#there is not a single line from the characters

[suad-khaled]

Currently at $43,090—just $410 away from the $43.5k goal!

Every single day is a battle I can’t win alone. My baby, Khaled, is only 6 months old, and he needs formula, diapers, and warmth to survive. Food suitable for him doesn’t even exist in the market.

💔 Share our campaign. Write a post. Amplify our plea. Your voice could be the one that saves his life.

Follow me for updates and help us reach the finish line. To you, it’s small. To us, it’s everything. 🙏

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Before the New Year Begins… Give Khaled a Chance at Life

As the world counts down to new beginnings, I’m counting the hours, desperately fighting to keep my baby, Khaled, alive.

Khaled is only 6 months old, a tiny soul who knows nothing of w@r. He doesn’t understand why he cries from hunger or why it’s so hard for him to breathe. But I do. And it breaks me that I can’t give him the simplest of rights: food, medicine, and safety.

Every child deserves a chance to smile, to breathe, and to live without fear. Khaled deserves that chance

💔 Before the new year begins, will you help Khaled start his life with hope? Here's how you can make an impact:

Share Khaled’s story. One post could connect us to someone who can save him.

Donate today. Even the cost of your coffee can mean another day of life for Khaled.

Write a personal post. Your words can amplify his cry for help.

💡 Give Khaled the gift of life: click here to help.

Let’s come together to give my innocent baby a chance. Let’s end this year with an act of kindness that could change everything. Don’t let Khaled’s cry go unheard.

Please, I need you now more than ever. Khaled needs you. Let’s make sure this story doesn’t end here. Let’s write a story of hope together, Help me save him before it’s too late. 🤲

Please, don’t let us fade away in silence.

I’ve been verified by Nabulsi, El-Shab Hussien, and NorthGazaUpdate, 90-ghost, and I’m listed on the vetted list on 279 line.

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@gh4ul @sundung @fandom-master-mind @aconstantallegory @proffittproductions

[sailorrhansol]

Santa Baby | JWW (m)

Pairing: Wonwoo x reader

Summary: Your boyfriend is stuck working on Christmas Eve in hell on earth. You decide to pay him a little visit to cheer him up - and give yourself a good laugh. 

Word Count: 1,400

Genre: Established Relationship 

Type:  Fluff, Humor

Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

Warnings: Cranky reader, children slander because the author (me) is a childless wench, some light suggestive talk at the end, explicit language, a single chaste kiss. 

A/N: Merry Crimbus Malison Jederson. You wanted mall Santa and by god, I fucking wrote mall santa lmfaooooo please enjoy this borderline self-insert of what it’s like to experience the mall right before Christmas in that weird holiday-liminal space. 

A/N 2: For @kkaetnipjeon's Haliday request

Disclaimer: Disclaimer: All members of Seventeen are faces and name claims for stories. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios. Moreover, none of my works accurately reflect, represent or take a stance on the nuances of Korean culture, cities, people etc. Seventeen members are not Seventeen culturally, intellectually, physically, or representationally in my stories, and should be considered name and face stand-ins for made up characters.

Main Masterlist ❀ Tag List Request Form ❀ Ask ❀ Haliday’s Request Event

Christmas Eve at the mall should be illegal. It’s most certainly a hazard to your health as yet another family bumps into you with their handful of demons - children - nearly knocking you into the swing sign at Victoria Secret telling you to buy something so someone could unwrap you. 

You would love for someone to be unwrapping you right now in the warmth of your home in the sheets that smell like laundry detergent and spicy cologne. The man who would do the unwrapping, however, is currently only available to the population of the world’s most hellish mall. 

Which is why you’re in said hellish mall in the first place. 

Christmas music blares over the speakers of the mall. The smell of grease and the distinct scent of cheese drifts from the food court. Your stomach rumbles, not for the burnt taste of Sbarro pizza but at the thought of going home and finally digging into a proper meal. 

That will have to wait, though. 

Smack in the center of the mall is a towering platform decorated like a winter wonderland. Occasionally, a snowblower from somewhere on the second floor shoots out foam, turning it into the North Pole proper. It earns a combination of screaming in delight and terror from the mostly-kid population waiting in line to walk up the metal catwalk to the top of the winter wonderland where Santa is waiting for them. 

Sighing, you get in line, by-stepping a little girl covered in sticky candy cane residue as she runs from her mother, tears streaming down her face while screaming she doesn’t want a picture with tanta. Well, you’re not sure who tanta is but you can’t blame her, looking at your watch to see it’s nearly eight o'clock at night. 

The line moves sluggishly slow. You shift back and forth on your feet, scrolling mindlessly through social media. The mother in front of you accidentally knocks your phone with her purse as she shifts one of her screaming children from one arm to the next.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologizes, bouncing the baby in an attempt to soothe him. You wince. You get it - she doesn’t have it easy. “And sorry for his screaming.”

“That’s okay, I think it’s a requirement for kids to scream during the holidays. It’s like an instinct.” 

She laughs. “Is this one yours?” 

You look to where she’s pointing. There’s a child standing next to you with snot running down his nose and a grinch t-shirt on with several questionable stains. He looks up at you with big brown eyes, blinking and asking, “Dada?” 

“No, definitely not.” You point to the father swiftly coming over to scoop the child, an apologetic look on his face. “That’s dada, buddy.” 

“Dada,” the kid agrees, turning to reach his arms up as he’s scooped up and taken away from the line. 

“Oh.” The woman in front of you frowns. “No kids? Just here to see Santa yourself?” 

“Yes. I want to ask him to destroy all the Cybertrucks.” 

“Oh.” End of conversation. 

One less friend and an infinite amount of line to go, you flip through your work emails, cringing to see how many people think it’s appropriate to send you emails on Christmas Eve. Don’t they know you have a line to stand in for forty five minutes? 

You think about asking Santa to send all your coworkers away like Kevin on Home Alone, but realize you’d still be expected to take on all their work. Maybe you should ask for the destruction of capitalism. That seems like a world-wide benefit. 

Finally, the line moves forward significantly. The metal catwalk twangs underneath your boots. You lean on the greasy rail, listening to the musical styling of Mariah Carey as she earns yet another number on her paycheck as foam snow blows overhead. 

In a weird way, it’s not terrible. You look around, drinking in the miserable families just trying to take a last second holiday photo, late shoppers scrambling to get the last of their presents before tomorrow morning, the kitschy decorations making up the mountain with Sana’s chair somewhere at the top. 

You grin, feeling a sense of nostalgia as the line moves forward again. It might be an annoying way to spend your evening, but there’s no denying there’s a bit of magic in the air, even for capitalism Christmas. And Sbarro pizza. 

Finally, you near the top landing. There are elf workers helping take photos and managing the line while Santa sits on a gold chair with velvet cushions. His robes are equally as red, nearly blending in with the seat save for the white beard and hair and the slightly askew glasses as the little kid in his lap knocks him in the head. 

Coughing to disguise your laughter, you watch as Santa delicately removes the child from his lap and gives a hoarse ho ho ho before sighing and readjusting to accept the next family. He doesn’t see you in line, entirely focused on lifting up the little tyke in front of him into his lap to ask what he wants for Christmas.

The teenage elf working the line looks you up and down, raising her brow as she chews her gum. “How many?” 

“Just me.”

“Oh. Ummm. Alright I guess. You get five minutes with Santa. Please don’t go over time. Your photos will be available at the kiosk downstairs. Take this ticket and they’ll print them.” 

You take the piece of paper from her. “How much are photos?” 

“Fifty bucks.”

“Jesus Christ, do I get to kiss him on the mouth too? Why is it so expensive?” 

She stares at you before turning over her shoulder to see the family leaving. “I don’t make the prices. Your turn - and don’t kiss Santa on the mouth.”

Shoving the ticket in your pocket, you mutter under your breath that you can actually kiss this specific Santa all you want. The Santa in question turns to greet you, halfway through his greeting when he sputters,” Ho-ho- holy shit what are you doing here?” 

“Wow, what terrible language, Santa Baby.” You grin, plopping yourself on his lap. Wonwoo nearly drops you as you do, but he recovers quickly, wrapping his arms around your waist and squeezing you tight. “You smell like cheese.” 

“It’s the food court,” he mutters. “It won’t leave me, I swear.” 

“Gross.” You adjust his glasses, heart fluttering. “You look cute.” 

He does, in a weird way. Not because the giant suit and the beard and the hair are flattering, but because you know it’s Wonwoo underneath it all. Wonwoo who somehow got roped into covering for Mingyu as a mall Santa for the evening, Wonwoo who is a little bit overwhelmed by kids but eager to make them laugh anyway, Wonwoo whose grip tightens on you a little, eyes sparkling at your arrival. 

“Do I?” 

“No, but I like you anyway.” 

“Alright, pose with Santa,” the photographer says. 

Both of you ignore him as Wonwoo laughs. “So,” he hums. “Have you been naughty or nice?” 

“Well, I drove an hour in traffic to come to this shitty mall and then fight for parking for another forty-five, got run into by a bunch of families, stood in line and got called dada or mama like four times, all to come see my boyfriend and make his night a little better.”

“Got it. Nice list.” 

You brush stray white hair from his beard. “Definitely nice list.” 

“Thanks for coming to see me.” He hugs you a little closer, softening. “It’s really sweet of you. I’m off in an hour.”

“Good. I’m hungry and I want to watch The Muppets Christmas Carol with my own personal Santa Baby.” 

“Is that what’s on your Christmas list?” 

“Yes. And for all the Cybertrucks to be destroyed.”

His laugh is jovial. You think Wonwoo’s laugh outranks Santa any day, full-bellied and cute. You feel your affection swell, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to his lips despite the teenage elf telling you not too. Too bad she doesn’t decide if you get to kiss your boyfriend or not. 

“Hey!” She yells behind you. “I told you not to kiss Santa!”

“I’ve gotta go,” you laugh. “I think I just made the naughty list.” 

“I’ll see you at home?”

“Mhmm.” You think of the Victoria Secret sale sign. “Come unwrap me.” 

-

TAG LIST

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[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Poetry

Poetry

A type of literature that conveys a thought, describes a scene or tells a story in a concentrated, lyrical arrangement of words.

Poems can be structured, with rhyming lines and meter, the rhythm and emphasis of a line based on syllabic beats.

Poems can also be freeform, which follows no formal structure.

The basic building block of a poem is a verse known as a stanza.

A stanza is a grouping of lines related to the same thought or topic, similar to a paragraph in prose.

A stanza can be subdivided based on the number of lines it contains.

For example, a couplet is a stanza with two lines.

On the page, poetry is visibly unique: a narrow column of words with recurring breaks between stanzas. Lines of a poem may be indented or lengthened with extra spacing between words. The white space that frames a poem is an aesthetic guide for how a poem is read.

Meter

A poem can contain many elements to give it structure.

Rhyme is perhaps the most common of these elements: countless poetic works, from limericks to epic poems to pop lyrics, contain rhymes.

But equally important is meter, which imposes specific length and emphasis on a given line of poetry.

Stanza

In poetry, a stanza is used to describe the main building block of a poem.

It is a unit of poetry composed of lines that relate to a similar thought or topic—like a paragraph in prose or a verse in a song.

Every stanza in a poem has its own concept and serves a unique purpose.

A stanza may be arranged according to rhyming patterns and meters—the syllabic beats of a line.

It can also be a free-flowing verse that has no formal structure.

Rhyme Scheme

There are many different types of rhymes that poets use in their work: internal rhymes, slant rhymes, eye rhymes, identical rhymes, and more.

One of the most common ways to write a rhyming poem is to use a rhyme scheme composed of shared vowel sounds or consonants.

Types of Poetic Forms

Some of literature’s most enduring types of poems.

Blank verse. Blank verse is poetry written with a precise meter—almost always iambic pentameter—that does not rhyme.

Rhymed poetry. In contrast to blank verse, rhymed poems rhyme by definition, although their scheme varies.

Free verse. Free verse poetry is poetry that lacks a consistent rhyme scheme, metrical pattern, or musical form.

Epics. An epic poem is a lengthy, narrative work of poetry; typically detail extraordinary feats and adventures of characters from a distant past.

Narrative poetry. Similar to an epic, a narrative poem tells a story. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere” and Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” exemplify this form.

Haiku. A 3-line poetic form originating in Japan. The first line has five syllables, the second line has seven syllables, and the third line again has five syllables.

Pastoral poetry. A pastoral poem is one that concerns the natural world, rural life, and landscapes. These poems have persevered from Ancient Greece (in the poetry of Hesiod) to Ancient Rome (Virgil) to the present day (Gary Snyder).

Sonnet. A sonnet is a 14 line poem, typically (but not exclusively) concerning the topic of love. Sonnets contain internal rhymes within their 14 lines; the exact rhyme scheme depends on the style of a sonnet.

Elegies. An elegy is a poem that reflects upon death or loss. Traditionally, it contains themes of mourning, loss, and reflection. However, it can also explore themes of redemption and consolation.

Ode. A tribute to its subject, although the subject need not be dead—or even sentient, as in John Keats’ “Ode on a Grecian Urn”.

Limerick. A 5-line poem that consists of a single stanza, an AABBA rhyme scheme, and whose subject is a short, pithy tale or description.

Lyric poetry. The broad category of poetry that concerns feelings and emotion. This distinguishes it from two other poetic categories: epic and dramatic.

Ballad. A form of narrative verse that can be either poetic or musical. It typically follows a pattern of rhymed quatrains. From John Keats to Samuel Taylor Coleridge to Bob Dylan, it represents a melodious form of storytelling.

Soliloquy. A soliloquy is a monologue in which a character speaks to him or herself, expressing inner thoughts that an audience might not otherwise know. Soliloquies are not definitionally poems, although they often can be—most famously in the plays of William Shakespeare.

Villanelle. A nineteen-line poem consisting of five tercets and a quatrain, with a highly specified internal rhyme scheme. Originally a variation on a pastoral, the villanelle has evolved to describe obsessions and other intense subject matters, as exemplified by Dylan Thomas, author of villanelles like “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.”

Imagery

In poetry and literature, imagery is the use of figurative language to evoke a sensory experience in the reader.

When a poet uses descriptive language well, they play to the reader’s senses, providing them with sights, tastes, smells, sounds, internal and external feelings, and even internal emotion.

Blank Verse & Free Verse Poetry

Free verse poetry has been popular from the 19th century onward and is not bound by rules regarding rhyme or meter.

Blank verse poetry came of age in the sixteenth century and has been famously employed by the likes of William Shakespeare, John Milton, William Wordsworth, and countless others.

Unlike free verse, it adheres to a strong metrical pattern.

Mimesis

Copying is something writers usually strive to avoid.

And yet, the literary theory of mimesis says that artists copy constantly, as a matter of necessity.

Does this make their art bad?

Centuries of thinkers from Plato and Aristotle onwards have attempted to answer this question by debating the nature of mimesis.

Onomatopoeia

Usually, how words sound bears no relationship to what they mean.

That’s not true in the case of onomatopoeia, where words sound like what they are. The English language is littered with these mimicking words, from meowing cats to babbling brooks.

In poetry and literature, the onomatopoeic effect is something writers can harness to create vivid imagery without verbosity.

Enjambment

Poetry is a structured literary form, with patterns and rhythms that dictate the flow of verses.

Lineation in poetry is how lines are divided and where they end in relation to a clause or thought. Having a line break at the end of a phrase or complete thought is a regular and expected pattern in poetry.

Poets subvert this expectation by using a technique called enjambment.

Dissonance

The human brain instinctively looks for harmony.

When it is denied harmony, it can create a powerful moment—whether that’s for the purposes of creating tension, capturing inner turmoil, or bringing a bit of levity.

Injects discomfort into text through inharmonious sounds and uneven rhythms.

Consonance

In poetry, rhyme isn’t the only way to introduce memorability and musicality.

Consonance presents poets with the possibility of playing around with the repetition of consonant sounds.

Assonance

Assonance, the repetition of vowel sounds, is distinct from consonance, which refers to the repetition of consonant sounds.

Along with rhyme and alliteration, it is a powerful poetic device that writers can use to make their words stand out.

Alliteration

Sometimes called initial rhyme or head rhyme, alliteration is one poetic device that’s unmissable in our everyday world.

Poets, advertisers and headline writers all regularly take this approach of repeating initial letter sounds to grab people’s attention.

In poetry, it also injects focus, harmony, and rhythm. 

Source ⚜ More: Notes ⚜ References for Poets ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[emiko-matsui]

What I love about Dimension 20: Time Quangle is that it's advertised as a canon non-canon series of live shows where they don't have a set campaign but play with all their settings and characters, but the world building within these shows established that it does in fact take place in Dimension 20: Fantasy High. Hear me out.

The first time the Dimension 20 audience is introduced to the concept of a time quangle isn't when the cast announces their Time Quangle Tour, but rather in the beginning of Fantasy High's third season. In Junior Year Arthur Aguefort is absent on a trip with his daughter through history and leaves the school in the hands of Arcturus Grix and Jace Stardiamond. It is established that Aguefort has concurrently gotten himself involved in a so-called time quangle on this journey which is the reason why some canonical events in Spyre's timeline has been displaced (with Junior Year and The Seven supposedly taking place at the same time but entailing contradicting events). In every stop of the canon non-canon Time Quangle Tour it is Arthur Aguefort (and at times his daughter Ayda Aguefort, whom we know he's travelling with) that is the guiding force that helps the characters unquangle their universes, which lines up perfectly with the established canon of Fantasy High.

At first Aguefort believes that he accidentally created the quangle by travelling through time, but in the last stop of the Time Quangle Tour we see that Aguefort has begun to doubt this, because if the quangle was simply an unmotivated force he would've been able to sort it out much quicker, but now he realises that the quangle is actively evading him. In this last stop we find out that the one who created the time quangle was Chungledown Bim after failing his quest on hunting down Fabian. The person at the centre of the time quangle, that Aguefort is fighting with throughout Junior Year's run, is Chungledown Bim. Now this does also line up with Fantasy High canon. In Fantasy High's second season Fabian encounters Chungledown Bim for the first time who swears vengeance upon him and vows that he will stop at nothing to hunt him down. We see Chungledown Bim follow through on this vow at the end of the second season when he chases Fabian into the forest of The Nightmare King and during other liveshows in Spyre (AKA boys night). Mysteriously enough however, in Junior Year Chungledown Bim doesn't make a single appearance, something that I, personally, found very strange on my first time watching it, since we know he is enacting his vow to hunt down Fabian. With the revelation in Dimension 20: Time Quangle that it is Chungledown Bim that Aguefort fights throughout the quangle and throughout Junior Year, and the revelation that the quangle was created in the first place to bring Fabian into a place where he could not physically escape from Chungledown Bim, the entire thing slots perfectly into Fantasy High canon and even solves the problem of Chungledown Bim's missing presence in the third season.

In every intro of the Time Quangle Tour Brennan introduced the following story as "canon non-canon", which meant that the following events were somehow canon despite none of the events actually being canon. As well, Brennan refers to all these stories as "divergent timelines and universes." This solves the final piece ever-so neatly in the fact that with the final piece of lore we know that the non-canon part is the characters and settings, which are from divergent timelines, and not the ones shown on Dimension 20's various seasons. However, the canon part is still there. This is still all happening in at least one canon. Fantasy High. A lot of non-canon events from non-canon timelines are happening, but the quangle is still, and always was, canon in Fantasy High. Before the tour even started. This is the time quangle. It aligns with the canon of Fantasy High and even explains the canon of Fantasy High. Chungledown Bim is dead. He died hunting down Fabian, and Fabian doesn't even know about it.

Now, I'm not gonna claim the Time Quangle Tour was all planned as a Fantasy High tie-in by Brennan, that would be ludicrous of me. But... planned or simply inadvertently, Dimension 20: Time Quangle is a new Fantasy High season.

[bluemerakis]

┌── ˚*❀*̥˚ ─── ˚*̥❀*˚ ──┐

✐ᝰ bluemerakis

┗━━• ❃ ° •° ❀ °• ° ❃ •━━┛

❝ I’m not going anywhere ❞

⤷ Part 2/3

⤷ Read part 1 here

⤷ Word count: 15.9k (I’m SO sorry 😭)

[18+ ONLY!!]

═════════════════

PAIRING:

S3!Soldier Boy x fem!reader

WARNINGS:

Cussing, mild angst, mild harassment of reader via side character, described violence (nothing intense), reader being a baddie (as she should), fluff, spanking, pet names. Lmk if I forgot any! :))

SYNOPSIS:

As you make all the preparations for tonight’s plan to flee the Russian compound, you run into trouble that forces you to confront your Supe nature.

The Boys arrive shortly after to help you free Ben, where you discover that he has a new, deadly power.

Unresolved tension forces yourself and Ben to split from the rest of the group and find your own way out.

═════════════════

From the sidelines of the testing room, you watched with wistful eyes as the heavily armed guards streamed inside and fanned around Ben’s entrapped figure. He put on a display for them, writhing between the chains and hurling out all manner of insults to convey his disdain of the Russians. You knew the emotions were true, only more dramatised for the sake of make-belief; it was any other day, not the last.

Through the planned commotion, Ben slipped you a discreet glance, and you caught the slightest dip of his chin before his head was forcibly pressed against the table by one of the guards. Your heart ached at the sight of his fully-pinned figure, more guards streaming in through the door and swarming about him like an exploded hornet’s nest on the prowl for its next victim. One of the braver men came up to press an arm across your boyfriend’s neck and slapped an oxygen mask over his flaring nose and mouth, then with a single flick of the mechanism, Novichok gas streamed into the chamber.

As the nerve agent buffeted Ben’s unwilling airways, the guards had to fix his head in place with great effort as he attempted to dislodge the mask with grunts of protest. His lungs were desperate to reject the debilitating gas with strong fits of coughing, but his effort was to no avail.

You watched as the Supe’s frantic movements began to dwindle, the anger framing his eyes softening with his wilting glare. He blinked many times to try and fight off the haze, but it consumed him entirely— finally stilling him into a docile puppet. His eyes lolled to the back of his head, his lids clamping shut to preserve his dignity while the clatter of chains against the steel table settled at last.

And just like that, the super-abled, invincible brute that was Soldier Boy had been subdued.

The guards held their formation for a few seconds longer, the mask suffocating half of Ben’s face emitting the last of its gas for good measure. Once they were certain that he was asleep, they slowly began to release their hold on him, the oxygen mask removed from his face. The last guard to go was the one still holding Ben’s limp head, and when he was given the go ahead, he released it without a care, causing it to topple to the side to face you.

You grimaced at the lack of respect they showed his comatose form—yeah, he was extremely short of a saint, but he was still a person, one who’d been subjected to years of torture and experiments that should have killed him at any point. If there was anything that could’ve warranted some ounce of respect, you’d have settled for that fact alone. But you couldn’t have much of a say in the matter when he was only supposed to be your experiment.

Besides, in your line of work, you’d be speaking from the place of a fucking hypocrite—what’s a little rough handling compared to repeatedly stabbing poisoned needles into his arm, just hoping it doesn’t kill him?

Taking in a deep breath, you lifted your chin slightly with a great effort to appear unfazed by the entire ordeal. You couldn’t help drinking in Ben’s expressionless features, though, noting that for the first time since you’d known him, he looked almost peaceful. You hoped that he was—that he’d been swept into some or other dream to help him pass the time of this dull, inhumane routine. You recalled the dream he’d told you about only an hour earlier, the one where’d you’d both been an entangled mess within his bed.

Despite the crude way he’d painted the picture, it had been a rather fond milestone in your relationship. It was the first time Ben had found it in himself to man up—as ironic as that sounded—and admit with his own two lips that he loved you.

You walled off your thoughts as the head guard appeared at your side, your attention shifting to where they brought in a rolling table and lined it up beside the operating table. You watched as the guards slowly began to undo the chains wreathed around Ben’s sleeping figure.

“Did everything go smoothly?” The head guard asked, his voice muffled beneath his all black ensemble. His shoulder lined up beside yours as he turned to watch Ben’s unloading beside you.

You heaved a subtle sigh through your nose, head fixed forward as you watched them shovel your boyfriend’s body onto the rolling table with a spiteful lack of care. Not having the energy to speak, you offered a mere nod.

Thankfully, your response was satisfactory enough, the guard returning your nod before he left your side to bring up the rear of the patrol rolling Ben toward the exit. The Supe’s arm was dangled over the side of the table, and your eyes latched onto the plaster you’d placed before he was moved through the doorway and the sight was ripped from view.

But the image lingered in your mind. Never again would you have to place another plaster—or needle—in his arm. Come tonight, there’d be no need to because you’d both be free of this rotten hellhole.

The testing room became eerily quiet as you were left alone to bathe in your emotional haze. There were a few routinely things you’d have to do before tonight’s escape. You glanced over your shoulder at the case you’d left on table, the one that had born the experimental compound you’d injected into Ben. It was standard procedure to return the case to the experimental lab following each session, along with completing a written log about the process—vitals, patient response, any hiccups in the administration.

You were tempted to forsake it all out of spite. A harsh scolding and beating for failure to comply would matter little if you weren’t here to receive the punishment. But you knew you couldn’t risk the extra attention of getting caught in misconduct—couldn’t let your emotions get the best of you when there was so much riding on your role in tonight’s plan. So you held your breath, not without scorn, and marched over to collect the case before leaving the room without so much as a last glance back.

There was no detail worth remembering about that place—if anything, you hoped its image would fade within short time.

The day was still young. With far too much time to kill, you’d fulfilled your duties by returning all the equipment to its due place. You’d been in and out of almost every room of the compound, where you’d made a point to start discreetly packing a branded corporate backpack you’d nicked from the clothing and gear room. You’d begun loading it with necessary supplies—a first aid kit, medication, clothing, even managing to procure a set of burner phones for yourself and Ben.

Throughout it all, you’d kept your pace brisk to minimise interactions with the far too chatty employees of the establishment. The last thing you needed was to get caught in conversation with a loaded and somewhat illegal backpack in clutch.

To wrap up your tedious responsibilities of the day, you were bent over one of the tables in the compound’s common room, logging all the details of your session into the designated book. The bitter aroma of filter coffee hung in the air, which you breathed in with eager appreciation. As much as this place sucked, the coffee had always been good—great, even. There’d been a pot brewing before you entered the room, and you only hoped that the person who’d put it on wouldn’t return while you were still around.

The backpack was laid between your feet as you scribbled away busily, keeping the details of your time with Ben as subtle and concise as possible. Your hand dragged along the paper to terminate the log with your signature, and just as you set the pen down with a tired sigh, a heavyset pair of boots pounded into the room.

Your heart seized on the spot with a heartfelt fuck.

“Hey, you,” an all too familiar voice greeted.

You glanced over your shoulder to confirm the worst of your suspicions, where you were faced with the guard that’d gotten into a spat with Ben. He had the beginning of light bruising all around his nose that had bloomed up the route of his sinuses, light purple crescents propping up both his eyes. You had to fashion great restraint to avoid grimacing at the sight. You were surprised he’d walk around with such a visual admittance of defeat in the first place, as opposed to signing off early and hiding out at home until the bruising wore off.

“Oh—hey,” you pushed out tensely, turning your body to fully face him before leaning your backside against the table. You crossed your one leg in front of the other and used your furthermost heel to try and slide your backpack beneath the table, bidding internal prayers that his attention wouldn’t stray to your restless movements. “Finishing off your shift?” You asked, eager to hold his attention.

The guard must’ve noticed your gaze lingering on his bruises for a few seconds too long because he dragged a hasty palm over his face before cradling the back of his neck out of hot embarrassment.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he insisted. “I’ve always been a big bleeder and bruiser—my mother used to tease me about it when I was a little boy, always falling and scraping my knees. I used to look like I’d come back from a war,” he laughed behind an almost expectant stare, so you forced a chuckle to entertain his babbling.

He took a step toward you, and there was far too little space between your bodies for your liking. “Anyways. . . would you, uh, maybe like to have a coffee with me? There’s enough in the pot for two, and I wouldn’t want it to go to waste. It should be done soon.”

You glanced over your shoulder at the brewing pot in the corner of the room, then turned back to him with a polite smile. “I appreciate that, but not tonight. It’s been a long day, to say the least. I really just need to get home and crawl into bed.”

With another smile, you leaned your hands against the table, fingers beginning to tap at the wood impatiently. Get the fuck out of here already, you groaned internally, ankle feeling at the fabric of your backpack.

During work hours in the compound, no employee was allowed to carry around baggage. It was a safety precaution to ensure no items would be stolen. All baggage had to be checked in and out at the front desks, where the guards—guards like him—would do a thorough search to ensure nobody had nicked anything time-worthy. And then the baggage would be checked into a personal locker for the entire day until closing time.

Nothing coming in, nothing going out.

The only exception is the branded backpack you currently carried, which was often used to transport equipment between rooms of the compound. But they were typically reserved for the technician assistants—as is their job to lug around equipment for the more important personnel. And you had no business carrying one around at this hour of the day, anyway—most of the employees would’ve already signed off and headed home with no further work to pursue.

It made you suspicious, to say the least. Getting caught with supplies like medication and burner phones would warrant you a one-way ticket to a good beating. There would be no passable excuse you could pluck from the depths of your ass to cover yourself against that.

You needed to get out of here. Now.

The guard looked briefly offended by your rejection, but was quick to blink away the expression before lifting a hand to wipe his nose incredulously.

“Okay—yeah, of course,” he sniffed, briefly glancing off to the side. When he turned to look at you again, he crossed his arms as he did a sweep over your figure. “Well, shouldn’t you be off, then? You seem pretty comfortable, unless you’re not in a rush to get home to a boyfriend?”

You could have scoffed at his transparency, but with a man like him, you doubted that he’d take it well, and you had no idea whether anyone would be around to hear you scream. Not that you had real reason to be afraid—you were a Supe well within her abilities to protect herself. Only, very few in the establishment still knew that. You’d been around for far too long, watching as other employees came and went with the years while you remained tethered by emotional obligation. A done deal. Love.

Besides, you liked to keep your business on the down-low, it was safer that way. Most of the employees here were as anti-Supe as most of the world—and why wouldn’t they be? This entire operation was quite literally founded on experimenting on the super-abled. There was no remorse, or love for Supes to be found here.

You tried to pass a nonchalant shrug. “I guess I’m not in a rush,” you admitted tensely, extra hyperaware of the backpack you’d now managed to successfully push beneath the table.

The guard took another step closer, now directly towering over you. “Then you could stay for that coffee, yeah?” He prompted, his voice low and dripping with distasteful intent. “No boyfriend to get back to, right?” He added more softly, teeth flashing with a lewd grin. You caught his eyes flickering down to your lips.

No way in fucking hell. Standing a little taller, you returned his gaze firmly. “No, thanks,” you reiterated, holding your ground as he glared you down. You refused to be intimidated by him; he’d have to know that, too.

The guard looked eerily thoughtful. “All right,” he relented, but his cornering position didn’t falter. “Just one last thing, though. . .” He trailed off with a smugness that tugged at your patience. You knew he was playing some sort of twisted game, and he wanted you to take your turn.

“What’s that?” You pushed out disinterestedly. You expected that he’d try and find some other angle to knead that would get you to relent to his harassment. But what he said next was far from expected, your body seizing on the spot as your heart plummeted to the depths of your chest.

“You think I didn’t notice that little bag you’ve been sneaking around the entire day?”

Your breathing became shallow, and you couldn’t do anything but watch as the guard bent his head to creep his lips close to your ear.

“I’ve been watching you all day.” His breath was hot against your chilled skin, setting off your instinct to flee. “Now, I could be asking you what you need all of those things for. . .” His hands came to trap your body on either side of the table. “Or, we could come to a little agreement, and I’ll let your little rule-breaker slip, hm?”

You craned your head away from his lips, turning to face him with a scorching frown. “Get the fuck off of me,” you spat lowly.

The guard looked mildly amused. “Or what?” He challenged.

Without replying, you lifted your hand from the table, palm facing skywards as your fingers began to curl with malicious intent. The guard’s attention flickered down to witness your gesture with clear confusion etched across his battered face—but the confusion was quickly turned to panic as your fingers began to draw into a slow first, and the Supe that you’d buried deep within you all those years ago began to resurface.

At the will of your fist, you watched the vessels of his eyes begin to thicken—gutters of red paving way through his pearly sclera until it struck his dark pupils, causing them to dilate uncontrollably with each passing second. His throat began to strain, the air in his passages thinning into non-existence until he could do nothing but splutter and gag on his empty lungs. The warm colour in his lips began to drain into a lifeless shade of blue, matching the veins that rose along his neck and face like prominent ant trails.

And then his strength began to falter.

The guard staggered backwards and fell to his knees, hands flying to grapple at his throat in desperation, as though he could grab ahold of the oxygen currently fleeing every cell of his body and hold it hostage for his exploitation—to continue fuelling his pathetic, abominable existence.

You pushed yourself from the table with your remaining hand, bending over briefly to snatch up your backpack before stringing it over your shoulder. Your other hand was drawn into a fist so tight that your skin began to whiten, almost rivalling the shade of pale that the guard currently wore. And you didn’t relent as you closed in on him, not even when you felt the first trail of blood flee your nostrils, and tasted the acrid, iron tang along the walls of your throat.

The guard glanced up at your approaching figure through bloodshot eyes, his expression a primal fear that only a situation of life or death could coax from you. The veins tracing his entire body became so prominent that they could’ve exploded with a single flick of your finger—and you were tempted.

You came to a stop directly before his pathetic form, not bothering to stoop to his level as you spoke. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” You taunted. “Hypoxia—the very oxygen in your body slipping away until all your systems begin to shut down—slowly, in agonising sequence.”

You began to prowl a circle around his dwindling stature for dramatic effect as you pressed on.

“First, your brain’s cells will die, and you’ll become all confused and disoriented until you’re as dumb as a fucking vegetable. Your heart is the next to go, taking everything down with it. And then, your lungs will start to fail, forcing you to breath deeper and deeper with the desperation to latch onto a single breath. . . but no matter how hard you try, I just won’t allow the air back in. It’s excruciating—” you paused as you watched his body begin to rock with violent convulsions, “—but I don’t need to tell you that, do I?”

You circled back to the front of his body, drinking in his frail effort to stay upright through the spasms—desperate to preserve what pitiful sense of pride he still possessed. You tilted your head mockingly, the first trail of blood fleeing your nose to splatter onto your shirt.

“And do you know what the best part is?” You continued scathingly. “There’s not a damn thing you can do about it—not when it comes to me. All you can do is watch. . . and die.”

Foam began to spill at the corners of the guard’s mouth, his eyes so comically red that it felt like an enactment of the rage he currently bore you—and the sentiment pulled through in his furrowed brows and twisted snarl. You could see the disgust in his expression—a look that practically screamed fucking filthy Supe. Rather a Supe than a rabid fucking animal—and he’d been rabid way before this attack.

“Word of advice,” you pushed on—not that he’d live to follow it. “Maybe don’t fuck with the hand that controls the very air you breathe.”

With a single, thorough jerk of your first, you heard the distinct pop of flesh as you tore through the walls of his organs, the tissues deflating into his sure death. Suddenly, all his movements halted, and there was a single, detestable glint in his eyes before they glazed over with a lifeless stare. His hands toppled to his sides, acting as a domino effect that sent his soulless body to the floor with a hard thud.

You glared at his corpse for a few seconds, the fist you’d held onto finally releasing to reveal leaking, red crescents carved into your palm’s flesh. Trails of blood streamed from your nose and into the hard line your lips had pressed into. You swept your tongue along the flesh to clear it away, swallowing back the thick clotting in your throat. You lifted your aching fist to wipe away the blood trickling from your nose, your lips falling loose to exhale softly.

It’d been years since you’d channelled your abilities, and to such an extreme extent, no less. You felt the way your body trembled, your own breath falling slightly short with the beginning of fatigue, but exhilaration kept your jittery legs firmly rooted. It felt good to tear through that wretched man—and you knew that it shouldn’t have, but it did. It felt. . . powerful.

In all the years you’d been trapped here, you’d had anything but power. Every aspect of your life had been controlled by the Russians, and you’d had no choice other than to be swept along with their will. Your gaze dragged back to the guard’s corpse.

But not anymore, you affirmed silently. Not anymore.

With a single, disdainful sniff, you stepped over the guard’s lifeless body, leaving his shredded flesh to drown within the puddle he’d bled.

You made for the room’s exit, and behind you, the pot of brewed coffee let out a shrill whistle.

ミ☬彡

In the holding room, you were leaned against the tank that currently hosted Ben’s sleeping form. The steel was warm against your back as it whirred with all the mechanisms trapping him in a steady sleep, and you had to shift a couple of times to prevent the burning of your skin. The heat soothed your goosebumps, but did little to settle the nagging anxiety within.

An hour had passed. More like twenty rough minutes—but it had felt like ages since you’d left that guard’s body in the common room and made a hasty beeline for this hold. It was already moon-high—most of the employees would have long since called it a day and gone home. So the chances of the guard’s body being discovered at this time were low—you knew this. Yet you kept waiting for that door to come toppling down, armed forces streaming in to beat you onto your knees and make you a live experiment alongside Ben. If you’d survive their outrage to begin with.

Besides you, the only other souls currently roaming the property were all banished to the outskirts, doing perimeter checks and walking tedious lines to ensure nobody would be getting in—or out of this compound. No employee had the reason or desire to stay in the building past closing time, so there was no need for the guards to do a last sweep within before setting up the nighttime perimeter.

Fatal flaw, in your humble, biased opinion.

But your eyes had been glued to that entrance for so long that you could still see the door carved into the darkness behind your lids every time you blinked. Your arms were crossed against your chest as you waited, as if to cradle the unsteady heartbeat in your chest, while your index finger ticked away busily at your bicep.

Shortly after arriving here, you’d taken a second to tend to and bandage the hand you’d unintentionally bled raw during your fit. Your palm still ached with the memory of your furious grip, but you tightened your hold on your arm in the desperate attempt to numb the area into painless submission. It didn’t budge.

Eventually, you found it in yourself to tear your gaze away from the door, your head buckling to take in the view of the floor. You caught a glimpse of the blood stain in your shirt. Almost as if that had reminded your body to pay you the repercussions for overexerting your abilities, you felt a light trial of blood trickle from your nose. Your bandaged hand flew up to catch the red droplets, and you held your fist against your nostrils for a few seconds to absorb the rest of the clot.

You gave a hard exhale through your lips, your patience wearing thin with both your weakened body and the anticipative wait. You dropped your hand back to your side, still feeling the faint, sticky glaze of blood within your nostrils. But you ignored it, almost hoping your body would grow bored with punishing you and ease off for a while—just until The Boys broke you and Ben out of here.

You had no idea when they would arrive. The initial phone call that had started this entire ordeal hadn’t exactly been detailed—it was more of a quick in and out—instructions first, questions later call. And oh, the ambiguity of the plan drove you insane.

On the other side of the room, you heard the scrabble of Jamie’s nails against his glass enclosure. That wretched hamster had seen better days. You figured he was the sort of pet Ben could get along with—if their shared trauma of being experimented on was reason enough to bond.

Suddenly, a heavy clank sounded against the door of the main entrance, which instantly plucked you from your thoughts and had you drawn into a defensive position before you could process the entire situation. Another loud clunk rattled the steel, then another. It sounded like the adrenaline currently pumping your heart to an all time high.

Whoever was behind that door didn’t sound passive. Your paranoia got the best of you as you imagined Russians guards waiting to storm the room. Had somebody found the guard’s murdered body and alerted the nighttime patrol? You knew you should have done a last sweep of the compound before hightailing it toward the hold—perhaps you’d missed an employee, and now you’d have to pay for leaving a loose end uncut.

The door finally relented with one last thud, and it gave a low, trembling creak as it slowly descended to the floor—the scene so cinematically dramatic. It landed with a deafening clunk, a dust cloud exploding to conceal the doorway. You waited tensely, expecting to see the Russians stream through with defences ablaze at any second.

So, this is it, you ridiculed silently. This is how I go out. A bitter smile spread your lips. What had all these years—all the suffering been for, if not to pave way for a happy ending? Did you and Ben not deserve it, after everything?

Tsk. Fate, thou art a heartless bitch.

But the first man to step through the haze was tall and heavyset with dark, messy hair and a thick beard—but most importantly, lacking a guard’s uniform entirely. The sight laid your internal monologue to rest. You wouldn’t be dying today.

The newcomer narrowed his eyes and did a scan of the room. When they landed on you, a devilish smirk hitched up the corner of his mouth.

“Well,” he called out in a thick, English accent—the same one that had driven you crazy through the digital line. He took a dramatic step past the collapsed door, his shoulders rocking side to side before stilling to face you. “‘Ello there, Love. Fancy finally meetin’ yer in the flesh.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you spat out, all the breath you’d been hoarding in anticipation channeled into that single sentence. “Ever heard of a fucking knock?” Your tone was hostile, but your hands fell to your side with relief, your heart rate beginning to settle into a steadier rhythm.

The dark-haired man glanced around him with calculation—likely scanning for any hidden traps or accomplices, then popped a glance to where the door laid needlessly discarded onto the floor. He turned back to you with a done deal grin, hands spreading in an innocent gesture.

“Sorry ‘bout tha’, Love,” he chuckled, that charming smirk becoming far too comfortable on his rough features. “But it do make for one diabolical entrance, done it? And The Boys don’t deserve nuffin’ less.”

As if that did the trick in summoning the rest of the group, more figures slunk through the door to take up formation behind the Brit—a dark-skinned man with distrust woven into his features as he glared you down, a tall, scrawny, kid that looked as jittery as a hostage, an Asian girl that glanced about the room with interest, and a fair-skinned man with what looked like a mullet in bad taste.

The Brit tossed a nod in your direction. “We haven’t formally met. Name’s Butcher,” he said, strolling further into the room to make better acquaintance.

You trailed closer to meet him halfway, coming to stand perfectly in front of Ben’s sleeping tank—as if to shield his helpless form from any potential danger. You were met with the Brit’s outstretched hand, and you glanced down at it with a brief narrowing of your eyes before your attention flickered back up to him.

“It don’t bite, Love—promise,” he jabbed.

You flashed him a wry smile, but you were still hesitant as you slipped your bandaged palm into his. He held you firmly to deliver a polite shake, and you were ready to slink away from his hold when he trapped you in his grasp with a curious study of your palm.

“Blimey, did yer give a knife a good ol’ wank?” He huffed.

With a light scoff, you curbed his prying nose and offered him your name, to which the Brit grinned in a manner that felt forced.

“Lovely name yer’ve got there.” He released your hand and pivoted on his heels to address the rest of the group. “Right, you lot, we don’t got a lotta time. Them red cunts out there know we’re in ‘ere, and they’re gonna come lookin’ for us with ten rounds o’ fuck yer stuck up them fuckin’ guns. So keep yer wits about yer, and keep off each other’s throats, all righ’?”

Your attention drifted to where the Asian girl turned to Butcher, her hands lifting to portray a series of symbols that you could recognise as sign language, but the words were lost on your uneducated eyes. The fair-skinned man beside her turned to face her.

“Don’t worry, Mon Coeur, we can handle them,” he reassured her—a distinct, smooth slur to his words.

French, you noted with a hint of surprise. What an interesting group of people.

“Uh, guys,” the scrawny boy spoke up. You caught a hint of alarm on his features before he turned away to face the door. “I think more guards are on their way.” You strained your ears and heard the faint commotion of Russian phrases and thudding boots in the distance.

“Great,” the dark-skinned man commented sarcastically, head swinging over to face the French. “Ya just had to go and say that, didn’t ya, Frenchie? Should’ve touched wood, man—now we’ve got the whole fuckin’ armed guard about to come down on our asses.”

Who the fuck came up with the name Frenchie? You thought with a scoff. If it was a given nickname within the group, there was a severe lack of creativity amongst their ranks.

Frenchie looked confronted at the man’s attack. “I didn’t do anything! Blame Butcher for frying le whole fucking grid and sending his fist directly into the guard’s face!”

“Oi!” Butcher interjected, taking a step toward the bickering men. “I didn’t see yer lift yer bloody finger to help, now, did’cha? And it don’t matter now. So lay off the fuckin’ tiff, boaf o’ ya, and brave yer bollocks f’a righ’ burnin’.”

You couldn’t help but smirk lightly at the group’s dynamic. One thing was certain—with them, there was never a dull moment.

You could hardly acknowledge that thought for a second longer before armed guards were rallied at the door, causing The Boys to pivot toward the entrance in alarm. Gun were pointed into the room before bullets began flying in scattered chaos.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell! Take cover!” Butcher yelled, and The Boys all scattered to various ends of the room to avoid the rapid fire.

You attempted to do the same, when time seemed to slow at the prospect of a bullet heading directly for you. Your breath roared in your ears, muffling all the sounds around you into a single, shrill ring as you lifted your hand into the air out of instinct. With a single twist of your fingers, the bullet making a direct line for your face curved through the air, and it deviated from its path to strike glass some ways behind you.

You let slip a relieved, breathless chuckle, but didn’t waste another second as an easy target out in the open as you scampered to hide behind Ben’s sleeping tank. You pressed your back against the tank, your head collapsing against the metal with a wide grin.

You hadn’t pulled off that trick for quite some time—and it was bold to assume that it would’ve worked when your body was severely out of practice. Guess the Supe in you never leaves, does it? You remarked with silent appreciation.

But still, you cursed your unpreparedness. For all the things you’d remembered to pack, a gun had somehow slipped your mind entirely. Having powers was good and all, but the ability to withstand gunfire was beyond your biological pay grade, and without your long lost Supe uniform, you were as vulnerable as any other human in this room.

Something small levitated into the air ahead of you, drawing your attention into a bewildered stare. Jamie, the hamster, gravitated through the air, whisking directly past you and into the chaotic storm of bullets. You had a good guess of where the bullet you’d redirected had gone.

“It fucking flies?” You scoffed in amazement.

You heard a guttural scream followed by a string of Russian pleas, and you guessed that the hamster had his own personal vendetta to fulfil. That makes two of us.

You heard The Boys calling to one another as they came to terms with their depleted bullets, but the Russians were still keenly at it, the shots bounding off the walls of the room until it sounded like a drawn out melody of war and sure death. You risked a glance past the tank, outstretching your hand to drain the lungs of one of the Russians raining hell on where Butcher and the scrawny kid took cover.

The Russian seized on the spot, hand flying to clutch his chest before he collapsed to the ground and didn’t stir again. Butcher caught that stunt with an impressed glint to his eye, his chin dipping in the slightest gesture of approval. You returned it with a smug grin, but what came next whisked the amusement clean from your lips.

The Brit discarded his emptied gun, stepping into the clearing with a loud-ringing “evenin’, cunts,” and then you witnessed his eyes ignite with a red, bustling flame. He strolled into the open fire, the bullets bounding off his skin like they’d never stood a chance in the first place. And then you saw it—beams of molten lava searing through the air to decapitate any and all matter in its destructive path.

The Brit’s head panned around the room to exterminate the Russians one by one, until nothing but silence filled the room, and the unpleasant scent of scorched flesh bombarded your nose. You slowly rose to full height, stepping out into the clearing just in time to witness Butcher’s red eyes simmer into their normal dark shade. He glanced about his companions in waiting—for what, you had no concrete idea, but you could guess that the rest of the Boys were as shocked as you.

You glanced around at the rest of their faces to gauge the group’s reaction. The scrawny boy appeared behind Butcher with a look of amazement and admiration bright on his features—stupid fool would likely get himself killed gawking after that reckless Brit. You glanced over at the dark-skinned man, who looked furious as he glared down the leader of The Boys. Frenchie, and the Asian girl attached at his hip, exchanged puzzled glances that quickly turned curious once they glanced between Butcher and the dark-skinned man.

There was definitely some unspoken tension lingering between those two men—some ongoing war for leadership. But before either of them had a chance to speak, the scrawny boy let out a yell.

“M.M.—behind you!”

The dark-skinned man spun around, and your attention flitted to where a Russian guard had snuck up onto him with his gun armed and ready for attack.

He’s not going to make it, you thought with a jolt. Instinctually, your hand whisked into the air, and a second later, the guard staggered in place to paw at his chest—some pathetic attempt to remove his gear and undo his gradual smothering. But before you could sign off on the murder, the scrawny boy appeared behind the Russian with his fist impaled through the guard’s chest.

You had to blink twice to solidify that scene—the boy was naked, and he’d been on the other end of the room, fully clothed, only a second ago.

“What in the fuck is going on?” You muttered, hand falling back to your side. The Russian guard, now void of a heart, mimicked the gesture as he planted onto the floor, his gun clattering to the ground beside him. You squinted at the naked boy—first Butcher, and now him. Just what crackhead group of Supes had you gotten tied up with?

The scrawny boy glanced down at his bloodied hand in a fit of ragged breaths, his expression a mixture of confusion and amazement, as if he couldn’t believe he’d just done that. You wondered whether his reaction was toward his power, or the murder—though he didn’t seem like the type that went around killing often, or at all, and he sure as hell didn’t look like somebody who enjoyed it.

“Jesus!” The man—M.M.—breathed out, hand lifting to cradle his head in denial, acceptance, and then defeat. “I can’t—I just can’t,” he muttered, turning away from the scene to take a heated second for himself.

You left the tank’s side to approach Butcher, and the Brit spun to face you with a smirk—always that damn smirk.

“Well, tha’s a nifty li’l power yer’ve got there, innit?” He praised in something akin to admiration.

You couldn’t return the sentiment. “You’re a Supe?” You exclaimed. “You didn’t think to mention that when we first spoke?”

The Brit beamed with some emotion beyond you. “Tha’s the best part, Love,” he said, head tilting in exhilaration. “I ain’t no bleedin’ Supe. I’ve had me a good hit of Temp V, is all—it gives me the wankin’ wonders o’ Supe powers without all the stinkin’ cameras and promos stuck up me arse.”

“Yeah,” M.M. spoke up in a tone lacking amusement, turning to face the group once he’d blown off enough steam—but honestly, he only looked more peeved. “And it’s only killing you, ya stupid motherfucker.”

Butcher flashed him an unfazed glance. “Well, we’re all slowly dying, ain’t we, M.M.?”

The dark-skinned man crossed his arms in what looked like disappointment. “Yeah, but you just had to go and take the fuckin’ crown on that one, didn’t ya? Goddammnit, Butcher, I can’t with you.”

“Then don’t, mate, ain’t yer concern,” the Brit replied simply, then turned his attention to the scrawny boy with a proud grin. “Nice one, Hughie—laid one on tha’ wanker in a heartbeat.” His head lowered to where the guard’s heart lay on the ground, and he beamed a little too hard at his pun.

Hughie seemed flustered at the compliment, but cleared his throat self-consciously when M.M. flashed him a glare.

“Put some damn clothes on,” the dark-skinned man scoffed. “I don’t needa see any more ass today.”

Frenchie crept up behind Hughie holding the outfit the boy had discarded in the wake of his teleportation. “Here, Petit Hughie,” he said through an amused grin.

“Ah, thanks, Frenchie,” he chuckled awkwardly before accepting the uniform and turning away to become decent.

Turning to face you, Butcher gave a nod. “Right, then, why don’tcha show us the way, Love? We’ll get yer nuclear heartthrob outta this place in no time.”

You harboured an eye roll before beckoning curtly over your shoulder. “He’s in there.” You stepped aside to give the Brit a full view of the sleeping tank.

Butcher’s expression turned solemn as he brushed past you to inspect the container. “What the fuck,” he drawled. “They’ve got ‘im wrapped up tighter than a priest’s chaste cock.” Your brows furrowed at his acquired taste for humour—but in that way, he and Ben were quite alike. “How do we open this fuckin’ thing?” He asked distractedly, moving around the frame to inspect the reinforced locks.

“Good question,” you told him, watching him from the same position as you crossed your arms in frustration. “If I had any idea, you wouldn’t be here. They’ve got that tank reinforced like hell—I’ve tried everything to get it open. It’s useless.”

The Brit tossed you an incoherent glance over his shoulder, then tuned his focus back to the tank. “Well, let us have a go, then.”

You cocked your head in smug doubt, watching as the Brit wrapped his large palms around the rim of the tank’s door. Who does he think he is? You scorned silently. He released a loud growl, the muscles of his upper body flexing with strained effort. He kept up the exertion for a good few seconds, and you left out a light huff through your nostrils to confirm what you’d known all along—there was no way that he was getting that door open with his two bare hands.

Almost as though Butcher could heed your thoughts, he amped up his efforts with a growing yell, and to your amazement, the door began to budge with a heavy creak. You watched with subtle awe as the Brit managed to successfully detach the door, his study frame collapsing back slightly as he hovered the metal in his grasp. It was insane to think that his abilities were all thanks to that Temp V substance, but you could only imaging the tolling effects that it had on his body. Hell, you’d been receiving V since you were born, and even you had moments where your body became worn by your abilities.

Butcher turned with the door, scanning an area to discard it toward before he settled for a corner that was far too close to the Asian girl’s loitering figure. When the door landed with a dull thud, the Brit turned to face the tank—you all did.

You took a few steps closer, coming to stand beside Butcher as you watched smoke pour out the hold and cascade around your feet. The Brit outstretched his hand to keep you back, which made you glance at him with a mixture of confusion and surprise.

“He’s not dangerous,” you told him, but you were quick to catch yourself with a frown when you remembered all the instances Ben had woken up in a confused state—and the time he’d hurt you because of it.

“Yeah? Well, tell that to yer face,” Butcher answered gruffly, wholly unconvinced by your faltering advocation.

You bit on your tongue and nudged the Brit’s hand away, but nonetheless, you didn’t move any closer. Butcher flashed you a sidelong glance but didn’t say anything further. You noted how Frenchie and the girl had inched their way nearer to where you stood, just as eager to witness the man that had been an expired legend up until now.

When the smoke started to clear, you could make out the outline of Ben’s figure, stood upright and strapped to a contraption that would hold him in place during his coma. His eyes were still closed, an oxygen mask strapped around his face. Your heart ached at the sight—it was demeaning, him tied down against his will, completely bare and stashed away in some dusty basement to be forgotten until he was needed again.

Never again.

Just then, Ben began to stir, his eyes opening slowly as he drifted back into the waiting world. The arms at his sides flexed with what strength he could muster, and it was still enough to tear through the fabricated restraints around his wrists. His eyes blinked many times as he stared ahead into the newfound opening, but not at anything, or anyone, in particular. He lifted a jittery hand to pry the mask from his face, his hand lowering to his side and dropping it into the smoky oblivion below.

Beside you, you heard a disbelieved murmur leave Butcher’s lips. “Soldier Boy. . .” He breathed.

As if that was all the beckon he needed, Ben’s hands gripped at the rim of his tank, nose scrunched and teeth gritted as he tried to haul together the effort to pull himself from his personal prison.

You instantly dove forward to help him, but Butcher’s arm found yours in restraint once more, pushing you a step back as he turned to face you.

“Stay back, Love. He’s got a fuck-sight o’ that nasty gas pumpin’ through ‘is veins. I mean, have a shufti o’ tha’ cunt—he don’t even know where the ‘ell he is. Yer don’t wanna piss about a timebomb like tha’, trust me.”

“He’s not a bomb,” you answered in frustration. “He’s just confused. You’d be the exact same if somebody fucked with your brain the way these comas fuck with his.”

“I ain’t baggin’ on yer boy, Love, just tryna prevent unnecessary casualties. Don’t need yer blood on me hands.”

Before you could reply, Ben’s frail voice called out your name.

Your heart lurched at the sound, your head swivelling to neglect Butcher and the anger he was starting to evoke. Your boyfriend was leaned halfway out of the tank now, his brows still kneaded together with disorientation as he battled to keep his attention pinpointed on you. You pushed past Butcher’s arm and rushed to catch Ben as he staggered out of the tank, his one hand finding your shoulder for support while his other reached back to steady himself against the metal.

“You’re okay,” you murmured, hands coming up to gently frame his bearded jaw as your lips spread with a smile of relief. He remembered you—no temporary amnesia this time, no forgotten memories, no further pain to endure. “I’m right here, Ben.”

The Supe blinked rapidly, his chin lifting a fraction as his red and teary eyes did a hasty sweep of the surrounding members of The Boys. You called his attention back to you, stroking a thumb along his cheek.

“Hey, don’t worry about them. It’s the group we talked about. . . The Boys. They got you out of that tank, and we’re about to get the hell out of this place,” you comforted him softly.

Ben’s eyes found yours again, but they were glossed over and narrowed, as though your words were incomprehensible to him. His attention dropped to the bloodstain on your shirt, then shifted to the bloodied bandage wrapped around the palm that cradled his cheek.

The hand he’d placed against the tank moved to cover your bandaged palm, and you felt the way he trembled against you. “You’re. . . bleeding,” he pushed out between staggered breaths.

You gave him a weak smile. “I’m fine,” you assured him. “Trust me, you look worse than me, so worry about yourself, first.”

He looked like he wanted to say something else, but then his eyes screwed shut and his teeth grit around a muffled grunt, the hands he’d placed on you flying to clutch at his chest.

You held his buckling head firmly between your hands, craning yourself in an attempt to get a view of his face. “Ben?” You called to him worriedly. “What’s wrong?”

There was no reply, only pained grunting as he continued to claw at his chest. When your eyes lowered to his torso, you were horrified to find that his flesh had begun to illuminate from within. Slowly, an orange light began to bloom at the centre, painting every organ, vein and artery in clear, dark definition against his translucent skin. You felt a surge of heat begin to radiate from him, enough to burn your arms into releasing his face and assault your eyes into a tight squint.

“Ben, what the hell is going on?” You called in panic, arm coming up to shield your teary eyes.

The Supe grunted in pain, his palm moving clumsily to shove you back at the chest. You staggered back a step, nearly losing your footing until you felt a large hand steady you at the back.

Butcher appeared over your shoulder. “Blimey, tha’ cunt’s ‘bout to blow,” he remarked roughly.

“What?” You replied with a quiver in your voice. You dropped your arm and blinked rapidly to focus your burning eyes back onto Ben. You spotted him struggling away from the tank—away from you—travelling a blind line that drew all the way to a wide-eyed Frenchie.

The French stood backed into a corner, gun slowly raising to act as a pitiful means of defence against the Supe’s disconcerting approach.

“Easy now,” Frenchie attempted to calm Ben, opting to lay off the threatening gun as his hands lifted in surrender. “We are all friends, no?” He laughed nervously, eyes flickering past the Supe to fix you with a pleading expression.

You returned Frenchie’s look with helpless panic. Quite frankly, you had no idea what was going through Ben’s mind as of now, or just what on earth was brewing inside his chest, but you had a gnawing feeling that somebody in this room might not live to find out.

You made the move to approach your boyfriend, eager to stop Ben and disprove that nagging voice in your head, but Butcher found your wrist in a tight, relentless grasp this time around—and it only continued to tighten as a show that he didn’t intend to let you go this time.

“No fuckin’ way,” he said before you had a chance to protest. “If yer boy over there pulls the plug on ‘is night lamp of a chest, boaf you and Frenchie will get yerselves killed. If Soldier Boy lives to see another miserable day, I’ll be needing yer to help us figure out just what the hell them Russian cunts put in ‘im.”

You gave Butcher a long stare, your chest nagged by some feeling that seemed to resonate with the Brit’s words. You knew exactly what had been pumped into Ben. And with that knowledge, you might be able to figure out this new power of his and help The Boys keep him under control. But was the Brit really willing to let Frenchie die for the sake of it?

Turning back to the scene, you watched as Ben’s head buckled again, pained shouts leaving his lips as he fought to control the ever-growing light within. At some point, he began to beam so bright that you couldn’t stare at him any longer without feeling as though your vision would terminate on the spot, so you turned your head away.

And then you heard it—Frenchie letting out a yell, and a loud explosion that sent something flying into a wall. Hesitantly, your eyes drifted open, where you witnessed Butcher’s hands pressed against his ears with a twisted expression. Behind him, Hughie and M.M. did the same, their faces mortified.

Your breathing came out ragged—loud and harsh in your ears as they adjusted to the normal air after what sounded like a deafening, sonic boom. Turning your head slowly, you saw Ben hunched in on himself, his body returned to its normal colour—void of all deathly glow. You wanted to feel a surge of relief, knowing that he was okay, but then your eyes drifted ahead of him to where a figure lay motionless upon the ground.

The Asian girl was sprawled across the floor, blood seeping from wounds along her torso, so dire that you could make out the cuts even from where you stood. The stone wall just behind her was cracked with what must’ve been the impact of her hurled body, and the sight brewed fresh dread in your heart.

No, you breathed silently, your eyes growing hot with horror. Suddenly, the words you’d told Butcher only moments ago came around again, a voice that taunted you into guilt. He’s not a bomb. He’s not a bomb.

And yet he’d just blown up and injured—possibly killed—one of the group members—people who had risked quite a lot to save the both of you. Your hand came up to cover your mouth in a state of shock and remorse, and for a moment, you couldn’t do anything but stand in a fit of paralysis.

Frenchie scrambled up from the other end of the floor and sped over to collapse at the girl’s body, hands frantically searching her neck for a pulse. He settled on a point and hovered his fingers there for many seconds, and you held your breath in anticipation as you waited for him to confirm her life, or death.

To your relief, he let out a jittery sigh. “She lives!” He declared into the room. “Mon Coeur,” he called more softly, a hand moving to turn her face toward his, but her lids remained heavily clamped, and even her lower lip dropped open in her unconscious state.

“Bloody ‘ell,” Butcher breathed from behind you, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed.

You hurried over to where Ben still stood, crouched over and consumed in a haze of overwhelming emotions that you couldn’t possibly begin to comprehend. You slowed a little ways before him, your hand cautious as you reached to gently cup his back. You were unsure at this point of what potential triggers may set him off.

When you made with the skin of his back, he gave a slight flinch, but he turned his head a fraction to drink in who’d touched him. When he saw it was you, his face briefly softened with a quiet regret that made your heart ache—an almost unspoken apology for the mess he’d made. You took up a firmer grip on his back, urging him to move toward the wall for better support against his weakness.

“Come on, just take a moment,” you urged, and he relaxed into your gentle guidance as you moved the both of you toward the wall. You tried your best not to glance at the girl’s unconscious body, but Ben wasn’t so merciful in sparing himself the guilt as he risked a glance toward her body. and holding her motionless body in his view all the way until you’d reached the wall.

“You can’t blame yourself for that,” you told him in an almost whisper. Because it’s my fault. I gave you those powers when I gave you your last dose. You wanted to tell him that, but you choked up on the guilt, and it would do little to comfort what had already happened. So instead, you settled for, “you had no control over it. The important thing is that the girl’s alive, okay? You didn’t kill her.”

You didn’t know that for certain. So much could happen between now and the trip to the hospital. Ben spared you a dark glance that reflected your thoughts.

You reached to cup his cheek, but he turned away from you to face the wall, his hands coming up to steady himself against the stone. Your hand fell back to your side as you let out a soft exhale.

“I’m going to figure out what’s going on with you,” you told him. “But just stay here for now, I need to talk to Butcher and the others, okay?” You weren’t entirely sure that you had Ben’s ear, but he was too stunned to go anywhere for the time-being, so you felt confident enough to leave him alone to talk to the others.

“Not a bomb, eh?” The Brit scoffed on e you reached him. “Well, Love, it don’t sound like yer know yer man as well as yer think ya do, d’ya?”

“Give me a break,” you retorted, coming to a complete stop in front of the dark-haired man. “This. . . power of his isn’t anything I’ve seen before. If I knew he could do that, I would’ve told you, and we could’ve found a way to keep the lid on and prevent anybody from getting hurt.”

“What, like he wasn’t already a murderer before this very instance?” M.M. spoke up from where he stood, idling beside a bewildered Hughie.

You flashed the dark-skinned man a glare. “He didn’t mean to do it,” you said more firmly.

M.M. had this biting fire to his eyes, his upper lip twitching with a barely perceptible emotion. “Didn’t mean to do what, exactly?” He drilled. “Kill all those innocent people back in the day, or almost killing an innocent girl right now?”

“M.M.,” Butcher called to his friend, a light undertone of warning. “Don’t, mate.”

M.M.’s head swivelled toward the Brit. “Don’t you give me that fuckin’ ‘mate’ shit, Butcher. I wanna hear it from her—I wanna know if she’s really okay with all the shit that that motherfucker has done!” He turned to glare at you, causing your heart to lurch. Clearly, he had some hefty history behind his anger.

“We don’t got time for this,” Butcher attempted to interject, but M.M. stopped acknowledging the Brit, his tense shoulders rising and falling around some greater restraint on his part as he glared between you and Ben.

Your lips were hellbent on a clueless silence. You didn’t know what personal wrongs Ben had dealt M.M., but you knew that your boyfriend had a stained past. Truth is, you had no way to ever justify what Ben had done back in the day. And judging by how deep M.M.’s dislike and distrust for him ran, you figured that the Supe must’ve done something unforgivable.

Ben was far from perfect, you knew that. He had questionable morales, some that you’d never learnt to swallow even after all these years you’d been together. But you’d been trying to help him abandon those problematic viewpoints, and he’d been getting there slowly before Vought and the rest of Payback had gotten him kidnapped and slipped into a tank.

“Nothin’ to say, huh?” M.M. mocked lowly, his lips twitching with disgust. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Ya can’t justify a prick like that.”

“Hey, guys. . .” the naked boy—Hughie—spoke up, his anxious stare shifting between M.M., Butcher and you. “I hate to interrupt. . . whatever this is, but we’ve got to get out of here. What if more guards show up?” It was beyond you how somebody as scrawny and young-looking as him had met the criteria of such a raggedy tag group of misfits lead by the world’s number one British asshole, but he was right to be worried.

In the distance, you heard the thin, angry shouts. You didn’t want to stick around long enough to hear what they were saying.

You glanced over your shoulder to where Frenchie still hovered over the injured girl, her body half scorched and basted in the blood trickling from her abdomen. Your heart ached at the sight, and then your gaze slipped over to where Ben braced himself against the wall in a heaving mess of disorientation.

Oh, things were so fucked.

“She needs a hospital,” the French slurred, hands frantically whisking across the girl’s body. His eyes were a desperate plea as they fixated Butcher, then his head collapsed to where he took the girl’s unconscious head into his hands. “Hang in there, Mon Coeur, we will not let you die, you hear me?”

You turned back to Butcher. He was the head of this entire operation, so you waited tensely for him to hurl out some sort of command, a plan of action—anything. The commotion surrounding the room grew louder, which made the Brit glance at the entrance they’d barged through.

“We gotta get the fuck outta ‘ere,” Butcher grumbled. He jerked his chin at the Hughie. “Hughie, help Frenchie with Kimiko, we ain’t stayin’ ‘round ‘ere any longer than we got to. I don’t much fancy playin’ a round o’ Russian Roulette with those trigger-happy red cunts—and right now, they got a ragin’ boner for the lot o’ us.”

Hughie scampered past to heed Butcher’s orders, but not without risking you an uneasy glance. He disappeared from your view as he slipped past you to conspire with Frenchie in getting Kimiko to the car.

“You two, back o’ the van,” the Brit told you, calling your attention back to him. The furrow of his frown ran deep as he took a step closer to glare you down. “And yer best keep America’s Ancient Arsehole from gettin’ all hot and bothered in me ride, or we’re all as good as fucked, ‘ear that?”

Before you had the chance to return Butcher’s scorn, you were interrupted by a protest that sounded most displeased.

“Uh uh,” M.M.’s voice rang out clearly, causing both yourself and Butcher to turn to him. He loomed tensely, eyes darkened and features modelling a look of heartfelt disgust as he glanced between you and Ben. “No way in hell—I ain’t climbin’ into the same car as that motherfucker,” he declared with an accusing index figure in Ben’s direction, his hard stare further isolating your boyfriend before he turned his attention back to Butcher. “They gotta find their own way—meet us somewhere we can recoup and plan out this fuckin’ stinkin’ pile of shit you got us into, Butcher.”

“M.M.,” Butcher groused, taking a step toward his companion. “We don’t got time for this, mate. We came ‘ere to do a job, and we gotta do it quick. Yer don’t gotta hold ‘ands wif the cunt, yer just gotta brave face until we get clear o’ this shitshow, all righ’?”

But M.M. looked unconvinced, the distrust in his stare not once relenting as he did another sweep of you and Ben. His chin lifted slowly—a bold notion of defiance as he glared Butcher down.

“Nah,” he said lowly, arms brought forward to cross over his chest. “Not happenin’, Butcher.”

“Oh, f’fuck’s sakes,” the Brit grumbled, hand brought up to his jaw to stroke across his beard with exasperation as he attempted to negotiate with his companion.

Just by observing the dynamic between the two of them, you could tell that they bickered like this far too often. Two alpha males, constantly clashing horns as they fought to uphold their own glaring sense of right and wrong. But there was no time to stand back and bathe in the ricocheting argument, so you intercepted their bickering with a hint of impatience.

“It’s all right,” you steadied with outstretched hands, which made both Butcher and M.M turned to look at you. “I’ll find Ben and I another way out. I know a route, and I know where to get a ride. You just focus on getting the girl to the hospital, and we’ll lay low somewhere until you tell us the next move.”

Without waiting for input from the two of them, you turned and scampered off to the bag you’d left at the foot of Ben’s tank. You passed a glance at Ben, who still stood leant against the wall, head hanging low in oblivion. You doubted he’d caught a fraction of the ongoing conversation.

“Like ‘ell yer are,” Butcher called to you. “I’d be a daft wanker to let the two o’ ya off me fuckin’ leash, now, wouldn’t I?”

“Seems right on par with the asshole of the year award you’ve made runner up for,” you mumbled under your breath before reaching the bag and bending down to unzip it. “Listen, it’s not like we’ve got many options when your friend over there has made his feelings about us clear. I’m just trying to get Ben and I out of here in one piece,” you added more loudly.

“All right,” the Brit reasoned. “Say I let the two o’ ya slip away, hand in hand, how do yer s’pose we find yer again? Trackin’ yer down to this fortified safe already cost us some hefty shite—and it’ll be a li’l difficult keepin’ a lead on yer this time ‘round when yer’ve only disappeared into the whole o’ bleedin’ Russia!”

“Hold that thought,” you called back, hand rummaging through your loaded supply bag. Your fingers clattered against the burner phones you’d packed in case you and Ben got separated, and you pulled one of them out. You weren’t so eager to hand off the only thing serving as a backup should the two of you run into trouble, but you had very little luxury of choice right now.

Turning back to Butcher, you made you way back over to the ruffled Brit, hand outstretched to offer him the phone. “Call the number saved on there, I’ve got another in the bag. Once we’re all in the clear, we’ll meet you wherever it is you need us to be.” The Brit fixed you with a distrustful stare before snatching it from your presented palm.

You’re fucking welcome, you thought irritably. You pivoted on your heels in an attempt to retrieve your backpack and get both yourself and Ben the hell out of here, but Butcher’s hand found your arm in a firm grip before you could manage to slip away.

“Oi!” You were forcibly spun around to face the towering Brit, who torqued his chin at you with far too much attitude for your liking. “How do I know tha’ you and Chernobyl’s li’l arsehole ain’t gonna do a runner into the fuckin’ sunset for good now that we’ve freed the boaf o’ ya? I can’t trust cha.”

Your scowled at his lack of charm, yanking your hand free of his throttling grasp to take a step back. “We may be strangers—and you may be the finest pick of the asshole litter, but we made a deal, and I always honour my word. You can count on that, or you can suckle on paranoia’s tit while we wait for the backup guards to gun us down. Your choice.”

Butcher seemed briefly surprised by your mouth, if his hitched brows was any indication. But he was quick to morph back into his signature frown, lips parting with what could’ve been an attempt to further pick at the scab of distrust. Thankfully, M.M.’s voice interrupted on cue.

“Butcher, we gotta go!” He called, back turning on you both as he raised his gun to assault a Russian guard that had slipped into the doorframe.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, these cunts are relentless,” Butcher muttered in exasperation as he took in the new company. He faced you with a displeased expression, dispelling a defeated sigh before he cocked his head in the slightest gesture that bid your official release.

You gave him a small, curt nod, and without wasting another second, you slipped away to grab your bag and hurried over to where Ben’s figure remained propped against the wall, bare back presented to you in a heaving, sweaty mess.

You reached to place a gentle hand on his shoulder, which caused him to flinch away and spin around in full-blown defence mode, but he quickly relaxed as he drank you in.

“Hey, we’ve got to go,” you cooed gently, reaffirming your hold on his arm as you encouraged him to drape it along your neck. Ben succumbed to your guidance and partially leaned himself onto the side of your frame, and you tried your best to accommodate his large stature by securing your other arm around his waist.

“I got you,” you murmured against his jaw, but you could tell that it was lost to the hurricane of disorientation that currently circled his head and rendered his responses naught. As of now, he was surviving off of nothing but the familiarity of your presence.

Behind you, wind buffeted the back of your neck as Hughie glided past, and then there was the distinct, sharp whisk through the air that indicated he’d teleported to some other corner of the room—judging by the guttural scream that followed shortly after, likely directly into the chest of one of the guards. But you had no time to glance back to confirm that thought, not that you’d much like to see Hughie’s naked form again, anyway.

Together, you and Ben began to hobble through one of the back entrance’s. You entered into the winding corridor, whose overhead lights flickered menacingly. It created an eerie atmosphere that matched the theme of this entire compound, and it fed into the flight instinct that kept your feet moving.

When you’d first made contact with The Boys—about a week ago—you’d begun mapping out the best route possible for the group to infiltrate the facility. As a contingency plan, you’d also noted the route yourself and Ben currently ploughed through, just in case there’d been a kink in the plan. For once, you were thankful for your tendency to overthink.

After what felt like an endless straight line, you turned the corner of the corridor, Ben’s steps faltering with the change in direction. Your balance dipped the slightest bit as you scrambled to steady him in your hold.

“All good?” You checked in.

“Fine,” Ben pushed out with a grunt, his head still lolled over as he tried to focus his attention on the ground. “Keep on movin’.”

You breathed a light okay and kept on the prowl. Up ahead, you spotted a janitorial closet tucked into the corner bordering the designated exit you’d mapped out. You hastily steered him toward the door.

“In there,” you instructed, releasing the hand he had draped along your shoulders to twist the doorknob and push the door open. It gave way with an animated creak, and you hurried the both of you inside, guiding the Supe deeper into the dim, narrow space.

He slipped his hand from your shoulders to grab one of the cluttered shelves for support, and once you were certain he was steady enough to support his faltering frame, you turned to close the door behind you. You stole a quick glance out the small, dusty window centred in the janitorial door, feeling a slither of relief when no armed soldiers seemed to round the corner in pursuit of you.

“What’s. . . the plan?” Ben breathed out from behind you, his voice rough and thin as he fought off the sleepy haze. Usually, he had time to adjust coming out of the coma, but this time around, he’d been woken in such a flurry state of things that he’d barely been given the time to adapt. And it certainly didn’t help that he had a newfound power of blowing up unprovoked. It had taken a lot out of his sleepy state.

You turned to face your boyfriend, whose nude figure was on full display now as he stood facing you, a little taller, bolder—almost the man you knew him to be. You could have marvelled at the chiselled isles of his abs, and the moisture that furnished his skin and accentuated every curve of his muscles with the light’s faint glare, but this was hardly the time or place to indulge your desires.

With great difficulty, you averted your gaze from his figure as your hand moved to glide the backpack’s strap from your shoulder. “First, let’s get you dressed.”

You plopped it onto the floor at the nose of your boots, then bent down to dig into the crowded space in search of the clothes you’d packed for him. You pulled out a pair of grey sweats and an oversized t-shirt that you’d stolen from one of the guard’s lockers. You hadn’t had much luck in finding underwear, and you weren’t about to go around rummaging through lockers and sniffing pairs to deduce whether or not they were clean.

You straightened up and handed Ben the clothing, whose eyes flickered down to the items with a growing alertness—and unveiled judgement.

“The fuck is this?” He asked, hand gesturing to the sweatpants crowning the folded fabric stash. You knew he was making a point to ridicule what passed as fashion in this day and age. It was pretty much his brand to criticise everything and anything that didn’t fit his very limited ideologies, but there was no time to entertain that now.

“It’s the best I could do, is what,” you retorted, palm diving forward with impatience as you urged him to take the clothes. “Talk shit about it later—in fact, have an entire rant, but right now, you’ve got to put these on so that we can get out of here, unless you’d like to keep on running around naked and flashing the whole of Russia.”

Ben’s eyes lowered down his body as you spoke, then lifted back to your face with an entertained air, his eyebrow lifted smugly. “What, you don’t like the view?” He jested. “Cause I gotta say, it’s the real panty-dropper. The ladies—they just can’t get enough o’ all o’ this.”

When you didn’t entertain what he passed as humour with a response, your expression blank save the impatience, he cleared his throat somewhat self-consciously before hesitantly taking the clothes from your grasp.

Pointing his free finger in your direction, he said, “you’re a doll,” and began slipping the clothes onto his body. You lowered yourself back to the bag to retrieve the socks and sneakers you’d also managed to nick before placing it at his feet.

While you waited for him to get modest—physically, at least, you zipped up the bag and strung it back over your shoulder before rising and turning to peer out the window again. There was a gnawing unease still buzzing at your fingertips and teasing at the steady pace of your heartbeat as you stared off into the corridor, just waiting for any sign of movement. While you stood, you couldn’t help but wonder whether The Boys were managing to hold their own back where you’d left them.

Your thoughts flitted to the injured girl—Kimiko; you hoped that they’d managed to escape and get her to the hospital, and there, you desperately wished that she’d live to see another day. Ben’s outburst was something you’d never seen before, even after all the years the Russian’s had trialed him to see what new powers your modified treatments had brought forward.

You knew that the explosion wasn’t personal, that it was an unfortunate case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But you’d seen the look in M.M.‘s eyes—in all of their eyes. There was so much hatred and fear lingering in their stares, and it told you that The boys had come on this job with a preconceived notion about who you and Ben were. So it wouldn’t matter how much convincing you’d have done to try and plead in both your favours; they’d never trust you.

You didn’t much trust them either, that feeling was mutual, you only hoped that it wouldn’t interfere with the conditions that this plan had been tied to. There was still a job to be done before you and Ben could be free—properly free.

Ben’s finger’s curled around your waist, which jerked you from the whirlwind of thoughts you’d gotten sucked into. You turned to face him, fully clothed this time around, and you had to admit that he looked rather attractive in the casual attire.

“How are you feeling?” You asked. He looked alert in the eyes, his movements stronger and more controlled compared to his earlier erraticism.

“I feel fine, no need to fuss over me like I’m some goddamn spineless pussy,” he brushed off dismissively.

You scoffed lightly. “Forgive me for giving a shit,” you muttered, turning away from him to reach for the door handle. “Come on, we’ve gotta go. We’ve already taken longer than I would’ve liked.” You turned the knob and managed to pull the door slightly ajar. “For all we know, they’ve already got more guards set around the per—”

Before you could finish that mildly frantic sentence, Ben’s hand wrapped around your wrist and yanked it from the doorknob. You’d barely managed a protest before he whirled you around to face him and pulled you against his body, his hand only releasing yours to take up firm grip at your jaw. Instinctively, you shrugged the bag from your shoulder and heard it thump to the ground before your own hands came to rest against his broad chest.

With both hands now bracketing your face, he dove down to press a desperate and warm kiss to your lips. At first, the chafe of his overgrown beard felt foreign, but the way his lips eagerly entangled with yours was all the familiarity you needed to melt into his consumption entirely. His large hands stroked down your neck in perfect rhythm, caressing the slopes of your shoulders all the way down your back, and finally, they settled for a firm hold at your hips.

His thumbs hooked over the front of your pelvis as he pushed you against the door you’d been so eager to slip out of only moments ago, and it clicked into it’s place within the frame with an abrupt thud. You release a stifled moan as he pressed you into the wood, and he greedily swallowed it whole, claiming every aspect of your being with this gluttonous kiss.

Your hands dragged up his chest to frame his neck, where you pushed him away to break off the kiss. His lips were plucked from yours with a palpable click, and his features morphed with a disappointed frown as he leaned back to give you air.

Moving his hand to drag two dramatic fingers over his lips, he gazed at you through those charming eyes of his. “I was just gettin’ started with you, sweetheart,” he said lowly.

Chest slightly heaving, your hands lowered to his waist as you gazed up at him. “As much as I’d love to take this further, we can’t stick around here much longer. This part of the facility isn’t used much, but it’s somewhere they’ll come looking once all the other sectors are cleared.”

“You really did have it all planned out, huh?” He murmured sweetly, eyes flickering back down to your lips in a manner that told you he craved another taste of you. But thankfully, he was quite capable of self-restraint when the stakes were too high. He brought his focus back to your eyes with a cheeky wink before he withdrew from your proximity.

“I always did admire that ‘bout you,” he stated before leaning over and swinging his arm forward to scoop up your backpack and lug it over his shoulder. Then, with a nod, he gestured to the door.

“Let’s get a move on, ain’t got all fuckin’ day, right? Besides, I made you a promise back in that lab, and the sooner we can get the fuck outta this ass-fuck of a dungeon, the sooner I can do good on my word.”

You grinned amusedly. “Because you’re old school like that, huh?” You poked.

“Damn right,” he said, hand wrapping around the nape of your neck as he pulled you toward his lowering head. He placed a long kiss against the crown of your head, inhaling your scent in the process.

Your bandaged hand reached up to wrap around the arm that held you against Ben’s adoration, your eyes fluttering close as your body released the tension that had been drawing your every muscle rigid for countless decades.

During all these years at the lab, you were forced to be strong for both yourself and Ben. But you’d never been made to be a warrior—not in any way other than physically, at least. You wanted to be protected, held, cherished like a fragile item that could fracture with the slightest push. In that way, you supposed you were a little old school, too.

Ben had never hesitated to take on that role. To him, it was a dutiful honour—he wanted nothing more than to protect you.

Being trapped in this compound had you stuck in a loop of stress and anxiety, but for the first time, in a very long time, you knew you could breathe a little deeper to relieve that tightness in your chest. You knew you could risk that blink—that shuteye you’d been denying out of fear for your life. Because now that Ben was back, you knew that you were safe.

Gently pulling your head away from his kiss, your hand lingered on his arm as you whispered, “let’s go.”

His lips quirked in the softest smile of agreement, his hand hesitantly falling away from your neck only to take your banadaged hand into a firm, but careful grasp. “Just can’t get enough o’ you,” he chuckled deeply, but you caught the more solemn implications behind those words.

He’d been robbed of your touch for far too long, as much as you’d been of his. Only, he’d had to endure it much harder than you—having constant dreams about all the ways he could devour you during his induced comas. It had been an endless taunt with no assurance that it would ever happen, and now that he was stood here with you in the flesh, he was overcome with the urge to hold onto you, as though he could be ripped of your presence in a blink.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised, your fingers tightening in his.

Ben glanced down at your intertwined hands, strands of his hair scattering across his forehead with the motion. It concealed any look that might’ve come across his eyes, but you didn’t miss the soft breath of relief that parted his lips.

He glanced back up at you with practiced composure, taking in a brave sniff as he faced you. “Ah, fuck all this teary-eyed shit. Let’s get the fuck out of here, get a banger meal and then lay one on a shitty motel mattress.”

You gave a small chuckle and released his hand to turn towards the door, where Ben shifted back to accommodate its opening. He held it open for you to slip through, and once you were in the hallway, he appeared behind you with the door clicking shut.

Glancing both ways, you were relieved to be in the clear, and even more relieved to hear that no warning alarms had been set off in the distance. You hoped that meant Butcher and the rest had managed to exterminate the rest of the guards before they had a chance to come down with their final iron fist.

Redirecting your attention to the exit, you beckoned for Ben to follow you through the double doors and out of the back of the compound. You stepped into the crisp night air, the doors swinging closed behind you as Ben appeared at your side, pressed into your arm as he sought out a fraction of your warmth.

“Son o’ a bitch,” he grumbled through chattering teeth, head swivelling about to get a glimpse of the unfamiliar environment.

“Yeah, you haven’t felt real cold in years,” you sympathised with a chuckle, hand slipping into his as you lead him through the empty lot dotted with crates and lorries.

“It’s a fuckin’ maze out here. Do you know where you’re going?” He asked doubtfully.

“Trust me, I know where we’re going.” You lead the way around a corner, where you came face to face with a yard of broken down, discarded vehicles that no longer served a purpose other than reusable parts. “Over there.”

You gestured to a modern, up-kept car nestled between various rusting metal on wheels. You’d stashed the getaway car here a few nights ago, and thankfully it had been one of the easier parts of the plan, given that not many employees wandered all the way out here.

You lead the way toward the vehicle, making a beeline for the driver’s seat. When you reached the car, you turned to Ben with a hand held in the air.

He slowed before you with a confused stare. “What?”

“The keys,” you told him, nodding your chin to the backpack on his shoulder. “They’re in the bag—the side pocket.”

He gave a slow nod of understanding and slipped the bag from his shoulder, plopping it down onto the floor as he bent over to undo the side pocket. A moment later, he pulled out the car keys, which wasn’t much but a remote and a dangling key chain. They clinked against each other loudly as he moved to pick up the bag in his other hand and rose to full height to face you, but he held off on handing you the keys.

“I’ll drive,” he said firmly.

You gave a light laugh. “I appreciate that, Ben, but you don’t know the first thing about the cars of today.”

The Supe looked insulted. “The fuck you on about? It’s a fuckin’ car. It’s got wheels, a throttle and a steerin’ wheel. How hard can it fuckin’ be?” He scoffed and lowered his head to the keys, pausing with a frown of panic before his gaze flitted back over to you. “It doesn’t fly, does it?”

You let out a loud laugh at that, which made Ben’s head loll to the side with a disappointed and slightly flustered stare.

“All right, all right,” he said—all hot and bothered as he glared you down. “So it doesn’t fuckin’ fly. Forgive a man for havin’ hope that the fuckin’ assholes back in our time did good on their promise of a future with flyin’ cars.”

He took a few steps toward the car, arm shooing you aside out of self-conscious spite. “I got this, all right, Princess?”

You faltered a step back as he barged past, your lips parted with the urge to rebound his argument, but you knew that a man like Ben needed to be shown, not told. “Fine,” you said, backing down to let him access the driver’s door uninterrupted. Your hands spread in a dramatic gesture. “Have at it.”

“I will,” he retorted arrogantly, clearing his throat as he lifted the keys to study it. His eyes flickered between the door handle and the keys a few times before flashing you a frustrated glare. “Quit starin’ at me like a braindead potato—I’m figurin’ it out!”

You had to fight to keep a grin from pulling at your lips, your hand coming up in a fist to conceal the lower half of your face. “Mhm,” you hummed into your hand, watching as Ben studied the remote for a few seconds.

The symbols that were supposed to mark which end of the singular button locked and unlocked the car had completely worn off with the years, so you couldn’t blame him for having a hard time with decoding the controls. It was at that point that you expected him to ask for some guidance, though, but the epitome of his masculine pride kept him silent. Eventually, he settled for pressing the bottom most corner, which made the car flash with the locking mechanism.

“Hah,” he breathed proudly, turning to flash you a smug wink. “See? Nothin’ to fuss over. Told ya I’d figure it out.”

“Yeah, you’re a smart one, Ben,” you indulged eagerly, hand falling from your face as you crossed your arms in waiting. “Go ahead, then.”

Ben reached for the handle, not without handing you a suspicious glance, and when he tugged on the door, he was overcome with impatience when he found it still locked.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be ticklin’ my fuckin’ ballsack!” He exclaimed irritably, hand falling away from the handle.

You fixed him with a long, delighted stare that made him shake his head lightly before handing you the keys. “Wipe that grin off your fuckin’ mouth,” he warned.

You took the keys from him and clicked the unlock button. “Or what, Ben?” You asked pointedly, chin lifting to meet his stare boldly.

He chuckled all-knowingly. “You know what,” he husked darkly, eyes glinting with innuendo as he took a step toward you, chin tilted down as he sized you up. “Or I’ll have ya on your knees tonight, pretty lips all stuffed and achin’ ‘round my dick til you can’t even fathom havin’ this attitude of yours.”

Your lower lip fell limp at that, a soft exhale of disbelief leaving your lungs as your head tilted back to hold the weight of his scheming stare. “You’re threatening me with a good time, Soldier Boy?”

Ben’s smirk beamed through that overgrown beard of his at the use of his Supe name. You knew the title on your lips spurred him on in inconceivable ways. “Always a good time til you can’t breathe, isn’t it?” He hummed somewhat condescendingly. “Maybe it’s ‘bout time I give ya a taste of your own fuckin’ medicine.”

Before you had a chance to respond, he moved away to circle around you, then you felt his hand come down on your ass in a light spank. The sound echoed across the desolate, metal graveyard, and you were lurched forward an inch by the momentum.

“What was wrong with fuckin’ keys, anyways?” You heard Ben grumble as he made his way around the car and toward the passenger seat.

You gave an amused huff and shake of your head before opening the driver’s door and sliding inside. Once you were in the seat, you closed the door and were met with Ben not-so-gently tossing the backpack onto the backseat.

“Careful with that,” you told him, placing the keys into one of the compartments before moving to strap yourself in. “There’s a burner phone in there. I told Butcher to call us once they’re in the clear so that we know where to meet them.” You flashed him a quick glance. “Seatbelt,” you added.

Ben obliged and reached for his seatbelt before clicking it in place. “Butcher?” He echoed in confusion. “He the lead asshole of this entire operation?”

“Yeah, asshole and some,” you remarked with a tut.

You moved to press the car’s on button before grabbing ahold of the gear and shifting it into drive mode. Putting the hand break down, you carefully began to manoeuvre the car out of the scrapyard and through the quiet, empty lot.

You heard Ben’s stomach growl just as you neared the the fence-line, which made you glance over at him with sympathy. “We’ll get you something to eat soon,” you promised him.

“And I expect dessert, too,” he added with a sly smirk. You caught on pretty quickly with a smile and slight shake of your head before turning your attention back to the road. “Ain’t gonna lie, seein’ you take control and mannin’ the wheel like this is gettin’ me all hot and excited down there.”

You scoffed as you pulled up to the gates, void of any guards at this instant. They didn’t usually account for this part of the compound, but you were glad that that hadn’t changed within short time of tonight’s breach. You put your foot down on the break, slowing the car to a stop before you glanced at Ben.

“What, you gonna ask me to give you another quick job?”

Ben’s brow cocked expectantly. “You offerin’?”

You held his stare for a moment, if only for dramatic effect, before flicking your head at the gate. “Just get out and open the gate,” you ordered.

His eyes narrowed briefly, lips parting before he drawled a husky, “yes, ma’am.”

You watched as he unbuckled and opened the car door, making his way to the front of the car. He hovered in front of the gate for a few seconds, likely figuring out the latch, before he began rolling the gate back. In no time, he was back in the car and strapped in, and you gave the car some eager gas to push the both of you through and out the gates of hell.

You made a turn onto a long road, which paved way into a whole lot of unknown. You figured that anywhere would be better than this place, so you stepped on the acceleration and sent yourselves fleeing down the tar and toward the luminescent, rounded moon perched on the dark horizon. You couldn’t help but glance up at the rear view mirror, witnessing as the Russian compound gradually grew smaller and smaller with the hasty distance you sought to put between it and you.

“This is it,” you murmured, mostly to yourself, eyes turning back to the road before you. So much relief had been channeled into those very words, but your fingers still gripped the steering wheel with the fear that something would go wrong. It always did. The universe had a way of implying that neither you nor Ben were set up for a happy ending.

A warm hand slid over the hump of your thigh, fingers squeezing gently to offer a sense of comfort and support.

“Hey,” Ben called to you gently. You turned to glance at him, only long enough to catch the soft glint in his eyes before you turned back to the road. “Quit gnawin’ at your lip. We’re freed the fuck outta there. It’s just you and me now, yeah? We got this.”

You smiled weakly at his reassurance, making the conscious decision to ease off the tension in your grip on the steering wheel. “Yeah,” you murmured half-heartedly. There was not much that could convince you now, other than the events of the future itself. But for Ben, you would try your best to hope for only an upward trajectory from here on out.

The buzzing of a cellphone called your attention to the rear view mirror, where you zoned in on the backpack on the backseat. Ben’s head swivelled to glimpse the bag, his hand leaving your thigh to reach for it.

“Leave it,” you told him.

Ben paused and turned to face you with a puzzled glance. “Isn’t it Butcher?” He asked.

“It is,” you told him, eyes fixed on the road. “But that prick can wait. For now, I want you all to myself. We have lost time to make up for, and until we do, screw everybody else.”

You heard the Supe chuckle, the sound of the bag falling back against the seat gracing your ears soon after.

“I like this new you,” he commented, his hand moving to wrap around and rest against the headpiece of your seat. “God, it gets my balls up and runnin’. Wanna have a feel?”

You giggled at Ben’s forwardness, the sound almost foreign on your ears. You hadn’t realised just how much you missed these tiny, absurd moments between the two of you. You hadn’t had much to laugh about in a long time, or anybody to laugh with—life had been cold, dull and lonely. But now, as you drove into the horizon, with the man you so dearly loved at your side, you felt renewed within.

The Boys, the plan, everything. . . they could wait. Right now, nothing other than the two of you mattered.

═════════════════

A/n: I have finally attempted gradient text and y’all are gonna be sick of me for it 😭 this wasn’t supposed to become such a long chapter, but I’ve had such a blast with this idea that I got a little carried away. I really hope you guys enjoy reading this as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it. Part 3 will be out soon to conclude their little story! Sorry for the delayed release, it’s been a scramble over here with Christmas preparations + I fell ill a few days ago and have been fighting for my life ever since 🥲 (im just a lil sickly thing). Anyways, thank you all for reading! All likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated ᡣ𐭩

Tags: @gibson-g1rl @fallbhind @bohemianblasphemy @violent-darkness @babyfri3dric3 @cevansbaby-dove @artemys-ackles @nyx-the-alien @smutboba @mochminnie @kamisobsessed @littlewitchgirly @spxideyver @destinys-dreamer @star-yawnznn @weaponxgames

Comment/message me to be added to/removed from the tag list for any future Soldier Boy works!

Other works: The Boys Masterlist

If there are any errors, SORRY. I’ve reread this so many times that I’ve become blind to any mistakes. I’ll fix it. Eventually lol.

[fireheartpages]

other plans | b.d.

bodhi durran x reader part one. two. three. four. five. summary: everyone has their demons, you just chose to run from yours. straight to basgiath war college. and definitely not towards the grinning tall, dark, and handsome marked rider that seemed too kind to be in a hardened place like the rider's quadrant. word count: 2.1k ish notes: second person pov but i give the reader a nickname (that i stole from dirty dancing) and a last name bc i'm not using y/n and i want this to be readable. she/her pronouns used for reader. this has been stuck in my head and i thought i was gonna combust if i didn't get it on page. and it's all together hovering somewhere around 7k words so im gonna split it up and post it all within the next few days and then have the whole thing available on ao3! i haven't written fanfiction in at least a good six months, and i've never written for fourth wing, so bare with me a little--i tried my best. i have a chronic attachment to side characters with little to no page time. half of this was written while wine tipsy and all of it was proofread while wine drunk, so we die like men

Bodhi has never seen someone walk across the parapet so easily.

He's never seen someone make a dance out of it. As if it were a show, a production. Your feet are so confident, so sure with every step, every placement that you would make it to the next. It's pouring rain and windy as all hell, and yet you make the parapet look like a children's balance beam.

You land right in front of him, and by the time your eyes meet his, he's already decided that he needs to know everything he possibly can about you. The instant your focus lands on him, he's obsessed.

Garrick has other plans.

"Name?"

"Baby," you say, and Bodhi blinks. "Marho."

Garrick is downright gawking at you. "Baby?"

Something that sounds much more like a name and not what an infant is called slips out on a laugh, and Bodhi can't help but trace the lean lines of your neck. Holy shit. If he thought you were pretty before, it was dwarfed to the sound of your laugh. The sun had to fight for space when you smiled.

"Sorry. Childhood nickname, I forget I have another one sometimes."

"Did your parents nickname you after a hooker?" Garrick asks, jotting your name--the true one--on the roll.

"Did yours raise you to be a dick?" you ask, not missing a beat, and the boy's gaze snaps up to you. If Bodhi had been looking anywhere else, his would have too, but he hadn't taken his eyes off of you since the moment you stepped foot onto the parapet. He felt his brow shoot up, lips parting on a huff.

He bursts out laughing.

You don't move. Don't take your eyes from Garrick, from staring him down, until he tips his head in inclination and gives something that sounds like an apology. It's Bodhi's turn to be the subject of your scrutiny now, and as your eyes trace his shape, shifting with the weight of your gaze and his laugh, he senses more than sees the moment you note his rebellion relic. Your face doesn't shift, but it's as if a proverbial file is created and tucked away into the archive of your mind.

You didn't say anything else as you walk away from the two boys, but Bodhi tracks you as you go. Tracks your movements, as you weave through the crowd with a practiced grace, how your hair moves as you take the stairs down and out of his sight.

He's almost sorry to see you go. But he's determined to see you again.

Bodhi snatches the roll sheet from Garrick as parapet comes to an end, scanning to make sure he has the name correct. He marches up to Xaden, and only pausing for a moment to consider how stupid this is--he literally doesn't know a single thing about you--before throwing your name into the space between them.

"I want her in my section."

"Don't you have better things to do than flirt with children?" Xaden asks impassively.

"She's not a literal baby."

"I'm aware of that," he responds, sounding exasperated. "You're an Executive Officer, Bodhi. Do what you want."

Except Dain Aetos has other plans.

You made friends. You stand with the Sorrengail girl and another he didn't recognize, tucking loose strands of hair back into her coronet braid. What type of person fixed the hair of someone they'd just met? You, apparently.

You're in Second Wing. With Aetos and Sorrengial and the other girl. This is fine. Something about you didn't scream "secret rebel" the way wanted it too.

And then Xaden transfers your squad to Fourth Wing. He had sent Bodhi a glance as he put the squad in Flame section--not Tail--and Bodhi could see there was some sort of ulterior motive behind the decision. It did also mean you weren't under his direct chain of command. He couldn't tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing

Fraternization is frowned upon, not forbidden, after all.

Not that you would be fraternizing. After all.

But, challenging you would be a terrible idea. Terribly adverse, fatally cataclysmic, and ill-fated.

And all of those words mean the same thing.

He would stay clear, watch you from afar, and maybe, maybe work up the courage to talk to you outside of parapet. Possibly.

His confidence needed some serious shaping. Since when was he afraid to talk to someone? A pretty someone, to say the least. He was a gods damned dragon rider. He wasn't afraid to talk to you. He was just... hesitant.

Yeah. That. And he did not need a challenge to break the ice.

Emetterio has other ideas.

He calls your name, then Bodhi's, and Bodhi is pretty sure his heart stops in his chest.

You don't look frazzled or scared, just curious as you study him from head to toe. He guards himself as if you were an intruder in his mind, an Inntinnsic slipping in to spill all his secrets. Except you're an unbounded first year that hasn't even developed a signet, and instead that's just you. He's building up walls just to look at you. You and those bright, keen eyes.

Emetterio calls it, and you're off. Except neither of you move. You pace around, and it's a stand off. You cock your head, and Bodhi tries every trick in the book: the fakes out, glances quickly off to the side, purposefully stumbles--and you're unfazed. Completely and utterly unfazed.

He can't make the first move. He can't hit you--

Suddenly, his feet are out from under him, and he's staring at the ceiling, and you lunge, reaching to pin him to the floor. He reaches out and catches the elbow you throw, but before he can even make contact, you twist, sliding underneath him, and suddenly you're behind him.

You're fast. Really fucking fast. And suddenly, Bodhi has his work cut out for him.

You kick out again, going to the back of his knees, and he recognizes the move, thrusting his body forward to keep control and twisting before he lands, kipping up so you're eye-level again.

Your first catches his nose, and blood goes flying. He makes the mistake of bringing his hands up to cup his nose and it leaves his core exposed. You take the opportunity to land a knee in his gut, probably bruising a few ribs in there, and he doubles over, the wind having been knocked from him. Holy shit, he needs to get at least one hit in. This was getting embarrassing.

He swings blindly, and you dodge--but you don't grab his fist. And you had the perfect opportunity to. You were fast, and your reflexes were quick, but you didn't know how to end this. The realization crashes into him as you swing again. A lot of force, but no follow-though, giving him the perfect opportunity to deflect, pushing your fist and forcing the follow-through until you were swinging behind him with his hand around your wrist and then he was bringing you to him, one of his arms gripping one of yours across your neck, and the other twisting your other behind your back. Like this, your body was flush against his.

You struggle, kicking out, but it was all too easy for him to get your feet out from under you. You weren't small by any means, but Bodhi was bigger, and had a year of training over you. Your feet kicked out, and all he had to do was lean back to incapacitate you. You gave a frustrated grunt that so heavily affected him that he almost dropped you to make sure you were okay before he realized where he was and what he was doing.

"Finish her without making a fool of yourself, please," Cuir chimes in, probably sensing his hesitation and near-miss, and Bodhi sends an eye roll he hopes she can feel, since he doesn't have the brain space to say anything back, with your body pressed against his and the current task at hand.

He twists and take you both to the ground, pinning both your hands above your head, and taking a leg beneath his foot, balancing on a knee. You let out a sharp huff, and he's mesmerized by the way your nose scrunches up in determination. Your free leg goes to knee him, and he takes the hit, leaning into it before transferring your hands so they're both pinned between one of his, sliding one hand down your hip and to your thigh, holding it to the gourd before you can knee him again. He has a free knee to hold him up, but not without giving leverage to one of your legs. So he's pressed against you, hip to hip, face to face.

"Yield," he says, begs, because he can't hold this for long, and because if you figure out just how much you affect him, you'd win this thing in a matter of heartbeats.

"No," you grind out, thrashing. He's spread thin: his wingspan practically encompassing your body, giving you leverage to wear against him. He worries for a moment, a flash of the bruise he could leave on your thigh going through his mind, and two thoughts overtake him at once.

One, that he doesn't want to hurt you. And that while it may be inevitable with where you two stood, he wanted to try and eliminate the possibility as best he could.

Two, that he would leave bruises all up and down your thighs if he ever got the chance to get between them.

And the combination of the two of those thoughts loosened his grip on you, giving you the opportunity to roll away.

"I did not choose someone this negligent," Cuir snaps, and Bodhi panicks, and now you're pinned underneath him again, his front pressed to your backside, and it's a true plea when he breathes, "Yield."

"No!" You squirm, and fuck stop doing that--

"Get yourself together!" Cuir snaps, and Bodhi sucks in a sharp breath.

"That's enough," Emetterio says, pinning you with a look Bodhi would pick dragon fire over. "Know when to quit, Cadet Marho."

"No!" you yelp. "If this were a real fight, no one is calling the shots--"

"If this was a real fight, you'd be dead. I called it. Get off the mat," Emetterio snaps, and Bodhi scrambles off of you.

He offered you a hand that you send a pointed look at, and he can tell you're considering telling him where to shove it, but you take it anyway, and he walks you off the mat with a hand on your shoulder.

"Good match," Bodhi says, genuinely trying.

You open your mouth to respond, looking like you yourself could spit fire for a second, and Bodhi pities the dragon you end up bonded to for a moment.

"You're fast," he continues, before you can. "Quick reflexes, and you're strong."

"I had you," you throw at him, fiery and determined, and your gaze slips to his rebellion relic.

Oh. So that's what this is about.

Bodhi shakes his head, and the grin that had been blooming falters. "I can help," he says. "If you're struggling with sparring, I can help."

You suck in a breath.

"Or Imogen. Or Xaden. Or--" he stops, because, fuck, obviously you don't want to be near Marked ones--

"Thank you," you say, and the ghost of the smile he saw after the parapet makes a reappearance. "Thank you."

And with that, you turn and leave, heading back to your squad. Rhiannon is shaking her head at you, and Violet mumbles something that makes you laugh. Bodhi would bottle that sound if he could. What the hell was a counter signet for? His signet should be used for bottling the sound of your laugh--

"Do not finish that thought," Cuir chides. "Get a grip."

Bodhi grins, his hair falling over his temple as Garrick comes up and slaps him on the back, congratulations on a challenge well fought. He watches you take a swig from the water canteen, traces the lines of your jaw down to your shoulder until you hand it back, then traces the length of your wrist as you hand it--

"Pathetic." Cuir. "You haven't spoken."

"We kind of did," Bodhi says mentally. "I offered. I... tried."

"If you like her, try harder," she chides, and Bodhi sighs.

He doesn't like you, he barely knows you.

"Sure."

[avelera]

Oh, I LOVE this point, because I was just noting to my partner the other day that one of the many influences on Arcane is clearly Lord of the Rings and one of the places you see it most is in the way people look at Hexgems and Hextech items for the first time.

It's not just Powder who gets the glint in her eyes the first time she sees a Hextech gemstone.

The first time Vi picks up the Atlas Gauntlets, she gets the blue glint in her eyes as if it hypnotizes her. Later, Cait notes how Vi seems to believe Jayce's gauntlets will solve everything for her, to perhaps a worrying degree.

Jayce is unwilling to put down his Hextech hammer in the Anomaly future to the point where dragging it around is actively endangering his chance of survival AND permanently maims him.

Even Heimerdinger gets the glint in his eyes the first time he sees the Hextech gemstones, it's this very particular blue shine, and if I was less lazy, I'd go hunting down all the gifs and images but SUFFICE TO SAY, every single time a characters sees Hextech up close for the first time, they get a very particular glow in their eyes.

Personally, I think the metaphor here is simply: power.

Hextech gives you the power to do the thing you want to do. I'd argue the sense of power the gemstone gives Powder is what eggs her on to make her monkey bomb in the first place that brings such destruction to everyone she loves in 1.03.

Viktor becomes obsessed with the Hexcore to the point where he's ignoring the living people in his life who want to spend time with him while he's alive, like Sky and Jayce, so even if Viktor manages to stay alive he's demonstrated that he's not living.

As noted, Vi becomes reliant on the gauntlets, Jayce's mother notes with fear how obsessed Jayce has become with magic and Hextech (arguably, he's Patient Zero in all this) to the point where he's ready to die if he can't have Hextech in his life, it's so beautiful he can't imagine wanting to live in a world without it, and arguably his moment of demonstrated growth and healing at the end of the show is when Viktor and human connection replaces the value he once put on Hextech as the center of his life.

Heimerdinger also makes an interesting note when he says he thought the danger of magic came from humanity's, "Turbulent relationship with power." Which is very in line with the One Ring.

However, he goes on to say that the Arcane itself might be responsible in part for the destruction that springs forth from its use, which implies a will beyond that of the mage wielding it.

So I think on one level, Hextech and its intoxicating influence works as a simple and beautiful metaphor for power, exactly the way the One Ring does.

But, because we're in a fantasy world too, there is a deeper implication with both Hextech and the One Ring that arguably inspired it that there is a will at work, and it's a will that is seductive and a will that bends towards destruction.

From the moment people get that shine of Hextech in their eyes, they begin to act differently unless they wrench themselves from its influence. Already unbalanced people, like Powder, fall very quickly and spiral into destructive uses from it almost from the start. Stronger personalities disavow it, like Cait saying that Hextech will keep us alive but it won't save us, only for her to fall prey to its siren call after the attack on the Memorial unbalances her emotions further as well.

The lure of power is particuarly appealing to those who feel they've lost control but there is a sense that Hextech and magic by extension also preys upon those who are attracted to it.

And with the Hexcore representing the Apex form of Hextech, well, let's just say I'm not sure Viktor stood a chance at all, with how much he felt out of control of his own life (for very understandable reasons) and how it took a reaffirmation of connection with others to restabilize him and make him see the damage this pursuit of power had caused.

You know, it's probably ridiculous to assume that Viktor is being somehow mind controlled by the Hexcore in S2 of Arcane. Obviously his actions are entirely his own, right?

After all, mind control plotlines can be a tricky to pull off and when it's employed, creators tend to put a lot of signposts in to let you know what's really happening and how the character isn't themselves anymore.

For example, creators might do things like... having the character's eye color suddenly change, since eyes are the windows to the soul.

Or... creators might indicate that the character's voice has changed somehow, to indicate that another will is acting through them and they're not entirely themselves anymore.

Certainly one really common trope in mind control plotlines is the mind-controlled character is hearing some kind of voice in their head telling them what to do, or seeing someone that isn't there who guides them or controls them.

Certainly in a pinch, if you really want to drive home that a character has been mind controlled and hasn't been themselves, you'd make it pretty obvious by having them be horrified by what they've done once the mind control wears off!

Bonus points if their eyes revert back to their natural color and any other signs of a different voice or appearance go away once the mind control is finally lifted! That way it's definitely clear that they've been set free from whatever influence was upon them.

But seriously, without these sorts of really glaring signposts we can't really be sure if a mind control plotline was intended at all!

(Tongue-in-cheek aside, I actually love the subtlety of how Arcane executed the Hexcorized Viktor plotline, and I love how much ambiguity remains. But for anyone who thinks he was totally in control, I mean, come on guys. When I started going down the list of all the things film and tv usually does to signal a mind control plot I literally burst out laughing when I realized how many of them Arcane had hidden in plain sight.)

[1411411989]

coming slowly and uncomfortably to the conclusion that a lot of the problems i have with solas's writing come back to the fact that i think he's just like. a dumb person's idea of a smart person. i see a lot of people writing stuff about him that is very interesting but just doesn't jive at all for me with the dumb-as-rocks man we see in the games.

all his alleged intelligence and wisdom is just....knowing information the other person doesn't, the lowest form of "being somehow smarter about things". "he's so wise about spirits" nope, he is one. he doesn't have an understanding and empathy that surpasses other people. he is literally a spirit. what else does he even have going for him. "he knows so much about the fade wow" yeah he's literally from there. "he deceives the inquisition about who he is" if you knew a dude who was like. the absolute weirdest man possible. obviously lying and faceplanting constantly and making reference to "your...HUMAN...behaviors...". you still would not conclude "ah, that man is a bodysnatching gray alien" because in the world you live in, bodysnatching gray aliens aren't literally real, or at the very least they don't come to earth to personally muck around in your life. you would just be like, what an offbeat dude. you don't get any points for running a successful deception predicated on something that is, as far as your marks know, a literal physical impossibility. rerun that exercise with all parties having the same knowledge base and see how it turns out. even as is, almost literally everyone in the party knows he's obviously hiding something. he's not even remotely getting away with it. everyone just has much bigger problems to handle at the moment.

wisdom is traditionally connected to things like discernment, judgement, insight. the ability to make good choices from available knowledge. which is wild because he makes the wrong choice literally every time. every plan he makes fails in the end, in every single ending, in part because he is complete shit at understanding how other people operate at their very core, which is crazy on a guy who's thousands of years old and makes watching emotionally-charged memories his personal hobby. no matter which ending you get, it's predicated on him failing to accurately evaluate rook after an entire game with a direct line to their brain and the ability to pretend to be their closest confidant. he's very good at guessing how people will behave under relatively conventional circumstances and almost always misjudges how they will behave at the critical moment. the only person he ever meaningfully deceives in the course of the games is the player character, and only if you choose to be deceived.

the list of things meant to prove his wisdom and intelligence is so, so bleak. there's even the fool's last desperate resort to prove a character is smart: show him literally winning a chess game.

[imorynn]

ᯓ★ ─── Through A Black & White Lens : A Bond Captured ( p.lupone )

ᯓ★ pairings : patti lupone • fem!reader ( what could’ve been but never occurred )

ᯓ★ summary : ⸺ IN WHICH you and she were deeply in love back in the 70s when you were both starring in something rather big together, but it never happened. Always something brewing beneath the surface. Constantly being around one another. Have insane chemistry and ease with one another. She fell in love with a woman; you. As did you, yet of course, nothing came out of it besides heartbreak and ache and yearning, and no one in the public knew about it — there are pictures from back then between you and her hugging, holding hands, being close to one another, and a bit of social media— this generation now thinks or teases 'surely they must've been something during these times, I mean look at them!', though some conformed with the idea of two women simply being platonic soulmates. Then in 1988, LuPone married, and that was that.

You've seen each other in award shows, and brief gatherings, and even spoke about one another during interviews if they brought up the well-known Broadway hit you both starred in. There was always positivity in one another's words. A warmth, a melancholy, a softness no one quite can put a finger on. You never really reached out to her, and neither did she — but you did send her flowers — her favorite ones after every single performance, giving her the notion that you were out there, somewhere in the crowd, but not exactly ready to see her face to face. Here and there sure, probably somewhere along the 2010s you went out for a drink with her, but never something occasional.

And that saddened her. Saddened you. You both had a very special, warm, and deep bond. The what if’s, but’s, could’ve’s, should’ve’s.

Who would have thought that you BOTH would be starring in the 2024 Marvel series, Agatha All Along: Coven of Chaos? Your character is as significant as Death. How due to this, the press tour, the interviews the pictures, the series, and palpable chemistry, images resurface — moments captured when you and Patti were younger — created a buzz during the press tour ( I also have one coming out between Aubrey plaza and Kathryn Hahn — capturing their mannerisms is so amazing 😭 ).

It’s not only another door opening to new Marvel characters, but a door reopening between two stars who shared an immense relationship back then. The photos, showing shared laughter, choreography sessions, and close, intimate interactions. This particular interview is set apart from Marvel. Something just for you two.

ᯓ★ things that should be mentioned : Patti LuPone is MARRIED, there’s no such thing as her cheating on her husband or anything — it’s FICTION ( inspired by intuition that I’m damn certain Ms. LuPone at some point was in love with a woman — ). I know it’s a rather different territory when it comes to real life, but there’s no inappropriate themes within here — just fiction, fun and something for you to fill in the lines with your own delusions :,>

ᯓ★ a/n : So — was it wrong for me to write a tiny something something for Patti LuPone instead of one of the characters SHE PORTRAYED? :,)) DO NOT SUE ME — I’m just a girl who’s in the sheer depths of being delusional. I’m enamored with this — I hope you all enjoy, comment what you think <33

The interviewer starts with routine questions about the project — its themes, the process, your experiences, your characters, the joys and challenges of working together again after all these years. But there’s a flicker of anticipation within the room, waiting to be ignited. You sense it, and you’re certain Patti does too. The energy transforms when the interviewer leans forward with a knowing smile, setting their notes aside and brings out a few grainy, black-and-white shots that’s the two of you, young and beautiful, captured in a moment of unguarded affection.

A candid of Patti, young and dark-haired, with one arm draped over your shoulders while both of yours loosely rested around her waist — you both putting close attention to something one of the members of the cast or the crew was uttering.

Y/N squinting : That must’ve been during a rehearsal break. We were always like that — always gravitating toward each other somehow.

Or another, the two of you mid-dance rehearsal, Patti laughing as you attempted a complicated move, clearly not quite nailing it yet.

Y/N huffs out a groan : That choreography was hell for me. I could never get that turn right.

Patti smirks and loosely raises a finger : I remember that day. You were so frustrated, but when you finally got it, you did it better than anyone else. *turns to the camera and raises brows with a scoff* She’s underselling herself — she was brilliant.

Then there was another image; a black-and-white shot of you and Patti during a cast party. Your head was tipped back in laughter, your smile vibrant and unguarded, while Patti leaned close, watching you with a grin that could only be described as adoring. Staring at you as if you hung the moon.

Y/N, smiling softly : I forgot about that night.

Patti hums and crosses her legs : We had one too many drinks. If it weren’t for the photography back in the day, you’d be able to see how flushed your cheeks were. All cheeky smiles and giggles you were.

Y/N, leans in closer with a wider grin : Well I was with you that night wasn’t I?

Patti, mid-rehearsal, practicing choreography with the dance captain while you stood off from a distance. She’s mid-motion, arms outstretched as he demonstrates a movement next to her. The hem of her black dress flutters faintly as she shifts, her focus razor-sharp, brows quirked in concentration.

Off to the side, almost out of frame, there’s you. Your posture is laid back but composed, script in your loosened grip, your lips slightly ajar as if caught mid-discussion with someone who is barely even visible in the shot. Yet, it’s unmistakable — your focus is not on the script, or the person you were speaking to. They’re on her.

Expression soft and without a doubt fond. Smitten were your features, but you always claimed you were simply focused. Patti more than anyone knew that you gained that look when you believed no one was watching, especially when it came to her.

Patti tilts her head, brow hitching as she takes it in: Oh, God, *a mix of exasperation and amusement in her voice* Look at me. I’m practically sweating focus.

Y/N chuckled softly : You were always like that. Completely immersed. Nothing could distract you when you were working.

Patti turns, smiling slyly with a chuckle bubbling up her throat : Except you, apparently. Caught in the act, huh? Staring at me while pretending to care about your lines.

Y/N laughs, shaking head : I wasn’t pretending. I was… multitasking. You were impossible to ignore, Patti. You still are.

Patti rolls her eyes but smiles nonetheless : Well, you weren’t exactly inconspicuous, were you? I can feel you staring, even in this photo. *motions to photo*

Interviewer : It’s fascinating to see how much this image captures without meaning to. A lot of fans speculated them. There’s a kind of… unspoken connection between you, even in the way the shot is composed.

Patti leans back, arm rested on the back of her chair while crossing her legs : That’s the thing, isn’t it? We weren’t just colleagues. There was always this… awareness. Of each other. Of what the other was doing, how they were feeling. It’s in the work, but it’s also in moments like this.

Y/N nods and adjusts posture : It’s like the work gave us permission to be connected. Even when we weren’t speaking, even when we were on opposite sides of the stage — or the room, apparently — it was there.

Patti glances at you : Well, for what it’s worth, *tilts chin up with a small smirk* you were decent at multitasking. Those lines? You nailed them.

Y/N laughs, smile widening : And you nailed the choreography, and pretty much everything. As always.

Yet there was one particular image, one said “lost” like fragments of an untold story. Snapshots of a connection so vivid and raw it feels almost tangible. The most famous of these — the one that resurfaces like wildfire following your candid admission — is electric in its intimacy. It’s not staged, not posed or polished; it’s messy, unfiltered, and so very human.

Your younger self, all sharp angles and mischief, leaning into a young, breathtaking as always, Patti. Your hand, adorned with the bold, unmistakable rings you always wore back then, cradles her face, chin nestled within the dip connecting your thumb and pointer finger. The metal of your jewelry caught the faintest glint of light even in the monochrome image, contrasting the softness of the moment. The pads of your digits press into her cheek, mushing her features with a teasing gentleness that’s somehow deeply tender as if to mold her into some jesting version of herself. Your lips are curled, caught mid-action, pearly whites lightly nipping at the high structure of her cheekbone. It’s a gesture both absurdly affectionate and completely disarming.

Patti is caught laughing, her mouth wide, the pretty rows of teeth glistening in the grayscale. One of her hands clasps loosely to your wrist as if anchoring herself to the moment, while the other disappears into the strands of your hair, disheveling them slightly. Her touch looks both instinctive and possessive like she can’t help but claim you in that fraction of a second.

Yet it’s the details that transition the photograph into a lively experience, a memory. The faintest bloom of her scarlet lipstick can be seen on the quirk of your mouth and on the collar of your shirt, a telltale mark of a kiss shared seconds before or perhaps purloined in between wisps and bubbles of giggles. The bridge of your nose is scrunched in laughter, your lashes shadowing beneath your eyes as they’re half-closed, caught somewhere between puckish and endearment. Hers, however, are open and round and alive, beaming with that unguarded, boisterous joy that Patti was known to express when in your presence. Wild, untamed, intimate.

The photo feels impossibly near, as though the photographer captured it from mere centimeters away. And yet, there’s no artifice to it. It’s candid in every sense of the word — a glimpse into something private and unspoken, a moment that wasn’t meant for anyone but the two of you.

Your head bows back with laugh while Patti’s eyes narrow slightly as if in faux irritation, but a grin tugs at the corners of her red lips. She leans forward, resting her elbow on the arm of her chair, her gaze flicking from the image to you.

Y/N, holding the print of the image with a small smile, playfully wiping the corner of your mouth as if the lipstick smudge was still there : Goodness. I didn’t even know this one was out there. Was wondering when it would pop out.

Interviewer : And ? What’s the story behind it ?

Patti, seated beside you, leans over to catch a glimpse. She laughs almost immediately — a sharp, unfiltered sound that’s so unmistakably hers, cutting through the room like a blade.

Patti : Oh for crying out loud. *takes the picture from your hold, stares at it for a moment before looking back up at you with an eye roll* Was this after rehearsal? Curtain call? Or one of those cast parties where everyone got far too comfortable? Don’t remember but someone had a camera, snapping photos while we were all blowing off steam.

Y/N leans forward, propping elbows on knees : Blowing off steam is one way to put it. She was yelling at me about something. I can’t remember what — it was probably something ridiculous.

Patti : Ridiculous ? *turning to face you fully* You kept singing my lines under your breath, trying to trip me up!

Y/N grins : And it worked. She got so mad, I had to go and force her to look at me. *glances at her* She can’t stay mad at me forever. The more I grabbed her face, the more it led her to kiss me right here. *gestures to the spot*

You nor her go into the details or exactness of it all however, nor point out the print mark of her lips on the fabric of your shirt. That was only for you both to know.

Interviewer with raised brow and teasing smile : And the bite ?

Patti, laughs loosely and snorts : This one bites with ‘cuteness overload anxiety’. Someone just snapped the shot without us even noticing it.

Patti holds the image up to the light, her gaze narrowing slightly, like if she’s inspecting every detail : Look at that, *her tone blunt as she glares* You mauled me.

Y/N, voice low and teasing : You didn’t seem to mind that day. Besides, it was worth having you smile again

Patti waves a hand, grinning widely : Was it not normal for women to kiss even then? God forbid we enjoy ourselves. *pauses, her tone dipping into something light, more reflective* But look at us. So happy and young.

Interviewer, senses an opportunity : Was there something more between you two?

Patti cuts them off with a sharp laugh, her head tilting back : Oh, they always ask, don’t they? *turns to you, eyebrows raised* Should we give them the answer they’ve been waiting for? Or let them keep wondering?

Y/N is quiet for a beat, letting the weight of the moment settle.

Y/N smiles lightly : I think the picture says more than we ever could.

Patti, amused but satisfied, is about to hand the photograph back to the interviewer : Well, there ya have it. Two women, enjoying life and each other’s company. Nothing wrong with that.

Patti pauses halfway, glances at you then at the photo, then at the interviewer with a raised brow before withdrawing her hand, the very hand that holds the photograph : For the record, I’m damn keeping this.

Y/N — you laugh softly, and for a second or so, it feels like no time has passed at all. The photograph might belong to the past, but the nostalgia, the melancholy, the warmth it stirs ? That is timeless.

─── ᯓ★

[absolutebl]

BL Announced for 2025 - PART 1

Ones we have dates for:

The Boy Next World

1/5 Thai iQIYI trailer

Is this the backstory of Cirrus & Phugun from TharnType 2 or just the same names? Regardless this is BossNoeul in a multiverse "slip through time" kinda thing but it's Mame + high concept so we in for a bumpy ride.

When it Rains it Pours

1/9 Japan MBS

Convoluted story about a man in a relationship who is sexually unfulfilled and his friend who is in love with him, who accidentally become secret confidants.

Impression of Youth

1/15 Taiwan

Exclusive Love

2/14 Taiwan Line

Shy aspiring singer inherits funeral business and a sexy mortician to go with.

Top Form

3/25 Thai WeTV

Adaptation of a Japanese manga. Boom (Chains of Heart) opposite Smart (Don't Say No). Actor recognized as the "The Sexiest Man of the Year" has his first-place position usurped by young newcomer. But while he sees them as rivals, turns out the new kid has other ideas.

My Sweetheart Jom

4/25 Thai YouTube

Saint is back in a BL? Who knew that would ever happen? When he gets tangled up with a mafia boss's son's girlfriend and ends up in a scuffle, young Yothin needs to find a safe place. Instead of sending him overseas, his father decides to send him to the countryside! There, he stays in Bang Pho under the care of subdistrict headman, a close friend of his father. He's also under the watchful eye of the village headman who happens to be the subdistrict headman's grandson and is overseeing his probation. As Yothin spends more time with Jomkhwan, his perception of the village headman begins gradually to change.

ANNOUNCED FOR 2025

No date as yet, alphabetical order.

8Hours

Thai

Season 2 of 4 Minutes.

A Dog and A Plane

Thai trailer

A prissy gay flight attendant in a push-pull relationship with an EMT dude-bro. Characters are a bit throwback to PeteKao (no bad thing) not to mention the looming shadow of What the Duck? (bad thing). But the side couple is the always appealing MarcPoon. Okay GMMTV, surprise me, I'm game. And you know TayNew are my OG GMMTV pair du jour.

Allure of the Siren

Thai trailer

Bitter rivals, Dao and Chaisai, are reluctantly thrust into an unprecedented partnership as they embark on a relentless quest to locate missing strippers.

Be My Soulmate

Thai

Star Hunter is putting MosBank back in uni. Engineering student shacks up with a judo jock, sexual tension is high but nothing changes until one of them becomes single.

Boys in Love

Thai trailer

Our only true high school BL from GMMTV and it's fresh faces for the youths and old favs for the teachers. It's milk teeth Make it Right and that is perfectly fine with me! I like lotte milk. Also DIMPLES! Yay! I suspect they're using this one to test some new pairs for future seasons. Like a Project 101 Thai BL.

(Honestly I just invented an amazing reality TV for you GMMTV, you're welcome.)

Burnout Syndrome

Thai trailer

GMMTV doing edgy is never a good thing IMHO, and in this one they're handling sex work. *shakes head* However, Not Me is the noted exception and this is that same pair with the same director. So I'm curious if not wild about the content. That said, I'm delighted to see Gun with someone else (Dew is a stunning choice, thank you Casting) even if only for a love triangle moment. It's been a WHILE.

Cat for Cash

Thai trailer

Finally something fluffy with a pair I like from GMMTV 2025. Looks cute. I like cute. Yay for me! Adorable gay boys and cats. This one is basically made to be a tumblr comfort meme meets thirst trap. I see what you're doing GMMTV and I applaud you. Carry on.

Doctor's Mine

Thai YouTube trailer

Another try at adapting Gown & Gear. Couldn't possibly be worse than the first attempt.

Eyes On You

Thai trailer

Fight for You

Taiwan

Da Hei reluctantly takes on dangerous odd jobs to earn medical funds, unaware that his roommate Xiao Bai is secretly an operative sent by the intelligence agency to take them down.

Flavor of Us

Thai trailer

A critic inherits a restaurant and his mother's debt and to keep the inheritance he has to hire the chef he hates.

Flirt Milk

Thai trailer

Originally slated for 2023, now entirely recast. The facial hair is KILLING me.

Friend to Fan

Thai WeTV trailer

Goddess Bless You From Death

Thai trailer

PavelPooh are back. Thup, a young man with extraordinary senses, is drawn into investigating a mysterious murder case involving brutally mutilated bodies found in the forest alongside the more rational thinker Singha.

Dare You to Death

Thai trailer

JoongDunk as police investigators in a mystery suspense thriller. Yes, I'm in. This is it. This it the one I wanted to instantly watch. Even though their's 20 BLs airing right now.

Head 2 Head

Thai trailer

The Boo kids are back. I don't love this pair (I find their chemistry and acting awkward) or the main trope (E2L) but I do like the new sides and their trope (2nd chance is a fav of mine). So this one will depend on whether those are full side dishes or just crumbs.

I Promise I Will Come Back

Thai-Taiwanese colab

Stars 2 Thai actors and the Taiwanese identical twins from H3, that's mostly intended to be a tourism advert for the Thai countryside.

I'm The Most Beautiful Count

Thai trailer

Not long after famous actor Prince came out as queer and rose to the top of the entertainment industry, he wakes up in the body of a good-looking noble in the Thongburi Kingdom of the past.

Interminable

October? Thai YouTube

BillyBabe are back in a reincarnation historical.

Khemjira AKA Spirit Reborn

Thai YouTube trailer

Was 2024 officially moved to 2025. Supposedly the scariest BL ever. Khem is born cursed. A daughter would be safe but a son dies at 20 so Khem’s mother cleverly gives him a girl’s name, Khemjira “forever safe.” But Knem is baout to turn 20 and he doesn't think it's working so he seeks the help of a curse-breaker, turns out to be his great love from a previous life.

Knock Out aka Knockout

Thai WeTV trailer

A low quality less fun and funny version of Wandee Goodday.

Got too long for tumblr find Part 2 here.

(source)

This post is static and not updated. All information is to the best of my ability at the very end of 2024. Not responsible for changes, cancellations etc...

[blissfulrain12]

Why do people think Curly faked Jimmy's psych eval?

No where does the game imply that Curly did this but I've seen a lot of people treat this as a fact. I've already talked about how the psych evals are pointless so it really doesn't matter but for the sake of accuracy I'll go over it.

Transcript I'm using for screenshots is from here. They've been doing a lot of these and it's super useful.

As you can see Jimmy literally asks Curly to just fake it for him and Curly's response is "we'll power through it" and starting the eval. This is just clearly the opposite of Curly faking it. He's literally making Jimmy do it. My best guess as to why there's confusion is the line after we skip forward.

I think the line "I'll just put "Good" for that one." was all people needed to completely ignore everything else and assume he faked it. It's a take that looks at a single line and stretches as far as possible to reach a malicious conclusion. We know from Curly's eval that the eval is multiple choice. It's not uncommon for an answer to fall between two choices causing a person to settle with the closest fit. In context of Curly denying Jimmy's request to fake the eval what makes more sense? Curly faking it anyway or choosing a best fit answer?

I've noticed that there's a certain view of Curly that some people have where even if it doesn't make sense with the rest of the story they'll ignore it to paint Curly in the worse light possible. I think this does a disservice to the narrative. Evil Curly who is aware of and actively helps Jimmy do awful things isn't present in the story. Dude bro Curly who would sacrifice everything for his bestie isn't there either. Curly is a character defined by inaction, by being a well meaning person who chooses wrong in a terrible situation.

[drkineildwicks]

So we went and saw Sonic 3 in theaters....

Did it because my uncle paid for it

For context the very last movie I saw in theaters until this one was Sonic 1 so this was functionally the triumphant return

My honest thoughts:

*Crush 40 voice* YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

I've been singing Sonic music, specifically Shadow's songs, ever since going that movie was excellent I loved it and Mom had to stop me several times from vibrating apart in my seat XD

Also Sonic movie 4 is confirmed??? 2027 let's gooooo

Seriously I was all excited for the new Palworld expansion but after this movie that one has to wait I'm replaying SA2 XD

And it beating Mufasa into the ground is absolutely hilarious to me XD

Now that I've seen it I'm listening to podcasts covering it and the fact that Sonic 3 is showing in fewer theaters and making double the money HA!

And disney trying to lie and getting completely trolled by the fans

Three d's or whatever the lady said that got her arrested but Sonic is handing broke disney its head and I am here for it

Spoilery stuff under the cut, if you haven't seen it yet go see it

Also fair warning this gets long

Okay let's open up by saying that whoever makes these movies are MASSIVE GameCube era fans

Because they were pulling from Sonic Adventure 2, Shadow the Hedgehog, and Sonic Heroes

And Eggman's final outfit was his Sonic 06 one!

Was Gerald's Nega-Robotnik from the Rush games? IDK I only played the second one

They finally gave him his theme song as his ringtone!

I was elbowing Mom and pointing out what was from which game I did this with Sonic 2 as well

Sonic 1 when we came home from the theater I sat her down in front of the TV and booted up SA1 and SA2 and showed her the bits that the movie had pulled from

The guy in the Prison Island control room reminded me of the computer nerd from White House Down but Mom and I can't confirm yet

But he did have Omega on his computer console X'D

Shadow escaping from Prison Island

SHADOW MEETING TEAM SONIC AND BASICALLY REINACTING THE OPENING TO SHADOW THE HEDGEHOG

SONIC 3 WITH A CHAO GARDEN SEGA COULD NEVER

Listen I LIVED in those gardens with SA1 and SA2 I was able to identify every single one of those Chao types XD

THEY HAVE CHEESE THE CHAO!

Me spending 90% of the movie pointing like Leo DiCaprio in that one movie like they did the thing! They said the line! and the rest just vibrating apart

I warned my uncle before going in, multiple times, that I would not be normal about this movie

I am not normal about this movie

And I keep joking with Mom that these movies were tailor-made for her XD

Reason being she liked movie 1 and ever since then they've been adding stuff she likes like Uptown Funk, Shemar Moore, Keanu Reeves, etc.

Now they added the Beach Boys X'D

Also Shadow joining Knuckles on the TV women deserve more respect couch

Seriously was that bit with Shadow and the telenovela a reference to Ghosts of the Future? Did they actually reference a fancomic???

Gerald Robotnik still being alive is interesting and framing it with him having one of Shadow's quills makes me wonder if that energy was what kept him alive

It would explain how Ivo Robotnik survived the end of Sonic 2

And with the fourth movie confirmed and Jim Carrey saying he loves the character, I'm left wondering if he's somehow going to come back again

Like realistically there should be no way but I said that about Sonic 2 as well

Also I love that he's retired but for playing Robotnik at this point X'D

That also makes me wonder if Sonic and company are rubbing off on Tom, Maddie and even Wade the same way

Like realistically Team Sonic was only gone for maybe two days? HOW did they get all that done in two days if they aren't operating at Sonic's speed honestly

Also SONIC HEROES REFERENCE

MULTIPLE Sonic Heroes references because when Tails carries the others it's how they do it in that game, Tails throws Sonic like he does in that game, Knuckles throws Tails like he does in that game, etc.

So I was wondering if they were going to bring in Silver so they could go into Sonic 06 but with introducing Metal Sonic and AMY ROSE they look like they're heading for a combo of Sonic CD and Sonic Heroes

More the latter because they've got like half the main cast of that game by now XD

Oh give me Team Chaotix

Also I'm glad they're evidently going with Amy's later characterizations of being a competent fighter instead of just running into danger because she's boy-crazy

Although when Knuckles was trying to talk Sonic down from using the Master Emerald in his enraged state (coupled with the Chaos energy Shadow could generate) I was wondering if that was leading into Chaos coming out of the Emerald and a SA1 adaptation

Also me telling Mom "he left it with Wade" for the movie to immediately hard-cut to Wade X'D

Knuckles series reference!

That show was good y'all just out here acting like it stole your firstborn you'd have never survived the 00s era

BLACK DOOM REFERENCE

I never finished Shadow the Hedgehog but him using a device that summons a black hole makes me think that was Black Doom tech

Shadow coming down in a meteor that looks like the big eye thing that follows you around if you take the evil route

And I find it interesting that they softened Maria's death from getting straight-up shot

I did not tell anyone in my family how she goes out until after the movie, btw

But arguably being that close to an explosion is worse and there's probably good reason she was in shadow in those scenes

GUN having to account for rings being able to take you anywhere you can visualize was a nice bit of worldbuilding

Didn't like the one lady tho

Don't know who the actress is but I don't think I'm fond of her either so that didn't help

I will say that I agree with Mom on the pacing of some of the jokes, I had that problem with the first two movies as well where a joke went for too long

But in listing the parts I would trim down (the two Robotniks dancing, the first telanovela scene, the bits in the gravity scene, etc.) it's all stuff that couldn't be thrown in because of all the work that had to go into it

Like Jim Carrey had to sit in a chair for hours with the Gerald makeup and then had to film it all twice

On that topic, the line with them hanging a lampshade on him playing two characters didn't need to be in there and made the scene run too long

Look, the biggest thing about comedy is that it has specific timing and if something runs too long or too short it throws the whole thing off

Although I kept expecting Stone to come up to Space Colony ARK with one of the Robotnik vehicles to save Robotnik

Eggman ends up broadcasting like he did before and it's to talk directly to Stone

And to be fair to Stone: after three movies of Robotnik saying he hates organics and only needs his machines, being upgraded to syco-friend is the best those two can do

Like dang Robotnik's out here like help me Max, I'm FEELING!

Robotnik's heart grew three sizes that day

They still managed to destroy the moon with the Eclipse Cannon XD

Shadow hurting so badly from what they did to Maria that he was willing to die firing said cannon and he was actively egging Sonic on and telling him to kill him...ouch

I do want to question them being able to have a whole chat on the moon considering there's no air and no atmosphere

Legit my first thought when they were doing that was Stitch and cousins from Lilo and Stitch: the Series because they didn't need suits either

And when I was picking it apart with Mom over breakfast this morning I eventually reasoned that the levels on Space Colony ARK towards the end of SA2 all do the same thing since if you miss a landing there you go, plummeting towards earth in a fireball

I love that of the three of them, Knuckles was the one who could handle the stress of reentry

My boi is as tough as he says

So is Tom apparently dude should not have survived that

Getting hit in the chest like that can stop your heart, as we found out with that football player a few years back--dude is very lucky his plot armor is thicker than the general's

I also like that Shadow, for all his planning to destroy the world and everything in it, looked like he felt genuinely bad for hurting Tom by mistake

And him and Sonic having that heart-to-heart

LIVE AND LEARN INTENSIFIES

Like they teased the song through the whole movie to have it BLARE OUT IN THE CLIMAX

Me trying to resist singing along in the theater X'D

Also petition to have the scene where Sonic and Shadow shake hands and clasp the others before going super be the new handshake meme

HAVING GUN ROBOTS COME OUT OF THE ARK

"Don't tell me you have your own catchphrase" X'D

Shadow with his motorcycle, casually doing a Ghost Rider straight up Tokyo Tower

Me elbowing Mom when Sonic follows: "I told you he could have run up the side of the Trans-American building in the first movie!"

Mom: "Oh yeah!"

They had the same posters in the background of the Tokyo shots as they did in the game YES

Also I noticed during one of the close-ups that Shadow's gloves have that same little smartphone-friendly patch that most modern gloves have??? In the seventies??? Dang Black Doom made sure he got the good gloves X'D

Like seriously I could pick apart this movie for YEARS it makes me so happy it was worth all the hype :D

I wasn't even expecting the first movie to be any good but three great movies and a TV show Sonic fans are eating good and apparently we're not done yet

I am SO ready \.o./

Anywho *goes back to running outside belting "Live and Learn" at the top of my lungs*

also good stuff for that one BH6 AU

[fictionstudent]

How to begin writing TODAY!

Writing is like a plant. It needs time, care, and love. Your stories won't write themselves—you need to put in the time to learn to write, and then actually write them down, y’know.

All of it takes time. A lot, I’m afraid. And it takes even more time to start seeing any form of results. People spend years honing their crafts before they even self-publish a single novella on Amazon.

That's why people don't get anywhere if they don't enjoy just the writing part—you can never earn from writing until you’ve spent a lot of time and resources into the craft. It’s kinda like YouTube—you need that watchtime on your channel before you can monetize. But the thing is: writing doesn't have a watchtime feature. You can't quantify how far you’ve come and how far you’ve still got to go.

You need to discipline yourself if you wanna get somewhere. But… how do you do that, lol? Here’s my two pennies on how to start writing, and keep up at it.

***

#01 - When to Start

You can’t pick up your laptop one random day and just start writing a story. Nope, that's not how it works, even though some might say otherwise.

A good writer should understand when is the right time to start typing the words out, y’know. If you have an idea for a story, you need to have some form of outline. Yeah, you can be a pantser—it’s a term used for those fiction writers who write without an outline—but at least you need some form of story. Know the beginning, at least. And know your characters.

Know something about your story, and the direction you want to take it, before you start putting pen to paper.

The reason I’m suggesting you this is because just inspiration is not enough. It can get you somewhere, but after a point, you might feel lost. Stories often end up in places where you might not want them to be, and then you just feel disheartened. Or, ideas might just stop hitting you after some point.

An idea of where to begin is enough, but you also need an idea of where to end. I’ve personally tried several times where I just had a single-line idea of a plot, and I wanted to create a story out of it. Didn't work. I personally need some loose outlines to start first.

What I’m trying to get at is you should know what’s the best time for you to start writing your story. Some don't write a single word before they know exact what happens when, and how. Some, like me, need some loose outlines. Some don't need outlines at all—just the first scene is enough to get them started.

Know what you are—a pantser, planner, or plantser—and start only when you feel like you have enough ideas that could keep you going for a couple weeks. Or if you feel like you could churn enough ideas that could keep you going.

***

#02 - Time

Writing takes time. And if you wanna get somewhere, you need to have a schedule.

Y’know, different writers might commit different amounts of time to writing. Some write once or twice a week, some (liek me lol) write everyday. And, you need to know which one works for you.

And—and I hate to be the bearer of bad news—it doesn't depend on you. The amount of time you can spend on writing depends more on your life. Are you a student? Or do you work?

And how many friends do you have? How busy is your work?

You need to take care of all these aspects of life that you can't mess up with, and then softly rearrange them all to fit something like writing in it. That’s why I hated the times when I shifted schools, houses, or when I was promoted to college. Because those shifts meant that I had to rearrange my day’s schedule again, and somehow fit writing in it.

And, before you start rearranging everything, I need to tell you something else—you need to be realistic about it. You can't just come back from college and sit back to write, y’know. If you generally take some rest during that time, take your rest. Please. Don't cut down on the time you rest or eat or sleep.

Why, you might ask? Is it because I care about you fellow writer? NO!

The thing is: it just won't work. You need sleep and food and rest to keep functioning, and if you think you can cut on that time and allot it to writing, you won't be able to keep on doing it long-term. You’d relapse. There would be days you’d be hungry, or sleepy, or tired, and you’d think you should just rather go take care of yourself instead of writing. And then you’d do that. And soon, you’d stop writing altogether.

I wrote at six to eight in the morning everyday for a couple of months. But I’m just not a morning person. I can't sleep before twelve in the night, and so I was sleeping for, like, four-five hours a night. You can't keep on going with that sort of schedule.

Firstly, I was sleepy all the time. When writing too, yeah—even though I’d just woke up and taken a bath—but also during my lectures. I slept through all of my political science classes and nearly failed that course. Zero-on-ten experience, not recommended.

Secondly, like I said, you’d relapse. Be true to yourself. You can't keep going on like this, man. Going to bed at one, waking up at five won't work for long. A recipe for disaster.

That's why I urge you to be realistic with the schedule that you make for yourself. Yeah, make a schedule. And appoint time for writing only where you know it’d work. Take enough rest, sleep, and use enough Instagram too. 

***

#03 - Know When to Skip

Yeah. There are, no doubts, going to be days when you just don't feel like it. Writing feels like a pain, ideas don't hit you anymore, you’ve just come from a stressful day at work and are tired. We’ve all been there.

At that point, you need to ask yourself: are you really tired, or are you just tired for writing?

I mean, if it’s the first, you should probably work on your schedule. If it’s a one-day thing, that’s fine. Skip it.

But, if it’s the second reason, you need to dig deeper. Why does writing tire you now? Why are you not interested in your story anymore? Where’s the spark gone?

There's a high chance that you’re just not motivated to write this story, y’know. Writing can be a pain for a lot of reasons.

One thing you need to keep writing is to keep yourself motivated. To keep yourself interested. Because that’s how you’d be willing to spend more and more time as days go by, y’know.

And, if it’s the second reason: don't skip. Sit down. Write. And think about what’s not working. And why is it not working. You need to diagnose this problem yourself, and then fix it.

***

#04 - Know When to Go on a Break

I can’t even stress on how many times I’ve tried skipping on trips with my family just because I wanted to write. And I should stress even more on how many times I’ve kept myself going on when I was burnt down to my core and needed a break.

When you’re too pumped up, you do all that stuff. But, as they say, even a lot of something is bad for you. Same with writing.

It’s kinda hard to believe, but that’s true. Firstly, don't skip on stuff. Live your life. If there are days your friends are calling you for a party, and that means you have to skip writing—do it. Skip writing.

Go travel with your family. Go live life, man. You don't just need the skills to write, after all—you need these experiences too. So go get ‘em.

Secondly, know when you’re burnt out. Regular hiatuses are important for any author. Don't start working on the next book of your trilogy if you’ve just completed the first. Go take a break first.

Don't push yourself too hard. I did that. Very recently. I was burnt out to my core, and it was hard pushing myself through. But I loved writing, so I made sure I took out two hours of my day for that.

But my story suffered. I lost all interest in it. Writers’ block hit me hard—even though I was working on a second draft, so I mostly knew where I was gonna take the story forward. I averaged around three-four hundred words a day—and that’s when I could actually write something—even though I used to average around fifteen-hundred a day. A big fall. And, there were days I just wrote a hundred words in two hours.

Those were some hard times, to be honest. I literally thought that I was probably growing out of it, and I was afraid if I did. Luckily, it was just a burnout, and a two-week’s break was enough to get me back.

And I’d scrapped the old project, lol. It was seriously bad.

Anyway, what I mean is that you need to know when to take breaks too. Writing is not just about writing. It’s also about learning about life.

***

Conclusion

I have an important announcement to make today. I’ve finally launched my very own newsletter! Yeah, that’s right. Now you’d find a really annoying click-me-master link at the very end of every single one of my blogs.

So, if you want more blogs like this one straight onto your inbox, click here!

I hope you have a nice day. Meet’cha next time!

[qoldenskies]

Do you have any writing tips? Especially for characterization/dialogue :>

uhhhh i am not a professional so take this with a grain of salt. here are things i think about a lot at least

i dont have any solid ideas on how i get my prose to be Like That, i am not super confident in it, but a thing ive tried to focus on it rhythm. this goes for dialogue too; if it sounds clunky in your mouth, unless its supposed to, it might be a sign to change it up and rephrase a little.

really long paragraphs are really, really, really really hard to read. fics that consistently have paragraphs that go beyond like 6 lines are borderline unreadable to me. i stick it out sometimes but a lot of the time the sight of a fat fucking Block will just make me click out immediately

its also always good to be punchy imo. i mean it depends on what style you're going for but i notice some of the best lines from my writing are just simple, single sentence-paragraph statements lmao

false starts and filler words are what i notice the most when it comes to stuttering, which is a thing pretty much everyone does unless they're speaking very intentionally (i keep it in mind for characters who are motormouths especially because our brains move faster than our mouths do sometimes). especially when people are stressed, they'll usually start with a sentence fragment and then say something completely different because they just found a better way to rephrase it <- its probably the thing i utilize the most. in general though people repeat words more than they t-t-talk l-like t-t-this, and even when i write more dirrect stuttering dialogue i try to make it. idk consonants i guess? sorry idk if this is helpful

i script a lot of my scenes before i write them out, which usually helps me keep things well-paced. i really only include action in the scripts when its in the midst of an action scene or if its relevant to the conversation in some way (or if i just have an idea and want to keep it in mind)

TAKE NOTES WHEN YOU GET IDEAS

save all your cool ideas for your active in progress story instead of storing them away for later. got a line of dialogue or an interaction that you want to put SOMEWHERE? see if you can fit it into your multichapter first, it might help you with ideas. more will come to you in the future with your later projects!!!

you dont need to plan everything out meticulously, most parallels in cw came to me in the midst of me writing them. the motif with raph and donnie and doors was a complete accident, as a good example. it fucks hard though lmao

also when plotting out multichapters i think in what i want to progress before anything else, so there's a sense of direction. with cw it was mostly what parts of cl i wanted to address, although i originally planned to make note of shelldon in like chapter fucking three and then it didnt happen until seventeen LMFAOOOOOOOO

okay thats all i got. im not a good advice giver .... im sowwy

[cyliarys-starlight]

I'm on the fence about the onesie (is there another word for it? I have a feeling onesie is only for pjs), on one side, the "this is supposed to be a military school uniform" side, it's terribly impractical. Ew, get it away from me. Also the belt is so hot, and I hate the cream line on the pants, on the shirt is cool, on the pants, get rid of it!

On the other side, the "this is a magical girl show, made with girls on mind" I'm all about it, the girls get the badass outfits and the boys are just there to be looked at. Same outfit every single time, they don't need anything else, they're simply not the main character. Tight Spandex, whoo hoo, turn around, do a little spin!

There's two wolves inside me, the writer says "kill the onesie", the other one says "boys in Spandex is the real gender equality"

Why don't the Specialists have formal wear? They have their cunty outfits for every occaison apparently: day to day, camping trips, beach visits, winter adventures and special missions.

But a school party? Princess balls? Coronations? They pull up in their schools uniforms. I really dislike it. They could easily design tuxedos or other formal outfits for the boys and just dress them up in them each time. Better than their skintight specialists outfits while their girlfriends look so beautiful in their dresses.

(Sky is the exception. But even he only gets something elegant after his own event in Eraklyon.)

[idontknow178]

"You are my lucky star

The whole wolrd knows it

as they see us in each other's arms

My fortune sent me your way

I exist just to be by your side

to breathe, to feel alive."

"Maestro in Blue" (Netflix) Episode 8 - Autoimmune Diseases