#i got most of this from behind the name and wikipedia

[sophiethewitch1]

What We Want - Chpt. 5 - Meet The Adams Family

In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe

(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!

SUMMARY

Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.

Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?

As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.

And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.

Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?

(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)

PREV - NEXT

The first thing you’d done when you woke up, still somehow in the Wayne manor, was pull out not-your phone and check the date. When it tells you that you are not, in fact, in some weird version of a time loop, you feel some measure of relief. The second thing you do is look your own damn name up on Google. There were over 3 million results. You have a Wikipedia page. If that hadn’t made you want to gag, the press from last night had you bumbling your way into the ensuite bathroom and puking into the toilet.

It’s still sitting on the bathroom floor, nauseous and achy and sweaty, your mouth washed out but still tasting foul, that you continue your research.

It’s just as you had suspected, your family was dead. Still dead. Well, shit. In the light of day, you supposed that made more sense. That there was no real reason to assume otherwise. You hadn’t for most of yesterday, but as soon as you’d thought that maybe there was a chance, your hopes had been dashed. Which was good, rip the bandaid off and all.

It was good. Things were good. They were fine, you were fine. You really wish you were a better liar.

Again you wash your mouth out. Root around the cabinets for some medical-grade mouthwash, do it again, and then you throw yourself into the shower. Again. You notice the soap smells like whoever’s clothes you stole. Refreshing and awakening, that mint and earth again. You think you can detect something floral in it too. It’s still masculine, but…

Wow, you are such a freak! You put down the fucking soap and manage to resist the urge to slam your head into the tiles. Your headache was bad enough already.

When you leave the bathroom, you glance at the door, and then down at your towel. Guess you’re stealing some more apparel. You find a Superman shirt, give it a judging glance, and then pick out a black T-shirt with ‘The Beatles’ across the front, and some sweatpants. You have to roll up the pant legs so you don’t trip and fall flat on your face.

One hand scrolling through Twitter and TikTok and Reddit and every single piece of social media you could find, getting the people’s source of news and you get the high overlords’ one when you turn on the huge TV attached to the wall. The remote kind of confuses you at first, but you manage to find the good ol’ Gotham news channel.

Immediately, you’re greeted by your miserable mascara-streaked face. You turn the TV off. You take a deep breath. Turn it back on. Luckily it’s not just you getting your private moment of trauma blasted open in the media. Your party had been filled with Gotham’s elite, after all. You weren’t the only rich idiot left crying by the side of the road.

You weren’t the only one who had to suffer. There had been twenty-eight casualties, in total. A small amount, considering the man behind the deaths. The Joker wasn’t known for his cleanliness. You tell yourself that, and yet still, you can’t make them just numbers. They’d been standing right next to you, after all. All in the same boat, all waiting for the axe to swing, secretly hoping you’re the one who lives to the next day. Only one of the party guests had been shot, and that’s because you think they’d personally pissed off the Joker. That’s what Twitter says, anyway. There were multiple video recordings of the altercation, and it didn’t look like he’d been the smartest banana in the bunch. The TV is a lot sweeter on the dead soul.

You feel sorry for all the dead. You still don’t think this rich heir should be the face you see, though. When you check his name, you find several forgotten assault cases. Assault, rape, just like that disappearing bastard had tried to do to you. That female janitor you’d seen shot had done more for this city than that guy ever had.

Did her family know? Did she have a family? Someone to mourn her? You’d never thought about that before. How many people out there wouldn’t have anyone to even remember them?

It’s none of your business, in the end.

After a whiles more research, you switch the TV off and tuck your cracked phone into the sweatpants. You know where your mother’s grave is, on the west side of the estate. Wikipedia knew all, which was now kind of creepy to you as it knew all about you as well. Really, you couldn’t believe it. Your mother, buried with the Waynes? You’d always thought she should find someone new, someone who’d appreciate her, unlike your father who had dipped as soon as Sam was born.

You couldn’t even remember the guy. Still, you remembered that he’d smelled bad and made your Mum do everything, and was just generally all around the worst choice for a husband.

But, Jesus Christ, Bruce Wayne? Absolute insanity. You had no idea how the two of them would’ve even met. Let alone fall in love and get married. Your mother was one of the loveliest women on earth but… they had absolutely nothing in common, other than having troublesome kids. And you hadn’t seen her getting lovey-dovey with the other PTA mums.

You walk out of the room you’ve borrowed and into the hallway. In the light of day, the Wayne manor is much less creepy, and you can find it in yourself to appreciate the antique space. Warm sunlight falls over dark oak furniture, illuminating your bare feet as you walk along the Persian rug. Your fingers trail along all the tiny little decorations, some annoying part of you demanding you leave traces of yourself behind. Your fingerprints dirty an old clock, a golden candelabra, a lamp and a tiny spinning globe.

You might’ve gotten lost in a place this huge if you couldn’t hear people’s voices floating down the halls. They were too far away for you to be able to tell what they were saying, but you could still hear them. They’re to the west, so you’re definitely going to have to go past them.

You follow the voices and eventually come to a stop in a hallway. You can smell food. Good, real food. The type that makes your instant-ramen-powered body salivate. The people are in the kitchen, right around the corner. You duck your head and quickly sneak past the mostly closed doorway. On the other side, you pause, your curious self unable to leave just yet.

“She needs help,” Bruce says, and you mentally curse. Balls. You didn’t want to hear this. You guess this was instant karma for snooping. Maybe they weren’t talking about you?

Why did that sound very unlikely…

“She went through a lot last night,” he continues, which, well, yes, you did go through a lot, “And he said that she saw a woman get shot right in front of her. It makes sense if she doesn’t want to talk yet.”

He? Who’s he? Who ratted you out? Wait, dumb question, the four other witnesses who saw the janitor get shot. You were still pretty sure the Waynes weren’t supposed to know that, but everybody knew those GCPD pigs were always just a dollar away from whatever you wanted them to do. It’s not surprising that the Waynes know details only the police should know at the moment.

…It is a bit disappointing, though. You chose to have hope in them, that they’d gotten that information legally. Your fatal obsession with the Waynes wasn’t going to disappear after one miserable party. You wished it would.

“She was acting strange before that,” Timothy Jackson Drake’s smooth voice drifts from the kitchen. You were still a little starry-eyed over him, which was… bad, you think. It’d definitely make whatever relationship the two of you had been forced into a whole lot more difficult. It did not need to be any more difficult.

“Are you accusing her of something?” Bruce Thomas Wayne’s voice is gravelly in comparison, angry, maybe. Also, ‘accusing’? What could he even be accusing you of? It was pretty obvious you weren’t capable of anything nefarious, you were far too stupid for that. You were a plastic bag drifting along the Gotham river, barely able to affect which direction you flowed in.

“God no. And I definitely wouldn’t do it with her listening, that’d be rude.”

Your breath hitches, and you push off from the wall. Busted, damn. Your face feels unbelievably hot. As you leave, you can hear Mr Wayne scolding his adopted son. You walk until you can’t hear their voices anymore, and then a little further, finding an exit door.

You stumble out onto a stone staircase, probably a servants’ one in the olden days. You move down it, hand gripping the railing. You’re barely conscious of where you’re going. There’s a path that leads away from the stone manor and further into the estate, and you follow it. When you spot a small gated area, with stone obelisks and angel statues, you veer off the path and onto the grass.

Hissing out a breath, it’s only now you realise you went outside without any shoes on. Your toes curl in the cold, wet grass. It’s a miserable feeling, and you want to walk right back inside. And then you think about the awkward conversation waiting for you, take a breath and keep going. The gates swing open easily under your hand, the golden embossed ‘W’ glinting in the light.

A guardian angel stands before you. Its stone face is disapproving, glaring down at you from above. ‘Interloper,’ it calls you, but you move past it without pausing. It’s pretty obvious which graves are the new ones and which are the old ones. They’re all clean and well-kept, but the ones to the left have dates going back hundreds of years, and the ones to the right only decades. Your eyes follow the rows of graves. Thomas Wayne, Martha Wayne…

Your breath whistles out of you, nearly muffled by the grey morning wind.

And your mother. She has a different last name, now another Wayne. Your siblings don’t, which makes sense. You’re surprised to find many of your extended family also in this graveyard. Your grandmother. Your uncle and aunt. A few of your cousins.

It’s cold this morning, and you’re out here with only a thin T-shirt on. Shivering, you rub your palms against your bare arms. It doesn’t do much. Still, you don’t want to go inside yet. Instead, you crouch in front of Sam’s grave, eyes reading the tiny epitaph. It’s not the one you wrote.

‘Beloved Son and Brother.’

Simple, clean-cut, formal… unfamiliar, you suppose. Yours had been much more flowery, ‘All the colour in the world is gone without you’. It was a bit silly, but you’d never said you were a poet. You’d just known you’d wanted something that represented them, if poorly.

Sam was a beloved son and brother. But that wasn’t who he chose to be. He liked colours. He’d change his favourite every other day, so he liked everything rainbow. It made it easier to choose which one he’d like next, he said. You were always buying him more and more coloured pencils because he’d wear them all down to the tips, he dyed the cat a bright red headache, much to your mother’s horror, and considered it his personal job to make every single birthday, christmas, and easter card. He’d paint on the walls in washable markers, and you’d often been the one to volunteer to help him get it all down. In school, he always had the best art project out of the entire class, even if you were slightly biased.

He was a colourful kid. He wasn’t… a plain grey tombstone. Nothing to help remember him, because you were always losing more and more of their precious memories.

The others had similarly impersonal graves. Just what they were, not who. Mother, sister. Nothing that spoke of how they’d lived their lives, what the world had lost when they’d died. It was… you didn’t think it was right. It was a disaster, really. Even when you’d had to rely on the Wanye Foundation donations, you’d managed a better resting place than this.

You suppose you’d never gotten them into the Wayne family’s personal graveyard, though. That was a bit of an upgrade, you guess.

“You need to come back inside. You’re worrying my father.”

“Jesus Christ!” you shriek, leaping backward. Your foot catches on one of the cobblestones, and you end up tipping back farther than you mean to, your ass bruising against the ground. You bump another gravestone, and there’s a horrible moment where it gives a little and you think it’s going to knock over.

It doesn’t. A shining miracle on your day.

From your slightly wet seat on the ground, you look up, finding one such Damian Al Ghul-Wayne. His towering height is the first thing you notice, second his stunning emerald green eyes. Both were incredibly shocking in their own ways, but his height really was almost dizzying. Perfect brown skin and a stylish 'long on the top, short on the sides’ black haircut, paired with the sort of face some European model might have, all come together to make sure you feel as pathetic as possible. His posh-looking outfit doesn’t help.

Neither does the fact he just watches you. He doesn’t even pretend to bend over to help you up. Which you’re sort of grateful for, honestly. It’d just make you more embarrassed. You didn’t know if you could hold the hand of your celebrity crush and… well, be normal. Pretend to be normal. You weren’t doing a very good job of it anyway.

You have to wonder, which was the worst introduction? The drunk, the bloody, or the one where you fell on your ass? God, you really are screwing this all the way up. You wonder how you’re inevitably going to make it even worse. There’s a part of you that desperately doesn’t want to meet any of the other Waynes, even as another part of you is screaming that it needs to.

If they knew they had a fangirl in their graveyard, you’re sure they’d kick you out. That was why you were lying about everything, not because you had intimacy issues.

Stop thinking, you idiot! You’re only making things more difficult for yourself with all your worrying and fretting. And maybe you should get off the ground, you looked stupid. You push to your feet, wiping your dirtied hands on the sweats.

He still doesn’t say anything when you stand, still just staring at you. His open staring is far too intimidating, so you scrounge for something to say.

“Your father? You- Is he alright?” you stammer over your words, giving Damian Wayne an awkward smile. He doesn’t return it, instead canting his head towards one of the windows.

You look toward where Damian Wayne gestured to, find nothing but an empty window frame, and then back to the ridiculously tall man. You swear, the guy had grown like a bean pole. He had to be something ridiculous, like 6’5, or maybe more. You were fairly certain you’d been taller than him at twelve, or thirteen, whenever it was he was first introduced to the world as Damian Wayne. Now, now… not so much.

“There’s nobody in there?” you ask, like you’re questioning your sanity. You are.

“My father’s shy,” He says, coolly shrugging one shoulder.

What. Bruce Wayne? Shy? Was he joking or something?

Damian Wayne stares down at you with narrowed green eyes, and dark brows in a harsh frown. His arms are crossed over his rich kid sweater, shiny black shoes tapping against the cobbles. That’s not the face of someone who makes jokes, you think.

You swallow, mind whirring as you try desperately to fix this conversation, “Right. Okay. I’ll… I’ll come back inside, then. Sorry for bothering you guys.”

He keeps staring at you. He doesn’t seem bothered.

“Sorry for bothering him?” you correct.

Damian gives one slow, cat-like blink of his eyes, and then turns with a tsk and walks away. It takes you a moment to realise you’re meant to follow him. It takes you even longer to actually catch up with him because he’s so fucking tall.

On TV he didn’t look this tall. You feel kind of betrayed, which is weird.

As you’re walking along, getting closer back to the manor, a stick or something pokes you in the foot. You curse, grabbing your foot. Thankfully you don’t start bleeding or something. You’d already be tracking dirt all over the inside of the impeccable space, you didn’t want to bring blood in as well. It takes a moment for you to realise the sound of Damian’s footsteps crunching in the grass has stopped, and you glance up.

He’s staring right at you again. He looks even less impressed with you, raising an eyebrow and mouth ticking downward. You put your foot down and tuck your hands behind your back in a very obvious anxious display.

“You went outside not wearing any shoes?” Damian Wayne asks, incredulous.

“I was… yeah, I forgot to,” you say, shrugging your shoulders. Not your best moment, but you weren’t really having any of those today. Or yesterday. Or the day before. Maybe you should stop thinking about that, actually.

“That’s disgusting,” The young Wayne sneers, and then turns and gives you his shoulder.

You think your heart maybe cracks a little. Well, they do say to never meet your idols. Maybe whoever wrote that quote had you in mind specifically, because now you were in… this situation. Ex-step-sister. If that was a thing. Your Wikipedia page said that you said that a lot, very insistent that you had absolutely nothing to do with the Waynes.

…It didn’t really look like you had nothing to do with the Waynes, from an outsider's perspective. Which obviously didn’t make any sense, since you were… you. You were not an outsider, not anymore.

This was too complicated. You needed a coffee. With like, so much sugar it’ll make you bounce from the walls.

Damian strides up the side entrance’s staircase and through the door, leaving it open for you to follow through. You hesitate at the doorway, looking over your shoulder to the graveyard. The statue calls you names in the distance, and although you feel like a stranger who doesn’t belong here, you manage to step back into the house.

You force yourself to walk through the hallway and into the kitchen, fists clenched tight at your side and your shoulders bunched up to your ears. Bruce Thomas Wayne, Timothy Jackson Drake, and the butler from earlier. Damian Al Ghul Wayne steps around the trio, picking some drink from the counter and moving to sit at the dining table at the edge of the room. There’s an open book on the table that he starts flicking through, and well, apparently that’s the end of your first conversation with the youngest Wayne.

You did… well, alright might be pushing it. You're still going to say you did alright.

Tim Drake gives you a sweet smile, catching your attention. The silky raven hair of his heart-shaped fringe falls over his beautiful, pale face, and for a moment there you totally forget that he’d called you out earlier like that. Which was just, such an odd thing to do. His hand lifts to scratch at the buzz cut under the floppy strands of hair. The movement mesmerises you. You look away from his sky blue eyes, very quickly realising they’re robbing you of the few remaining brain cells you have. And you need those, damn it. Especially because you’d already made the decision to hide from all your problems like a baby. Negative, negative…

“How’re you doing today?” Tim asks you, giving you a friendly greeting. It’s a welcome olive branch.

“I’m good,” you lie like you breathe, eyes glancing around the space. Bruce Wayne has his phone out and a mug of coffee in his hands. He sips from the cup, his focus swallowed by the tiny screen. You glance back over to Damian Wayne. Huh, it really does run in the family.

Your neck prickles, and you glance back at Tim again. You get a brief vision of his tired, unsmiling expression, and then it’s back to the angelic and gentle smile. You smile back at him, a wretched, awful twisting of the lips that you hope doesn’t look like a grimace.

Tim’s smile turns into a grin. It’s really too pretty and makes you shift in your seat uncomfortably. Damn it all, look away!

“Would you like some breakfast, young miss? I’m afraid we’ve run out of pancakes, but I’d be happy to make some more for you,” the butler says in an awfully familiar British accent. You think you know this person, but you can not remember from where. Shit. Your memory was bad on the best of days, much less after… after an event like last night.

Anyway, the food from earlier had been pancakes. Despite the delicious scent, you really didn’t want to make him make any more food for you. You felt like you were intruding as it was.

“Do you have any toast, or… cereal?” you suggest instead, wondering if rich people even bother with cereal. The butler chuckles, and you think, ‘Oh, yeah, probably not’.

“We have both, miss. Master Grayson has a particular fondness for cereal, in fact,” he informs you, which, oh, cool. You did in fact know that, you stalker you. You’d totally forgotten about that weird fact or the weird fact that you knew that weird fact. Dick Grayson has an Instagram where he posts reviews of different cereals, which of course you have notifications on for.

“It’s more of an obsession,” Tim says, resting his palm in his hand as he… continues to stare at you. Nobody else thinks his ogling is strange, so you try to ignore it as well. Try is the choice word.

“I like cereal too. It’s normal,” you say in defence of Dick, a natural and instinctual urge.

And apparently, the fact that you like cereal is fucking shocking, judging from the open-mouth looks the group gives you. Oh no, you’re supposed to hate him, right? You’re supposed to hate them all, actually. What had you called him on your phone? Something about being annoying and a dickhead?

Swallowing your inner scream, you move around the counter and towards the cupboards. Whatever, they’ll have to deal with this new and improved version of you, which didn’t despise everyone in the room. Along with being a terrible liar, you were also pretty bad at keeping secrets.

You don’t want to think about that, so instead you turn to Alfred.

“So,” you start, “Can I see your cereal collection?” you ask, like a totally normal person. Man, this cupboard’s looking pretty head-smashable right now.

This family has more tact than yours did, because they all manage to put their eyes back to what they were doing and pretend you weren’t acting really, really out of character. Rich people. They’re good at overlooking the crazy.

“Of course,” the butler clears his throat, “In here, you’ll find Master Dick’s collection-” score! Not another fan can claim this right, “-and in the fridge a carton of milk. Are you sure I couldn’t serve it for you, miss? I understand you might still be a little…”

His voice trails off. Little what?

He glances at the others and then leans in close like he’s going to tell you a secret. Behind a hand, he whispers, “Hungover.”

Ah. Well, yes, but you were a big girl who could make her cereal, even on hangover days. Kind of embarrassing it was that obvious, though. You were usually better at hiding how much of a mess you were.

“I’ll be fine, thank you,” you say, and the butler nods and backs off. You’re pretty sure at this point that he was the one who called you yesterday morning, but you still couldn’t quite recall his name. When you were out of sight, you’d check your phone for his contact information.

See? You could do this. Stealthy.

As you start perusing through the cereal options, Tim gets up from his spot by the counter and comes to stand next to you at the breakfast bar. He heads straight to the coffee machine, and you glance at it longingly.

It’s one of those cafe-quality fancy espresso makers, with an Italian name embossed in silver on the top. Tim manipulates the machine like a master, which you’re very jealous of because it might as well be alien technology to you. You miss your shitty drip coffee, at least that dingy little machine was loyal to you. Better than George.

“Coffee?” Tim Drake offers, glancing at you. Ah, the starry eyes are back. While Damian Wayne had been a mildly disappointing introduction, Mr. Drake was just reinforcing your celebrity worship. And of course, because your brain works against you, his offer reminds you of the daydreams you’d had on your first twenty-first birthday. Coffee shop au real person fiction- a new low, even for you.

Flustered, you look up at the ceiling. The old mansion is decorated in every single available corner, the plaster above spreading across the entire surface with delicate filigree and pretty curling patterns. It’s gorgeous, absolutely entrancing. That’s what you tell yourself at least.

“Please,” you say, your voice just the slightest bit too quiet. He hears you anyway.

It’s surprisingly domestic. Of course, you don’t know any of these people past face value and Wired YouTube interviews, but… it’s quite indulgent. This is sort of your dream, isn’t it? A full house of people enjoying their morning together. Peaceful bird song drifting in through open windows. The comfort of being around people you trust, not having to perform or put on a show. Well, you are very much putting on a show right now. It’s the thought that counts, or whatever.

“What would you like in it? We have sugar, milk, oat milk, and I like having a few syrups on hand,” Tim chatters excitedly, listing off the different ingredients he has on offer. Your poor ass stares at his rich one, and you are very rudely reminded these people live in different tax brackets than you.

Who the fuck had coffee syrups in their house? You could barely afford the little treats of caramel syrup you get every couple of months. The disappearance of the middle class was one you had witnessed personally.

You rattle off a very basic, bland order. Tim looks sort of disappointed in you which… well, you could be a coffee snob. You just didn’t have the time, usually. A flat white kept you going through the day, you didn’t need anything else. And so, Tim hands you a very bland coffee, and it is god sent. You can’t imagine how good it would be if you had mustered up your courage and asked for some caramel syrup.

Huh, you could be a coffee snob. You could be anything you wanted, really. And your first thought is being a coffee snob. Good God.

“Are you going to be staying?“ Bruce Wayne asks, immediately putting you on the spot. You weren’t ready for this, you were thinking about the coffees you could buy. Oh no, you really aren’t ready for this.

“At least for now, right?” Tim Drake says, just making it all the more stressful. You let out an awkward chuckle, fingers tight around your drink.

“Oh, I don’t want to be an inconvenience-”

Damian Wayne slams his mug down on the table, so hard a crack splinters up its side. He picks the cup up, strides across the kitchen, narrowed green eyes meeting yours for a second, and then he dumps the cup in a secret rubbish can. He murmurs an apology to the butler and then is out of the room.

Okay, well, you certainly feel like an inconvenience.

The butler clears his throat, and says, “Please forgive young master Damian. He’s been having a difficult time recently, I hope you can understand.”

And you think, ‘bitch, a difficult time?! He’s not the one who almost died last night!’ but what you say is, “Of course, I completely understand. I don’t want to bother him anymore so I’d really like to leave today.”

Mr. Wayne laces his fingers together, blue eyes giving you an assessing look.

“Stay for the day, and you can leave tonight. I want to make sure you’re truly alright,” he eventually says, and the mere presence of the man has you yielding to his commands. Didn’t really matter you were an adult who’d managed to survive this long on your own, you were listening to the big scary guy when he told you what to do.

Well, that’s that! You make your cereal and have a very quiet breakfast. You can’t tell if they’re being quiet because you’re here, or if mornings are usually like this. You hope they’re usually like this. Once you’ve finished your very nice cereal (one of the highest rated on Dick’s Instagram) you place the bowl by the sink. You want to wash it, but when you ask Alfred he gives you a look like you kicked his dog. Okay, you’ll just go then.

You’re about to sneak away, when you realise Tim’s staring at you… again…? But this time he seems quite focused on your clothing. His eyes follow the double lines on the side of your sweatpants, before settling on the Beatles logo on your shirt. He hums at it. Raises his brows.

“I’m sorry, I borrowed this because I didn’t have any other clothes. Is there something wrong with me wearing this?” you ask, and then experience a moment of horror, “This doesn’t belong to you, does it?”

“Hmm?” Tim chirps, “Oh, no, don’t worry. It’s not mine.”

And then he turns away from you in a very clear dismissal. Nice, you really wanted to go hide for an hour or two. With one last awkward wave to Bruce Thomas Wayne, you scurry out of the kitchen and back to the bedroom you’d started thinking of as yours. You need to figure out how you're going to handle all this, and you're going to do it alone. Maybe with some dessert, if you can find it. You wouldn't say you think better with sugar running in your veins, but it definitely makes you more willing to deal with the bullshit that is your life. Hopefully it'd work in your new one, too.

-

Tim listens to your retreating footsteps, waiting till you’re far enough away to begin talking to Bruce. Humans were creatures of habit, so you’d probably be going back to the same room you slept in last night. He thinks Damian and him were the only ones who noticed whose shirt you were wearing, B’s off his game today. You’ve really managed to mess him up, to Tim’s delight.

“See? Dames was totally fine with her being here,” Tim says, cheerily enjoying his youngest sibling’s suffering. Bruce sighs, witheringly, lifting his hand to rub against the headache he always has. He’s probably noticed the excited, slightly fanatic gleam that’s entered into Tim’s eyes.

It was sort of obvious. This was all so exciting! You’d come back, sporting absolutely none of the defensive vitriol you usually have, and ate breakfast together. You took a coffee out of Tim’s hands. You’d willingly spoken to the devil, who everybody in the family knew hated you as much as you hated him, and even more than that-

You’d spoken to Bruce. Tim was sporting the idea that you’d gotten head trauma, at this point in time.

“Okay, fine. You get the mission, but-” Tim has to resist the urge to clap his hands together like a gleeful child “-but no extra cameras. I’m serious, Tim, if I find out you’ve invaded her privacy just after she’s starting to warm up to us again-”

“She wouldn’t know,” Tim complains, cutting the Bat off with a roll of his eyes.

“She’s smarter than you’d think,” Bruce shakes his head. Tim has to disagree, after the catastrophe that was last night. Unless of course, you were just playing with them all. So many options, it’s dizzying.

“We’ll shelve that argument for later. So, I want full control of the case, and in turn, I’ll do another two weeks as CEO,” Tim waves off Bruce’s complaints, going straight into haggling. The CEO position was tossed between the two of them like a hot potato, and it was one of Tim’s favourite bargaining tools.

“I am absolutely not agreeing to that, a month and nothing less.”

“This is why half your children don’t talk to you, but sure, whatever. Chase away your last, loyal loving son-”

“My God, Tim. Three fucking weeks, and if I hear another word I will hand this matter over to Grayson,” Bruce sighs, sounding a bit defeated.

Tim gives an offended gasp, placing his hand against his chest. And then he realises Bruce might actually be serious, and freaks out a bit.

“He’d be bad for it. Far too personally involved. You definitely don’t want to do that,” he says, leg bouncing under the table. Of course, the Bat notices, but he doesn’t mention it. He wouldn’t take this from Tim, they both knew he was getting too frazzled around the edges. He needed something to focus on, to ground him.

You were the perfect project. He loved his projects.

“I am aware. But the girls are out of town, and uncontactable. And I think if I gave Damian this assignment the two of them would kill each other.”

“No Jason option, sir?” Tim says because he’s a shit-stirrer and wants to get to work.

Tim succeeds in chasing Bruce away. He’s left to have his coffee in peace as the old man quickly flees the room at the mention of the son he's on the worst terms with. For the next few hours, Tim taps away on his computer, enjoying his time.

And when the front doors open, his ears prick, and a decidedly evil grin spreads on his face.

“I’m home!” Dick calls out, words travelling through the grand manor.

Tim gets up from his seat and wanders leisurely to the main hall, where Dick stands. He’s got a suitcase by his side, filled with all the things he’s brought up from the Blud. When he spots Tim, Dick’s face spreads in a familiar sunny smile. He quickly rushes to Tim’s side, swallowing the younger brother in a hug. Tim groans at the tight squeezing.

Despite his clinginess, it was good to see him. His tanned skin glowed healthily, and his curly black hair was messy over his brow. Sapphire blue eyes sparkled. He was happy to be home, despite everything that was going on. Dick always looked like he’d just gotten back from a run because he usually had. It was hard to get the guy to sit still for even a minute, much less stop parkouring over every imaginable surface.

“Tim! How’s it been? Ah, it’s so good to be home,” Dick starts, and again, Tim groans. When Dick starts yammering he never stops.

“I’m good, man. We can talk later, you should go put your things away before Alfred does,” Tim reminds Dick, and Dick pouts. It was a general rule that unless it was cooking, the family wasn’t supposed to rely on Alfred for everything.

“Alright, alright. I’ll be down in a minute! I have so much to tell you,” Dick relents, hand lifting to mess with his hair. Tim pushes him off, glaring at the man, and Dick laughs.

Tim gives Dick a tired wave as the gymnast bounds up the stairs to his bedroom. Tim watches him disappear down the hallways, and thinks, ‘I wish I could see this happen.’ He sighs, guess he’ll just have to hear Dick retell the story later. The distant sound of your shrieking voice has him chuckling. Yeah, he’ll hear about it later, he’s sure.

MASTERLIST - NEXT

#Series:WWW #yandere batfam #batfam x reader #yandere dc #yandere batfamily #yandere x reader #dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #damian wayne x reader #robin x reader

[fizzydrink698]

conflict, conceal, confess | minho

kinktober day 31: thigh-riding

pairing: lee minho x reader

word count: 18.1k (💀)

genre: college au, enemies to lovers, (modern!consort au)

warnings: sexual content (thigh-riding, oral sex, fingering, handjob, marking, a whole lot of smut honestly, like 6k words of it), swearing, an ungodly amount of academia

summary:

“Why don’t we call a truce?”

Minho blinked, caught off-guard. “Truce?”

“Yeah. No more arguments…” you trailed off, the words already sounding hollow and you were the one saying them. “OK, maybe some academic debate. But nothing personal.”

“Nothing petty,” Minho added, giving you a pointed look.

It took an impressive amount of willpower to force your smile to stay on your face. “Exactly. We somehow managed it as kids. How hard could it be to do it again?”

“Your brother is such an asshole.”

You wondered how many of your conversations with Felix had started with those exact words. In the years since childhood, there had probably been countless variations of this very situation: you collapsing into a seat near Felix, ready to unleash after biting your tongue for however many hours beforehand.

His reaction was second nature at this point. Without even glancing towards you, Felix paused in the middle of rolling out what looked to be shortbread dough and turned to switch on the coffeemaker. “What is it this time?”

“Do you remember how many new people signed up to debate at the start of the year? Had to be at least twenty, right? Maybe thirty?”

“At least thirty,” Felix confirmed. “I gave out blondies to every person that signed up. The entire pan was gone in like an hour.”

Yes, you remembered that day. Specifically, you remembered Felix holding up the empty pan with a big smile on his face and proudly declaring how many people had shown interest in joining. And you’d had to figure out how to politely break it to him that the hordes of first-year students walking back and forth in front of his table were eyeing a little more than just his baked goods.

Sweet boy. Sweet, innocent, oblivious boy.

“Guess how many are left,” you challenged him, eager to prove a point.

Felix frowned, thinking it over. “There were still about fifteen when I was last there. So, ten?”

“Six,” you exclaimed, balling your hand into a fist and planting it onto the tabletop for dramatic effect. “And Minho made one of them cry today.”

In just a few years, you and Minho had transformed your university’s debate team into one of the most successful in the country. You’d won awards, you’d attended international competitions, you’d gained notice from several notable figures in academia. Membership of the debate team had gone from a minor footnote you’d discard in an application to a badge of prestige, of recognised talent.

Minho’s standards were high, shockingly so, but he got results. As a second-in-command in all but name, it was usually up to you to run damage control, to nudge members towards persevering instead of walking out the door. The good cop to his bad cop, the carrot to his stick. You’d be tempted to call it exhausting, were it not for the undeniable rush of satisfaction whenever you succeeded in building up a member where Minho failed.

Lately, however, your efforts were starting to fall short. In just eight weeks, over twenty recruits had quit before team selections had even finished.

“Oh, jeez,” Felix muttered. Before he could say anything more, the coffeemaker chirped behind him, and he wasted no time pouring you the biggest cup he had lying around.

You motioned it over with greedy little grabby-hands, accepting it with a smile.

Felix returned to his shortbread dough and picked up a star-shaped cookie cutter. “Why did they cry?”

You made a vaguely displeased noise through a mouthful of coffee, only managing to word a response when you set the mug down. “I don’t even know. This week’s debate was on the ethics of nuclear power, and I could tell she took pretty much all her talking points from Wikipedia. I assume it was about that. Minho probably got all Minho about it and tore her to shreds.”

Felix paused. You wondered if it was just because he was concentrating on his cookies, until you realised he was hesitating. “…I don’t know. I know Minho takes this stuff seriously, but he’s not the kind of guy to make some poor kid cry over debating.”

“Why not?“ You asked, and you can’t stop the bitterness creeping out into your voice. “It’s nothing he hasn’t done before.”

“Oh…” Felix said, eyes widening in realisation. He lifted his head up to look at you, sympathetic. “Shit, yeah. I’m sorry.”

For the most part, you’d gotten over your experience in high school debate club, but the memories still stung a little.

You’d been so eager, signing up the very second you were eligible, talking Felix’s ear off about how excited you were, how much you were looking forward to it. You’d known that Felix’s older brother - a year ahead of you - was somewhat of a big deal in the club, and you’d maybe imagined him taking you under his wing. Looking out for you, encouraging you with gentle feedback and a warm smile.

You’d gone into your first debate, attempted to expand upon the few points you’d known about the topic, and shyly waited for Minho’s counterarguments.

He had stepped up to the microphone, levelled you with a blank stare, and eviscerated every single argument you’d made. Pointed out every logical fallacy, every gap in your research, every misspoken or poorly worded statement, everything. He’d cut you right to the bone, with zero mercy.

You spent the rest of the club meeting holding back tears, ran all the way to Felix’s house as soon as it was over, sobbing your eyes out – and actually, maybe that was the first of many “your brother is an asshole” exchanges.

Huh. Funny how things come full circle like that.

When Minho returned home about a half-hour after you, you’d stormed into his room and demanded to know why he would treat you so badly. Did he want to drive you away from the club? Did he secretly hate you this whole time?

You’d never forget his response. The shrug he gave you, the arch of one eyebrow as he took in the sight of you, burning with rage, fists clenched by your side. The fucking sigh.

I just thought you’d do better than that.

What a fucking thing to say to a fourteen-year-old. Especially one that looked up to him the way you did.

And, deep-down, there was a certain sting that accompanied his words. Something you could never bring yourself to admit out loud, not even to Felix. An extra flash of pain, because back then you’d…

Whatever. It was ancient history.

You had almost quit on the spot. Instead, you dove headfirst into researching the next week’s topic, determined to beat him, paranoid about every little mistake he might pick at.

And that…

Well, that was your life for the next nine years. Even that one blissful year when Minho had graduated, the year you’d taken over as head of debate club, the year you’d gotten your team all the way to nationals - he still didn’t leave you in peace.

He’d turned up to that final competition, gaze intense, face neutral. You’d spotted him in the audience, unable to tear your eyes away, watching every little twitch of his jaw, every tiny shift in expression, and knew he was picking apart your arguments. Waiting for you to trip up and fail in front of everyone.

It felt like a glorious ‘fuck you’ when your team won that year. You’d held that trophy, looked right into Minho’s eyes, and wanted to scream ‘I fucking told you so’ right in his smug face.

Ugh. Asshole.

“It’s all in the past,” you said, forcing yourself to shrug it off.

Taking another swig of coffee, you reached over and poked Felix’s shoulder, grinning.

“And besides…Minho isn’t the one coming with me to the U.N. next month.”

“Next month,” Felix repeated, slightly in awe, matching your excitement and then some. “Holy shit, it’s so soon.”

It was. In just a few weeks’ time, you’d be standing in front of a U.N. committee giving a speech on commitment to environmental preservation with your best friend by your side. You’d worked for this for months, years even. And you’d be doing it together.

“I’m afraid I have bad news about the U.N. speech.”

You sat there, horrified, as your supervisor – Dr. Koning – shuffled the papers on his desk with a grave expression. “What? What happened? Don’t tell me it’s cancelled.”

“It’s not cancelled,” Dr. Koning said, before pausing. “…But it has been postponed. Certain recent global events have pushed it further down the agenda. The speech will happen next January.”

“January?” You repeated, and horror quickly dawned on you. “No, wait. Felix can’t do January. He’s studying abroad next semester. There has to be some other…”

“I’m afraid there’s not. I’ve tried to speak to the few contacts I have, but changing the agenda of the United Nations is…well, a little beyond our capabilities, I’m sure you can understand.”

“But this is just as much Felix’s speech as it is mine. It’s on environmental preservation, he’s the one that’s specialising in environmentalism, he can’t just get dropped like…what if he flew back for the U.N. speech? That’s doable, right?”

“Even if he could, he would still be missing the weeks of preparation leading up to the speech,” Dr. Koning reminded you, sounding genuinely apologetic. “Unless he withdraws from his study-abroad program, I’m afraid we have to give his spot to someone else.”

You felt like you’d just been punched, right in the gut. Felix couldn’t withdraw from the program. It was one of the main reasons he’d chosen this university in the first place. He’d spent months competing for the limited spaces at the best partner university, he’d e-mailed the faculty there ahead of time to begin networking, he’d based his entire career path on the connections he could make there.

Even the fucking United Nations wasn’t worth the damage his future plans would take if he dropped out of studying abroad.

“…Who’s taking his spot?” You asked, quiet, defeated.

Dr. Koning looked down at the papers, and adjusted his glasses. “Well, there are a few candidates in mind. But at such short notice, there’s really only one feasible choice. One of my colleague’s PhD students, you might know him. Lee Minho?”

…No.

No.

Absolutely fucking not.

You choked on the sudden anger bursting from your chest, trying your best to push it down before you started cussing out Lee Minho right in front of your professor. Finally, you were able to respond through gritted teeth. “Yes, I know him. We don’t…really get on.”

Dr. Koning frowned, pushing his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry to hear that. Are there any incidents I should be aware of?”

“No, nothing like that,” you said. “Just…it’s been a thing since we were kids. We don’t like each other.”

“Well, we can look for others…” he said, before trailing off. Frowning, he leaned forward slightly, granting himself an air of conspiracy, like he was letting you in on a secret. “But, honestly…if this is something you feel comfortable setting aside, just temporarily, you should know that Minho really is the best candidate. By quite a wide margin.”

Of fucking course he was.

You let out a deep breath, closing your eyes and fighting the urge to start massaging your temples.

“…Maybe,” you relented, even if it took every ounce of willpower you had. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Good to hear,” Dr. Koning said, smiling. “I really do hope the two of you can work together on this. Both of you have shown astounding potential. I look forward to seeing what you come up with.”

“…Mm-hm. Me too.”

It was a cold, crisp Monday morning, and you found yourself stood on the steps of the lecture halls. The expression on your face was enough for the dawdling first-years around you to give you a wide berth, allowing you to scroll through your e-mails in peace.

Scroll through your e-mails, and wait.

For him.

Felix had mentioned that Minho was sitting in on a talk from a visiting financial expert on the state of global economics, and you figured now was as good a time as any to confront him about the speech.

…And by ‘confront’, you meant ‘patiently and politely open channels of communication’. Of course.

Fuck, it was freezing.

You shivered, pulling your scarf just a little tighter around your neck, and exited out of your e-mails to shoot a text to Felix.

You

Who in their right mind voluntarily sits in on an economics lecture at eight o’clock on a Monday morning?

Lixie

…

i mean

…literally you last week

You

OK first of all

That was a fucking Guillaume Van Bebber seminar

The man has a Nobel prize

Second of all

That wasn’t a Monday

Third

Shut up

Lixie

ok no cookies for you

You

Wait no, what??

I take it back.

Take it all back.

You’re my bestest friend in the whole world.

Bestest and smartest.

Waittt

You were so distracted texting Felix, you didn’t notice the doors to the lecture halls opening, and the slow stream of students beginning to file out.

You did, however, notice a familiar voice.

Your head snapped up to see Minho at the top of the steps, talking with who looked to be the guest lecturer. The two were standing still, rather than walking along with the rest of the students, positioned just out of the way so they could continue whatever conversation they were having without interruption.

Cool, even more waiting.

You shifted your weight, shoving your hands into the pockets of your coat to keep warm, and watched as Minho continued to speak – and, unbelievably, managed to make this lecturer laugh.

You blinked.

What the fuck? Minho didn’t make people laugh. He made them miserable, yes, but never laugh.

And then, suddenly, as if he could sense your insults, Minho looked over and locked eyes with you. His eyebrows raised slightly, probably in surprise at seeing you on campus so early in the morning. You made sure to maintain eye contact – an old habit with Minho, by this point. You hated being the first to look away, it always felt like weakness.

He turned away, saying something to the lecturer with a slight incline of his head.

The lecturer blinked, before nodding. You watched as, with a warm smile, the lecturer extended what looked to be a business card to Minho.

Minho accepted it, the two exchanged one final handshake, before Minho turned on his heel and descended the steps.

Towards you.

It was a little unfair, you wanted to grumble, that Minho always looked so put-together, no matter the time of day. He was wearing a black turtleneck sweater, perfectly suited for the chilly October morning air, under a tailored beige overcoat. It looked designer, the plaid pattern on its lining looking vaguely familiar, but that was standard for Minho’s wardrobe. You’d known since you were a little kid that Felix’s family had money.

Like, ­fuck-you money.

You forced your eyes up to his face before they travelled any further downwards, but you knew from a glance that Minho was wearing some form of tight black jeans. They were a staple of his wardrobe, and you hated them. You hated any and every reminder of Minho’s…

Well, Minho’s fucking tree trunk thighs.

Which you also hated.

With a passion.

He did dance as a kid. And some kind of equestrian thing in his teenage years – because, again, fuck-you money – which all contributed to…

You know what?

Didn’t matter.

Because you hated them. They weren’t worth mentioning.

“We need to talk about the U.N. speech,” you said, as soon as he got close enough, cutting straight to the chase.

“OK,” Minho nodded, approaching closer. You paused, confused, as he showed no sign of slowing. He drew closer and closer, and something tightened in your chest, as he–

He brushed past you, shoulder nearly bumping yours, continuing onwards past you.

You stilled, rooted to the spot for a moment, blinking at the empty air where he had just been standing.

Shock quickly morphed into incredulous anger, and you turned sharply to storm after him, blown away by his rudeness. “Hey, where – what the fuck?”

Minho paused, turning to face you, halting so suddenly that you almost bumped right into him. You stumbled back a step or two, before righting yourself, as Minho asked. “…Wait, did you mean now?”

The way he said it, confused, as if you were the strange one for not specifying the obvious.

“No, I was thinking in three weeks. But let me just check my calendar first,” you retorted, deadpan. “Yes, now. Why else would I be here?”

“For classes,” Minho pointed out, gesturing to the lecture building he’d just exited.

You opened your mouth instinctively, before pausing.

Because the honest answer, that you were here because you’d been waiting for him, now sounded…

“…Look, are you free to talk about the speech or not?” You asked, folding your arms over your chest.

Minho stared at you for a moment, before giving you a shrug. “I’ve got about an hour before my next class.”

“Good.”

“I usually get coffee around this time, while it’s quiet.”

“…OK? Good for you?” You said, frowning slightly.

Minho kept staring, looking…strangely expectant.

What, he wanted a pat on the back for having coffee in the morning?

Finally, with a sharp exhale that could almost be mistaken as an exasperated sigh, Minho turned away and set off walking again.

Rude. You were literally just having a conversation? Now, he just expected you to follow him?

Ugh.

Reluctantly, you did just that, having to quicken your pace to match Minho’s stride with those…fucking gargantuan legs of his.

Legs that didn’t matter. Because you didn’t notice them. At all.

To your surprise, Minho didn’t head for Muffin House, the main coffee shop on campus. That was your go-to place for caffeine – it was cheap, they had a bunch of muffins in different flavours, and they had an irresponsibly large number of discounts on extra espresso shots for students.

Instead, you had to follow Minho down a little side street nestled between two of the towering science blocks, cut across a near-deserted car park, and finally took a right towards a quiet little pocket of buildings on the edge of campus.

You would have walked right past the coffee shop entirely, were it not for Minho suddenly ducking through the doorway of a non-descript stone building. You paused, and it was only after looking up and studying the front face of the building that you noticed the sign for Kwon’s Koffee.

Inside, it looked indistinguishable from other coffee shops on campus – except it was far less crowded, with only a few tables taken up by exclusively postgraduate students.

This was definitely one of those little insider-knowledge haunts for PhD students, like Minho. And the idea almost made you want to hate it on principle.

You joined the queue behind Minho, gaze wandering toward the board of coffee specials.

…Fuck, OK, they did look pretty good.

Still, the principle of the matter remained.

“You realise Muffin House was so much closer, right?” You asked, glancing at Minho.

Minho made a face. “Yeah, but their coffee is shitty.”

“No, it’s not!”

“It’s always bitter.”

“Yeah, because it’s made to go with the super-sweet muffins,” you said, slowing your words as if trying to explain the concept of taste to a toddler. “They balance each other out.”

“Which means if you don’t get muffins, you’re shit out of luck,” Minho pointed out, and glanced over his shoulder at you. “And I never get them.”

You stared at him, genuinely affronted by this statement. Yet another thing to add to the colossal-sized list of reasons to dislike Minho. “What? Why? How?”

He shrugged. “I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.”

“How are you and Felix even related?”

“It’s because of Felix,” Minho argued, and you had to admit, your interest was piqued. “Who do you think was the test subject for all his recipes?”

“What, were they bad?” You asked, intrigued.

Minho smiled ruefully. “Some were. But the most dangerous ones were the great ones. There’s only so many whole pans of brownies you can inhale before your body just rejects sugar on sight.”

Huh.

You forgot, sometimes, how close Minho and Felix were. It didn’t entirely fit in with your general doctrine of ‘Minho = The Worst’ so it was often banished to the back of your mind.

You supposed even the absolute dregs of humanity usually had at least one redeeming quality.

…Wait, this was coming dangerously close to an actual conversation with Minho.

“I think you’re just a coffee snob,” you dismissed with a shrug.

Minho rolled his eyes, and that brief façade of reasonable humanity vanished. “If Muffin House figured out how to brew coffee without burning it to shit, I’d drink it. But they haven’t yet, so…”

You opened your mouth, already raring to start an argument, but it was at that moment that the person in front of Minho in the queue finished ordering. Minho turned away from you, and walked up to the counter.

You followed closely behind, and it was only when your attention shifted from Minho to the person behind the counter that your eyes lit up.

“Seungmin?”

Seungmin blinked, leaning to the side just a little to look over Minho’s shoulder at you, surprised. “Oh, hey! Long time no see.”

Seungmin had been a stalwart member of your debate team for the first few years of undergrad, until he landed a job as research assistant for one of the most respected professors on campus. You had a lot of good feeling towards him, not least because he – along with Felix – often acted as the mediator between you and Minho.

He must have remembered that role too, as his gaze soon shifted back and forth between you and Minho, and his brow furrowed slightly. “Wait, are you two getting coffee? Like, together?”

You saw Minho bristle out of the corner of your eye, and you fought back a scoff. Did he really find it so insulting to be seen in public with you? “Yes, we are.”

Seungmin’s eyes flickered between the two of you again. “…Voluntarily?”

Minho answered this time, seemingly through gritted teeth. “Apparently.”

“Huh,” Seungmin said, mostly to himself. “Interesting.”

“Can we order now?” Minho asked, impatiently.

Seungmin shrugged, ignoring Minho’s rudeness, and set about taking your orders.

(Of course, Minho took his coffee black. Pretentious motherfucker probably had a whole thing about palate and bean aroma or whatever. You threw in a muffin with your order, to spite Minho more than anything else.)

It was only at the end, when it came to payment, that Seungmin looked up again at the two of you. “Are you guys paying separately, or…?”

That was kind of a dumb question.

“Separately,” you said, pointing out the obvious.

“Very separately,” Minho echoed, giving Seungmin a very pointed look.

Impressively, Minho’s glare did little to change Seungmin’s expression. In fact, Seungmin only smiled a little wider, calmly reverting back to his standard customer service script. “…OK. Cash or card?”

After payment, it only took a few minutes of waiting for your coffee before you found yourself sat at a table in the corner of the coffee shop, facing directly across from Minho.

The two of you sat there in silence, coffee in front of you.

How did you…how did you even start a conversation with Minho that wasn’t an argument? Usually, you relied on him to say something incorrect and pounce on it.

Now? You had to figure out how to be…nice. Civil. All because of this dumb speech.

You watched Minho shrug off his coat, turning in his seat to drape the coat over the back of his chair. The black turtleneck he was wearing underneath was surprisingly form-fitting, and when he turned back around to face you and pick up his mug, your eyes dropped down to your own cup before you gave into the urge to scowl openly.

Sometimes, you wondered if it would be harder to hate Minho if he were less attractive.

It was a thought you crushed down the second it came into your head, but you couldn’t entirely deny it. There had been moments, unspeakable moments, when you started dating someone, that your brain betrayed you and compared them to Minho. It was like he had to just…infect every part of your life. He had to ruin everything.

You swallowed, curling your fingers around the handle of your mug, tapping the edge of it with your thumb. “…So, the speech.”

“The speech.”

“I assume Koning already talked to you about it?”

“Yes.”

“…And?” You said, resisting the urge to scream. This was like pulling teeth. “Your thoughts?”

Minho sat back in his chair, eyeing you closely. “Why the U.N.?”

Easy question. So easy, you’d almost call it moronic. “It’s the U.N. It’s literally where I want my career to take me.”

“You want to work at the U.N.?” Minho asked, and you could almost mistake his tone for interest.

“Yes,” you said, confidently, half-prepared to defend yourself in case Minho decided to find your ambition laughable. Screw him. “The Human Rights Council, preferably, but I wouldn’t say no to a job in the General Assembly.”

“Who would?” Minho remarked, deadpan.

“Ergo, a speech there. It wasn’t easy, but we managed it,” you said, not even pretending to be humble.

“…It’s impressive, honestly. What you’ve achieved.”

“What me and Felix achieved,” you corrected him automatically, but honestly, you were a little thrown. That sounded…dangerously close to a compliment. From Minho.

“Koning said it was your idea,” Minho said. “You came up with the proposal, and you were the one ballsy enough to actually submit it to the U.N.”

“Yeah, but the speech is literally on environmental preservation–”

“International NGO commitment to environmental preservation,” Minho interrupted, and you bit down the sudden flare of anger that he felt the need to correct you on your own fucking speech topic. “International commitment is your wheelhouse, isn’t it?”

“And Felix is literally specialising in environmentalism,” you reminded him, and it was then that one of your biggest concerns about this whole situation reared its head. “Which reminds me, actually, why did they pick you to replace him on it?”

Minho stared at you for a solid moment, eyebrows slowly raising, as if he couldn’t believe you were being serious.

You felt yourself bristling, growing defensive. “What? You’re a politics student, not–”

“My master’s thesis was literally on environmental activism. I help teach undergrad classes on green politics and ecological efforts in government policy. How do you not know this?”

…OK. So, fine, maybe you didn’t pay that much attention to what Minho actually studied. Why would you? You imagined it would only piss you off more, reading through his fucking glowing examples of academic writing – like, seriously, in your second year of undergrad, one of your professors used one of his essays as a literal example of how to do the assignment.

You scoffed, lifting your coffee up to your mouth, muttering under your breath. “Ego-logical efforts, more like.”

Minho tilted his head, clearly having heard every word you just said. “What was that?”

You stared him down, taking one long, unabashed drink of coffee, before setting your cup down. Maintaining eye contact, you forced your most innocent smile. “Nothing.”

Another moment of silence fell between the two of you, as Minho’s mouth twitched. You could tell he was very tempted to call you out, and you almost wanted to dare him to say something. Going this long without some kind of conflict with Minho felt…weird. Strange.

Instead, Minho sighed, and you couldn’t imagine the visible shock on your face when his expression actually softened towards you. “…Look. I know you really wanted to work with Felix on this. It’s really shitty that this got taken out of your hands.”

…What? What the fuck was happening here?

He continued. “I’m sorry you got screwed over like this.”

What the fuck was in this coffee?

“I’m not trying to butt in and mess with everything you’ve prepared,” Minho said. “I genuinely just want to help you. I know we’ve got…issues.”

“That’s a bit of an understatement.”

“Sometimes people just don’t get along,” Minho said, eyes flickering downwards to his mug as he took a sip of coffee. “But I hope we can be professional about this.”

You fought the urge to scowl, but you couldn’t quite stop yourself from clenching your jaw at the assumption.

You could be professional.

You could be insanely fucking professional.

“Yes, I hope we can,” you said, your voice perfectly level. Calm. Composed. Professional. “So, actually, until this speech is over…why don’t we call a truce?”

Minho blinked, caught off-guard by your choice of words. “‘Truce’?”

“Yeah. Until the speech is done, we’ll try to be nice to each other. No more arguments…” you trailed off, the words already sounding hollow and you were the one saying them. You backtracked slightly. “OK, maybe some academic debate. But nothing personal.”

“Nothing petty,” Minho added, giving you a pointed look.

It took an impressive amount of willpower to force your smile to stay on your face. “Exactly. We somehow managed it as kids. How hard could it be to do it again, for the next few months?”

Minho didn’t answer immediately, clearly thinking the proposition over.

You took another sip of coffee, trying your best to leave it at that. But you couldn’t help but add, pointedly. “I mean, I don’t think it’ll be hard for me. But if you think you–”

“I’ll manage,” Minho interjected, dryly, unimpressed. “You’re the one who starts it most of the time, anyway.”

“I don’t–” you bit your tongue, taking a second to claw back your patience. “…I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure.”

You sat just a little taller, frowning. “OK. So, we’re decided.”

“Yep.”

“Truce?”

“Truce.”

“…Good.”

“Good.”

“Great,” you said, maybe just a little eager to get the last word. Maybe.

It was only when you took another sip of coffee, content with yourself, that Minho dropped the sudden curveball. “My housemates are throwing a Halloween party this weekend. Maybe you should come.”

You very almost did a spit-take with your coffee. “What?”

“If you’re so interested in a truce,” Minho added, tapping his fingers against the wooden surface of the table, and that was when you recognised the invitation for what it was.

A challenge.

Minho was absolutely trying to get you to chicken out.

You straightened your shoulders. “I’d be happy to,” you said, and it sounded vaguely threatening.

“Great, I’ll let them know.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Me too,” Minho said, his words so edged, you could imagine them slicing into you.

Yeah, this truce was definitely going to last.

This was a terrible idea.

You hesitated on the pavement outside of what was very obviously a Halloween party in full swing. You’d purposely waited a little, hoping to avoid the awkward early stages of house parties, your imagination filled with dreadful images of being one of the first to show up and having to make conversation with Minho.

The later, the better. More people to act as a buffer, and a better excuse to get drunk.

Hopefully, fingers-crossed, maybe Minho had already gotten absolutely wasted and wouldn’t even notice you were there.

Bolstered by the thought, you shot a text to Felix – who should already be inside, having volunteered to swing by early and help his older brother with decorations – to say that you were here.

OK.

Breathe.

Go.

You marched up the path towards the front door, refusing to be distracted by the partygoers scattered around the front yard, smoking and chatting and one couple leaning against the wall and already looking very handsy.

The front door was open, and you made your way inside, senses alert for any sign of Felix (to approach) and Minho (to avoid) as you did so.

The house was impressively large for student housing – of course it was, Minho lived here – and yet, every room held a crowd of people. Dancing, drinking, having fun. A drunk girl, dressed in what looked to be some variation of zombie Disney princess, stumbled into you, giggling apologetically as she did. Her drink – a can of something, maybe a bottle – was icy-cold as it brushed against your thigh.

You should have worn something longer, you thought. Your costume was cute, and dare you say, maybe even kinda hot, but it was not cut out for any temperatures colder than a room full of warm bodies. Just the walk up to the house had you shivering, just a little.

Your hunt for Felix led you from room to room, as you tried and failed to prevent yourself from rolling your eyes at the size of this place. Someone had set up tables – multiple – for beer pong in one room, while another room hosted an impressive speaker system for dancing, while another room was all softly-lit and calm background music, clearly the designated room for quieter, laid-back conversation.

A layout that checked all the house party boxes, sure. But a terrible place to try and track someone down.

Eventually, somehow, you found yourself in the kitchen, and it was here that you wondered whether you should just give up for a second and grab something to drink. You’d find Felix at some point, hopefully. Just as long as you didn’t run into…

“Oh.”

You turned at the voice, instinctively, but on second thoughts maybe you should have pretended not to hear.

Minho was standing in front of you, leaning against the kitchen counter.

And he…

He looked…

Holy fucking shit.

From the fake blood on his billowy white shirt and the painted-on bite mark on his neck, he was clearly some kind of vampire. Someone – maybe Minho himself – had applied the subtlest amount of eyeliner, and between that and the rumpled dark hair, and the…

Fuck, those were leather pants. Skin-tight.

Oh, you had to leave right now–

“Hi,” you said, standing your ground.

“You’re late,” Minho noted.

It was only then that you realised Minho was part of a loose cluster of guys, all of whom turned to see who Minho was talking to.

And one of them, to your intense relief, was Felix.

“Hey!” Felix greeted, wandering over to throw an arm around you in a half-hug. He was a cheerful drinker, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t help your confidence a little to see someone so unambiguously happy to see you here.

When he pulled away, you noticed that the little hand-drawn stitches around his neck had already started to smudge. Miraculously the little fake plastic bolts on either side of his head remained intact.

“I like your costume,” Felix told you. “It’s very…pink.”

“It is very pink,” you agreed, looking down at yourself.

When you glanced up, you caught the way Minho’s eyes flickered upwards too, as if he’d just finished looking you up and down.

You tensed a little, preparing yourself for some kind of critique. Lee Minho, champion appraiser of cheap Halloween costumes.

To your surprise, however, Minho quickly averted his eyes and took a deep swig of the drink in his hand.

“I like your costume too,” one of Minho’s friends chimed in. He was kind of cute, all dark hair and big brown eyes, so adorable that his werewolf costume came across as looking more like a chipmunk. “What are you?”

You smiled, relaxing a little. “The most accomplished woman of our time.”

The guy blinked, looking briefly thrown for a second, eyes back on your costume as he tried to decipher who you were.

But Minho, astonishingly, cracked a half-smile. Which, for Minho, was practically a laugh. “Are you Barbie?”

“Yes,” you admitted, reluctantly, half-tempted to lie just to be petty. Except, damn it, no more pettiness. You’d agreed.

“Barbie is the most accomplished woman of our time?”

“Princess. Astronaut. President. I am prepared to fight you on this.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and I’ll win.”

“Mm,” Minho hummed, and again, his gaze flickered downwards. What, was it so shocking to see you in pink?

You shifted your weight, and you almost folded your arms over your chest before you remembered what the neckline was like on this dress. Maybe not.

Unbeknownst to you, Felix and Minho’s friend exchanged a look.

Clearing your throat, you turned your attention to the large and varied alcohol selection littering the kitchen counter. “So, what can I get to drink here?”

“Minho can talk you through it,” Minho’s friend suddenly announced, patting Minho on the shoulder. Minho blinked, tearing his eyes away from you to look at his friend. “I’m gonna go find Chan, he promised me a beer pong rematch. Felix, bro, you should come with.”

Felix hesitated. “…Actually, maybe I–”

“Nah, come on,” Minho’s friend insisted, hooking his arm with Felix’s, cheerfully pulling him away. “Be my cheerleader.”

You stared, as it dawned on you that your biggest support in this minefield of a conversation was being frogmarched away.

Right. OK. Alone with Minho.

Cool.

You chanced a look back towards Minho, only to find him still watching you, and you quickly diverted your attention to the alcohol again. Smoothing down your skirt, you forced yourself to shrug. “I thought about coming as Frieda Dalen, but I figured no one would get the reference. She was–”

“The first woman to speak at the U.N., yeah.”

You snapped your head back to stare at him, bewildered. “How the fuck do you know that?”

Minho raised one eyebrow, and you were genuinely irritated that, in combination with the hair and the blood and the outfit in general, it almost…almost maybe twisted something in your gut. “My first official university debate was about the history of women in global affairs. She was a good factoid. 1946, right?”

You fought the urge to scowl as you confirmed his answer. “Yep. 1946.”

And, because even the tightest of leather couldn’t dull your burning dislike of seeing Minho smug, you pressed him further.

“Do you remember which country she was the delegate of?”

“No,” Minho admitted, tilting his head slightly to one side as he looked at you. After a moment, he straightened up from where he’d been leaning, gaining an inch or two of height in doing so, forcing you to tilt your chin up slightly to continue meeting his gaze. “Why don’t you tell me?”

His words should have sounded patronising.

Except, there was a strange edge to his voice, almost a playfulness but not quite. Not a lightness, because it definitely didn’t feel light. It felt kind of heavy, actually.

If you didn’t know any better, you would almost mistake it as…

“Minho!”

Both of you jolted at the sudden shout, barely having the time to turn towards it source before a tall guy with a Phantom of the Opera mask and ridiculously pretty long, blond hair staggered into Minho and hugged him.

You blinked, too caught off-guard to even appreciate the bemused expression on Minho’s face as the pretty guy mumbled into his shoulder. “Minho, I think…I’m druuunk.”

You took that as the perfect opportunity to back out of this…interaction with Minho, even as something strange twisted inside of you. You quickly grabbed the closest drink you could and retreated out of the kitchen as fast as your dignity would allow.

You needed to drink. And maybe dance. Anything to distract you, before your mind wandered anywhere dangerous.

This wasn’t working.

Drinking your problems away was a terrible idea in and of itself, but you’d been tempted to give it a go. After your second drink, however, you were blindsided with the intrusive thought of getting wasted and throwing up in Minho’s bathroom, and all the humiliation that could go with it, and it had warned you off alcohol for the rest of the night.

Dancing, your alternative solution, had worked for the first hour or so. You had let loose a little, but as your drink-fuelled buzz slowly faded, you found yourself growing increasingly uncomfortable by the stale air and the press of warm bodies. You were getting hot, something under your skin beginning to itch.

You needed to get out of here, just for a moment, to clear your head.

With crowds of people blocking your way to the front door, you decided on a different path towards some peace and quiet. Upstairs was mostly left untouched, understandable since there were no drinks to be found and no music playing, and you breathed out a sigh of relief when you reached the top of the stairs and turned a corner, and found an empty hallway.

Perfect.

Before you could think twice, you sat down on the floor, your back against the wall. The relief of taking a break from standing in these heels was immediate, and you let your head loll backwards, closing your eyes.

You just needed a few minutes here, you decided. Just to recharge.

“What are you doing?”

You didn’t open your eyes, but you felt your expression immediately sour. Of course it had to be the worst possible person to find you here, alone and close to misery, sitting in the hallway.

Minho approached, or at least, that was what you gathered from the sound of his footsteps. He came to a halt fairly close, pausing, and spoke up again.

“How are you this wasted already?” Minho asked, and there was surprisingly little amusement in his voice at the idea. In fact, you’d almost mistake it for concern.

“I am distressingly sober, actually,” you replied, slowly opening one eye to glare at him, but it was half-hearted at best, and you closed it again. “Just needed some quiet. Had a headache.”

Minho didn’t say anything in response. In fact, it was silent for so long, you started to wonder if he’d walked off without you even noticing, when he suddenly spoke up again. “I know a good place for quiet. And for fresh air, if you want it.”

Slowly, you opened your eyes again, fixing him with a look of suspicion. Admittedly, whatever he was suggesting sounded like the perfect place for you right now – which was exactly the reason you were so suspicious. “Where?”

“It’s pretty nearby,” Minho said, and to your disbelief, held out his hand.

Your eyes flickered from his face, to his outstretched hand, to his face again, before taking a deep breath and pushing yourself up to your feet by yourself. To his credit, Minho withdrew his hand smoothly, seemingly unaffected by your refusal to take it.

“After you,” you said, still reluctant to let down your guard.

Minho nodded, and set off down the hallway, going just a little further from where you were sitting, and stopping in front of a door. With a glance back to you, probably checking to see if you were still following, or if you’d lied about being sober and collapsed while he wasn’t looking, he opened it and wandered inside.

You took a few steps towards it – and then caught one look inside the room and halted dead in your tracks.

That was…

Was that…?

“Is that your fucking bedroom?” You asked, in pure disbelief.

Minho stopped, turning around to look at you, and how the fuck could he look so calm about this? “…Yeah? Last time I checked, why?”

“Why? Are you…” you trailed off, scoffing, before putting on your best Minho impression. “‘I know a good place, come follow me’ and it’s your bedroom. Come on.”

“I wasn’t…I was talking about the balcony. There’s a balcony through…” Minho gestured vaguely towards the far wall, where you realised the huge ceiling-to-floor curtains hanging there must be hiding the doors to it.

Of course he has a balcony.

Of course.

For once in his life, Minho looked just the slightest bit ruffled as he finally caught on to the incredibly obvious implications.

He swallowed. “Look, if you’re not comfortable, that’s–”

You interrupted him with a scoff. “I’m not uncomfortable.”

In fact, to prove just how comfortable you were, you marched into his room, forcing yourself to appear entirely unbothered.

“See? Fine,” you said. “Just, maybe lead with the balcony thing next time, so you don’t look like some massive sleaze.”

Again, Minho’s reaction surprised you. Instead of anger or annoyance at your accusation, Minho cracked another half-smile. “Fair.”

…Yeah, you really weren’t used to this whole ‘nice’ thing between the two of you. It felt weird, like the very foundations of your dynamic were shaken by it.

As Minho led you towards the balcony, you tried your best not to look too closely at his bedroom, as much as your curiosity protested otherwise. The most detail you got was that it was fairly neat, fairly clean, and he had a stupidly large bed. Which, you know, Minho, fuck-you money, that made sense.

You point-blank refused to dwell on it.

As soon as he slid open the door, you quickly leaned forward and breathed in that refreshing cold night air, and felt your headache fade just a little. It was only when you stepped out onto the balcony that you truly felt yourself relax, and the tension built up in your head began to ease.

“Better?” Minho asked, and you heard him come up from behind you, coming to a stop beside you to look up at the night sky. You couldn’t make out many stars from here, thanks to the light pollution of the city, but it was still undeniably a pretty cool view.

“Yeah,” you admitted and, begrudgingly, you turned towards him to mutter. “…Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“I won’t be too long out here,” you added, feeling the weirdest need to justify accepting this kindness from Minho, to downplay it. “I’m not exactly dressed for October weather.”

Minho paused, keeping his gaze fixed on the night sky above and very much not on you. “Yeah.”

…Yeah?

You frowned, unable to stop yourself from feeling slightly defensive. “I mean, you’re one to talk.”

That got his attention. Suddenly, Minho had no problem looking at you. “What?”

“Your pants, Minho. Did you paint them on yourself?”

And you realised then and there that you must have made some kind of error, because Minho looked genuinely amused. Glancing down at himself for a moment, his eyes wandered back up to meet yours, and there was a genuine note of curiosity in his voice. “What, do you like them?”

You stilled, faltering just slightly, before retorting. “I’d probably like the cow they’re made from more.”

“Don’t worry, they’re not real leather,” Minho quipped back. “If that’s your only issue with them.”

“Well, you know, the fake leather industry is actually…” you trailed off, because your comeback sounded lame even in your head. “Whatever.”

The two of you fell into a silence, both watching the stars for a moment, listening to the thud of the bass downstairs and the muffled cacophony of voices.

And then, quietly, reluctantly, Minho spoke. “…Can I ask you a genuine question?”

If it was about the pants, you might actually throw him off this balcony. “OK. You’re not guaranteed a genuine answer, but go ahead.”

“The U.N. speech. It was your idea. If you want to go into human rights, why are you doing a speech about the environment?”

You paused, genuinely flustered by his question. Your response came out jumbled. “I don’t…you know, the two aren’t mutually exclusive, environmental damage is having a huge impact on–”

“Yeah, but that’s not what the speech is actually about. It’s a great speech, but why isn’t it on a subject youwant to do?”

“Who says? You? You don’t know what I want,” you shot back, irritated, refusing to admit that he’d touched a nerve.

Rather than snapping back at you immediately, Minho took a deep breath, calming slightly. “…You’re right. I don’t. I shouldn’t assume.”

What was this? You didn’t want him to agree with you, you wanted an argument. This ‘nice’, truce stuff was really starting to grate on you. “Exactly.”

“It’s just…it’s important that you do what you want, and not try to shape yourself around other people.”

“I don’t,” you argued. “Maybe what I want is for you not to attack every little decision I make. Like you always do.”

Minho’s brow furrowed, his stance shifting slightly. It took a second to realise that he was appraising you, eyeing you thoughtfully.

“You…really seem to dislike me,” he noted.

“Oh, do I?” You remarked, bitterly.

“Why is that?”

You let out a deep breath, mostly out of frustration, but also a little out of exhaustion. Closing your eyes for a moment, you tried to construct some kind of response.

There seemed to be a multitude of answers to that question. Minho was arrogant. He was atrociously blunt in most social settings and seemed indifferent to the hurt he caused others. He had an exorbitant amount of money and had very few qualms showcasing it. He scared away almost every single new debate team recruit because he was apparently allergic to the concept of constructive criticism. He’d ruined more than one relationship you’d had. Apparently, you talked too much about him, but there were only so many ways to honestly answer questions about your day or how you were feeling without mentioning how aggravating Minho was in some capacity.

But honestly, the more you thought about it, the more you felt yourself slipping back into the shell of that little fourteen-year-old, looking up at the cool older boy with wide eyes and hoping for just one kind word.

And it made you feel so…small. Pathetic.

“Because you’re an asshole,” you stated, simply.

Minho stared at you for a second, before frowning slightly. “I mean, not really.”

…Oh, he decided to say just exactly the wrong thing there, didn’t he?

“You absolutely are. Like, objectively,” you argued. “You literally made a girl cry last week over debating.”

“What? Who?”

“That first-year girl. Dark hair, super perky. You know, when she’s not crying her eyes out.”

Something approaching recognition dawned on Minho’s face, but to your surprise, his expression dimmed slightly. “Oh, her. She told you it was about her debating?”

Well, not in exact words, you wanted to say. But it wasn’t hard to read between the lines, given what you knew Minho to be capable of.

“OK, then what was it about?” You asked.

“She came up to me after our last meeting and asked for some tutoring,” Minho said, before giving you a very pointed look. “As in, a specific kind of ‘private’ tutoring. Very specific. And she was not subtle about it.”

You blinked. “…What?”

Minho’s brow furrowed, visibly searching through his memory of the incident. “To be fair, I might have laughed in her face. In my defence, it was less about her and more about the audacity.”

You pictured the scene, of that girl coming onto Minho, his face when he realised what was happening, and the worst part of you maybe wanted to smirk a little. But you would not indulge it. “Still, sounds like you could have been nicer abut it.”

“OK, yeah, I feel a little bad. But no, it wasn’t over her debating skills. I might be harsh, but you think I’d make someone cry over that and not give a shit?”

Every ounce of amusement drained out of you in an instant, replaced by something cold. “I mean…yeah, you’ve done it before.”

“What? When?”

He didn’t know?

How could he not know?

You might have finished sobbing by the time you’d confronted him, all those years ago, but hadn’t it been extremely obvious?

You stared at Minho for a good few seconds, waiting for him to slip up, to give up the joke. But all you got in return was a genuinely confused expression on his face, waiting for you to clarify what exactly you were talking about.

Oh.

Yeah, he really didn’t know.

Shit.

You swallowed, looking down at your hands, picking at one particularly jagged edge of your thumbnail. “…Me.”

Minho stilled. You could feel his eyes burning into the side of your head, searching your face. “You cried?”

Oh, fuck this guy. You stiffened, embarrassment roiling in the pit of your stomach, and snapped, seething. “Just forget it–”

“No, I didn’t mean…” he trailed off. When you braved a look over at him, you didn’t find the smirk you were expecting. Minho looked genuinely chastened, watching you with a deep but unreadable emotion. “I…didn’t know.”

You didn’t like this, you didn’t know how to handle…earnest Minho. Where the fuck did asshole Minho go?

“It was just the once. It was my first debate, and you were a dick about it,” you said, forcing yourself to shrug.

“Oh,” Minho said, with such a strangely specific tone that you couldn’t help but look over at him. There was a look of dawning realisation on his face, and the slightest hint of…

Embarrassment?

“I think I remember that,” Minho said, sounding vaguely horrified. “…This is going to sound dumb.”

Minho? Dumb? And aware of that fact? “…OK.”

“And a little pathetic.”

“Good, go on.”

“But I think, at the time…I was hoping you’d ask me for help.”

You stilled, trying to comprehend the string of words that had just left his mouth. Trying to forge them into anything that made even the smallest bit of sense.

“…And you didn’t, I don’t know, think about offering your help? Before humiliating me in front of my classmates?” You asked, and you almost surprised yourself with the way your voice shook with an old, familiar anger. “That didn’t, you know, maybe occur to you?”

Minho turned his whole body to face you head-on, hand curling around the balcony railing at his side. It was in that moment, seeing him entirely, that you glimpsed that blunt, ruthless young man that had cut you so deeply all those years ago – and saw, for the first time, how small he really was. That memory had taken up so much space in your mind, had warped itself until Minho towered over you, a titan, a symbol of each and every one of your failings.

Now, for once, a new image appeared. An awkward teenage boy, too embarrassed to admit that he wanted to be something in your eyes.

You softened, just for a second.

And then, remembering yourself, remembering all that had happened between the two of you since then, you came back to your senses.

“And what about everything after? It’s not like you were nice after that one little misunderstanding, you picked at everything I did for years.”

“In my defence, neither were you. You refused to speak to me unless you had to for years,” Minho pointed out. “And I realised how much you could do, what you could achieve–”

“If you kept being an asshole?”

“If I held you to actual standards,” Minho corrected, and for the first time in this conversation, he was starting to get heated. Good. “The next time the club met, you wiped the floor with seniors. Seniors. You were just as good as me, and you barely had experience.”

A compliment from Minho, however begrudging and biting it was, had a dangerously addicting effect on you. Actually, maybe the begrudging part only made it better. “And what? That pissed you off?”

Minho’s expression faltered, just for a split-second, and that spoke more than any confession could.

“It did,” you said, half-shocked for a second, before pressing on. “So, you wouldn’t get off my fucking back foryears. You even turned up at nationals after you graduated, hoping I’d fall flat on my face.”

“Is that what you think?” Minho asked, incredulous.

“What else would it be?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe…” Minho stopped, before letting out a short, bitter laugh. “Never mind. Forget it.”

You wanted to press him further, but the anger that had sustained you so far was starting to flag a little.

This was just…exhausting, sometimes.

You let out a deep breath, just as a cold October breeze decided to kick up, making you shiver. Instinctively, you folded your arms over your chest, tucking your hands into your sides to get just a little bit of warmth.

Maybe it was time for you to leave.

You looked over at Minho, opening your mouth to say something–

Only to catch his gaze openly, unmistakably, dipping down towards your cleavage.

You stopped.

You stared.

His eyes moved upwards again, finding yours, and he realised he’d been caught.

He tensed, just for a second, and you watched a tangle of emotions play out across his face before he settled on a neutral, blank, composed expression. But he didn’t speak.

He just…looked at you.

Waiting for you to say something? Daring you to say something?

It was hard to decipher, because at that moment, your brain was still 100% stuck on the fact that Minho had been checking you out.

Because that wasn’t some little accidental flicker, his gaze had stayed there.

Minho had been absolutely, undeniably, checking you out.

For all your complaints about the cold weather, it was starting to get very warm out here.

Why the fuck wasn’t he saying something? Anything?

You swallowed – or, well, you tried to at least.

Something had awoken, deep in the pit of your stomach. You felt it starting to unfurl, slowly, your nerve endings beginning to prickle.

“Are you…” you didn’t finish the question, you couldn’t finish the question, because the words ‘are you into me?’ were so laughably alien that they just refused to leave your mouth.

Minho waited, expectant for something, searching your face. Whatever he found – or didn’t find – was enough to make him speak.

“What?” he asked, and it was that same voice he had in the kitchen. Quiet, loaded, just a touch lower in register that almost made your breath catch.

It was like he was challenging you. Goading you. Wondering whether you were too much of a coward to finish that question.

You needed to ask. You needed to say it.

Come on, you were about to talk to the fucking United Nations in a few months, surely you could handle asking one question to Lee fucking Minho.

“Are you…attracted to me?”

Already, you were starting to cringe internally. Already, you were preparing for the worst. You tried to reassure yourself that it was fine, that when he said ‘no’ you could call him out on staring at your chest, he had no room to speak, it was a logical question, it…

Except Minho didn’t say ‘no’.

He didn’t say anything.

And the longer he looked at you, the longer he stayed silent, the more obvious his answer became.

…Oh.

That…

Maybe you were drunk, actually. Surely you had to be. Because the idea that Minho found you attractive didn’t drive you off like you thought it would.

Minho found you attractive.

Minho, the man with an ego so large it could smother a man, a superiority complex so vast it could bring awe-stricken observers to tears, that Minho…found you attractive.

Huh.

As you stared back at him, you were hit with the sudden thought of kissing him.

Which would be a terrible idea.

Because Minho was Minho and just because he was into you, just because he was perhaps objectively maybe a little good-looking, just because he’d admitted that all these years he’d seen you as an intellectual equal, just because he had the kind of thighs that could probably crush a watermelon, he…

He…

You paused, mind-blank, before rising up on your toes and pressing your lips to his.

The first few seconds were strange. Of course they were, it was surreal to feel someone’s lips on yours and know this was Minho, holy shit. You could feel how still he was, how shocked, and you knew he must have been on the exact same wavelength.

And then, he closed his eyes, his hand lifted up to gently cup your cheek, and everything clicked together perfectly.

This felt right, like really weirdly right despite it all. Some kind of base level of brain chemistry was screaming about how right this was, and it had you shivering in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

Was this a bad idea? The two of you had to work together for the next few months, you should have been aiming to keep things strictly professional, personal issues could complicate–

Minho let out the tiniest exhale, recapturing your lips immediately, and your thoughts stopped dead in your tracks.

Fuck professionalism, you’d earned this, you’d been working your ass off for months, you deserved to take satisfaction whenever you could get it.

You looped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself up slightly to press the entirety of your front against his. He was warm, shockingly so, and when his free hand moved to press itself into the small of your back, you chanced parting your lips just a little.

Minho followed suit, deepening the kiss, angling his head just slightly. Everything about his touch, how he held you, it was all so strangely gentle in comparison to the usual way he treated you. As if you were an illusion, like if he squeezed too hard, you might disappear.

One of your hands came up to run your fingers up his neck, through his hair, and the drag of your fingernails coaxed a quiet hum out of him.

Every noise you pulled from Minho, every little reaction, felt like winning an argument. It felt like a strange natural extension of your debates, isolating the weakness in the other’s defence and targeting it.

You let your fingers tangle in his hair, biding your time, and when you tested a sharp little twist, you heard his breath catch.

Minho went still, just for a second, just enough to take a deep breath, before grabbing your hip and swinging you around, pushing you up against the sliding balcony door, trapping you between it and him.

The impact was enough to knock a gasp out of you, and he pulled away briefly. You watched him, cheeks flushed, eyes dark, breath heavy, as he tried to form words. “Fuck, are you–”

You pulled him back to you, a hand fisted in his shirt collar, too impatient to let him finish the rest of his question. Your kiss was rushed, insistent, and you took your time before you pulled away to mutter against his lips. “I’m fine. Just…fuck it, just keep kissing me.”

Minho’s head dipped towards yours, briefly, as if he were about to do just that – before he paused. “…Ask me nicely.”

“Fuck off,” you snapped, impulsively, heat rushing to your face.

He pulled his head away, his whole body even, until the two of you were just barely touching. He lingered, teasingly close, an amused glint in his eye. “Why, is that want you want? Me to fuck off?”

You didn’t know if he was being sincere or not. You never knew if he was being sincere or not. That was Minho, through and through.

You scrabbled for an answer, brain still sluggishly working through the fact that you weren’t kissing anymore, chest rising and falling with every quickened breath. You found your words, looking him directly in the eye, tilting your chin up slightly.

“Kiss me,” you said, practically venomous, before setting your jaw. “Or I’ll find someone else to do it for you.”

You didn’t know why that was the threat you made. Logically, it held no weight – Minho might have been attracted to you, but would he really care if you kissed someone else? You half expected him to laugh you off, and wander off back to the party without even a glance back at you.

He did neither of those things.

In fact, the teasing look in his eye vanished completely. His gaze turned so intense that you wondered if he could burn a hole straight through you.

When he finally spoke, he was deceptively calm, his voice perfectly even as he noted out loud. “I see. So, that’s how we’re playing this.”

You barely had time to process his words, before his mouth was back on yours, almost feverish, and with a newfound harshness.

You met him with just as much enthusiasm, matching him move-for-move.

A gentle Minho was too complicated. A soft, kind Minho forced you to confront some preconceived notions that you were very happy to keep unchallenged.

This Minho, the one who dragged his right hand down your side, the one who gripped your hip so tightly you could imagine it bruising, this was something you could handle. Something you didn’t have to overthink.

Because, fuck, you really, really didn’t want to think right now. You were sick of thinking, your whole life was thinking.

Minho’s hand slipped downwards to your thigh, his palm sliding around to the back of it before he lifted your leg up slightly to slot his thigh right between yours.

The instant he lowered your leg, you realised exactly what he’d done. Immediately, you felt the press of him between your legs, subtle enough to allow plausible deniability, and yet too firm for you to just ignore. To make matters worse, you were now just slightly off-balance, your foot just brushing the floor.

You couldn’t lower it, you couldn’t regain your balance, without pressing down even more on his thigh. You tried anyway, and the friction resulted in your first whimper of the night, light and breathy against him.

Minho’s grip, still on your leg, tightened.

He dropped his head to press his mouth to your neck, kissing at the skin there – and then he clenched his fucking thigh muscles, and your resulting moan slipped out right by his ear.

Your hands scrambled for him, clutching his shoulders, breath heavy as you tried not to rock your hips. You couldn’t give him the satisfaction, you absolutely refused to. You grabbed a fistful of his hair again, pulling by the roots to drag his head back upwards so your mouths could meet again.

Your kiss was now heated, almost clumsy. You caught Minho’s bottom lip between your teeth and nipped, enjoying the way he hissed, the way his tongue licked over where you’d done it, the way his left hand came up to your face – not to cradle this time, but to clutch, to grip.

His right hand moved up to your ass, giving it one firm squeeze, before suddenly and very deliberately pulling you down and along his thigh. More noises fought their way out of your mouth, and you were too weak to resist just one roll of your hips, chasing that same friction. It had barely been a few minutes, and you could already feel yourself starting to ache, heat beginning to collect at the apex of your thighs.

It was gratifying to learn, when you pulled Minho even closer, forcing the full length of his body to press against yours, that you weren’t alone in that. You felt something firm beginning to press into your hip, and when you slid your hand down to confirm what it was, palm sliding against it, Minho inhaled sharply.

You grinned against his lips, and squeezed him through those damned fake-leather pants.

He groaned, eyes drifting shut for just a second, before suddenly snapping open.

“Come on,” he said, swallowing, and took you by the wrist. Before you knew it, he pulled you away from the balcony door to slide it open again, and hurriedly tugged you inside.

You had been a little too distracted to notice how much colder it must have turned outside, but inside welcomed you with a warmth that radiated through your whole body.

But it took you a moment, brain still in a thigh-induced haze, to realise the full extent of what it meant to be inside.

To be inside Minho’s bedroom.

You hesitated as Minho slid the balcony door shut behind you, drawing the curtains together.

You stared ahead, eyes on that huge bed – and the first hints of panic seized your chest.

Quickly, almost unthinkingly, you grabbed Minho by the arm and pulled him. He stumbled, clearly caught off-guard, but he went along with it, letting you pull him to you and turn, pressing him up against the wall.

Easy. Your back was to the bed now, removing it from your sight, and that strange new weight of anxiety disappeared entirely. You went back to kissing him, hands back in his hair. Your new comfort zone, apparently.

Apparently, however, you didn’t entirely fool Minho, who must have picked up on your tension at least a little.

“I thought,” he murmured, between kisses, and made no move to grab at you like he had outside, “you might want,” more kisses, “some more privacy.”

You hummed, non-committal, your concerns already disappearing as you tried to figure out how to get Minho’s leg back between yours again without outright asking.

“Outside, people can…” he paused, probably because your nails had scraped along his scalp almost accidentally, and he shivered, “hear.”

You pulled away slightly, hiding how breathless you were, fixing him with a playful look.

“Hear what?” you challenged, pretending as if you hadn’t literally moaned in his ear just a short while ago.

Minho didn’t answer, but you knew that expression. It used to keep you awake at night, anger burning through you at just the thought of it. He was smug.

Surprisingly, the sight no longer filled you with burning rage – but it did prompt you to back him up against the wall again, stepping right back into his personal space, and pull his head down to kiss you again.

He relaxed into you, soft and gentle as his hands eased over your sides, which only served to wind you up more. Frustrated, you tugged at his shirt, pulling it up and out from where it had been tucked into his waistband, and let your hand snake up under it.

You had learned over the course of the evening that Minho, as mouthy as he liked to be around you, wasn’t the most vocal partner you’d encountered. Maybe that would have discouraged the average person, but you knew Minho. You’d known him for years, you knew every tell he had, the meaning behind every hint of body language.

You knew that when Minho’s breath caught, as your hands ran up his stomach, up his chest, exploring his upper body, it was basically his equivalent of shaking with anticipation.

You took the hint, grasping his shirt with both hands and pulling it upwards. The shirt – some kind of billowy white poet’s shirt, the kind with the little lace-up ties at the neck that he’d left undone and open – was loose enough to remove easily, and you let it drop without a second thought.

Even now, despite everything, you were reluctant to stroke Minho’s ego by openly ogling him. It was a challenge, trying to ignore the smooth skin, the lean muscle, so you dipped your head before he could see your reaction, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the underside of his collarbone.

Again, it felt like a special talent to recognise Minho’s deep inhale, when your hands brushed his chest, for the emotions it betrayed.

Your mouth descended lower, eager, towards his chest – and you let your tongue brush his nipple.

His breath caught again, and when you experimented with a quick nip of your teeth, his grip on your sides tightened briefly.

That was Minho’s equivalent of being horrendously, painfully turned on.

Your hand slid down past his abdomen, cupping him through his pants, and this time you let your palm gently grind against him.

Minho’s body shivered under your touch, and it felt like winning.

And then, suddenly, as if he had somehow read your mind, he scrambled for the zipper of your dress, determined to even the playing field. You briefly pictured denying him, pictured staying clothed while undressing Minho, having that kind of advantage over him.

Tempting, maybe. But then you imagined the feel of Minho’s hands on your bare skin, and you made your decision pretty quickly.

Minho pulled down your zipper, building anticipation as he hooked two fingers under each of your spaghetti straps and slowly peeled your dress from you, letting it pool around your ankles.

His eyes dropped, and his expression changed.

“Oh, wow.”

You couldn’t help but grin slightly, glancing down at what you knew Minho was staring at. Your underwear was a matching set of pastel pink silk, with little hints of lace and ribbon, even a bow or two. You’d taken one look at it and knew it screamed princess.

“I always commit to my costumes,” you replied, refusing to feel even the smallest hint of embarrassment. It was hard to feel so anyway, with Minho staring down at you with dark eyes, drinking the sight in, amusement long since shifted into something else entirely.

He reached forward, tracing the ribbon at the edge of your bra cup with his thumb, before letting it sweep down over the lace – and right over the peak of your nipple, eliciting a sharp inhale from you. “Were you expecting someone to see it?”

“No,” you admitted, half-tempted to arch your back, just to press your breast into the curve of his palm. “Nothing about this was expected.”

Minho hummed quietly in agreement, still taking his time admiring you. He grabbed at your breast, not quite rough but not entirely gentle, fingers splayed, making sure to drag his thumb back over your nipple as he did so. “I never imagined you wearing something like this.”

You were so focused on the weight of his hand on your chest that you almost missed the implication. Almost. “Imagined? You imagined?”

Minho’s eyes darted up to meet yours, looking caught out for just a moment before his expression smoothed again. “Sometimes. Occasionally.”

OK, you had to ask. “What did you imagine?”

“Not this,” Minho stated, stubborn, refusing to give a single detail.

Your mind whirred at the possibilities anyway. What? Did that mean it was the complete opposite of this? What was the opposite of this sugary pink ensemble? Black, sexy? Leather? A whole dominatrix-style thing, was that what Minho was into?

“Tell me,” you demanded, incredibly curious now.

He hesitated, before sighing. “…You know that red skirt you wear sometimes?”

Well, that was not where you thought this was going. “Yeah?”

“I’ve thought about you wearing it at debating. You’re stood behind the podium, most of you hidden from sight,” Minho described, and his voice slowly began to shift. “I’m stood behind you, like I’m reading your notes over your shoulder. You don’t look at me, but your legs part, just a little.”

Your breath caught, as his left hand brushed against your inner thigh, fingertips stroking circles into the sensitive skin there.

“You let me slide my hand up,” he continued, and slowly, his hand begins to drift upwards. “Because you want me to know you aren’t wearing anything underneath.”

Holy shit.

“And you want me to feel how wet you are, waiting for me,” Minho said, pausing his hand just a few inches from the edge of your underwear, waiting as he checked your face for any signs of protest.

You couldn’t imagine what exactly your expression was, but you’re certain that protest was probably the furthest fucking thing from it.

And so, his hand moved, cupping you through your underwear, feeling just how damp the fabric was. Your breath rushed out shakily at the first moment of contact, almost akin to a gasp, body shuddering.

“That’s what I imagine,” he said, and fucking shrugged, even as his thumb pressed directly against your clit.

You moaned, your hand immediately flying up to clutch at his shoulder for balance. Everything about Minho’s touch, the pressure, the pace, screamed relaxed. He wasn’t trying to do anything but just…touch you. Gauge your reaction.

You closed your eyes, dropping your forehead to his shoulder, as his fingers continued to work small, slow circles around your clit, still over the barrier of your excessively pretty underwear.

“Should have known,” you murmured, trying not to gasp, and trying not to push your hips towards his hands. “You’re the type to tease.”

Minho’s voice came low from somewhere above your ear, as his hand moved at that same maddening pace. “Not usually.”

“Ah,” you breathed, understanding. He was on the exact same wavelength as you. Every reaction sparked from the other was a victory, to be enjoyed, to be savoured. “I get it. I’m special.”

Minho murmured something under his breath, something you couldn’t quite make out, and pressed just a little firmer against you. You moaned from the surprise of it, burying your face further into his neck.

Beneath your hand, you could feel his dick twitch, now so firm and so insistently pressing against your hand that you knew it had to be aching, trapped in those skin-tight pants like that.

You moved your hand up, struggling briefly with how tightly his waistband sat around his hips, before your hand suddenly slipped inside, fingers grazing roughly against something slick and warm and hard.

Minho finally moaned, loudly, openly, hips bucking briefly up into your hand. “Shit.”

“What was that you were saying?” you asked, innocently, running your fingers back over what you knew to be his cockhead, teasing. “About no underwear?”

Minho sucked in a breath, and from where your head was resting in the crook of his neck, you could hear him swallow. “…These were already too fucking small.”

“They are stupidly tight.”

“Don’t act like you – fuck,” he hissed, cutting himself off. Probably because you’d squeezed him again.

His free hand found its way to the corner of your jaw, prying your face away from his neck so he could duck his head down and kiss you, hungrily. You reciprocated, basking in the way he groaned against your mouth.

And then, he asked. “Bed?”

You stilled, hesitating. “…Bed?”

Minho paused, pulling away a little to take in your expression. Immediately, you did your best to smooth it out, to appear unbothered, casual, fine.

He wasn’t fooled. “Is something up?”

You swallowed, still trying to maintain your composure. “Besides your dick? No.”

Minho raised an eyebrow, and faked one short, sharp laugh. “Ha. You’re so funny when you dodge the subject.”

“I’m not dodging anything,” you argued.

He paused again, waiting, watching you. And, after a moment, he pulled his hand away from your underwear to wrap around your wrist, gently tugging your hand out of his pants.

“OK, fine,’” you relented, composure cracking. That old familiar dread returned, lodging itself in the pit of your stomach. “I just don’t…do this. All this,” you said, gesturing between the two of you, and towards the room at large. “The way it’s all spontaneous, I mean.”

“Me neither,” Minho said, calmly, still waiting expectantly. “What else?”

Fucker.

You scowled, jaw clenching, teeth gritted as you admitted. “And my experience in general, is…one could say limited.”

“I figured as much.”

“Rude,” you pointed out, vaguely offended. You’d had this man fucking shivering from just touching him. And what? Now, he was calling you inexperienced? Amateurish? Like he could tell the whole time? Bullshit.

“No, not…” Minho cleared his throat, looking mildly exasperated. It was a look you often inspired in him. “I don’t mind. That’s why I’m saying this, because I don’t want you pretending when it comes to shit like this. If you’re not going to be honest, I don’t want it.”

Honest.

Shit.

You hesitated, debating internally, weighing the pros and cons in your head. It was so fucking Minho to pick the most aggravating time to do the right thing. Of course, the one time that him being an asshole worked in your favour, he refused to do it.

“Fine,” you snapped, crossing your arms over your chest. “Fine. OK.”

He waited, eyes on you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from averting your gaze, looking up at the ceiling.

“Technically…technically,” you repeated, with emphasis, “one might argue that…I haven’t had sex yet.”

Minho stilled, staring at you, eyes widening.

You swallowed, trying to stay firm. “It’s really not a big deal…”

“It is,” Minho argued, tersely, but when you looked at his face, there wasn’t a hint of anger. There was, however, a strong hint of guilt in his eyes. You could practically see his thoughts, the way he replayed everything he’d done tonight, the fear that he’d done too much, come on too strong, picturing you as some blushing innocent virgin he’d deflowered–

“I’ve done everything else,” you said, eager to clear up that misconception. You were far from innocent, there was just one particular act you hadn’t gotten around to. “Hands, oral, all that. Done it. It’s literally the one thing that hasn’t…like, I’ve had relationships, it just never reached the point that…”

It always went around in circles. You wanted your relationship to be serious, to be settled and firmly established and in a good place before it happened – but the time it took to get there made your partners panic, made them think that to go so long without sex, without wanting them, the relationship must actually secretly be failing. And then you’d break up, and you’d be even more guarded and hesitant the next time, and on it went.

“And I’ve been busy with school and my career anyway,” you added, swallowing, forcing a shrug. “Who has the time?”

Minho was still staring at you, but at least the guilt had faded away.

He’d made no move to get away from you, at least, so you took this as a good sign. With a deep breath, you turned around and took slow, measured steps towards that ridiculously large bed, and looked him dead in the eye as you made a point of sitting down on it.

Doing your best to sound certain, reassuring, convincing without leaving a single bit of room for doubt, you spoke.

“I’m happy and comfortable with everything but sex-sex happening. So, if you want that…” you trailed off, trying to think of a polite way to phrase the thought in your head, before giving up with a shrug. “Tough shit, I guess. That’s my line in the sand. Everything else is fair game, though, so don’t get all…weird about it.”

“I’m not getting weird about it,” Minho said, stubbornly.

“You were. Just a little. Like you’re afraid to break me or something.”

Something sparked in Minho’s eyes, and he smiled slightly. “I’d never think I could do that.”

“Good, because you can’t,” you repeated, firmly. “There, honesty. Done. So, either come over here or leave.”

“Leave my own room?” Minho asked, amused.

“Yeah,” you said, doubling down, leaning back to plant both hands behind you on the bed. “It’s my room now.”

For a second, it looked like Minho was going to laugh. And then you caught the way his eyes began to lower, following the lines of your body, the way you were sitting on his bed, clad only in underwear, waiting.

He exhaled slowly, appreciatively. “…This is happening.”

You weren’t sure if that was aimed at you, or himself, but either way it didn’t matter much when he crossed the room in a flash. Barely taking the time to plant one knee into the mattress beside you, his mouth was on yours, hand on the back of your head.

It was a gentle gesture, sweet even, how he cradled the back of your head.

So, just to be certain that he knew exactly where you stood, and exactly how much patience you had for gentleness, you took his other hand and slid it into your panties.

Minho groaned, pulling away from the kiss to look down, and you felt his fingers slip through your folds, the movement made slick and easy by the way you were soaked.

“You’re so impatient,” he muttered, but he didn’t sound particularly annoyed about it. “All the time.”

“Yeah,” you replied, unapologetic. “I know what I want.”

“Mmhm. And so do I,” he said, and pulled his hand out of your underwear. You opened your mouth to argue, to question why, until you felt his hands move to your back, to the fastening of your bra.

He unhooked it easily, sliding the straps off your shoulders. Pushing up from the bed to stand tall, Minho let the bra fall from his hands, before reaching down to grab at your waist and pull you to standing.

He kissed you again, briefly, ignoring your bewildered expression, before switching your positions – him sat on the bed, you standing over him.

“These are staying on. They’re a bitch to peel off,” he told you, and your gaze was practically glued to his hand as it ran up his faux-leather-clad thigh before he gestured to your underwear. “It’s up to you, what you do with those.”

Your hand, unthinkingly, drifted to the lacy hem of your underwear.

“…What, no preference?” you asked him.

Minho stared at you, eyes dark, the corners of his mouth twitching ever so slightly with knowing, and didn’t reply.

Heat flooded your belly. You swallowed once, and hooked your fingers around your waistband, stripping out of your underwear before you could think twice.

He reached for you immediately, his hands on your hips, pulling you towards him. From what you could tell, he seemed to be guiding you towards straddling his lap – to which you took the slightest detour at the very last second, planting your knees either side of his thigh, the very same one that had been pushed between your legs on that balcony.

How very familiar a feeling. And yet, how very different, because now you were pressed against Minho’s naked chest, and when you kissed, one hand went straight to your bare breast, the other arm hooked around your bare waist.

Logically, you should have felt exposed – but there was very little room for logic here, not when Minho was squeezing you so tightly against him. You felt…enveloped by him. By his warmth.

It was…nice.

And then you finally let go of those last few traces of stubborn pride, and let yourself grind down on his thigh, and it was fucking fantastic.

You moaned, breaking the kiss to press your forehead against his, and rocked your hips faster. His thigh was so solid under you, thick bands of muscle from a lifetime of sports, clenching and unclenching. Heat pooled in your gut, spiking with every rock of your hips, every drag of your clit against him.

You felt Minho’s hand drop from your waist to curl around your hip, gripping tightly, urging you to keep moving. You pulled your face away from his, just in case – headbutting him in the nose, no matter the context, would very probably be a mood-killer – and instead lowered your head to plant kisses on the side of his neck.

Minho tilted his head back, just a little, granting you better access, his breath escaping him in one long, shaking exhale. You were forced to grip onto his shoulder with one hand, just to steady yourself, still grinding down on him.

Tension built between your legs, pulsing with every heartbeat as you continued to grind against him, and your kisses grew clumsier. Open-mouthed, harsher, teeth scraping against sensitive skin in a way that left Minho gasping.

“If I left marks, would it…” your voice was sluggish, raspy, dazed, “would…can I?”

It was a silly question, because the obvious answer was ‘no’, he wasn’t going to want any reminders of this temporary lapse in sanity.

And yet, Minho’s reply was immediate. “Yes. Yeah, you can, if…that’s…”

He broke off, with a noise so low in his throat that you could almost feel his chest vibrate from it, as your mouth latched onto his neck.

Your movements weren’t deliberate, not exactly. You had no strict intentions of marking up Minho’s skin, but it was just whenever it felt good. With every new sudden jolt of sensation shooting through your body, you sucked, leaving a path of your own pleasure scattered intermittently along his neck, the base of his throat, the swells and dips of his collarbone.

Minho reacted to each, and when you thought to look down, you saw his dick straining against his pants, so much so that it was even starting to pull his waistband away from his skin, revealing glimpses of what lay underneath.

You watched his hand lower to his crotch, as he tried to adjust himself, to figure out a way out of his discomfort. Without thinking, you reached down and pushed his hand away, letting your own slide into his paints.

Minho sharply inhaled, as you slid the palm of your hand over the head of him, letting your fingers grow slick, before wrapping your hand around his length.

He was hard, very obviously and very painfully hard.

And all of that was because of you.

Because he wanted you.

You felt your body physically judder at the thought, your thighs clamping around his. Something sparked inside of you. Up until now, you’d been turned on – obviously. You were naked on Minho’s bed and straddling his thigh, of course you’d been turned on, but it had been manageable. Like burning coals, smouldering, blazing hot to the touch, sure, but under control.

This, seeing him like this, was as if someone had jabbed right in the heart of those coals, oxygen rushing in and flames erupting, sparks crackling in the air. No longer under control, but all-consuming and desperate.

The muscles of your core clenched so tightly that it was almost painful, and with a ragged breath, you finally began to ride in earnest.

Minho clutched you with one hand as you moaned, his other snaking down to join yours on his dick. You let him guide your hand, controlling how hard you squeezed him, how slow you pumped him. Honestly, at this point, you didn’t have the concentration for it on your own, not when your legs were starting to shake with every new press of his thigh. You could feel something build, like a wave swelling, the crest just in sight but not quite…

“That’s it,” he murmured, and pressed a kiss to your chest. His eyes were dark when he pulled back, watching the way you bounced. “You’re…God, you’re fucking hot, do you know that?”

His words only drove you further, stoking something within you, and you moaned in response.

“Oh, is that what you like?” Minho asked, eyes lighting at his new discovery. His moved the hand on your waist to settle on your breast, squeezing lightly. “Me telling you how good you look?”

“Minho,” you muttered, half-warning, half-longing.

“With our history, I’d have thought you liked me mean,” he continued, and you should have wondered where that smart mouth of his had been this whole time.

He leaned in, kissing your neck, following upwards, until he reached your ear.

“But that’s not it,” he observed, murmuring into your ear. His hand – the one on yours, the one helping you stroke his dick – quickened, gripping yours just a little tighter, and his breath caught for a second, before continuing. “You want to hear how good you feel. How good you are.”

You whined, your body faltering for a beat, before picking up again.

“That’s it, isn’t it? You like praise,” he said, so very confident. Knowing, almost, like there was something else to it. Something he recognised, intrinsically. “You want me to admit how…fucking perfect I think you are.”

“Minho.”

You felt him twitch under your hands, felt the way he reacted to the way you breathed his name.

“Because you are,” he said, the words falling from his lips, as you grew even more frantic. “You are, you are, you’re good, you’re perfect, you’re…fuck, keep going. I can feel how wet you are, you…”

Fuck, fuck, it was too good. Too good and yet not good enough. There were tears in your eyes and your legs burned from how tightly they were clamped around Minho’s thigh, how desperately you’d ridden him, trying to chase an orgasm you just…you just couldn’t quite…

“Maybe you should fuck me,” you whined, voice hoarse, shaking. You’d spent the last five minutes essentially edging yourself, your brain was fried, and all you could imagine was how easy it would be for Minho to pull you over just a short distance onto his dick, let it fill you, maybe it…

“Don’t. Fuck, don’t say that,” Minho gasped, trying and failing to make it sound insistent, final. You could see the effects of your words. He was tempted, he was sorely fucking tempted. You knew he was picturing the exact same thing that you were. “I’m not taking your virginity at a fucking house party. You…”

He broke off with a moan, letting whatever words that would follow die on his tongue as you squeezed him.

“I need…I need more,” you gasped, through gritted teeth. Your body was starting to betray you, your legs starting to give out before you could reach your climax.

You buried your face in his neck, panting.

“I can’t…fuck,” you moaned, before one little word fell from your lips, the one word he’d asked for so long ago, out on the balcony, “Please.”

With a sudden, sharp breath, Minho hooked his arm around you and rolled you over, pressing you into the mattress. Your hand slipped out of his pants as he moved, hurriedly, down your body.

He paused at the apex of your legs, glancing up. “Are you OK with–”

“Yes,” you hissed, your hand fisting in his hair and pushing him downwards. You were so close, you were so close, and his thigh wasn’t between yours anymore, and you just couldn’t… “Yes, fuck, please.”

You could glimpse the beginnings of a smirk as he followed your hurried pushing, but before you could even register it, you felt him lick one long stripe along you, and your head emptied of all thoughts.

His mouth was hot and wet and almost immediately targeted your clit, leaving you shaking as you ground up into his face without shame, chasing the orgasm that had been just inches away for so fucking long. You could barely breathe from it, each breath wracking your body in almost-sobs, every muscle stiff and coiled in desperation.

You felt Minho hook an arm under your leg, pulling it up so that it could sit on his shoulder, parting you just a little wider.

You arched your back, your head pressing even further into the mattress, eyes squeezing shut. When you spoke, it was barely coherent, a loose string of words. “…H-hands, fingers…please, whatever it…Minho, I’m so close, I’m…ah…”

You felt him slide in a finger – two fingers? More? You didn’t know, you didn’t care, you just knew how close to the edge you were. Your muscles were locking up, body shaking, even as Minho placed his free hand on the curve of your hip, thumb brushing your skin in small, reassuring strokes.

Your grip in his hair tightened, mind going blank, tears in your eyes as you gasped. “Yes, keep – keep…keep–”

You came, and it felt like shattering. Your body’s muscles locked, rigid, shaking, as your own moans rang in your ears. At some point, your thighs had clamped around Minho’s head, your one anchor as you tried to come back down to earth.

It was like every rational thought, anything with even the slightest bit of complexity to it, evaporated. You were left weightless, on your back, dazed. Slowly, sluggishly, your gaze drifted to Minho.

What a sight, you thought. Pretty.

His cheek was pressed into the flesh of your inner thigh, skin flushed so pink, head tilted down so that most of his face was hidden by his rumpled hair. He was kneeling, and you saw that his hand had returned to his dick. It was as if he were trying to be discreet, almost quiet, even as he desperately pumped himself.

Barely even thinking about it, you reached down. His breath caught when you wrapped your own hand around him again, letting him guide your movements once more.

His head lifted, and you caught a glimpse of his dark brown eyes looking up at you. Always so unreadable, even now, even when burning.

Your mouth moved before your thoughts could catch up. “You’re…”

You didn’t know how to finish that. Gorgeous? Annoying? Terrifying?

All of it was true, none of it felt right to say in that moment.

You just watched him, eyes locked, until he choked out a moan, squeezed his eyes shut, and came with a soft, low, “fuck.”

It felt dirty, almost voyeuristic, to watch him cum. But even if you didn’t look, you still would have heard him, you still would have felt it on your hands, your thighs. You still would have felt the way he slumped forward, head dropping to your chest, forehead pressed against the valley between your breasts, his quick, deep breaths against your skin.

You still would have felt the way it all fell quiet – until it was just you, Minho, and the impending repercussions of what just happened.

What you’d done.

What had you done?

Your head dropped back against the mattress, looking up at Minho’s ceiling but not really seeing it, as your senses slowly returned to you.

Shit. Fuck. Every other fucking expletive, they all ran through your head.

What the fuck had you–

Minho cleared his throat, lifting his head up off of you. You could feel the weight of his gaze on your face, and you tried to school your expression into something neutral, pushing down the storm of thoughts in your mind.

You didn’t know why, but you expected him to withdraw from you immediately. Maybe that was doing him a disservice, but it was true.

That was why you were so surprised by the kiss he pressed to your temple, strangely gentle, even as his usual sardonic tone crept back into his voice as he spoke. “Let’s clean up first, overthink later.”

“I’m not overthinking,” you argued immediately, because old habits died hard even in a fucking surreal situation like this.

He didn’t laugh, but there was the slightest twitch to the corner of his mouth as he replied. “Sure.”

He sat up, and you caught the way he winced, probably in newfound discomfort over the state of his…current attire. While he attempted to strip out of his ruined pants with anything close to dignity, you pushed yourself up to a seated position, trying to look anywhere but him.

What now? What now? It was all well and good for him not to overthink, but you couldn’t drive away the sudden flood of consequences that threatened to overwhelm you. Of all times, why did it have to be now, when you were forced to interact with Minho so much more? You’d have to work with this man for the next few months, fuck, you had to talk at the U.N. with him. What would people say?

What would Felix say?

Something powder-blue and soft entered your field of vision, smelling of detergent and lavender fabric softener. You blinked, looking up to find Minho offering you a towel, and you wondered how long you must have zoned out, wrapped in your own thoughts. There wasn’t quite a smile on his face – nothing so extreme like that from Minho – but there was something gentle in his eyes.

You took it, swallowing, and cleaned yourself up as best as you could. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Minho pull on a pair of black sweatpants – and when he straightened up to standing, you finally clocked the blooming purple marks littered across his skin.

“Oh, fuck, your neck. I’m so sorry,” you gasped, mortified at the blooming purple marks on Minho.

He glanced towards you, and gave you half a shrug. “It’s fine.”

They were very much not fine. They were prominent, the kind of hickeys you’d be embarrassed to leave on a long-term partner, let alone a…

A…

Well, whatever Minho was.

You swallowed. “It’s not, have you seen them?”

He paused.

“…Yes,” Minho replied, firmly, and there was something about his tone that made you stop, that made you stare at him.

He stared back, face perfectly neutral but refusing to look away. The implications were not lost on you, and your face began to warm.

Clearing your throat, you set the towel by your side and reached for your clothes, having to get up to pick up each item along the shameless trail that ran from the bed to the balcony doors, gathering them in your arms in a small, pink pile. “Please tell me you have your own bathroom.”

Minho laughed a little, nodding towards the door to your right. “Where do you think I got the towel from? Through there.”

You spent a few minutes in the bathroom, trying to compose yourself, trying to clean up properly, slipping your costume back on. The strange feeling in your stomach didn’t ease up, not even once. In the mirror, you looked almost exactly the same as you had when you first stepped into Minho’s room – but how was that possible, when everything had changed?

Fuck, just…you didn’t need to think about it. Deal with it later, deal with all of it later. You just needed to get out and get some space and distance and just…

You drew yourself up as high as you could, squaring your shoulders, and pushed open the bathroom door.

You found Minho standing in the middle of the room, seemingly in mid-step, turning quickly to face you. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was…what? Pacing?

“I can’t stay,” you stated, trying to sound firm. You mostly succeeded, were it not for the slightest hesitation you had, the faintest strain to your voice.

Minho paused, catching it immediately. “…Do you want to?”

You didn’t know how to answer that. It felt like a trap, even now, as if Minho was preparing to pull the rug out from under you. You wished you couldn’t imagine that level of cruelty, and yet you feared it, however irrational it was. “…I don’t want people to talk.”

Minho eyed you for a second, and yet again waited before he spoke, like he was trying to choose his words before they left his mouth. He settled for a very simple, very Minho statement. “Fuck people.”

At any other time, in any other situation, you would have rolled your eyes. You even felt the urge now, tied up in the same desire to go back to normal, to pretend everything was fine. “It’s not as easy as that.”

“It is,” Minho argued, but there was no irritation in his voice. Just quiet. “But I get it.”

“This was very…uh,” you swallowed. “…Impulsive.”

“Yes. It was definitely that,” he replied, and was he even capable of being any more cryptic?

You glanced away, finding it difficult to look him in the eye as you admitted, quietly. “…But, uh, good.”

Minho paused. “…Yep.”

Couldn’t he just say what he was fucking thinking? You needed to know, you needed to know if he was on the same page as you, if he was also thinking that it was too weird to just leave things like this. Silent and awkward and just…dancing around each other like this.

You swallowed, and folded your arms over your chest. You weren’t quite brave enough to look at him again yet, but you spoke up again. “Did you…have a good time too?”

And just when you were expecting another cryptic little non-response, Minho decided to cut straight to the point and catch you off-guard. “I had a great time.”

You blinked, shocked enough that your eyes darted back to him without a second thought. “…Good. That’s, uh…good.”

It was so strange to see him like this. Lee Minho, always so put-together, never a shred of vulnerability – and there he was, hair mussed, shirtless, barefoot, taking a breath as he tried to put together his next words.

“I had a great time,” he repeated. “With you. And…”

He stopped.

“And…?” You asked.

His mouth opened. Closed. And opened again. “…I…you don’t have to go.”

You felt something warm unfurl in your chest. “Minho, do you want me to stay?”

“…Yes.”

You took a step forward, tension melting from your shoulders, replaced with a new curiosity. You couldn’t quite believe this was happening, and yet…

Well, you couldn’t let him off that easily.

“Yes, what?”

He exhaled, making a sound almost akin to a huff. You recognised that sound, you knew it from debating, from arguing, from whenever you caught a weakness in his defence and pressed him on it. “Yes, I want you to stay.”

You took another step. “Why?”

This time, he scoffed, as if it could hide the slow flush of pink making its way up his neck. “You know why.”

“No, I don’t.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, and wow, this was fun. “Yes, you do. You’re too smart not to.”

You grinned. “Thanks, but no. You’re going to have to say it.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“I am,” you said, without shame, and added. “You’re into that.”

He sighed, and gave in. “Yes, I am.”

“Well done,” you laughed, finally drawing it out of him. “You’re into me.”

Minho eyed you for a second, still just a touch out of reach. Like he’d done it on purpose, kept just enough space to protect himself.

You watched the way he hesitated, and for once, his mask slipped and his face gave away just a peek into what he was thinking. You could see the thoughts warring within his head, the way he hesitated before committing.

“…More than just that,” he said – he confessed – softly.

Just four words, but the meaning behind them was loaded. They hung in the air, obvious, weighty, vivid.

You froze, taking them in. You didn’t know why, you didn’t know how, but despite everything that had occurred tonight, Minho still had the ability to surprise you.

More than just that.

More than just…

Oh.

That was all your brain – your proudest attribute, your big, university-educated, sharp-witted genius brain –  was capable of thinking.

Oh.

“So…” Minho said, before trailing off, watching you, and eventually forcing the smallest of shrugs. “Don’t go.”

You were still reeling. You tried to make it all fit, every piece of information you had. The gentleness he’d held you with, the strange softness he’d had, the look in his dark eyes when you threatened to find someone else to kiss, the way he smiled sometimes when you were trying to piss him off, the way he just…watched you in conversations, in arguments, like he was just as interested seeing you think as he was countering the words that came out of your mouth.

When you laid it out like that, when you visualised it like points in a debate – with so many in the for argument and frighteningly little in the against – it seemed so obvious.

“I…” your words came out hoarse, dazed. “…Yeah, I can…not go.”

Minho’s eyes searched every inch of you, trying to figure out what exactly you were thinking.

“…You look like you’re about to pass out,” he observed, bluntly.

“You just said you like me, can you blame me?” You asked, hysteria close to creeping into your voice.

Minho didn’t reply for a second, still watching you. “Is it such a surprise?”

“Yes,” you blurted out, instinctively, until you took a second to actually think about it. “…No? Yes and no? I don’t…you’re, like, annoyingly hard to read.”

“Am I?” Minho asked, but the corners of his lips were twitching, suggesting he already knew the answer to that. “I’d say the same about you, but honestly, sometimes you’re an open book.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Especially when you stare at my mouth.”

Your eyes snapped up back to his, blinking, caught. There was definitely amusement in his gaze now, a glimpse of relief creeping in.

You scowled, face beginning to heat. “You’re enjoying this.”

He smiled, not a trace of hesitation behind it, a real and genuine smile, and finally stepped towards you. “I absolutely am.”

“Assho–”

You were cut off, as Minho ducked his head down to kiss you, and you couldn’t even pretend to do anything other than respond eagerly.

The next time the two of you got coffee, on another cold autumn morning when you were ten minutes deep into a squabble over geopolitics that you were determined to win, Seungmin had the grace to at least act surprised when Minho bought you a muffin and slipped his arm around your waist.

“Wow,” he murmured, deadpan, watching the way you relaxed into Minho’s side, even as you unpicked every thread of his argument. “Gee. Who would have guessed?"

taglist: @buntrsh​ @liz3056​ @sunnyville36​ @sleepylixie​ @healinghyunjin​ @aliceu​ @laikaya​ @the7thcrow​ @lynx-paw​ @mainexiii​ @springdeity​ @bettyschwallocksyee​ @kawaiiayasan​ @tae-kook-lover​ @itshoonie​

#straykidsland #kinktober #stray kids smut #lee minho x reader #lee minho fanfiction #lee minho smut #minho smut #minho x reader #lee minho x y/n #minho x y/n #college au #enemies to lovers #lee minho fanfic #lee know smut #lee know x reader #skz minho x reader #skz smut

[cidnangarlond]

some of these r people I made up some are based on actual mutuals or inspired by posts if not directly drawn from them but know I came up with these out of love. I love uuu my mutuals

mutual 1: made more art of the war criminal as a catboy in the style of Cabanel's The Fallen Angel. drawn in a fugue state in 2 hours

mutual 2: wrote a little poem as I waited at the bus stop *one of the most heart-wrenching poems you've ever read*

mutual 3: I NEED SLOPPY FROM THAT OLD MAN NOW‼️

mutual 4: I NEED SLOPPY FROM THAT OLD WOMAN NOW‼️

mutual 5: inventing a new kind of drug *photo of a joint made from columbo-themed rolling papers*

mutual 6: if this team scores against mine again I'm flying to their stadium to personally blow them all up

mutual 7: now see her sillay *photo of their cat everyone knows by name*

mutual 8: now see her sillay *photo of their car on fire*

mutual 6: which one of y'all reported me to the authorities I WAS JOKING

mutual 9: dnd session today if glumpus and glumpo don't resolve their sibling issues and put it behind them then the world is gonna end they are LITERALLY having this much beef and a character is already dead in the middle of this fight to save the world

mutual 10: I'm gonna have glumpo fuck old woman cheddar tonight

mutual 11: they were insane for this one *screenshot of them listening to the alphabet on youtube*

mutual 12: look at my son *oc everyone knows by name and loves*

mutual 13: hey guys staff terminated me again because they said my repeating replying to dumb as shit tumblr ads with the wikipedia article text for japanese giant salamanders was "harassment" reblog to help me find my followers again

mutual 14: hey guys my blog got nuked because I told a proshipper to kill themselves reblog to help me find my followers again

mutual 15: *callout post for mutual 14*

mutual 16: *20 reblogs in a row of art of dio brando with huge tits*

mutual 17: did a quick makeup test for the show! only took me half an hour this time ^_^ *photos of intricate professional-level work to make them look like a skeleton*

mutual 18: going to the arctic to find out if those men fucked on the doomed expedition wish me luck 👍🏻

mutual 19: hey guys we haven't heard from mutual 18 in a week I think they were serious

mutual 20: i think i hauve covid *photo of a sheet of white paper*

mutual 21: if I don't get to see this band in concert I'm making a pipe bomb (FOR LEGAL REASONS THIS IS /J)

mutual 22: got high with my manager on break and why's he kinda... like he's married (for now) butWIAT THE BUILDING IS ON FIRE

mutual 18: in the arctic just killed a seal. I've never felt more alive

mutual 23: just got to heavensward sooo excited to play this expac... heard it's crazy good

mutual 24: hey mutual 23 what do you think about haurchefant

mutual 23: he's my favorite. why

mutual 25: DYING POSTPONED I JUST HAD THE BEST SOUP EVER!!!!!!!!

mutual 26: LOOK AT MY WOL BOY *picture of their warrior of light with massive boobs*

you: awesome *reblogs it*

#addendum the war criminal mentioned he's fictional I'm not. mutuals w someone drawing art of real ones. before anyone says anything #because I know how people can be sometimes. anyway

[rallamajoop]

Moreau's secret romantic movie fixation

Most of what you’ll find online searching for cut content from RE8 really isn’t ‘cut content’ so much as ‘rejected ideas that never made it past the concept stage.’ Early plans like having Ada Wong swanning around the village in a plague mask or that Miranda would be a foreign researcher probably never got near the finished game. You can find tons of rejected early concepts like this in the extra concept art that comes with the RE7 DLC pack (or online, for all those who’d rather not shell out that much extra money for a few extra gallery files).

But there is at least one detail from that early concept art that I’m confident did make it almost all the way into the finished game, and it’s that little tidbit about Moreau’s love of sappy romantic movies.

The biggest single piece of evidence I can cite you for this is that you can still find an unused asset for a film poster that was meant to appear in Moreau’s room.

This was to be a collectable treasure item, like Dimitrescu’s lipstick and wine glass. There’s even a description for it ("Poster for an old movie Moreau liked. It's too damaged to read.") which feels pretty significant. There are plenty of other unused treasure item assets in that same folder (I’ll probably get to posting about them later), but the film poster is the only one I could find a description for – complete with translations into all the many different languages supported by the game. I’m guessing that means this one got really close to the final cut.

But the best part? If you look closely at that poster, you might just be able to make out the title. And if you google that title, it turns out this little game asset is based on a real poster for a real movie.

(Yes, that tagline really does read, "When Tragedy Struck, Love Came to the Rescue.")

I haven’t seen Ice Castles myself, but if the Wikipedia summary is to be believed, it’s a 1978 American romantic drama about a young figure skater who loses (most of) her sight in a tragic accident. With the help of her boyfriend, she eventually comes to accept that, because she can still see just well enough to make out the bounds of the rink, she can still work past her disability to realise her dreams. I don’t need to spell out why a film like Ice Castles might particularly appeal to someone like Moreau, do I? Poor guy.

The poster isn’t the only reason I’m convinced secret-romantic-Moreau made it almost to production. Let’s go back to that concept picture again, where Moreau is eating cheese while watching old romantic movies on his TV screen.

Well, the movie may not have made it in, but TV did. So did the cheese.

More importantly, consider the scene where Ethan sneaks up behind Moreau to find the Rose flask unattended. Moreau himself is looking away, apparently focused on his TV screen, though it shows only static. And then he vomits dramatically, and utters the words “Oh Mother Miranda, if it’s for you, I’d do anything.”

I mean, it’s obvious what was meant to be going on here, right? Moreau’s watching a film as Ethan walks in, and sighing at some torridly romantic scene. There’s probably just been some hero or heroine earnestly utter some similar dialog like, “Oh [insert name here], I’d do anything for you!” All the pieces are there except the film itself!

(Do we need to take a moment here to acknowledge the, er, Oedipal implications of Moreau comparing his devotion to Miranda to a presumably-romantic scene? Because... well, it can be easy to overstate that sort of thing, but I don't think it's a stretch to suggest Moreau really would do anything for Mother Miranda.)

So why didn’t the movie make the cut? Why are we left with Moreau watching only static from his poster-less room?

I can only speculate, but a few possible answers come to mind. Maybe the team worried that making Moreau a closet romantic would render their revolting fish-man a little too sympathetic, or a little too comical. Maybe they had trouble finding a film clip that worked for that scene without leaving Ethan awkwardly watching a movie over Moreau’s shoulder for longer than really worked. Maybe test audiences were so distracted by the film going on the background that they missed what was going on in the foreground with the Rose jar. Maybe there were licensing issues around including that Ice Castles poster, or whatever film footage they wanted to show (which I feel obligated to point out may have been some other film altogether). These kinds of snags get in the way of productions all the time. C’est la vie.

The scene still works without the movie playing. But it’s hard to miss what was supposed to be going on.

Still, while I’m talking Moreau, and Moreau’s TV, have a little bonus speculation about Moreau’s relationship with the guy who presumably installed that TV for him: Heisenberg.

It seems to be pretty popular out there in RE8-fanon land to cast Heisenberg as actually-very-fond of Donna, or the Dimitrescu daughters, etc etc – and that irks me a bit, because I’ve yet to see any take on it that feels in-character for anyone involved. Even putting aside Donna’s own issues and the whole Dimitrescu connection, Heisenberg’s seething contempt for the rest of his ‘family’ is not exactly ambiguous. But even with all that said, there are few intriguing hints that good ol’ Karl might just have the teeniest little soft spot for his ‘moronic freak’ of a brother, Moreau.

The big one is that tidbit from Moreau’s diary that I already touched on in my post on the four lords, where Heisenberg apparently comforts him about his place in the family:

Mother Miranda gave me a Rose jar. No one likes me which is why I thought they would leave me out again. But Heisenberg said that was why we each get a Rose. The ceremony cannot happen without us all there.

Now, you can debate how ‘comforting’ this would have come out in practice. Knowing Heisenberg, whatever he said may have been more of a sneering dig at Moreau's intelligence than real reassurance – but even so, just reminding Moreau that he's an essential part of the plan pretty could qualify as an uncharacteristically kind gesture (and perhaps only more so if Heisenberg knew even then that it was a comforting lie).

When I say Heisenberg ‘presumably’ installed Moreau’s TV, I do mean presumably. At the end of the day, there’s a TV screen in Moreau’s quarters that Heisenberg can hijack to spy on or talk to Ethan for the same reason there’s one in some back room behind a stronghold full of lycans: the plot requires it to be there, and it’s easier to use the same asset twice. But it’s no fun sticking to rigidly Doylist analysis, so what could be the story behind it? Have some possibilities:

Moreau got hold of the TV himself, but Heisenberg snuck in at some point and modified it so he can use it to spy on his ‘brother’, without Moreau’s knowledge.

Heisenberg installed or repaired the TV for Moreau under the guise of letting him watch films on it, but secretly also uses it as a monitoring device.

Moreau is fully aware the TV can be used for remote communication and chats to Heisenberg through it regularly. Given that his film obsession didn’t make it into the finished game, maybe that’s all he thinks it does. Maybe he was even just talking to Heisenberg before Ethan walks in.

Though that first option is a workable interpretation, you could also question what Heisenberg imagined he’d ever see Moreau doing that was worth spying on. Our other obvious options are that Moreau thinks Heisenberg installed that TV for the primary purpose of enabling his 900th rewatch of The Shape of Water (oh come on, you know he loves that film), or that it’s so they can talk without leaving home. Heisenberg’s still a creep for rigging it to spy on him, but there’s another surprisingly thoughtful gesture buried in there somewhere.  

There’s one last barely-qualifying little detail that intrigues me, and that’s that both Moreau and Heisenberg seem to have similar ideas about Miranda’s plans for Ethan. Heisenberg states outright that he believes Miranda is testing Ethan, to see if he’s worthy of joining her family. And Moreau bemoans that ‘It’s not fair, I should be with her, not you!’

Neither Dimitrescu or Angie echo any similar ideas, and nor does anything Miranda actually says to Ethan suggest Heisenberg has the right idea (like so much in this mad fairy tale, the vibes are much stronger than the internal consistency). But if Moreau has the same idea as Heisenberg, despite being so generally clueless about the Rose jars and Miranda’s intent, it’s natural to suppose it’s Heisenberg he got it from. So we’ve got another possible hint that Heisenberg’s closer to Moreau than his other siblings.  

To be clear, none of this means Heisenberg has ever been nice to Moreau. He dismisses Moreau as a moronic freak, and seems unbothered by Moreau’s death. Moreau’s diary makes clear that no-one in the family is nice to him, or generally ‘includes him’ in things (though it’s hard to imagine they much include each other either). Even hinting to Moreau about Miranda’s plans could well have been a means to goad him into conflict with Ethan. I doubt Heisenberg would have had much interest in sitting down to watch Moreau’s favourite movies with him either.

But it’s not hard to imagine Heisenberg basically viewing Moreau something of an annoying, stupid, snot-nosed little brother – pitiable, but not too pathetic to inspire the odd gem of real sympathy or uncharacteristic kindness. Heisenberg’s obviously spent years telling himself that only the strong survive, that those ignorant villagers deserve their lot, that he can’t afford weakness, but it’s tempting to think that maybe giving Moreau that TV wasn’t a completely cynical gesture. After all, doesn’t every Frankenstein-wannabe need an Igor?

To finish, have some more extracted assets of Moreau-related pics from Miranda's laboratory. I just love the style and detail that went into these.

#Salvatore Moreau #Karl Heisenberg #Resident Evil Village #Resident Evil #cut content #unused assets

[wellbelesbian]

carry on pornbots, what we know:

okay, so i’m sure many of you have noticed the carry on pornbot phenomenon that’s started happening, and i’m obsessed, so here is what i’ve put together so far. big thanks to the folks in the carry on server who found all the bots (at least, i think that’s all of them) and decoded some stuff!

if you’d rather see this all unfold for yourself, don’t click read more. but if you want to catch up or just keep your head straight, here’s everything i know:

so, the bots we know of so far, in no particular order. are:

Gareth @bucklemeup342

Daphne @strawberry-spreader-342

Natasha @headmistress-pitch-342

Smith Smith-Richards @the-real-chosen-one-422

The Minotaur @greekfurry342

Lamb @i-assure-you-im-real-223

Braden @youre-an-apocryphal-concept-223

Mitali @head-milf-in-charge-342

Jeff the were-badger @stay-out-of-the-quiet-zone-223

Ginger @level-me-up-223

Lady Ruth @i-eat-the-cake-422

Ebb @other-girls-definitely-count-342

also worth noting @real-cryptid-friend-shep-239, but we will get back to him.

we still don’t know what the numbers in these names mean.

most of the links in the urls lead to the ao3 page for their respective character or a ship they are involved in (for example Braden and Lamb both take you to their ship tag, which is woefully empty). however Jeff’s takes you to his ao3, the imdb page for I Was A Teenage Wereskunk and the wikipedia page for Carhenge.

so, the bots started appearing a few days ago, i think i got my first follow from one on boxing day, or maybe the day after. i didn’t pick up on the first few and blocked them. like many people, they came to my attention when Rainbow posted about them.

since then, Lamb, Braden and Mitali have been active.

first, Braden and Lamb had this exchange:

then Mitali responded to this ask from @thewholelemon

i messaged Ebb asking her to open her asks, and a few hours later when i checked again, all the asks that had previously been closed, such as Ebb and Daphne, had them opened. I’ve sent an ask to Ebb but she hasn’t responded yet.

then Braden reblogged this aftg art

i presume this was an accident and whoever is behind this meant to post it to their main account. or maybe it was a hint? Braden later added:

now seems like a good time to mention that Braden is double verified, which means not only time and effort but money has gone into this. i truly applaud whoever is behind it!

Braden also responded to another ask. this one is anonymous so it could have been sent by anyone.

finally, Gareth just posted this

and then there’s Shepard…

so, this account that resembled the others and was impersonating Shepard was found. in his bio is the link to his ao3 page and a rickroll.

but it isn’t like the others. it was created 3 months ago, it hasn’t followed anyone, and it posted some puzzles.

the first was this

which @raenestee figured out was hexadecimal code and spells out ‘Las Vegas’.

then came

which @thewholelemon worked out was page, line and word numbers in Wayward Son. that spells out “This is not Shepard”

then finally there was this wordsearch

@onepintobean found the word ‘contact’, then @yellobb solved the rest

and that’s all Shepard has given us. it’s funny, but personally, i don’t think it’s the same person/people behind this account as it is behind all the others.

but that’s it for now! i’ve reached the limit for photos i can add and that’s about all the information i can think of. i might add to this, we’ll see how complicated it gets. but either way it’s a lot of fun, especially to keep track of in real time. massive kudos to whoever is running all this!

#carry on bot shenanigans

[sassy-bitch-since-2007]

Hi. I was going to do a Danganronpa x Total Drama AU, but 'the final killing game' style. However I'm not finding the backgrounds I want for this and it annoyed me enough to just,,, give up on the project altogether.

Anyway, here are the NG I was going to use for it, in case someone wants some ideas (and the reasoning behind them)

For more context, this is supposed to take place right after TDWT. TDROTI didn't happen.

Noah - Passing the Fourth time Limit with Owen Alive (Noah and Owen's friendship has developed during TDWT ; despite his personality, I strongly believe Noah would not put Owen in danger for his own life. I also needed him to not be in the same group as Owen and Eva, given that he was going to be one of the few trying to puzzle out what was going on)

Owen - Putting Food in Your Mouth (Is self-explanatory ; This guy can not survive without food and it would be literally impossible for him to not eat if said food happen to be in close proximity)

Izzy - Being in the Same Room With a Corpse (It literally kills her from the start, which was the whole point ; I also think is fitting for her, given her personality)

Eva - Opening Doors (I can just imagine her getting so mad over it ; Is also the only one able to bypass this NG as she's strong enough to just punch her way through the walls)

Duncan - Going 5 seconds without being seen by another contestant. Time Outs don't count (No one would really want to stay near Duncan, given all he has done during TDWT ; many will think he's the killer because of his personality)

Harold - Answering a Question (That would be an easy NG for anyone BUT him. Harold's a walking Wikipedia, it will be hard for him to not answer any questions)

DJ - Witnessing Violence by Participants (Given his personality this NG makes the most sense for him ; The character that died in the anime with this NG makes me think of DJ, which influenced my decision)

Trent - Opening Left Hand (I wanted to add this NG, that's literally all)

Beth - Running (Also somebody has to have this NG too you know)

Cody - Can't Touch Or Be Touched By Anyone (My AU does not include Sierra or Alejandro due to the injuries they got during TDWT, otherwise Cody would be dead in the first seconds of the game ; I just think it fits for his character and is funny)

Gwen - Revealing Your NG (Which would make everyone suspicious of her.)

Heather - Getting Accused of Murder (I think at least one person would accuse her of killing someone, being as disliked as she was. I just needed her to not group up with anyone, as she's also one of the few trying to puzzle what was going on)

Sadie - Being in the Same Room With Katie (You can tell I wanted to get rid of her fast, as I had no plot planned for her)

Katie - Being in the Same Room With Sadie (Same as Sadie)

Ezekiel - Talking (It can go both ways ; In my AU he talks, as he's confused by his NG. It doesn't need to be this way. You guys can keep him alive if you want)

Bridgette - Witnessing Someone Cry (Again, I think this is fitting given her character. In my AU she was also one of the firsts to die, thanks to Owen)

Courtney - Giving Orders (Fitting, given her character)

Justin - Looking in Any Reflective Object/Seeing Your Own Reflection (I think it would be a challenge for Justin to not see his reflection, but not one he would be unable to overcome)

Tyler - Laying or Sitting Down (Which is torture, given that he's tripping over his own feet more often than not. Again, I saw it fitting given his character)

Before anyone comments about it, Leshawna, Lindsay and Geoff are not here because I couldn't come up with a good NG for them. I was thinking something along the lines of 'Using the Wrong Name' for Lindsay, but the phrasing of the NG gave me enough problems to just give up on it (Basically she would die if she used the wrong name when addressing someone, but I don't know how to phrase it to sound good and make sense).

Sierra and Alejandro are not part of this due to the injuries they got during TDWT. Is canon that Alejandro has been stuck in a robot up until All Stars and, in my opinion, Sierra would not have enough time to be fully healed by the time this 'new season' takes place.

In my version of the AU Chris IS NOT the mastermind behind this, he's actually the first to die. It isn't until Izzy, Katie and Sadie die too that everyone actually believes everything is real and Chris isn't just fooling around (this dude died like at least two times during TDA, no one truly believes he's dead for real)

----

For more context, for those who has not watched Danganronpa 3, here's how things are supposed to work :

One person, known as the traitor or attacker, tries to murder the other participants, while the other participants attempt to identify the killer. Everyone does have a bangle on that they are forbidden to demage or remove (unless they want to die).

The rules are

Rule #1: The time limit. At two hour intervals, when the timer on the bangle runs out, a sleeping drug will be administered, putting all the participants to sleep.

Rule #2: The attacker/traitor. Whilst everyone is asleep, the attacker will wake up and have a certain amount of time to kill exactly one person. If no-one is killed in this time limit, then the other participants win the game.

An assumption developed by its participants is that, assuming the attacker can end the killing at this point, he/she can stop the game by choosing not to kill anyone within the time limit, thereby going undetected or placing the blame on someone else.

Rule #3: Forbidden actions, also known as NG Codes. On each person's bangle, there is a single action that the participant is not allowed to perform. If that action is performed, then a lethal dose of poison is administered. The poison will also be administered if the participants attempt to remove or tamper with their bangles.

Is also specified on the Wikipedia page that the NG code rule can be bypassed by severing the limb above the wrist at the risk of blood loss (yes the rules are copy-paste from the site so you guys don't get spoiled while researching for them)

The participants need to find the traitor and kill them to win the game.

#sassy-bitch-since-2007 #Danganronpa x Total Drama #danganronpa au #danganronpa #Is not spoiling as much as one would think but adding the tag just in case someone has it blocked #danganronpa 3 #td noah #td heather #td sadie #td katie #td beth #td lindsay #td tyler #td duncan #td courtney #td cody #td eva #td izzy #td owen #td trent #td gwen #td justin #td ezekiel #td leshawna #td bridgette #td geoff #td dj #td harold #killing game #In my AU the one behind it was supposed to be either an OC or probably Blaineley

[inflammatory]

The 80s. Everyone was young and quick. Not a single album missed. Then the decade passed and some weird vibes got into them and right before Bruce Dickinson left to take some laps making mid solo material they put out FEAR OF THE DARK, a toss-up between the perfect classic maiden guns and some weird bar rock type shit that you could probably safely fuck to without tearing a muscle. Strangely enough, in my opinion this combination made for the perfect ENTRY LEVEL GATEWAY ALBUM, especially for listeners who haven’t yet found the sound of metal quite their cup of tea. Opens with a typical skin ripping gallop track, finds its arguable apex with six minutes of AFRAID TO SHOOT STRANGERS, slowburning into the most hypnotic melodic riffs they ever did. Gems like JUDAS BE MY GUIDE are hidden at the back of a slightly inflated tracklist. They make you listen to the absolute skip that is WEEKEND WARRIOR before you even get to the historical title track. Not Maiden’s best. But the magic that is there still strikes awe. I believe it was for FOTD that they picked up Janick Gers on guitar, who contributes some really fantastic freewheeling lead slop. Think solos that sound like he’s being chased by a murderer simultaneously.

Settling into their sound, a listener must of course sink teeth into the satanic panic classic THE NUMBER OF THE BEAST. A very chewy forty minutes. This was 1982 where Dickinson, the voice you hear on most of the relevant albums, just arrived. And he immediately displays his chops. See title track for one iconic blood curdling shriek. Maiden makes quick work of this album, and saves their very best for last with HALLOWED BE THY NAME, the song that personally first pulled me into the band. They make seven minutes feel like two. To get there, however, Iron Maiden has written some silly shit that they will first subject you to (22 ACACIA AVENUE, skippable). Many members of the band contribute lyrics, but Steve Harris, behind both the band and the bass gallop that made it, oftentimes writes songs that veer comedic.

So we get to SOMEWHERE IN TIME, another rich 80s classic album that keeps gateway listenability by being sweet on melodies and having no overly outrageous Steve Harris lyric moments. On ALEXANDER THE GREAT he does have Dickinson read off a Wikipedia page, ostensibly. But it’s amazing either way. This album also sports WASTED YEARS, considered Maiden mainstream for good reason.

But forget entry level listening. We want to cut to the very pinnacle of Iron Maiden output. Rest and relaxation after 1986’s SOMEWHERE IN TIME creates SEVENTH SON OF A SEVENTH SON in 1988. The idea of a concept album they waltzed with previously appears fully realised, operatically spotless, SYNTHS. There is no Gers slop here. This is the crystallised daddy of modern prog. Dreamy but white hot. Back to back to back, they put CAN I PLAY WITH MADNESS, THE EVIL THAT MEN DO, and the ten minute title track together. It is for this reason that the first acoustic guitars crawled out from the ocean and evolved pickups and tone switches.

…You could probably also listen to Powerslave. They’re quick on that one too.

For later there is the earlier KILLERS. This has Paul Di’Anno before they swapped him for Dickinson. He’s got a grit to his voice that Dickinson doesn’t have, which works perfect for the songs they were putting out. See MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE, one which should catapult this album to classic status by itself. I hear the basis for a lot of modern J-rock/metal in this one. Couldn’t explain it to you, but it’s in the melody. And I honestly love the Di’Anno sound. I would’ve put him with guitarist Gers for maximum impact. Too bad they’re star-crossed by a decade. Fun fact about Di’Anno is that Rob Halford of Judas Priest once tried to hit. He did not succeed.

End notes: Yeah, the Trooper is good and you’ve probably heard it, but it’s carrying its album.

#iron maiden #please listen to iron maiden. But also remember you don’t like them as much as I do

[josefavomjaaga]

Actually, I'm curious now - do you have a post explicitly about the "roi Nicolas" thing? And also why do people call Soult Nicolas when that's not his name?

Okay, that's two questions:

do you have a post explicitly about the "roi Nicolas" thing?

*sigh* No. 😔 I've been shying away from it for several reasons:

It's probably the biggest, most serious accusation against Soult. We're talking high treason here.

It's a bunch of work, because there are so many contradictory sources, and they are often quite long and would bore people. Putting them together in a proper way would take much time, and I rarely manage to focus long enough on one topic because I get so easily distracted 😊.

I can hardly be called unbiased, can I? 😋 This would require a much more objective person, and more importantly, an actual historian, who can compare and evaluate the sources and does not get into the research with a preconceived opinion. I would immediately take to defending Soult and citing sources that exonerate him.

Soult's behaviour may be closely related to movements (conspiracies?) within the French army that I cannot quite grasp and that would require even more research. We know there was at least one traitor, who had betrayed the French to Wellington, but it's quite unclear to me if Argenton really acted alone and what his goal was. Soult himself in his memoirs suspects the existence of a far larger conspiracy.

Just so it's clear what we're talking about: what I call the "roi Nicolas" affair is Soult's alleged attempt, during the second Portugal campaign in spring 1809, to make himself king while he had occupied Oporto. His main misdeed was the fact he encouraged the Portuguese communities under French rule to send petitions to Napoleon, asking him for a new king. While waiting for Napoleon's decision, Soult would act as gouvernor. This had not been part of the orders he had received ... but of course, those orders at the time were four months old, and he was cut off, deep in enemy country, without receiving any new orders.

The only thing I have translated with regard to this affair is the so-called "circulaire Ricard". Presumably, this letter, trying to explain the motives behind his actions, was Soult's reaction when the first of his generals started to suspect him of having a hidden agenda. (It backfired marvellously.)

why do people call Soult Nicolas when that's not his name?

Rumours of Soult's alleged attempt first were growing slowly among the army at Lugo, after Soult had (barely) managed to get his army back from Portugal into Galicia. The first rumours came from some of Soult's disgruntled generals (of which there were many) but they soon spread to other corps - Ney's staff apparently had a certain reputation for malicious gossip (I've just read another remark about that in the memoirs of Oudinot junior, who was part of Masséna's staff and had to deal with Ney one year later). Ney would later actively denounce Soult to Napoleon.

"Nicolas" - in all likelyhood - was first used as a derogatory name for Soult in this gossip, "Nicolas" being a contemporary designation for the devil. (Under the Bourbons, there would be pamphlets that call Napoleon "Nicolas", too.) But at some point, with this story being told over and over again, the connection got lost. There are plenty of memoirs claiming in earnest that Soult during his time in Oporto declared himself "King Nicolas". This was repeated over and over, until people started to think that "Nicolas" must have been Soult's actual first name. And when in the 1930s French professor Georges Six put together a "Dictionnaire biographiques des généraux et amiraux français de la Revolution et de l'Empire", he apparently was already so convinced of this that he did not even bother to check. From there it spread to plenty of publications (English and French Wikipedia have corrected it by now, the German Wikipedia still has the mistake).

So, that's all I have to offer right now. I would love to at some point translate the evidence that is pro-Soult in this affair - but as I said, I am not a historian. I cannot verify in how far these testimonies (of which there are several) are truthful, or have possibly been made on Soult's request.

In any case, thank you so much for the Ask and for your interest; if I succeed in making people curious I'm already very happy! 😊

#napoleon's marshals #jean de dieu soult #Oporto 1809 #roi nicolas #peninsular war #Portugal 1809

[popculturebuffet]

It's Not the Years, It's the Mileage Finale: Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny (Comission for WeirdKev27)

Hello all you happy archelogists and welcome to the final installment of my Indiana Jones Retrospective, It's Not the Years, It's the Milleage. For those just joining us for the epic conculsion, i've covered all four previous Indy films over the past few months, from the good with great action set pieces, iconic lines, and deft character work, to the bad with the uncomfortable amount of brown face, temple of dooms theme park version of india and support of colonolisim, and Crystal Skulls sterotpyical 'savage tribesman", to the just plain weird with aborted ideas such as a haunting in scottland, a chess game to the death, sun wukong vs indiana jones, and an out and out alien invasion which Indy makes out during suprising no one.

IT's been one long, LONG journey and today.. it ends, as does the film franchise. With Dial of Destiny. Dial is the main reason we did this: a fresh fim with ford, with a fresh director in Logan maestro James Mangold, a final chapter for the ages.. and it has been recived with a resounding

Yeah while there was some hype for this film from Fans of Mangold or Indy (Of which i'm now both) it's now gotten to the point Wikipedia has out and out labeled it a box office bomb and Naturally the failure of this film has been taken with grace and restraint by the internet

It hasn't helped that Indy has come out in a summer with plummeting box office from usual money makers, so people are only more on their "Why aren't people seeing these films" kick. When really the reasons aren't new. We have "Doing the same shit a diffrent day instead of going with what was new and working " (Transformers rise of the beasts), "Another film outboxing it" (Elemental), "The company behind it simply not promoting it at all" (Ruby Gilman, which I intend to review at some point), " or "Oopsie we hired a pedophile as our leading actor, have no idea where we were taking this franchise when we started this film, and our company is ran by an evil overlord no one likes whose actively made the media landscape worse ever since he took over, better hope our promotoinal tactics work..."

The issues aren't new, their simply finding hitting people over the head.. and that's what happened here. Indy had an uphill battle: I was only invested at first because James Mangold was directing it and Logan is still one of the best superhero movies ever made. I got more invested thanks to this retrospective. Given Disney's slipshod treamant of star wars and terrible treatment of last jedi as well as the mcu being a mess right now, it's not a huge leap that many audiences really didn't want to gamble on ANOTHER disney live action movie that just looked okay, no matter how much Phoebe Waller Bridge or Antonio Bandareas it had. While it's sad as I honestly don't think the film deserved THIS much of a bomb.. I can't blame audiences for waiting for Disney Plus. We simply live in an era now where most people have tons of streamers or will get one for a month to watch one movie and anything else they've caught up on. We're simply entering an era where having a big brand name isn't a guarantee and in this case can be a curse if that name is disney. Big franchises can work, see Spider-Verse and Scream VI making great money, but you have to have something to offer.

So come with me under the cut as we see if Indy has just that or is best left in the past

MASSIVE SPOILERS AHOYHOY

When I'm Gone, He's Gone

As you'd expect, Lucas still wanted to make a 5th film after Skull, with Speilberg and Ford on board as always. This time though..

Lucas himself went to the press saying he wanted to do something new and Speilberg was stuck in the past... which I translate as Lucas once again went kinda nuts on the premise while , much like after Temple of Doom, Speilberg wanted something a tad more grounded to avoid making the same mistake twice. It comes off as the two just could never quite agree on what to do and eventually.. decided to let the franchise move on without him, selling it and the rest of Lucasfilm to Disney. Disney naturally wanted an indy film right away and after getting the distribution rights one year later in 2023.. it took them a decade.

Yeahhh while we got the sequel trilogy pretty fast in hollywood time it took a good decade for Indy to put his hat on. At first there were rumors floated about about recasting, then it was settled on ford, then Speilberg was set to direct and the film proceded to go through a ton of writers, from Crystal Skull's david koepp

And even Dan Fogelman of This is Us royalty was floated as one of the writers. The film also got delayed thanks to Speilbergs work on Ready Player One and the Post, before he eventually stepped off all together. He claimed it was to pass it on to a fresh director, but it really feels like his heart wasn't in it anymore, and it was best someone whose heart was took the lead.

Enter James Mangold, director of The Wolverine, Logan and Kicker of ass. Mangold was a solid choice and my book and along with his usual co-writers Jez and John Henry Butterworth, who I assure you are real people but cannot assure you aren't old timey prospectors sent forward in time, hashed out the script.

Casting went smoothly, as did filiming, with the only hiccup being production's start being delayed because of COVID. They shot in morocco, england, ireland and spain, along with the us as you'd expect. Speilberg wasn't entirely detached as he still advised and watched dalies, ultimately loving the final product. So now we can actually look at that product let's start with how it writes Indy himself. The Mileage Adds Up

One of the things that made me not really enjoy Doom or Crystal.. was a lack of character work. Indy was about the same as when he started the adventure in contrast to Raiders and Last Crusade taking him on a wonderful character journey, in the former getting his passion back and in the later reconcliing with his dad. Dial of Destiny dosen't reach those highs, but I still think it does a decent job. The opening.. is okay detailing Indy having an adventures in the last day sof the third reich, setting up both Helna's Dad and our big bad, as well as Archimedes Dial, basied on the real life Antyhkiera Mechanism. I really do love the dial as a plot device as it's a departure, being the only one of the five to not involve a god of some sort, and yes the alien counts. It's just a time machine a famous philospher made. It's still fucking neat, I mean IT'S A TIME MACHINE A FAMOUS PHILSOPHER MADE, but it's a bit more grounded while still being pretty damn nifty.

So while the intro is mostly.. eh for me, what it does really well... is contrast the indy we know.. with where he is in 1969: Unlike Crystal Skull, which glossed over the massive amount of time passed, here were with an indy who feels both his age.. and that he's been left behind by the world. That time has taken everything from him: his friends, his father, his marriage.. and his son. He's left to yell at the neighbors, go to a class that dosen't pay attention and have a retirment party he clearly dosen't want. Granted his retirment does feel like a missed opportunity as wikipedia mentioned it pre-release as being forced out due to speaking out against operation paper clip, something that I either missed.. or more likely simply ISN'T in the film. It's a real shame, the idea is great it's just not present. This creates a really intriguing Parallel: Indy at the start of the last adventure of his we'll see is a broken down man whose years of adventuering have left a mark on him, who is estranged from Marion, has not a ton to live for, and is clearly only loosely holding it together. And the Indy we met in Raiders.. is a broken down man whose years of adventuring left a mark on him, is estranged from marion, has not a ton to live for and is clearly only loosely holding it together. The diffrence is how tired Indy is. In his late 30's he's beaten a bit and reduced to graverobbing.. but the minute he gets a real assignemnt int he grail, he jumps to it. He has his job, he has his friendship with marcus, and he's able to fix things with marion. He's not completely gone, he's just lost. Indy in Dial... has watched all his friends and his son, more on that in a minute, die, his marriage fall apart, and his job slip out under him. Without his job.. he's a man without a purpose.

This also ironically creates another Scrooge McDuck parallel, another bit of symmetry and one I didn't plan on till I started writing this and thought of the story: Indy reminds me a lot of Scrooge in the final part of Life and Times of Scrooge McDuck. Both are seasoned adventueres who have either pushed away anyone they have left or lost them and feel they just have nothing left but to slowly rot away.

And like Scrooge it takes a bolt of inspiration from the new generation after him to get Indy back in the game. In this case it's the highlight of the film, Helena Shaw, played by the wonderful, funderful fleabag, Phoebe Waller-Bridge. WB likely dosen't need any introduction but just in case she was showrunner of the successful and inventive stage show turned amazon prime show fleabag, showran killing eve and in general is pretty delightful. So it's no huge suprise she's great as Helena Shaw, daughter of Marcus Indy's sidekick for the intro who became obessed with our titular macguffin, Archemedis Dial, which can travel through time some time, though not to the end of all man kind. Helena is a neat character in that they managed to make her distinct while still giving her enough similarties to indy to serve well as his shadow, his ghost of sins past, him in his prime. She's also a brilliant archelogist, has a kid sidekick like indy did in temple of doom with Teddy Kumar (Ethann Isidoore), sells priceless artifacts for a profit, has a messy love life, kicks plenty of ass, and tries to command every room she's in. What helps seperate them is their demeanor: Indy is gruff, snarky and surly. While Helena can snark with the best of them, she's fast talking, fast thinking, and tends to use charm as much as the old Indy Guile both heroes posses. The main diffrence is rather than sell to museums, she sells to private collectors...

Okay the REAL difference is that she's only in it for the money while Indy at least, on some level, cared about the history even at his lowest. Helena just sees all her father could do and all she learned from being around him before his passing as a way to get. Once again like Indy.. she had a father who cared more about some big treasure than her child.. and a godfather who cared more about what was going on in his life than ever checking up on her. She's a person whose been left to her own devices and feels she's doing just fine.. but honestly could be putting her talents to better use. Maybe not in a school like indy, but she could help return artifacts to their countries... probably still for a pretty penny, but not just to some random asshole to sit in his den.

You can tell dealing with her just makes Indy feel even more tired, which is somehow possible after all he's been through. He's once again seeing a ghost of his past and this time can't seem to get it through her head. When she celebrates shortly after his friend Renaldo dies, he has to sharply remind her. Nothing seems to get through to her.. till we get to THAT scene. Probably the best scene of the film. The climax is awesome.. but it's this one moment. On a boat at night, Helena asks Indy what he'd do with the dial, clearly thinking some grand adventure.. instead Indy: I'd stop my son from enlisting Helena: And how would you do that? Indy: I would tell him that he would die, that his mother would be overcome with a grief so intense that his father would be unable to console her, and that it would end their marriage. The sheer PAIN Ford conveys during that monologue.. may be the finest acting he's ever done. You can just FEEL Indy's loss; his son is gone, his marriage is torn, and he blames himself for both. It gives a horrible pathos to why he's so broken down. Both developments.. coudl've been really cheap. With how much everyone but me seems to hate mutt, and how rightly no one can stand shia suprise these days, most were expecting..

Instead Mutt's death is used as the catalyst for Indy's slow spiral into dispair. He would've been happy in retirment.. but he lost his son, his wife.. he's a man truly with nothing left he feels. And while he gets some old spark back unlike Scrooge.. he's fighting it every step. He dosen't want an adventure, he dose'nt want anything but his son back, and he knows damn well that even if the dial could... the sad truth is it likely has some horrible cost to it. The grail gave eternal life but bound you to a spot. The Skull gave you the knowledge of an unknowable alien god, but drove you mad. The arc killed anyone who looked. If the Dial even works... he knows it can't bring his son back, and he's only going after it because it's better in a museum than in the hands of Nazis. We also see a change in Helena. She goes from following Indy's lead out of nececity, to seeing his point, to seeing the beauty of the world instead of just the dollar signs. She still wants the money.. but she starts to see the beauty in history instead of the dollar. I also like that this isn't easy on Teddy, who sees her postive changes as coming between him and his surrogate mom, when really she fully intends to stick with Teddy no matter what and shows nothing but loyalty.. and in the end.. they dont' really finish that arc

I like Teddy a lot, and I wish this had more of a bow on it, though we do get him taking down a nazi and trapping him to drown and later getting into a dogfight. Teddy slaps is what i'ms aying> He dosen't have a ton of deep character to explore, but he's fucking great.

This all really cumulates in the climax.. which is so great i'd rather save it for after we cover one last major character, our antagonist. Our big bad is Mads Mikkelsen as Jurgen Voller, a thereoticain who wants the dial. At first Indy assumes, as most of the audience would that Voller simply wants the dial, which he's shown to obess over to win the war for hitler. Turns out Voller's plan is more complex. We see in the intro how Voller is the ONLY one who both sees the dial's value among the nazi's and the writing on the wall: Hitler is almost gone, he fucked them over. It's over. And thus the horror of Voller isn't like with Thot , at the giant horrifying nazi machine and all their power, and more at evil allowed to hide in plain sight. At a society who forgives horrible people because their useful. Voller got a free pass thanks to operation paperclip.. and the film shows while that idea got us tons of advances including space flight.. it came at the cost of giving horrible people real power and influence. The president is outright giving voller a MEDAL. And he hasn't changed: a truly chilling bit has him talking to a black bellhop delivering meal and asking where he came from.. and dismissing him saying he came from america. Voller is every bit the white supremacist monster he ever was, he's completely loyal to the idea of the nazi's. .just not to hitler. Voller's whole plan isn't to help hitler.. but to take him out, replace him and have someone compitent win. And he only gets as fara s he does because the goverment willingly works with him, gives him agents, goes after Helena and the dial. They know what he his but fully aid and abet him. Sure they eventually realize he's gone rogue, that his pet agent is entirely in his pocket.. but they don't turn on him till far too late and with one of their great agents dead. Concidentaly I feel Agent Mason is wasted: she's the calm rational agent.. but she's also the only major black character in the film and gets killed by a nazi. That's.. entirely fucked up and while I suspect inteitonally fucked up it just dosen't work for me.

Voller is also once again, much like with Belloc, an evil mirror of indy: Both are geniuses who adore history.. but one's a good person despite being gruff while one seems harmless when we first meat him but is actually a total monster. Mads does a great job showing just how evil the guy is without going over the top. Voller is determind to change history... and he does.. just not how he wanted to.

This Ain't 1933!

The climax.. is fucking awesome. Like Crystal Skull it goes beyond what the series had done before, if not more so. It's arguably even MORE over the top. But it works. For those who haven't seen the film... INDY GOES BACK IN TIME. The dial DOES indeed work.... but it's set up to ONLY go back to this point. Helena points out the idea of "loaded decks' earlier.. and realizes the dial is one. Archimedes only left it behind to create a stable time loop.

Indy going back into actual history is nuts, entirely and my jaw dropped at it.. but it's so damn fun. Our heroes not only have to escape the plain and get the dial back after it drops onto the coast, but survive the Siege of Syracuse, the roman invasion that eventaully resulted in Archimedes end. So we have two planes flying overhead, arrows everywhere and nazis versus romans. It's over the top but not in a way that really undermines the franchise, and frankly as what's intended to be the final act of indy ever, it's a fitting finale: the man whose explored history in the present.. gets to LITERALLY go to the past for his final adventure. I do get how not everyone will agree, and it won't work for everybody, this may be a bit tooo over the top, but I love it and feel it nicely ties up everyone's character arcs.

For Voller he gets to join history.. but instead of "fixing" it like he wanted he dies horribly and is forgotten to history only the "dragon" (his palne" is left.. and cleverly foreshadowed earlier when Teddy watches a puppet show. His nazi's all die and it's glorious to watch nazi after nazi go down from arrows or our two heroes escaping the plane while teddy takes the rest down with the help of a hapless pilot.

We then get the payoff for both Helena and Indy, as Indy gives the dial to archimedes.. and plans to stay. After all we established he's lost everything... why would he go back? He'll die soon.. but he's cconvinced he'll die soon back in the present. It's Helena who'se ultimately changed realizing both the value of history.. and ultimately the movie's moral: you can't change the past, but you can live for today. Helena can't change her awful upbringing or the things she's done.. but she can be better. And Indy can't save his son from death, save archimedes from death or be a better husband to marion during the greving process.. but he can be better to her and still live now. He still has so much to offer. He taught helena to love history and to try and be better. He gave his son a better life even if it was sadly cut short. He can be better. And when he can't be convinced the easy way she proves she's fully earned her way to being indy's succesor and just clubs him and takes him back (the dial has to go back with them as archimedes needs to make his own). The end scene also mostly works for me: Indy is back at his apartment.. but finds he's not alone as when he woke up there last time: Not only has Helena forgiven him, having realized much like Indy himself that warts and all, he's family, but Sallah, who I haven't gotten to talk about is here. Sallah is great in this film, not only helping Indy when he needs to lay low but enocuraging his friend it's not over. It's also nice to see Indy helped him and his family immigrate and that he's teaching his grand kids egyptian. It's also a nice way to still have davies play the roll.. but have him get a bit more depth and make up for a white guy playing the roll.

And last but not least.. Marion returns, and the two reconcile. I thought it was a bit easy when I frist saw it.. but I see now i'ts more the idea they have a long road ahead.. but both are willing to see it together.. Indy admits he was wrong and Marion is willing to give him another shot. For the third time but at least this time it's likely she just needed some psace to realize he wasn't being callous he just wasn't processing his grief.. and now he's ready to.. maybe they have a shot. It's a nice way to close out the films: Indy's life isn't over, he's got friends, he's got his wife.. and there's always another rainbow.

Assorted Other Stuff: The action set pieces as usual are fucking great, my faviorites easily being the climax and the diving adventure. The latter reminded me a lot of Tin Tin, Red Rackam's Treasure. Antonio Banderas is great as Reynaldo and I only wihs he had a bigger part.. and survived. It's not a huge suprise, saying Antonio Banderas is great. While I LIKED the finale with Marion, I'm with Karen Allen. They could've used her more. She deserves better dammit. WHy is it with the sequels they just can NEVER get bringing her back right?

Last but not least.. ther'es this weird subplot only brought up in the first two acts where the government frames indy for Murder that just.. never gets resolved? Like they never adressed it and as far as I can tell there's no resolution. Now granted I still think Indy isn't going to be arrested: He's clearly been unconcious for a week and Helena did have to get him back into the US, so it's likely the goverment found out about voller, got a debrief from helena.. and agreed to clear her and indy's record and absolve him of murder in exchange for never talking about this to anyone, as a Nazi escaping and killing one of their agents , after they pardoned the guy wouldn't look good. But we needed a line. It's easily the most baffling decision in otherwise a really godo film.

So finally we're , like indy back where we started.. was the film that bad?

When writing the reviews for Crystal Skull and Temple, I honestly hated the films MORE the more I thought abotu them, the more I found wrong, the more I realized how little they did. With this film. it's the opposite. The more I examine dial, the more I find to like. The character arcs, the action, the payoff. It's not perfect, again Indy is still kinda wanted for murder among other little plot gaffes, but I do think Dial is a solid entry in the series and better than both temple and skull at capturing what made the series graet. It dosen't nail it perfectly.. but it's still a fun ride with some really good character work and phenominal performances. Really indy failed.. because no one cares outside of fans of the franchise. As my brother put it when talking about this very film recently, kids don't know indy. It's not the big hit with kids star wars was and is. Star Wars will likekly rebound someday because Kids still dig it and kids will grow up with the sequels the way I grew up with the prequels, warts and all. Disney just assumed Indy was enough to carry it and he wasn't. I'm sad at it because not only is this a good film, but I was hoping for more pulp adventure films. But i'm also happy at what we got and to have done this journey. I saw the good, and the bad. And I saw a franchise I ended up really loving. In the end I got what I needed out of this franchise

#Indiana jones and the dial of destiny #dial of destiny #phoebe waller bridge #harrison ford #indiana jones #helena shaw #marion ravenwood #jurgen voller #disney

[secretgamergirl]

Just what is it with wiki editors and trans characters?

It’s still June, which means it’s still pride month, which means I’m still updating this blog more often than the usual maybe 3 times a year, and today I’d like to talk to you about some fictional characters who are trans and the weird wiki entries bending over backwards to deny it. And I’m not even playing this game on hard mode here, talking about like the cast of FF6 or something. I’m here to talk about a gal from Final Fight, and a guy from One Piece.

Oh and I guess I’m also talking about Poison. You all know Poison right? She’s pretty commonly referred to as the first trans woman in a video game, specifically Final Fight in 1989. And that little fun fact is... not an actual fact.

Prior to Final Fight, we had Ms. Pac-Man in 1982. While I hesitate to deadname even fictional characters, Ms. Pac-Man began life as Crazy Otto, and had a brief stint going by Super Pac-Man and a couple other monikers before going with just Ms. Pac-Man. I don’t see why she shouldn’t count.

Perhaps you think we shouldn’t count Ms. Pac-Man because to your reasoning, the origins of the game and the character re-design process behind don’t qualify as transitioning? OK then, the next example that comes immediately to mind is Luigi, from Super Mario Bros., in 1993. Who has had a remarkably consistent portrayal as being very very into feminine clothes, acting super girly while wearing them, and quite enjoying this. Doesn’t count because it’s all in supplementary material? No, it’s in multiple games too. Want to argue there was no in-game confirmation prior to the release of Final Fight? That’s really splitting hairs now, particularly when tie-in media got onboard this train quite early on. Perhaps you want to make the argument that Luigi is not trans, but is a cis man who likes to crossdress, perhaps as a sexual fetish? That is a weird argument to make about a character from a series of games aimed at young children but you do you.

How about Metroid, 1986? Samus canonically dresses like a man, uses masculine pronouns, and when that armor comes off we reveal a woman in a low cut leotard ready to start living it up. Who’s also canonically two meters tall, has super broad shoulders, had her biochemistry tweaked as a child... I think I wrote a whole separate post on this once. We still gonna play the “oh that’s all a disguise/misunderstanding” card on that one?

Well, Doki Doki Panic came out in 1987. Birdo (Catherine in Japan) is quite explicitly a trans woman. It’s right there in the manual, and ad campaigns, and really tastelessly referenced in many sources since. What possible justification could anyone use to argue she isn’t trans?

Well, let’s ask Wikipedia.

“ Since the character's North American introduction, Birdo's gender identity has been an issue of discussion and speculation. The Japanese manual for Doki Doki Panic, when translated into English, states her name to be Catherine and as a man who thinks of himself as female, adding that she likes to wear a bow and would rather be called "Cathy."  However, in the first edition manual for the North American release of Super Mario Bros. 2, Birdo is referred to by a text block that states "he thinks he is a girl" and would "rather be called 'Birdetta.'" In later printings, mention of Birdo being male was omitted. Mention of this fact is further not included in most later games featuring the character and seems to have been retconned to Birdo always being a female to begin with. In the Japanese version of Super Smash Bros. Melee, Birdo, called Catherine, is described similarly to the original manual, though wanting to be called "Cathy." In Super Smash Bros. Brawl, it is said that Birdo is of "indeterminate gender." Birdo appears in the Wii Japan-only video game Captain Rainbow, which delves into Birdo's gender identity. It specifically depicts her being imprisoned for entering the women's bathroom, and the player is asked to locate proof of her femininity (her vibrator) to get her out. Birdo is often lauded as the first transgender video game character. The character was given a female voice actor in Super Mario Advance, a remake of Super Mario Bros. 2. The Spanish language website for Mario Smash Football while describing Birdo suggests that the character's gender is indeterminate. The European website for Mario Strikers Charged Football refers to Birdo as a male character.”

And later in the same article, we have this whole subsection:

“Gender identity

Birdo has been the subject of discussion relating to her gender identity and has been regarded as transgender. She has become a trans icon due to her gender identity. She has been credited as an early transgender character in video games. The manual excerpt from Super Mario Bros. 2 about Birdo's gender did not receive attention until some time after the game's release. Writer Lorenzo Fantoni suggested that this was because few people read the manual or because no one cared about Birdo's gender at the time. Fantoni also compared the Captain Rainbow scene to the later bathroom debates regarding trans people. Fantoni also suggests that Nintendo does not know what to do with Birdo and that changes to Birdo's character are made to match present-day morals. Author Sam Greer was critical of Birdo's portrayal, stating that her gender had become a "running joke" and was the "subject of much derision and stereotyping." Paste Magazine's Jennifer Unkle criticized Birdo as a caricatured trans person and as an example of Nintendo's poor handling of gender identity in general.

It is speculated by Wired's Chris Kohler that the gender issue was retconned to make her a cisgender female, while video game developer Jennifer Diane Reitz suggests that she may have undergone gender reassignment surgery. Writer Andrew Webster of The Escapist used the history of Birdo in the lead-in to his article, commenting on the changes Nintendo has made to hide Birdo's gender status.”

Weird efforts by wiki editors to try and establish some sort of “ambiguity” or “controversy” here highlighted in bold. Really though, ALL of this text can quite easily be boiled down to just “it used to be that every single mention of this character in any source of any kind felt compelled to include a gross transphobia-informed vulgar 'joke’ about her being trans, but more recently, in North American localizations, they don’t do that as often.”

I wasn’t planning to focus so heavily on Birdo, but wow what a fantastic example of the thinking at play here. Nobody’s trans unless you’re explicit about it. And by explicit about it we mean making gross jokes... and even then the character is only assumed to be trans when we hear that joke, if you go too long without making any, they revert to being cis.

Anyway I’m sure there’s plenty of other examples with other weird excuses not to count them that I’m forgetting. Was Faria out before Final Fight? It’s hard to pin old arcade releases down to a particular month.

How about Final Fight though? Poison isn’t even the first trans character in the game she appears in. Roxy pops in at the tail end of the first level, then again just before Poison, her palette swap. Believe it or not though, there are absolutely people out there who will insist that Poison is trans but Roxy isn’t. I have a lot of building up to do here but have a little tease from the dedicated Street Fighter wiki to get us going...

Before getting into why “it has been speculated” that Roxy is trans, let’s head over to regular wikipedia and see what they have to say about Poison’s “gender history” shall we?

“Originally conceived as a female thug in Final Fight and part of the game's antagonist group, Mad Gear, concerns during the game's development about reactions from North American audiences to fighting women led to the character being re-imagined as a "newhalf". However, that was not considered satisfactory and both Poison and her palette swap Roxy were replaced by the male characters "Billy" and "Sid" and have been for every subsequent North American port of the title on Nintendo consoles and handhelds. After the Final Fight series, she later appeared alongside wrestler Hugo, acting as his manager, with her schemes revolving around finding a tag team partner for him or developing their own wrestling organization. Poison first appeared as a playable character in Final Fight Revenge. She was also to appear in both Capcom Fighting All-Stars and Final Fight: Streetwise; however, the former was canceled and she was omitted from the latter as development progressed. Following those aborted attempts, she ended up appearing as a playable character on Street Fighter X Tekken. She was also added as a playable character to Ultra Street Fighter IV.

The character's potential status as a trans woman, consciously left ambiguous by the developers, has remained a topic of frequent debate by both fans and media alike.”

OK we’re going to be here a while, this is just the first section. Before even getting into the point I was going to make it’s super weird not to mention that she’s a playable character in Street Fighter V, how long ago was this last edited? Anyway, right off the bat, we have perhaps the most oft-repeated lie in video games. Which is even called out as such in the next section here... while repeating it again.

“Conception and history

Poison's first appearance in Final Fight featured her and a palette swap character named Roxy as recurring minor enemies for the player to fight. Named after the band by an unnamed female employee at Capcom, she was designed by Akira Yasuda to contrast against the bigger characters in the game and move about randomly and described as a "cool and rebellious woman". According to the book All About Capcom Head to Head Fighting Games and Final Fight director Akira Nishitani, the characters were originally planned to be cisgender women, but were changed to "newhalfs" (a Japanese slang term for trans women) after the game's release, due to the suggestion that "hitting women was considered rude" in America and the concern that feminist groups would sue. However, concept artwork included in the 2005 compilation Capcom Classics Collection of the pair specifically uses the kana for 'newhalf' (ニューハーフ), contradicting the statement the change occurred post-release. In 2007 Nishitani stated that he supposed the character "could be male", but added it was up to the viewer to decide. He later clarified in a discussion on Twitter that in his personal view Poison was a woman. Yasuda himself commented that as far as her gender, he considers her transgender in North American localizations, but cis in Japan.

A later appearance by Poison as a playable character in Final Fight Revenge, an American-produced 3D fighting game spinoff of Final Fight, portrayed the character in a highly feminine manner and had her romantically interested in Final Fight hero Cody. Commentary about her ending in the game in All About Capcom suggested that the character may have received sex reassignment surgery. The Final Fight-related character profiles featured in Capcom Classics Collection instead allude to her being a cross-dresser, while addressing Roxy as a "she" who dislikes Poison's cross-dressing.

Street Fighter IV's producer Yoshinori Ono, when asked in an interview about Poison's gender, stated: "Let's set the record straight: In North America, Poison is officially a post-op transsexual woman. But in Japan, she simply tucks her business away to look female." He later emphasized it again when asked about what female characters could be included in the game Street Fighter IV, stating that it would be too confusing to include her due to the region-specific gender. However, in a 2011 interview with Electronic Gaming Monthly at the Tokyo Game Show, he stated that Capcom "doesn't have a stance technically", and while they wouldn't give an official answer, felt it was up to the viewer to decide. He added that his intent was to please all fans and that the mystery behind her gender was the core of the character. During the same interview, a Capcom representative further added that they worked closely with GLAAD, an organization concerned with the portrayal of LGBT people in media, to ensure "anything that might be offensive has been very tailored to not be" for Poison's portrayal in Street Fighter X Tekken.”

Where do I begin? Besides shouting a string of profanity and mashing my keyboard while I read all that. Well first of all, I’m fairly certain every woman who has ever worked at Capcom has, in fact, had a name. Also can we have a look at that Final Fight Revenge ending that allegedly hints at her getting bottom surgery?

I don’t even want to diagram the thought process by which one would get from some stock tropey “I bet I could make him like me” to “clearly this alludes to her running off to get surgery performed after this.”

Anyway damn, I haven’t even gotten to the sections on “censorship” and “reception” here, but I don’t want to be here all night. So let’s just say there’s a bunch of quotes from various people about how she’s really hot, half of those add some “I hope that doesn’t make me gay” sort of comment, and we have a couple more rephrasings of the big lie. So... yeah let’s get into that properly.

So... game developers tend to be gross creeps who love dehumanizing jokes about women and queer people in general, “games journalism” has traditionally been the realm of clueless teens quoting each other in circles, paraphrasing press releases, and pasting anything that claims to be a translation of an interview with someone speaking Japanese, said interviews tend to involve flummoxed third party interpreters, and none of these people are particularly likely to know a single damn thing about trans people, let alone what various slurs and terms in languages they don’t speak really imply.

So, first off, there’s nothing at all “mysterious” or “left to the player’s imagination” about the Final Fight girls. They are a pair of trans women who when not busy being brawler enemies or getting folded into the Street Fighter franchise and rounded out are sex workers, specifically catering to the the plausible deniability crowd who can go “hey she totally looked like a hot cis girl when I picked her up” in regards to women they very much know are trans and haven’t had bottom surgery. It’s a pretty common fetish. There has never actually been any ambiguity or deviation on that. It’s spelled out plain as day right on their original designs. Which I have a scan of, right here!

There it is, plain as day. If you can read katakana, and you’re up on your Japanese sex work slang, there’s no ambiguity here. Same term all these developers keep tossing out in interviews. It ends up getting translated in all sorts of awkward ways because an interpreter is going to have to try and clean it up and simplify it, especially back when most of these quotes were pulled (the one from Ono is a bit more explicitly worded) and I’m guessing all the bits of “well in America she’d be considered a woman” stem from our language regarding trans women being a bit better generally, and/or a further weird crack because, well, America is kind of the country all the other country’s trans women come to when they want bottom surgery. Very few people in the world perform it, and we have a shocking percentage plus the best reviewed ones. Now you know.

The whole story about “making them trans in the U.S. to avoid being sued by feminists” is... just self-evidently BS? That’s like, a 10 year old on a playground’s understanding of “feminists” and the concept of a lawsuit. The closest thing to a source on it is a vague second or third hand anecdote passed along a decade after the fact from someone who thought one of them was blonde. Plus when you remove the later embellishment about neither of them being trans before being swapped out for random guys in the SNES release, it’s uh... pretty obviously all just a setup for a gross “trans women aren’t really women” joke. So let’s all stop spreading that around and get an adult to fix wikipedia.

All THAT said, back to the full text of the funniest thing I’ve ever read on a wiki:

“Trivia

Roxy is named after the English rock band Roxy Music. It has been speculated that Roxy is transgender like Poison not only due to the latter's gender history but also because of Roxy being referred to as a "newhalf" (Japanese term for a pre-op transgender person) in her original character concept art, but this has never been confirmed or denied.”

Yes, that’s right. According to the Street Fighter wiki, some people have this wacky theory that Roxy might be trans, just because the artist who first designed her wrote a giant note under the illustration stating “hey this is a trans woman!” And apparently this “has never been confirmed or denied” despite the citation note literally linking to her original concept art. Which, again, could not be more clear on this subject.

You can’t even ask, “what do designers have to do? Spell it out for you!?” because they ACTUALLY DID in this case.

But I’ve got one more for you all. The other day see, someone showed me a recent scan from the manga One Piece, with a very satisfied “well that should finally settle this.”

So... full disclosure here, I haven’t been up to date on what’s going on in One Piece for at least like a decade, and my effort to catch up on the context here ironically just involved me hastily trying to look up what that is with the horns between Luffy and Zoro. I’m not even sure what his name is. But I sure as hell know when I’m looking at some wiki editing weirdo trying to deny a character is trans when I see it.

Like all trans characters with wiki pages, we have a big subsection just labelled “Gender” which does some filibustering about “controversy” Japanese not using gendered third person pronouns (and conveniently ignoring the first person ones) and so on before begrudgingly hitting us with something like this:

“However, certain statements by characters in the manga have continued to create confusion and uncertainty regarding Yamato's gender, particularly regarding Yamato being referred to as Kaidou's son. Yamato has stated that she refers to herself as Kaidou's son due to her desire to adopt Oden's identity, saying "Oden was a man, wasn't he? So I chose to be a man too!"  Yamato has also been referred to as Kaidou's son by Kaidou himself as well as the Beasts Pirates; though their reasons for doing so still remain unclear, given their relationship with the real Oden and their reactions to Yamato claiming to be the legendary samurai. This has led to a significant portion of the fanbase believing that, in-universe, characters who know Yamato consider her to be male, and the official VIZ and Funimation translations have taken this approach, with Luffy and the Beasts Pirates referring to Yamato with masculine ("he/him") pronouns.”

I know, I know, us trans people are always itching to claim any character we can as a trans guy, but just because someone unambiguously says 'I am a man' and 'I am this guy's son' and that guy says 'yes, this is my son' and the official translation exclusively uses he/him pronouns, and when visiting the bathhouse he heads to the men's side and nobody bats an eye at that, well that doesn't really mean ANYTHING, necessarily!

For real though, wiki editors are out here admitting to going out of their way to misgender this guy and stubbornly shout that the official localization is wrong. There’s also some grasping at straws involving a trading card, but like... even if the guy writing the manga were to say “oh this character is actually a girl” that wouldn’t trump the fact that he... unambiguously says “I’m a guy, refer to me as a guy, everyone refers to me as a guy, I am living my life as a guy.” Like, that wins. The only way to argue this isn’t a trans character is if you want to go and say he was actually assigned male at birth and we should just ignore the gynecomastia that might have lead to thinking otherwise.

I don’t know what it is about people who edit wikis where they find it so damn hard to admit when a character is trans, but according to the standard they seem to have set, I guess I have to infer that no cis person has ever actually existed in any work of fiction, or indeed in real life! If they did we’d clearly be bombarded with crass jokes about them.

Also for real, for as often as people make [citation needed] jokes, nobody who edits wikipedia seems to know a primary source from a hole in the ground. People seem to just be searching for whatever they just typed, pasting the first hit, and praying nobody thinks to look at any of the footnotes. It is a MESS down there.

#trans #final fight #poison #roxy #no not the five nights at freddy's roxy #actually wait no #ALSO the five nights at freddy's roxy #I'm sick of quoting trans-denialist wiki pages though #one piece #yamato #birdo

[calamitaswrath]

While Xenoblade Chronicles as a series has plenty of stuff about it that could make you describe the games as "the most game ever", I think even so X still stands out from the others. I mean it's like

The whole premise of the game is that Earth got blown up in a war between two alien factions. One of those factions is the main antagonistic force for the game. You literally never learn anything about the other faction in the game. We only know like super basic information about them from artbooks or whatever, and even their name, Ghost, is not even guaranteed to be their official English name cuz the other faction is named Growth in Japanese, but Ganglion in English. The game has 19 playable characters. It's the only Xenoblade game with a player-created avatar. You can give yourself green skin and no one cares. You can re-customize your avatar after you start the game and change your gender without anyone acknowledging it. Three of the playable characters are aliens. Over the course of the game you invite like half a dozen alien species into the city that is humanity's base of operations, and not a single one of the playable aliens is from any of those species. Every single playable alien character is the sole representative of their species in the whole entire game world. You only learn the name of the species of one of them, and it's that of the space Melia furry elf girl. One of the other playable aliens is implied by more artbook stuff to be a personification of one of the game's continents. He is a blue goat man who constantly says stuff like "Cry me a table". The planet the game is set on has some kinda universal translation field that for whatever reason doesn't apply to blue goat man, and he just learned English by binging WikiPedia from human databases. And as a matter of fact the planet the game is set on is lowkey implied to be a kind of cosmic horror thing. Multiple sentient alien species get dragged onto it, and even though the vast majority of them have technology that's far more advanced than that of humanity, and one of them even has an outright functioning spaceship, none of them can leave for vague reasons. There is a human man who's from like a million years in the future, and he doesn't know anything about the planet, and can't leave, either. Everything that anyone says is automatically translated. There are countless enormous and impressive ruins all over the planet, and you have no idea what civilization left them behind. The only species that's truly native to the planet are the Nopon, those fat furry orbs that are in every Xenoblade game and they don't tell you anything and it's unclear if they even know who left the ruins behind.

A monster from the first Xenoblade game with some very specific lore background inexplicably appears as the strongest superboss and guardian of the planet. It's a gigantic dragon-dino-bird thing, the likes of which the party fought in the first game with a magic laser swords that has a god in it, regular swords and magic. In this game it's the size of a city block and you fight it with guns or in a mech that was build by Americans. The entire human cast in the game is American. The city is New Los Angeles in space. The playable cast has one two Asian characters and a black woman, who is one of the aforementioned aliens in disguise. The game makes it explicitly clear that rich assholes bought their spots on the ark ships that were used to evacuate Earth, and only brought essential workers with them, which comprise the playable cast, tearing apart families and everything. The game is fully aware of the questionable nature of colonizing an alien planet with its own ecosystem and native wildlive, and it's only brought up in one conversation that you can easily miss. Everyone in the city is a robot body with a human conscious and they are trying to get their bodies back. The story only really ramps up in the last two chapters, but when it does, it does incredibly so with cutscenes and story beats that are still better than a good chunk of what you'll see in the other games. The final boss looks like something right out of Resident Evil. The game has like two different cliffhangers that it only opens up in two last cutscenes after the credits. After the cutscenes there's a bit of text that says "This story never truly ends...". Since X came out Nintendo/Monolith Soft have released Xenoblade 2, Xenoblade 2's story DLC that was also released as a standalone game, a remake of the first Xenoblade game complete with a short epilogue story mode, Xenoblade 3 now, and Xenoblade 3's own story DLC which is set to release next year. There's not even any rumors of a sequel to X being in the works. One of X' main characters and arguable main protagonist, Elma, appeared in Xenoblade 2's DLC, and was the only crossover character there to have a bit of story content to them. In that story content she acted kinda out of character, and the scenes involving her hinted at stuff that was barely even acknowledged in X itself. X had a whole character that likely would have been the protagonist, but then they rewrote the story to make room for the player avatar, and now the character who probably would have been the protagonist died before it even began. Elma talks about this guy more in 2's DLC than anyone ever does during X itself. The end of Elma's story content in 2 again hints that there's gonna be a follow up. This was in 2018.

Whenever somebody talks about X, there's like a 90% chance that they're saying something that's just blatantly wrong, but because the game's stuck on Wii U, nobody ever gets corrected. The game has several online components that even most people who actually played it don't understand. The game is so ambitious from a technical standpoint that its physical version needs for datapacks that you can download for free and that install part of the game on your hardrive so that it can load certain assets faster. The Wii U eShop shuts down next year which'll make those permanently inaccessible for anyone buying the game in the future. The fanbase collectively decided that the game's story is bad, when the vast majority of them just rush through the main story missions and miss that there's a shit ton of stuff in the side content. Most people don't care for this because the story isn't like a melodramatic shonen anime. Nintendo seems to pretend the game doesn't exist. There's like barely any Wii U games left to port to Switch, and this one's the most notable. Again, there are not even rumors of it getting ported anytime soon.

In conclusion, it's one of the most games ever and it needs to come back like yesterday.

#xenoblade #xenoblade chronicles x #xenoblade x #xbcx #xcx #long post

[piedoesnotequalpi]

ok for the au thing !! i got Western AU and Dark AU !!

Thank you for the ask! I got distracted talking to my partner!

Anyway a bunch of this is yoinked from a book series I never finished due to it being a bit too politically conservative for my tastes (specifically the book Nowhere to Run) and I also spent far too much time browsing Wikipedia for locations. Not sure if this is what is meant by "dark AU" but it's late at night so

TW for some mild gore and death

Carbon County (MT; there's also one in Wyoming) game warden Jack Kelly was reassigned to temporarily work in Granite County, MT and he's finally almost due to go back to his normal post in Red Lodge. He'd left it in good hands--the Stillwater County game warden (Finch) and county sheriff (Charlie) have most of his duties covered and give him near-daily updates. But he'd rather be back in Red Lodge, where he knows most of the people and their habits and can use his friendship with Katherine, the editor-in-chief of the local newspaper, as an excuse to stop by the office and flirt with one of the staff writers.

However! The week before he's supposed to leave, he starts getting reports of disappearances and campsites being attacked and mysteriously murdered wildlife in Lolo National Forest, so he very reluctantly goes in to investigate. He has a penchant for getting caught up in far more murder mysteries than any self-respecting game warden should, so he's resigned himself to dealing with this nonsense yet again. On the other hand, despite the looming threat of who (or what) ever's behind all this, it is kind of nice to be out camping in the woods.

Jack had made plans with Sean Conlon, the game warden from the neighboring county, to separately make their way through the national forest (both on horseback) and meet somewhere in the middle, with the goal of covering more ground and hopefully finding more information about whatever's going on. But he's struggling to get a hold of Sean, so he resigns himself to investigating alone--he hasn't run into anyone so far--even though part of him knows he should turn back.

The day he decides to turn around, he finally finds Sean, accompanied by a backpacker with a mischievous smile who won't give his real name.

"I've been looking for you everywhere," Sean says. "We have murders to prevent."

"I've been helping," the backpacker says. "We have murders to prevent."

Jack is skeptical of the backpacker, but he's annoyingly charming and Sean seems to trust him, so what else is he supposed to do? They start investigating together, and the backpacker, who still won't give them a name beyond "Racer" and won't say where he's from beyond the UP ("What's that? The Union Pacific?" it's the Upper Peninsula of Michigan but Jack and Sean haven't paid enough attention to Michigan to realize that), brings them to a campsite, where they find a whole bunch of dead elk and also the bodies of a couple of the people who have gone missing. There aren't a ton of clues, but it's the first new information they've gotten the whole time, so they're feeling a little better about the whole thing. Being game wardens, they're used to seeing dead animals, but the decomposing human bodies are a little (a lot) unsettling.

The problem is, when they try to signal the local authorities with the location of the campsite, their radios keep running into technical difficulties. Racer seems unbothered by the whole thing, weirdly, but they decide to note the coordinates as best they can, keep going, and see if they can find anything else.

The thing is, Jack and Sean have been feeling the effects of all this time outside--they're getting sunburnt, they have scrapes everywhere, and they're definitely going to need a shower when they get back. After they find the campsite, they start to notice that Racer is as pale and clean and un-scratched as he was when they first met. And now that they think of it, they haven't seen him eat or drink anything the whole time he's been traveling with them...

And now they're in the middle of nowhere together, with malfunctioning communication gear, and it's been a week since they entered the national forest, and they haven't encountered any other living humans during that time.

#the UP thing is directly from nowhere to run and as someone who knows exactly what the UP is i found it very funny #anyway dm me if you want to know where i got the inspiration for race from #since it's kind of a spoiler to one of the best plot twists i've ever read #newsies #newsies au #jack kelly #spot conlon #racetrack higgins #ask game #jac :) #my posts #hope you enjoy this! i forgot how hard it is to come up with stuff based on prompts but this was fun #i probably won't write it though since i'm not great at settings and have the bachelorette au to work on #also while i have been to that part of montana it was when i was about 7 years old #so i'm fuzzy on the details #my dad is actually from wyoming/idaho/montana but i haven't been back in a while and i miss it :( #asks #still through the leaves

[wishingicouldfly]

Louis Tomlinson - LGBTQ icon

A moot on Twitter asked me for some sources, so I decided to put them here in case it was helpful to others. I don't claim that this is all encompassing or definitive.

There isn’t only one instance of Louis alluding to being a part of the LGBTQ community. It’s repetitive and continuous across years. It’s the cumulative instances that make it definitive for me. While he has said that he’s straight a couple of times, it’s been in writing (most notable on Twitter on 11/10/14, and detailed in this article: 'F***ing ridiculous' 1D Louis in meltdown after wrongly thinking reporter called him gay - Daily Star, which was notably the day after he wore this shirt in support of Apple CEO Tim Cook and a couple days AFTER Harry Styles said "not that important" in reference to a dream date being female--there's some debate as to whether Louis was in control of his SM that day, but I digress), and he never once adequately denied being in a relationship with Harry verbally. It’s important to remember he’s closeted.

Adding a cut cause this got long.

While I personally think he’s been in a long term monogamous relationship with Harry, most of these aren’t about Larry. I think it’s important that both men stand as strong LGBTQ icons/role models apart from their connection together.

Nothing here proves anything about his sexuality or how he personally identifies. I don't claim to know how he identifies. This is simply a list of ways he seems to message that he aligns himself with the LGBTQ community. For me, it’s the cumulative moments that make it impossible to dispute. Anyone reading this is entitled to make your own opinion of what he means.

A few times Louis has alluded to being close to gay/LGBT culture

This is a good post that talks about his casual athletic style being a nod to gay “chav” fashion. it’s wild to me that ppl don’t realize Louis... | Facts, Queer Fury, And Spite (tumblr.com)

He uses LGBT symbols in videos, such as rainbows and pink triangles. First one is We Made It. Second one is Miss You. Screenshot by me on 1/16/23.

Links to video: We Made It: https://youtu.be/XWXRh6icAzQ

Miss You: https://youtu.be/inZzcTXYowY

There are a lot of allusions to gay history in the Just Like You lyric video including George Michael Lyrics: https://youtu.be/qvXXMsiQBDg

An analysis of Louis’ songs and his use of pronouns by @bluewinnerangel: it's subjective - Louis using pronouns in his lyrics (tumblr.com)

There are a lot of allusions in his lyrics to being “different” and about his love for his significant other being made to keep secret.

His triangle ankle tattoo, which coincidentally (or not) aligns nicely with a tweet once made by Harry Styles.

This tweet was made literally a day or two after the tattoo reveal. (as of 1/16/23 that tweet is still live on Twitter, screen shot taken by me).

The Rainbow Bears during the last year of 1D before Hiatus—if you’re not aware of this, it’s too much for me to put here. But basically, it was widely accepted that Louis and Harry were behind the bears which alluded to a lot of LGBT history, as well as shaded BabyGate. A couple of links:

It’s a beautiful war 🌈 (tumblr.com)

https://youtu.be/sCNVPRNzmuE

Louis has been closely associated with the Polari brand, which takes its name from a language created by gay subculture in the 1950s. Polari - Wikipedia

A companion post with times Harry has come out: (32) Wishing I Could Fly on Tumblr

#louis tomlinson #LGBTQ icon

[walkingwiththegods1]

Paganism Class 101: Kinds of Paganism (And Kinds of Belief's, Practices and Traits; Inside Paganism)

    Statistics and some of religious info, from Wikipedia.

    Note: Take in account that, in some Pagan's Movements; are groups and/or organizactions, that are racist; anti-feminist, or discriminated against LGBTQIA+ People.  I recommend that you investigate them first, before you decides to enter to any Pagan group; for your own safety. Paganism is for everyone, but sadly; there are places that don't believe in the values of tolerance and respect in Ancient Paganism, BUT... There are many Pagan groups or organizactions, where they will accept you with open arms; as soon you decides to become a member: I wish you good luck in your search!)

   Well... You decides that Monotheism, or any of the "Top 10 World's Major Religions"; or, The Beliefs of the mayority in your Country; doesn't make senses to you, or simply; even if you understands and knows everything about it... You don't love it, or feel any devotion for it; and after searching and researching... You read about Paganism, and... You feel like Home! ...Great! BUT... The only problem is, than you feel overwhelmed for the different paths you found; and you changes your smile, into a worrisome expresion; and says: "Oh, My Gods: Where I suppose to go?!..."

   ...Don't worry, Baby Pagan: I got you covered!

   Paganism, is the name of all the polytheistic religions that existed; before The Christianizaction of The Ancient World. Neopaganism, is the revival of most of these faiths; after centuries, or even more of a millenium of not been practiced; or followed. I prefer the term Paganism, cause I think it shouldn't have been surpressed or forgotted; and the term Neopaganism, reminds me that the beliefs of our Ancestors were interrupted; and they were persecuted, which put a bad taste in my mouth. (And a heavy pain, in my heart...) Now, you can try any different paths; and with the pass of time, you can even blend different types of Paganism; until you find the right one for you, including what beliefs and traits inside the same; will be an important part of your life.

   ... And now, The Different Kinds of Paganism:

   Armenian Hetanism: Is a religion mostly related to Armenian's People, or their descendents; where Haldi, is the Central Deity that have authority over the Universe and any being; (making it a semi-monotheistic religion) and Anahit, The Mother of Armenia; being another important figure. Later, appeared a more polytheistic religion; that included other Dieties.

   Today, after many centuries of persecution; is back to be part of the life of thousands of persons, mostly as a movement that unites Armenians in their land; and the Armenian's Diaspora, alike. Their followers, called themselves; Hetans, (Heathens) or; Arordi. (Children of Ari.)  Its symbol, is The Arevakhach; (called too, "The Eternity Sign") or, The Sun Cross.

   Baltic Neopaganism: Originated in the 19th Century, suppressed by the Soviet Union; and growing splendidly, after the fall of The Soviet Union. Dievturiba, Romuva; Vilkatlaki and The Kurono's Movement, belongs to the Baltic Neopaganism; being Dievturiba and Romuva, the principals.

  Vilkatlaki, is a re-enactment group; originally called Baltuva, formed in Lithuania in 1995; distinguished by its masculine vision of Baltic Paganism. The Kurono's Movement, formed in 2003; and is an split from Romuva, for their dissatisfaction with Romuva Leadership; that puts ethnograpical studies, leaving theology behind; and for Romuva's openness to Media and outsiders; in religious events.

   Canarian Neopaganism (Church of The Guanche People): Is a neopagan organizaction from The Canary Islands, founded in 2001; by a group of Canarian devotees of the Mother Goddess Chaxiraxi, in the city of San Cristobal de La Laguna; Tenerife, in the Islands mentioned earlier; in Spain, with approximately 300 members; by 2008. Its purpose, is perpetuate and spread the traditional religion of the Ancient Guanche People. In 2002, it was held a wedding according with Guanche rites; since The Spanish's Domination of the archipielago. They performed weddings and baptism, according of what they know of Guanche custom. Their principal Deities, are Chaxiraxi; Magec, Achaman and the malign deity, Guayota.

  The symbol of this Church, is a simple drawing of The Goddess Tanit; with the name of the organizaction inside of it: Is a modern pagan religious body, that represents Canarian Neopaganism.

   Celtic Reconstructionist Paganism: Also called, Celtic Reconstructionism; or CR, is originated in the mid-1980s; by discussions among amateur scholars and Neopagans, and by the early 1990s; became into an independent tradition. This label, was made to distinguished themselves; from ecletic tradictions, like Druidism and Wicca. The Scotish Pàganachd, his Irish counterpart; Págánacht, Senistrognata; (currently inactive) and Ildiachas Atóghta, in the West Coast of The US, are part of that revival. Its symbol, is The Triskele; or, The Triple Spiral.

   Circassian Neopaganism: This religion, of The Karachay-Cherkessia's Republic; (That is in one of Russia's ethnic Republics) has revived; despite the ongoing persecution that suffers today, by radicals in the region; with more than 85,000 followers. The belief in the Soul of The Ancestors, (Psa) that observes and judges to their descendents; is a important element: The goal of the existence, is the perfection of the soul; so the remorse, or spiritual satisfaction; is for one's chosen path in life, in front of himself/herself; and him/her ancestors. Once one's soul is perfect, it can join to the souls of the ancestors; with a clean conscience. The souls of the ancestors, are commemorated by funeral feasts and memorial meals; that are distributed for the remembrance of the souls. Its symbol, is The Hammer Cross.

   Druidry, or Druidism: It promotes the cultivation of honorable relationships with physical landscapes, flora; fauna, people around the world, as well with Nature's Deities and Spirits of Nature; Land and Place. The beliefs varies between Modern Druids, however modern Druids; venerate The Divine Essence of Nature. In 2020, even when Druids practices in private; due to discrimination and safety's concerns, varely the 92% of Druids in The World; lives outside The British Islands, having presence in 34 countries; and in all The Continents.

   Ecletic Neopaganism: Is the blending of different Pantheons, and/or practices and beliefs; inside Paganism. That's why, you can see Pagans that are too Witches; or mix Budhist's teachings, that are Pantheist, followers of one Deity, that only follows Female Deities; and... Pagans that even believes that Gods and Goddesses, are only archetypes of the highest qualities that humans must aspire to achieve in their lifes; but not real Spiritual Beings. (Atheist Pagan)

   Estonian Neopaganism: Is a Monistic religion, (Emphazising an pantheistic reality) where the God Tharapita; is the Central Deity. It was founded in 1928, as a national religion; with Taarism and Maausk, as a broader definition that encompasses movements of worship of Local Gods; Nature's Worship, and Earth's Worship. (The Maausk, is mostly polytheistic-pantheistic.) Its symbol, is The Cornflower.

    Finnish Neopaganism: Is the revival of Finnish Paganism, whose precursor; was the Ukonusko (Around the God Ukko) in the early 20th Century. The main organizactions, are The Polar Star Association, located in Turku with branches in many cities; and founded and registered in 2007, and The Association of Finnish Native Religion; located in Helsinki, and registered since 2002; that caters to Karelians, an ethnic Baltic-Finnic indigenous people of the historical region of Karelia; that is split today, between Finland and Russia. Its symbol, is The Tursaansydän; that means, Heart of Tursas, or; Heart of Octopus.

   Germanic Paganism: Anglo-Saxon Paganism, Asatru; Continental Germanic, Dutch Heanthenry, Folketro or Forn Sed, Frankish; General Heanthery, Gothic Paganism, and Old Norse Religion, are examples of many beliefs that falls inside; Germanic Paganism. Its symbol, is Thor's Hammer.

   Goddess Movement: Is an spiritual and religious belief, that has grow as a reaction that most of predominant organized religion, is mainly male-dominated; and makes use of Goddess's Worship, and; to focus in female people. Its symbol, is a Raised-Arms Female figure.

   Heathenry: Its model on the Pre-Christian religions of The Germanic People. Heathenry uses mostly surviving historical, archeological and folkloric evidence, for this purpose. The Deities and Spirits, are honored in sacrificial rites; calls blots, where are offered food and libations to them. The followers are call Heathens. Its believed that there are no more than 20,000 Heathens in The World, by 2016. Its symbol, is Thor's Hammer.

   Hellenism or Hellenic Paganism: Its the return of practices of The Ancient Greece, and centers mostly in the worship of Hellenic Deities; specially, to The Twelves Olympians; and their followers, are call Hellenic Pagans. Its symbol, is a Golden Laurel Wreath; or a Column.

   Hungarian Neopaganism: Has its roots in the 18th and 19th Century, during The Enlightment and Romantic epoch;  and the early-20th century ethnology. It was endorsed  in interwar Turanist circles; in the 1930s and 1940s, into a National Religion; and eventually, The Hungarian Native Faith Movements; expanded after The Fall of The Soviet Union. Is very diverse, with followers of Hungarian Native Faith and of other religions; including Wiccans, Kemetics; Mitraics, Druids and Christopagans. It aimed to represents an ethnic religion of the Hungarians, inspired by Taltosism (Hungarian Shamanism); ancient mythology, and later folklore. Taltosism, is practised by Táltos (Shaman, the English plural; is Taltoses) and the are an essential element of The Hungarian Native Faith.

   Is a Monotheism religion, where The Táltos; is "The bridge between the Earthly and Celestial Worlds, The Rational and the Irrational; the Finite and The Endless", and The Taltoses; as Interpreters of the Transcedent. Rituals, included Initiation and Passage; for Fertility, Healing and Purification; either for the enviroment, The Community of Believers; or The whole Hungarian Nation, that may involve sweat lodges; fire-walk, drumming, and techniques of meditation. Even when the ceremonies are usually led by Taltoses, The Community of Believers is actively involved in the same. Its symbol, is The Double Cross.

   Kemetic: Is the revival of The Religion of Ancient Egypt, whose name came of kmt, voweled Kemet; that is the original name of Ancient Egypt. A follower of this religion, is call a Kemetic. Its symbol, is The Ankh, or The Egyptian Cross.

   Latvian Dievturiba: It was founded in 1925, by Ernests Brastins and Karlis Marovskis-Bregzis; forcibly surpressed by Soviets in 1940, but living in emmigrant communities, and was re-registred in Latvia in 1990. By 2018, have 600-800 members; and is a revival of the ethnic religion of the Latvians, before Christianizaction in the 13 Century. Its based primarilay on Latvian folklore, old folk songs (dainas); and Latvian Mythology. Their main Deity, is Dievs; that unifies spirit and matter, and other dualities; as good and bad, etc., and the other deities; ar either aspects of Dievs, or other types of non-deified spirits. Other important Deities, are the Goddes Mara; (Dievs's material aspect) and the Goddess Laima. (Connected with causality, fire and fortune) There wasn't a trinity of Deities, but in Modern Dievturiba; Dievs, Mara and Laima; forms one.}

  Humans, are believed to be naturally good; due to the will of Dievs. It also believed that humans consists of Miesa or Augums, (Physical Body) Velis; (Astral Body) and Dvesele, (Soul) or; that humans have three parts: After death, The Physical Body is destroyed; The Astral Body enters in the Velu Valsts, (World of Shadows) and gradually dissapears; and The Soul, is eternal and unifies with Dievs. The end of Autumn and the start of Winter, is the time of remembrance of dead ancestors: In the dark time of Autumn, people gave food to their dead relatives; due to "The Dying of Nature", or; as a thanks offering for a good harvest during Summer. Its symbol, is The Cross of Crosses.

   Neopaganism: It surged during the 19th Century, as a result of The Romantic Movements of the time; that pledge for a simpler Spirituality, and idealized the beliefs of our Ancestors; and, for a growing loss of interest and/or discomfort; for the State's Religions in Europe, specially; with Christianity. Today, many Pagans tries to the revives ancient rituals and practices of the past; while others have their focus more in Magic, or; in reveres and protects Nature.

   Norse Neopaganism: Also calls, Old Norse Religion; is a polytheistic religion; that is part of the northern regions of Europe. The Deities, were divided in two family of Gods: The Aesir, and The Vanir.

  Reconstructionist Paganism: Tries to re-establish polytheistic religions today, by rediscovering rituals; pratices and beliefs, of the Ancient Paganism.

   Religio Romana (Roman Religion in English, or; The Roman Way to The Gods, in Italian and Spanish): The intends to revives The Ancient Roman Religion, started since The Renaissance. After The Fall of The Papal States, and the Unification of Italy provoque anti-clerical feelings among Italian Intellectuals; some of them seemed the revival of Ancient Roman Religion, as an alternative to Roman Catholicism. Some groups appeared in the 1920s, and in the 1980s; The Roman Traditional Movement, that was the most notable; which spreaded Religio Romana beyond Italy, into Western Nations; with followers specially in Latin Europe and in The Americas. Its most important organizaction today, is Nova Roma; founded in 1998, which is in every Continent. Its symbol, is two R's facing in opposite directions; and separated in the middle by a rod.

   Rodnovery, or Slavic Neopaganism: Most of the "Churches" of Slavic Neopagans, are mostly concentrated in Ukraine; where they found support from the Government. The first Russian Neopagans, were intelectual dissidents from the Sovietic's Period. Is a patriarcal, conservative religion; that mostly reinforces traditional family, fidelity; procreation and gender roles. (A little warning, in case you don't identify with any of those definitions.) Some groups have an idea, that tolerance toward feminists and gays; should be a key value.

  The religion is mostly Monist today, despite the polytheistic past of the Ancient dwellers of the region; saying that the seven principal gods and goddesses, emanated of one supreme God. (There are polytheism and Panteism, as part of the Rodnovery or Slavic Neopaganism; between an important number of followers.) Its symbol, is The Hands of God; or, a spoked wheel; called The Kolovrat.

   Romuva: Even, if it is a Neopagan Faith from Lithuania; there are also adherents in Australia, Canada; England, Russia, and The United States. It belongs to one of the Baltic Pagan Faiths, along with Dievturiba; and in 2011, they were 5,100 people in Lithuania; than identifes themselves, as Romuva. The Faith revived in the XIX Century, (1800) by the Romantic movement; after it stopped to be the official state's religion, by the late 14th Century and early 15th Century; violently surpressed by Soviet occupation in 1940, and; by 1988, with the power of Soviet Union waning; and Lithuanian closing to be a free state, people started to practices their religion; openly.

  Romuva, postulate the Sanctity of Nature and gives Cult to The Ancestors; and their principal Deities, are the Goddess Laima; (Divine Mother) and Zemyna. (Mother Earth)  Its symbol, is a pattern of The World Tree. (Austras Koks.)

   Semitic Neopaganism: It emerges in the 1970s, during the growth of pagan movements in the US.; when a number of minor Canaanite or Israelite oriented groups appeared. It Polytheists and Animists, in various of their members; but emphazising that all continued to the polytheistic cults of the Jewish People. It incluides cults of the ancient inhabitants of Phoenicia, Asiria; Babilon, Sumer and Canaan. Its symbol, is The Hamsa.

   Wicca: Is one with the most large following of the modern Paganism, or Neopaganism. Its followers, are called Wiccans; and emerged in England in the 1950s, and is now found mostly; in The Western Countries. By 2016, it was suggested that there were; hundreds of thousands of active Wiccans, around The World. Its Symbol, its The Five-Pointed star; called The Pentagram, The Pentacle; and/or The Raised-Arms Female figure.

   Witchcraft: Is a religious practice, involving Magic and affinity with Nature; mostly inside of a Pagan tradition. I personally prefer to calls Witchcraft, as "The First Non-Organized Religion of The World"; 'cause there were found evidences in caves, of rituals resembling to Magic in the Paleolithic Age; probably, in the same time that humans started to buried their deads with rituals; to ensure a safe trip to The Afterlife. Is a practice, that is found in all The Continents; and in all Cultures, Centuries and Millenniums. They were unfairly persecuted, under absurd allegations of being "Devil-Worshippers"; and many innocents that were mostly women, (including some Folk Healers and Wise Women) fell victims of those false accusactions. Today, Witches are still discriminated around the World: In at least 36 countries and regions, including Saudi Arabia; (where witchcraft is legally punishable by death), Africa; Asia, The Pacific and Latin America, Witches; or people accused of being one, are still persecuted; jailed, and/or... Even, killed.

  The practitioners, (That could be trained, or borned as such) are called Witches; whose the vast mayority through space and time, are mostly benevolents; and use Magic to helps to an individual, a community; their Country, or The World at large. Its symbol, is The Pentacle; or, The Pentagram.

    Beliefs, Practices and Traits; Inside Paganism

   The Beliefs, Practices and Traits you can do inside Paganism; are the beliefs that your hold important, not matter what kind of Paganism; you are currently practicing, or starts to follow; or practices: It means, that you can be a Heathen; that focus more in Nature, or a Witch that believes in Polytheism; 'cause your beliefs, doesn't have to affect what you do or feels; as a Pagan, Wiccan or Witch. These are:

   Animism: Everything has an Spirit, (The River, The Sun; The Air...) and must be respected.

   Eclecticism: Is selecting doctrines or practices of different religions, but not the entire system of that practice; or doctrine. Ex.: A Pagan that practices Witchcraft sometimes, but is not a Witch.

   Magic: Is a process where you influences or predict outcomes, for an especific ending. Is the power to influences events, by using supernatural and misterious forces; which work over natural forces. (Some Pagans, use it regurlally, and many rarely use it; or, are fine without it.)  Ex.: Using a spell to create rain, so you don't have to go to where you will see; to a very unpleasant person.

   Nature - Based: Nature, and Earth as a whole; are sacred, and must be adored; protected and preserved.

   Polytheism: Is the pagan belief, than there are many Gods; which is mostly the Paganism's basis.

  Reconstructionism: Is building your pagan practices, around the remaining documents about the ancient religions; oral traditions of the same, or... Any source available.

   Sacred/Divine Feminine: Is the other Energy, that resides inside all of us; that is soft, but fierce when it is necessary; is loving and supportive. Is a sacred energy, that we need to live a balance and peaceful life; so, we must act with some of the same qualities of the Sacred Feminine.

   Secular Paganism: Secular Paganism, includes respect for all living beings and The Earth; while rejecting belief in Deities. Secular Pagans, sees Deities as metaphors for different cycles of life; or, as archetypes of the highest qualities that humans must aspire to achieve in their lifes; but not real Spiritual Beings, and than Magic; is only a purely psychological practice.

   That's all in this post, and remember this: Don't listen to anyone that says that your Paganism isn't valid, 'cause is your own personal path; AND... All that are Pagans today, started exactly like you: Not knowing what to do, and needing guidance to find his/her/their own path; in this road of life.  

   Than your Intuition and Heart, guides you where your become a better person; you can be happy, whole; in peace, and you feels like you are in Home... So Be It!

#paganism class 101 #pagan writings #pagan writer #paganism #to begginer pagans #to begginer wiccans #to begginer witches #pagan #ecletic pagan #eclectic pagan #hellenic pagan #lokean #pagan from the caribbean #cause we need this pagan list too #so be it

[the-takosader]

TMMSOTI Ramble

Can I just mention how weirdly unsettling it is to know that we've got a partially lost media that we're trying to find the origin of? Now, I know we found the "origin" of it. Darius S.'s broadcast recording from 1984 on NDR2. But in this case, that's not enough.

Now, I know you might be wondering, "Why's he on about this? What's with the massive topic shift from the post he made on Sunday?" Well, it's because I mentioned TMMSOTI in the image, if you were mad enough to go so far as to look closely at the image (It's the normal orientation of the Gas Station dream, next to the biggest text on that image.), but that's not important.

What is important is that it feels weird to know that this song exists, has existed for close to 40 years now, and no one is even close to figuring out its origins. Granted, the search only started 4 years ago, but still. And the strange thing is, they can't even find NDR's official record of the broadcast!

"Strange." Heh. As if I didn't know that's not nearly the worst case of record-keeping out there. The BBC has a much MUCH worse history of record-keeping, especially from the mid-50s. Most of early Doctor Who's serials are audio only now, and who knows how much of Hartnell and Troughton's acting was lost because of the BBC deciding to wipe without backups. (Side note: those are REALLY British names, even to me, a Brit.)

But back to business. TMMSOTI is undeniably a product of the '80s. From the sound of it, it's unashamedly synth-heavy, as heard in the chorus, but overall, it doesn't feature electronic instruments all that much. It doesn't feel so much like punk, or "post-punk", as Wikipedia describes it, but I'm not a connoisseur of that genre. The only song I've really listened to from it is London Calling by The Clash (who have enough range to also write such songs as Rock the Casbah and Should I Stay or Should I Go), so I'm in no such way describing myself as someone who does, solidly and truly, know what the hell they are talking about.

If there's a solidly defined bassline in there, I sure as hell cannot decipher it. Transcripts I find on Songsterr do not feel solid about the bassline. Literally the only things that feel solid in that song are the guitar and the drums. The guitar feels solid because it's the main driving force, right the way through the whole song. It plays eighth note power chords in the intro and guitar "solo", and arpeggios in the verses.

AS FOR THE DRUMS. HOO BOY. I don't think I've mentioned this here, but I have a minor penchant for the drums (read: done every Beatles song to the best of my ability). I listen to that, I hear someone who's been playing for a while. Every fill has a different pattern. The timekeeping is rock-solid. About as close to metronome as humanly possible.

So, what's so significant about rock-solid drumming? Well, apart from the fact that it's a grand measure of skill, it's also a sign that this isn't just your average garage band (not to be confused with the app of the same name.)

So it's a semi-professional drummer with a skill for keeping time, and a guitarist that knows his way around some chords. The bassline is obscured by the quality, and the synths are generic enough as is. Some theorise it originated from behind the Iron Curtain, but if that's the case, why send it to NDR2, based in Hamburg, instead of the much closer West Berlin?

In my very VERY limited opinion, I think it's much more likely that it's a small West Germany band that got lucky enough to get their demo featured on Musik Für Junge Leute in 1984, where it was then, unceremoniously dumped into the nearest rubbish receptacle. If anything, had it not been for Darius S. taping that night's NDR2 broadcast, we might not have heard this song... ever, in fact. Hell, even he forgot about the tape for that broadcast until digitising them for an archive 20 years later.

I guess that goes to show how remarkably fickle memory is, where no one remembers the song's title or the band's name. Also has the side effect of being fucking creepy when you think about it, because it's quite existential in a way. How, when all's said and done, everyone might forget about us unless we are immortalised in some way. I guess that it helps that the Internet exists now.

#the most mysterious song on the internet #why did i dedicate a paragraph to dr who and the failings of the bbc #i'm not even a whovian what the fuck #takosader's ramblings #(second in the series but i forgot to demarcate the myhouse one so whoops) #why did i become existential at the end wtf

[n7punk]

What is my immortal?

Ohhhh boy. Ok. Sit down.

My Immortal (wikipedia page) is the most famous fanfiction of all time. Couple disclaimers: it's almost not well-written enough to qualify for trigger warnings, but it does touch on a lot of triggers that I won't list off here. It is also, theoretically, tangentially, supposedly, "harry potter" fanfiction. However, harry is now known as Vampire, hermione is now B'loody Mary Smith, ron is Diablo, etc. A lot of the characters are now vampires and everyone is "goth" except the characters the author doesn't like, who are preps and posers. Also in one of the author's notes I think the writer ("Tara") literally says she hasn't read the books and it's based off "the movie". So like, it's connections to harry potter are tenuous at best and I'm not recommending you read anything beyond the first paragraph anyway, just putting that out there.

It's first person, follows a self-insert OC, and is entirely a fabrication of the writer's indulgence. It's one of those things that has gone down in fandom history and most people have read the first chapter, but we hadn't read more (AN: I don't recommend you do) so we had a read in the group chat and I either lost braincells or gained code-cracking skills trying to parse through the misspellings (both accidental and purposeful). A lot of people think it's a troll fic (which like, yeah makes sense) but there's a case to be made for it being a young tween's idea of a cool and edgy story that she and her friend made up and don't understand why everyone is hating on. I also think the world is a more beautiful place if it's sincere. The writer has managed to remain anonymous and undoxxed, which I am VERY grateful for, for her sake, even if I do desperately want to know the "real" story behind it and how she feels about its meme-status. Many people have come forward claiming to be the author and having done it as satire, but every one of them was a lying poser and a prep.

Below the cut is the opening of the famous "first chapter" (which only has a few more sentences in it after this anyway) for your reading pleasure. You really don't need to read any more than that, this is the part that became a meme and it only goes downhill from here. Also, "AN" (or "A/N") is "Author's Note" and yeah people really did used to just stick them in the middle of a fic, at least bad ones.

Hi my name is Ebony Dark’ness Dementia Raven Way and I have long ebony black hair (that’s how I got my name) with purple streaks and red tips that reaches my mid-back and icy blue eyes like limpid tears and a lot of people tell me I look like Amy Lee (AN: if u don’t know who she is get da hell out of here!). I’m not related to Gerard Way but I wish I was because he’s a major fucking hottie. I’m a vampire but my teeth are straight and white. I have pale white skin. I’m also a witch, and I go to a magic school called Hogwarts in England where I’m in the seventh year (I’m seventeen). I’m a goth (in case you couldn’t tell) and I wear mostly black. I love Hot Topic and I buy all my clothes from there. For example today I was wearing a black corset with matching lace around it and a black leather miniskirt, pink fishnets and black combat boots. I was wearing black lipstick, white foundation, black eyeliner and red eye shadow. I was walking outside Hogwarts. It was snowing and raining so there was no sun, which I was very happy about. A lot of preps stared at me. I put up my middle finger at them.

#i capitalized the my immortal version of the character names because i have more respect for them than the original #also it was so fun slipping those two little my immortal references in this answer XD #ask #anon #i'll add the harry potter tag in a few minutes so it doesn't end up in the Real Tags #but people can blacklist it even though i maintain this has very little to do with harry potter #and if it does its the best thing to come out of the franchise besides the computer game for the second book #if my book series was the subject/'fandom basis' of my immortal i would be HONORED #harry potter