#importing stuff from china

[exportimportdata-blog]

A Comprehensive Guide to Importing Items from China

Importing items from China has become a critical aspect of global trade, offering businesses worldwide the opportunity to access a diverse range of products at competitive prices. China, being one of the largest manufacturers globally, provides a vast array of goods, from electronics and textiles to machinery and toys. This article delves into the intricacies of importing goods from China, with a particular focus on the process of importing to India, and offers insights into the dynamics of China’s import and export landscape.

The Appeal of Importing Goods from China

China’s prominence in global trade is underpinned by several factors:

Cost-Effective Manufacturing: China’s manufacturing sector is known for its efficiency and lower production costs, which translates to more affordable prices for importers.

Diverse Product Range: The variety of products available from China is extensive, encompassing electronics, clothing, machinery, toys, and more.

Advanced Infrastructure: China’s ports, logistics systems, and manufacturing infrastructure are highly developed, facilitating smooth export processes.

Key Steps in Importing Items from China

Identifying Reliable Suppliers Finding a trustworthy supplier is crucial. Platforms like Alibaba, Global Sources, and Made-in-China offer comprehensive directories of Chinese manufacturers and suppliers. Conducting due diligence, such as verifying company credentials and requesting product samples, is essential to avoid scams and ensure product quality.

Understanding Import Regulations Every country has specific import regulations that need to be adhered to. For instance, importing stuff from China to India involves understanding the Indian Customs regulations, import duties, and Goods and Services Tax (GST). Compliance with these regulations is necessary to avoid legal issues and additional costs.

Negotiating Terms and Placing Orders Effective communication with suppliers is key to negotiating favorable terms. Discuss aspects like pricing, payment terms, delivery schedules, and quality standards. Once terms are agreed upon, placing a clear and detailed order helps prevent misunderstandings.

Quality Control and Inspection Before shipment, it’s advisable to conduct quality inspections. Third-party inspection services can verify the quality of goods and ensure they meet the agreed-upon standards. This step is crucial to avoid receiving substandard products.

Shipping and Logistics Choosing the right shipping method depends on factors like budget, time constraints, and the nature of the goods. Options include air freight, sea freight, and courier services. Understanding Incoterms (International Commercial Terms) is important as they define the responsibilities of buyers and sellers in the shipping process.

Customs Clearance Once the goods arrive at the destination port, they must clear customs. This involves submitting necessary documentation such as the Bill of Lading, commercial invoice, packing list, and any certificates required by the destination country. Working with a customs broker can simplify this process.

Final Delivery After clearing customs, arranging the final delivery to your warehouse or business location is the last step. Efficient logistics planning ensures timely and safe delivery of goods.

Importing Goods from China to India

India is one of the major importers of Chinese goods, with a diverse range of products imported annually. The process of importing items from China to India involves several specific steps and considerations:

Required Documentation

When importing to India, the following documents are typically required:

Import Export Code (IEC): This is a mandatory license issued by the Directorate General of Foreign Trade (DGFT) for importing goods.

Bill of Entry: A legal document filed by the importer or customs agent indicating the nature, quantity, and value of the imported goods.

Commercial Invoice: A detailed invoice from the supplier.

Packing List: A document listing the contents of each package.

Bill of Lading or Airway Bill: A document issued by the carrier.

Insurance Certificate: Proof of insurance coverage for the shipment.

Customs Duties and Taxes Import duties in India vary depending on the type of goods. The GST, which includes Integrated GST (IGST), is also applicable. Understanding the tariff structure and accurately calculating duties and taxes is essential for cost management.

Compliance and Standards Certain products may need to meet Indian standards and regulations, such as those set by the Bureau of Indian Standards (BIS). Ensuring compliance helps avoid delays and potential rejections at customs.

Popular Imported Items Popular import items from China to India include electronics, machinery, textiles, and toys. The demand for toys imported from China has been particularly high due to their affordability and variety.

China’s Export Landscape

China's export sector is vast and diverse, making it a significant player in global trade. Key aspects of China’s export products and their global distribution include:

Major Export Products

China exports a wide range of products, including:

Electronics: Smartphones, computers, and consumer electronics.

Machinery: Industrial machinery and equipment.

Textiles and Apparel: Clothing and fabric.

Toys: A broad assortment of toys and games.

Household Goods: Furniture, kitchenware, and home decor.

Export Destinations

China exports products to nearly every country. Major markets include the United States, European Union, Japan, and India. Each market has specific demands and standards that Chinese exporters must meet.

Trade Data and Trends

Analyzing China’s imports and exports data provides valuable insights into global trade trends. China’s trade surplus, growth rates, and the impact of tariffs and trade policies are critical factors influencing global market dynamics.

Challenges and Considerations in Importing from China

While importing items from China offers numerous benefits, there are also challenges and considerations to keep in mind:

Quality Control Ensuring the quality of imported goods can be challenging. Conducting thorough inspections and working with reliable suppliers helps mitigate risks.

Intellectual Property (IP) Issues Protecting intellectual property rights is crucial, especially when importing branded or patented products. Verifying the authenticity of goods and ensuring compliance with IP laws is essential.

Cultural and Communication Barriers Effective communication with Chinese suppliers can be hindered by language and cultural differences. Employing bilingual staff or using professional translation services can facilitate smoother interactions.

Shipping and Lead Times Shipping times from China can vary widely based on the chosen method and route. Planning for potential delays and understanding lead times is crucial for inventory management.

Regulatory Changes Trade policies and regulations can change, affecting import processes and costs. Staying informed about regulatory updates and trade agreements is important for strategic planning.

The Future of Importing from China

The future of importing goods from China looks promising, with several trends shaping the landscape:

E-commerce Growth The rise of e-commerce platforms has simplified the process of sourcing and importing products from China. Small and medium-sized enterprises (SMEs) can now access global markets more easily.

Technological Advancements Advancements in technology, such as blockchain for supply chain transparency and AI for demand forecasting, are enhancing the efficiency of import-export processes.

Sustainability Focus Sustainable and eco-friendly products are becoming increasingly important in global trade. Importers and exporters are focusing on reducing environmental impact and adopting green practices.

Trade Agreements Bilateral and multilateral trade agreements can facilitate smoother trade between China and other countries. Keeping an eye on trade negotiations and agreements is crucial for businesses involved in import-export activities.

Conclusion Importing items from China presents a lucrative opportunity for businesses globally. By understanding the processes, regulations, and challenges involved, importers can navigate the complexities of international trade effectively. Whether it’s import goods from China to India or other countries, staying informed and prepared is key to leveraging the benefits of China’s robust manufacturing and export capabilities. As the global trade landscape evolves, importers must adapt and innovate to sustain growth and competitiveness in the market.

[itsyveinthesky]

The fact that Trump and apparently no one in his team understands how tarrifs work

And his voters think that he will make the other countries pay. THAT IS NOT HOW IT WORKS. Instead every US citizen and US companies will pay more. Just…. the stupidity of it all.

The endgame is to wreck normal people's lives and blame it on democrats and migrants probably.

And it'll probably work as well.

[fatehbaz]

Nothing in the past, moreover, gave any cause to suspect ginseng’s presence so far away. Or even closer by: since antiquity, for well over a millennium, the ginseng consumed in all of East Asia had come from just one area -- the northeast mountainous lands straddling Manchuria and Korea. No one had found it anywhere else. No one was even thinking, now, to look elsewhere. The [...] [French traveler] Joseph-Francois Lafitau didn’t know this. He had been [...] visiting Quebec on mission business in October of 1715 [...]. He began to search for ginseng. [...] [T]hen one day he spotted it [...]. Ginseng did indeed grow in North America. [...]

Prior to the nuclear disaster in the spring of 2011, few outside Japan could have placed Fukushima on a map of the world. In the geography of ginseng, however, it had long been a significant site. The Edo period domain of Aizu, which was located here, had been the first to try to grow the plant on Japanese soil, and over the course of the following centuries, Fukushima, together with Nagano prefecture, has accounted for the overwhelming majority of ginseng production in the country.

Aizu’s pioneering trials in cultivation began in 1716 – by coincidence, exactly the same year that Lafitau found the plant growing wild in the forests of Canada. [...]

---

Since the 1670s the numbers of people [in Japan] clamoring for access to the drug had swelled enormously, and this demand had to be met entirely through imports. The attempt to cultivate ginseng in Aizu -- and soon after, many other domains -- was a response to a fiscal crisis.

Massive sums of silver were flowing out of the country to pay for ginseng and other drugs [...]. Arai Hakuseki, the chief policy maker [...], calculated that no less than 75% of the country’s gold, and 25% of its silver had drained out of Japan [to pay for imports] [...]. Expenditures for ginseng were particularly egregious [...]: in the half-century between 1670s through the mid-1720s that marked the height of ginseng fever in Japan, officially recorded yearly imports of Korean ginseng through Tsushima sometimes reached as much as four to five thousand kin (approx. 2.4–3 metric tons).

What was to be done? [...] The drain of bullion was unrelenting. [...] [T]he shogunate repeatedly debased its currency, minting coins that bore the same denomination, but contained progressively less silver. Whereas the large silver coin first issued in 1601 had been 80% pure, the version issued in 1695 was only 64% silver, and the 1703 mint just 50%. Naturally enough, ginseng dealers in Korea were indifferent to the quandaries of the Japanese rulers, and insisted on payment as before; they refused the debased coins. The Japanese response speaks volumes about the unique claims of the drug among national priorities: in 1710 (and again in 1736) a special silver coin of the original 80% purity was minted exclusively for use in the ginseng trade. [...]

[T]he project of cultivating ginseng and other medicines in Japan became central to the economic and social strategy of the eighth shogun Yoshimune after he assumed power in 1716. [...]

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China and Korea were naturally eager to retain their monopolies of this precious commodity, and strictly banned all export of live plants and seeds. They jealously guarded as well against theft of mature roots: contemporary Chinese histories, for example, record that the prisons of Shenjing (present day Shenyang) overflowed with ginseng poaching suspects. So many were caught, indeed, that the legal bureaucracy couldn’t keep up. 

In 1724, the alarming numbers of suspected poachers who died in prison while awaiting trial led to the abandonment of the regular system of trials by judges dispatched from Beijing, and a shift to more expeditious reviews handled by local officials. [...]

Even in 1721. the secret orders that the shogunate sent the domain of Tsushima called for procuring merely three live plants [...]. Two other forays into Korea 1727 succeeded in presenting the shogun with another four and seven plants respectively. Meanwhile, in 1725 a Manchu merchant in Nagasaki named Yu Meiji [...] managed to smuggle in and present three live plants and a hundred seeds. [...]

Despite its modest volume, this botanical piracy eventually did the trick. By 1738, transplanted plants yielded enough seeds that the shogunate could share them with enterprising domains. [...] Ginseng eventually became so plentiful that in 1790 the government announced the complete liberalization of cultivation and sales: anyone was now free to grow or sell it.

---

By the late eighteenth century, then, the geography of ginseng looked dramatically different from a century earlier.

This precious root, which had long been restricted to a small corner of the northeast Asian continent, had not only been found growing naturally and in abundance in distant North America, but had also been successfully transplanted and was now flourishing in the neighboring island of Japan. […]

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Colonial Americans, for their part, had developed their own new addiction: an unquenchable thirst for tea. […] This implacable need could have posed a serious problem. [...] [I]ts regular consumption was a costly habit.

Which is why the local discovery of ginseng was a true godsend.

When the Empress of China sailed to Canton in 1784 as the first ship to trade under the flag of the newly independent United States, it was this coveted root that furnished the overwhelming bulk of sales. Though other goods formed part of early Sino-American commerce – Chinese porcelain and silk, for example, and American pelts – the essential core of trade was the exchange of American ginseng for Chinese tea. [...]

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Yoshimune’s transplantation project had succeeded to the point that Japan actually became a ginseng exporter. As early as 1765, Zhao Xuemin’s Supplement to the compedium of material medica would note the recent popularity of Japanese ginseng in China. Unlike the “French” ginseng from Canada, which cooled the body, Zhao explained, the “Asian” ginseng (dongyang shen) from Japan, like the native [Korean/Chinese] variety, tended to warm. Local habitats still mattered in the reconfigured geography of ginseng. [...]

What is place? What is time? The history of ginseng in the long eighteenth century is the story of an ever-shifting alchemical web. [...] Thanks to the English craving for tea, ginseng, which two centuries earlier had threatened to bankrupt Japan, now figured to become a major source of national wealth [for Japan] .

---

Text by: Shigehisa Kuriyama. “The Geography of Ginseng and the Strange Alchemy of Needs.” In: The Botany of Empire in the Long Eighteenth Century, edited by Yota Batsaki, Sarah Burke Cahalan, and Anatole Tchikine. 2017. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

[amethystsoda]

Thinking about how lucky I’ve been to experience other cultures through food the past few years, but also how it’s rapidly ending unless something changes 🥲💕

[kukuandkookie]

Need to vent momentarily so uh…

Had a giant fight with my mom this morning about admiring Elon Musk or Donald Trump just because they’re “successful” which also evolved into her again critiquing her own children and how I pointed out that the shit she says about us can be hurtful, even when she insists she’s trying to be “encouraging.”

I won’t go into detail about it because my family issues are insane sometimes—but I wanted to add this context because maybe I still have some leftover frustration and rage from that, and I guess because I’ve experienced another weeks and weeks’ pile-up of sinophobia, and I’m also overwhelmed by how awful the world is right now with the continued genocide of Palestine but also the rise in normalization of right wing politics, but I saw something today that just added to the frustration because God I hate how people can’t see “the Other” in a less prejudiced light.

It’s not a big deal but saw some sinophobia today that with my poor mood didn’t help exactly:

Basically, there’s a short from a year ago about Chinese celebrities being snubbed at international events to the point that one of them (Liu Yifei) got cut off from a group photo and how another (Zhang Yuqi) got asked to get off the red carpet because they assumed she wasn’t a guest despite her being all dressed up.

The comments are all bullshit like “well they work for the CCP right? So they deserve to be ignored” or “why are you stirring up drama? Just because they’re famous in China doesn’t mean they’re famous internationally” or “haha a taste of China’s own medicine.”

Like oh my God, shut up.

These are international events. Why are you acting like snubbing an international guest isn’t worthy of critique? Just because you hate the country’s politics?? In that case, if you don’t even recognize the celebrity, how do you even know if they work for the oh-so-evil CCP???

It’s always “I don’t hate the Chinese; I just hate their government” until it comes to actual Chinese people because then your poor brain just assumes Chinese people are an extension of their government. You think these celebrities work for the government just by simply existing?? How? Do you think they pay their wages to the CCP or some shit???

Kpop fans mentioned for years that kpop celebrities were snubbed at international red carpets until recently. Why the hell don’t fans of Chinese celebrities get to point it out then?

[roseband]

trump finally did one thing i agree with lol got rid of de minimis for chinese imports, got his broken clock moment

time for shein/temu to pay taxes on their fucking polyester slop that's infesting all the thrifts

maybe the deranged conservative zoomers will snap out of it when their treat slop gets 122% more expensive.

[deathberi]

merch stuff new releases + older stuff current price drops…i have a list of all i want to get before the year ends but skksskjsa they total to half a month salary 🤣 (still dodging a few at that) do i even deserve this shit

[shadesofmauve]

Peppercorns (source of black, green, and white pepper) are completely different from Sichuan pepper! Sichuan pepper is a citrus, and the effect is numbing/tingling, not hot.

Which makes me curious. Pepper, originally from India, traveled all over Eurasia, but I've really only heard of Sichuan pepper used in Chinese cuisine. My experience is bound to be colored by the fact that I'm American, and the US first out-right banned importing Sichuan pepper, then required it be heat treated, because it IS a citrus and they were paranoid about introducing diseases that might hurt US citrus agriculture.

Real, non-heat-treated Sichuan pepper is back on the menu in the US, but after decades of absence or functional absence (heat-treating pretty much kills the the numbing effect and a lot of the flavor), people who aren't super familiar with the cuisine don't even notice it's missing from 'Sichuan' dishes.

Any food history nerds out there know if Sichuan Pepper made it's way to other cuisines? And if not, why not? All the classically-spicy things traveled as fast as humans could get our paws on them!

Well I would give a medieval peasant some spaghetti.

[saltedplumtea]

The US-China tariff cycle is legitimately going to take my luggage from 50% things for family to like 95% things for family both ways because. What the hell. Tariff percentages keep increasing!! Why!!

[pinkiemachine]

ALSO, for my Legend of Korra Rewrite, there’s an opera house in Republic City, and they do their own production of “The Boy in the Iceberg.”

It’s heavily inspired by Beijing/Peking Opera, native to China, and I’ve been having way too much fun writing this truly ridiculous, over romanticised version of the original AtLA story 😂 First off, the costumes and props—Now, Peking Opera has a set of rules/guidelines for what colours mean what, which costumes go to what kind of character, and which face paint is appropriate for this and that person, but hardly any of it aligns with the world of AtLA, so it will have its own rules. Naturally, the people are colour coded. Blue = Water Tribe, Red = Fire Nation, Green = Earth kingdom, Yellow = Air Bender. How can you tell if a character is royalty or super important? If they’re wearing any kind of elaborate headpiece. How can you tell who the Avatar is? The Avatar alone has special face paint that covers his entire face. Also, how light or dark their clothing is can inform you of their badness level, and also also, if a character’s hands are covered, it usually means they are hiding something or are very sly and cunning.

Then there’s the bending. Airbending is represented by the staff illustrated above, with two tufts of blue fluffy stuff on either end, similar to what the Ember Island Players did. This prop is very similar to a real one used in Peking Opera. Waterbending is achieved in two forms, either with long sleeves or ribbons, both used for dancing. Also straight from Peking Opera. Fire Bending is achieved through flags/staffs very similar to Peking Opera and the Ember Island Players alike. Finally, Earthbending comes across more like hand-to-hand combat in the choreography, because they use large fans to represent their element, inspired by Kiyoshi, and real life Peking Opera.

Now, the story is hilariously fun—it’s been eighty years since the events of the war, and the story has been dramatised to the Poles and back—so strap in and just imagine what the Gaang would be saying in reaction to all of this 😂

Once, there was a prince and a princess of the Southern Water Tribe. Prince Sokka was a brave and mighty warrior, and Princess Katara was the most beautiful and intelligent woman in all the South Pole. One day, they happened across a glowing iceberg, and from within emerged the Avatar! Avatar Aang was a very playful and mischievous boy (think “The Monkey King”), and upon seeing the beautiful Princess Katara, he immediately fell in love and proposed to her. But the mighty Prince Sokka took offence at such cheekiness, and challenged Avatar Aang to a duel to defend his sister’s honour. Here we have the first of many action scenes. Ultimately, Avatar Aang defeats the prince, proving his worth and proving that he is in fact the real Avatar, but when he asks the princess again if she’ll marry him, she replies that she might, if he can teach her to waterbend.

It’s about this time that Zuko, the Banished Prince of the Fire Nation, and his uncle, General Iroh, the Dragon of the West, arrive to capture the Avatar!

They are unsuccessful of course, and Team Avatar escapes. They go to the Southern Air Temple where Avatar Aang grieves the loss of his people, and then he suddenly gets a vision from his past life, Avatar Roku. Here, it is explained that Sozin’s comet is fast approaching, and Avatar Aang must learn all four elements before it comes, or else the whole world will burn. Having received his instructions, the team sets a course for the North Pole. (Oh, and Momo is represented by an actor who’s a type of “clown” as Peking Opera puts it. There to be the comic relief. Not sure if I want the same for Appa…)

At the North Pole, Aang and Katara learn waterbending, and the Chief throws a massive party to celebrate the return of the Avatar. This is where Prince Sokka meets Princess Yue of the Northern Tribe, and they fall madly in love. But it is not to last. Zuko and Iroh have arrived with a Fire Nation fleet and lay siege to the city of the North. In their darkest hour, just before the city falls, Princess Yue sacrifices herself to the Moon Spirit, saving everyone, but losing her mortality in the process. It is said that she now lives on the moon, weeping to this very day for the loss of her one true love. (Keeping in mind, Tui and La are now a state secret, as no one wants a repeat of “Admiral Zhao,” who coincidentally, is nothing but a footnote in the history books due the secrecy of the moon and ocean spirit’s physical home.)

Then, of course, the second act begins with Avatar Aang asking if Katara will marry him now that she’s learned Waterbending. But the princess is far too crafty for him, and becomes sly yet again. This time she says, she might marry him if he can find for her the impossibly rare Panda Lily. Aang is determined, though it may take him a while.

Team Avatar journeys to the Earth Kingdoms in search of an Earthbending master. Now, although the rumours of Toph being a man did stick around for quite a while (helped in no small part by Toph herself) eventually the truth comes out, and the play is amended accordingly. HOWEVER… no one is convinced that Toph is an ordinary human, oh no no no. They believe, whole heartedly, that she is a direct descendant of the badgermoles themselves, and is therefore some kind of half-human-half-spirit type being who sprouted up out of the ground one day. They fear her. As they should.

So Azula and her girlies make their appearance and they and Team Avatar make their way to Ba Sing Se, where they run into Zuko and Iroh, officially outcast from the royal Fire Nation family for failing to capture the Avatar at the Siege of the North. Azula infiltrates the city by impersonating the Kiyoshi warriors (who mysteriously replace the Dai Li in this story, and all mention of the city being controlled by a puppet master and brainwashing people is also mysteriously absent) and we meet Suki, leader of the Kiyoshi warriors, and she and Sokka begin to fall in love. Then, Aang manages to find the rare Panda Lily, but he’s not able to give it to Katara because the Last Stand of Ba Sing Se begins. There’s a massive fight at the palace, and Aang gets struck by lightning and falls into Princess Katara’s arms, trying to give her that Panda Lily she asked for. Then he falls into slumber as Princess Katara weeps. Zuko joins his sister Azula, Iroh is captured, and team Avatar flees.

That night, Katara begs the spirits to spare Avatar Aang, and Yue appears, bringing Aang back to life. It’s at this time that she gives the team a grave warning about the journey ahead of them. She reveals to them that the Day of Black Sun may aid them in their fight against the Fire Nation, and she also gives Sokka a special gift: a sword carved from moon rock. May it serve him well.

End of act two.

Act three begins with the mighty Sokka rallying all their allies together to launch an assault on the Fire Nation on the Day of Black Sun. Meanwhile, the Fire Prince Zuko battles with himself over his decision to betray his uncle and join his sister. He thinks of his mother, and how she would not have wanted him to follow the path of his father, Firelord Ozai. On the Day of Black Sun, he chooses to redeem himself by helping Avatar Aang defeat the Firelord once and for all. The battle was fierce—Princess Katara feared that she might lose Avatar Aang yet again—but when they arrived at his palace, no one was home. The Firelord was very crafty. He devised a labyrinth beneath his palace in which to hide, and he evaded the Avatar until the eclipse was over. The day was lost. Team Avatar was forced to retreat. However, now Aang had a Firebending Master to teach him the final element.

After much training, and much preparation, Aang was ready to face Firelord Ozai on the day that Sozin’s Comet came ripping across the sky. He tried to ask Princess Katara one last time if she would marry him, and this time she replied that if he survived his fight with the Firelord… she would marry him.

It began. Prince Sokka, Warrior Suki, and Master Toph led the charge against the Firelord’s army. Prince Zuko and Princess Katara held off Princess Azula, and Avatar Aang took on Firelord Ozai alone. Using all that they had learned across their journey, fuelled by the power of friendship and love, Team Avatar prevailed. The Firelord’s army fell, Princess Azula fell, and finally, Firelord Ozai himself fell before the mighty Avatar Aang. (Aang’s ability to energybend remains a secret.) And in the end, Prince Zuko took the throne of the Fire Nation, Prince Sokka took the throne of the South Pole with Suki as his queen, Toph became known as the greatest Earthebnder in the world, uncle Iroh opened the best tea shop in the world, and Princess Katara agreed to marry Avatar Aang. It was a happy ending indeed.

Can’t wait to finish the costume designs! Let me know what you think!

[sknyuz]

chasing the moon* | w.j.h. + x.m.h.

synopsis — you’ve always been chasing wen junhui—who introduced himself to you as moon junhui when he first moved into your neighborhood all the way from his hometown back in china, which made more sense in your current predicament—because jun was like the moon hanging just out of reach in the night sky. he was a constant in your life: familiar but distant, untouchable. and for years, you revolved around him without ever truly being seen under the same light. then, just as there moon finally begins to turn toward you, a star slips into your orbit. xu minghao—unexpected, radiant, and steady in a way you never knew you needed. now, with the moon finally within arm’s length and a star starting to burn brighter by your side, you’re left wondering which pull your heart will follow. pairing — junhui x reader x minghao genre — very loosely inspired by reply 1998 and the movie flipped, highschool au, a love triangle that doesn't get too complicated, coming-of-age, soft angst, light romance, one-sided pining → mutual slowburn (the endgame is pretty clear, i think) cw — unrequited love, emotional neglect, subtle jealousy, academic stress, skinship, a kiss word count: 9.2k now playing | apple cider by beabadobee | she wants me (to be loved) by the happy fits | akin ka nalang by the itchyworms | exile by taylor swift ft. bon iver | dark red by steve lacy | betty by taylor swift | daylight by harry styles | pretty boy by the neighbourhood | starlight (2521 ost)

note: finally !! this fic officially completes the members on my masterlist, i have now written for all 13 of my pookies <3 and leaving these two for last was a perfect set-up for a love triangle—something i have been eyeing to write about for a while. enjoy, my pookies !! i love starlight. unfortunately, the singer is problematic. so i suggest the cover by hyumin of xodiac instead lol (taglist at the end)

masterlist | join the taglist | request a fic

you met wen junhui the summer before sixth grade, barefoot on your front porch with an orange popsicle dripping down your wrist. he’d just moved in across the street with his mother. you watched as he set the box down on the porch and wiped his palms on his shorts. the handwriting on the cardboard was messy but clear—written in chinese characters you didn’t recognize then, squinting.

“what’s that say?”

“kitchen stuff,” he answered plainly, the words slow and a little stiff on his tongue. then he added, “my mom writes everything like that.”

his korean was careful—each syllable slightly rounded, like he was still getting used to the way they fit together. you noticed the lilt of something unfamiliar tucked beneath his voice, a faint accent that softened some vowels and sharpened others.

he stuck out a hand like he remembered it was something people did. “i’m wen junhui. but my parents said my name’s supposed to be moon junhui here.”

you blinked. “moon?”

he nodded. “like the one in the sky.” his voice dipped a little on sky, the accent peeking through, and for some reason, it made your chest flutter.

you didn’t quite get it back then, but you liked the way it sounded like something distant and important. so you said it again, quietly to yourself, as he picked the box back up.

“moon junhui, like the one in the sky.”

later that evening, you told your mom that you were going to marry the new boy across the street. she laughed and said, “at least bring him some food before proposing.”

so you did. or, well, your mom did. that week, she sent you over with a plate of mandu, and when jun opened the door, you almost tripped over your words.

“my mom made these,” you said, holding out the container. “she said... welcome to the neighborhood.”

he blinked at it, then blinked at you, taking it with one hand. “cool,”

and just when you turned around, cheeks burning, he added, “tell your mom thank you.”

after that, it became a rhythm. tupperware went out, tupperware came back, always filled with something new, a blend of korean-chinese dishes as your family’s own way of communicating—stir-fried lotus root, soy-sauce eggs, and jujube tea in the winter. your mom would beam, and you always offered to bring it over. sometimes he opened the door, sometimes his mom did. but it never stopped, and neither did you.

you started school that year with a thrill in your chest, already imagining how it would go—new erasers, fresh notebooks, and maybe, just maybe, junhui waving to you in the hallway between classes. that was enough to make your stomach flip.

but nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared you for the moment moon junhui walked into your classroom.

you were doodling in the corner of your planner when the door creaked open and the teacher looked up.

“we have a new student joining us today,” she said, smiling. “this is moon junhui. he just moved here, so i’d like someone to help him settle in.”

your pencil dropped to the floor with a soft clatter, your head jerked up. sure enough, there he was, standing right there at the front of the room—hands awkwardly clasped in front of him, bangs flopping in his eyes, that same worn-out backpack you recognized from their huge stash of things from the moving truck. your mouth fell open, and the boy looked just as stunned to see you, blinking once, twice, like oh.

and then his mouth twitched into what might’ve been a grimace—tight-lipped, slightly panicked—but you, in your hopeless little heart, registered it as a lopsided smile. a charming one, even. your heart did a cartwheel.

“any volunteers to show him around today?” the teacher asked.

your hand shot up so fast your chair wobbled beneath you. “i volunteer!” you squeaked, louder than you meant to.

a few kids giggled. your face burned, but you didn’t care. not when moon junhui was making his way toward the empty seat next to you, the one you definitely hadn’t saved on purpose (except you had, just now, while jun was introducing himself—shooing poor soonyoung away earlier with a whispered, “don’tcha think you’d like that seat by the window better?”).

he sat down quietly, and when the teacher turned to write on the board, you leaned over, trying to sound cool and not like your brain was melting. “you’re in my class?”

he nodded, eyes still a little wide. “didn’t know ‘till just now, either.”

you beamed like it was fate, while he blinked slowly, probably still trying to figure out if the look on your face was excitement or if you were about to sneeze.

either way, you decided right then: this wasn’t just going to be a good year. this was the beginning of something—your little heart didn’t know what that something was quite yet, but it was.

the start of your quiet orbit around moon junhui’s life.

one revolution at a time.

soon enough, jun grew taller. broader in the shoulders, and quicker with his smirks. his voice dropped one day in eighth grade and never rose again. his hair grew out, brown and messy and a little longer than most boys kept it—always flopping into his eyes, brushing past his eyebrows, that kind of effortless boyish mess that made him look like he belonged in a teen drama. he stopped wearing t-shirts with holes and started playing basketball with the neighborhood boys.

you, however, stayed the same—still orbiting moon junhui like he was your personal axis, still finding excuses to knock on his door. sometimes he let you sit on the curb with him after practice, his shirt sticking to his back with sweat and eyes glued to his flip phone as you rambled about school. sometimes he offered you half a banana milk. most days, he barely looked up.

but by freshman year, gravity had started to shift.

jun stopped leaving you the last sip of his banana milk, finishing it in two quick gulps without looking your way. he started walking home with the other boys from the basketball team, voices loud and rough and filled with inside jokes you weren’t part of. when you waved from your porch, he’d give a distracted nod—if he noticed at all. and on the days you gathered your courage to wait for him after school, he’d emerge with someone new at his side, laughter spilling from his lips, eyes already somewhere else.

still, you kept orbiting him—like a lone planet locked in quiet rotation, pulled in by a force you couldn’t name. drawn in spite of yourself, never quite able to land—pathetic, maybe almost embarrassingly, but never enough to stop.

like this morning, when your mom handed you a warm container wrapped in a dish towel and told you to bring it next door, and you didn’t even try to hide how fast you slipped your shoes on.

jun answered in sweatpants and bed hair, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand like he’d just rolled out of bed. he didn’t even greet you, just blinked down at the container in your hands, half-asleep and completely unbothered.

you stood there like a fool on his porch, heart thudding way too loud for how mundane the moment was. he was the cutest boy on earth and didn’t even know it—or worse, didn’t care. you were painfully aware of the way his hair fell into his eyes, the slope of his nose, how his voice came out scratchy when he finally muttered,

“what now?” like he hadn’t seen you just two days ago returning his mom’s glazed sweet potatoes.

your heart does a backflip. damn it.

“d-dan dan,” you stutter pathetically, holding the tupperware of noodles out. “and a note from my mom that says, quote, ‘your mother’s garlic green beans changed my life.’”

his mouth curved, finally. “that dramatic, huh?”

“you know how she is.”

he took the dish, the warmth of his fingers brushing yours for half a second longer than necessary—or maybe that was just your imagination again.

“tell her thanks,” he said, and you waited, just a little, like maybe he’d invite you in or ask about your day or say literally anything else.

of course he didn’t. jun just stepped back, one foot behind the other, and pulled the door halfway closed. “go home before your mom starts thinking we’re dating.”

you pretend it doesn’t sting, your mind racing with something along the lines of “would it really be so horrible?”—instead, you roll your eyes, raise a brow to match his smirk.

“gross,” you shoot back—because it’s easier to play along than to admit you’d probably say yes in a heartbeat.

jun grins at the floor, not at you. and that’s when it hits you—he never really looks at you when it matters. jun is always quick with a joke, always flashing that grin like it’s armor. but never steady, never really enough.

you turn around without pushing further, letting his words hang in the air like always.

and maybe that’s when something inside you shifted, just a little. not a full unraveling, not yet—but a thread pulled loose. not because of what jun said, but because of what he didn’t.

soon enough, summer melted into early fall, and everything started to shift in ways you didn’t have words for. the cicadas quieted, the skies stretched longer in the evenings, and somewhere in the middle of it, you stopped showing up at the moons’ front door. not all at once—but slowly and gradually, the way your feelings turn like fermented tofu left too long, the bitterness deepening day by day.

your little sibling was old enough now, old enough to carry tupperware with both hands and knock politely like your mother taught you. so you let them go in your place, making up excuses and saying you were busy or complained that you were tired.

but really, it just all started feeling kind of stupid—showing up at jun’s doorstep like clockwork when he never looked at you quite the way you hoped. senior year was just beginning, and you weren’t about to waste your last year of high school chasing a hopeless childhood crush—that silly, stubborn thing you promised yourself you’d outgrow by now.

one afternoon, he came to the door the same way he always did—sweatpants, bed hair, and rubbing sleep from one eye. only this time, when he pulled it open, he blinked down not at you, but at the top of someone else’s head.

your sibling squeaked out a practiced greeting, arms stretched out with the side dish your mom had made. jun stared for a second longer than usual, the corner of his mouth twitching like he didn’t know whether to smile or frown.

and maybe—for a beat, no longer—jun wondered where you’d gone. maybe something tugged at his chest, quiet and annoying, like a thread snagged in the fabric of a routine he hadn’t realized he’d grown so used to.

without you even noticing, the first day of senior year comes rushing in. and for the first time in a long time, you weren’t waiting at the door to walk to school with jun or pretending not to time your steps with his. no rushing out in your uniform just to catch up and scold him for walking so fast, no sarcastic “what a coincidence” from him as he adjusted his backpack, smirking without looking at you.

this time, you waited by the window until you saw him head down the street, hoodie thrown over his shoulders, earphones half in. he didn’t look up—not at your window, not at your house—and that should’ve made it easier. it didn’t. maybe a small part of you hoped he’d look back and wonder where you were, wait for you, or even send you a text on his flip phone. but jun simply kept walking, indifferent, until his back disappeared from your view.

you took that as a signal. you slipped on your shoes, the ones with the worn heels, grabbed your headphones and portable cd player, and shrugged into your jacket like muscle memory. your little sibling was still asleep on the couch, and your mom’s voice echoed faintly from the kitchen, but everything else felt unusually quiet.

by the time you stepped outside, the air had cooled just enough to make you wish you’d grabbed a scarf. you kept your head down, trying not to think too much, trying not to glance across the street even though you knew he wasn’t there.

what you didn’t see—what you couldn’t see—was jun leaning against the old oak tree halfway down the block, tucked just far enough behind the trunk to stay out of view. one foot pressed to the bark, hands deep in his hoodie pocket, chewing his bottom lip like he wasn’t sure what he was waiting for.

and then you passed by. head down, steps steady, walking right past him without a glance. he watched your back as it grew smaller, the morning light catching the edge of your sleeve. that feeling tugged at his chest again—the same one he felt a few weeks ago when you first sent your sibling to bring food over instead of yourself.

jun shifted his weight, exhaled slowly, and pushed off the tree.

you didn’t look back.

you kept your headphones in as you slipped into the courtyard, a half-hearted attempt to seem occupied. a few familiar faces nodded as they passed, but you didn’t stop to talk. not when your heart was still trying to unlearn a pattern it had followed for years.

junhui should be walking with you right now. he should be a step behind, yawning into his sleeve, bumping your shoulder with his on purpose. his friends should be calling out his name from the front steps, tossing lazy grins and half-waved hellos. and he should be answering them over his shoulder, still tugging at the frayed strap of your backpack and telling you your hair looked like a bird’s nest—then ruffling it like that wasn’t the most heart-fluttering, pulse-skipping, can’t-breathe-for-a-second thing he could possibly do to you. ‘fix your ugly bangs,’ he’d mumble, always the same tone—half-teasing, half-careless—and then he’d disappear into the crowd like you hadn’t been walking together at all.

that’s how the first day was supposed to go. it was how it always did, for years in a row.

but today, the only hands in your hair are your own, brushing it down nervously as you stare straight ahead and try not to think about how hollow the space beside you feels.

at the front of the school, students gathered near the bulletin board where class lists were taped up in uneven rows. you hesitated before stepping in, heart skipping like it did every year, eyes skimming the columns faster than they could register names—just one name, really.

there he was: moon junhui, class 3-2.

you dragged your gaze down, your name sitting two lines below his.

same class. again.

you didn’t know whether to sigh or smile. because a year ago, you would’ve been squealing in delight, skipping your way to first period with the kind of giddy, reckless hope that only came from liking someone as loudly as you did him. now, your heart still beat just as fast—but it was different. muddier, a bit conflicted. like your body hadn’t gotten the memo that you were trying to stop feeling this way.

and just when you took a step back, someone brushed past your shoulder, close enough to make your breath hitch.

“ah—sorry,” came a soft voice, unfamiliar and low, tinged with the faintest accent. you turned, blinking up.

he stood tall, maybe taller than jun, with sharp features and dark eyes that took their time looking over the list. his hair fell just slightly into his face, and his uniform hung neat, collar straight despite the morning bustle.

“do you know which one is class 3-2?” he asked, glancing down at you like you might already have the answer.

his lips are slightly pouted, brows pinched like he’s trying to make sense of the board in front of him, and it takes a second for you to register that he’s talking to you.

you blink, heart lurching a little too hard at the sight—because wow, he’s pretty—then quickly jab your finger—maybe a bit too eagerly—toward the list posted on the wall.

“that’s me,” you say, trying not to sound breathless, “i’m in that class.”

your name, still sitting two lines below junhui’s, stares back at you. still there. still in close proximity with the name of the boy you swore you were growing out of. you’ve seen it a hundred times before, but beside someone new, it feels strange—like a thread has quietly shifted in a pattern you hadn’t expected.

he leans in slightly, eyes skimming over where you’re pointing. then he lifts a finger, taps it just beneath yours.

“seo myungho here, but i’d prefer if you called me by my chinese name—xu minghao.” he says, smiling now. “guess i’m right behind you.”

then you finally register it—that subtle lilt in his voice, the way his words land with a soft, rounded rhythm. an accent, warm and unmistakably northern, threads through his speech like a familiar tune from somewhere far from here. it’s not like junhui’s—his had always been rougher at the edges, syllables clipped and pulled from the south, the faint drawl curling around his words. minghao’s, though, settles in softer and more deliberate. and for a second, you forget what you were going to say.

you let out a small laugh before you can stop it, surprised at the way it slips out so easily.

“looks like it.”

minghao steps back, still looking at the list like he’s memorizing it, and you steal a glance—his expression is open and curious, like someone seeing everything for the first time and already wanting to know more.

and maybe it’s just this new feeling of a fresh start you promised to have, or the fact that he spoke to you first—out of all the kids here, he picked you. maybe your teenage brain is overthinking it, spinning meaning where there is none, but you honestly don’t mind the undivided attention for once.

junhui steps into the courtyard a little late, the sleeves of his uniform hoodie pushed up and hair still a bit damp from a rushed morning shower. he scans the crowd, eyes flicking past familiar faces as he adjusts the strap of his bag over one shoulder.

you’re not where you usually are.

a habit he didn’t realize he’d built until it broke—expecting to see you waiting near the bulletin boards or waving him over with some dumb comment about how the first day of school should be illegal. but this time, you’re nowhere in sight.

he shifts on his feet, gaze sweeping again, slower this time—until something fuzzy catches his eye.

your keychain. that stupid fuzzy creature you insisted on keeping, dangling off the zipper of your bag. the fur’s worn now, patchy in spots, the color a little dull from all the years of being dragged around—but it’s still there, bobbing amongst the crowd like a flag. it swings gently as you move, and junhui catches sight of it before he sees you.

he remembers the claw machine in that dingy arcade three summers ago, remembers how you clapped when he knocked the toy into the chute on his second try. jun remembers how you snatched it from his hands before he could even look at it properly, beaming as you said, “you won it for me!” like it was some grand romantic gesture. he’d rolled his eyes and said something about how annoying you were, but he’d let you keep it anyway. didn’t even have the heart to argue.

now, your figure’s nearly swallowed up by someone else’s—someone taller and unfamiliar. raven-black hair and legs that go on forever. and he wonders, bitterly, if the new guy knows that fact. if he even noticed it or asked where that keychain came from. not that it matters. whatever.

his brows pull together as he watches the two of you talking by the list, your head tilted slightly toward the guy beside you, smiling at something he says. it’s subtle, but jun catches the way your posture softens, the way you seem to lean in without meaning to. and for some reason, something shifts in his chest yet again—small and barely there, but noticeable. like a paper cut you don’t feel until after it’s happened, sharp and mildly irritating in the worst way.

he doesn’t know why it bothers him. maybe it’s the way you used to save that smile for him, or maybe it’s just habit that he would be the one next to you by that list, just like every year before this one.

either way, he tells himself it’s nothing. just the first day of school. just a new kid. nothing to think twice about—so he looks away.

“jun, you’re in 3-2 too, did you see?”

it’s joshua, already slinging an arm loosely around jun’s shoulder like no time has passed at all since last semester. he’s grinning, waving a folded schedule in one hand.

“i saw your name on the list. looks like we’re stuck together again.”

jun hums something in agreement, sparing one last glance over his shoulder—your fuzzy keychain already vanishing around the corner—before letting joshua steer him toward the hall. their footsteps fall into rhythm, laughter rising easily between them, but there’s a crease in junhui’s brow that doesn’t quite smooth out.

the classroom buzzes with first-day energy—chairs scraping, windows cracking open to let in the crisp air, conversations picking up where summer left off. you step in a little hesitantly, fingers tightening around the strap of your backpack, only to catch sight of a familiar head of tousled brown hair near the center.

junhui.

middle row, third seat from the front—the one he always liked. far enough to nap unnoticed, close enough not to get called on. but maybe more than that, it was more or less the same area where you’d saved a seat for him on his first day, the one you carved out space for him to take when he first moved in. the seat beside him is empty, and your steps falter.

but before the thought can root itself too deep, minghao nudges your arm gently and gestures to the back corner by the windows. “over here?”

his voice comes low and steady, easy to listen to—not pushy, just gently warm, like a quiet invitation you don’t feel the need to refuse.

you find yourself following him without saying much, feet moving first and slipping into the seat by the window as he takes the one beside you. your bag hits the floor with a soft thud. the early morning light spills across your desk, warm against your skin. a breeze stirs your hair.

jun doesn’t turn around.

you tell yourself it’s fine. it is. you’re in a new seat, next to someone new. someone who didn’t grow up with the version of you that tripped over her own feet just to keep up, the version who doesn’t follow jun pathetically like a shadow.

this feels like the change you didn’t know you needed—the breath of fresh air that makes your steps a little lighter, the quiet comfort of minghao by your side softening the edges of everything you thought you knew.

eventually, lunch becomes an unspoken thing between you and minghao.

it’s not planned at first, he just starts showing up—next to you in the hallway, at your desk after class, and in the cafeteria line with his tray angled toward yours. when teachers say to group into pairs, his eyes find yours before anyone else’s even has the chance. and it doesn’t take long before you realize you’re basically attached at the hip.

his presence is quiet, but it holds weight—like gravity, steady and subtle. and somehow, it pulls you in. he doesn’t talk much to others, never the first to speak in a crowd, but he always greets you first. always. like it’s second nature. and maybe your high school brain is reading too much into it—but then again, maybe it isn’t.

junhui notices when you stop waiting for him.

he notices when you stop waiting for him by the front gate. when you don’t pause outside the cafeteria, scanning for his face before heading in. he sees you laughing quietly at something minghao says, the two of you already halfway through your lunch trays before he’s even stepped inside. it’s where you always liked sitting, but now it’s him that’s sitting there with you.

and the kicker? minghao’s chewing on rice cakes that look painfully familiar—your mom’s recipe, the one she always makes in bulk when the ingredients are fresh from the market.

your little sibling had dropped off a container of them last night, waving cheerfully at the door. jun hadn’t opened it—his mom had—but he remembers the smell and how it tasted. freshly made, still warm from the kitchen.

does minghao even know what they taste like fresh?

jun bets he doesn’t.

and then he blinks, the thought catching him off guard. why did that matter? why was he thinking like that? since when did he care who got the first bite?

he tells himself it’s nothing. just food. just your mom’s cooking.

but then jun looks back at the way you’re leaning in, nodding at something minghao says—and he hates how natural it looks. how effortless and how easy.

like that space beside you was never his to begin with.

minghao took the space you’d carved jun out of, like it had always been waiting, like it had always been his.

he didn’t rush to fill it, just slipped in quietly—slid his tray next to yours at lunch, fell into step beside you in the hallways, always found you first when it came time to pair up in class. you didn’t have to ask because he was already there.

minghao noticed. of course he did.

maybe he just pretended not to—kept his gaze steady, let you talk, let you laugh—like he didn’t feel the weight of someone else’s eyes on his back.

the boy with the messy brown hair—moon junhui, was it?—had a habit of staring like he was trying to set minghao’s head on fire with just his eyes. sometimes from across the classroom, or when you were laughing a little too loudly beside minghao’s shoulder. that boy would stare like he was waiting for you to pull away, waiting for you to take your usual seat back beside him in the middle row, like you always used to.

minghao had overheard stories about how you would be one step behind jun, always lingering around him from your classmates. he didn’t bring it up—he didn’t have to, not when your gaze never really wandered, or when he already had all of your attention. maybe a part of him was selfish enough to hold onto it, to keep you looking only at him.

in the blink of an eye, autumn blurred into winter. and suddenly, it was midterm season—gray skies, tired eyes, the weight of your future pressing down in textbook margins and red underlines.

you were hunched over a desk in the corner of the library, highlighter uncapped, fingers tangled in your own hair as you muttered formulas under your breath. there were empty snack wrappers beside your notes, a half-empty bottle of water, and post-it tabs clinging to your fingers like tiny reminders of all the things you have yet to finish.

“you forgot to eat lunch,” came a quiet voice beside you.

you looked at him through tired lashes, heart fluttering with something you couldn’t name—something that didn’t feel loud or sudden, but slow and warm like a shift in the tide.

jun had never been like this. when you asked him to go over notes or lessons, he’d brush you off or give you a distracted nod, like your questions were just background noise to him. he barely gave you the time of day.

but minghao—he didn’t tell you to rest, didn’t hover, didn’t ask questions. he simply set down the kimbap, opened his own book, and settled in beside you, steady and unintrusive. his presence felt like a quiet anchor, like a hand guiding you gently forward without pressure.

somewhere between the rustle of pages and the steam curling from the kimbap wrapper, you haven’t realized you’d been holding your breath.

maybe it wasn’t exactly the moment you fell. maybe it was the moment you crawled out of that hole junhui let you fall into, and quietly fell into a new one—one carved out by minghao. this one didn’t feel as deep or dark, unsure like the former, but warm and inviting.

that night, you and minghao had stayed late at the library, lost in quiet study and soft conversations, the hours slipping by unnoticed until the lights flickered off at eight. 

that night, jun lingered by his bedroom window, waiting. the digital clock on his nightstand glowed 9:42PM—later than you’d ever been home before. he’d almost left the house himself to go find you.

his chest tightened as he watched you and minghao move slowly down the sidewalk, your voices low, your steps in quiet sync. jun watched quietly from where he was, the soft glow of the streetlamp outlining your figure as you walked home. your books were tucked under one arm, and minghao’s hand—steady and sure—held yours in the other. it was a small thing, but jun felt it like a sudden jolt beneath his ribs.

but then, when you paused at your door and tiptoed to press a gentle kiss on minghao’s cheek, it was like his heart stopped altogether.

jun practically ambushed you the next morning, stepping out of his door quick enough to fall into step beside you.

“h-hey,” he said, a little breathless, “did you get home safe last night?”

you blink, caught off guard. “how’d you know i got home late?”

he scratched the back of his neck, cheeks reddening a bit. “uh, your mom was looking for you last night. said she thought maybe you were still out with… someone. or, you know, whatever.” he shrugged, trying to play it cool but failing just a little. “guess she thinks you’re out on a date or something.”

he raised a brow, waiting for your response. you shook your head at this, smiling slightly. “who has time for that right now, junhui? we’re too busy caught up with midterm exams in our senior year.”

he didn’t miss the way you said his full first name, but he only nodded quietly, mostly to himself, a flicker of relief settling in.

as you walked to school together, the old routine seemed to snap back into place—familiar, but tinged with something awkward underneath.

when you get to school, minghao spots you from a few meters away, his pace slowing just slightly. he doesn’t miss the boy walking beside you, eyes flicking to junhui with a polite nod and a quiet, almost casual, “hey, junhui.”

then he steps between the two of you without hesitation, hand resting lightly on your shoulder—gentle, but unmistakably there. “mind if i borrow y/n for a sec?”

junhui blinks, then looks at you, something unreadable flickering across his face. “oh. yeah, sure. just wanted to ask real quick—could you maybe tutor me next week?”

you tilt your head, surprised—jun rarely asked for academic help. he usually got decent grades without much effort. still, you shrug and say, “sure.”

to face him properly, you shift a little, gently nudging minghao aside so you can meet jun’s gaze. “which subjects do you need help with?” the cold air makes your cheeks flush; your breath puffs out in soft vapor. your hair’s a little messy, bangs falling over your eyes—the same bangs jun used to tell you to fix every single time. back then, he never minded. maybe because you were kind of adorable like that, with those messy bangs barely brushing your eyes, and the way you’d finally fix them just so only he could see that slightly windswept look of yours. his heart starts racing faster than usual.

minghao raises a brow, watching the quiet exchange, as jun rambled on about how history has been kicking his ass lately. after a beat of silence, he clears his throat. “hey, i’ve been meaning to tell you. i have a family trip until next week,” he says, voice calm but not unreadable. “i’ll be away for a bit, but you can spend more time tutoring jun. looks like he needs it,” he mutters, an unamused gaze barely meeting the other boy’s own.

his hand stays steady on your shoulder, warm even through the fabric of your coat.

“jun can walk you home, anyway,” he adds, glancing at you with a faint smile. “neighbors’ privilege.”

then, softer—just for you—“sorry,” he murmurs, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. not possessive, just reassuring.

that afternoon, minghao was already gone, a quick text sent your way about heading out early for family dinner, leaving you and jun standing outside the school gates as the sun dipped lower behind gray clouds.

you fell into step beside him without thinking, the familiar rhythm of your footsteps side by side settling around you like an old song. the conversation was quiet—more comfortable than it had been in a long time. the world felt steady again, but your heart didn’t thud like it used to when you were near him. it was softer, calmer, like you were finally seeing jun without the pull of chasing, without the weight of hoping.

that day, jun walked you back to your front porch. your mom’s face lit up when she opened the door, offering him dinner like she used to all those years ago. and, surprisingly—maybe for the first time since middle school—he accepted with a willing nod.

jun went home that night with the tupperware of your mom’s mapo tofu balanced carefully in his arms. jun flashed you a soft, hesitant smile—like he wasn’t quite sure how to carry the moment—with his brown hair still brushing past his lashes, catching the last light of the evening.

you offer him a quiet ‘good night,’ your voice soft like the fading light outside. your eyes linger on him, not closing the door right away—watching until he disappears into his room across the street, the faint glow of his window the last thing you see before you finally step inside.

it feels strange at first—like the world’s shifted its usual rhythm just a little. for the next few days, it’s like everywhere you turn, there’s jun. not the distant planet you once orbited from afar, but somehow closer, like he’s started circling you instead. it’s subtle—the way he lingers near your locker, the way his shadow falls a little too close when you pass in the hallway—but it’s enough to make your heart skip, wondering if maybe the tides have finally changed.

one morning, you find a fresh banana milk waiting on your desk, cool and slightly sweet, just like the ones jun used to share with you after practice. there’s no note, just the familiar warmth of the gesture, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s trying to say something without words.

at lunch, you sit alone, scrolling through your phone quietly. then jun appears beside you, holding a small container of something homemade—pickled radish, your favorite side dish. he shrugs, avoiding your eyes, and says, “thought you might like this.” you look up, caught off guard, but the way he lingers before walking away feels like a silent moment, maybe of hope.

meanwhile, minghao’s been sending you quiet messages every night since he first arrived at their vacation home—small check-ins, a good night here, a joke there. you read them with a smile, the softness in his words a warm anchor. even miles away, he’s somehow still holding your hand steadily and sure.

the day you’d promised to tutor jun finally rolled around, coinciding with the last day of minghao’s family vacation—he’d be back at school the following day. the last bell had already rung, and most of the classrooms had emptied out, the quiet hum of students lingering only in the stairwells and front gates. outside, the sun was starting to dip low, casting the hallways in a soft glow, the ground blanketed with a few inches of snow that made everything feel quieter, like the end of something you couldn’t name.

jun was waiting near your locker, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, the tip of his shoe nudging the floor like he was working up to something.

“ready to go?” he muttered, jerking his chin toward the direction of the library. his voice was awkward, tentative, like he wasn’t sure how to say what he wanted to say next.

you nodded anyway, falling into step beside him as the last traces of sunlight poured through the windows. your heart flipped just a little when he reached up and brushed a few stray snowflakes from your hair. the touch was quiet—almost familiar—and it made something in your chest pull tight. you shoved the feeling down, steadying yourself before it could bloom into anything more.

no. you couldn’t waste all those weeks of distance, all the effort it took to carve out space between you and junhui, just to feel like this again. not when you were doing so well.

you almost scoffed at this—at the way he slowed his pace, glanced over his shoulder once, then again, just to make sure you were still behind him.

because back then, all you ever saw was the back of his stupid brown-haired head, moving ahead like he didn’t even notice you were trying to keep up. like he knew, knew you’d always be a few steps behind, reaching for something he never quite gave.

soon enough, you reached the library, jun holding the door open for you. you ducked inside from the cold, instantly enveloped by warmth and the faint scent of old books. you didn’t look at him as you passed, choosing instead to pull your scarf a little tighter.

you found a quiet table tucked into a corner, one you used to sit at back in second year, and settled down. he sat across from you, dragging out his notes and a pen, and for the next hour or so, you walked him through formulas and vocab lists. made flashcards. quizzed him. and he answered everything in just a couple of beats.

still, he kept staring.

he watched the way your lips moved when you read out questions, the way your handwriting curved on the paper, the way you furrowed your brows when he got something slightly off. his heart skipped when your fingers brushed as you reached for the same pen, and he watched you quietly tuck it behind your ear, bangs messy over your eyes.

you always left them that way. he used to tease you about it, telling you to fix them so he could see your face. back then, it never really bothered him.

but now… now he thought maybe he told you that because he liked it. because the way you looked with messy bangs, slightly flushed from the cold, lips parted with vapor curling into the air—it was something he didn’t want anyone else to see.

and maybe it was dumb. maybe it was stupid to start chasing and pining after you now, after everything. after he saw you press a kiss to the new guy’s cheek under a streetlamp just a couple nights ago. but junhui was a teenage boy. and teenage boys were dumb.

by the time you were zipping up your bag, it was nearly 7PM, the sky outside dusky and blue. jun watched quietly, fingers resting on his own books, mind still halfway stuck on the way your cheeks pinked from the cold.

and then he noticed it. next to that old, fuzzy keychain he won from the claw machine—a new, brighter one.

a plush froggie, bright green and smug, winking at him like it knew something he didn’t. almost like it was mocking him.

he opened his mouth, the start of a question on his tongue—until you spoke first.

“hey, junhui…” your voice was quieter now, not cold, but distant. measured. “i… i don’t know what you’re trying to do.”

something in jun’s chest faltered. his heart dropped at the way you said his first name completely—carefully, as it cut through the silence.

you were looking down as you adjusted the strap of your bag, fingers brushing over the keychains before slipping away. “you knew all the answers,” you said plainly, not accusatory—just true. “you didn’t need my help tonight.” 

you met his gaze then, finally, your expression unreadable but steady.

“i think you can study on your own next time, yeah?”

jun didn’t want to admit it, but what you said during your study session a few days ago had been sitting heavy in his chest ever since. it echoed in the quiet moments—in the space between thoughts, his classes, and between breaths. he’d always thought of you as reliable, familiar, and constant.

but he hadn’t realized how far he’d fallen behind until now.

until he couldn’t even pretend you needed him anymore.

he couldn’t avoid the way minghao had greeted you the morning after that tension-filled library exchange, arms full of neatly packed lunch boxes leftover from the last night of his fancy family trip the day before. he watched the way your eyes lit up, how you gasped and clutched his arm, laughing as you peeked inside one of the containers.

“whoa—your family really goes all out, huh?”

minghao just smiled, modest. “my mom got carried away. here, try this one.”

jun looked away.

because he remembered when you used to look at him like that.

when he’d hand you a tupperware his mom made him bring to school—sometimes braised tofu with soy sauce and scallions, sometimes stir-fried egg and tomato, or on special days, hong shao rou with a little too much fat clinging to the corners.

your face would light up just the same. not because the food was fancy—it never was—but because it came from someone like jun, and you like jun—

you liked jun. so much.

and now, you were looking at someone else like that—with that same sparkle and warmth.

and jun couldn’t shake the ache that bloomed in his chest.

because he hadn’t realized how much he missed that warmth, not until someone else had it, someone else slipping into the space he hadn’t even known he’d left empty.

because somewhere along the way—between brushing you off, never texting back, and pretending he didn’t see the way you looked at him—jun had royally, completely fucked it all up.

maybe he’d been too comfortable, too sure you’d always be around.

maybe he was too busy being the guy who never cut his stupid brown hair, even when it kept falling into his eyes, past his eyebrows, because he thought he looked cool like that—too busy being blinded by his own bangs to notice the way you’d started pulling away.

the senior ball was coming up fast—fliers on every classroom door, teachers reminding you to buy tickets, and group chats flooded with dress photos and playlists and gossip. it was the one event that managed to distract everyone from the impending doom of finals week, the looming pressure of graduation, and college applications creeping in like fog under a door.

proposals had started popping up left and right.

confetti in hallways, flowers in lockers, and notes scribbled on whiteboards.

you were definitely in the headspace, clapping and cheering with your friends as your classmates got asked by their dates—screaming when someone said yes, laughing when someone blushed too hard to speak.

and even if you didn’t say it out loud, even if you pretended you weren’t looking…

something in your heart hoped.

hoped that maybe—maybe a certain raven-haired boy would ask you.

quiet, steady, and thoughtful—someone who’d held your hand under the glow of a streetlamp and never made you feel like you were too much. someone who made you feel seen in a way that didn’t burn or overwhelm.

but the next thing you know, a head of brown hair steps into your line of sight.

your breath catches.

junhui.

not minghao.

he’s holding something behind his back, eyes flicking nervously to yours.

and just like that, everything stills.

your eyes flicker to what he’s holding behind his back—a neatly packed bento box, mismatched lid and all, the kind you used to exchange when you were younger. junhui had cooked it himself, you could tell. the rice wasn’t level, the side dishes a little uneven, but something about it made your chest tighten.a quiet, clumsy echo of something you used to share—a ritual buried beneath teenage silence.

your gaze drifts back to him. his eyes are hopeful and uncertain, watching you like he’s bracing for a hit he knows might still come.

“i’m sorry,” he says, voice low. “for making you wait. for being—god—stupid. i should’ve said something sooner. i just…”

you hear the rest, but it’s faint, drowned beneath the roar of your own thoughts—the ones rapid-firing, all jumbled and too much.

you swallow the lump in your throat.

you should want this. should be squealing, saying yes before he could even get the words out. a few months ago, you would have. the you that still clung to every small moment, every glance and maybe, every time he turned and waited for you to catch up.

you’re still standing there, trying to catch up to everything all at once

but now—

now, when jun finally asks, bringing out the bento box from behind him, his voice low and rushed—

“will you go to the ball with me?”

you don’t know what to say.

somewhere behind you, some students that notice pause to watch, someone muttering with a laugh,

“i knew they’d get together one of these days.”

you don’t turn to look, you just stand there, the weight of old memories and new feelings pressing into your chest, unsure which ones you’re supposed to carry forward.

because this—jun’s bento box, his quiet apology, the soft tremble in his voice—it should’ve been everything.

but it wasn’t comfortable anymore, it didn’t feel warm. warm like minghao’s steady presence, not like the quiet way he always made space for you without asking anything in return, or like the way he would greet you first, making sure your presence is acknowledged.

and maybe that’s when you realize—you weren’t still chasing the moon anymore. you’d stopped somewhere along the way without even noticing that you’d started turning toward the warmth of the stars instead.

you swallow hard, the words catching in your throat. jun’s face shifts, the smile faltering—eyes dimming as he reads the hesitation in your expression.

“sorry, junhui… i—”

but you don’t get to finish.

because before the rest can tumble out, there’s already a familiar warmth at your side. a gentle hand finds your shoulder, another wrapping easily around you as a voice cuts through the tension.

“hey,” minghao says, tone light and almost casual, but gaze unwavering as he glances at jun. “sorry, am i late?”

he doesn’t wait for an answer—just guides you forward, slipping past the small crowd of curious onlookers, his grip steady as he steers you away from the fluorescent hallway and the boy still standing in it. the boy whose name sits heavy on your tongue.

you let yourself lean into minghao’s touch, not because it’s easier, but because right now, it feels like the only thing keeping your heart from tumbling out of your chest.

minghao doesn’t say much as he guides you down the quiet corridor, hand gentle at your back until he pushes open the door to an empty classroom. it clicks shut behind you, soft but final. the silence settles between you like fresh snow.

he doesn’t turn around at first, just runs a hand through his hair before leaning against the teacher’s desk, eyes flicking to yours.

“look… y/n,” he starts, voice quieter than usual, but steady. “i don’t know what’s going on between you and jun,”

he pauses, as if waiting for you to say something. you don’t.

“but i know what it looked like. and admittedly, heard from other kids how you had always hovered over him.” his gaze softens, searching your eyes to check if he had crossed any lines, but your quiet nod urges him to go on, “ i can’t imagine how you must’ve felt—watching someone push and pull with you like that.”

his eyes darken, not with anger, but something softer. something more careful.

“and i just—” minghao swallows, the words catching in his throat for a moment. “i just wanted you to know… i could never do that to you.”

he shifts, finally stepping closer, slow and deliberate. his fingers twitch at his sides before he lifts his gaze to meet yours.

“and maybe i was being a little selfish,” he admits softly, voice almost a whisper now. “pulling you away from him back there like that, but…” a breath, his cheeks flushing, “i decided i’ll let myself be. just this once.”

his hand finds yours again, gentle but certain, like he’s been waiting to. “because if there’s even the slightest chance you might choose me… i couldn’t just stand there and watch him take it.”

“you made space for me. and i—i’d never let you chase. never make you guess where you stood.”

the words fall from minghao’s lips so softly they almost miss you, tucked between the silence of the empty classroom and the steady rhythm of your own heartbeat. but they land with weight, like the hush that follows a snowfall—quiet, but thick, clinging to every surface inside you.

you blink, the words echoing in your head again and again, as if your heart needs time to understand them. because no one had ever said that to you before, no one had ever wanted to take the guessing out of love. no one had ever promised not to run, not to make you stumble after them, reaching for scraps of their attention like you once did with wen junhui.

your breath catches in your throat, fragile and unsure, and you look at him—at minghao, standing there with the softest kind of certainty, a warm glow. the kind that doesn’t shove its way into your chest but offers a place to rest instead. his gaze is steady, searching—like he means every word he just said, and is willing to wait if you need time to believe them.

it’s not loud or the type to sweep you off your feet, it’s not a movie-scene confession with roses or confetti or a marching band. but it’s real. and it’s everything you didn’t know you’d been aching for.

and suddenly you’re not back in that hallway with jun, fumbling and breathless with disappointment, as if you were lost in space. you’re here, grounded. held in place by the boy who never made you chase, who met you exactly where you were, who had just said he’d never let you question where you stood.

your hands tremble slightly by your sides, and minghao waits. he doesn’t rush or fill the silence with an awkward laugh or joke.

and it’s in that moment you realize—you were never chasing him to begin with.

he’d been walking beside you all along.

you don’t need to say a word. just a quiet step forward, the slight nod of your head, and minghao understands. something in his expression softens—like the knot between his brows finally loosens, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time too.

he gently brings your hand up between you two, fingers curling around yours. your cheeks flush even deeper when he brings your hand to his lips, eyes widening just a little as you watch him in awe. there’s something unhurried in the way he moves, like he’s treating the moment—treating you—with care. it makes your heart flutter, your throat tightening.

then, instead of letting go, he keeps your hand in his, fingers laced through yours as he gently pulls you closer. your feet move instinctively, closing the small distance, until you’re standing toe to toe in the quiet classroom.

his other hand rises slowly, cupping your cheek with the same gentleness he always offered—the kind that you never had to beg for, but simply given to you, no questions asked.

“may i?” he whispers, voice laced with something a little breathless, a little giddy, like he can’t quite believe this is real.

and the small laugh that escapes him, soft and sweet, wraps around you like warmth.

you nod before you can even think about it, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

he leans in slowly, giving you every moment to pull back if you want to—but you don’t. his lips brush yours gently at first, soft and tentative like a question, then deepen with quiet certainty, as if he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have.

the world shrinks down to nothing but the warmth of minghao’s touch, the steady beat of his heart beneath your hand, and the way his breath mingles with yours.

it’s tender and slow, a promise wrapped in a kiss that feels like the start of something new—something actually real, something that doesn’t make you chase, feelings that are reciprocated and solid.

from the corridor, jun’s grip tightens on the bento box in his hands, his eyes fixed on you through the empty classroom’s window. deja vu hits him hard—the same way he watched from his bedroom window the night minghao walked you home just weeks ago. without a word, he turns and walks away, the bento box slipping from his fingers and landing in a nearby trash bin with a soft thud, discarded like the chances he’d lost.

a soft smirk tugs at minghao’s lips against yours, subtle and knowing. one eye slips open, just barely—a quiet, amused glance over your shoulder.

he sees jun’s back retreating down the hallway, the stiff set of his shoulders, defeated, and the way his grip tightens around the bento box before it disappears into the nearest bin.

minghao only pulls you closer.

his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, thumb brushing gently as he leans in, deepening the kiss just slightly. this time, there’s no hesitation. it’s the clearest signal he could give—like a flashing green light above his head saying go. like a door wide open, no locks, no riddles, no second-guessing.

you finally weren’t chasing the moon anymore, so out of reach. you were here, grounded to minghao and being loved the way you always wanted and deserved to. and with every second that passed, the years wasted on moon junhui—on hoping, wondering, waiting—felt like they were finally, quietly, slipping away as you melted into minghao’s arms.

the space you once carved out for him now met with his own—two halves finally folding into place, like they were always meant to fit together. like the universe itself planned it to.

𐔌 . ⋮ taglist .ᐟ seventeen ֹ ₊ ꒱ @kstrucknet | @ateez-atiny380 @alien0n3arth @cuppasunu @dhaliaa1211 @seokminfilm @babilou-pov @crowneve @hhaechansmoless @triciawritesstuff @sopitadearvejas @slytherinshua @chronicfic @xh01bri @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @snowflakemoon3 @bbangbies @kibtsuji @dahlia-blossom @dhaliaa1211 @symphonies-of-poenies @judesbae @rivercattail @reiofsuns2001

[five-thousand-loaves-of-bread]

autism in china

if you been here for long enough you probably know that even me fucking explicitly naming country of origin & ethnicity instead of vague around something east asian, huge deal.

so.

as chinese person who born & part grew up in mainland china n been though HORRIFIC trauma from it... cannot talk about anything related to it.

but in mean time. there important things desperately wish non-chinese, or people who lived) in china in general (including diasporas), would know n understand.

because it been extra traumatizing & isolating n lonely, be only person in big metaphorical or literal room, who know these trauma exist, n horrific extent of it. some of which have live experience with. some of it looming threat for my future. some of it not my own experience but my friends (aka my community. my autistic n disabled community).

so, going share some stuff written by other chinese people in this post. that. oh gods. it so accurate it hurt.

there may be some parts not fully agree or would word different if am write. but. think overall message important enough.

especially if you non-chinese. hope you read through all of it (if accessible). even if it make you deeply uncomfortable. n then imagine autistic chinese people living in this reality. because many parts SHOULD make you deeply uncomfortable.

EDIT: image description link for those need ID or not have instagram

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fact is, most prevalent, majority—n by majority don’t mean 51% majority, but enough to feel like it hopelessly whole entire country—understanding of autism in china is that. there real autism (真自闭症) that rare n severe n hopeless n should die, n majority of cases fake autism (假自闭症) that can be cured / taken off hat 脱帽, that caused by environment like bad parenting, n you should be glad it fake, n kid n parent should then dedicate entire life to taking off that hat to finding cure, even if it mean , via old school gold standard (read: abuse) ABA. all professionals say it all professionals endorse it n who would question professionals? look this grande new intervention came from great United States Of America, that proof it top quality it works n am going charge ridiculous money for it. but why you saying USAmericans n “the west” saying [things that humanize autism], they wouldn’t know real struggle, their diagnostic criteria super wide it all fake, why would you listen to them, you traitor you boot licker. —but either way, both real n fake autism drain on public resources n should be kept away should be locked up in chains (no, literally. seen documentary where high support needs autistic get chain in closet for majority of day, “for his benefit.”), should never be born should all die. keep it away from my normal children my normal children should not have to share same space same classroom same world as it, its behaviors its symptoms its screams its existence rob teachers attention away from my normal children. they all should die n will proudly explicitly admit eugenics good.

(don’t actually believe this. but pretending write what have seen people talk about.)

-

n finally, post about general (visible) disability—because in my however many year grow up there, before (temporarily it seems) left, have never seen visibly disabled person in public. ever.

ever.

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n generally anything from this instagram account. need stop linking now or else link entire account.

.

so please. reblog this. share this. read this. don’t let me be only person bear this. because my god it breaking me

[boxturret]

Mata Nui, The Great Spirit

Hello, how do you feel about painting legoes? I think its fun.

Read on to see the terrible, unethical building process.

Many crimes were committed and I will likely be put to death soon.

Recently I completed quite a large project, painting this huge model kit of the Great Spirit Mata Nui. The kit in question is GiiKei's really impressive build, the instructions of which you can purchase here:

I was quite happy to see they cited my 3d model as reference, along with the original ideas submission. Fun fact: I really liked that ideas submission and made an account just to support it, but something about the proportions never sat right with me, and it was one of the things that motivated me to make that 3d model! So its fun to see it get used in the creation of another model :) And now here I am building it. Full circle.

Now, full disclosure, this is made from third party parts, I did test it on bricklink and it would have easily doubled the price, even before shipping from about half a dozen international stores. I kinda just bought this on impulse, it was pretty cheap and on sale and it was a gamble it would come at all really. But a week ago a nondescript bag came and inside it were sixteen hundred parts of honestly pretty good quality.

I think a couple parts used weren't in their parts catalogue so they had to be 3d printed, but even these were pretty acceptable. Actually in a way some parts were better, because this flame piece was pure red, instead of a mix of red and yellow as all branded parts are.

Some bits had a bit of a tight fit, and I drilled out the middle of the pistons, but I would have done that anyway to accommodate the painting. All in all, really good, was only missing one non essential part.

You can debate the ethics of stuff like this, but either I bought the instructions and paid a company in china X for the parts or I bought the instructions and paid a bunch of unrelated people X*2 for the parts, either way the creator gets the same amount. And I can say I wasn't going to build this off bricklinking parts. For various reasons I'm kinda done with bricklink*.

So after quite a few hour's work I had this lovely fellow. I must say, the design is quite good, its well articulated and has a lot of good build techniques. The head is both the strongest and the weakest part really.

I love the eye assembly, its built to allow for lighting, but it also cleverly includes natural light piping, and the kit comes with 4 sets of eyes, trans red and green for lighting and solid green and pink for display. Even has a little wrench to help swap out the parts.

On top of all of this the mouth is even articulated! So much shoved in such a small package. Unfortunately it does come at a cost, as its incredibly unstable. its a lot of 1 stud wide assemblies held together at odd distances with bars. I think the end result looks good, but its so easy for it to fall apart or get misaligned

Which is why, the instant I finished building this I decided to take it apart again and go at it with a tube of glue.

I glued large parts of this model together. I would happily do it again.

I'm not even going to hide behind any sort of "oh it wasn't real legoes so its fine" excuse, I would have 100% done this with "real" parts. Same with the painting really, I'm sick and tired of hiding behind the excuse that its acrylic so it can wash off, yes, technically, but it would take so much effort and the paints would probably stain some of the parts anyway. If something can benefit from paint or glue I'm not going to hold off just because the parts have a certain company's name on them. They're not sacred.

I can just use mineral spirits to undo everything anyway.

From the moment I saw the original ideas submission I knew: I wanted to paint it.

The GSR is a massive robot that's lain on the bottom of the ocean for millennia, and it reflects that with how dirty and rusty it is, its such an important aspect for me. And personally I quite like painting rust. It seems to be something I end up doing quite a lot.

So basically over the next couple of days I glued everything I felt needed glue, separated the model out in to several chunks, and then began painting.

First I primed it.

Then I did a black wash.

Then I started painting on the rust!

And then I realised I'd made a terrible mistake and redid everything.... Basically I kinda overestimated how much the black wash would fill in the nooks and crannies of the parts, so starting with a light primer base coat meant I was spending an inordinate amount of time trying to fill in all those little gaps and it was taking forever. So I made the correct decision of giving everything a coat of black paint first, and THEN moving on to the rust.

And after that everything went super smooth. Its really important to be open to admitting you made a mistake, and even if it will take more time its for the best to just start over.

For the bits of silver I used a similar technique to how I applied extra streaks of rust to my infected masks. It was a very enjoyable process.

After a quick coat of varnish and a day left to sit everything could go back together!

This guy is massive, around 50cm tall.

The back of the legs is by far the most interesting part of the model.

I especially like these movable pistons.

I did attempt to protect the light piping, and was somewhat successful.

The model is really poseable while at the same time feeling quite stable. Every joint in the legs is doubled. One thing I think is lacking is the ability for it to splay the arms completely out. But I can forgive it since, as I learned when rigging the 3d model, the arm pistons...don't really allow it. And the fact that this model actually has working arm pistons is much more of a positive in my mind.

In any case, you can just remove the pin holding the arms in and do it manually.

You may have noticed my old Mata Nui Island 3d print along with all the parts earlier. Well by some weird coincidence, they kinda match up proportion wise, ie the mouth and eye are roughly at the right places to be under the volcano and bay, respectively.

So that was a happy accident, and now I have a good way of showing how big the GSR is compared to the island.

Its big. And this is the logical size, not the insane 40000000000000 foot number thrown about by some. I have a series of posts about the various sizes of things because I find it interesting.

So in summation, I really couldn't be happier with this. The model design was great, I had a fun time painting it, and now I have a GSR model the size of a small child to display somewhere in my room. I've long been thinking of 3d printing my model, but this has really reduced my need for that. Also with recent duck related developments I've been made aware of how woefully inaccurate my model really is, and have to redo it at some point.

I have reached the maximum number of images per post. I might make a gallery post later. Good night. Have a nice weekend.

*come to bricklink and pay hundreds of dollars for the privilege of getting a smashed mask in the mail. And don't you dare expect a full refund. Not a single part in this kit was damaged and it came in a bag! You can see this guy lying in the background of some shots.

[ilium-ilia]

a fox cries; never howls

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | in limbo au | masterlist

epilogue: forever

Last night, I dreamt of my mother. 

It’s the first dream I’ve had of her where she’s not rotting on linoleum, or trying to clean her blood out of my school uniform. No, she was alive, with the light in her eyes and a smile on her face. Just like she ought to be. Just like I remember her when I was a kid. 

We sat together in the library Simon built for me, but the walls seemed to roam on forever, adorned with bookshelves and paintings I couldn’t recognize. It rained outside, thick droplets hitting the window like drums in an empty forest echoing in the midst of winter. She held one of my journals in her hand and read my poetry out loud, reciting it just the way I always imagined it would be spoken if I were ever brave enough to share it—that part of me. Too twisted that only a mad dog would ever love. 

I can’t recall how she left. I just know that the window was open when she was gone. Rain spilling in, flooding over the sill, pouring onto the floor until it filled the room whole. Suddenly, I was in the ocean. Thick waves beat against my skull so violently that I could taste the salt and iron it suctioned from my body. 

It was Simon who dragged me onto the shore. I knew it was him the moment his hands gripped my wrist. Even in my dream, I remember thinking, “Oh, it’s him.” 

It’s always him. 

Years have passed since he first saved me. Since he first pulled me out from beneath churning waves that would have otherwise crushed me. It’s been so long that I can’t even recall the exact date he dragged me out of Marco’s grasp, but I remember all the important ones that have come after that. Our wedding anniversary in October. The day we bought our first house together. 

Everything that ever happened to me before this took place in another life. It happened to a different me. She’s still here, somewhere, lurking in dog-eared pages and smudged ink, but I am here now, and this is the end. 

This is my forever. 

Wood creaks behind you, prompting your pen to freeze and your neck to turn. There, peeking through the french doors with eyes darker than the woods that surround your home is Simon. He attempts to hide it, but you see the steam wafting from the tea he holds in his hand, mug dwarfed by fat fingers and meaty palm. Dawn hits his chest. It illuminates his pallid skin until he’s on fire, caught in burning saffron as he pushes the door open. 

“Mornin’ sweetheart,” he says. His voice is quiet. Soft, as if to not interrupt the singing choir of the birds that flutter from tree to tree. 

“You’re up early,” you note, a lazy smile pulling at your lips. 

“Course. Big day today.” 

Sighing, you nod as you stuff your pen in your journal, closing up the pages until it’s swallowed whole. “Big day indeed.”

Simon looks different these days. Softer, anyway. You notice it as he sits next to you, bare chest bulging as he hands you your tea, soft stomach falling over the waistband of his joggers in a way that leaves your tongue eager to lap at the tender skin. He’s still a force to be reckoned with. It’s not uncommon for him to return home with split knuckles or a black eye, but he’s yours, now. All gentle with sharp teeth—just the way you like him. 

As you sip on your tea, the two of you silently look out over the balcony’s ledge. Thick patches of grass and moss coat the backyard, leading deep into the thicket of trees and bushes that line the property. A walking path winds like a snake through the foliage, dissipating into the woods like a fading line. You and Simon have often trudged along that path, fingers intertwined, shoulders knocking together as it narrows, bringing you two closer until you’re coincident lines. 

“I suppose we should get ready,” you hum, placing your mug against your thigh, fingers tapping against the china. It warms your skin, nearly burns it like a hearthstone. 

“Reckon we’ve got a bit more time,” Simon counters. 

“Maybe.” 

Warmth spreads along the bend of your knee, sliding up along your thigh until you feel a tender squeeze. “Excited?” 

“More than I ought to be, probably,” you chuckle. You breathe in—a soft breath, fresh spring, damp air—and hold it until you’re ready to let go. Then, you lean against him. Bare cheek against bare shoulder. “But it’s hard not to be.” 

A few more fleeting moments pass. The sun rises further above the horizon, kissing the tops of trees and warming the feathers of sleepy birds. You close your eyes. Orange seeps through the lids, urging you to look, but you opt to feel instead. Growing rays on your skin. The even breathing of Simon as he rests his head against yours. A slight twitching in his fingers—nerve damage that can never quite be repaired. 

“Is it time now?” Your voice is fragile, like a child’s. 

Once more, Simon’s fingers squeeze your leg, flesh dimpling beneath the pressure, but it’s not enough to hurt. It’s never enough to hurt. These days, there’s not a single ounce of pain that you feel that he can’t kiss away. 

“Yeah, baby. It’s time.”

Your grin bleeds like warm milk over the rim of a glass as you eagerly spring to your feet, journal and half finished tea long forgotten on the bench. Slipping back through the french doors, you and Simon don proper pyjamas before you’re trotting down the hallway, leading him behind you. Various pictures adorn the walls. Professional photography and at home film plastered in cheap frames meant to grow out of. Meant to change. Meant to mould. They display loving limbs, captured giggles, three smiles caught in a perfect moment. 

Her room is marked with a handwritten sign adorned with flowers and an amateur’s interpretation of the heavy wooded landscape that lines your home. When you push the door open, you’re greeted with periwinkle walls bedecked with stickers and posters from her favorite shows. A small bed with pink sheets is shoved into the corner where a mound of blankets and stuffed animals sit, some that have spilled onto the floor in the night, casualties of young, fluttering legs. 

And there, in the midst of it all, is your daughter Mary. 

She pretends to be asleep as she lays on her side, nose buried into her pillow, but the smile pulling at her lips gives her facade away. Kneeling next to her bed, you brush the apples of her cheeks with the back of your hand. Her skin is soft. Young. Ignorant to the world of strife, only knowing the love of her mother and father. 

“Good morning, Mary Lamb,” you whisper. 

Unable to hold herself back any longer, Mary’s eyes flicker open, and her quiet smile morphs into an uncontrollable grin. Her little body sits upright as her hands pat around the bed for something, fingers instantly grasping it once she finds it. Red fur. Amber eyes. 

“Good morning, Pumpkin,” Mary says, kissing her stuffed fox on the forehead, throwing herself into her morning routine. Then, she turns to you, leaning forward, kissing you on your shoulder. “Good morning, Mama Fox.” Then, she looks at Simon, hands outstretched, fingers curling for him. Chuckling, he extends his forearm, allowing her to kiss the fox tattoo lying on his skin. “Good Morning, Papa Fox.” 

“How’s our birthday girl?” Simon asks, turning his hand around to ruffle the hair on her head. 

“Good,” she says sheepishly. 

Petting Pumpkin on the head, you nod towards the door. “Ready for breakfast?” 

Your sweet Mary turns four today, and each day that passes you find yourself stunned at the rate she’s changing before your very eyes. Each day she grows bigger, and more sure of herself. Her father’s fire lies deep in her chest where it festers into a roaring blaze, and the proof of it appears before your very eyes as she sternly insists on helping cook up breakfast, stuck to Simon’s hip as he holds her in one arm and stirs with the other. She has yours, too. It manifests in the love for books, and the movie she demands the three of you watch as you eat, old hand drawn animation crackling across the screen like a dream. 

When the afternoon rolls around, and Simon helps Mary put her shoes on, you remember how you never thought you’d reach this point in your life. For so long, all you had known was pain. A special kind of solitude that kept you bound to monstrous men with easy smiles and sharp claws. But your life fractured, sending tiny fragments barreling throughout the space around your existence, forever compartmentalizing what so desperately yearned to stay whole. 

But as the three of you meander out the back door, grass underfoot, carefully tracing the path that leads away from home, you know you like this piece of your life more than any of your others. Not even bitter nostalgia can trick you into wishing for your old life back—before Marco found you, when you were still in school and had both of your parents to love you. 

The only people you need to love you now are Simon and Mary. 

Rays of sun seep through the canopy above you as you push further through the trees until you reach a small clearing that houses a muddy pond. You’re not sure why Mary is so infatuated with the sordid body of water, a proper breeding ground for various bugs and other critters, but she often begs to visit it when the days are warm and the skies are clear. A fallen tree with a thick spine makes for a good bench, covered with enough soft mossy to pad your bottom as you take a breather. On the other hand, Mary has found no shortage of energy, and instead traces the environs of the pond, eyes carefully scanning the shore as she trudges along the mud. 

Simon sits next to you, old wood creaking beneath his weight as he stretches out his legs, heels of his boots digging into the pliable soil. “Tired?” 

Humming, you lean your head against him, eyes fluttering shut. “Might settle in for nap time with Mary when we get back,” you hum. 

“You deserve it. You’ve been workin’ hard.” 

Scoffing, you scoot closer along the log to him. “Hardly.” 

Simon moves beneath your head, shoulder rolling until he’s wrapped his arm around your side. His other hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your attention to him before his palm falls to your stomach. “This isn’t an easy feat, baby,” he whispers. 

A smile blooms on your face. It’s only been three weeks since you held that positive test in your hands—several weeks of fatigue and sleeping during odd hours—but you think about it every day. Not far enough to show, but enough to feel them grow. This child. A sibling to Mary. 

Before either of you can say anything else, a sopping splash redirects your attention back towards the pond. There, you find Mary, knee deep in the mucky water, palms diving beneath the surface as she grabs at something, dipping her bottom in along with it. Both you and Simon chuckle, heads shaking at the mess she’s making as she begins to squeal. 

“Certainly like her father,” you murmur. 

“But pretty like her mama,” he retorts with a kiss to the crown of your head. 

Your repeated chuckles sound in unison as Simon pushes himself to his feet and trots off towards Mary. She’s standing upright again, shoulders hunched forward, clothes dripping wet. Something is cupped in the palm of her hands, and she only allows herself to look at it through a small opening between her thumbs. 

“What’cha doin’ sweetheart?” Simon calls out to her as he stands at the edge of the water. 

“Look! It’s a baby! A uh, a baby frog,” she claims. 

“The only frog I see right now is you, Mary Lamb.” 

Eventually, he manages to coax her to shore where she begins to whine about her soggy shoes, but refuses to release the creature in her hands. Simon crouches to her height, but still is so much larger than her small frame. He cups her hands in his, gently prying them open until you’re able to make out a mess of green and black spots on a small, fat frog. 

Mary grins, feet stomping on the ground, socks squelching in her feet, as she turns to you. “Mama, look! A frog! No, come here, you gotta look!” 

Smiling, you hop off of the log. Each step feels like a leap. You’re jumping across valleys from mountain top to mountain top, traversing the world just to reach your daughter and her naive grin. Every pace you’ve made has been a battle. A war you’ve won. A fight just to get here, where you are now, in this very moment.

Still, as she looks up at you with those bright eyes, and hands outstretched to showcase her new friend, you take comfort in the fact that you know that some things truly do last forever.

Thank you to everyone who came along this journey with me in writing this alternate universe. Finishing this makes my chest feel tight in the type of way that's telling me I don't want to let go, but I need to. Chip and Simon need it, too. If i'm feeling this way about this version of the story, I can't imagine how torn I'm going to be over In Limbo, haha.

Anyway, thank you all. It's an honor to send these two off in the way they deserve (:

[apomaro-mellow]

CC Ransoms Steve 5

Part 4

Eddie hated being woken up and being woken up rudely made it even worse. "What the hell?!", he demanded to know when Doug pushed him to the floor.

"What the hell? You were supposed to be watching Harrington, that's the hell!"

"He's right th-", Eddie pointed to the couch, which was now devoid of their meal ticket. "Oh."

Doug crossed his arms. "Check the kitchen."

Eddie scrambled to his feet and did just that, only just now noticing the smell of breakfast cooking. And there was Steve, standing in front of the stove like he owned the place. Then he pointed an accusatory finger at Gareth and Jeff, already seated and eating.

"Traitors!"

"Hey, it's my house. These pancakes are my property", Gareth said.

Eddie had half a mind to smash his face into those hot cakes. "You made everyone breakfast?", he asked Steve instead.

"I made myself breakfast. I just happened to make too much and these vultures scavenged it", Steve said, flipping a pancake one handed. Showoff.

Eddie didn't doubt that they did in fact scavenge. Who could resist fresh, hot breakfast on a cold winter morning? Instead of asking Steve anymore though, he turned to Doug.

"What was that rude awakening for, he's right here!"

"Not the point. You fell asleep watching him. Have you never heard of taking shifts? You didn't wake any of us up to give you a break", Doug said.

Eddie rolled his eyes just as Steve handed him a plate of pancakes, bacon, and eggs.

"Eat", Steve said. "Big plans today."

Eddie got away without confessing that he'd spent way too much time staring at Steve's sleeping face. The guy had good genes, he could admit that. He stuffed his face to keep from saying so though as the rest of them decided on the specifics of the plan. The house was empty now and they needed the money as soon as possible. So they bundled up and left right after finishing breakfast.

"No weight tied to my leg? No shackles? You're not even gonna tie me up?", Steve asked as they piled into the van.

"Don't tempt me, Harrington", Eddie said as he started her up.

They drove to the next neighborhood and parked right in the driveway. Eddie sighed. "So we just walk in the front door and take whatever we want? Easy enough."

"Well, no, we don't just walk in", Steve said. "I don't have my keys."

"What do you mean you don't have your keys?", Jeff frowned.

"Someone jumped me at school and I dropped them", Steve shot back.

"You don't have a spare under the welcome mat or something?", Gareth asked.

Steve rolled his eyes like that was a ridiculous notion. "No, I don't. You guys are amateur kidnappers, but doesn't any one of you know how to break into a place?"

Eddie sighed. "Alright, let's head to the back."

Behind the house, Steve almost warned Eddie to not smash the glass of the back door, only to see him pull out a small kit from his coat pocket. Within a minute, the back door was opened. He bowed and held an arm out for Steve.

"After you."

"...Impressive." Steve walked in, knocking some of the snow off of his shoes before going too deep inside. "Just take anything that looks important. NOT the TV", he said quickly, noting how Gareth was already eyeing it.

"Alright, Jeff, you go through the kitchen. Silver, fine china, you got an eye for that stuff. Doug, to the basement. Gareth, living room is yours, but not the TV", Eddie said, giving Steve a look.

"Where are you going?", Jeff asked.

"Upstairs with the man of the house. Gotta make up for not keepin' an eye on him before", Eddie grinned. "Come on Steve-o!"

Steve stuck his hands in his pockets and led the way up, taking Eddie straight to his parents' room. Eddie whistled. It sure did look like the bedroom of people who were pretty well off. Mr. Harrington had a bunch of nice watches on display. A couple of cologne bottles too. Mrs. Harrington had one of those hand displays for her rings.

Eddie looked at Steve. "You're just gonna let us take this stuff?"

"I said I would, didn't I?" Steve was leaning against the wall by the door.

"And you're not gonna call the cops on us right after?"

"If I do, you'll tell them I'm the one that robbed that convenience store."

Eddie chuckled. "Lifting a few beers is hardly the same as breaking and entering and grand theft."

"You saying you need something else on me?" Steve raised a brow and crossed his arms.

"It wouldn't hurt to have a little more dirt on King Steve", Eddie shrugged, stepping closer to him.

Steve looked him up and down. "I know you were staring at me all night."

Eddie froze in his tracks. "Staring? Or guarding?"

Steve didn't respond at first. He didn't take his eyes off of Eddie as he closed the bedroom door. "I know about you. What they say about you."

People said a lot of things about him. But Steve didn't seem to mind the criminal side. And he'd yet to poke any fun at any of them for being apart of a club that played games. Eddie could only think of one other thing.

"Maybe...maybe they'd say that about me too... If they knew", Steve said.

Eddie felt his mouth go dry. "Yeah? How do you even know it's true about me?"

"I saw you. Behind this bar one time."

"Steve Harrington goes to bars?", Eddie smirked.

"I was next door. But when I came outside, I saw...", he trailed off and Eddie didn't need him to finish. He could imagine. Eddie frequented bars for band, business, and booze. And sometimes, there was someone of a similar inclination. And if the bathroom was occupied, the alley way it was.

"What would the people of Hawkins say if they knew Steve Harrington wasn't what he appeared to be?" Eddie began walking towards him again, only stopping when they were at last, toe to toe. "They might run him out of town. If it was true, that is."

Steve leaned in closer. "Wanna see if it's true?"

Eddie missed Steve glancing down at his lips only because he was staring at Steve's. When he looked back up, he saw a light in his eyes and closed the space between them. Steve's hands went right to his hair, pulling him in even closer as they devoured each others mouths. Eddie pressed Steve to the wall and the layers between their bodies were suddenly unbearable.

They started by removing their coats and Steve turned them to lead Eddie towards the bed. Steve fell backwards, pulling Eddie on top and their kissing resumed. Just slightly more controlled this time. Steve licked into his mouth and Eddie's hand was already trying to get under his sweater.

Eddie groaned as Steve's leg slid between his own. The fact that they were making out in his parents' bedroom wasn't lost on him. It made it all hotter honestly.

And then the doorbell rang.

Part 6

Taglist

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[poder--popular]

Although i certainly find universal nuclear disarmament to be a morally correct and honourable goal, it's also very clear that a reasonable part of those campaigning for it are very entrenched in anti-communist views - focusing with much strictness on the development of nuclear warheads by the DPRK, China and Russia (which isn't socialist, but nevertheless). At best they criticize the gigantic war industry of the US, but only by liberal metrics of "we should only have the necessary" and stuff like that. However, it is also clear that the development of nuclear armament - although not the main priority - should, very clearly, be something that socialist states now and in the future must consider. Even if not full blown nuclear armament - at least ICBMs and others like it. For it is not a mistake or an insanity that the DPRK, for example, has developed nuclear warheads; it knows that it is the subject of constant international harassment and it is prepared to have what is, for now, the most powerful rhetorical weapon against this. Future socialist countries should, yes, follow this! And, you see, a big number of communists mainly in the West (and to great extents elsewhere) do not see military strategy and development post-revolution as important. And this is stupid! Foolish! Russia was the subject of an inter-imperialist gangbang from all sides, and it only survived to form the Soviet Union with the development of a strong, renewed Red Army, big in bulk and in equipment. And socialist revolutions in the future will also need to have this: they'll need a Red Army, Red Navy and Red Air Force. And communists NOW should think about how this needs to be developed and need to learn strategy and need to be active within military circles (although, of course, in the imperial core the military is a much clearer peon of international capital than in the global south, so things are harder in this stance). Socialism here, now and in the future will certainly be striked with the combined forces of capital tumbling down on any form of organized proletariat. This happens to countries contrary to the imperialist USAmerican order, socialist or not: it imposed a military dictatorship in Cambodia in 1970, it couped Chile in 1973, it annihilated Grenada in 1983, it helped oust Aristide in Haiti in 2004, it destroyed Libya in 2011 - not counting many others. This means that developing a strong, truly proletarian armed force and developing means to defend it long term beyond that - ICBMs, and, of course, following the correct Korean path, even nuclear missiles - are crucial for the establishment of socialist states. And only when socialism is triumphant or on its way to triumph may these rhetorical and physical defenses of socialism be dismantled. Or only if the capitalist world surrenders all of it at the same time. However, believe me: they won't. As such, i'd say that in the 21st century, Lenin's little formula can be adapted to: Communism is Soviet power + electrification + ballistic missiles, in a gross simplification. The basis, the development and the defense.