gang and Wipeout go from complicit villains to heartbreaking victims. Jenny ran away from this, but now that she's been caught she's due for the slaving process. Phillip is upset because he was in love with her as a child, but his father tells him it's her duty to serve. In the room where they do this process, Maddie is also strapped down until N'astirh pops up on the screen and asks if she has a minute to talk. She says she can't so he's just like "okie dokie" and then blows up the power to the building as a favor to her. The lights going out gives Logan and Carol the chance they need to escape and begin planning their revenge.

/I don't know why but the cover of issue 237 has always been stuck in my brain. It's just Logan and Anna!Carol holding on to the top of a train. I have always thought action scenes on the top of moving trains are the coolest, maybe that's why. Anyway, we open with the Magistrates chasing a stolen aircraft which they assume holds Carol and Logan trying to escape, but it's actually empty and rigged to blow when someone opens the door. Right off the bat, this issue has two superheroes using bombs to fight back against an oppressive regime, which is a powerful statement. They're actually still in the city, trying to stay ahead of the Magistrates till the X-Men arrive. They've worked together before, and Logan is glad to see Carol again, even at the cost of Anna, who he does also consider a friend. You have to wonder how she feels about it though. All though the city, there's propaganda posters and videos advertising Genosha as a utopia for all, regardless of gender, race, or anything else. It's a pretty scathing commentary on minorities looking the other way when they aren't the one being oppressed, which is another Holocaust parallel. It's a refreshing and important theme in a book which often, especially in older stuff, strays uncomfortably close to model minority politics. They run into Phillip starting a bar fight with some Magistrates and getting arrested. It's the first human on human violence they've seen, and they hear the Magistrates mention the "mutie train," so they tail them. In the Genegineer's office, he's talking to Jenny before she goes through the brainwashing, telling her she's making an important sacrifice for the good of Genosha. She begs for freedom, so he guilts her for abandoning her duty. Finally defeated, she asks if she'll still be a nurse as a slave. He can't even give her that small, selfless comfort, planning to assign her to manual labor and use her to breed future healers. In the bonding room, they're about to start the process on Maddie when she lets out a scream that sends waves of energy. The rest of the X-Men, meanwhile, have finally arrived, and immediately start beating up Magistrates. The Magistrates are, to the X-Men, about on the same level as the Brood, to the point that Peter of all people suggests they execute them after they knock them out, but Ororo tells Betsy to wipe their minds instead. But when she opens her own mind, she's hit with a wave of psychic force that knocks her for a loop, and then we cut to Maddie's room, where the scientists have been sent flying and impaled on machinery. Back on the train, Logan and Carol are discovered, but have stolen Magistrate uniforms and IDs, so the other Magistrates send them on their way with Phillip to return him. As they drive off, Logan swears to Carol that he's going to bring this country down.

The final part opens with a telepathic transcript from the psychic studying Maddie. In her minds eye, she's a young girl picking flowers in a field and singing "Going to America" by Steeleye Span. The Magistrates call attention to that, which means Claremont wanted to. It's a song about losing your husband because he was arrested and taken away. That's an interesting insight; does she view Scott as having been forcibly taken by Jean? Or Jean as a punishment for Scott? Anyway, in the interrogation, Maddie perceived the telepath as the Genegineer, which is freaking the Genegineer out now that he's watching this. Just to freak them all out, she turn the field into Genosha and blows it up with a firebomb, and the only thing left is the Genegineer/telepath, now dressed like Mr. SInister. Maddie shows up in like. A loincloth and the highest crop top you've ever seen. It's her Goblin Queen outfit premier, and it's ridiculous slutty comic book villain, but it's also very interesting in that it looks like Jean's Hellfire outfit but instead of fancy and expensive looking it's all tattered and ragged. And instead of the Hellfire Club she's gonna throw actual hellfire at people. That part's probably a coincidence cause Claremont likes hell though. She tells the telepath he needs to be careful striking matches, and then kills everyone in the room, which is where we last saw her. We now jump to Logan, Carol, and Phillip, who they've brought into their schemes cause he wants to save Jenny. He's shocked when he sees the prison camps that the mutants live in, having turned a blind eye to the details of the slavery. The trio are caught and brought before the Genegineer. Phillip yells at his father that this is wrong and the humans deserve to know the truth of how the mutants are treated, but he says that it's no secret and people just don't care enough to look. But since Phillip won't shut up about it now, he's an enemy of the state. Logan drops a backstory hint that he's been a slave before and won't do it again, and starts fighting back while in another part of the building, the X-Men attack. Phillip runs off looking for Jenny and teams up with Alex, who's looking for Maddie. Maddie has gone to the nursery, where she finds the kidnapped baby, who she learns was the only natural mutant birth in the country in a long time. Usually they're grown in a lab from mutant DNA, and Maddie feels a strange connection to the body growing tubes. The Genegineer shows up and tries to kill her, but Alex and Phillip stop him and demand to be taken to Jenny. It's too late, though, as she's been turned into a mutate. The X-Men discuss just toppling the entire nation, but Phillip asks for a chance to rebuild the government, starting by getting the word out locally and overseas about how mutants are treated here. The X-Men agree, but tell him that if he fails, they'll be back to take down the country. Alex blows up the entire Genoshan citadel as a threat to everyone remaining on the island, and Maddie kisses him before the X-Men walk through a portal back to their homebase.

There's not a whole lot left to say, because while this is an incredibly powerful story, it's not a very subtle one, and everything is kinda right there on the page. It's maybe Claremont's most chilling story. One of the shortcomings of the mutant metaphor is how few mutants there are, which is why introducing a whole nation of large scale oppression is so effective at getting those themes across. The random mutants in the background as slaves, the father who got shot in the opening pages, and poor Jenny, who only wanted to help people, make the suffering feel very real. I said this before, but it was really important for this book to do commentary on South Africa. Most of Claremont mutant metaphor stuff has been allegories for gay and/or Jewish people, but it's really important for the metaphor to be available to every marginalized group. It never works one-to-one, and it doesn't map onto racial politics quite as well as it does queer politics, but it's there and it's important. This was a great story for Maddie, who's hardcore embracing her new demon friends, and Anna, who hasn't gotten much focus for a while and got some really interesting stuff with Carol in her brain. One of the problems with this arc is that it takes so long before the X-Men actually go back to Genosha. In universe, it's not really that long, the book is just about to get really really busy, and they also have to wait till the big three mutant books are all available for the crossover, X-Tinction Agenda. It just makes the X-Men come across kinda negligent, which is unfortunate. Nowadays they would immediately release a followup miniseries about how Genosha changes, but that's just not an option when you have a handful of X-books and a crazy number of plots going on. That doesn't take away from this story in a vacuum, though, which is really good.

[ducknotinarow]

[2k3]

The sun had set, the ocean calm, and the scent of sea salt thick. There weren't any humans around, which is exactly what Donatello and Raphael needed as they sat at the docks, merely watching the few boats disappear into the horizon. Don was sat down on the wooden panelling, feet dangling over he quietly stared at nothing. He breaks the silence, eventually,

"I see why you like it here Raph, it's very calming."

It's more an observation on Donatello's part, voice near drowned by the sea. He doesn't look their way, for another moment, Don soon smiling gently to himself as he finally, fully, acknowledges Raph. A softness to their unseen eyes, he looks up to them,

"Hey Raph?" He starts up, waiting a moment before he speaks his thought, "Thank you...for always taking care of me."

| Muse Interaction [part 1]

It was a sound Raph loved maybe the most out of the many he could list. The soft wading sound of ocean wave pushing in and pulling back out. Washing up against the wooden structure of the docks the sound of boats tethered down, creaking a bit as the waded in the water. The smell of the salt air filled his nose as he was just sat on the end of the section of the docks pier long left to be unused. It was Raphael's hidden gem one could say, with how often he would come right here. It was Raphael's favorite spot in the whole wide city no matter what was going on. A fright with Leo? Mikey getting under his shell? the docks was he place to run and hide. Anger so over flared that fighting anyone might be too dangerous to risk? He came to the docks till he was clam once more. Sometimes even just just to sit here when he had the spare moment to be alone this is where Raphael always found himself. Something about watching the boats on the ocean waves rocked back and forth as they ventured out towards the horizon.

Though he wasn't alone tonight. Don was right beside him, Raphael made sure to sneak a look towards his twin brother sitting the same as he was feet dangling over the edge, and eyes looking out towards the open ocean before them. Raphael still had no clue what happened back at the lair. One second he was resting in his hammock taking advantage of the fact the place was near empty only other one around was Don, but everyone sort of assumed he was going to be tied up in his lab. So, they didn't bother with letting him know where anyone was going to be. Even Raph still tried from a night out figured he could take the chance for a good needed nap. only to wake and find Donnie well having a freak out. Woken by Donnie clearly shouting out in distress, left as nothing more then a pile on the floor. Shaking like a leaf as if he had just seen a ghost or maybe worse. That whole twin thing was more than Raph and Donnie being the middle children. They seemed to share a bond between them and in that moment? Raphael could feel like Donnie was lost.

As if Donnie couldn't make heads or tails on where he was. A deep seated fear and panic. Like Donnie was in such a state of panic his body near acting like he was dying. Raph had no idea what to do in that moment. He never seen Donnie like that before. Don often always was so clam and collected well he made it out like that. Raph could sometimes have a hint at more going on. But, even he wasn't some Donatello whisper. Once Don was at least able to get up on his own feet. Raph suggested they get out for air. Not sure where to take them he brought them here. To his favorite place.

"I see why you like it here Raph, it's very calming."

Donnie finally broke the silence between them and Raph let out the breath he hadn't realized he been holding in this whole time till that very moment. So this was a good idea then? Raph smiled from the relief. the image of Donnie was so fresh in his mind, they had clearly been scared but it wasn't the kind of scared Raph knew. Fear of some enemy coming to attack him that Raph could keep away from them. Sure he could ask but well Don and Raph had a thing in common fuck all four them were pretty bad about it. They all kept things to themselves. But Don? Don was maybe the worse the opposite end from the resident hot head. even now Donnie hadn't said a word about had happened back there.

Raph had no idea what to do back there in the lair. As Donnie didn't even seem to noticed that Raph was there. The whole time even able to hear them call for him. Don was okay he was safe and sat beside him. So, why did it feel like Raph had failed at protecting his brother? Twins or not Don was still younger so it was Raph's job to look after him just as much as it was to look out for Mikey too. He didn't bring just anyone here to the docks but he figured maybe the salt in air would help, or the cold that blew in off the waves. Anything that would hit his brothers senses so they could maybe take notice where they were now?

"It's my favorite place ya know?" Raph answers back now himself unsure what else to do or say in the moment. They don't do this whole talk about feeling things. So how can he even do that for his own twin? that thought gutted him, a fast sharp jab breaking past his shell. "Dad brough' me here once when I was out scavenin' wit' him" It was always easier to only take one of the four turtles with him back them when he had to make trips to the surface. Even easier all alone but that was hard to make happen getting them to agree to taking turns had been a miracle in of it's self after all. "I think we we're hidin' actually but ya know Splinter he didn' want me to be scared or somethin' told me we were jus' takin' a break. His bones were tried or somethin' 'ike that ya know?" Raph recalled. And well yeah Raph was a bit scared not like he admit to that. A child can sense a shift in their parent. To Raphael Splinter was the toughest person to exist he was the greatest fighter and would protect his sons from anything. If Raph was scared he ran to dad for those reasons. He recalled clinging to his dad when they ushered Raph to their hiding place. Turning his head a little he aimed a finger out to point to a spot not too far away. Just below the peir where the sand sat undisturbed outside begin a little damp from the moisture in the air.

"Right about there we sat for i dunno felt 'ike hours but it passed by fine. We sat and looked out to the boats. Splinter told me they were likely cargo ships takin' stuff out far across the ocean to all kinds of places. I asked him what other places." Raph was just a kid he only knew what he had seen after all like the sewer tunnels and bits of New York. "He told me 'bout Japan, England and heck a lot of places that were just past the ocean. Told me how different many of them were even from where we 'ived." It made Raph long to explore and see more. Why was Raph telling Donnie this? he guessed the same reason Splinter did all those years ago for him. Raphael wanted to take Don's mind off of what ever had scared him.

"Aye still come out here and sit 'ike this wonderin' where the ships are headin' out to next. How far out will they travel. Sometimes I keep track of how long one been gone till it comes back." Why though? because sometimes Raphael imagines himself hopping on to a boat one day. On those days things are just too much for him, when that fog in his mind grew too thick. When his mind was heavy and his mood was so fowl. Raph thought about it so much it nearly sounded like a plan he just needed the right push to take action on. "I'll spend hours out here even. It's pretty quite and I can stay out pretty open. It's an escape I guess."

"Hey Raph?"

"yeah?" Raph answered with meeting his brother's gaze, their expression was soft. Clam once again a look Raph knew a bit better to handle. He felt the ease in his twin and it brought clam to himself in turn. That's a good sign then, so Raph did do good then? in the least he did right by Don?

"Thank you...for always taking care of me."

This was why he never followed through. Much like these boats, Raph had things that tethered him down to keep him from drifting out into the ocean. If he lost even just one of them? he be left to the ocean's mercy. Raph dished out a punch to his brother's arm, affection from Raph was a tad different flavor than most.

"I got ya back brainaic." Raph chuckled out after before setting his hands back behind himself as he leaned back slightly to enjoy how the moon and stars reflected on to the water. "side's that's my job Don lookin' out for ya. No matter what I do that's why I do it. So ya don' gotta thank me for somethin' i'll always do al'ight?" He just wished they tell him what freaked them out maybe he could do more for them. Well he was fine now that's all that mattered to Raph, as he closed his eyes a moment and recalled sitting in Splinter's lap for hours well they told him stories. "Ya know i've swipe stuff from a few of these ships for ya a few times." he says chuckling like the troublesome gremlin he could be. Eyes opening as he turned a bit to look at them to tell them one of those few times. He wasn't sure how long they would sit here but they would for however long Don needed.

[maatryoshkaa]

between the lines | lee minho

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐃𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐋 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒!𝐀𝐔

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

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

✑ PAIRING: student librarian!minho x bookworm!reader

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

✑ WORD COUNT: 9.7k

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

Ah, Valentine’s Day.

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

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

“Hey, watch ou—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, sure. Just my rotten luck.”

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

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

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

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

Talk about a reality check.

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

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

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

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

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

“You said he’d be in here!”

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

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

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

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May…’

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

“The library’s closing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hana’s not my girlfriend.”

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

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

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

“Oh, y/n! One more thing.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Looking for someone?”

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

“I—sorry?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I help you with anything?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s one of my favourite lines.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Give me my book back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N—”

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

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

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

“Would you be happy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a very good poem.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wh-wha—”

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

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

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

“Then why didn’t you—”

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

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

“'Again?'”

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

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

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

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

“A corner store card. With—”

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

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

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

“Shut up, Lee Minho, oh my g—”

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

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

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

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

“Wh—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit, ‘sung—did you kill somebody?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can it be a happy ending?”

[blorbologist]

41 AGAIN and a tad archaeological again but. Near Stonehenge is Silbury Hill, a historical mound originall probably chalk-faced. Some awful victorian thought it was a barrow full of treasure and dug a tunnel into it's centre and found... nothung. But this damaged it and a few years ago they did a rescue dig to fix it and get soil samples. From this they discovered that it was a series of mounds, built bigger on each other ... and there were ants trapped between two layers.

Ants have pretty specific life cycles, especially male ants which these were - these were winged young males, which meant they knew the specific season the second mound layer began construction - iirc spring.

Anyway if I may ask pretty please for perc'ahlia?

There are ants in the castle and Percival is just about to start shooting holes in the walls to get them out. 

Well. That would be counterproductive - the reason the ants are a problem at all is because they’re eating the wood. And the walls are stone, anyways, so he would just make a mess of things and ruin everyone’s day - insects and his own.

Carpenter ants. Fat, black and with massive mandibles for their size, the faintest of hairs on their shiny abdomens. He knows, having caught a few and peered at them through a few lenses of his glasses. Must have made him look so very alien.

As the name implies, they burrow through wood. Which means finding one, two in the kitchens, making off with crumbs, was a bad sign. And finding neat lines of them down corridors, vanishing here and there, was worse. 

These little - little invaders are running amok in his castle and he will not stand for it.

“They’re just ants, dear,” Vex had teased, late one evening. 

Percy couldn’t begrudge her the joking - she returned from her hunt to find him crouched and scowling at a little hole he had found, certain he had seen the distinct sawdust they discarded. Just investigating if this was an active tunnel - which meant folding himself under furniture on the ground, a candle near to hand to light the issue.

“Carpenter ants.” His teeth are grit not at her - gods no - but at the odd angle as he peers under the dresser. Raises his voice to carry out of this ordeal of his own making: “They’ll eat through the wood, dear.”

“Castle Whitestone is… stone, right?” He can hear her head cocking. 

Can’t sigh or it might disturb them. Come on out, now, just so he can know. 

“The walls, yes - but much of the floor and some walls have wood paneling. Not to mention the furniture, and simply how unsanitary it is to have them in the kitchen.”

The shift of clothing as Vex rids herself of her armor, comes to settle near him. “We could toss out anything afflicted, darling - it’s the best way to deal with an infestation. Surely local carpenters would appreciate the commission of new pieces.”

Now he really grits his teeth. “I can’t throw it all out,” Percy confesses. Quietly, to not disturb the ants. Quietly, to not disturb the memories. “It’s - they’re old, Vex. Older than I. These pieces survived them, too. Survived our antics, and father’s terrible choice in decor.”

“Oh.” 

There’s a tug on the back of his shirt. “Darling? Come on out of there - I can’t drag you.”

Percy obliges. It takes some wiggling, and perhaps a little writhing - the ants have it so easy - to back out of the space he’s crammed himself into. Find himself crammed into Vex’ahlia’s arms instead - kneeling next to him, pulling him into a hug. 

“I’ll fight for them,” she murmurs into his hair. She smells like living wood and living mosses and living waters. “I’m sure we can figure out something to get rid of these pests without damaging the furniture.”

“Thank you.”

Vex hums - he can feel her smile as he relaxes into her hold. “As Grand Mistress of the Grey Hunt,” she says, “it’s my job to protect Whitestone from dangerous animals and the like. Ants count, if they’re threatening family antiques.”

(Send me a prompt and I’ll write a ficlet, a HC or an AU idea + share the science fact that inspired the prompt!)

[majestyeverlasting]

Could you do prompts 43 and 47 with fatws!bucky x reader? Thank you 😊

♡ Sure! Thank you for sending this request in, I appreciate your patience! These are quite the compatible prompts, and I tried my best to approach them in the most unique way I could manage. To give a summary as to what happens: Bucky and the reader attend a banquet in Washington D.C., but it isn't until afterwards that things take a peculiar turn as the result of a forgotten tube of lipstick. There's lots of cute moments and a little bit of a scare (but that's nothing a nice soak won't be able to ease away). Enjoy!

♡ Prompt 43: "Let me help you."

♡ Prompt 47: "Please let me take care of you, you’re bleeding.”

Remember the Good Parts

All around, there was dancing, talking, and laughter. Formality had been abandoned so that inhibitions could be released. The banquet hall of the hotel seemed elegant enough to have been fit for kings and queens. The paneling of the walls were trimmed with gold and each of the round tables were dressed in white cloth, floral centerpieces sitting in the middle. Hanging above it all were the most beautiful chandeliers. The crystals adorning them sparkled as if they were stars stolen from the night sky.

The invitation had been addressed to both you, and Bucky. Upon opening it, you learned that The Smithsonian Institute wanted to express their gratitude to the donors and sponsors who had shown continued support over the years. Especially in light of the new exhibits coming to the National Air and Space Museum. The evening itself was intended to be a time of meaningful dialogue and celebration.

The two of you didn’t hesitate to RSVP. Not only would it make for a well-deserved weekend trip, but was an opportunity to venture back to D.C. after being away from quite some time.

What came as a pleasant surprise that night was the moment in which you managed to coax Bucky up to dance. Not one word of protest escaped him as you led the way to where others had congregated and were moving to the rhythm of the music. A more relaxed song had started flowing throughout the room as the festivities were drawing closer to an end. You wrapped your arms around his neck and smiled when he placed his hands on your waist, squeezing gently.

“This has been nice,” he said.

You nodded. “It has.”

Part of you still hadn’t gotten over the way he’d cleaned up for the occasion. The dark strands of his hair were getting longer, and he’d gelled them back lightly. And the all black suit he wore made his blue eyes appear even bolder. After the two of you had been swaying for a while, you spoke again, “You know what I think?”

Bucky’s eyes flickered to your lips. You wore a rich, burgundy lipstick that complemented your dress and complexion. “What?” He encouraged.

“We ought to take a nice, warm bath when we get back up to our suite,” you thought aloud. “The tub is worlds bigger than the one we have at home.” Your fingers had begun to gently scratch at the nape of his neck.

He hummed. “That already sounds like a dream.” Then he leaned in to kiss you. It was short and as tender as the music in the air.

The event eventually did wind to its end. A Smithsonian spokesperson went to the main podium and made closing remarks about the importance of living in a way worthy of being remembered. It earned her a hearty round of applause and a few high-pitched whistles. Minutes later, attendees were filing out of the hall in a steady flow, some turning around to capture a final picture of the grandeur space. You and Bucky left right along with them, arms locked.

Nobody else was in the hallway when the two of you exited the elevator onto your floor. It was a long, empty stretch lined with warm lights. Taking advantage of that, you paced a few steps ahead of him and did a twirl as you walked—in a sleek pair of block heels, no less. The bottom of your dress caught the air in a graceful flow. When you looked back at him over your shoulder, he was shaking his head but his eyes were filled with adoration.

The first thing you did upon entering the suiet was go sit on the bed to take your shoes off. But Bucky spoke up, “Let me help you, pretty girl.” So one at a time, you raised your legs for him and watched the careful way he unbuckled your heels.

You smiled when he finished. “Thanks.”

“Mhm.”

That’s when you noticed the faint hint of pigment that your lipstick had left behind on him. “Hey, lean in for a second, Buck.” He obliged without question. You were still sitting on the edge of the bed. “There’s some…” You ran your thumb over his lower lip a few times.

“Lipstick?” He finished.

“Yeah—I got most of it off,” you said.

“It's a nice shade on you, by the way,” he said. "Very classy."

“Isn't it? I bought it a few days ago.” You dug into your purse in search of the tube, but it was gone. “Uh-oh.”

Bucky had begun to take off his suit jacket. “What?”

“I think I set it on the table just before we left the banquet... When I was looking for the card to our room.” A huff of air passed through your lips. “It’s probably been thrown away by now.”

He was quiet for a beat. “Not necessarily,” he said as he walked to hang up the jacket. “I can run back down and see.”

“Do you mind?”

“It’s no trouble,” he assured. “I’ll be right back. And then we can get to that bath you proposed earlier.” The wink he shot you on the way out made you bite back a smile.

I'll be right back, you replayed his words. But it came to the point when he'd been gone longer than what seemed necessary. That prompted you to peek your head out the door. All you were met with was the same long hallway, but with three strangers strolling down it. More time passed, and you found yourself on the bed again, preparing to call him.

A gentle knock on the door broke the stillness.

Bucky stood on the other side, a slender cut running across his left cheek a short ways beneath his eye. It wasn’t too bad, but blood had been drawn nonetheless. Before you could make an exclamation capable of disturbing the other guests, he slipped past you to get into the suite. It wasn’t until the door was closed that you attempted to vocalize the mix of concern and confusion swirling within your mind.

“Bucky!” Your eyes followed him.

“M'fine, doll,” he insisted.

“What in the world happened?” His slight frustration was evident in the way he resumed undressing as if nothing had occurred. “Hold on, baby, wait. Seriously.”

Bucky froze and looked directly into your eyes. You decided to use an even softer tone. “Just… Please let me take care of you, you’re bleeding.” You hoped your gaze was conveying your sincerity. On your way to move closer to him, you grabbed a couple tissues and folded them. A soft exhale left him when you pressed them to the cut, gently applying pressure to stop the bleeding. Neither of you spoke for a while.

Finally, he said, “Two guys brought an outside scuffle into the lobby. Nobody else was stepping in to break it up so I did.”

You lowered the tissues from his face. Due to the accelerated healing rate of his body and the size of the wound, the bleeding had already begun to subside. “And you got cut in the process?”

He nodded. “One of them had something sharp. Didn't really catch what it was,” he recounted. “And I didn’t wanna hurt them, so I couldn’t just flat-out tear them apart from each other.” His voice was low as he continued to speak. “But I was able to get 'em to stop. Some security guards showed up after the fact.”

You shook your head, briefly stepping away to dispose of the tissues. “I wonder why they were fighting in the first place.”

Bucky moved to sit on the bed, shrugging. “I don’t know, but it turns out they know each other pretty well. Apparently they’d just come back from a bar.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t get paid enough for this.”

With a small smile on your face, you went to go stand between his legs, looking down at his handsome features. The red cut stood out. "I'm glad it wasn't worse. Are you gonna need Band-Aid or something?"

He chuckled. "I'll live—check this out, though." he dug into his pants pocket and pulled out your lipstick. "Mission accomplished."

"My hero," you teased as you took it from him. There was a comfortable silence for a few beats. "What a night, huh?"

Bucky ran his hands over your hips. "I say we seal it with a good soak and only remember the good parts."

A laugh bubbled up out of you. "Deal," you agreed, starting to undo the buttons of his shirt.

-

Thanks for reading! Masterlist