#-there to make space for the leds makes sense in theory for a prop that would feel like giving myself a lobotomy . hope this helps

[tronlightcyclerun]

me: i want to mod my disc because theres like 10 leds in this thing total. cant be that hard right

propmaking forums: ok! step one, Tear It To Shreds

me: nvm

[knine-nights]

Genloss Theory 12

Long one again but I’ve got pics this time!

Why was there a weapons store in the Showfall mall in Episode 3? What even was it?

There was a store that Charlie and Ranboo took temporary shelter in during Episode 3 that was filled with odd items. It was trashed, much of it was empty, but it was well lit which is more than you can say for most of the mall.

Inside the store, some items they find include an axe, a knife, afrying pan, and a bulletproof vest:

So what gives? Why the fuck would this be here?

Well the first conclusion you might reach (and the one I did the first time I watched) is that it’s a supply/hunting store from before Showfall took over. There are obvious remnants all over the place that this was once an active and functioning mall. Like how Charlie and the other streamers were in the small restaurant booths you’d find in a food court. So it wouldn’t be that surprising to find a store with some scraps from before Showfall right?

Except that doesn’t make total sense. Sure at first glance it may seem like that kind of store, with the knife, bulletproof vest, nets, and camo designs all over.

But so far I’ve only mentioned items they grab. I’m not going to show images for all of the following, you can double check if you doubt me, but there are also things including a giant hammer, a leaf blower, an old fashioned gas mask, a small crocodile head, a bell, several jackets, a bucket labeled SLIME (which I talk briefly about in Theory 11), a fire extinguisher, a helium tank, a mannequin body with a scarf, and several bags and jackets.

Why would a store have those? And they’re not haphazardly thrown in piles, some of these things are hung on the walls or in the display cases. These were placed here intentionally.

It’s not 100% clear why it’s like this, but my theory is that this was a ploy by Showfall. Charlie and Ranboo were meant to find this store because the items here would give them supplies and give them hope that they could find their way out.

After all, why else would the store be open and fully lit up? If it was a defunct old storage space, it wouldn’t be so perfectly inviting for Charlie and Ranboo.

In Theory 8 I speculated that Showfall might have had more control in Episode 3 than we were led to believe. That they were still pulling the strings. This whole situation sort of supports that. If Showfall was in control, they could easily herd Charlie and Ranboo into the store by having the employees chase them and have the store set up beforehand to give them the objects and tools that Showfall wanted them to have.

Ultimately, I think this might have been originally a hunting supplies store (something reasonably common in malls across the USA) before Showfall took over, but they used it partially as a place to store extraneous props but also a set up for Charlie and Ranboo.

More Theories

[letsfluxshitup]

​Technoblade Learns How To Relax (now on ao3)

Tommy's face became more and more contemplative as he guided Quackity to the ravine dubbed Pogtopia. 

He led him down the winding stairs at a pace that had Quackity fumbling to keep up with. 

On the last step, Quackity stumbled, heading face first into the dirt before an arm caught him around the waist.

"I told you we needed the guard rails." A voice huffed from behind him.

Quackity thrashed violently, whipping around and ending up on the ground anyways, staring up at the Blade himself.

"Oh! Technoblade-- Mr. Blade, sir, I didn't see you there--" Quackity stuttered, scrambling to his feet. He slipped twice on the gravel before Tommy took pity on him and offered him a hand.

Quackity took it, allowing himself to be dragged up before slightly frantically brushing off his jacket. He scrubbed at the mounting flush on his face, refusing to be embarrassed, and waved away Tommy's concern.

Tommy broke the silence, abruptly clearing his throat.

"Right- anyways, I was just showing Big Q around. He’s with us now, you know." Tommy nodded self-assuredly, glancing between Quackity and Techno.

Techno just nodded, making a noise half agreement half dismissive.

"I'll be in the--" Techno started before Tommy interrupted him, fisting a hand in Techno's cape.

"He needs a room to stay in! We don't have enough, we're going to have to share. I was thinking he could stay with Wilbur but he's a little uh..." Tommy trailed off, scratched at his chin before gesturing vaguely. "You know?" 

"I know." Techno sighed, turning to face them. "He can stay with me."

"No that's-- that's not necessary, I can just-- I wouldn't want to inconvenience you--" Quackity started, praying the panic in his tone wasn't too noticeable.

Techno just gave him a leering smile, too much teeth and tusk to be considered anything other than threatening before Tommy smacked him.

"Quit messing with Big Q, he's an ally now, alright?" Tommy said, biting down on a laugh. 

Techno snorted before shoving him in retaliation for the smack and Quackity backed away quickly before he got dragged into the rough-housing.

Finally, Techno ended it, sitting on Tommy's back effectively pinning him to the ground. Tommy flailed wildly before whining out a childish 'uncle', and Techno released him. Tommy got one last jab in before sprinting off deeper into the ravine, laughter echoing off of the walls. 

Quackity wished he hadn't left, the stale air suffocating as Techno eyed him. 

"You like what you see?" Quackity blurted out, before slapping a hand over his mouth. "Sorry-- I didn't-- that was an accident I didn't mean to say that, sorry." 

Techno just raised an eyebrow at him, and Quackity just knew he was laughing at him, on the inside at least.

Techno gestured in front of him, a silent request to start walking.

Techno followed close behind, managing to avoid stepping on his heels but still unbearably close. His hand was resting loosely on his sword, did he really expect Quackity to attack him here? In his base, all by himself?

Before he could think more about Techno's paranoid tendencies, like the fact that Techno hadn't turned his back to him once, they stopped at a simple wooden door.

The wood was pockmarked with arrow holes, centering around a makeshift bullseye on the door. Above the bullseye was a crude drawing of Techno, Techno's name carved into the door above it.

"Tommy decorated." Techno deadpanned, gesturing vaguely at the door's decorations. 

Quackity just nodded mutely, following Techno into his room.

The difference between the rest of the ravine and Techno's room was jarring, to say the least.

The floors were meticulously clean, a broom propped up in the corner. 

Everything was shoved to one side, except for the sole bed that was lodged in the far corner, the perfect vantage point to see the door and every part of the room. 

There weren't any nooks or crannies to hide in, everything flush against the wall and on ground level, too short to hide behind.

Every corner of the room was lit up, no shadows to lurk in, no area left in the dark. 

Techno's bed was frameless, mattress box directly on the floor. He wanted to make a teasing remark about being scared of the monsters under your bed but he swallowed it, all the details clicking into place.

Maybe it wasn't monsters but considering everything else, Techno must have considered the space under his bed a security risk. Part of him wanted to poke fun at his paranoia but another part just felt... Sad. 

Did Techno relax? Ever? He couldn't imagine what it must be like, constantly keeping your guard up.

Even now Techno had positioned himself with clear access to the door, and with Quackity at hand’s reach. Well, more accurately, at sword's reach.

Quackity cleared his throat, trying to interrupt the uncomfortable silence they'd settled into. Techno had just quietly watched him look around, and Quackity desperately wished he knew what he was thinking about. His face was as blank and impassive as always.

Finally, Techno spoke.

"Do I need to feed you?" Techno was eyeing him up again, as if he'd be able to tell if he was hungry or not just from looking.

"Uh-- well, I'm a little hungry, but if it's too much trouble don't worry about it, I'll be fine!" Quackity squeaked when Techno abruptly moved forward, hands curling around his shoulders as he nudged him back into a sitting position on a chest.

One of Techno's hands moved from his shoulder to his jaw, forcing his head back slightly.

This was it, Quackity thought, This is where he rips my throat out.

Instead of ripping his throat out, Techno made direct eye contact with him, which was, in Quackity's humble opinion, objectively worse.

Techno broke eye contact first, mouth opening like he was going to say something before his eyes caught on a shallow cut at the base of Quackity's neck.

He'd gotten it on the way to Pogtopia, a skeleton getting a lucky shot on him from the shadows. Thankfully it had barely nicked him, and he hadn't bothered patching it up.

Techno leaned closer to it, forcing Quackity's head farther back, his other hand moving to lightly thumb at it.

Quackity's heart kicked into overdrive, because hey, what the fuck, Technoblade had his sharp ass teeth inches away from his jugular, but he didn't move.��

After another uncomfortably long pause Quackity finally mustered up the courage to speak.

"Am I dying, Doc?" He blurted, twisting his head to try and see Techno's expression.

"Huh? Oh, no. You have a heart shaped mole on your neck." Techno huffed a laugh, warm breath ghosting across his neck and Quackity hadn't realized before how fucking cold it was in the ravine.

Techno moved away after that, and Quackity could breathe easier now that he was less worried about dying. 

Techno still hovered close, though, nearly nose to nose and without thinking Quackity spoke.

"Are we going to kiss?" He mentally slapped himself afterward, but Techno let out a loud snorting laugh as he moved away more. Quackity was slightly proud he'd gotten a genuine laugh from the man but was still absolutely mortified.

As Techno moved away from him to dig in a chest, Quackity mourned the loss of Techno's warmth. He wondered if it had something to do with being half piglin, or if he always naturally ran hot.

Irrationally, Quackity worried that he had a fever, before squashing that down because the piglin theory made a lot more sense than the Great Technoblade catching a cold.

Techno moved around the room quickly, plucking two bowls out of a chest and giving him a look that silently screamed stay there, before he left the room.

He was back minutes later, and he handed Quackity one of the bowls of soup.

Techno plopped on to the floor and without thinking Quackity slipped down to join him. Techno side eyed him, but rested his back against a chest and started eating.

Quackity ate quickly, the food burning his tongue, and if you asked him he'd have no idea what was in it. When he was finished he carefully placed the bowl next to him, and Techno eyed him expectantly.

"More?" Was all he said, and when Quackity shook his head, a muttered no thanks following, Techno shoved bread at him anyways.

"You don't have to eat it now, but it should stay good for a bit. If you want to keep it on you." Techno went back to his soup, expression once again impassive.

Quackity scooped the bread up, tucking it away into one of his bags. He wondered what made Techno give him extra, if worrying about where your next meal would come from was as inherent to him as it was to himself. 

--

Techno lay on his back, eyes closed and breathing even. He doubted Quackity would be able to tell if he was actually awake or not, but he also didn’t have a very good read on Quackity. It was the main reason he’d offered up his room to him, he wasn’t sure what Quackity was capable of so the closer to him the better. 

He didn't know if Quackity could hold his own in a fight, and what if they were invaded in the night? He’d rather be there to protect their weakest link than leave it to the hands of Wilbur or, God forbid, Tommy. Tommy was an adept fighter, sure, but he still hadn’t quite grasped defense over offense, something that would leave Quackity vulnerable.

On the flipside, what if Quackity was a spy? It’d be a lot more difficult to snoop around if Techno was there to watch over him. He was a light sleeper, and his door creaked louder than the others, something he’d never bothered to fix considering it alerted him whenever anyone entered or left. 

Quackity also wasn’t known for being particularly quiet, either. Techno was sure that if anything happened when he was asleep, Quackity’s loud panicking would wake him up instantly.

Speaking of his inability to be quiet, Techno listened to him roll over and shift again, his uncomfortable shuffling capturing Techno’s attention in the relative silence of the room. Techno tilted his head, looking at Quackity. He was curled up on the floor, on a thin mat that Tommy had produced from God knows where. He had the blanket stuffed around himself, shivering slightly. Techno hadn’t realized it had been that cold, his back was pressed against the wall behind him that was unnaturally warm due to the lava pool on the other side of it. 

“Quackity?” Techno said into the quiet of the room, voice hushed.

“Uh, yeah? What’s up?” Quackity’s voice was high pitched, a nervous titter to it. “Was I bothering you? I can leave--”

He’d moved to a sitting position as he spoke, his shoulders tense and looking ready to bolt. 

Techno sighed. Quackity being afraid of him was fun, but also very inconvenient. He gestured at Quackity, beckoning him closer.

Quackity shakily got to his feet, muttering under his breath, this is it, this is the end, this is where he kills me, curse my poor circulation, why do I get cold so easily. 

Quackity stopped next to the bed, and Techno lifted up the blanket with one hand and patted the bed next to him with the other. 

He stared blankly back at him, looking between the spot next to him and his face, expression quizzical. 

“Sleep with me,” Techno huffed, impatient.

“Woah, woah, woah, you seem like a really nice guy but c'mon isn’t this a bit--” Quackity stuttered, looking genuinely surprised and vaguely amused.

At least he doesn’t look afraid, Techno thought absently.

“Not like that. If you’re cold we can share, the bed’s big enough for the both of us.”

Quackity studied him again, rocking back and forth on his heels before letting out a sigh and shrug in the personification of fuck it, and slipping into the bed next to Technoblade.

Techno studied Quackity, frowning before scooting closer.

“Climb over me, the wall gives off heat. You’ll be warmer over there.” 

After a bit of fumbling and a push from Techno that was more of a drag, Quackity ended up on his other side. 

Techno squinted at him again, before dragging Quackity back into his chest. Quackity huffed, offended that Techno could manhandle him so easily. He wasn’t tiny, it was unfair how strong Techno was.  

Techno’s arms wrapped loosely around him, he hooked his head over his shoulder.

“Aw, I didn’t take you as the cuddling type,” Quackity teased, pressing his cold feet against whatever part of Techno they could reach.

Techno huffed again, and Quackity wondered how many emotions he could express with just a huff. 

“It’s not cuddling.” Techno readjusted his arms, absently rubbing warmth back into Quackity’s cold fingers, “It’s a tactical advantage.”

“Oh? Well, sorry to say, buddy, but your tactical advantage is crushing my wings.”

“Wings?” Techno echoed, abruptly pulling away. Quackity’s face scrunched in displeasure at the rush of cold air that met his back as Techno sat up to look down at him.

Quackity sat up too, unzipping his jacket. Techno eyed him warily for a second, before impatiently tugging at his jacket, trying to lean around him to get a look. A wing hit him in the face then, fluttering slightly before folding back against Quackity’s back. Quackity squeaked, looking terrified but desperately trying to hold back laughter.

“You need to groom your wings,” Techno finally said, after Quackity’s laughter faded.

“Hey, hey, you don’t just comment on a man’s wings!” Quackity’s voice pitched upwards, defensive as he crossed his arms and his wings puffed up slightly, only accentuating the issue. They were small, smaller than Philza’s certainly, and Techno doubted that Quackity could actually get any air time from them. 

They were kind of cute though, Techno thought. Objectively, of course.

“What if I spoon you--” Quackity started, only to be cut off by a petulant Technoblade.

“It wasn’t spooning. It was tactical. If someone came in here and saw me, they’d likely leave you alone. I doubt you made any friends when you defected from Manberg, and you’re kind of an easy target.” As if to accentuate his point he gestured vaguely at, well, all of Quackity, and Quackity’s wings puffed out again, expressive now that they weren’t trapped under a jacket.

“I resent that,” Quackity said in response, sticking his tongue out at him. 

“Alrighty, if you want a tactical advantage what if we hit 'em with one of these--” Quackity abruptly flopped across Techno, throwing an arm across his chest. Without thinking Techno’s arm came up, catching him across the throat and shoving him backwards against the wall.

“Sorry-- I didn’t mean that, sorry.” Techno pulled away quickly, straightening Quackity’s shirt and fixing his hair, hands dancing nervously across his chest.

“It’s alright,” Quackity rasped. “You’re a bit jumpy, that’s fine, we can work with that.”

Quackity waved away Techno’s mother henning, before slowly lowering himself against Techno’s side. 

“This alright?” He murmured, moving so he was laying across Techno’s chest, head on his collarbone. 

Techno curled an arm around Quackity’s waist in lieu of a response, careful to avoid his wings.

Quackity opened his mouth to comment on it, but Techno beat him to the punch.

“This isn’t cuddling. It’s a tactical advantage. Now you can’t sneak away without me knowing, how do we know that you aren’t a spy? I don’t know if I can trust you, yet.”

“You don’t trust me, buddy? We’re literally snuggling in your bed.” Quackity snorted.

“It’s not snuggling, it's a--”

“Tactical advantage, right, I know.” 

“Anyways, I know I could take you in a fight. You aren’t a threat to me.” Techno continued, as if Quackity hadn’t said anything. 

“You don’t know that--” Quackity started before Techno moved to make eye contact with him, a single eyebrow raised. “Ok, you’re probably right, but I think I could get, like, one lucky shot in, you know?”

“Sure,” Techno said dismissively, patting Quackity’s hip placatingly. His hand moved to rubbing up and down Quackity’s back and Quackity realized how tired he was. It’d been a long day, with a lot of running and the fighting with Schlatt took a lot out of him. 

Schlatt.

He was sure the man had already forgotten about him, labelled him a traitor and a coward, but Quackity couldn’t stop thinking. He tried to focus on Techno’s steady breathing, to ignore the rising memories from his earlier fight, but it was too much. He finally felt like he could think again, wasn’t panicking or in survival mode. Had he done the right thing? Had he made the right choice? 

He was pulled out of his thoughts by a sharp tug to one of his feathers.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Techno murmured, smoothing the ruffled feathers back into place. “I’ll protect you from whatever’s got you all flustered, just go to sleep.”

Quackity huffed, but buried his face into Techno’s neck anyways, curling their legs together.

“Fine. Didn’t realize Grandpa had such an early bedtime,” Quackity mocked, earning him another warning tug on his feathers. He smothered his snort against Techno, before sighing out a quiet good night.

Techno just hummed, eyelids growing heavy, surprised that he was comfortable enough to sleep.

[falling-pages]

I know about you: Tamakyo

These boys need to feel some happiness and I'll be darned if I'm not the one giving it to them. This is just Kyoya finally getting his well-deserved cuddles.

-

The gang is on the run from people who wish them dead, Tamaki starts seeing things, and Kyoya learns to let himself be taken care of.

-

"Kyoya pressed a kiss to his neck to thank him. Thanking him for saving him, for helping him, for making life worth living all over again and again and again every time he smiled."

-

Tamaki Suoh x Kyoya Ootori

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: Mentions of riots, evacuation, similar themes.

-

-

Tamaki shuffled in the darkness, groaning when he felt the empty space next to him. The sleeping bag was still warm without a certain Shadow King, but he would have preferred clinging to his boyfriend’s body over all the extra space. Kyoya knew Tamaki couldn’t sleep without tangling him in his arms.

So if Kyoya were missing, that led to two theories: he was in danger, or he was sitting by the fire.

Tamaki sat up and stretched, hand smacking against the knife handle on his left. The first theory canceled itself out simply by the fact of his own presence. If some wild thing had taken and eaten Kyoya, he would have been taken, too. He had never heard of a predator picking and choosing a meal when there was a whole buffet of tents to feast upon. Plus, they had a guard dog in Mori, whose razor-sharp senses had been keeping them all in line so far.

They all had survived so far just by sheer luck and Mori’s instincts, and he hoped that luck wouldn’t end the moment he stepped out of the tent.

Something rustled. A shadow moved in front of the crackling fire, long and tall and bespectacled--

Theory number two, proven.

Tamaki laid back down and folded his hands together, propping his head against his interwoven fingers behind him. He watched as the figure paced in circles around the fire, torso bent at an angle, posture tight and rigid. Waiting for Kyoya to finish, Tamaki turned back onto his side, pretending to go to sleep until his love returned to his arms.

Except, he didn’t. Kyoya sat on a log and bent forward, cradling his head in his hands.

It was odd, seeing him like this. He had a habit of staying up late, yes, but once he went to bed he stayed knocked out until the noontime sun shook him awake.

A streak of worry coursed through Tamaki’s veins, and he wondered if it even were Kyoya sitting out there, or if it were an imposter, a traitor, infiltrating their camp.

He grabbed the knife and crawled out of the sleeping bag, pausing at the edge of the tent. It was half-way unzipped, and through the transparent orange cloth, Tamaki confirmed it was his love who sat dejected and alone just a few feet away--his posture was unlike him, but he was wearing Tamaki’s shirt, and the leather straps from his necklace rode along his neck.

“Kyo?” he whispered, setting the knife off to the side. His voice kept its softness, even with the dehydration. He would do anything to dunk his head beneath a creek’s tide and gulp, despite Mori’s warning insurrectionists likely poisoned all the local watering holes.

Kyoya fidgeted, not sitting still for the first time in his life. It was good enough of an invitation, so Tamaki stood, dusted his hands, and joined him on the log.

“Please come back to sleep,” Tamaki mumbled. “The sleeping bag is cold without you.”

Kyoya smirked, finally looking up at him beneath his thin wire rims. That smirk detailed it was a lie, they both knew Tamaki’s body heat was enough for both of them, especially in such a tight, confined space.

But in the firelight, that smirk twisted into a grimace, highlighting the tears welling behind Kyoya’s eyes, and Tamaki reached out and grabbed him, sinking onto the log and pulling him against his chest, rubbing circles up and down his shivering back until the racking sobs and moans reduced to sniffles.

In his shock, Tamaki could only whisper words of comfort and press kisses into his hair. Above it, though, he knew that Kyoya only needed to hold him--that if he could feel his love, that would help quell the sea of anxiety and fear tormenting his soul.

Kyoya clutched Tamaki’s shoulders, kneading his fingers in and out of the seams of his shirt. He had been his anchor since the day he had arrived in Japan, with his cheery voice and chipper eyes and light-filled soul. Together they were a tangle of heartache and wishes, hope and regret, two young men in love thrown into a world that had once coddled them, now trying to kill them.

Their only hope of survival was each other.

“You know, Kyoya, I’ve been thinking,” Tamaki mused, “and since the rioting, the wanting to eat the rich and all that...since they’ve destroyed our property, I suppose we aren’t rich anymore! We should be safe!”

And just like that, the moment broke.

Kyoya didn’t know if he were supposed to laugh or scoff, but after a moment for his brain to process the statement, he let out a mix of both. Tamaki was famous for his fanciful ideas, but this stretched even the definition of fanciful.

“We are the heirs of some of the richest corporations in all of Asia,” Kyoya replied with a sneer. The teardrops dried on his cheeks. “The insurrectionists are not going to just forget what we look like.”

“They might! Put you in contacts, give Mori-senpai a wig, put the little devils in dresses and give Renge a moustache, we’ll be fine!”

Kyoya couldn’t help but laugh at that, a real laugh, and bury his head back into his boyfriend’s chest. He inhaled that distinct Tamaki smell, expensive cologne long forgotten in their evacuation, that persisted despite the sweat and dirt of a week of hiding and travelling in the forest. It pulsated from his soft skin, and Kyoya pressed a kiss to his neck to thank him. Thanking him for saving him, for helping him, for making life worth living all over again and again and again every time he smiled.

But as their laughter faded, the stench of their situation landed back into Kyoya’s mind, souring his mood. They were on the run from a burning society, and with the next safe colony still so far away, the doubts kept him awake.

“Be serious with me, Tamaki,” Kyoya griped. “Do you really have any hope any of us will make it out alive?”

Tamaki’s smile faded as he searched his boyfriend’s face, looking for the anchor and solidity he knew was there. He knew it was there. But it was hidden beneath that stern exterior, a mask of iron inherited from his father, a trait Tamaki had worked so hard with Kyoya to shatter. But in that seriousity was realism, the sobriety to Tamaki’s joviality, and he knew he finally had to face the music.

“I don’t know,” he replied, to which Kyoya scoffed.

But then Tamaki took his hand and spread every finger, admiring the way the skin stretched around each long, bony digit, how evenly polished and clean each nail was, even in the middle of the woods, how miraculous it was that each tendon could connect to bone that could connect to muscle that could be controlled by the brain, especially a brain as terrifyingly wonderful as Kyoya’s. How every part of him was beautiful, sacred, worthy. How he wished he could fill each insecure crack and crevice with his love and reassurances.

He brought that hand to his lips and kissed every knuckle, gently, like a butterfly landing on a rock. He kept his head bowed but heard the quiet sound Kyoya let out, a sound in between surprise and contentment.

“I don’t know about all of us,” Tamaki continued, “but I know about you.”

Kyoya jutted out his lower lip, unsure of how to respond amidst the tidal wave of emotion ravaging his soul. Tamaki folded his hands around Kyoya’s kissed one, like a protective shelter.

“The others are my family, and I love them dearly, but you are my priority,” he said. “I would do anything to make sure you get to the Akaishi Mountains. If my mother were here, I would ask her to pray. If Nekozawa were here, I would ask him to appeal to every spirit he knows. If I could I would sell my own soul to ensure your safe passage.”

“Tamaki--”

Tamaki lifted his face to Kyoya’s, clenching his jaw with such a chromatic force he could have chipped a tooth. “I love you more than anything, and I will do anything in my power or out of it to save you.”

A log in the fire snapped, but neither man noticed. All was silent in the air except for the promise, heavy and saturated and sinking in the air. They were going to make it. They had to.

“Come back to bed with me, yes?” Tamaki whispered, a yawn snatching the end of his sentence. His arm floated back down around Kyoya’s shoulders, rubbing warmth into them. Coaxing, prodding, as gentle as he ever was.

With the butterfly kisses smattered across his cheeks to accompany the plea, how could Kyoya refuse?

Something tight rolled in his chest, reverberating with every beat of his heart. He was always the one to take care of everyone else, protecting them through influence and power, his family’s money or private army. And yet here they were, all of them, on the run from those who wish them dead because of him--with Tamaki cooing and cradling him, taking care of him for once. Like he deserved it, like it was his reward for all the scamming, scheming and choking business deals he had performed.

So he let Tamaki propel him upwards, pulling him up into the night sky, where dozens of stars saw fit to smile on them as they lumbered back to the tent. Once inside, Tamaki gently laid him down inside the sleeping bag, secured the tent, and crawled in next to him, blowing air onto his chilly fingers. Kyoya allowed him, detaching the lock around his heart and throwing it into the forest beyond.

Tamaki hummed as he warmed the Shadow King, pausing only when Kyoya lifted his head from his chest to press a kiss against his chapped lips. It was so gentle, and rarely did Kyoya initiate affection, that Tamaki nearly cried from the happy blooms snaking through his body.

“Thanks,” Kyoya whispered, laying his head back down on Tamaki’s chest, syncing his breathing.

“Let me take care of you, baby,” Tamaki whispered, kissing Kyoya’s forehead. “I swear I will.”

-

[imgoingtocrash]

I Want to Go

by @imgoingtocrash for @slothbeans

Rating: G

Word Count: 5,179

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker (mentioned), Pepper Potts/Tony Stark (mentioned), Peter Parker & Pepper Potts & Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe) & Tony Stark (mentioned), Ben Parker & Peter Parker & Tony Stark (mentioned)

Summary:

““There he is.”

It’s Tony. Anthony Edward Stark. Mister Stark. His Mister Stark, his mentor, his friend, his could-have-been father figure if only they had more time together, if Peter hadn’t wasted it, if Tony hadn’t—

Not-dead Tony whirls around on a rolling stool, his arms propped against his knees. Peter can’t move his eyes off of the man in front of him, but he knows the space well enough to recognize where he is: the lab. Tony’s old lab at the Avengers Compound. The lab that doesn’t exist anymore. It was obliterated in the battle with Thanos and replaced with a new one that only Bruce, Doctor Cho, and Peter himself seemed to get any use out of.

This is the Tony he never got to know, inhabiting the familiar space.”

Tony Stark becomes a guardian angel after his death, and his task is watching out for Peter. After a harried run-in with the Green Goblin leaves Peter on the brink between life and death, Tony and Peter get the chance to talk about Peter's recent less-than-stellar life choices that led him to this point.

Read on Ao3

My gift for the second @friendly-neighborhood-exchange​​! I hope you enjoy it! Full fic also under the cut as requested by the exchange!

Peter really should have expected something like this to happen.

There are a lot of sayings about it: burning the candle at both ends, biting off more than you can chew, too many irons in the fire…he’s got melted wax all over a heaping plate of food and—okay,  yep, this metaphor is going nowhere.

He’s a disaster lately, is what he’s getting at. And proving it by using too many turns of phrase at the same time in his head when it doesn’t really matter.

What even is his head, right now?

He doesn’t remember falling. Getting the tar kicked out of him…well, it’s more likely, but he still doesn’t actually remember it.

Everything is hazy. It’s like looking into his camera when the lens is unfocused. And everything is bright—oversensitive to his already wonky spider-senses, bright.

Is that a concussion symptom? He can’t remember that either.

“Karen?” he tries, but it comes out as a bit of a slur. The AI doesn’t respond, so he tries again. “Kare-bear, you up?”

Then he realizes his vision is certainly not being obscured by the lenses of his mask. He’s not wearing it.

Moving doesn’t hurt like he thought it would. He expected that gut-bombing feeling that comes with nausea, a pull of muscle against his spine or ribs, maybe the feeling of blood trickling down after a bullet or knife pierced something it shouldn’t have.

Instead it’s—fine. The blur of his vision clears as soon as he sits up and he’s…on the floor.

More senses come back with his eyes. The floor underneath him is cold. There’s a smell of oil and something just slightly burnt in the air, flaring his nostrils.

He’s not in an embarrassing dream where he’s naked, at least. He’s clothed in…no, that can’t be right. He hasn’t worn Tony’s old MIT sweatshirt in years. Not since…

“There he is.”

It’s Tony. Anthony Edward Stark. Mister Stark. His Mister Stark, his mentor, his friend, his could-have-been father figure if only they had more time together, if Peter hadn’t wasted it, if Tony hadn’t—

Not-dead Tony whirls around on a rolling stool, his arms propped against his knees. Peter can’t move his eyes off of the man in front of him, but he knows the space well enough to recognize where he is: the lab. Tony’s old lab at the Avengers Compound. The lab that doesn’t exist anymore. It was obliterated in the battle with Thanos and replaced with a new one that only Bruce, Doctor Cho, and Peter himself seemed to get any use out of.

This is the Tony he never got to know, inhabiting the familiar space.

The older man is wearing dark jeans and t-shirt color expertly matched with the grey cardigan that completes the outfit. It’s a warm ensemble. It’s like the picture he always finds himself looking at when he visits the Stark cabin: Tony and Pepper on a hospital bed, exhausted but holding their new baby girl like she’s the only thing in the world.

Welcoming.

Loving.

Soft.

He wanted that Tony too. He wanted Tony back in any form most days, period.

Tony watches Peter examine him head to toe before continuing to speak.

“I’ve never done this before. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to wake you up or not. And not that I don’t love you, kiddo, but I’m more of a hugger than a Prince Charming type.”

Tony had hugged him. In the middle of a battle to save the universe, Tony took those ten seconds and hugged him and maybe if he hadn’t there would have been more time, another way, anything but watching Tony’s light go out.

“I am so glad Morgan’s finally growing out of her Disney Princesses phase, by the way. Aren’t you?” Tony says, like it’s just another Tuesday instead of whatever day of the week it is where Peter’s seeing things and losing his goddamn mind.

“Not that her running around screaming The Next Right Thing wasn’t cute and all. It’s just like—we all have our limits and I reached mine two Disneyland vacations ago."

Tony tilts his head.

“If you and MJ ever have kids, though.” Tony whistles. “Ben’s told me stories about your obsession with Kidz Bop songs. I hate to say it, but I think you two are in for it worse than Pepper and I ever were. I mean, at least Morgan has taste.”

“Mister—Tony, I—Ben—what?”

“Oh. Yeah, shit, sorry to spring all of that on you at once. I get carried away, you know me. Here, take your seat. We have time.”

Tony rolls over the other stool with his foot, patting the leather in invitation.

Peter keeps staring.

Tony gives a put-upon sigh. “Alright, let’s get this out of the way, then. No, I’m not one of Beck’s illusions, or one of Doctor Ocavious’ serums, or—what other reality-bending bad guys have you messed with lately. Did I cover them all yet?”

“Chameleon.”

“Oh, right, yeah. He had the gall to impersonate me and Michelle. That was rough on you, I’m sure.” Tony scratches his beard. “Though your last toss up certainly wasn’t better, considering.”

“Considering?” Peter asks. Curiosity has always been his problem. Right next to talking too much, which he’s currently doing very well with.

“One thing at a time, web-head. We’re certainly going to get to that.”

“That’s a new one.”

“Hm?”

“A new nickname. For me.”

“Huh.” Tony smiles to himself. “Guess so. Nice. I really thought I’d run the gamut. You know, that fire kid pisses me off to no end, but he’s really creative with the names. Makes me really aspirational about your generation.”

“How do you know Johnny?“ Peter shakes his head. Just another thing that needs explaining. “I think I’d really like to know what’s going on now, Mister Stark.”

“Fair enough. Alright, J, let’s get metaphysical.”

“Certainly, sir,” a prim, robotic voice replies.

With a resounding clap of Tony’s hands, the room descends into darkness before a set of holograms lights up around them, depicting a map of stars that expands around their heads.

“Let’s start with the facts: some people were right and some people were wrong. I wasn’t ever a very religious guy, but that doesn’t matter so much. All I know is that this is…whatever you want to call the afterlife part. The end after the end. What comes next, and so on. Well, an extension of it. Specifically from me to you.”

“How does that work?”

Tony snorts. “That, kiddo, is one of the few things I don’t know. There’s less all-knowing after death than I thought there’d be. Thor’s people have some theories—they call it Valhalla, theorize about their god-types—but I’ve yet to meet any kind of Grand Poobah as of yet.”

“But you did. Die, I mean.”

“Yeah, I did.” Tony sighs, placing a hand on Peter’s knee. “It was a tough choice, sacrificing myself. Strange thought it was the only one and I…” He swallows. “I would have done anything it took to make sure that you and everyone else in the universe got to live. So I made that call. And I accepted that it meant I would be out of the picture for the foreseeable future.”

There are a lot of things Peter wants to say, but doesn’t. I wish you hadn’t. We weren’t worth it. I’m not worth it.

Tony clears his throat, trying to breathe levity back into the atmosphere.

“But apparently, while we’re all here waiting for the rest of our loved ones to join in…we get perks.” Tony gestures to the room around them, an exact replica down to DUM-E and U rolling around in the corners instead of where they’re currently sitting in Tony’s dusty garage.

“It turns out the end isn’t totally the end. We get to watch and wait in style—go to old haunts, see old friends and family. Sometimes lend a hand, push away a bullet or two.” He nudges Peter’s shoulder on that one. “Specifically, I was offered the very coveted position of being the spiritual watchdog for a very special Spiderling.”

“So you’ve been watching,” Peter summates. “That’s how you know about—about Morgan and Johnny and everything that’s happened since you’ve been gone.”

Tony nods. “Your Uncle Ben had the job first. Maybe he took turns with your parents, I never asked. But what I do know is that you made that excellently unflappable man…well, stressed out to no end. We can only do so much from here, and you were throwing yourself headfirst into danger every other day. Before I entered the picture as your mentor, he was worried you’d join him sooner rather than later.”

Peter looks down at his lap, guilty. He can’t deny it—after Ben’s death, Peter was determined to use his powers for good instead of flipping around the streets entertaining himself as he pleased. That meant wearing himself thin on sleep, skipping classes, and being a little less careful about avoiding rather than attacking. Every robber from bank to bike thief got their punishment. Knife wounds didn’t matter, turning his skin black and blue didn’t either. Guns, he was particularly unforgiving about.

He had already faced what he thought was the worst trauma of his life at that point. He could afford an injury or two, and May was so blindsided with grief that she let him get away with leaving blood on the bathroom sink from doing his own stitches or waking up with a black eye for long enough that he got better at covering it up.

How could he have ever considered that Ben would be watching? He doesn’t want to think about all of the scrapes Tony’s now seen him get into.

“When I came up here…well, he and Nat were my welcoming party. Those two get along like old drinking buddies, actually. Weirds me out.” Tony scrunches his nose in what is likely false distaste.

He softens, though, moving his hand from Peter’s knee to cup his cheek. It’s something Tony’s never done, but Peter feels like he’s melting. Tony’s skin is warm. His fingers are still just a little callused and scarred.

Tony must get the impression that he doesn’t like it, but before he can move away, Peter traps his hand there, bristling his smooth fingers against the still-present wrinkles of Tony's skin.

Would Ben still look exactly as Peter last remembers him? Dressed in a button down with that stupid Giants baseball cap that’s still buried in a box somewhere at May’s place? Would he be fully grey now, or would it still be that salt-and-peppering brown? Does he need his glasses here?

“He’s so proud of you. Seriously, Pete, hearing him talk about you…well, he sounds like me. Just a couple of old saps between the two of us, I guess.”

Tony is smiling, but Peter wants to see it, he wants to hear it. He wants Ben and he wants to keep Tony here and never let him go again.

Tony swipes a fallen tear from Peter’s cheek with his thumb.

“He knew I wasn’t really…satisfied with how we left things. I spent five years missing you and all I got was a hug before I…” Tony clears his throat, looking away uncomfortably.

All this time and the first snap still haunts Tony. All this time, and Peter still dreams of ash.

“He offered to look after Morgan for me instead, considering it’s a bit of an easier job. I’m hoping he can coast on easy mode until she hits her teen years.”

“I still get to see her, too—and Pepper. God, all of you in the same room at Christmas is just—“ He shakes his head reverently. “That’s my day. My perfect day. I never thought.”

“She misses you,” Peter says. He doesn’t want to be mad at Tony, but sometimes he is, and he knows that Morgan is getting old enough to forget more about her dad than she remembers. He tries to tell stories, tries to explain pictures and videos but it’s just…not the same. It’s not enough. It’s not what she deserves.

“I know. I miss her too. I can watch you guys all day, but talking to you,“ Tony shakes Peter’s shoulder. “Touching you…there’s no replacement for it. I’m watching her grow up, but I don’t get to be a part of it like I used to. It just—sucks.”

Tony sighs again, but seems to rejuvenate with it, clapping and turning the lights of the lab back on.

“But that’s not important right now. We’re here because of you.”

“Me? What—?”

“Don’t what me, Pete. The only reason you’re here with me right now is because you’re close enough to death. Your body is in a hospital bed in the compound because you were reckless, and I brought your mind here to snap you out of it before you take the final step to this side of the spiritual plane!”

It seems otherworldly, the idea of his body currently being separated from his mind. Supernatural. Definitely something he’d usually associate with Doctor Strange.

As for his possible death...he doesn’t remember it. His more recent memories seem lost in a fog, and the welcoming warmth of this place makes the loss of them feel a lot less important.

“You’ve been—god, you’ve been beating yourself up for months. Ever since Gwen Stacy died—“

“Don’t.” Peter swallows back a sudden lump in his throat. “Please, don’t.”

“You’ve been running from it for months.” Tony replies. “Peter, you’ve been running from your life for months. You broke up with Michelle when I know for a fact that you have a ring made for her in your underwear drawer, you let things fall out with Harry when you never blamed him for everything that happened with his father, you don’t go see Pepper and Morgan anymore—“

“Because they’re not safe!” Peter finds himself standing, suddenly, string-tense and angry.

Tony doesn’t look surprised at the outburst, just sad.

“Don’t you get it?! No one is safe around me! It doesn’t matter if they’re heroes or civilians! It’s my fault that Gwen died! It’s my fault that you—” Peter shakes his head. “I can’t let that happen to anyone else. I won’t.”

“Peter, it is not your fault that I used the infinity stones.”

Peter stares at the ground and thinks about all of the ways he could have changed what happened during the battle with Thanos. He could have made that sacrifice instead. Anyone else on the battlefield could have. Some of them had the power to do it and survive. But it was Tony that came up with the idea to build a gauntlet of his own into his suit, Tony that made that choice with exactly one thing on his mind.

“Pepper told me about the picture. She said that you’d spent all those years caring about me, that you only considered time travel because of me. That makes it my fault.”

“No,” Tony insists. “It was my choice. That’s it. You were an influence, yes, but not the only one. I wanted a better world for my entire family—I did it Morgan and Pepper too. I wanted the rest of the world to have their families back because I finally realized how much I treasured my own. You are not to blame for my decisions. Period.”

“That doesn’t change what happened with Gwen! With Doctor Octavious! With Beck!”

He doesn’t let Tony interrupt again.

“Every time I try and do the right thing, bad stuff happens to the people I care about. So I cut them all away and according to you, I still ended up almost dead.”

“That was the Green Goblin’s fault. He escaped the Raft and went on a revenge-fueled rampage against you. You were overwhelmed. If you had help—”

“I don’t want help!” Peter shouts. Tony is always trying to fix Peter’s problems, a habit Peter knows he shares from his attempts to constantly fix New York. Tony just can’t fix Peter—who he is, what his life does to the people he loves. It’s never going to stop. Peter’s never going to stop. Not while he’s alive and has the means to keep trying.

“Then what do you want?” Tony asks, standing up himself and taking Peter’s shoulder in his hand. “I just want to make things better, buddy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Tell me what I can do.”

Peter looks at Tony, thinking of all the mistakes he could have helped correct, every missed birthday and holiday.

“I want to stay here.”

There’s a clear beat of silence. Tony’s face morphs from empathetic softness to a hardened frown.

“Peter, no—“

“Yes! Out there I can’t stop myself from—ruining my life all the time, no matter what I do. I can’t be Spider-Man the way everyone wants me to, I can’t be Peter Parker because I am Spider-Man, and everyone is looking at me to lead Stark Industries when I don’t even work there anymore!”

Working at SI had been what he thought he was supposed to do. Go to MIT. Graduate. Work for Pepper. Fulfill the legacy. Make Tony proud. Make everyone proud. Be the smartest and Spider-Man and a good boyfriend all at the same time.

But then Gwen died and he was already struggling to fill his mentor’s shoes and he’d just—surrendered to the part of himself that always doubted, that could never reconcile Tony’s belief in him and the way he often saw himself.

“Here I could be with you and Ben and my parents,” Peter reasons. “Tony, I lost them when I was five! I could finally see them again—“

Peter grabs for Tony in an attempt to reason with him, but Tony shakes it off.

“Peter, this was supposed to be a mission to make you snap out of it. You’re teetering between dead and alive right now and you need to go back.”

“No, please,” Peter begs. “Please, Mister Stark, please. I want to go. I want to go with you. I don’t want to leave you again. Ever since you died everything’s been—everything just keeps going wrong. Maybe this is a sign. I can never make the right choices, maybe it’s time for me to—“

“No.” Tony is looking down at him, like Peter is fifteen and naive and the world would be so much simpler if only Peter would listen to Tony.

“Don’t you dare try to act like your life out there doesn’t matter, like this is the better option.” Tony shakes his head back and forth. “The point of this place is to be after your life. I know that you’ve been through a lot already, but you’re not done yet. You’re not.”

Peter buries himself into Tony’s chest, desperate. He grew taller in the last few years but here in this lab, in this place that doesn’t exist, he is the boy Tony remembers, the boy he misses getting to be.

“Please.”

“I’m sorry.” Tony echoes Peter’s last words on Titan, and he knows it, he must, to still be so affected by losing Peter in the first place. He keeps Peter encased in his arms, rubbing his back over and over in a soothing gesture.

“I’m sorry things have been so hard without me. I’m sorry that you’ve missed me so much, and that I can’t be there. I’m sorry that the only way I could figure out to save the world didn’t include saving myself.”

Tony pulls away slightly, enough so that he can catch Peter’s watery gaze.

“But Peter, that is no excuse to think your life should be over. You know I have always encouraged you to be more selfish. I spent so long telling you to go after the things you wanted—the parts of a normal life that you deserve—because you are an incredible, empathic, intelligent kid. But for once I am begging you to think about other people. You have responsibilities, Pete. You have people that love you down there. You know that.”

“And think of everything that’s happened to them because of me! I—I’ve given May more grey hairs than you, I’ve put MJ in danger—I’m the reason Harry’s dad went away! Without me…without Spider-Man…maybe they’d be better. Maybe this is what’s supposed to happen!”

Tony doesn’t respond to this, but Peter can read his face. He doesn’t believe Peter at all.

“Let me show you something.” It’s a complete diversion, and Tony relies on Peter’s silent surprise, leaving their loose embrace and tapping at a set of holograms in front of him until a feed appears.

It’s an alley.

Somehow, Peter knows it’s in New York. Maybe it’s all of the time he’s spent in dumpsters—both searching for old technology in his youth and getting his ass kicked into them—that allows him to recognize that.

It’s not the most interesting footage—the most activity on screen for a minute is a mangy tabby cat scampering by.

Then a masked man comes running by the camera, a leather purse in hand and darting glances behind him.

A string of familiar webbing comes on screen, followed by a lithe, masked figure whose body slams into the robber’s, knocking the man down before sticking him to the ground with a layer of webbing. The masked figure takes the purse and swings away, back toward the mouth of the alley.

“Tony, what is this?” Peter asks.

“That is Miles Morales. Fourteen. Brooklyn native. Remind you of anyone?” Tony rolls his eyes at Peter’s unamused face. “Yeah, you get it. Anyway, two months ago, Mister Morales was bit by another one of Oscorp’s freaky mutant spiders. He didn’t tell anyone, but when Spider-Man was put into a coma fighting the Green Goblin and he didn’t help…”

The clip loops again, repeating the swing and kick of Miles’ body slamming into the robber.

“He became Spider-Man.”

Tony nods. “A cheap copy, though, of course. Underoos 2.0, you might say.”

“Only you would.”

“Ouch,” Tony hums. “I’m just saying, without Spider-Man, without you, someone else is always going to step up. It might be Miles, or the Avengers, or that little group of vigilantes near Hell’s Kitchen…”

“Then you’re just proving my point, they don’t need me to—!”

Tony holds his hand up.

“That doesn’t mean you aren’t still needed. You—Peter Parker, Spider-Man—are the person that knows the streets of New York’s boroughs better than anyone else. You’re the same person that helped take down Thanos and fought against Beck and the rest of his little Sinister Six friends. You’re the only Peter Parker that Michelle wants. You’re the only best friend that Ned Leeds wants. You’re the only nephew your Aunt May has. You’re Morgan’s only big brother, Petey."

The warmth that was surrounding Peter until that moment fades slightly. Here, the world that he came from seems so far away. It was easy to say he wanted to stay when the most important thing was right in front of him.

But Tony isn't the most important thing in Peter’s life. Peter's grief seemed to be important for years after. It felt heavy, all-consuming, a weight he was backpacking around on the top of all the good things because the world wouldn’t let him forget. From the murals and statues to Beck’s raging hunger for revenge, Peter felt the ache of Tony’s loss much like he had for Ben—acute and piercing his life with holes.

The thing is—Peter still grieves. All of Tony’s loved ones do. They wish he was there at birthdays and barbecues, reminisce about this story or that, tell Peter and Morgan of his love for them, his pride.

It just doesn’t hurt the same, these reminders. It doesn’t hurt as consistently. His sadness ebbs and flows, bleeds and stems, metaphors on metaphors on metaphors.

“You’re the only you that there is, kiddo," Tony continues. "You need to stop blaming yourself for everything that hasn’t worked out and start realizing that you’ve done a lot of things right. You’re allowed to grieve the past, but you can’t stay here. You need to move forward. That doesn’t have to mean letting go. It means taking us with you, and continuing to make us proud, just like you have been, even when everything is going wrong.”

Tony's eyes are expectant. He wants Peter to really listen to what he's saying, to believe it.

Peter nods, even as some part of him doesn't want to. Tony is right, and Peter is old enough to admit it, to want to believe it. Tony’s death is not as fresh as Gwen’s, and still newer than the death of his uncle, but he is allowed to hold his loss as he moves on from it. He knows that. He was trying for so long, but the losses kept piling up, and he’d forgotten because it was easier to wallow in his grief than try and recover for the umpteenth time.

It’s tiring.

As if Tony can see as much in Peter’s eyes—because he has seen it all, because he knows what Peter’s gone through without him all the time—he finishes his speech.

“Peter, I know you’re doubting yourself and your abilities. I know it’s hard. But you don’t need  someone else to fix that for you—not me, or Ben, or your parents. It’s okay to miss us—you know that we miss you. But you don’t need me around to be a great hero or a good person. You’re all of those things on your own.”

Tony puts a hand on Peter’s head, pulling back his curls and looking directly into his eyes. “But if you need the assurance…you’re everything I could have hoped for and more. I love you, and I’m so proud of you, okay? No matter what.”

"I still want to stay," Peter admits, his voice quiet. There's a difference in knowing he can't and wanting. It's a childish part of himself that he's allowing to be obstinate.

Tony only smiles, though, understanding when he admits, "And some part of me wants to keep you here. But it's not your time. Not yet, okay? You have apologies to make to a very pretty girl, an aunt that would break the rules of spacetime to kick my ass if you died in your twenties, a kid that needs your mentorship…"

"What if I get him killed?" Peter asks abruptly. He hadn't even considered what mentorship would mean, in the long run. "Tony, how many times did I almost die before I turned eighteen? I did die, on an alien world. How can I promise that won't happen to him?"

"You can't," Tony chuckles. "There are no guarantees in any part of life, kid, you know that. He could get taken down by a supervillain or a car in equal measure. But one way he's fighting for the city—for the people he believes in. One way makes him the hero that he is."

Tony shrugs. "That's why I never stopped you."

"You couldn't stop me."

"That too. But that fear? That's what is going to make you better. It made me better."

Peter nods, understanding. His fear for a kid he doesn't even know is just the same as Tony's fear was for him in the beginning.

But look at what grew out of that: he and Tony freakin' Stark, standing here in the afterlife filled with love for each other, planning to continue their lifelong legacy of work to make the world a better place.

Peter would argue that alone is worth it.

Peter steps forward, bringing Tony into another hug—a final hug. "I love you."

Tony's thumb finds the back of Peter's neck, gently stroking. "I love you too, kiddo."

"You'll keep watching over me? Just in case?"

"Of course. I'll let Ben take a turn too, invite your parents into the Spidey Protection Program."

"I'd really like that." He backs up to look at Tony. "And when May gets here, could you—"

"We'll take care of her." In exchange, Tony asks, "Can you tell Pepper and Morgan—oh, and Rhodey and Happy, and don't forget Bruce—"

"I'll tell everyone that you miss them. That you're waiting."

"Such a good kid," Tony remarks, running a hand through Peter’s hair again before landing to cup his cheek again, like he’s treasuring the new gesture before it’s taken from him. "Be safe...well, as much as you can. More family vacations and less hospital visits, okay?"

"Yeah, okay,” Peter agrees, twitching up a real smile through the last of his tears. “Goodbye, Tony."

"Bye, Pete. I'll see you soon. Just—not too soon! And I want to see any future grand-babies all the time, you hear me? No absentee fathering! And—"

The world around Peter grows blurred again, taking him out the same way he came in.

The sound of Tony’s voice echoes into the beeping of a heart monitor.

The ethereal warmth fades into the reality of cold air conditioning—a scratchy hospital blanket is the only shield from the cold. A tube is uncomfortably jammed down his throat.

The life in front of him is no more enticing than it was before, with Tony. It will be weeks spent in recovery despite his healing powers, groveling at Michelle’s feet to make up for leaving her in the first place, apology after apology to his aunt for not calling. He’ll owe Morgan at least a week at the cabin, if not more treats to be exploited from his wallet later. Most importantly—at the risk of Miles Morales’ life—he has to track down a reckless kid and try to teach him to be a better hero when Peter himself is a five alarm tire fire and a half.

But there is also a lot of life still out there that he doesn’t want to forget about:

Aunt May’s one and only good recipe—sweet potato pie. She always flits around their tiny apartment covered in flour and smelling of spices, slapping his hands away from the counter with a firm, “Don’t you dare.”

MJ’s drawings from years past taped to the walls of his bedroom, her unread stacks of hardcovers littering every empty surface, and the way she always stops reading to kiss him goodnight before he goes out on patrol.

Morgan and Pepper, the cabin, the memories he wants to forget and all of the new ones he’s made there next to his little pseudo-sister that have helped make her into the kind, empathetic kid that he would do anything for in a heartbeat.

Peter still has a lot to tell all of them, the words he promised Tony he’d relay.

Peter opens his eyes.

[violetsystems]

#personal

The holidays are quiet if not a little more restful than usual.  I facetime’d my dad and his wife and talked to my mom on the phone.  Since I left my job way back in July I haven’t had much video contact with anybody.  Everybody is too busy baking banana bread on YouTube I guess to check in.  The final days of my employment had devolved into a virtual SCRUM twice a day led by myself on camera.  It was exhausting at times to lead but kept people focused.  That is when they bothered to show up.  One of my employees was off making music with my boss half the time I was trying to lead those discussions.  I’m beginning to sense a theme.  People saying they are there but not really.  Maybe the mic is muted.  Maybe you can’t see behind the screen.  All I know is the follow through lately with people is missing entirely.  I spent a good hour the last two days trying to decouple a credit card from my old job’s contact info.  I’m locked out of both the phone number and the email attached to the account.  I got the run around trying to provide a US passport to confirm my identity.  It was good enough to enter China alone.  The first call that ID was sufficient.  They had said they sent an email to follow through with the process to two different emails I provided.  The email never came most likely because neither had been tied to the account previously.  I called back on Christmas eve and suddenly the passport wasn’t good enough.  Neither was an expired driver’s license.  The woman actually asked me why I hadn’t renewed my driver’s license.  I told the truth.  My ex girlfriend stole my car.  That didn’t really help the situation.  I sent a passport photo to unlock my facebook but they never followed through.   I had an easier time unlocking my Fortnite account with it although that took a full week.  I ended having to call the police on Christmas eve to explore filing a report for fraud and identity theft.  The police officer on the phone pretty much gaslighted me at the end of the questioning.  “Nothing criminal.” he stated plainly.  I didn’t get mad.  I didn’t even complain.  I simply said Happy Holidays and hung up.  Much like I’ve hung up on the last twenty years of my life at this point.  Nobody seems to want to answer the video call.  The opening introduction if they did would be something like “What exactly have you done with my life?”  Maybe they’re afraid to confront the truth.  The media, the government, and even the police seem to not want to believe evidence that contradicts their narrative.  I guess you could throw up your hands and revolt.  But the holidays have been peaceful and quiet enough to simply roll my eyes and move on.  I’ve had years of failures to connect.  COVID has taught me a lot of things.  I heard the mantra in all the mandatory corporate webinars.  This pandemic has brought to light structural problems we were never aware of before.  Sexual harassment in the workplace.  Check.  Organizational corruption.  Check.  The fact everybody is full of bullshit and will just mute the mic and pretend it never happened.  Check.  People feel invincible behind a screen and think they know it all.  Check.  Now that we’re aware.  What do we do?  How do we move on with our life now that we have all this space?  How do I even care about participating in a broken process when I have no debt and fiscal maturity?  How can I go back to being the old me when I’ve been completely erased and conveniently forgot about?  Why would I even bother?  

Mostly I take the time with this process to make sure my identity is completely secure.  Which is why it’s not really fun to be locked out of twenty years of your own information in the form of an email account and forgotten about for six months.  But this is just the structural reality come to light.  Much like the rest of America is waking up to the reality of what greed really does to people.  That was my Christmas present this year aside from the coffee that never came and that Cyberpunk game that I don’t really have the time or the subpar computer setup to criticize.  I’m guilty of tricking myself into thinking people care about me.  I have statistical data from the last six months that proves otherwise.  I also have financial data that points to whatever hustle I have been hustling during that time has paid off and will continue to.  But I don’t really have an answer to anything.  I’m in the worst kind of limbo.  I don’t get the sense these days that I should even remotely worry until July.  Which is kind of like saying fuck you to the world for the next six months.  I spent the last six waking up from a nightmare.  The only times I look back is to clean up the mess.  And a Christmas Eve call to the police is kind of messy.  But the result is more of the same for me.  An extravagant “I told you so.”  I’ve been telling myself for awhile now a lot of things.  Some of them were kind of unbelievable.  Now those very dreams are all I really take comfort in.  The limbo I’m in is more pointed to the light at the end of the tunnel than the void.  But I can’t say the same for everybody else.  I work for myself for the time being.  It looks really nice on paper.  I can even pay myself if it fits into my organization’s financial outlook.  But none of this matters when you or your struggles don’t even exist to people other than to mock or judge it.  All the work we do to survive.  All the work we do to create art and to be beautiful in the face of chaos.  All of that is negated by a loud mouthed jerk who can bark you back into submission.  A mob of dumb ass fraudsters that talk over and mute any opposition without any warrant or merit.  The press follows this mentality pretty clearly.  Everybody has a hot take and a theory.   But nobody wants to sit down and listen to the culmination of lies spread about people and situations.  Everyone is too emotionally interested in sharing their recipe for banana bread to an invisible audience.  I guess I could be guilty of that too.  Except that I share actual human emotion and care with a community of people who pay attention week to week.  For a person like myself who has no real need to worry about money for the foreseeable future what’s the value of care and attention?  A lot.  I don’t feed myself with vapor or fake sentiments.  I take it all at base level as real as it gets.  You can’t build a future on speculation.  You can technically if you are in the stock market.  But risk is risk.  And money is money.  No one can be me at the end of the day.  Sometimes I can’t even prove I’m myself.  My mom reminded me I had to provide ten pieces of documentation to renew my passport ten years ago.  The reasoning was simple.  The government did not believe I existed.  No bullshit.  A decade later nothing really has changed.  I’ve been to Shanghai by myself and eaten McDonald’s.  I read all these Republicans talk about how you put your identity at risk just setting foot in that country.  

And yet when does the rhetoric and brainwashing fall flat on it’s face?  When you can’t pass economic stimulus to not only save your own people but the fragile stock market all this bullshit is built upon.  I could keep telling you I told you so.  Or I could save my own ass.  And largely I did without really owing much to this country whatsoever except taxes in Q1.  Taxes billionaires don’t have to pay because they offer us so much relevant employment and benefits that fit on their bottom line.  The real truth is that America would rather not face the truth.  It hasn’t for years.  It’s built on this kind of thing.  It always has been.  And the world gets bigger and the excuses get worse.  And so what does anyone expect a person like me to do after you openly admit that there’s nothing criminal going on here.  How does that sound when you’ve been treated openly like a criminal in so many unsettling ways that you just don’t want to participate in society anymore?  Not that anyone really asks me to participate.  They’re too busy signaling or whispering secret messages.  Is it suggestion or valid communication?  I’m the one that has to shift through it all and detangle the mess from what is real and what is some sort of mass hallucination.  An alternate reality hunger game that the rich have been playing for years without any punishment or oversight.  When you get caught up in the crossfire they expect you to know the drill.  Keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you.  None of this is good for me.  You could argue it made me the beast that I am.  But I am the one who had to actively make that choice to adapt and survive.  But I’m not like any normal person these days.  I refuse to admit it anymore.  They say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem.  I have a problem.  One that it seems I cannot fix.  And if you isolate and quarantine yourself from an entire twenty years of nostalgia what is left?  Where are the texts of merry xmas from yesteryear.  Probably pinging my old work number.  I can’t access my facebook.  Maybe that’s for the best.  I can’t shut down lines of credit until I renew my state ID.  I could jump on a plane and visit Shanghai Disney quicker than I could prove I’m alive to the US government.  And when does the constant gaslighting break down?  When do we realize that people gaslight to cover up an elaborate lie that has gotten out of control.  That we are not all in this together.  Not by a longshot.  That the problem of connectedness is right there in front of our faces.  We’re exhausted propping up entire infrastructures that keep a bloated empire alive.  Family fortunes built on opioids and war strewn out across the landscape in trusts and elaborate tax schemes.  Oligarchs that have generational wealth that buy our politicians and scam people into debt and forced labor.  This is America.  This is the systemic problem the pandemic brought to light.  This shit was built this way.  And like any fort constructed with shaky foundations, good luck hiding from the storm in that shit.  At least I can still access my Epic account.  What am I going to do for the next six months?  Complain about something I can’t fix because everybody wants to consider me part of the problem?  I don’t know what to do anymore except move forward and lead by example.  There’s enough quality people who follow to keep me warm with those thoughts through the holidays alone.  I won’t be drunk on a zoom call.  I’ll be in bed watching Wonder Woman or something.  When everyone you worshipped comes out of this looking fake, tired and exhausted you’ll know where to find me.  Unlocking more accounts tied to an identity that doesn’t exist anymore.  Nothing criminal.  Hopefully people will stop treating me like one eventually.  <3 Tim

[stuck-in-hawkins]

October 28th, 1993- Reunion

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016)

Pairing: Will Byers/Mike Wheeler

Read on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24656785/chapters/60958708

Will felt completely exposed. He just stood there breathless, staring, with his heart pounding a mile a minute.

Mike stood up from the couch, with that big beautiful smile. Before Will could pick his jaw off the floor, Mike was over to him in a few strides and had wrapped his long arms around him in a hug. Will was trying to process it all, but thoughts, sensations, and memories were crashing like waves against the shore and he could barely keep up.

His senses taking in all the familiar and new with Mike. How there seemed to be a place that Will just instinctively locked into in the embrace. The secure pressure of his arms wrapped around, the scent of some new cologne or deodorant that combined with the familiar smell of Mike that he could never quite pinpoint. There was the feeling of being small in his arms, and an onslaught of memories that beckoned. Will knew he’d lose himself in them if he dwelled but there would be time for that later. It just felt so good to be held by Mike again.

“Hey, Will.”

Will’s mind commanded, ‘Say something!’ He needed to recover so that he didn’t look like some lovesick puppy. But he was still taking everything in. He had only seen Mike a handful of times since leaving for college. He wasn’t used to how wide his shoulders were or how soft he’d gotten. Since 7th grade, Mike had been a beanpole, tall, bony. But now, all his edges were softened. He even had a bit of a belly. Will’s arms wrapped around Mike and felt… hair? Mike had a ponytail.

“Hey, hippie.” He pulled back from the hug. There were curls in the front of his face that were still too short to reach but it was plain as day: he had a ponytail. Will chuckled, “Since when did you decide to do a ponytail?”

“Since the last time the barber hacked off my hair.”

Will laughed, “You mean that buzz cut? That was two years ago!”

“Yep.” He took the hair in hand and flopped it so that it rested on his shoulder. It was a little past his shoulder. “This stuff grows like weeds.”

“Well, I’m still betting you’ll be the first to go bald.”

Mike held his hands up. “Don’t curse me like that, Will.”

“Sorry, but only models can have hair this perfect without paying for it later.” He hadn’t meant to, but he touched Mike’s hair as he said it. This would have been fine if he had just played it off. But, when he realized where his hand was, he drew it back so hard he hit himself in the chest.

Will thought, ‘Oh dear, God. Could you be any more obvious, Will Byers?’

And there it was, beneath the familiarity and laughter of friends, all the intimacy that had come during that time. The memory of being someone else’s other half was still ingrained in his every motion. The pathways in his brain had been carved out with each touch and a wall had come down. It could only be held up with conscious effort.

The motion was not lost on Mike and there was a recognition that crossed his face. But Mike smiled. Was it sympathetic, guilty, or just awkward? Will couldn’t tell. He mentally scolded his cheeks, trying to forbid them from blushing. But he could feel the heat rising. He hated being such an open book.

Mike broke the silence, “You always work on Sundays? Busy life on the prop scene?”

Will felt instant relief. Work was a safe topic. “It has peaks and troughs. Right now, I’m working on a bit of a passion project, making a monster.”

“Wait! Holy shit, like for a movie? What one??”

“It’s not for a movie, per say. It’s more like a talent scouting thing.”

Dustin interjected, “He couldn’t tell us, even if it was for one.”

Mike turned, “So you don’t badger him for info, then. Right, Dustin?”

“Uhh. Do you even know me, Mike? Of course, I do! He’s got to crack at some point.”

Will watched the way Mike’s eyes crinkled with those familiar laugh lines. And without even trying, Mike had made Will fall for him all over again. A part of him wanted to fight it, to just be happy with being friends. He wanted to save himself from the hurt that would follow. But this love was a familiar and warm embrace. It woke him up from the pain of that morning’s rejection. It was hope.

Mike was here for the first time in years. He was within reach again. He was gorgeous and smiling. But why was he there? What brought him out to Burbank after so long?

“When did you get in?”

“I think my plane landed at… 3?”

Dustin added, “Yeah. About then.”

“Feeling any jet lag?”

“For that crazy three hour difference?” He laughed. “It’ll probably just feel like a long day. I’m hoping that I can power through until 10.”

“Sounds like a late night for you, old man.”

Mike smirked, playfully, “Listen, just because you are some cool Hollywood cat now,” he poked Will in the stomach. Today of all days, he was wearing his crop top. And the contact was direct, skin on skin, Mike’s fingertips in his stomach for the briefest of seconds. Will felt his heart leap inside him. Mike did a double take looking at his mid drift, which had clear muscle tone. “And apparently working out?” Mike was astounded.

Will flustered, waving his arms, “I’m not like a musclehead, or anything! It’s just a thing I do with my friends from work.”

Dustin leered, “Don’t listen to him, Mike. It’s ‘cause he’s single and trying to bring home a beefcake.”

Will’s head snapped to Dustin. He was getting redder by the minute, “What the fuck, Dustin? BEEFcake?”

“Listen, you can’t bring home gorgeous men and me not talk about it. Seriously, Mike, these guys are all 10’s.” He winked.

Will was staring daggers at him, “I am never making you breakfast again.”

“WAIT! No!” He stretched his arm out, “I’m sorry!! I take it back.”

“Too late. It’s Captain Crunch for you from now on.”

Dustin groaned, and flopped over the couch, defeated. Will’s eyes flicked over to Mike and saw him suddenly self-conscious.

Mike caught his gaze and said, somewhat sheepishly, “I can’t say I’m really surprised, though. You're a catch, Will.” There was a sadness in it. As if Will was out of reach. As if he had been the one that got away.

The sincerity of it left Will speechless. Was he misinterpreting it? He wanted to let him know that the door hadn’t closed, but he didn’t want to be wrong and make things awkward. He’d clear the air later, when Dustin wasn’t there to watch. He couldn’t look at Mike’s face now.

He tugged the longer side of his hair behind his ear. A useless and nervous gesture, as the hair went right back in his face. “It’s not- I’m not-” He stopped himself. Take the compliment, he told himself. “Umm… thanks.”

Will saw Dustin smirking. Was he trying to play cupid? Will was going to chew him out the second he was alone. This was not something to play with.

Will desperately wanted to change the subject, “So, how are we going to show him the best California has to offer?”

“How about Gauman’s?”

Will shrugged, “Sounds good. What do you think, Mike?”

“That’s the place the Oscar’s are filmed at, right?” Mike asked.

“The very same. But, when there’s no Oscars or premiers it’s just a regular theater,” said Dustin.

Mike nodded. “Sounds awesome.” Will smiled seeing the childlike excitement on Mike’s face, the kind he used to get before a much anticipated movie or comic release. Will felt flutters and wondered if he would be coming down off of cloud nine anytime soon.

“Cool,” Will said. “I’ll go get dressed.” He needed to sort out everything going on inside his head.

Mike looked down at his own clothes, “Do we need to dress fancy or something?”

“Well, not exactly. You’re fine. But cut offs aren’t exactly something I wanna wear there.” He gestured at his own clothes.

Mike’s eyes flicked down and immediately looked away, his face beat red. “Oh. Yeah, of course.”

Will blushed. Holy fuck. They were both absolute disasters right now. He walked down the hallway to his room and flopped on the bed. Breathe. Why had Mike gotten so flustered? Why had he looked down? He could feel his stomach flipping at the suggestion in the question.

He had to calm down. But everything inside him felt like an amusement park, spinning, and jumping. How in the hell was he supposed to keep himself together? He had to wait until Mike was alone. It would be better to get it all out, clear the air. But what in the hell was he even supposed to say?

‘Hi, Mike! Nice to see you, by the way, I’m still in love with you. Is this a mutual thing? Or should I have gotten over all this years ago?’

He put the pillow over his head and groaned. He could get through this. At the very least, they would be in a theater. It was a familiar space, where they could forget everything else and just be the Party again, picking apart movies. Unravelling cinematography, digging up meaning, and concocting theories and Will could collect himself.   ______________________________

They bought tickets for Return of the Living Dead 3. It was one of those gritty B rated movies that the party had always loved tearing to shreds. After they gave Mike the unofficial tour around the handprints, they went inside and paid for their tickets. They were making their way past the various displays of movie props and costumes encased in glass when Will’s eye caught sight of something. He turned so fast he nearly got whiplash and made his way over to the case. Inside, there was a set up for Halloween: a town of monsters, each with unique and incredible designs. The setting looked like an ink drawing come to life, complete with the texture of hatching lines on the ground. This parade of characters was led by a charming skeleton in a Santa suit and a girl that looked like a cross between a rag doll and Frankenstein. He read the plaque beside it: The Nightmare Before Christmas.

“Don’t drool on the case, Will.” Dustin teased.

Mike came over, “What is it?”

“These are the stop motion puppets from the movie,” Will answered. He couldn’t take his eyes off the figures.

“Oh, Stop motion! Like the special effects for the older Hollywood films?” Mike asked.

“Or like Rudolph,” Dustin added.

Will stared, “It’s like a cross between the two. It’s completely embracing the horror aspect of the medium and combining it with the whole Christmas movie tradition.” He couldn’t get over the character designs, the idea behind it. The premise intrigued him and he desperately wanted to watch it.

“Should we see that one instead?” Mike suggested.

Will turned, “No! No. I’ll definitely have to come back to watch it though.”

Dustin leaned in, “We have to go see that movie with him, Mike. He’s gonna totally flip shit the whole time.”

Mike crossed his arms like he was studying Will, “You think like Labyrinth level freak out?”

“Hard to say,” Dustin retorted.

Will shook his head, “Nothing will be Labyrinth level freak out. That was a once in a lifetime movie. A high fantasy setting with elaborate backdrops and the most insane special effects featuring David Bowie as the Goblin King, himself.”

Dustin smirked, “Not to mention those pants.”

Will stood up, “Why does everyone always bring up the pants?”

“Because it was an enlightening experience. I finally understood what you see in men. And now I know with certainty that if Bowie were to ever ask I’d- OW!”

Will punched Dustin’s arm. “You’re not gonna finish that statement.”

Mike chimed in, “You know better than to speak blasphemy against The Thin White Duke around Will.”

Dustin played it up, soothing his wounded arm. “Aw, come on, Will. I didn’t mean it, I know you get first dibs.”

“How kind.”

They laughed as they went into the theatre together.   _________________________________________________

It was a tradition of theirs that following a movie showing, they would stand around the lobby and dissect it. However, since the theatre was getting crowded, Will suggested they relocate to the nearby diner. They began picking it apart in the car, shouting over one another the most grotesque or ridiculous parts. Will had the edge in these conversations now, because he could usually determine what exactly they used for certain effects. The guys enjoyed hearing Will’s insight into the behind the scenes techniques. Once they got in the diner and got their seats, the conversation quieted a bit and their ruminations became more well thought out. They cited different camera angles, acting, and plot points. It felt like old times.

After they ordered their food, Will asked, “So, Mike, how long are you in town for?”

“I’m staying for the week.”

Will almost dropped the fork he’d been messing with, “The whole week?!”

“Yeah, I have some vacation time that the boss told me I needed to use before December.”

“You didn’t want to save that for Christmas vacation?”

“Nah. A lot of families take that time off. School, you know?”

“That’s cool of you.”

Mike shrugged, “It’s just the decent thing, you know? El doesn’t really care about the holidays too much so I can be flexible.”

And a cloud swept over Mike’s face. Something he hadn’t wanted to bring up. Someone he didn’t want to mention. And Will could see him brace for the question.

Dustin asked, “How-?” He felt clumsy. “How is she doing?”

“She’s okay. She has her good days and her bad. I told you she lives with me now, right?”

Dustin nodded.

“That day I got my hair buzzed? Bad day.” He laughed it off, “I don’t think she recognized me for two weeks. The worst part? I actually bought a wig.”

Dustin nearly spit out his drink, “You what?”

Will laughed. “You didn’t!”

“Oh yeah. My first toupee. Looked like a fucking mop.”

Will joked, “Oh, please tell me you still have it. I’d pay money to see that.”

“No way. It’s haunting some thrift store now.”

Will shivered. “The worst thing to find there.”

Mike chuckled. He asked, “So, when is Lucas getting here?”

Will perked up, “What??”

Dustin suddenly looked awkward.

Mike turned, “Shit. Was that supposed to be a surprise? I thought he already knew.”

“No, it’s okay. Recover it! Surprise, Will!! Lucas will be here tomorrow!”

The smile on Will’s face could have lit up the city. He couldn’t contain his joy. His friends would be back together for the first time in so long. He didn’t see the way Mike was looking at him, the content smile and the eyes that just couldn’t get enough of Will’s warm glow.

Dustin was beaming, “Max will be picking him up and they’ll be staying at a hotel nearby.”

Will couldn’t believe it. “Dustin, did you put this all together?”

His friend got a little bashful and tried to shrug it off. “I mean… I just made a few calls. Lucas told me he’d be home in time for Halloween and I thought it was the perfect opportunity for a reunion.”

And then, something sank inside Will. Halloween. It had been ten years... Was that why Dustin was doing this? He coached himself, ‘Stop. Stop. Stop. Just enjoy this.’

He smiled. “It’ll be so good to see them again.”

The change wasn’t immediately visible to the guys.

Mike suddenly got excited, “Are we going to have a Halloween party or something to celebrate?”

Dustin answered giddy, “Oh, hell yeah! I mean we have the monster maker himself here!” He clapped Will on the back.

It shook Will out of his head. He saw how excited they were. Maybe this whole thing was orchestrated out of concern for Will, the thought of it stung his pride a bit. But then again, maybe it was the only way to get everyone together. The last time they had all been together had been when Hopper found El… She had been broken, disoriented, and wandering around New York City. The reunion had been one of grieving, trying to heal, and being there for Mike.

That was what going their separate ways had meant- only seeing each other for the big things: weddings and funerals so to speak. So, Will watched Mike and Dustin talking animatedly and let himself get caught up in it, too.

“As much as I’d like to bring the studio stuff home, I don’t think I could get it past Anderson. They get extra uptight at the shop with props and stuff around Halloween. Everyone wants to borrow stuff for their own parties. But I might be able to whip up something homemade.”

Dustin bragged to Mike, “It’s too bad you won’t get to see The Werehouse, Mike. It’s like a cinephile's wet dream. They have a full on werewolf! Fur and everything!”

Will asked, “Why wouldn’t he be able to go?”

“Because visitors are banned.”

“No, you are banned.”

“What do you mean, ‘I’m banned’???”

“You were touching literally everything!”

“And that was enough to get me banned?”

“You gave Scottie such agita, I thought she was going to have an aneurysm. Do you not remember her following you around, asking you to put things down?”

Dustin grimaced, “I got a little caught up. It was a lot to take in.”

Mike asked, “So, does this mean I get to go?”

The idea of showing Mike his work space was elating to Will. There was that familiar feeling that Will had everytime he handed Mike his sketchbook or a new drawing. The hope of approval and praise for his art.

Will eagerly nodded, “Just don’t touch anything.”

Mike smirked at Dustin, who groaned, “That is SO not fair!”

“Sorry, Dustin.” Mike shrugged as he scooted out of the booth.

Dustin pouted, “Are you, though?”

“Well, not really that sorry.” He laughed, “I’ll be right back.” Mike excused himself to the bathroom.

Once he was out of earshot, Will looked over at Dustin.

He didn’t want to ruin the moment but he had to ask. “Is there a particular reason you got us all together?”

“Because Lucas is coming home.”

“He was home a year ago. We didn’t get together then.”

Dustin’s shoulders sank and he started fidgeting with his napkin. “You said it yourself. It’s been too long. It was an excuse for us to get together. And… well, it has been 10 years...”

“You say it like it’s some kind of anniversary.”

“I mean, it kind of is. You making it out of all that alive is something to celebrate.” Dustin said it genuinely, his heart in his words, “We watched what we thought was you, pulled from the quarry. We listened to you calling out for help. It affected all of us, Will.”

Will suddenly felt selfish. He’d seen this whole thing as some kind of elaborate pity party, but he hadn’t been the only one to suffer. He hadn’t been the only one to face that thing.

But a question still nagged at him, “Did you tell anyone… about the nightmares?”

Dustin tightened and looked guilty. “Just Mike… he….”

“Dustin you promised!”

“I know. I know. But I was worried, Will! I didn’t know what to do.”

“There is nothing for you to do. It’s something that I’m handling.”

His friend looked at him, anger tempered in his brow, “They’ve gotten worse. Don’t tell me they haven’t.”

Will’s fingers dug into his knees, his knuckles turning white. He felt humiliated. It was true. They had been getting worse. It wasn’t so bad when he had someone sleeping next to him, but on the nights he was alone? There was a 50/50 shot at waking up in a cold sweat. A few weeks ago, he had woken up with a yell in his throat and Dustin’s panicked face above him, trying to shake him awake.

‘Please… don’t tell anyone, Dustin. Please…”

But of course he did.

“Will, you don’t say when things aren’t okay. You shoulder them until something breaks. So, I made a judgement call. I didn’t want you to go through it this year alone. I wanted you to know that you have us. That we’re here.”

Will put his head in his hands, “But why did you have to tell Mike?”

“Because I didn’t know how to help. And it’s damn near impossible to get him out of Hawkins these days. But he’ll do it for you.”

His insides did a somersault. “That’s another thing, Dustin.”

“What?”

“Please, stop playing cupid with me and Mike.”

He was quiet, mumbling, “I wasn’t trying to before, at the house. I was just messing around.”

“I know but the jokes were hitting a little too close. There’s a lot of stuff I don’t want to dig up. It’s complicated between us and we need to figure that out ourselves.”

Dustin looked like a puppy getting scolded, “I gotcha. Sorry.”

Will added, “And, I swear to God if I ever hear the word ‘beefcake’ from out of your mouth, I am mailing your nudie mags to your mom.”

His eyes got wide, “You wouldn’t!”

Will rested his chin on his hands, “You really want to gamble on that?”

He held up his hands, “Fine. It is stricken from my vocabulary forever.”

Mike was making his way back over and Will tried to tuck everything back inside. Mike slid back into the booth. He pulled a small notepad from his back pocket and put it on the table.

“Okay. So what are we doing for costumes?”

And Will laughed. All of a sudden, the years melted away. He remembered how Mike would spend the remaining days of summer planning out their Halloween costumes, their trick or treat routes. The jubilant energy of new ideas spreading across his face, the excitement in his voice. It all came back. This time was precious. Their lives would undoubtedly fall back into their pattern before long. Lucas and Max would likely move back by her job in Silicon Valley. Mike would go back to Hawkins. Back to El. So, Will needed to hold onto every moment and make them last.

[mortyandcarlsbespokesalvage]

Day 1 Sequence 0

So it is written,

It came to pass that the world wrought by men was ended. Planes of order and reason fell away to be formed anew, and those small in spirit were claimed by the Maelstrom.

Here is spoken the coming of the Arpage. Raw and primordial, its vastness eclipses mediocrity and neutrality. Only vibrancy and vitality endure within its swirling torrents.

The world was rent asunder. Like with like, polarities balanced. Dimensional lines blurred and physical law undone. Reality made fluid.

This Storm shapes our world.

Blessed are we who stand, here on the other side of time. 

Our world washed clean, free from the sins of our fathers.

We are alive, we who stand.

Children of the Storm, stand for tomorrow.

                  -Prelude to historical account of the founding of the city of Artisan.

To the reader,

By virtue of your presence in this archive, it may be assumed that you are mildly to moderately to severely displaced from the time and/or place to which you are accustomed. To contextualize, it will be to your benefit to know that the following account begins here in the island city of Artisan, located upon the Emerald Basin, in the year 324 of the New Common Era. As it happens, it begins on a Tuesday.

…

The storm that bore down on the city in the early morning hours was a grand one. Swirling from the south, a ruinstorm great enough to make even the proud denizens of Southport close their shutters.Strong enough that the wary watchers of the great barrier wall set to seal off the innermost city, that the winds and rains might not tear the pretty faces from her towering edifices. Midnight patrols of city Sweepers huddled against the winds and rains as they walked the empty streets, securing as much as could be tied down to keep from becoming destructive flack from the force of the gales. The Artisan Streets were as empty, and the city as quiet, as ever it could manage.

Artisan is never silent however, even on the precipice of a storm to end the world. For if everything stopped every time the world ended, how would anything get done? And so it is that our story takes us below the quieted streets above, under the murmuring, lamp-lit undercity markets, and below the darkened catacombs where the city’s ancient gears lie still. 

The city of Artisan was founded over three centuries ago, in the wake of the Great Cataclysm. The Founders were swept away from their old lives by the torrents of the great Maelstrom, and deposited on the shores of a vast junkyard island, with only an endless ocean horizon as far as their eyes could see. Artisan was discovered, not built. At least not by the Founders. Oh, of course it had been built by someone. But if anyone had some notion of who that someone was, then they had successfully held their tongue for a dozen odd generations hence. 

The name Artisan itself was uncovered and not coined. City blocks beneath the vast trash heaps, each with bronze plaques set into the cracked concrete, declaring them to be Artisan 109-a, 303-s, or any of thousands of combinations. Ancient labels declaring the island to be Artisan, in regular sections of concentric rings, radiating out from the great citadel at the center. The city of Artisan is built upon ten thousand-thousand mysteries, and it did not take long for the Founders to rightly conclude that someone needed to make it their business to set to work solving them. 

The Founders of Artisan inherited an uninhabited trash heap upon the waves. Then they recycled that heap into a metropolis. They pushed out the surface scrap to three huge Yards, and over the centuries continued to use their bounty of ancient refuse as a source of building materials and lost artifacts. Below the surface, each level less and less explored, wholly unknown save the fact that they were all filled with garbage and scrap from untold years of the place being used as a dumping ground by parties unknown. Over the centuries, different explorers and curious trashmen were commissioned by the municipal authority to work together to try to figure it all out. To map the vast underground space, and to uncover more and more of a seemingly inexhaustible supply of resources.These curious souls were formed together into the Non-integrated Offices of Interior Rediscovery (N.O.I.R.), an entity whose sole business is to sift through the refuse of untold ages, and try to make sense of … 

… well, for all intents and purposes everything, about the world’s last city.

…

Dr Archibald Morphesus (never Archie) is but one of the latest in a long history of esteemed archaeologists of N.O.I.R. Curious to a fault, focused to the point of obsession. Morphesus has been captivated by his city since he was a boy and first noticed the tendency of the utility lines in his family’s apartment to quietly rearrange themselves when nobody was looking. To him the city is a living organism. A friend he has sought to know for the better part of a lifetime. In his 30 year career, the doctor has mapped more of the undercity, led more expeditions, uncovered more vaults of artifacts than any other archaeologist of N.O.I.R. 

Dr Archibald Morphesus is respected by his students and colleagues, a quiet older man with a passion for his work, and a track record for being a determined explorer. Deep beneath the charted levels of the Undercity above, Morphesus stands before a massive vault door. The Vault, marked 213 in bold ancient script, is the latest in a lifetime of closed doors waiting to be opened. How many more doors remain, and how little time remains to open them? he wonders, always. There is so little time left, and there’s still so much to do.

“On my count: three, two, one and HEAVE.” 

The Sweepers, hulking figures in their heavy armor, pull at the vault door. The Engineers stand ready with braces to hold it open and floodlights to illuminate the platform. This is all routine, an endeavor that’s been undertaken dozens of times, each time a deep shaft is located, since long before he became an archaeologist. Still, he watches with rapt attention. 

Beyond the vault door will be a platform overlooking the shaft, a vast, bottomless canyon sprawling into the dark as far as can be seen. That is what’s been behind every door so far. But there will also be the rails. The beams above the platform, stretch out into the dark, over the abyss. Sturdy, solid ,evenly spaced, but for purposes unknown. 

Morphesus has spent years theorizing, and he knows what he hopes to find. The door opens with a clang and the screech and groan of steel on steel. The Sweepers at the door pull it open wider, while the engineers rush to prop it, and behind them another row of Sweepers stand ready with their great glaive axes, braced for whatever horrors might be waiting on the platform. It is empty. The lights shine through the breach, bathing the platform in incandescent orange and shining through the dust motes into the darkness. 

He sees it. 

After thirty years he sees it at the end of the platform, hanging from the rails as he always imagined it would. A bulky metal train car, suspended over the bottomless chasm. 

For Morphesus, the world fades away. His research team spills out onto the platform, setting up floodlights and tables, beginning the work of sifting through the refuse and searching for anything and everything that could tell them about what came before. All he sees is the tram. 

It’s something out of a dream. Something he’s looked for, theorized about, for years. And here it is before him. Proof of a rail system running through the space between the titanic Pylons that support the city above, and perhaps the first concrete clue in centuries to the mystery of the city’s unknown architects. The doors to the tram are forced open, an easier task by far than the vault. A thin layer of dust covers its interior. Motes drift across the lamplight.

“After you, professor.” Zel Pathos, his research assistant, aims the light into the open carriage and gestures him forward. Zel has been with the professor long enough to guess what this find means to him. Morphesus steps forward with his heart in his throat. 

And there, the first thing he sees is a map. There is a map on the wall of concentric circles woven together. There are numbers marked on it, spaced regularly along the circles. 208, 209, 210, 211, 212...

213.

There is so much. So much to look at, to examine, to find. He cannot move quickly enough. And yet. He takes a moment for himself. This is it. All his theories. His life’s work. The answers are here. Zel and the other researchers pour in gently, mindful of the professor. But they’re eager too. The sooner they get to work, the sooner they have answers. 

There is too much here. The tram alone would validate the professor’s theory about the nature of the rails. The MAP by itself would be historic. No map of the original city has ever been found in the centuries since the discovery of Artisan by the city founders. Morphesus’ heart pounds in his chest. He feels about to burst. History is about to be re-written here. 

Around him, the other researchers murmur to each other as they begin the excavation. A sudden rise in volume catches his attention. “There’s even a log book here! Hah! Listen to this: 

‘Entry 509

Junction 212 is cleared. Proceeding to 213. Personal aside, this thing is too damn big. If 213 checks out, the Artisan will be clear for testing. Not that it shouldn’t check out. It was fine two weeks ago. And two weeks before that. It was probably fine when the last guy was looking at it.  Are we ever going to test this thing? Are we going to get paid this month? Is anyone even reading these reports? What is the Gatekeeper even doing? And another thing-’ Professor? Oh gods, Professor!”

“Medic!” someone calls.

Dr. Morphesus is seizing on the floor, his limbs jerking and shaking like a child’s wind up toy knocked on its’ side. 

“Shit, get him off the train!” a Sweeper yells. 

“Somebody time it!”

There is panic amongst the researchers - Dr. Morphesus had always had a frail constitution, but he’d never been sick before. Any sense of routine or order is lost as the Sweepers rush to secure him and get him off the tram. There’s no room to work in there. 

“How long was that?”

“Is he breathing?”

“He’s struggling. It sounds like there’s something blocking his airways.” 

“Get the intubation ready.”

“His pulse is thready.”

“Ready the potions and paddles, we may have to shock him.”

The words rush over each other and all other work comes to a stop. The news of Morphesus’ collapse spreads like fire among the archaeologists and a grim silence falls on them as they wait to see what happens next. And then...

“Holy hells, he’s got Verdigris.”

The quiet announcement falls like a bomb. Shock waves ripple through the assemblage, followed by tight fisted panic. There’s a gap in the circle of Sweepers tending to Morphesus, enough for some to see his chest. His open shirt reveals a wide rash of metallic scales, an undeniable indicator of Verdigris Syndrome.

“Sweet Dale, it looks like his entire respiratory system has been compromised.”

“How long has this gone untreated?”

“Somebody contact the Spire, we need to know everyone he’s been in contact with and set up a quarantine immediately!”

Morphesus hears the clamor around him through a haze. But he understands. His life has ended. His illness discovered. There will be no more doors to open. The sickness started small with Morphesus. Just a tiny rash that scaled and grew over the years with his doubt about being able to prove his theories. His body became slower, heavier. His breathing harder by degrees. It was easy to hide. Nobody noticed because he had always been sickly and colleagues just assumed that he was getting old. He never went to the doctor anyway. He kept to himself. He never had much of any kind of social life outside of work. He always politely, nervously declined any invitation. He was respected, looked up to, possibly even beloved by his team of grads and undergrads. Just a quiet older man with a passion for his work, and a track record for being a determined explorer in spite of being a socially inept weakling.

But not now. His work cannot end now, not when proof of his theories is in sight. Not when he lies mere feet away from the greatest discovery in a century. He feels his despair turning to resentment. He has lived with his sickness for years, never losing himself, never succumbing. Who among his colleagues had ever been infected? Whose business was it how he chose to spend his last years? Who said that the sickness, already a death sentence, had to mean the death of his dreams as well? His anger rises now. Fire burns in his eyes as he struggles against the Sweepers holding him down. 

“Four Kings! How is he this strong?”

“It’s gotta be the sickness.”

“Yard 3 Precinct. Come in Yard 3, this is Squad 11, Muskrat. We are requesting immediate medivac and quarantine at Vault 213. I repeat this is Muskrat-”

“Hold him!”

Four Sweepers struggle to suppress the doctor’s frail frame.

Morphesus tries to speak, to tell them, to defend himself and his work. His students, they’ll understand. They must understand! But all that comes when he opens his mouth is the awful, distorted sound of screeching metal. All is lost. He screams. The sound is too big. It does not fit his body. It echoes endlessly into the dark.

And then the quiet. Stunned researchers and Sweepers stare without speaking. Morphesus lays on the platform, all the fight gone out of him. He just lays there and sobs.  No one has to hold him down anymore. 

They don’t notice it at first. Shock has numbed their senses, and the sound is still so faint. A distant clanking coming from the tunnel. Rhythmic, like footsteps shuffling. The Sweepers hear it first. They quickly move into position, ready with their axes and dragon fire. One of them breaks the silence, quietly repeating into the radio the need for a medical retrieval team. 

The clanking of metal footsteps multiplies. One set. Two. More. But how many more? The tunnels and shaft are cavernous spaces, and the ringing steps echo and grow in the dark. It’s impossible to guess their number. Rearguard sweepers redirect the floodlights into the tunnel. There, a dull reflection coming closer. Another. Another.

All they can do is ready themselves for the fight and hope reinforcements arrive in time.

Through it all, the professor weeps.

Next chapter>

[fatehbaz]

Wait, what's the anthropomorphism debate? If you'd prefer not to answer dw! I can look more into it online

Apologies in advance for this long post! I’m not all that great with ontology and theory, so take what I say here with a grain of salt; I am not “an authority.” I’m going to hijack the ask to summarize “the ontological turn in anthropology.”

So: the ontological turn in anthropology from 2008-2012, and the debate about anthropomorphism

I’m sorry that I did not answer this sooner. I’m also sorry that this is going to be a very long post. You might know all this stuff already, so please feel free to disregard all this text! A recap for viewers who missed the previous episode:

This question was - I’m assuming - in response to me being a silly-billy and making a meme of a distressed, sweaty person awaking from a nightmare, to illustrate the anxiety that confronted me when I noticed that there has been some recent Tumblr discourse replicating the heated academic anthropology debate about anthropomorphism from around 2008-2012. I was at relatively progressive university, focused on ethnoecology at the time (a field of anthropology right at the heart of the discourse), so I was forced to participate!

Basically, the 2008-2012-ish period saw the relative “mainstreaming” of a movement to “decolonize anthropology and conservation/ecology” and uplift Indigenous/non-Western worldviews as an alternative to Western views of the natural world, and this movement was basically referred to as “the ontological turn in anthropology.” It sought to acknowledge that Indigenous cosmologies were legitimate - as in, Indigenous/traditional ecological knowledge (TEK) is very sophisticated, and therefore the cosmologies that maintained this knowledge ought to be given more credit. A major, if not the central, issue in this dialogue was how to prevent “intellectual colonization” by respecting the utility/validity of specific Indigenous worldviews like Buen Vivir, animism, totemism, etc. Thus, one of the most frequent and intense focal points of discussion and argument was “anthropomorphism” and animal emotion. Technical scientists were still uncomfortable accepting the environmental knowledge of non-Western cultures that believed in things similar to literal animism. The discourse was also deeply concerned with “the Anthropocene” and the climate/ecological crisis, and sought to uplift Indigenous relationships with ecology as examples of alternatives to capitalist resource extraction economies.

At the time, I fried my brain out while reading hot-take after hot-take about anthropomorphism - but I’m not all that great with ontology and theory, so this subject might not be as overwhelming to other readers!

The discourse was extensive; and some Tumblr discourse I’ve seen lately seems to be asking similar questions that the 2008-2012 discourse also grappled with.

Many Latin American scholars - and Indigenous people - had been actively writing about Indigenous cosmology’s importance to anthropology/ecology/conservation for decades but especially since at least the late 1980s and early 1990s (especially Eduardo Viveiros de Castro, an anthropologist working in Latin America and since dubbed the leading scholar of “Amazonianist” thinking promoting the knowledge of Andean/Amazonian peoples). However, this movement begun to be taken much more seriously in American academia around 2008-2010, led by the influential writing of ecology-adjacent anthropologists and theorists like Bruno Latour, Phillipe Descola, and Isabelle Stengers.

This discourse and its mainstreaming coincided with the rise of “object-oriented ontology” (OOO) - headed by Graham Harman, who was given more attention partially because of the rising popularity of his friend Mark Fisher, at this time. OOO played a major part in some of these discussions, since it basically (don’t quote me on this) allows for statements like “all other living things - and perhaps non-living things, but that’s more complicated - probably experience some strange alien form of subjectivity, and are therefore are potentially sentient at their own scale depending on how you want to define sentience.” Timothy Morton (who coined the term “dark ecology” - after which my blog was named) is/was a close colleague of Graham Harman’s. Morton sort of “bridged the gap” between the anthropology/ecology enthusiasts and the more space-y OOO theoretical stuff.

-

Anthropomorphism?

A sort of conclusion to this discourse, which was eventually acknowledged by many anthropologists and ecologists, is similar to Isabelle Stengers’ notion of “cosmopolitics”: Animals and plants have unique experiences and perspectives, probably very bizarre and strange to the human observer. Humans and other living things engage in “world-building” and may have an “interiority” that isn’t always going to match definitions of sentience or consciousness, and therefore it can be difficult to “translate” the experience of other living things in a way that humans can understand or relate. However, it is still worthwhile to attempt to translate the experience of other living things, partially by acknowledging that we live in a strange community of living things and therefore should value the biosphere as a community.

But I think Adrian Ivakhiv, an environmental scientist at University of Vermont, better summarizes this view of anthropomorphism which is gaining popularity. You can read the summary here, from December 2010.

You might recognize these themes from Tumblr discourse about animism/anthropomorphism. This is a discussion of how various human cultures conceive of other living things, and how living things, whether “sentient” or not, still “subjectivate,” and therefore participate in their own “world-building” at some scale.

“On animism, multinaturalism, & cosmopolitics.” December 2010/Janurary 2011. Adrian Ivakhiv.

Excerpts:

Either most existing entities are supposed to share a similar interiority whilst being different in body, and we have animism,  as  found among peoples of the Amazonian basin, the Northern reaches of   North America and Siberia and some parts of Southern Asia and  Melanesia.  Or humans alone experience the privilege of interiority  whilst being  connected to the non-human continuum by their materiality and we have  naturalism – Europe from the classical age. Or some  humans and  non-humans share, within a given framework, the same  physical and moral  properties generated by a prototype, whilst being  wholly distinguishable  from other classes of the same type and we have totemism –  chiefly to  be found among Australia’s Aborigines. Or all the world’s  elements are  ontologically distinct from one another, thence the  necessity to find  stable correspondences between them and we have analogism –China,  Renaissance Europe, West Africa, the indigenous peoples of the Andes and Central-America [6]. [“Who owns nature,” 2008]

These ontological options can be portrayed as follows:

This would be a world that demands an ontological politics, or a cosmopolitics, by which the choices open to us with respect to the different ways we can entangle ourselves with places, non-humans, technologies, and the material world as a whole, become ethically inflected open questions. […]

In her multivolume work Cosmopolitiques (1996–97) and publications that followed it, Isabelle Stengers (2005) forwards a “cosmopolitical proposal” that, unlike most forms of cosmopolitanism, does not presume the existence or even the possibility of a “good common world,” an ecumenically peaceable cosmopolis. On the contrary, her proposal is intended to “slow down the construction of this common world, to create a space for hesitation regarding what it means to say ‘good’” (2005:994). The “cosmos” of her cosmopolitics “refers to the unknown constituted by [the] multiple, divergent worlds and to the articulations of which they could eventually be capable” (2005:994). Such a cosmopolitics does not pre-assume what will count as “common,” whether it is “human nature,” “cultural differences,” or the laws and discoveries of science; or, on the other hand, gods, souls, spirits, or anything else that anyone might bring to the table.

Stengers’s call is echoed by Latour (2004b), Mol (1999), and Law (2004), who argue on behalf of a politics for building, enacting, or co-producing shared or common worlds — not worlds that posit “nature” as the “unique author of a single account” (Law 2004:123) propping up a “reality that is independent, prior, singular, and definite,” but worlds in which “everything takes effort, continuing effort” (Law 2004:131–132). Such methods and modes of knowledge-making recognize their own complicities in the worlds they enact; and they are political in the sense that they raise questions about how the world of associations — the society of humans and other entities — is to be organized. Seeing ourselves as cosmopolitically entwined with each other and the other others of the world means seeing ourselves as actively practicing ways of “worlding” or “world-making” (Wilson and Connery 2007).

More importantly, if world-building is something that all entities are involved in, then all are carving up, in their own way, what will qualify as subject and what will qualify as object. (…)

A balanced processual perspective, however, would be one that argues that all things participate in subjectivity — all things subjectivate — in their own different ways, which may be more or less like ours depending on the specificity of those things; and that all things participate in objectivity — all things objectivate, becoming objective, material, bodily data for other things — also in their own different ways, which are also more or less like ours depending on the specificity of the things.(…)

-

Sorry again for the wall of text.

Thanks for the ask!

[ryouverua]

Trial 6 -  Oh, I am one yet many (5)

The above inspirational picture was taken seconds before disaster.

Trial: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4

Tsumugi is not the one-trick pony we thought she was ABORT MISSION, ABORT MISSION!!!!

NO YOU AIN’T! NO YOU AIN’T I DID NOT SIGN UP TO BE HAJIMEMED, NO SIR I DID NOT!

i mentioned it during the text hellstorm I unleashed when I was mid-playthrough but the way Shuichi says ‘cosplaying’ here is ADORABLE. I love his VA she is so good -

also

oh no

oh no

o h      n o

I can’t just... express how deeply that feeling of ‘oh no’ pervaded my being. My soul.

“THIS IS JUST COSPLAY“ SHE SAYS - AND GOD, THE MUSIC, THE MUSIC IS SO WACKY LIKE THESE ARE JUST SOME NORMAL FTE ANTICS -

wait no this is the ‘let’s start the killing game music’ -

ah that’s why I’m lowkey terrified right now

W-What in the world are those white smears across Hagakure’s eyes??? And oh god the first game too???

WHAT THE HELL TSUMUGI YOU’VE REALLY BEEN HOLDING OUT ON US TELL ME HOW YOU’RE DOING THIS I-I mean oh no, how dare you, this is so awful...

SHE’S TAKEN FULL OWNERSHIP OF JUNKO!PERSONA

AJSLKDF

TSUMUGI

HOLY SHIT

TSUMUGI

IS THIS YOUR FINAL FORM

ironically this got me thinking ‘this would be a really cool cosplay + prop’ once I got over the sheer terror of the situation and I starting thinking, oh, wouldn’t it be cool if you even had a sort of pinwheel mechanism (with the main body of it being hidden by her long hair) that rotated all of these pieces, and have you ever realized that there is a small piece of you that is the monster

also I just realized... she kept putting her glasses on as Junko. But I’m assuming she won’t ever wear them as Hajime. So it’s true - the moment she actually took off her glasses, we really did get to see her final form..

IS THAT KOMAEDA’S HAIR

ALL OF THESE THINGS, I RECOGNIZE ALL OF THEM OMG

This............ this is terrible, terrifying, and also really, really good

don’t say you’re jealous don’t say you’re jealous don’t say you’re jealous okay I’m a bit jealous FFU --

SHUICHI I THINK THIS IS ONE OF THE TIMES WHERE YOU DON’T WANT TO PURSUE THE TRUTH I HAVE A TERRIBLE, AWFUL FEELING -

oh no oh no

here I was doing mental gymnastics to justify why she’d be able to cosplay as Junko, a real person

but I was over-complicating things as usual

even the egg has been compromised for her nefarious scheme this truly is the worst timeline

What is with me and stumbling into series that just bloody smash their fourth wall until there’s nothing but broken pieces left

thank you for having twogami right after togami it’s not something I realized I needed and among all this heartbreak is a blessing

THIS IS NOT YOUR CUE TO START PLAYING THE CREDITS MONOKUMA

I am only making it through this trial by sheer force of will and the power of Sweetcheeks’ adorable voice.

Dangan.... ronpa....?

oh god she said ‘we’ she said ‘WE’ THIS IS REALLY NOT GOOD

‘Don’t get too whacky with your theories,’ I said. ‘You don’t want to sound like a total crackpot,’ I said. DAMN YOU SELF I SHOULD HAVE LET MYSELF GO ABSOLUTELY WILD AFTER ALL

So this was invented completely from nothing??? My initial theory had them seeing themselves in someone else’s actual memories as themselves, and having their own brains play tricks on them that way - but all those scenes with them being interviewed by Makoto, of applying to Hope’s Peak, and possibly everything else about them - oh god - how powerful are these lights? How much detail was crammed into them? Can this all be done with a mere flash of a light???

‘We.’ Her use of ‘we’ is interesting, here. It really does feel like Tsumugi sees all of her cosplay personas as actual people that she can channel to ‘help her’ as opposed to just mere characters. Like entities fighting along side of her, not just through her...

also hello ibuki I forgot how much I enjoyed your VA they make me hear seagulls in the distance

aaaaaaw look at how much the art style has improved from the first game!!!

Y.......... YES.......?????? wait actually as someone who is lowkey interested in props and set design - BUT NO WAIT STILL THIS IS WAY BEYOND THAT -

How... the hell... do you cosplay the world?! The entire world?!?!

Is that possible?? If the entire world isn’t real - if it’s all being propped up by you - then -

Who - who are we playing this game for then??? Why make us play it??? Who is watching the game???

I KNEW IT

I AND PROBABLY HALF OF THE PEOPLE PLAYING WERE JUST WAITING FOR YOU TO SHOW UP

......

Did. Did you just say it takes place in the real world.

Oh no -

It... It’s real fiction... because they’ve kidnapped actual people... and brainwashed them... and then trapped them in a situation where they were forced to kill each other to get out?? For things that didn’t exist??? For reasons that weren’t ever real???

Wait - so that means they can get out and it’ll be fine?! That’s..... t-that’s not as bad as I thought, but...

‘STAFF’ OH THAT WORD IS SO OUT OF PLACE -

...............................

There are. There are people backstage. It’s not just Tsumugi. This. This is super not good.

insert inappropriately-timed comment about how I love this VA

Okay. This actually took me by surprise. And I’m kinda terrified to ask.

W.... Why not? Is - Is this actually a space separated from reality? Can they physically.... not go back....???

no wait -

what are you doing

PUT THAT KEY BACK RIGHT NOW

oH

OH UNCANNY VALLEY-LEVELS OF COGNITIVE DISSONANCE

NO DON’T THROW REAL FACES UP THERE -

IS THIS A BLOODY COMMENT BOARD

I mean I know in my head that this is a niconico parody but the fact is they have to translate the comments to suit an english audience so -

omfg no I cannot believe what is coming out of the screen right now

wait wait

Kyoko is my waifu

My husbando Shuichi

first

Sakura is my muscle waifu good taste anon

Bring on the spoilers

LOL are you watching?

I feel like I’m participating too!

she’s shaking

Aaaw, Himiko is still alive.

Wow it’s on? LOL!

this is what the creepy kid at the beginning of the chapter was about

this was who that Makoto kid was

WHERE IS HIS CREEPY-ASS FACE I KNOW YOU’RE THERE MAKOTO

Is this the everyone... the real everyone Tsumugi says she represents, then??? That she’s fighting for? Omg was Kirumi’s motive/trial foreshadowing all along -

Anyway, damn Tsumugi is proud of her viewership.

#humblebrag #musclewaifu

EVERYONE???? LITERALLY EVERYONE?!?!?!

SURELY... SURELY THAT IS THE CONCEITED TALK  OF A MANAGER TRYING TO TALK UP THEIR ‘BABY’.... SURELY...

I appreciate the use of Celes here. This is.... damn dark. They’ve achieved such a peaceful world that the have to manufacture darkness and blood-sport for people to get their kicks???

STIMULATION?!

first of all where’s miu when you need her

SECOND OF ALL ARE YOU SURE HUMANITY WAS BEAUTIFUL, KOREKIYO??? ARE YOU SURE?

“It’s simple economics.”

THERE YOU ARE MAKOTO YOU CREEP

oh no he was... literally... using this game to cope with his problems.... and he said that one day he wanted to be a part of it... oh no.....

..... D... Did one of the comments say that it had been years? That they had been waiting for a few years for the sequel?

Does - does that mean something, or is it just a throwaway audience comment? Why years? If Rantaro was in the last one, why would it have been years for this one to happen??? How old is Rantaro? How old is Tsumugi?!?!

FML I had been wondering how ‘Monokuma’ could exist without Junko existing since they’re inextricably linked. FML.

MONOKUMA CAN YOU STOP ROLLING THE CREDITS, THE MUSIC AND THE TITLE CARDS FOR A MINUTE PLEASE I AM BEGGING YOU

Because I don’t enjoy having Saioinji’s terrifying eyes trained on me while she questions my intelligence, so I’ll sum up the next question - what season of this gameshow from hell are we apparently on?

I mean, considering Junko’s title... well...

..... yeah it looks better with a V.

the real answer to why they used V3 even though it’s technically not the correct way to say ‘53′ - it’s the aesthetic.

FFFF

I actually screenshot all the parody!title cards and they’re amazing. I’ll post them just once a bit later when it shows up again because this post is entirely too long, but needless to say, whoever designed them had fun. And the titles of the games, too - Birth of Despair? Dream Danganronpa? Sign me tf up! oh no does this make me part of the problem I’M SORRY SWEETCHEEKS

I can’t believe I was bitching about Junko being the mastermind for the third game when apparently audience members have had to sit through 53 Junkos

You couldn’t have changed it up??? Not even once??? Like, one led by Mukuro as a prologue idea or??? quietly denies the existence of the anime

Oh, speaking of which, I do like the excuse they came up with as to why the drv3 creators didn’t create new characters from the supposed other games why Tsumugi didn’t cosplay anyone outside the first two games - it’s for the class’s benefit, since they only knew those two casts, and y’know. She cares. about shock value

DON’T YOU PASS THE BUCK, GIRL

Ah, so that ‘staff’ you mentioned earlier...

why is this so funny to me

T-Tsumugi, do you have a tumultuous relationship with your managers or something

why are you airing out your dirty laundry on live television

is it all the incest plotlines

I feel like at this point it’s less ‘Tsumugi is trying to rub into the students how completely and absolutely they are boned’ and more ‘okay, it’s time to give a shout-out to everyone who put this production together! Perfect time to slap on that logo, guys!‘

oh my god that was supposed to be a trailer in-meta too alsd;kfj i’m losing it

AND AGAIN, THOSE TITLE CARDS - THEY ARE AMAZING.

SHE IS SHE’S TOTALLY ADVERTISING MID-SHOW

TSUMUGI STOP BEING A CORPORATE SELL-OUT

"NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR YOUR CRAPPY SHOEHORNED ADVERTISING!!!”

oh god oh no

who’s going to tell him -

MONOKUMA DON’T YOU DARE

i’m having an existential crisis alongside sweetcheeks ngl

there are so many layers

....

we need to go deeper

So, just to clarify, there are three layers right now:

There’s us, the players. In a sense, we could be considered ‘equal but different than the tier’, but we do still operate on a plane separate from the metafiction of Tsumugi’s ‘everyone in the world’.

There’s the ‘audience’, the outside world. This is the space that’s been breached at this point. And this... this is the level where the students are from, too - aka the reason I think we and the audience should exist as separate entities.

And there’s the domain of the Killing Game, a space created to play out this story, using real people - a place separated from reality... how? If Tsumugi is talking about a set, it could easily be the real world, which means they’ve been isolated somewhere. At the same time though, when they managed to reach the end of the escape tunnel and saw the outside world, they all started to choke and suffocate. So... could this be VR still? Or no? Can these existences known as Shuichi Saihara, the Ultimate Detective, Maki Harukawa, the Ultimate Assassin, Himiko Yumeno, the Ultimate Robot, K1-b0, the Ultimate Robot, and even Tsumugi Shirogane, the Ultimate Cosplayer, leave this space in any way, shape or form... or not at all? Is them suffocating ^ like that a sign that they literally cannot exist outside of this space?

She is literally throwing the same question back in Shuichi’s face ghdfkgh

NO I’M ON SHUICHI’S SIDE I COULDN’T HELP IT I HAD TO CHOOSE REAL PEOPLE

no!!! no!!!! NO!!!!

no seriously I still chose real people because I am stubborn

sweetcheeks et al. do not deserve any of this

Of course they brought out despair!Mikan for this. Of course.

I have to say, I do like these little character touches - the decisions that have been made as to which ‘cosplay’ says what. I mean, it’s supposed to also act as a way to throw our known and loved favourites in our face too, but having Celes comment on how boring ‘peace’ is? Having Ibuki smashing through the fourth wall to speak directly to the audience, Gundham remarking on their abnormal existence and Leon commenting on how cool the ‘aesthetic’ of the title card is? It’s such a nice touch. also horrifying. butalsonice

Oh we really are addressing the prologue now??? And - I’m assuming Tsumugi is referring to Hajime when she says ‘me’, but is there a chance she isn’t?

Just as I initially suspected, though - they really were normal when they got in. So how did they decide who got what personality/talent, or was that random? I mean, that might be the case - it was potentially hinted by the motive video switch of Chapter 2..

............. Huh.

But..... in what sense? Like the 16 talents were stored in those lights and they were ‘picked up’ by the most suited participant? How could you make sure there were no doubles? Or - and this is possible because of the vague language - did the talents build on what the student knew already? In which case, how would they know what the talents would end up being and plan the labs around them?

No, it would... have to be... the first one. Talents had its own selection in the flashback creating machine, though without verifying what the subcategories are it’s hard to confirm or deny anything... but I also can’t shake what Maki said at the beginning of the game? How it felt like their talents were given at random?

So... so they’re not only back where they started - completely isolated with everyone they’ve ever known and the world they knew completely out of reach (in this sense, dead/not actually existing are functionally the same), but they get a helping of a totally warranted existential crisis on top of that.

And... their bodies are real, so everyone else really is dead. No happy sdr2 ending. Well, unless I mental-gymnastics that to read ‘they have physical bodies to return to, but as manufactured personas it’s pointless.’

Me too, Sweetcheeks.

We can’t go 5 minutes without a WHAM line.

B-But they were kidnapped weren’t they -?!

fujisaki does not deserve this slander

Return of the hat!!!

..... is it bad that I miss his hat. I. I really liked his hat. I know that it was representative of the way he held back and used it to hide himself, but - but I liked his original portrait. And I liked the way it was incorporated into his sprites and all the movements he makes with it and without it, like it‘s a phantom limb. okayI’llstop

Why... are we not getting a name here? Was Shuichi Saihara a made-up name too?

oh -

oh no

D: A... Anything...

H-He’s.... a complete fanboy too.................... holy shit. cute but terrifying he looks like much more of a schoolboy super!fan than real Shuichi

S-So wait, it’s not even autosuggestion then - he asked for it? How - how does this work with the flashback lights? It can be targeted like that??? god I’m going to have so many questions after this is all over

I think this may be the death knell for his psyche oTL I certainly wouldn’t be able to take this if I was in his position.

LOOK I KNOW I GET EXCITED ABOUT CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT TOO

but this is a bit much c-can you please keep that drool in -

asdfkjlsdf w h a t

was

was this omitted or something

I - I swear they were kidnapped they seemed a lot more freaked out?!

Even Rantaro, who seemed to know more than he let on at the time - ?!

I... I think I really need to go back and replay the prologue.

ME NEITHER K1-B0 I FEEL LIKE I’M BEING GASLIT

d-did

did you use it on me too

That... that I can believe. No matter who they were before - if they were consenting or not - it might not even matter, if they can’t return to how they were. In a sense, the Gopher Project story was practically preparing them for it - the idea that everything they knew and loved were gone, and would never come back. Oh... oh that’s bad....

TSUMUGI IS ACTUALLY TERRIFYING

SHUT UP NAEGI

wait why is seeing him say that worse than seeing Junko say her normal despair stuff

it’s the insincerity, probably...

YOU NERFED KAITO?!?!?!

YOU NERFED KAITO!!!!!!!

okay I take back what I said Maki you have my enthusiastic blessing to recklessly murder as necessary

RIP Tsumugi and all of her new depth

“I’m also the one that kept sneaking all of the death flags into his room while you were out training every night!”

Y O O O

YOU NERFED HER CHARACTER TOO?!?!?! YOU GOTTA LET THAT HAPPEN ORGANICALLY!!!

LMAO

Souda will never show this much awareness in his actual every day fictional life and that makes this 100% funnier

Everything has a writing credit.... every single thing? Every bit of development?

Even Kokichi’s coup and Kaito’s cooperation? And Kokichi manipulating Gonta? You just seemed so - so angry about that after the trial. Surely those, if nothing else...

At this point they’re just kicking a sad, beaten-down puppy. What more could you possibly do at this point - ?!

oH GOD I DON’T WANT TO SEE THIS

WHAT THE HELL WHO EVEN SAYS SOMETHING LIKE THAT

nNOOO

NO LET ME REMEMBER HIM THE WAY HE WAS

DON’T YOU CROSS THIS BRIGHT RED LINE SHIROGANE

NO

NO THIS IS ILLEGAL I’M CALLING THE POLICE HE LOOKS ABSOLUTELY MAD -

GHGHGGHGHGHGH

GHGHghghghghhh

ghghgh

sdkflj

n o  o o o oooo o o o o o o o

gggkghk

I-It’s not a lie! Even if it was manufactured, even if it was coded into them - their feelings were real to them! It might be by design, but - oh this sounds so hollow. It’s one thing to talk about ‘fate’ and ‘this was the work of a higher power’, but having it brought down on you in such a trivial way must be absolutely soul-crushing.

this is the saddest iteration of hangover!Shuichi that I have laid my eyes on in the entire game

nihilism.

tbh I never found Izuru that intimidating as a final villain in the last game - but here? Terrifying. Maybe it’s in contrast to Junko here, who has the overbearing destructive personality of a tornado, but the quiet emptiness and lack of a higher purpose, of absolute futility that he stands for here - that scares me a lot.   Maybe it’s just because it seems to bring the concept of DR’s despair to a place that I can personally understand?

I keep saying ‘this is terrifying!’ but I mean, to be fair... it... kind of is. as always, fantastic use of text DRV3!

also can someone please shut up the peanut gallery for five minutes

well damn Monokuma that one felt aimed right at me

It reminds me of what Komaeda would say about his own motivation: it was watching everyone struggle with adversity, or the ‘despair of the killing game’, with the end goal of them ‘reaching hope’ - of seeing them overcome and grow stronger for it, that drove him forward. From the outside that makes sense; seeing other people overcome struggles, even ones so terrible, give us the mental strength to overcome our own problems. But for someone on the inside looking out... how perverse would that feel, to think that your suffering is basically being used as inspiration!p0rn? Knowing that there were voyeurs getting a kick out of your struggle?

What happens to game pieces after the game board is closed and put away?

Do they go into stasis? Do they just... exist, outside of time? Frozen forever, until they’re taken out to be ‘played with’ again; left to rot?

If they ‘win’.... they have no future. There’s nothing for them to move forward to reach. A piece learning that they’re a piece, and knowing their dreams after their trials will always stay just out of reach... how can anyone move foward like that?

“love that reaction” OH SHUT UP LUDENBERGxLUVER37

Fight for yourself! They fought to get you this far - Kaito and Kokichi died to give you this chance, even if they are a ‘lie”!

But Shuichi has never been able to fight for himself, only for the others...

Tsumugi, after spending the last hour verbally beating them down and shredding his and everyone’s sense of self to shreds: wow lol what a weakling

Everything is terrible and yet her saying this still got a laugh out of me, damn it.

S-SHUICHI? SHUICHI?

I-IS HE EMOTIONALLY SHUTTING DOWN -

OH GOD

HIS

H-HIS POV - IS GONE -

And nothing but despair left...

Did - did we just lose Shuichi...?

SWEETCHEEKS!!! SWEETCHEEKS, NO!!!

SWEETCHEEKS I’M SO SORRY!!!!

[snicketsleuth]

Slackin’ with the Sleuth: reviewing Netflix’s “The Vile Village”

After two sluggish double-episodes, we are now headed to the three best two-parters of the second season, nay, of the entire show until now. Today, we’re going to talk about direction. “A Series of Unfortunate Events” has suffered not only from being overwritten, but also from being under-directed.  Not an unfortunate consequence of the original writer being involved in the production of the television series, but rather of the other writers not controlling him enough. Episodes written by Daniel Handler get a bad rep amongst the fandom, but from their structure it’s pretty clear that he was more than willing to change his own outlines and listen to the contributions of other people. That being said, it’s hard to criticize the guy who came up with the work you’re supposed to adapt. Which is why episodes written by other people and peer-reviewed by Handler tend to fare better, as his role is to remind everyone of what made the story so successful in the first place.

We’ll see how this contributed to the improvement in direction in the latter half of Season 2. Most of it comes from the production team finally treating the series not only as an adaptation, but also as its own cinematic work. Let’s determine why below the cut.

DISCLAIMER (NOTHING TO DO WITH THE REVIEW):

I missed you guys, it’s been a while.

I apologize for abandoning the blog for so long, to the point that some of you people started worrying about me. I do appreciate the concern, so thank you. Most of my absence can simply be explained away by the many hours I’ve had to put into my day job. This has led to difficult choices regarding my hobbies and extra-work activities, writing for this blog being one of them. Truth be told, I don’t feel this blog fulfils as interesting a purpose as it did before. I’ve already talked about most book theories I cared about, and the books have been discussed to death at that point. As to other types of analyses, there are plenty of talented people on Tumblr who do it as well as me, so I didn’t feel the need to add much to the debate. But I’ve had time to think about plenty of Snicket-related topics during my absence, so no, the blog isn’t dead, just… much less active as it was a few years back. Stay tuned for more, my love for the books and their associated material is very much alive and kicking.

With all due respect (and affection) for our community, your duly devoted Sleuth.

This is the most atmospheric episode to date, and a beautiful one at that. While episodes of the first season certainly had their ambiance, most of it came from the introduction of new musical themes. The second season tries to bring the direction to the next level by fashioning each double-episode after a certain genre, which influences the entire aesthetic of the piece from its writing, colors and camera work. This is perfectly in line with the tone of the original series: each book focuses on a vivid and peculiar location which becomes a character in and of itself, and also parodies specific literary tropes. In keeping with this tradition, the televised version of  “The Austere Academy” mocks coming-of-age teen movies, “The Erstaz Elevator” has shades of musical romantic comedies from Hollywood’s Golden Age, “The Vile Village” pays homage to Westerns, “The Hostile Hospital” is a straight-up horror exploitation flick and “The Carnivorous Carnival” is a neo-expressionist drama. Or rather that’s what we were supposed to infer. In reality, “The Austere Academy” and “The Erstaz Elevator” don’t have anything special in terms of direction to truly allude to their models, and while “The Carnivorous Carnivale” is a blatant remake of “Freaks”, so was the book in the first place. Only with “The Vile Village” and “The Hostile Hospital” do we see the direction add a substantial commentary on the original aesthetic of their respective book. So while the intention is laudable, the execution is somewhat lacking as far as the entire season is concerned. More on that in the next review.

But for now let’s just gush over the gorgeous visuals of “The Vile Village”. Westerns describe the struggle of civilization in a lawless territory, a perfect setting for the crux of a book concerned with legality and mob psychology. While the introduction of the Nevermore tree leaves something to be desired, we do eventually get some fantastic shots. The integration of the CGI and the digital matte paintings significantly improves from this episode on, although whether the artificiality of previous episodes was an intentional choice from the directors is anyone’s guess. The scene of Hector’s first flight aboard the self-sustaining mobile home is a work of beauty. One must regret his line about crows being too “scary”, though. Not only is this an unnecessary change to his character (he is fascinated by the crows in the book), it doesn’t even make sense as the adaptation does not portray Hector as being scared of crows in any shape or form otherwise. He actually has a line about admiring them in the first part of the episode! What on Earth were the writers thinking?

The feels of Western movies is well-rendered, with an impressive focus or lighting. What the director seems to have forgotten is how dusty the Village of Fowl Devotees should look. This is pretty unforgivable given that the book insists on the unbearable feeling of dirtiness which permeates the town. There’s an egregious continuity error where the Baudelaire orphans escape from prison in a massive cloud of debris… then come into the next shot with immaculate clothing. This is a major sin as far as immersion goes.

Another blatant directorial choice is the tendency to film scenes across a two-dimensional space, with characters moving from one side of the screen to the next. This ever-present horizontal axis gives the series a somewhat stiff aspect, with characters not being able to express themselves in a dynamic body language in action scene. There are two possible reasons for this camerawork. Firstly, it makes certain scenes easier to follow (we must not forget that the series is expected to remain watchable for small children), although a little boring on the visual side. Secondly, it does imitate the format of a theater stage, and the theater world plays an important role in Snicket’s world, from “The Marvelous Marriage” to “La Forza del Destino”. I do think the showrunners went a little too far in this direction, though. If they’re so deadest on reproducing the feel of a theater production, maybe they should just pitch the series as a Broadway show rather than a television series. The chase sequences in this double-episode look more like a Street Fighter screen than a cinematic production.

But by far the greatest contribution of this episode is the merciful introduction of SILENCE. What a relief to hear the godforsaken concertina shut up for one minute and let us enjoy the dialogue! The heart of the double-episode comes from the back-and-forth dynamic between Jacques and Olaf (or, to a lesser extent, Esmé and Olivia). Truly a battle between blind, hopeful idealism and cynical nihilism. Major props to Nathan Fillion, who remains possibly the best actor in the entire series, and Neil Patrick Harris who should ruin the seriousness of the scenes with his constant bebopping but somehow doesn’t.

This however comes as the expanse of the Baudelaire orphans themselves, whose presence is somewhat secondary in this episode. The symbolism of them escaping the town in a fire truck is a strike of genius… but the Isadora couplet subplot is drastically skipped over and the unnecessary introduction of Mr Poe drastically reduces their screentime. It’s more forgivable than in “The Erstaz Elevator” as most scenes between the adult characters do help move the plot forward and provide interesting information, but it’s still one of our major criticisms for this season. The writers are clearly infatuated with the adult actors, which hurts the pacing of the story. It’s a shame as the child actors’ acting shows major improvements in the second season. Louis Hynes comes into his own in the prison scene, but the breakneck speed of the scene’s direction does not leave him enough room to grow. We will however concede that Jacquelyn and Larry don’t overstay their welcome in this episode, and that Jacques and Olivia’s romance is sweet to look at. While we disagree with the changes made to Olivia’s character on the whole (we’ll get to that in my review of “The Carnivorous Carnival”), it did produce some well-written, well-acted scenes. Less appreciated is the unnecessary and overstated introduction of a Violet/Duncan romance subplot… this is what happens when you base 90% of an adaptation on what admittedly amounts to fan-pandering. It’s sweet, then it’s sweeter, then you’ve got diabetes.

As far as character development goes, it’s pretty hit-or-miss. Esmé is as usual fantastic. The writers have managed to attain a difficult equilibrium regarding her character dynamic: she obeys enough not to overshadow him, but she also acts as her own antagonist, pursuing her own goals and betraying him if the need arises. The rest of the troupe also has an interesting dynamic with her and her integration in the crime family feels pretty seamless.

But so far we’ve saved the worst for the last paragraph, and as you’ve probably guessed, we’re going to have to speak about Hector. Gods almighty, what a waste of a perfectly good character. Josephine’s death was shot in a very disrespectful manner, but at least her character remained mostly the same. Here the Hector from the books, a tragic and heartbreaking portrayal of peer pressure and social anxiety, is reduced to a joke. To add insult to injury, it’s not even a funny joke: his constant fainting gets tedious quickly. And the ultimate twist about his mom’s fate not being the source of his trauma after all basically reduces his arc to a complete waste of the viewer’s time. If the writers hated him so much, why not just cut his screen time instead of demeaning his entire existence? This does not bode well for a potential adaptation of “All The Wrong Questions”, as Hector’s outlook on family loyalty and peer pressure is somewhat of a plot point in this series. I truly cannot begin to understand these choices as Hector plays a similar role to Hal, Charles and Jerome, who also have likewise personalities… but the writers have adapted Hal, Charles and Jerome faithfully and cleverly, so what gives?

[duce-thruce]

Misunderstandings ThorBruce

A/N: So this is really cheesy as fuck and I was just thinking about some revengers adventures.

The reason for Thor’s peculiar behavior was probably due to cabin fever, Bruce assumed. For the past few weeks, the revengers were cooped on their new space ship, meandering around from galaxy to galaxy, checking on Asgardian refugees that scattered around the galaxy.

Often, Thor would whisper things to Loki, causing his brother to chuckle. Which should not be odd, because normally Thor would let him in on the joke. But this time he wasn’t included like Thor was keeping a secret. There were also moments when Thor would stare at Bruce, but when Bruce looked at him, raising his eyebrows as if to ask Thor what the matter was, Thor would whip his head the opposite direction. It was like he was having a middle school crush, except the two of them had been dating for five years. Even before they dated, Thor never stared at him like that.

Thor would also sigh, as he peered out one of the ship's windows, watching the stars. Thor was usually a vocal man, so all Bruce could do was hope it was cabin fever.

“How long till we get to a different planet?” Bruce asked, hoping for the sake of his boyfriend, the answer would be soon.

They were quite literally on the edge of the universe close to where the universe was expanding. As a scientist, Bruce was proud that he was achieving a large feat in the field of astrophysics. But as a man worried sick for his boyfriend, he wanted to get to solid ground.

Valkyrie was piloting in the seat next to him, and grunted before saying, “It depends which place needs us the most.”

Thor was in another cabin behind the cockpit chatting with Loki, not quite in out of earshot.

Noticing Bruce’s question, he walked into the cockpit and placed a hand on Bruce’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong, Bruce?”

Bruce turned to face Thor, and traced Thor’s face with his eyes, noting each scar, and the scratchy texture of his beard. It was no worse than Bruce’s. Thor’s hair was also grown out like the time they first met when the avengers formed.

Of all the people to be on the edge of the universe with, he was glad it was Thor.

Smiling, at him, Bruce decided it wasn’t best to lie. “I’m just a bit worried.” He didn’t elaborate and Thor never asked him to.

Then with a warm look, Thor leaned over to unbuckle the harness that Bruce was adamant about wearing if Valkyrie piloted. Grabbing Bruce by the hand, he led him out of the cockpit.

After all these years, Thor’s shift from rugged warrior to calm and collected lover, left Bruce warm and fuzzy.

From the corner of his eyes he can see Valkyrie shaking her head, smirking.

In next cabin over, Loki sat on a lounge chair, reading and sipping a tea from an alien planet two galaxies over. Bruce was thankful that Loki was ignoring the both of them holding hands and practically skipping across the ship.

The place they ended up was the private room they both shared. It was supposed to be the largest compartment, but with Thor’s behemoth size it felt cozy. Bruce liked that.

Thor pushed him onto the bed. He was on his back, and Bruce flushed a light green. Instead of what he thought was going to happen, Thor laid on his stomach next to Bruce.

“Tell me more about that theory that the universe is getting bigger.”

Bruce moved from his back onto his side, propping himself up on one of his arms to face Thor.

“Oh that one! Well it was thought up by a midgardian scientist who-” and then Bruce Banner went into his own little world, forgetting about his worries. He described things from the big bang to how the universe, every second, grows atom by atom. Waving the hang he wasn’t laying on, Bruce was too excited to stop.

Thor watched with an ever present smile on his face.

“-and it keeps growing and growing and it never stops meaning that- “

“I will never stop loving you.” Thor grabbed Bruce’s free hand, moving it towards his face, and kissed it, still making eye contact with Bruce. Bruce collapsed into his pillow, defeated and embarrassed. The usual Thor would giggle at his squirming, but at this moment, he continued his staring with earnest, icy blue eyes. His passionate gaze trapped Bruce, who could only stare back.

Getting over his embarrassment, Bruce garnered all his courage, and scooted closer to Thor, pecking him on the lips, feeling the gritty texture of his beard. Thor did not appear fazed from the kiss.

As Thor’s intense gaze continued, and Bruce feathered him with kisses, whispering between each one a tiny ‘I love you’.

It’s funny how Bruce never worshipped a god, until he met Thor.

Days passed since that intimate moment, and Thor’s odd behavior worsened. His staring was more frequent and intense, and the sighing never seemed to stopped. It left Bruce unclear and worried, and he wished he could help.

A small village on an iceberg planet, called for help, and Bruce would have to forget his own worries in favor of hulking out.

When Bruce woke up, he was in a fresh set of clothes in a stranger’s home, on a strange bed. A fireplace burned bright blue flames keeping him warm.

“Thor?” was the first thing he asked.

“I’m right here.” Thor responded, engulfing Bruce in his arms, hugging him. Simultaneously, he was rubbing his back in comforting circles.

“Is everything okay?”

Thor murmured into his shoulder, and buried his face into Bruce’s neck. His hot breathe tickling him.

Letting him go, Bruce asked another question. “How long was I out?”

Thor’s worried expression told him he wasn’t going to like the answer.

“At least two weeks, not counting the two days you slept,” he said, running a gentle hand across Bruce’s cheek and allowed it to rest there. “Why did you think I was going to leave you?”

“Did hulk know?”

Thor nodded. “He sensed something was wrong. Kept saying ‘Banner Scared. How Puny.’ It was cute how he was trying to protect you. It took us a while to convince him everything was okay.”

Thor was still cupping his cheek. “Bruce, my love, why would you think such a thing?”

“You’ve been acting off Thor… I don’t know. It was weird and -”

Dropping his hand, Thor reached into a leather pocket on his thigh. Bruce stopped rambling when, Thor placed a light silver necklace around his neck. He went onto both of his knees, and grasped both of Bruce’s hands.

“Bruce Banner, I, Thor Son of Odin, am submitting myself to you. With no question in my heart, I want to be with you in this life and the next hundred. I ask if I may bind our spirits together in what midgard calls matrimony.” Thor bowed his head. An Asgardian king would only do this to someone who earned it.

Bruce never felt quite as stupid. He realized that all this time Thor was thinking of proposing rather than breaking up.

Still holding Thor’s hands, Bruce left the bed, and went on his knees also. He faced a stunned and flushed Thor.

“Thor, Son of Odin, I, Bruce Banner, am submitting myself to you. I want to spend every life and universe with you. Please, marry me.”

Pulling each other into a kiss, the two lovebirds remained, crouching on the floor of a stranger's home. It was like having the whole universe to themselves. At least until Loki walked in demanding they hurry up. What a fucking mood killer that was.

Weeks later as the revengers strolled into a steady routine, Bruce decided to ask something that had been on his mind since the proposal.

“Thor,” Bruce walked up to him, as he stood near another window, smiling, as he gazing at the stars. “So are we going to have a wedding? I think it would help going back to Earth and having one with all our friends unless you think-”

“Wait.” Thor whipped his head to look at Bruce, his eyes confused and mouth agape.

“I mean would you want like a winter wedding or.. I’m not too sure how Asgardian ceremonies work, but I will be happy to incorporate every ounce of your culture. Speaking of Asgard are we inviting everyone?? Like all of Asgard?? Cause then we would have to like rent out an island and technically we have no money but I’m sure Tony would help out once he finds out we’re engaged and-”

“Engaged? Haven’t we been married this whole time?”

Now it was Bruce’s turn to be shocked. Both men looked at each other, appalled, before falling into laughter.

For Bruce, it was a learning moment, and he hoped that he and Thor could have centuries to continue learning from one another.

They did have a universe to save after all.

[bicon-korra]

home is where you are

[Allurance, word count: 3,470, post-S7, canon-compliant]

Summary: Allura feels out of place at the Garrison (and Earth in general) and Lance provides some hecking support, Pidge and Keith make an appearance, Allura gets flirty and we get a first kiss

[Read it on AO3]

Allura woke up with a start to the sound of silence, her senses buzzing. It was early morning, telling by the white light streaming through her window. She began to hear birds chirping, signaling the start of a new day. So strange, this planet…Their sporadic lilts were a sharp contrast to Keith’s morning drill calls. She felt poised to jump into action but remembered that they were on Earth now, in a state of temporary peace.

She rubbed her eyes and took in her surroundings—the Garrison quarters didn’t feel like her room back in the Castle of Lions, or even her cramped space in the Blue Lion. The walls were painted cream. Old photos of the Garrison campus hung on the wall. Her new Garrison uniform was folded neatly on a wooden chair. Allura sat up and stretched, yawning loudly. She instinctively reached for her tiara at her bedside table and found nothing. That’s right. She lost it when she used its crystal for Shiro’s arm. She was utterly relieved that it stabilized him—something as inconsequential as giving up her crown was nothing in comparison to saving her dear friend. Still, she felt off not having it.

She slipped on her orange uniform jacket, its sleeves stiff and wide. Her pants were not as fitted as her paladin underarmor, with sharp creases running along each leg. Allura frowned as she looked down at her outfit. It was a far cry from her Altean uniform, which was safely tucked away in Blue. She tightened the belt at her waist to make it look more feminine. Not a vast improvement but one she could work with. She put up her hair hastily, using several pins to hold her heavy curls in place. The hologram of her parents on her bedside table caught her eye, and she felt a heaviness seep into her chest. The alarm clock next to it rang quietly and broke her stare. It was time for breakfast.

Allura walked to the end of the hall where Lance stood leaning against the wall waiting for her.  

“Morning, Princess!” he chirped. He was always eager to start the day with her.

“Morning,” she smiled. She took in his clean-pressed Garrison look. His hair was still as mussed as ever, but he looked really sharp and handsome in his new suit, the jacket framing his torso perfectly. Allura felt something stir in her chest. Odd.

“So today’s breakfast is…you guessed it! The superfood combo again! Tomorrow they’ll probably shake things up and switch the skim milk to 1% milk,” Lance joked.

“I could really use a milkshake instead,” Allura sighed. The Garrison was not normally as rigid with their meal options, but the lack of supplies demanded a diet designed for nutritional sustenance over pleasure.

“Right there with ya.”

“Will we be sitting at our usual spot?”

“Sure, unless you wanted to sit somewhere else? I think Hunk is away doing systems checks right now but Keith and Pidge will be there.”

“No, it’s not that. I just—I feel like people…stare at me.”

Lance stopped walking and tried reading her expression. “Stare at you how?” he asked, his brows knitting in concern.

“They’re not bad stares, just…” She gestured to her face. “An Altean in a cafeteria is like a choferiak in a yelmore’s den.”

Lance smiled. “You know half of the people are trying to wrap their brains around the fact that an Altean princess is one of humanity’s last hopes for survival. The other half just wants to be you because you’re awesome,” he grinned.

Allura blushed, the warmth on her face a welcome surprise since they landed on Earth. So this is the effect Loverboy Lance has.

“You’re giving me too much credit. You know they’re staring at you too,” Allura said shyly. Lance’s eyes widened and he gave a lopsided smile.

“You, and the rest of the paladins,” she quickly added. Quiznack, why was it so hard for her to be honest with him?

Lance’s face relaxed a little. “I do feel pretty badass right now, after our fight with…whatever that thing was.” He scratched his head nervously.

“We’ll find out more about it, in time,” she reassured him. “We’re here. Let’s eat.”

---

Allura and Lance picked up their trays of food and walked over to where Keith and Pidge were sitting. Pidge was explaining something sciency, gesturing wildly with her hands, while shoveling food into her mouth. Keith seemed lost in thought, swirling his spoon in his bowl of oatmeal, but kept nodding to show he was paying attention.

“Hi guys!” Lance plopped down next to Keith and Allura next to Pidge.

“Hey,” Pidge and Keith greeted them.

“What are you guys talking about?” Lance asked.

“I was trying to explain Atlas’s construction to Keith, starting from my dad’s early designs. When he was imprisoned, the Galra found out he was an engineer and used his knowledge to design their weapons, which also drew power from quintessence.” Pidge chattered then paused. “He took a lot of what he learned—was forced to learn—and brought it here to Earth.”  

Allura recognized the pain in Pidge’s eyes. “Your father is a strong man. His work has been instrumental to ensuring Earth and the entire universe’s survival. I’ve learned a lot from him since coming here, and I’m constantly in awe of his knowledge and perseverance. He must be so proud of the work you’ve done as a paladin. You’re a lot like him,” Allura said with a soft smile. She meant every word.  

“Thanks, Allura. That means a lot.” Pidge said shyly, shifting in her seat. “And the feeling’s mutual,” she smiled. “My dad’s also impressed by you. He said you two are investigating the mecha that attacked us. Just thinking about that thing gives me nightmares.”

“I don’t know how you do it, Allura, jumping right back into work after our fight,” Lance chimed in.

“Do you know what’s powering that thing?” Keith asked. He looked worried, as if the thought had been nagging him all day. Their theories led to Haggar the witch whose Komar utilized quintessence in a similar way.

“We’re not sure yet,” Allura said, frustrated with their slow progress. “Just that it’s related to Haggar.”

One of the cadets walking past slowed down a little, his eyes darting to their table and back, and then quickened his pace. Allura stiffened and looked down at her untouched muffin. She curtly patted her mouth with her napkin and pushed the tray in front of her.

Lance’s eyebrows furrowed and he looked back at the cadet to give him the stink eye. “Allura, is that what you were talking about?”

Allura nodded. “Yes. I’ve been noticing it more and more each day. Even though I work with Sam and his team every day, a part of me still feels out of place,” she said sadly, propping her head on her hand. A strand of hair fell to obscure her face. She wanted to hide, shut herself in her room, something she hadn’t felt in a while when they were in space.

“Hey…” Lance said gently, reaching forward to push the strand behind her ear. The brush of his fingers made Allura shiver as she looked up at him. Pidge and Keith exchanged a quick look and Keith suddenly seemed intensely focused on his oatmeal.

“I’m sorry that they’re making you feel uncomfortable,” Lance said. “I don’t know what’s going through their heads, but I’m sure its nothing bad. You, Coran, Romelle…you’re the reason why we’re here. Alive. People here respect you, but they might not have a good way of showing it since they still don’t understand things that aren’t…human.”

“Yeah, I was talking with my dad and your tech is all anyone in the base can talk about,” Pidge added. “It’s some of the most advanced science that Earth has ever seen.”

Keith looked up from his plate and locked eyes with Allura. “Allura, I understand what it means to feel like an outsider here. Even growing up here, it felt so different from home,” he said.

Allura nodded, remembering her past conversations with Keith about growing up near the base with his father. Keith continued. “My mom, Kolivan…they’ve been getting weird stares too. Like Lance said, I don’t think they’re afraid, maybe just intimidated.”

Allura considered all of this. She commanded the room when they had their military briefings with little push back. That, and her meetings with Sam to investigate what was powering Haggar’s ship. People did respect her…so why did they stare so much? What else was going through their minds?

“Thank you all,” Allura said. A part of her still felt insecure, but their words did help soothe her anxiety. When they finished eating, Pidge and Keith excused themselves to go to their next assignments. Pidge gave her a quick hug and Keith squeezed her shoulder gently before leaving. Allura loved the feeling that only physical comfort could provide.

Like clockwork, Lance rose and scooted next to Allura, his thigh touching hers.

“Thanks for trying to cheer me up, Lance. I feel more at ease,” Allura said, hyperaware that their arms were touching too.

“Of course. I’m glad you do,” he soothed. He broke off a piece of her muffin and tossed it in his mouth, smiling at Allura.

“Lance, you’re like a vacuum,” Allura teased. She became well acquainted with the human appliance after Kosmo became her roommate in space despite her loud protests.

“I just really love blueberries. Do you want a bite?” he asked, breaking off another piece.

She felt her walls go down just a bit. Just because she was in the Garrison didn’t mean she couldn’t have a little fun. She smiled coyly. “Sure.”

Lance paused. “Um, do you want to—or do you want me to—” he stammered. Allura opened her mouth slightly, knowing this would be the death of him. She relished his expression as he fed her the muffin. Mmmm. Delicious.

“Christ, Allura.” Lance said, raking his hand through his hair as his face reddened. Allura chewed slowly, her expression smug.

“I could use another—” she jokingly crooned.

“Nope!” he said, throwing his hands up in defeat. They both laughed. Loverboy Lance bested again by the princess of Altea.

People were staring again but for an entirely different reason. It didn’t matter now to Allura—not when she and Lance were together.

“Well, this has been fun, as always, but I have work to do in the Altean database room,” Allura sighed. She wanted to take him with her. “They want me to keep combing the records for the Galra’s methods of extracting quintessence. It’s actually quite disturbing subject matter. And so tedious. Pidge and I have been working for what feels like phoebs.” She rolled her neck thinking about all the unexplored files that remained.

“Do you need a hand?” he asked earnestly. “You can teach me how to navigate the records. Or I could just give you a neck massage and back rub. Your pick,” he winked.

Allura smiled. “Sure, that would be great.” She was thinking about the back rub.

---

When they arrived at the database room, Allura led him to her workstation, data pads and archaic texts sprawled all over the desk. She gave Lance a simple coding script used to unpack the files so that she could transcribe them. During her explanation, Lance nodded occasionally, his eyes glazed over with the more technical parts, but eventually he got the hang of it.

“Easy peasy!” Lance said, cracking his fingers before getting to work. Allura rolled her eyes—this boy—and sat at her computer monitor to extract data from the unpacked files. Navigating through the records felt like flying the Castleship—her mind sharp and fingers swiftly typing in several commands. She and Pidge made good progress recently by finding one of the earliest robeast’s structural designs, similar to the one they fought on Balmera. They knew that Haggar’s dark alchemy was what powered the one on Balmera, so the ancient robeast must have thrived on similar magic. The thought of it set Allura on edge, raising the hair on her arms. She thought of Oriande, the birthplace of alchemy. She could only remember its ethereal pink-white glow in her dreams. The kiss of knowledge placed by the ancestors of alchemists before that radiated through every fibre of her being. How could such power be used to corrupt? Her memories harshly transitioned to her most recent reminder of home. Sendak’s disturbing holographic message that shook her to her core: If a planet refuses to give up, then we annihilate it. But only one planet has ever refused: Altea.

Allura stopped typing and seemed lost in a trance, thoughts of Altea, of home, flooding her mind. Lance rolled his chair toward hers, peering at her.

“Allura, are you okay?” he asked.

“I—I was thinking about Altea. I hadn’t thought of it in a while. Especially after traveling through space for decaphoebs. I guess losing the Castle of Lions made me remember what it felt like, growing up there and the work my father did.” She felt a lump in her throat and briefly glanced around the room. Everything was as it was yesterday but looking closer things felt so…alien. Lance nodded slowly, waiting for her to continue.

“Earth feels so different. I was so happy to see you and the others reunite with your families. Coran is my family, and I’m so grateful to have him. But…I still feel out of sorts. Being the daughter of King Alfor, my role as a diplomat was my birthright, so to speak. I always thought that I would carry out his work in space where I grew up, among all the planets we’ve fought to free. It’s hard for me to distance myself from this responsibility—being a recognizable representative of the Coalition across galaxies. I know our efforts as paladins and diplomats have not been fruitless—the people of outer space are being welcomed on Earth now, as allies and refugees. It’s what my father wanted, what Voltron has always fought to secure. I guess the distance from space makes me feel less needed as the Princess of Altea, if that makes sense,” she said, her voice tapering off at the end. The heavy feeling in her chest returned.

“Allura, I’m sorry you feel like all that responsibility is on you. And that you’re not needed as a princess,” Lance said softly.

“What’s more,” she continued, “when I arrived here on Earth I thought I’d feel like same responsibility, that same weight. But I don’t as much. Everyone here is doing the work at a much faster pace than I could have ever hoped to achieve. It sounds so selfish—I know it’s selfish—because that’s the entire purpose of the Coalition, but…Who on Earth is going to remember King Alfor the alchemist one hundred, one thousand decaphoebs down the line? I feel like a stranger in the room at present.”

Her voice began to shake and she reflexively reached to adjust her tiara—like she did whenever she was stressed—but again found nothing. This place survived on Altean technology but still felt far removed from home.

Lance moved closer and draped his arm around her shoulders. Comforted by the warmth of his body, she slowly exhaled, tears running down her face, and let her head lean against his chest. He rested his head on top of hers and his other hand reached for hers to hold it. She looped her fingers through his. Allura felt her muscles relax as Lance rubbed the back of her shoulder in a slow, soothing motion.

“Was it new to you too?” Allura whispered. “This place, new hallways to explore, people to meet?”

“It was,” he reminisced, his voice soft and wistful. “I grew up in Cuba, as you know, and life there is very different. In my hometown during the summer as a kid, I used to wander around the streets talking to shopkeepers and running errands for them. I guess it’s ‘cause I was a really fast runner. They would treat me with a Coke at the end of the day. School was fine, kind of boring, but space exploration? That’s something I could only dream of doing. When Veronica got accepted into the program, she was really nervous about leaving home. She cried the entire first week she was here.” The hum of his voice made Allura desperate to hear more.

“Veronica cried for a whole week?” she asked incredulously, wiping her runny nose with her hand. Veronica seemed like a paragon of strength among her colleagues at the Garrison, which Allura deeply admired. Lance chuckled and wiped some of the wetness from her face.

“Hard to imagine, huh?”

“Not really, considering she’s related to you,” Allura teased. Lance tousled her hair a little, making Allura squeal in protest. God, she’s so cute, he thought.

“But you know,” he continued, smoothing her hair, “I found another family here too. I thought going to a space academy would be an entirely different world—no pun intended—and it was. I was scared to be in a completely new terrain. I mean, it’s freaking Arizona, where there’s, like, no water. But there was still that sense of togetherness that I loved back home. Even though weekend training hours sucked, that’s how I got to know Hunk and we became best friends. Pidge came later in the picture, and she spent hours tutoring me before my physics tests. I was barely scraping by before I met her. Keith was a year ahead of us, so I only saw him when we did flight drills. Watching him was actually really helpful for nailing down flight patterns. Keith being Keith, I tried talking to him and got brushed off, but I know he remembers me,” Lance said smugly, and Allura giggled. 

“All of us took the same classes, flew in the same simulators, pulled pranks on Iverson and got stuck in detention. I saw Keith there a lot too, actually…” he smirked.

Allura chuckled again, and the feeling of it on his chest made Lance want to melt.

“And…then I met you,” he said so affectionately it sent a pang through her chest. She looked up to meet his gaze. “I felt like all the pieces were being put together, like I was becoming the person I always wanted to be. I guess home is wherever I’m happy with my friends and family.”

Allura squeezed his hand. He looked so sure of himself, so unlike the time he first shared his insecurities with her. Something was definitely different about him. She saw it in the way he carried himself. In the way he sacrificed himself countless times for his teammates. They were here on Earth, in a dim room lit by pulsing monitors, and yet, when she looked at him she saw stars.

“I can imagine how much of a change it is for you,” he said. “But you’re still Altean, no matter where you are. And the people here respect you so much and your culture. Hell, your crystals saved Shiro. Again! And they made Atlas fly, and that thing is huge. I think the Garrison will start to feel more familiar over time. You have us. Whenever you’re feeling alone, I will always be here for you. Please know that.” His expression was serious this time. The weight of his promise began to sink in. It had always been there.

“It is a big change,” Allura agreed. She could continue talking for hours, but something inside her demanded exploring another option. “I guess I just need to give it some time to feel more adjusted. But hearing you talk about it makes me feel better. A lot better.” Their hands were still interlocked. She looked up at him, her eyes drinking in his vulnerable expression. He raised his eyebrows and swallowed hard. She fought the instinct to bottle her feelings. Her heart was racing. “Having you here already makes it easier.” She shifted his hand from his lap to hers and reached up to kiss him, trying not to laugh as his face spanned several emotions.

“Allura, what’re you—”

“Just stop talking, Lance.”

Her lips met his and she was instantly swept away. Lance buried his fingers in her hair and deepened the kiss, his movements swift, almost instinctual. She saddled herself on his lap, knocking down some papers in the process, and wrapped her arms around his head, her lips tight over his. They pulled away from each other, breathing hard.

“Allura?”

“Yes, Lance?”

“We should do this more often.”

Yes. She could definitely get used to this.

[cheasethings]

how cedar symbology reinforces the theory of Others as evicted weirwood spirits

asoiaf meta

this.. essay? heavily relies on theories and information gathered in the Mythical Astronomy of Ice and Fire by Lucifer means Lightbringer, so props to him and i hope this makes sense if youre unfamiliar with that work.

linking cedars to weirwoods:

"'Who knows more of gods than I? Horse gods and fire gods, gods made of gold with gemstone eyes, gods carved of cedar wood, gods chiseled into mountains, gods of empty air . . .'" -The Iron Captain, AFFC note 'carved'

"He did not like this Isle of Cedars either. The hunting might be good, but the forests were too green and still, full of twisted trees and queer bright flowers like none his men had ever seen before, and there were horrors lurking amongst the broken palaces and shattered statues of drowned Velos, half a league north of the point where the fleet lay at anchor. The last time Victarion had spent a night ashore, his dreams had been dark and disturbing and when he woke his mouth was full of blood. The maester said he had bitten his own tongue in his sleep, but he took it for a sign from the Drowned God, a warning that if he lingered here too long, he would choke on his own blood." -The Iron Suitor, ADWD

note 'too green' and the fact that Victarion has Strange Dreams sleeping here and wakes with weirwood stigmata (a mouth full of blood, like a weirwood)

HIstory of cedars:

"For centuries Meereen and her sister cities Yunkai and Astapor had been the linchpins of the slave trade, the place where Dothraki khals and the corsairs of the Basilisk Isles sold their captives and the rest of the world came to buy. Without slaves, Meereen had little to offer traders. Copper was plentiful in the Ghiscari hills, but the metal was not as valuable as it had been when bronze ruled the world. The cedars that had once grown tall along the coast grew no more, felled by the axes of the Old Empire or consumed by dragonfire when Ghis made war against Valyria. Once the trees had gone, the soil baked beneath the hot sun and blew away in thick red clouds. "It was these calamities that transformed my people into slavers," Galazza Galare had told her, at the Temple of the Graces. And I am the calamity that will change these slavers back into people, Dany had sworn to herself." -Daenerys III, ADWD

"Where were these cedars? Drowned four hundred years ago, it seemed." -THe Iron Suitor, ADWD

"On the day the Doom came to Valyria, it was said, a wall of water three hundred feet high had descended on the island, drowning hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children, leaving none to tell the tale but some fisherfolk who had been at sea and a handful of Velosi spearmen posted in a stout stone tower on the island's highest hill, who had seen the hills and valleys beneath them turn into a raging sea. Fair Velos with its palaces of cedar and pink marble had vanished in a heartbeat. On the north end of the island, the ancient brick walls and stepped pyramids of the slaver port Ghozai had suffered the same fate." -THe Iron Suitor, ADWD

from these quotes we get a story of valyrians destroying cedars (directly or indirectly).  In slaver's bay, the desertification resulting from the cedar's destruction creates the economic conditions that forces the three sister cities to start trading in slaves.  Most valyrian actions fall into the pattern of the BLoodstone Emperor, that is to say, behavior that starts a Long Night (symbolically).  

Linking the Slavers to the Others:

aside from the obvious fact that the Others are slavers, enthralling their victims bodies and minds to wage their war (i believe the wights are conscious, but thats another story) theres a lot of stuff linking meereenese culture specifically to the faith of the seven and other Other symbols, mostly through color symbology.  if you're not familiar with the new gods' links to the Others, for now just think about how the rainbow of the seven is contained in White.

meereen is constructed of bricks of every color.

"she and her lord husband passed beneeth the bronzes, to emerge at the top of a great brick bowl ringed by descending tiers of benches, each a different color. Hizdahr zo Loraq led her down, through black, purple, blue, green, white yellow, and orange to the red, where the scarlet bricks took the color of the sands below. ...Across the pit the Graces sat in flowing robes of many colors, clustered around the austere figure of Galazza Galare, who alone amongst them wore the green.  The Great Masters of Meereen occupied the red and orange benches. The women were veiled, and the men had brushed and lacquered their hair into horns and hands and spikes. Hizdahr's kin of the ancient line of Loraq seemed to favor tokars of purple and indigo and lilac, whilst those of Pahl were striped in pink and white.  ... The black and purple benches, highest and most distant from the sand, were crowded with freedmen and other common folk." -Daenerys IX, ADWD

the graces wear rainbow colors (while their leader alone wears green...) Loraq wear indigo and other purples.  indigo is a relatively rare color in asoiaf, most notable in the House of the Undying, who are symbols of the Others. (other things it describes are the strangler crystals, twilit skies, rhaegar's eyes, and the Mallister sigil.) Pahl wear Other colors.  contrast to the freed and common people sitting in the black (and purple, so this isnt perfect) benches.

and from the dany III quote above, "I am the calamity that will change these slavers back into people, Dany had sworn to herself." Dany will presumably be one of the heros to fight against the Others, and put them to rest.

what it means:

Together with the history about cedars, the story i get from this is: Valyrians destroy trees and Slavers (Others) are born from the resulting desert (cold dead lands).  this to me is strong evidence for the theory that Azor Ahai/the Bloodstone Emperor invaded the Weirwoods through killing Nissa Nissa in blood sacrifice to open them up, forcing out the spirit of the trees, who become Others, and starting the Long Night.  the bit about "Once the trees had gone, the soil baked beneath the hot sun and blew away in thick red clouds" reinforces this in my mind.  the balance provided by the trees has been destroyed, and thick red clouds appear after the soil gets blasted by the fire of the sun. if the moon meteor theory is right, this is the same thing as the balance provided by the fire moon being destroyed, and meteors that drank the fire of the sun raining down and throwing up huge clouds of debris.  another symbol for the fire moon cataclysm, the doom of valyria, sends a tsunami to destroy the isle of cedars. same story.  meteors cause tidal waves when they drop in the ocean.

the long night is caused by the destruction of the moon, which is also Azor Ahai trying to obtain greater power by usurping the moon's power, and Nissa Nissa the Amethyst Empress's power.  (consider the idea that all valyrian steel swords are made from the fire moon meteors, just as the sword Dawn is made from a pale falling star, which means superior weapons for your army.)  In similar fashion, the Others are caused by the invasion of the weirwood net, which is Azor Ahai trying to obtain the gods’ power by usurping the power of the trees.

the Cedar Forest in the Epic of Gilgamesh also seems to echo this story, but im not super knowledgeable about it, so ill only briefly talk about those links.  Gilgamesh and Azor Ahai both try to invade a forest to steal the trees for themselves.  Gilgamesh must fight and kill Humbaba, the demon guardian of the forest (who wears seven layers of armor), in order to get away with this.  Azor Ahai must conquer and force out the Others.  After Gilgamesh succeeds, he spurns the goddess Ishtar.  Ishtar then begs her father to use the bull of heaven (taurus) to destroy Gilgamesh and his city, threatening to open the gates of hell, letting the dead out to roam the earth and eat the living.  Sounds like some Other shit to me.  Taurus also holds the Pleiades, which LML has identified as the Faith's seven pointed star and the seven stars given to Hugor of the Hill.  the bull of heaven makes craters in the earth with its breath.  Bulls are also symbols for the moon in greek myth, so to me this sounds like both came true in asoiaf.  the moon wreaks havoc on planetos and Azor Ahai's city Asshai creating lots of craters, and also the gates of hell are opened by the Others.  all because Gilgamesh and Azor Ahai were total assholes, though theyre remembered as heros.

Gilgamesh also has dreams before entering the Cedar Forest, one of the bull of heaven and another where "The skies roared with thunder and the earth heaved, Then came darkness and a stillness like death. Lightning smashed the ground and fires blazed out; Death flooded from the skies. When the heat died and the fires went out, The plains had turned to ash.”  however  both of these are interpreted to mean that gilgamesh will succeed.  mhm.  succeed in starting the long night by causing a firestorm of space rocks.

as a sidenote, there are only 11 times cedar chests are mentioned in asoiaf.  i have a few thoughts about them.

THings in cedar chests:

men's clothes- -ned's light linen undertunic -renly's clothing -boy's clothing for tyrion from illyrio (inlaid with lapis and mother-of-pearl)

women's clothes- -the hound's white kingsguard cloak, blood and smoke stained, hidden under sansa's summer silks -wool and linen clothing for sansa given by littlefinger on the ship from KL -arianne's clothes when she's locked in a tower, she refuses to dress like a 'child' -ramsay's quilted doublet and well worn breeches stolen for jeyne to wear for her escape

misc- -dany's dragon eggs, given by illyrio -yunkish gold, a gift to dany so she wont attack yunkai (bound in bronze and gold) -a dwarf's head, given to cersei (inlaid with ivory in a pattern of vines and flowers, with hinges and clasps of white gold) -the 3 pickled heads of dany's envoys to mantarys

they are decorated in lapis, mother-of-pearl, bronze, gold, ivory, and white gold- all ice symbols ('hands of gold are always cold').

the women's clothes are what im most sure about- theyre all given by men to women, more specifically by solar figures to lunar figures.  Sansa gets Sandor's cloak which she then dyes green and wears as she escapes King's landing. Sansa then recieves more clothes from Littlefinger, primo evil Azor Ahai figure. this is all in the context of her journey from fire to ice as it were, from kings landing to the eyrie and from Sansa the fire maiden to Alayne the ice queen, which has been theorized to echo the story of Nissa Nissa entering the weirwoods. Jeyne pool gets clothes stolen from Ramsay.  Arianne gets her own clothes, but given by Doran for her imprisonment.  To me this all reinforces the idea of Azor Ahai dressing Nissa Nissa in the Weirwoods. another detail is that Arianne chooses to dress in her most revealing clothes, saying "Prince Doran might treat her like a child, but she refused to dress like one."  if Nissa Nissa was a child of the forest, or had blood of the cotf, this makes a lot of sense.  Azor Ahai treating a lunar figure like a child of the forest means using her greenseer blood to open the weirwoods to himself. Similarly, Tyrion, an Azor Ahai figure, gets a child's clothes from a cedar chest, i.e. Azor Ahai becomes a greenseer.

as for the others, im not as sure. dany's eggs being inside cedar/weirwoods seems to show simply that dragon people like Azor Ahai, or Azor Ahai and Nissa Nissa's children are in the trees or became greenseers, but the would be Tyrion's head and the envoys' heads arent as clear to me.  Ned and Renly also are clothed in weirwoods apparently which doesnt seem that symbolically far fetched. Neds a Stark and Renly dies and is reborn, and also has green armor that tells you your future if you peer into it (but only if youre Catelyn).

[ddaenghoney]

“i’m nervous too” with Yoongi, plsss??? i love your blog!🖤

from this list x

wc: 1011

Yoongi’s hands back then were a bit more comparable to your own. Size wise, though you both would admit that maybe they were a bit squishier than in the current time period. Either way it was different when you took a grip on him as a kid clinging to some sense of security as you both stood in a long hallway, decorated in accordance to the random castle dungeon theme of the roller coaster. It was probably the robotic characters that were creepier than the ride itself in retrospect, but still Yoongi’s then small fingers tightly constricted around your own.

“We should’ve said no.” He was muttering with a glare at your fellow classmates ahead of the two of you wildly pointing to the various lights and making comments to try and scare one another about the– child-sized– terrifying rollercoaster. 

“It’s just that stupid clown thing keeps making weird noises and it scares me.” You tried to explain your fear, pointing off to a particularly odd jester robot that looked near breakdown, frankly. “We should’ve-” As it made another high-pitched laugh you stepped closer to Yoongi who in turn grabbed your arm from his own unsettled reaction. You both huffed in annoyance and relief when the shrill noise finally stopped, but remained in a knitted connection to one another as you stepped further down the line. 

“If you don’t sit with me I’m gonna scream.” He wanted to take some type of pride in the idea of offering you protection, but Yoongi was simply nodding his head in return to the words. Verbal reply falling from his lips when you all entered into the room to be meshed off into different spots on the ride,

“Me too.”

In the present, you were quite a bit less timid in regards to the cliche decor around the amusement park. Mutually Yoongi only covered his ears when passing the loud wails from inside a haunted house attraction, more annoyed with the volume than anything. Even so, the faux space theme of the area had it’s charm, including the Ferris Wheel with each pod meant to look like cartoon UFO’s. 

“Can we ride that?” He followed the direction of your finger to the same attraction, nodding softly at the tame ride. Turning to the rest of the group who were for the most part intent on going to some thrill ride off in the horizon– except for Hoseok and Seokjin who were off at a fun house instead of dealing with another ride– Yoongi called out that you and him would be going for the Ferris Wheel instead. Jimin was whining about not wanting to be the only one freaking out, but did little to stop Jungkook from dragging him further along. Namjoon waved the two of you off.

“You just saved my neck.” Yoongi admitted stepping behind you in the small line formed as the sun nearly finished its dip to the other side of the planet. “I think my soul would’ve detached if I went on another one of those things. You scoffed indignantly at the idea, covering your mouth as Yoongi’s index finger prodded into your waist, “Just because you’re a rock when it comes to rollercoasters doesn’t mean all of us are, love.” 

“I get nervous about other things.” You explained with a shrug, turning from him to prop onto your toes, assessing how long the wait would be. 

“Like?” You turned back to face him, not anticipating his closer proximity, resulting in you stuttering atop your toes backwards. Stabilizing you by taking grip onto both sides of your waist, Yoongi’s bottom lip dragged between his smirk, humored. “Claustrophobic? To me?”

“Yeah, right.” You mumbled, eyebrows narrowed at the idea, but the beating in your chest more focused in on his hands; a lot larger than when you both were kids. “Just about the opposite.” His hands had dropped by the sentence’s completion, his expression warming into a fond smile.

“That was nicer than something sarcastic.” Yoongi’s low voice barely made it to clarity in your ears, eye glancing up at the large circumference of the Ferris Wheel that spun with lights of blue, greens, and gold. “I’m kinda nervous about this one too,” He shrugged, “Well, if the cabins shake a lot I will be anyways.”

“I’m nervous, too.” At the fall of unfiltered words, he glanced back down to you, eyes searching for any fear that would prompt him to remove the two of you from the line.

“You wanted to ride it though?”

“Like,” You stuttered, averting your eyes to the ride– really unassuming honestly– and then back to Yoongi’s familiar face that was somehow much more capable in shaking the nerves across your body than you’d like to admit. “Not the rollercoaster. Just,” You laughed softly, shaking your head to look towards the shoes of other patrons, “Never mind; it’s dumb.” 

“No,” An easy glide of his fingertips below your jaw, led your eyes back to his own, “It’s not. What’s wrong, love?” 

“Nothing.” His eyebrows knitted and lips pouted like when he was younger and throughout all the years, somehow now more endearing than you used to see. 

“Want to hold my hand?” Your chest thumped like a brick at the soft offer. “And after this we can get cotton candy, maybe go to that mirror maze, take some of the dumb pictures with those cutout animal stand things that always make you laugh like a dork,” You rolled your eyes, cheeks flushing and making Yoongi chuckle softly, “And then we can talk about what you’re nervous about when I take you home later?”

“Holding your hand is gonna calm me down?” You muttered the theory he presented, frankly already more relaxed by his caring ideas. As a reply Yoongi’s large appendage took hold of your own, fingers locking as easily as they would from the years of knowing you. The smallest of curls blossomed on your lips, wondering how many years ago his hand’s size began that different from your own. 

“Well, is it helping?”

[en--dear]

“You have to think big at the beginning—that’s the problem for most people.” I’m sitting with Thomas Sacchi on a warm Friday evening in the bar of the Houdini Cinema, Zürich. Propped next to a large window on the mezzanine level, we have an elevated vantage point as the Badenerstrasse strip stirs below. “When we first approached local authorities,” he continued, “our proposal was to build a new piece of city—to bring together work, living and culture.” Sacchi is on the board of the Kalkbreite Co-operative, where the Houdini is located, and was the project manager during the creation and construction of what has become Zürich’s emblematic co-operative housing development. He also rents an apartment in the mixed-use complex, completed just west of the city centre in August 2014.

Kalkbreite is unique in many ways. Owned by the City of Zürich and earmarked for potential development as far back as 1978, the awkward triangular plot, which is the size of a full city block, is flanked on one side by a sunken train line and remains a functioning tram depot. Thanks to a clever design scheme by Müller Sigrist Architekten that integrates the nine-metre high depot hall and curved track into the building’s supporting frame, the site now boasts 97 affordable housing units for approximately 250 people, 5,000 square metres of retail space, offices and ateliers, as well as a publicly accessible raised plaza. More striking than the architecture, though, is the economics. The project was initiated by a grassroots collective of ten people and developed in line with an independent non-profit model that rejects speculation in favour of sustainability.

Switzerland has a long history of co-operatives. As Andreas Hofer, one of the original leaders of the co-operative housing movement, later explained to me in his office at the seminal Kraftwerk1 development, “co-operatives are in some way part of the national myth.” The country’s two major supermarket chains, for example, were founded, and continue to operate, as co-operatives, with a combined membership exceeding half the Swiss population. An early 20th-century product of the broader European labour movement, co-operatives in Switzerland soon began to provide non-market rental housing to their working-class members. In the process, they acquired large land holdings at cut-price rates on what were then the peripheries of growing cities.

In 2007, Zürich celebrated the centenary of non-profit housing construction, with the inauguration of the Mehr als Wohnen (‘more than living’) project. But today’s co-operative renaissance has its roots in a more turbulent era. Despite its image as a rich and antiseptic city of bankers, Zürich in the 1980s and 1990s underwent a period of explosive change. The Züri brännt (‘Zürich is burning’) youth riots of 1980 birthed a rebellious countercultural movement, which eventually collided with a permissive drug scene that by 1986 had become a magnet for dealers and users across Europe. The decision, in 1992, to end an ill-fated experiment with an open-air drug market at the Platzspitz ‘Needle Park’, coincided with a citywide financial crisis triggered by the collapse of an overheated real estate bubble.

These social and economic upheavals were intertwined. As Zürich transformed in the 1980s from an industrial to financial centre, investors converted homes into offices, fuelling a housing shortage. The ensuing property frenzy led prices and rents to skyrocket. Apartments were often left empty, with their owners focused on profiting from a quick resale. Hofer arrived to study architecture during the ‘hot summer’ of 1982 and remembers that affordability was already a contentious issue: “It was impossible to live in the city.” A squatting scene that had emerged around cultural spaces quickly evolved into a broader movement. “It was not a radical left-wing thing. Because the problems were so pressing—even for the middle class—there was a spirit of solidarity. If one house was destroyed, we moved collectively to the next. Even in the richest areas, quiet occupations were tolerated.”

In part because of the drug epidemic—and the violence, crime and rampant prostitution that came with it—families were fleeing the city. But the high cost and limited availability of housing was even more alarming. By 1992, Zürich’s population had shrunk to its lowest level since 1945. Graduating in 1987, Hofer recalls that he and his friends felt personally confronted. “As professionals, we thought: what are we doing? Are we going to work with the speculators to destroy our city?” The group of young architects, geographers and planners formed the Konzeptgruppe Städtebau in 1988 to explore alternative urban development strategies. Three years later, they founded the International Network for Urban Research and Action (INURA), and visited cities like Berlin and Amsterdam that had begun to experiment with the legalisation of squats.

“We tried to decide whether the time was ripe not only to demonstrate, but also to promote a project,” Hofer says. The crisis of 1992 had coincided with heated debates around new planning laws, which in Zürich were updated on a 20-year cycle. Sensing an opportunity, Hofer, the artist Martin Blum, and anarchist author P.M. (Hans Widmer) printed 700 copies of a small book called Kraftwerk1—Projekt für das Sulzer Escher Wyss Areal, which contained a proposal for a self-organised, sustainable living-and-working complex to be built on a former industrial site. “We didn’t have money, we didn’t have land, we didn’t have anything,” Hofer explains. “But nobody wanted to invest in Zurich. So naturally, there was a big discussion about the future of the city. In a way, we were an answer.”

Encouraged by the reaction, the newly formed association organised the KraftWerkSommer festival in 1994. More than 60 events took place in a disused former factory, including concerts and parties, but also discussions and planning sessions focused on the project and a new vision for the city. Hofer laughs: “At the end we were completely bankrupt.” But the cultural program served its purpose—the Kraftwerk1 building and housing co-operative was formed the following year. “We contacted landowners and developers and because of the crisis it was not absurd for them to talk to us.” When a planned office development fell through, the new investor was open to ideas; “They were so desperate that they saw us as their last chance.”

Completed in 2001, the Kraftwerk1 development was not the first to experiment with collective approaches. But by taking advantage of existing co-operative frameworks and partnering with leading architects, it revived and opened up a stagnant sector, and became an important model for how to finance groundbreaking projects on former industrial sites. Sixteen years later, the basic approach is now well established. At Kalkbreite, members pay a refundable fee of 1,000 CHF ($1,300), providing the start-up capital. Residents then purchase an equity ‘share’ in the form of a 26,000 CHF ($34,000) deposit (also refundable). Rents are set per square metre by amortising the cost of the land lease plus construction loan over a 62-year period. If interest rates drop, so do rents, which are currently 20 percent below market levels. In theory, once the loan is paid off rents will only have to cover ongoing maintenance and operations.

The co-operative model has even greater appeal because, unlike Australia, Switzerland is a nation of renters. In Zürich, only nine percent of the population owns their home, in a city where the median house price exceeds 1.5 million CHF ($2 million). Long-term tenancy is an attractive prospect due to the security and stability offered by a system of open-ended leases, limited power to evict, and rent controls over the lifetime of a lease. But this also creates an uneven playing field, where remaining in the same apartment for a number of years equates to a greater and greater discount on the going market rate. The other factor is supply. The Zürich housing sector has been under strain since the late 1990s, when the city and economy began to rebound. Sustained high demand is reflected in incredibly low vacancy rates.

In a referendum held in November 2011, on the back of a decade of rising rents, three quarters of the population voted in favour of a ballot measure mandating that affordable, non-profit apartments make up one third of the city’s total rental stock by the year 2050. It was perhaps this event, more than any other, which has set the scene for an upswing in co-operative-driven construction in recent years. By Zürich standards, the target is not overly ambitious. Around 27 percent of rental apartments already operate on a non-profit basis, with 20 percent managed by co-operatives and the remainder by the municipality itself. The biggest challenge is the city’s continuing building boom. As the overall residential stock expands, non-profit construction is locked in a race to outpace private development.

Kalkbreite was one of a handful of projects featured in the exhibition Together! The New Architecture of the Collective, which opened in June at the Vitra Design Museum. It appeared alongside related developments in Germany, Japan, Austria, Denmark, the Netherlands, South Korea and the United States. When I asked Andreas Ruby, one of the exhibition’s curators, why he thought the projects were largely clustered in central Europe and east Asia, he was blunt: “Because the United States, United Kingdom and Australia are obsessed with home ownership. Europe is much more a renter’s market, so people are more open to non-ownership-based housing models. It is telling that the only project we have from the Anglo-Saxon world is for homeless people.”

When I put the question of exportability to Hofer, he was more optimistic. “Co-operatives can be a stabilising element in any real estate market. You can approach it as a pure financial system, where future profits are collectivised, and everyone gains from falling rents.” Then came the caveat. “But you cannot export it 1:1. People visit from all over the world and see a development that has worked, where rents are cheap and people are happy. But it has to be adapted to fit the local context.” And what about the turmoil that engulfed the city three decades ago? “The housing market is inherently conservative and influenced by strong political lobbies. So a financial crisis, a social crisis—these can trigger a crucial moment of reflection. It is possible to change the system through reason, but humans often need a deep crisis to get reasonable.”

This article originally appeared in Issue 8 of Assemble Papers, ‘Metropolis.’ A big thanks to Alexis Kalagas for introducing us to the co-operative housing initiative across Zürich. All photography in this piece is by Ciro Miguel. You can read more about the Kalkbreite co-operative on their website (German only), or join the urban revolution with INURA.