#I wrote something again

[artie-doko]

'Enveloped in clouds of white'

[thatonepikminperson]

Plot: Pom just wants a happy ending. Every time she try to get it, rescue all the castaways, save all the leaflings, collect all the treasures, see all the creatures, finish all the quests, find all the Onions, do EVERYTHING, she always wakes up back at the beginning of her journey. She’s tried thousands of times to change something, ANYTHING, but every time, the order is the same. Russ, Schnauz, Leafling, Kingsly, Dingo, the order just never changes. Pom finds herself on yet another trip to the planet PNF-404, and finds that something has changed. For once, something changed, and yet, it’s something that sets off a chain reaction everywhere, and Pom is only left confused on what changed, and why she’s been given a chance to escape this never ending nightmare.

So hey, guess what, I MADE ANOTHER FIC and this time, it’s a time loop fic. Let’s go baby, that’s what I’ve been waiting for, that’s what it’s all about, woooooo

[philleegirl]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Ted Lasso (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Roy Kent/Jamie Tartt Characters: Roy Kent, Jamie Tartt Additional Tags: Anal Sex, Anal Play, Anal Plug, Past Sexual Assault, no graphic details, Talking During Sex, I mean a lot of talking during sex, First Time, Roy Kent is a good coach even in bed, Jamie Tartt listens to his coach even in bed, lots of swearing, Smut, Fluff and Smut, and just a pinch of angst, Idiots in Love Summary:

Whatever they were doing had been happening since Jamie had gotten home from Brazil. After a mere week apart, Roy and Jamie had been so excited to see each other again that their welcome home bro hug had somehow turned into a make out session and mutual handjob on Roy’s couch. In the weeks since they had continued along a similar routine, but not yet progressed passed hand and blow jobs. The night before Roy had tried to take them further but Jamie had frozen and panicked. Finally Jamie admitted that he assumed that he would be the one being fucked and he didn't think that he could. Roy had assured Jamie, with words as well as long slow kisses, that while yes he would love to one day fuck Jamie's gorgeous ass, Roy was more than happy to be fucked by Jamie Fucking Tartt.

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[dapper-lil-arts]

I'm not the kind of person that's like "Here let me fix the canon" usually but like holy crap gen 5 implied a lot of messed up shit about our hero Twilight Sparkle lmao

[haveihitanerve]

Gotham Protects Her Own

“Gotham protects her own.” Bruce had whispered to him once, in a, at the time, not so rare moment of affection, cradling dick to his chest as they looked over his city. Their city. Batman and Robin. Dick had believed him, of course, but he hadn��t really felt it. Not until he had stood at the bats side for the second year in a row, and his cape had fluttered. Dicks cape had never fluttered while he was standing. Running across the rooftops? Sure. Jumping over a chimney? Most definitely. But just standing still, no movement? It had never happened. Bruce’s did, from the very beginning Bruce’s cape had flown behind him, flapping with grace in the wind that was not there. But dicks hadn’t. But now… Bruce smiled down at him, pride lining every line in his face, before he took off across the roof, a challenge and a test at the same time. Dick chased after him, and for the first time since he had become Robin, he flew. His feet barely touched down, cushioned by the roofs, by shadows, and he laughed, wild and bright and free, and Bruce joined him, laugh deep and rich and full. Dick belonged to Gotham now, the city had laid her claim on him, and as Batman and Robin flew across the city, Dick could hear a new laugh join them, light and happy and feminine, delighted by their delight, their acceptance. Gotham protects her own, and Dick Grayson-Wayne, the first Robin, had earned that right, that protection, with his leaps and jokes and belief in Batman, in a belief in the city, in the belief that it could be better. 

Gotham protects her own. Catherine Todd had murmured to him once, late one night, a bruise blossoming on her cheek, eyes heavy from drugs. She was close to death, Jason could feel it practically wafting off her, and he didn't think much of her last words, a hazy drugged hallucination, slurred speech. But then she had passed and Jason had left, choosing the street over his father and then he had understood. People came looking for him, naturally, even his father ventured out, but shadows seemed to envelop him, the streets opened to his footfalls, and he always found a safe place to sleep, never waking with his things stolen or suddenly kidnapped. Jason could feel the city, his very lifeblood, could hear her music in her traffic, felt her song in the earthquakes. Gotham cradled him, sheltered him, and when the time came, pushed him to a left unattended Batmobile, tempting him to steal the tires. For the first time, Jason doubted his city, hated her for sending him into a trap. But then he became Robin, and Gotham squealed in delight, and Jason watched in awe as Bruce flew, as Gotham made his cloak billow, as she nurtured her prodigal son. Batman had gotten injured, once, badly enough that he had struggled with his grapple line, and it had snapped. Jason had screamed, lunging for him, but it was too late. Before he could cry over the dead body of his mentor, he found Bruce at the bottom of the building, not much worse for wear at all. Gotham had cradled him, shadows leaping to cushion his fall. Jason had laughed with glee, rushing Bruce home as quickly as possible, and something had brushed his cheek, a faint kiss against his forehead. Gotham protects her own and Jason Todd-Wayne, the second Robin, had been born into that right, that protection, and felt her city pound through his body like blood, feeding his soul. 

Gotham protects her own. Tim had seen the slogan on a Wayne Enterprise billboard once, when he had been seven, an ad campaign promoting insurance and helpful housing. It had become a sort of mantra for him, something he whispered under his breath every time his father made a snide comment about Tim lacking proper talent or social skills, after every call his parents declined, after every fight that had him biting his lip to stop the tears and debate running away. Gotham protects her own. Became his lifeline, his mantra, a promise of a better life. It wasn't anything he ever believed, until he finally worked up the courage to approach Bruce Wayne about the secret. Tim slipped on the Robin uniform for the first time… And something inside him settled. A woman's voice in the back of Tim’s head squealed. But as he raced over the rooftops, finally at Batman's side as he always dreamed to be instead of a few feet behind, snapping pictures, his cape dancing with the wind, his feet hardly touching down, that mantra, that false belief of hope, of a better life, became truth. Gotham protects her own, and Tim Drake-Wayne, the third Robin, had believed in that truth his whole life, wishing with every fiber of his being that she would protect him, and she finally had. 

Gotham protects her own. David Cain had warned her once, telling her great stories of the city with air of midnight black, of water a putrid green, and of a people a hardy and tough. It hadn't been a compliment, just another obstacle she would need to overcome to fulfill her future missions. She had believed him, of course, but… she had never truly known what it meant. Not until she had stumbled into the city, hurt, bleeding, afraid, and she had felt that… otherworldly power. Reaching for her. Its tendrils soft and kind, like a mother, shadows stretching across her, shielding her, as the League prowled the streets. It wasn't until she saw him. The Bat. And his little Bird, brutal efficiency and yet mercy in every action, wasn't until she saw how Gotham cradled them, lifted them, helped them to fly. Gotham had been more accepting to her than she had thought. Maybe because she hadn't hurt her children. Maybe because she knew her pain. Maybe because Cass had been so afraid. But whatever the reason, when Cassandra Cain-Wayne took to the streets, a proud, blazing Bat on her chest, her cape billowing behind her, Gotham sang. 

“Gotham protects her own!” Arthur Brown had screamed once. It had been in a fit of rage, followed by the sounds of windows crashing and tables smashing against the wall. He had been angry, livid even, the sound of his footsteps heavy and hard on the floor as he stormed around, pissed that Batman was unreachable for him, untouchable, protected by the city he claimed to do the same to. Steph knew the truth in the words, had been protected by them her whole life, finding a window open right when her father got home, the closet door unlocked miraculously after her father had locked her up, alleyways opening for her to escape through when bigger kids picked on her, or the cops chased her. And it happened now, as Arthur Brown came storming for her, rage and malice and every evil intention written across his features. Steph could feel that tug, that indescribable feeling of home, and she took a step back, melting into the shadows as she fled, fled her home, fled her father, fled his wrath and everything wrong with the world. She settled on the roof, the way she always did when he got like this, and waited, as she always did. For it to end. For him to stop. It was that night that she saw him for the first time. Steph had heard of him, of course, the Batman was infamous throughout Gotham by now, but she had never seen him in person. Never watched his work. It was at Bethany’s house. Bethany’s father, Vincent, was screaming again. The way Arthur was. But Gotham, Gotham didn't protect Bethany the way she did Steph. Or maybe Bethany just didn't listen. But Batman.. Batman listened. Batman protected. Steph watched, wide eyed, as he jumped through the window, as he grabbed Vincent by the throat and slammed him against the wall, snarling in his face. Steph watched, hands clutching her teddy, wondering whether she would rather risk her father than this demon. But he stopped. Paused. Threw Vincent to the ground in disgust, unconscious, and turned to Bethany. Beth had stopped moving, the way she always did when Vincent got the way he did, dissociating so she wouldn't feel his hands on her. Steph didn't think it worked, but it was something. Batman bent down, gentle, slowly, a few feet away, extending a hand to Beth. Steph couldn't hear what he said, couldn't see his face, but Beth blinked at him. She blinked, and she walked closer, slowly. And Batman… Batman held her, held her until she was crying, held her through her tears and wiped her eyes and rubbed her back, held her until she was asleep without nightmares, and carried her to bed, tucking her in gently. Steph didn't know how long she sat there, watching as he cared for this little girl, forgoing the Bat Symbol in the sky, and his anger, for her. Gotham protects her own, Steph swore as she watched him drop from the window the same night, flitting away on shadows only she could see. Gotham protects her own, and she would protect Gotham. She would mold herself after the Bat, and help. 

[joicecubes]

hey guess who’s absolutely losing it over the stan twins again (spoiler alert its me)

so i was innocently scrolling tiktok when i was introduced to this DIABOLICAL au idea: firstly, what if ford really had shot stan with his crossbow when stan first showed up at the shack? and secondly, what if ford tried to bring him back to life frankenstein-style? (full credit to tiktok user @44boora for this idea, go check their account for some gut-wrenching art) (also… full post below the cut this got long)

but like i was thinking about this, ford bringing stan back to life specifically, and how dependent the concept is on this specific time in his life. i just feel like any other time and under any other circumstance, ford would have been able to, eventually, accept stan’s death. we see it at the end of weirdmageddon, where ford is ready to accept that the stan they all know and love is gone now that his memory has been erased. he tells mabel as much, and only realizes there’s hope for him when mabel is determined enough to push back against ford’s logic. ford believes very intensely in his own perception of the world. he believes in science. theoretically, he believes death is death, and there’s nothing he can do to change that.

but then, think of ford after he’s been betrayed by bill. this ford is at his absolute lowest. he can’t trust his own perception of the world anymore. he’s seen the truth of what their relationship was and the horrors he was so close to unleashing on their universe. he is desperate to right his wrongs. he’s losing sleep, his body is abused every time he closes his eyes, and the end of the world as he knows it is iminent if he doesn’t succeed in making the portal as secure and unusable as possible without dismantling it entirely. the only person he believes he can trust after everything that’s happened is stan. so he contacts him for help, and in his time waiting for him to arrive, cannot stop thinking of the worst-case scenario: that bill could still be coming for him. so when he opens the door to stan, his high-strung, paranoid brain doesn’t see stan, and he shoots.

he shoots his own brother with a crossbow and kills him.

ford is not usually one to blatantly ignore a scientific fact. again, death is death, and there’s nothing he can do about that. and yet, in a state of such intense grief, when his entire world is already close to crumbling around him and he’s holding his dead brother in his arms, there’s nothing else he can feasibly do but deny. so he does.

he lives in denial of a lot of things. that stan’s death is final, obviously, but also his reasonings for attempting to do the impossible and revive him. ford likes to believe he operates purely on logic, so he tells himself he’s doing this because he has to. without stan, he can’t prevent bill from entering their universe. he’s still the only person ford can trust, so reviving him is another step in his ultimate goal of stopping bill and saving the world. it doesn’t matter that its never been done before, ford will do it anyway. and he believes that he can, because as much as he thinks he’s moved on from his hubris, he’s still acting off the assumption that he’s special. he’s so far ahead of everybody else, so naturally, if anybody could accomplish the impossible and bring stan back from the dead, its ford.

and so he denies that the real reason he’s trying to save stan is not a logical one. he denies that he’s running entirely on emotions. it would be foolish to try something so risky and impossible and time-consuming if he were only doing it because of his crushing guilt and decade-long yearning, so he tells himself there’s so much more to it than that. he can’t just be doing this because he loves him, right? he’s not that shallow. he’s not that desperate.

and yet, he is. because as much as ford wants to deny it, he can’t live without stan. he can’t live with the knowledge that he was responsible for stan’s death. if he didn’t succeed, his grief would surely kill him.

[sforzesco]

it's time for spartacus :)

[unpretty]

why am i so bad at drugs. caffeine makes me sleepy. alcohol is bone hurting juice. vicoden does nothing. the giant mouth-numbing syringe doesn't kick in properly until an hour after i left the dentist. i hit a vape pen and then i sit and wait 20-30 minutes. i say "this edible ain't shit" and nothing happens until 17 hours later when I wake up for work and realize i'm high. i am trying to misbehave but my own body keeps timegating me.

[macksartblock]

beware of burnout it's so real i'm afraid

also bc ended up making my writing into a font to avoid killing my hand as much and bc I saw Caden do this, I thought it would be fun to see who y'all think it suits lol

[dennisboobs]

:) i certainly have no issue dressing in drag :)

^guy who has no issue dressing in drag btw

glenn said that dennis' drag name is victoria von hemen btw

(Source)

[slushfaerie]

you and art were invited to his grandma's friend's holiday party. you really don’t want to go.

art donaldson x introverted!fem reader (or fem reader that would just rather stay home and have her way with loverboy art and vice versa..bc like...) incredibly self-indulgent and hastily written. inspired by my desire to stay home and also my desire for art donaldson. nsfw elements! way steamier than what i've written before. happy holidays and/or happy wednesday <33

it was almost time to leave and you'd put off getting ready for as long as you possibly could.

art looks up from his spot lounging on the couch with bated breath as you emerge from the bathroom, steam billowing through your hotel room.

his mouth all but hangs open as he sees you, cheek resting against his hand as he takes you in, probably wrinkling his pressed collared shirt he’s chosen to wear, sleeves rolled up to his forearms.

there you stood like some sort of angel - wrapped in a silky white robe, still-damp locks of hair framing your face. he would stare at you forever if he could. 

art’s attuned to you as you let out a soft sigh, your gaze a million miles away. holiday gatherings - gatherings in general - weren’t your most favorite thing. but you’d at least have art to buoy you through the evening, trying to make you laugh with aptly timed snide comments whispered in your ear at the expense of other partygoers. he'd reach his hand beneath the dinner table, thumb caressing your thigh acting as a life preserver. anything for you. 

art was agreeable, malleable in social situations, but he could think of a thousand other places he’d rather be - almost all of them having to do with you wrapped around him in some way. 

as you reach for your moisturizer on the dresser, art’s hand covers yours before intertwining your fingers. you melt against him as he slots his body behind yours, kissing the sensitive spot behind your ear, leaving a trail of kisses down your neck. he has to hold back a moan as he inhales the scent of your shampoo, of you. 

art undoes the tie of your robe, peeling it off and putting you on display to him, only in your cute bra and panties. you watch as he grabs the tub of moisturizer himself and unscrews the lid with diligent fingers, warming some between his hands. 

the way art massages your shoulders, it's as if he hopes to melt away your nerves and tension, leaving kisses in their wake. he hums approvingly as he feels you exhale.

you turn around to face him, your robe a silky pool at your feet, a look of momentary bliss on your face from his ministrations. he turns his head to press a gentle kiss to your palm as you cup his cheek with your hand.

art lets out a gasp as you lace your fingers in his hair, pulling his lips to yours. he kisses you back in earnest, licking into your mouth as his warm hands wander down to palm your ass, massaging with as much devotion as he'd given the rest of you, pulling you against him. he'd drown in you if you'd let him.

art lays you down on the bed as he continues to massage the moisturizer into your arms, pressing kisses and giving attention to each hand, each individual finger. looking down to meet his gaze, you see his pupils dwarfing the depths of his blue eyes with that little kiss of brown.

you can't hold back your moans as art leaves lingering kisses on the tops of your breasts - he's all lips and tongue and gentle nips, teasing the hardening buds of your nipples through your bra, trailing his way down your stomach. 

art’s lashes flutter shut as he licks the sensitive skin around your navel, tracing teasing shapes with his tongue right above the cute little bow at the top of your panties. god, you tasted so sweet.

art gives you a crooked grin as you squirm, cheeks flushing, breath now coming out in sweet, shallow pants.

"y'know, you're making me wanna keep you here all to myself."

you mumble with weak protest something about being worried about being late, about making a good impression on his grandmother. art chuckles and rolls his eyes with resignation.

"okay, if you say so." he crawls up your body, giving your cheek a tender caress with his thumb as he leans in closer.

"just wait until i get you back here," the words of encouragement more for himself than you at this point as art pulls himself away and goes to retrieve his sweater from the hotel dresser.

a little motivation to get you both through the night never hurt anyone.

[ironunderstands]

Sunday’s worldview sucks, his outlook and perception of himself and others sucks… and that’s why he’s so interesting

In honor of his drip marketing releasing tonight (or maybe yesterday for you depending on when I get this out), I’d like to talk about why I think Sunday’s beliefs and perspective is very, very flawed and how his own biases rather than the actions of those who oppose him are what led to his downfall.

Sunday is entirely responsible for his own failure, and that’s exactly why he’s incredible.

This contains mentions of leaks and spoilers for the Penacony quest line… you have been warned

To start with, oh my lord do Sunday’s preconceived notions kick him in the ass. 

I think the best example of this is his conversation with Dr. Ratio in which Ratio pretends to betray Aventurine, selling out his plan to Sunday. Now, what’s incredibly interesting about this exchange is that Ratio doesn’t fully lie to Sunday once in this exchange, rather he says half truths and makes vague statements which Sunday himself interprets as being in support of him. 

Take what Ratio said the whole, “A scholar knows their position and wouldn’t forsake it for the sake of petty pride.” In retrospect, we know this line is actually referring to Aventurine- aka Ratio is saying he’s not just going to sell him out to Sunday for the sake of information about the Stellaron (which he would get anyways if the IPC attained Penacony, plus Mr. Incredibly Dedicated Knowledge Spreader probably has other means of gaining it then through The Family). 

However, since Ratio answered the invitation Sunday gave him, Sunday assumes that Ratio is on his side, believes his cause is righteous, and that he won Ratio over with offering him information about the Stellaron, therefore making that previous statement of Ratio’s null, because Sunday interpreted it as, “convince me this is worth my time + prove to me you’re correct,” when it really meant, “there is no way in hell I’m about to sacrifice my friend to you, and there is nothing you could offer me to make me do so you crazed lunatic.”

But why did Sunday not weigh the options? Why did he unquestioningly believe his perception of the situation was the correct one?

Well- partly it’s because Ratio and Aventurine were doing their damndest to make it seem like they hate each other and that their plan was going off the rails.

But the more important part is that even without Ratio saying a word or even accepting the invitation, Sunday already believes he’d be on his side. 

Let me demonstrate this through Sunday's perspective:

I am a righteous person, I am doing the correct things, my worldview is the correct one. Dr. Ratio is also a righteous person who seems to be doing the correct things. Therefore, since we are both on the side of good, and Aventurine is clearly not on that side considering his status as Stoneheart and his negative relationship to Ratio, then Ratio will naturally want to be on my side. After all, the good guys work together, do they not?- and together will vanquish this evil villain.

This perspective is a simple one, but Sunday’s unshaking belief (up until the end of 2.2) that he is 100% in correct and in the right, that any and everyone who he also perceives to be in the right (like Ratio) would believe/side with him without truly needing to be convinced. Sunday doesn’t come out the gate offering the Stellaron information- he only keeps it as a backup just in case. 

However, this is complicated because Sunday is also not an idiot, and he’s extremely paranoid, so he’s going to make sure that the way he views the world is 100% correct on the off chance he’s wrong which could foil his plans- which is why he invited Ratio in the first place. Nevertheless, this isn’t him hunting for new perspectives, but rather him desiring to prove himself right again, which is a bad thing because Sunday is very much not right. 

A perfect world is a perfect pris- *gets shot*

Reference that approximately 2 ½ people will get beside, Sunday’s ideology that he is fully confident in.. sucks. It sucks ass, it’s terrible, and let me explain.

I’m not going to try going over all the little intricacies to how the dreamscape works because I a) don’t know and b) don’t particularly care because they aren’t relevant to the argument I will be making- which is that Sunday’s ideology is inherently flawed and immediately falls apart under scrutiny.

Essentially, he desires to create the perfect fake reality, enveloping the whole galaxy in Ena’s dream and fulfilling their every desire and whim within it, with himself as the sacrifice to allow it to exist. The seven rest days, no illness, no pain, no challenge, you get the idea. 

And, this perfect world paradoxically sucks ass because of its perfectness.

Improving society is great, eliminating hardship is great, increasing quality of life is great.

But declawing reality itself- absolutely not.

I’m going to try to explain this through my favorite strangely specific anecdote- the process of obtaining diamonds in Minecraft.

Stay with me now.

You essentially have two options- go out and mine them yourselves the hard way, which takes hours, gives you less diamonds per the amount of time spent on it, and likely with you exhausting some of your resources like food, torches, and tools which you will need to replenish.

Or.

You can just.. get them from creative mode or commands, and you can get as many as your heart desires.

However, despite the fact that option one is harder, gives you less diamonds and takes significantly more time, I, as well as hopefully you, would pick it every time (at least in a survival world, although honestly idk why you would even need pure diamonds in creative).

And that’s because the first option is rewarding. 

You did not earn the diamonds you easily and magically summoned into your inventory, there is no struggle, no journey, no challenge to it, therefore it feels entirely unremarkable, as compared to the feeling you (hopefully) get from mining diamonds, which makes you happy because you earned it. Yeah, it was harder, but the process itself is fun- the anticipation of not knowing when you’re going to find them, if at all, the danger, the fighting and digging and mauvering you will have to do in the process.

And with this unconventional example, the fatal flaw with Sunday’s ideology is revealed- it’s boring. 

It’s boring as shit.

Yeah, for the first few months or even years it might be enjoyable- having everything you could ever want served on a silver platter. However, humans are a) inherently a bit greedy and b) desire challenge, and this scenario fulfilles neither of those things. Naturally having everything means your desire for more can never be fulfilled, leaving the wanter forever unsatisfied, whereas in the real world, things are truly out of your reach, meaning that even if you never end up getting them, they are still a tangible thing just out of reach… as strange at it sounds, we like being tantalilus-ed more than you think. After all, if what you want is so easy to get, you will never run out of things to want, and eventually that gets draining. 

Continually, if everything is easy, if everything is just right there whenever you want it- existence itself no longer has stakes. 

And that’s the problem, because much like how a story with no stakes is extremely hard to find compelling, a life with no stakes feels boring at best and downright pointless and meaningless at worst.

I’m just saying, there is a reason why the Nihility was such a strong presence and problem in Penacony.

Anyways, like with the diamond problem, a lack of stakes means that nothing you do feels rewarding, because you didn’t truly earn it. 

Which is where the Sunday’s idea of a “perfect” reality falls apart, because the most enjoyable reality for humans to live in is not one literally devoid of any possible flaw.

So why does he believe in it? When it’s so clearly flawed?

Well, it’s because Sunday doesn’t think a better alternative exists.

The world made you this way.. and you chose to continue what it started.

I’m sure I don’t need to repeat the story of the Charmony Dove all over again because trust me, we’ve all heard it before. Nonetheless, it reveals something important both about Sunday’s personality and his ideology- he’s fundamentally a defeatist.

He doesn’t believe that there is any alternative for the dove, that it could ever be able to fly again with its deformed nature, so instead of being “cruel” and letting it “inevitably fall to its death,” he’d rather keep it in a cage all its life where it has no freedom, but at least it would he alive and “happy”.

And this is where his defeatism reveals itself- Sunday doesn’t believe reality itself can get better because improving it when there are so many factors and things out of your control is hard at best and impossible at worst. Therefore, he resorts to creating an escapist, false version of it- a perfect golden cage, because constructing that is far, far easier than trying to help the dove fly again. 

The universe has endless possibilities, if Robin and Sunday had tried hard enough, they probably could have found a solution. Sure, they were both children, so the capabilities necessary to even attempt that were likely far out of their reach. However, it was still possible, but Sunday doesn’t believe in possibilities- he believes he’s right above all else, which is where that stubbornness and arrogance comes into play again.

Sunday doesn’t think better solutions than his exists, and he believes everyone would could possibly stand in his noble way are either villains, or horribly misguided; so it’s his job to show them the light.

This is why he lets the Express Crew + Firefly try to change his mind- Sunday wasn’t actually interesting in shifting his perspective, or really what they wanted to say. Rather, he just wanted to let them say there peace, because well, Sunday’s a good, righteous person (at least from his perspective), and good, righteous people listen to others. Good, righteous people will let these poor, ignorant souls offer their foolish words before exposing them to the harsh truth- or at least that’s how Sunday sees it. 

Moreover, this also explains his arrogance. If he believes his worldview is the sole correct one, then why listen to anyone else? He’s this world's savior, or at least he’s been raised to believe that- so why not relish in it? He enjoys punishing Aventurine, enjoys the bastard who stood in the way of Sunday’s plans, shrinks away in “defeat” and get what he “deserves.” Despite how miserable it sounds, Sunday also takes pride in having to be a martyr to bring about his beautiful dream. The belief that he is a selfless, good person is a selfish desire of his, even if a genuine one, and it’s what leads to his downfall.

Sunday could have actually listened. He could have reevaluated his loss to Aventurine and realized it was not through the others clever deception, but through his own biases. He could have actually taken the Express’s and Firefly’s advice. He could have looked for other avenues to help the people he truly does care about. 

Despite Gopher Wood’s manipulation- Sunday’s decision to go forward with the pain is entirely his own, because he truly believes- even with all the evidence for the contrary- that he is correct.

And that’s why he fails. Not because of the Express. Not because of Ratio. Not because of Aventurine. Not because of Gopher, or even the rest of The Family.

No, Sunday fails because he is flawed, and he is wrong, and he is the arrogant, selfish and biased one, and his worldview is wrong.

So what now?

This might have seemed like I think Sunday is pure evil and irredeemable, but I think it’s quite the opposite.

He has very good intentions, and he does genuinely care about it the well being of other people around him. He gives Aventurine a chance to prove his innocence, even if he never intended on changing, he does listen to what the Express + Firefly have to say. He pauses when Robin shows up, as she’s the one person (until the very end) he’s actually willing to accept the perspective of. The whole reason he ended up here in the first place is because Gopher Wood twisted Sunday’s good intentions into a fatal arrogance and utmost belief in a flawed worldview. 

However, what really sells me on Sunday’s goodness is when eyes widen at that final moment, the light draining from him as he realizes he is wrong. 

And once Sunday realizes he is wrong, those flaws that bind him can finally be examined and improved upon, as they all stem from that worldview he no longer believes in. 

His whole life, Sunday has been enacting out someone else’s plan for him, even if he’s come to internalize it over time, at the end of the day- it was never his, and without it, he’s empty.

Which is exactly why the only place he can go now is the Express, and the only thing left for him is redemption and growth.

Dan Heng is right- Sunday has a noble soul, and now that he has stopped believing in himself, he’s no longer shackled by the past either. Improvement or utter demise (in a likely nihility-flavored manner) are his only options remaining.

I understand a lot of people want to see him become a Stellaron Hunter, but imo, that just does nothing for him. He’d still be following someone else’s path/script, and Mr. I Will Sacrifice My Whole Existence To Become The Sun To Illuminate These Wandering Souls probably wouldn’t be so on board with the whole.. terrorism part of being a SH. Like yeah, they are our friends (kinda), but they absolutely kill innocent people and cause millions of dollars in property damage to people who don’t deserve it. 

Also, being on the Express Just Makes Sense. This is a game about choices, a game about accepting the mistakes of your past, but not letting them define you in order to move on and forge a better future for yourself and others- with the Astral Express + Trailblaze as a concept being the literal embodiment of it. There’s a reason when you switch to the Trailblazer’s POV in stories, it includes Kafka’s most important words to us- “When you have the chance to make a choice, make one you won’t regret.”

Therefore, I hope the choices Sunday will make in 2.7 are ones he’s proud of, and I can’t wait to see how exactly they get him on board with the crew, because there still is a LOT of development he needs to do before then. 

Anyways, thank you so much for reading, and if you have any thoughts I’d love to hear them. This was a stream of consciousness mess, but I hope it was still valuable nonetheless! Also if you are reading this on the day it was written, I hope we don’t get disappointed by his drip marketing!

[mamawasatesttube]

something i like to think about sometimes is that. man. you could really create some kind of perfect storm with the combo of tim's post-infinite crisis fear of losing kon again + kon's intense, but generally passive, suicidality. guy who was so convinced he had to die a hero that when it happened he didn't even seem bothered by it (because he can't be traumatized by his own death if it was what he was literally made for, right?) x guy who has developed a whole new type of mental illness out of the survivor's guilt 100x combo. put them both through the wringer at the same time with one easy trick (make tim think kon will try to sacrifice himself for something) (and kon very well might!)

[skkpaws]

sometimes i cant help but giggle when i think about this scene because it’s such a significant scene for skk and reveals so much more about them during this time both as partners and individually .. and it originally came from the bsd mobile game 😭

idk who on the mayoi team was in the writing room absolutely cooking that day but i thank you

bonus dazai being all like ‘my partners mad at me 🥺 👉👈’

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

Extended Parting

Synopsis: After being separated from you for so long, Childe finally finds you again.

Foul Legacy x Reader Pronouns: Gender Neutral (no pronouns mentioned) Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Comfort Warnings: Mentions of blood, physical injuries, fear, pain, crying, allusions to being attacked

Original Request by Anon: requesting requesting! beep bop beep bop ! more foul legacy × reader hurt/comfort, perhaps? :3

hear me out- in the format of a scenario; just pure comfort, reader is perhaps sent of to a dangerous mission/commission while childe is away doing his own thing. when he is going back home however, he stumbles across a group of fatui, taking the reader hostage & hurting them. foul legacy's reaction to his "allies" hurting the love of his life? and how he would take care of the reader after, assuming the reader got pretty severe injuries (even though they're not fetal).

Im a big sucker for this big boi getting all soft when the reader is hurt, and i wanna see more of him just holding the bleeding reader in his arms while trying to comfort them

~ * ~

Two weeks, three days, seven hours, and eight minutes. That’s how long you’ve been apart, how long Childe has gone without being in your presence, and he’s hated every second of it. Important commission, hah! No commission could be so important that it took you away from him for this long- almost half a month! All of your other missions took you a week, tops, and even then he could barely handle it, missing you more and more as each day passed without a single word or letter. Of course, he admits, it’s not like Childe didn’t also have his own duties to attend to during this time, this extended parting. As usual, he was forced to store Ajax and Childe away, slipping on the mask of Tartaglia, the Eleventh Harbinger, and taking delight in violent diplomacy. But even fighting and bloodshed did little to satiate his longing for you; how much he wished to see your wonderful smile and that keen twinkle in your eyes, hear your lovely voice, cradle you in his arms and kiss your cheeks- Childe groans, burying his face in his hands. It makes him irritable, constantly yearning for you, and Foul Legacy is even worse. His Abyssal half is constantly clawing at the back of his mind, worrying his talons and whining as he asks why they haven’t seen you yet? Where are you? When will you be back? He wants cuddles something fierce, desperately seeking out the attention and affection you always give him only to find that you’re nowhere near. They’re both so lonely without you, only each other for company, and Childe has to physically bite his hand to prevent Legacy from simply snatching control of their body away and flying off to find you. With a sigh, the Harbinger wipes the blood from his blades, then his hands, and finally his face, ginger hair all wild and unruly. At the very least, today was when he would finally return home to Liyue. He never thought somewhere other than Morepesok could be considered home, but it turns out that “home” is wherever his heart is, and he gave it to you long ago to keep safe from everything that hurts.

Home… Childe’s mind drifts back to the house you both share, a small smile instinctively tugging at his lips. With a quiet snap of his fingers and a salute, his underlings are dismissed- they’ll be going back to the Fatui Headquarters in Snezhnaya. Childe, however, packs his supplies near the road back to the harbor city, waving the agents away, and the moment they’re out of sight his smile widens into a full-on grin, a delighted gleam in his azure eyes. 

Even just thinking about you seems to bring out the best in him, Foul Legacy chirping happily in the back of his head when Childe reassures him that yes, they’ll be seeing you again soon. If you’re done with that horribly long commission of yours, that is, which he’s sure that you are- even the most arduous never take up to three weeks. Despite being exhausted, he finds a spring in his step, dust swirling as his boots land against the dirt path. You, you, you- he’s going to see you again, his beloved and most treasured. Childe almost glows with energetic joy as he jogs, as if he never fell into the Abyss at all. His hand twitches, Foul Legacy begging and pleading to be let out after spending so long locked away, but Childe hushes him gently. You’ve said that you like it when he’s kind to Legacy and Legacy is kind to him- they are part of each other, after all, and you love both of them- so he tries to treat the monster as a friend rather than a weapon, and with a huff Legacy settles back down. Something faint and distant as the moon pierces the night, and Childe pauses, ears pricking. He tilts his head to listen, and for a moment he hears nothing but silence. Until- there, there! A scream! It’s far off, over the next hill, but unmistakably there. Even from a distance Childe can hear the desperation, the terror burning into his bones like a raging fire with a familiarity that makes him stop in his tracks.

No… no, it couldn’t be. It can’t be- Please, please let him be wrong- Childe’s feet carry him towards the sound, dread spiraling and twisting in his gut as another awful shriek rings out and he looks up, eyes widening. He was right. Oh, he was right, and he wishes he wasn’t, because it’s you. It’s you, gripping your weapon like a vice and covered in blood, expression filled with panic and fear and pain. It’s you, still in your adventurer’s gear, bag packed with whatever stupid, insignificant item the commission wanted. It’s you, surrounded by Fatui agents- not his, thank the Archons- the rest of them laughing and sneering. It’s you, hurt and scared and looking as if you’re about to collapse onto the ground and never rise. It’s you, and Childe’s veins freeze over with cold, splintering ice. You’re pressed against a ruined wall, swiping the blade in your hands at the soldiers, who merely snicker at your weakened attempts. The leader- one of those Electro vanguards with a giant hammer- smacks the weapon aside and seizes your arm, and you let out an involuntary yelp of pain as tears prick in your eyes. The yelp is all the motivation he needs, and Childe barely feels his restraint shatter like glass. They never even saw it coming, Foul Legacy throwing his spear and ripping the agents apart as fast as lightning, vibrant purple sparks searing the grass as he roars, driven only by wrath and fury. The vanguard who grabbed you so violently shouts in surprise and horror- then everything goes silent, apart from Legacy’s heavy breathing, claws dripping with blood. He exhales, curling his talons into fist with a tight crackling noise, letting out a low, guttural growl of rage. You bite down fiercely on your tongue, trying to stay quiet, but you can’t help but gasp in pain as the slashes in your body flare, and Foul Legacy’s anger burns away as quickly as a dying candle. He turns and rushes to you, chittering frantically, only to freeze when he sees you stiffen, petrified with fright. His chirps and trills lower to soft croons, gentle and sweet and familiar, crouching slowly to your height and holding out a hand. He tentatively inches forward, hand extended and palm up, claws curling delicately around your wrist when you desperately reach for him. “A-Ajax…?” Legacy’s Abyssal heart cracks, and he swiftly gathers you in his arms, whimpering and nudging his forehead against your cheeks as you cling to him and let out anguished, hitching cries. You suck in a breath when his talons ghost over a wound, and Legacy almost sobs with despair. Some part of him- the rational, trained soldier that is Childe- tells him to get you home, heal you, make sure that you’re well- he carefully gets to his feet, holding you close to his armored chest and adjusting your head so it’s pillowed by his lavender fluff. You shudder with pain again, and Legacy gently licks his tongue over the shallow scrapes on your face, cooing softly; with a flutter of his glimmering wings he takes to the sky, his arms cradling you like you’re made of crystal and gold.

He lands near your shared home not ten minutes later, hastily unlocking the door with the key he always sees Childe using. The house is quiet and a little dusty from being empty for so long, but your bed is as soft as ever as Legacy delicately lowers you down onto the mattress. Childe is the one who tells him what to do, again, guiding his claws to gently wrap your wounds with snow white gauze. None of them are fatal, and Legacy thanks his constellation with a grumbling sigh of relief. A quiet croon slips out when he sees you fading in and out of consciousness, sweetly cupping your cheek with a clawed hand- he’s shaking. Why is he shaking? He’s not the one who nearly died- but your hand comes up to weakly grasp his, and Legacy’s heart melts and breaks and patches itself up all over again.

Your lips twitch into a shaky smile, exhausted, your fingers resting on Legacy’s and soothing the minute trembles running through his body. The Abyssal creature- your wonderful, sweet Abyssal creature- blinks slowly at you, crystalline eye filled with tears that drip down his crimson face and pool in the divots of his mask as he fights to contain the sobs that threaten to break out, and when you reach up your other hand, covered in bandages, to caress his cheek, his breath hitches and he collapses into your arms, burying his head against your neck and weeping. In a whispered voice you coo and murmur and hum to him, repeated words of “it’s okay, I’m here, I’m okay”, and he tries so, so hard to do it back to you, his own sounds cracked and stuttering, something along the lines of “don’t leave, I miss you, I’m sorry”, or as close as he can say with a mouth made for biting and gnashing. Your hands lightly tug him closer- or rather, your hands tiredly loosen and he moves to follow them- until he’s close enough for you to press a soft kiss to his forehead. Legacy immediately purrs, tearful and whimpering, and your silent offer of lifting up the blanket is met with an instance moth monster at your side, curling around your body and holding you close. He’s careful not to squeeze you, trying to get as close as possible and mold his form around yours as you rake your hands through his fluffy coppery hair, drawing more deep, comforting rumbles from within his chest, the type he makes when you’re dreadfully ill.

Cats’ purrs are healing, so you’ve heard. Perhaps Abyssal beasts’ purrs are much the same. Slowly, your eyes begin to droop, and you yawn, exhausted and worn. Foul Legacy quietly nudges you, a croon of reassurance falling from his fanged maw, claws dancing over the wraps on your skin now stained brilliant red. It hurts, it hurts like fire- but you’re safe. Safe in your bed, and in Legacy’s arms, and the tension leeches from you and dissipates into nothing. You vaguely hear a soft melody, low and rumbling and familiar from when you’ve sung Foul Legacy to sleep, and the arms around you tighten ever so slightly as the sun finally dips beneath the horizon into the locked box of night. Two weeks, three days, eight hours, and thirty minutes. That’s how long Foul Legacy refused to let you out of his sight, even after your injuries had closed and healed.