#a tragedy in the truest sense of the word

[silentsockfeet]

the fact that the vi vs jinx fight was foretold from the beginning. the fact that the opening credits ends with their fight immortalized in stone, so that every episode you watch is a reminder of the immutable truth of it. the fact that every moment is building to this, that the show will culminate in this. this was always going to happen, they told us this from the beginning, and nothing anyone could do will ever change that.

[theconstantsidekick]

Lit Cigarettes (Part 1)

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader, Sam Winchester x BestFriend!Reader, Damon Salvatore x Stefan Salvatore x Sister!Reader (mentioned) Genre: Angsty Fluff

Summary: Y/n decides that Dean Winchester really needs to know how she feels about him.

(Set after the events of Supernatural season 4 and yes, Y/n is technically a Salvatore. I love the adopted sibling trope, can you tell?)

a/n: I have another part in mind if this does well.

Warnings: Smoking, mentions of smoking, romanticisation of smoking, a lot of that yes, sorry. Don't smoke kids.

Part 2 is here

He used to light her cigarettes when she was too busy talking. That’s what love is. According to her, that is the truest, most genuine form of love. The idea might sound quite contradictory, somehow. But it would make sense to smokers all around the world. 

The thought that somebody would just pluck the cigarette out of your hand, light it, take a little puff to keep the light aflame and just place it back between your index and middle finger. That’s somehow so painfully selfless that it can’t be classified as anything other than the most romantic act known to mankind. 

Now, the tragedy of it all was that that was the only showing of love she ever got from him. All she ever got was a lit cigarette handed off to her while she was too invested in spewing absolutely random bullshit about the sensors on automatic doors at some blackwater motel in an unnamed town. He’d do it quietly. He wasn’t quiet but there was always a quietness about him. Not quiet in the truest definition of the word. He was quiet in a different way, he talked. He was always charming, never not charming. He smiled and charmed everyone further still, but it felt like a very well rehearsed performance. His words, his charm, his smile seemed rehearsed, practiced relentlessly. A stark contrast to how they talked, when he talked to her and just her. Or well, so she thought until she found out that he could talk with a genuine smile to just about anyone unless there was a room full of people. Until the day she found that out, she felt quite special about it.

She felt important to him, enough for him to talk around her more, smoke around her more and light her cigarettes when she was too busy talking.

He never smoked around anyone else, hid the bad habit from his brother, but never her. It made her feel like there was a precarious unspoken bond between the two of them that could break at the mere mention of it. Could it?

She’s going to find out.

“Dean,” she calls out in no urgency, with a quiet calm. They are packing up their things, leaving the small motel room behind for another one in another town. Sam’s out at the reception, settling the bill. He’ll be back soon, she needs to wrap this up before he comes back. 

“Yeah?” Dean answers, never looking up from the duffle bag he’s aggressively shoving his clothes into.

“I love you.”

Dean’s motion halted at once. He doesn’t move, she thinks maybe he can’t move.

“Dean?”

The man in front of her gulps, audibly. “Yeah?”

“I love you.” It feels important to reiterate in this case. 

“I—” Words seem to be straining him. “I heard you the first time.”

“Good,” she tells him and then resumes packing her shit. But there’s a few more things to add, “I know we don’t talk about it, I know we aren’t supposed to. I know you’ve always known that I loved you and we still never talk about it, which means you don’t feel the same way, which again, I know. I am not trying to change your mind, I’m not trying to get into your pants. I’m certainly not asking you to love me back. I am not asking for anything actually, so you can quit looking so fucking terrified. I just needed to tell you because you up and died and it felt like my life stopped, like I couldn’t fucking breathe anymore. I felt hollow and broken and it felt wrong to be alive…” He looks at her then. Her voice is so thick with emotions, even though she is trying to keep them at bay, he must have felt compelled to look at her, she muses.

Shaking her head, she exhales audibly. “But you’re back now and I just needed to say it. I’ve loved you since I first saw you when I was 13. I don’t know how to not be in love with you, trust me, I’ve tried. So, I've learnt to make peace with it. I definitely don’t need you to say something, I just needed you to know that I love you, always have, most probably I always will. I need you to know that you are loved.”

There is silence then, no words, just the sound of her footsteps as she goes around the room picking up things she wants to shove into her bag.

“I…” Dean tries. But the words fade away just as quickly as the thoughts strike him. She looks at him for a second but the silence that proceeded makes her look away. She has just dropped a huge bomb, not that it was some revelatory information but it was something they had avoided talking about for literally ever, so it was fair that he needed some time to come up with a response. She is more than happy to give it to him.

But then Sam walks back into the room. “I’m pretty sure the dude at the reception thinks we’re a freaking thruple.” He walks to the washroom to collect his toiletry pouch and begins packing as well. “I mean, I’m not sure I can blame him? But I want to?” He shrugs. “Dean and I really don’t look all that alike, maybe that’s it? But this is like, the seventh motel in a row that’s given me really weird looks, you know? I don’t know whether to be flattered or plain disgusted—” His words drop off, as he finally notices the atmosphere in the room.

“Am I interrupting something?” He asks looking from his brother to his best friend.

“Yes,” Dean replies at the same time as she says, “No.”

“NO?!” Dean balks at her.

“Can you guys drop me off at the bus stop? I gotta head to Mystic Falls,” she says, zipping up her bag and exiting the room.

Dean follows her instantly. “Mystic Falls? I thought you weren’t talking to your brothers?” Running up to catch up with her, he races even further ahead to open the trunk of his car for her. 

“Yeah, but that was last week,” she tells him as if that was enough explanation. She places her bag in the trunk.

“They kicked you out!” Dean seems on edge. She can’t completely understand why. 

She looks at him. “It’s Stef’s birthday.”

“He’s had a couple hundred of those,” Dean argues.

She smiles, “I hope he has a couple hundred more, and I’ll try to attend them all.”

“Damon forgot yours!” 

She shrugs. “I’ll pretend to forget his. But this is Stefan. And besides, Caroline invited me. You want me to bail and piss her off?”

He slams the trunk shut. “Fine!” He acquiesces, albeit very aggressively. “But I’m dropping you to the Boarding House, not a fucking bus stop.”

Meanwhile, Sam comes out, carrying his own luggage as well as Dean's—who had apparently completely forgotten about it. He opens the trunk again, eyeing Dean and her very suspiciously.

She moves to open the back door of the Impala. “You’re going to Ohio, it’s like a three hour detour.”

“It’s two hours with me behind the wheel. Get in,” he commands, leaving no room for any argument. 

“I was doing that anyway,” she says almost to herself, getting in the back. 

Dean stops her. “Get in the front. Sam’ll sit in the back.”

“I will?” Sam questions, lost.

Dean doesn’t care. He just gets in the driver seat, not waiting on either of the two. A look passes between Sam and her. He raises a brow in question, she just smiles and shrugs again in response and gets in.

Later, when Sam’s already asleep in the backseat, Dean clears his throat.

“So.”

She doesn’t turn around to look at him, she isn’t sure she was supposed to, and it’s drizzling, she doesn’t want to turn away from the window, not yet. “So.”

She can feel him shift uncomfortably next to her. “You gonna say anything?” He asks.

She thinks for a second. “I don’t think I have anything left to say, really. I said everything I had to say.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!” Dean yells out.

She has to look at him then, with ire in her eyes. “SHhhh!! He’s sleeping!” She whisper-yells at him, pointing to Sam in the back seat. 

Trying to compose himself once again, Dean whisper-yells back at her, “What do you mean you’ve said everything you had to?”

“I said it, in the motel,” She explains.

“And that was it? The end of the conversation?” Dean questions, seeming very agitated.

“I mean, yeah! What else am I supposed to do?” She throws back, his agitation is quite contagious. It always has been. 

“You really think that was a reasonable end to that conversation?!” Dean bites.

She’s getting annoyed now. “What do you want? You want me to elaborate? Write a thesis paper on it? Or—or would you like to read my diary where I scribbled ‘Y/n Winchester’ a million times? What exactly is the resolution you’re looking for here?”

“You wrote ‘Y/n Winchester’ in your diary a million times…?” He asks, almost as if he cannot comprehend the idea of it. 

From anyone else she would’ve taken that as an insult. Had it been anyone else they might have actually been making fun of her. But it’s not anyone else. It’s Dean. So she’s compelled to look at him.

“Yeah, Dean. And it was just as embarrassing then as it is right now. But I was the nerdy teenager and you were the hot jock who the cheerleaders at Mystic Falls High were dying to date.” Just the thought of those days makes her morose. “I don’t like to think about those days.”

Then there is silence again.

Until Dean clears his throat, slowly he says, “But I never drove any of them home.” And damn it all to hell, it makes her smile. And damn it all to hell, her smile apparently makes him more confident in his approach. “I didn’t wait for them outside their place, blaring AC/DC at the crack of dawn, all to get milkshakes before school… It was you. I wanted to hang out with you.”

But that’s somehow the wrong thing to say, “Never at school.”

“What?” Dean asks, thrown off.

“You didn’t talk to me at school.” Admitting it, it breaks something in her all over again. It’s like she’s in highschool again. She hates it.

“That’s not true! We had lunch together everyday!” He defends.

“Nope,” she tells him. “You had lunch with the cheer squad while I sat on the table next to you silently eating really bad beans.”

“But I was there,” He tries.

“You were,” she concedes. “You were there but you weren’t there.”

Silence falls once again.

“I don’t blame you,” she is the one that breaks it. “For high school.”

“Why not?” Dean asks, sounding genuinely more hurt at the fact that she doesn’t blame him than the fact that she accused him of ignoring her.

“It’s a weird time for everyone, and I think Mystic Falls High was the first time you got to actually enjoy it. You stayed there long enough to stop being the new kid and I think it was also the first time you felt like you fit in. I didn’t, and that was never your fault… or your problem for that matter,” she explains, fidgeting with her hands in her lap.

“That’s not fair,” Dean opposes.

“What?”

“Your problems are my problems.”

And the finality of his statement gives her a weird sort of confidence to say, “Sheesh. Wonder why I ended up falling in love with you.” 

The car skids a little.

She can’t help it, she laughs.

“YOU CAN’T JUST SAY SHIT LIKE THAT!” Dean argues.

She’s still laughing, “I’m sorry. But… Come on! It was kinda funny.” 

“I did not find that funny! Not even a little bit! What’s so funny about being—” He cuts himself off.

She laughs a little harder. “That’s what’s funny! You can’t even say it! You wanna know what’s so funny about being in love with you? I can’t stop it. It’s…” She sits up to position her back towards the window and moves herself to face Dean better. “It’s like breathing. I have tried, time and time again, to stop, and for a while I can. I can try to hold my breath when I’m being mindful of it. I can remember not to breathe when I’m focused on not breathing but the moment my brain gets engaged anywhere else, I’m screwed. The moment I look away, the moment I burn my toast, or start reading a book or watch a film, the moment I’m in a rush to meet Bonnie, the moment my mind becomes occupied with anything other than the conscious thought reminding me not to breathe—BAM! I’m falling in love with you again. It’s so fucking easy, it’s so fucking comfortable. Loving you is the my most cherished accomplishment because I’ve done it so fucking well for so freaking long.” She smiles. “I feel like I deserve a prize.”

Dean stays silent.

Her smile fades.

She shakes her head, she knew what he felt. She’s always known how he feels. A long silence shouldn’t be the thing that aches her heart. Not after having been in love with this man for this long.

“Did you—” He cuts himself short. She turns to him again, eager for him to continue. And her silent pleas are heard loudly. Continue he does, “Did you decide to tell me… about this today cause we met 15 years ago today?”

“No,” she brushes him off. “I just needed to get this off my—” Suddenly his words strike her like a thunderbolt. “What do you mean 15 years ago today?”

He shrugs, eyes on the road. “A day before Stefan’s birthday, that’s when we met for the first time.”

“You… You remember the day we met?” She asks, dumbfounded.

Dean doesn’t answer, instead the car comes to a stop. He’s pulled into the parking lot of a 7Eleven. “I’ll be right back.”

Only when she watches Dean get out of the car and walk into the store does she realise that it’s the 7Eleven in Mystic Falls. They are only a few minutes away from the Salvatore Boarding house, barely 12 minutes away from her brothers’ place. 

She can’t believe she feels this way but a part of her feels like she’s running out of time. But running out of time for what? It’s Dean! He’ll be there to pick her up two days later. He’ll be there to light her cigarettes in a crowd—and not mean absolutely anything by it—in two days time. It’s not that long. They’ve dropped her off to live with her brothers’ for weeks even. Two days is nothing. It’s barely a visit. Then why in God’s name does she feel like there’s a clock right above her head counting down. And counting down to what??

“Here you go,” Dean says, as he gets in and throws something in her lap. 

She catches out of reflex. “Cigarettes?” It’s two packs of menthols, her current favorite.

“What about ‘em? You like these right?” He pulls out of the parking lot. “You quit Marlboro Reds a month ago, and switched to these so I thought they’d be a safer bet. Was I wrong?” 

It’s natural though. The most natural thing in the world. Dean buys her cigarettes. He always buys her cigarettes.

The thing about smoking that most people don’t understand is that it opens a whole new world. It’s bad obviously and no one should do it. But when you do it, when you smoke, there are a few things, a few rules that might not mean anything to a non-smoker but mean everything to a smoker. 

Take for instance, ‘Puff-Puff-Pass’. 

For any random person, the intricacies of ‘Puff-Puff-Pass’ exists to the extent of its name. But only a smoker knows that in an intimate setting, between two friends, the rule doesn’t apply. It’s rude not to follow the rule in a social gathering amongst semi-strangers, but among the two of them, it never applied.

Similarly, buying someone cigarettes is the purest gesture of care. 

Having a pack ready for consumption whenever she came back from a visit to the Salvatore Boarding House? To her that always felt like the loudest way that Dean could tell her that he cared for her. 

And he did these things often. Even when he quit smoking, he’d light her cigarettes for her. For as long as Dean has known she smokes, she has never lit a cigarette for herself. These gestures of… call it love, call it self-destruction, they have never not been there. So him buying her cigarettes is the most natural thing in the world but it throws her off still.

“Y/n?”

“What?” She suddenly remembers there was a question there, in his words before. “Oh yeah. Menthols… I smoke menthols now, yes. Good guess.”

He noticed me change my cigarettes? She asks herself, feeling something very close to giddy. Before she has to scream at herself inside, cause Dean has always done this and it has never meant anything. It’s just his small way of adhering to his duty of care.

“Thanks,” she tells him belatedly. She doesn’t fail to notice how the words make his nose scrunch up—the way it usually does when he dislikes something.

“You said you’ve tried not loving me,” Dean states and that’s all it is—a statement, an observation.

But she feels compelled to explain herself, “It’s not easy,” she tells him. “You’re… You’re you. You’re charming and hot and…” she’s spilled most of her guts, what harm can a little bit of spilling her heart do now? “You’re beautiful. You’ve got a different girl to take home every other night. It kills me inside, I won’t lie. It’s torture seeing you laughing with someone else. It really is. But it’s not your fault. And, I know you don’t feel the same way, and for a long time I didn’t mind this one sided affair cause, it was mine, you know? This love I had for you, it was all mine. I didn’t care if you loved me back… But then you…”

“Died,” he finishes the sentence for her.

She nods lamely. “It felt like my heart was ripped out of my chest. I don’t remember what I did when you weren’t around. I don’t remember how I survived because to me breathing was being in love with you. It’ll always be that. I just knew if I ever saw you again, I needed you to know how I felt. I’d been too selfish with my love for you. I… I don’t know. It sounds stupid now. I just needed you to know and I felt like I should tell you today so I did.”

And then the car stops again. 

She looks up and she’s standing in front of the boarding house. 

Clock’s run out.

Dean tries to say something but she doesn’t know if she has the courage to hear a placated, softly-worded rejection so she just gets out of the car. 

He follows suit.

He rushes to open the trunk and pulls out her luggage.

She takes it for him, and then begins walking to the door.

“Y/n!”

It feels like a gust of wind. 

The way he calls for her feels like the gust of wind that blows right before the lighting strikes.

She turns without hesitance. 

Their eyes lock.

He’s standing next to the driver side, the door to the impala is still open. The only thing lighting his face is a street light a couple paces behind him. Bathed in yellow, he looks like a wild field of sunflowers, with his messy blond hair and painfully green eyes. He’s absolutely breathtaking.

For all her talk of her love for Dean Winchester being like breathing, in this moment, at the sight of this man looking absolutely divine, she doesn’t think she remembers how to breathe at all.

So with bated breath, she waits for him to speak.

“Y/n…” He says again, before something changes and his eyes stop shining, his posture hardens, his hand grips the Impala’s door a little harder and his face loses color. Then he says, “We’ll pick you up Tuesday.” With that he gets back in the car and drives off. 

It’s only when they’ve crossed the Mystic Falls border does the silence in the Impala break.

“You’re an idiot,” Sam tells him. 

Find Part 2 here.

[kairiscorner]

Hii, can I request Miguel with sunshine reader, who actually struggles a lot mentally? Like they are kind, friendly and very playful with pretty much everyone, but they find it difficult to open up about their constant feeling of loneliness and emptiness. And so Miguel sees them at the moment when all their facade is gone.

No pressure ofc, feel free to deny it if you don't feel like doing it🌿

HIII ANON, omg i love this idea SO MUCH, i hope i did this justice :') but here you gooooo

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

summary: miguel o'hara could never fully comprehend someone of your caliber; you were just too much for him. you were loud, playful, open, and kind; he thought you were that simple. but when he caught you one day after a mission, seeing you in a light he never thought he could see you in... he realized there was much more to you than you were letting on.

warnings: mentions of self-deprecation (this is an angst, for the most part)

word count: 2,655

miguel couldn't wrap his head around you at first, around you and your psyche, around you and just how consistently tenderhearted and amiable you were towards everyone in the spider society. when he first sought you out, he thought you were the same as him; shattered, isolated, and dissociative from people to protect not only them, but yourself. but oh, was he wrong. he knew your background very well, he knew you suffered many tragedies in your life, be it as a spider person or as a person of your own, you had too much happen to you all at once.

he sympathized with you in many ways, but he knew someone of your aptitude would be remarkable help in his elite force. the first time he met you, however, he was greeted with a completely subverted image of the spider person he expected you to be. you were warm, friendly, sweet, and open.

you were a little shy and anxious around him at first, and he couldn't blame you. it was your first time meeting someone like you, but you were so enthusiastic about meeting him and the prospect of meeting so many other spider people just like you that you couldn't sit or stand still at the thought of meeting them all.

miguel asked himself at first why you seemed so trusting, so eager to meet people when he heard how well people in your life have hurt you in the past. he didn't know the specifics of it because he was busy recruiting other spider people and monitoring other universes, but he knew of the events in your life, at least short, important tid bits of them; and he had never felt more sympathy for anyone else in his life until you came along.

when you were first initiated into the spider society, miguel was a little taken aback at how easy it was for you to make friends. you had a lot of people to talk to, bond with, and impress already, and they loved you!

every single one of them was captivated by how charming you were, how generous you were of your time and services, and how quick you were on your feet to offer yourself to join some of the spider folks on missions, or even just run errands so they wouldn't have to do it alone.

you were, in the truest sense possible, an angel. the spider society loved you, they all believed you could do no wrong. you were always up for helping other people and ensuring their safety and comfort. though sometimes you'd go overboard and not hesitate to sacrifice your own safety and comfort for them, you'd tell them it's okay, you'd willingly go above and beyond for the people you care about.

you kept telling yourself it was okay to lose yourself for other people.

you kept telling yourself it didn't matter, so long it was just you and not them.

that's how your world revolved, right? people came and went as they pleased, you did your best, your everything to keep them, and you'd do it all again in a heartbeat if it'd meant they'd stay. you wished they'd stay if what you had to do was carry their burdens and misfortunes. you were strong, capable, and durable; you convinced yourself you could take it. you saved your city before, time and time again--even if you were battered, bruised, bloodied and thankless in the end, you smiled regardless and were willing to do it all over again.

"don't worry about me, i'm your friendly neighborhood spider person! i'm built for this stuff, i've got you." "oh, no! i'll take care of that for you, i'd rather you rest. let me take care of it, i've got you." "i'll take care of this! you guys do your own thing, i'll do this. ...because i've got you."

endlessly, those three words: "i've got you" is ingrained in miguel's head. he's not exactly tired of hearing it, he's impressed on how keen you are to be useful and pick up your own slack plus others' work. he does think you're a bit of a pushover for that, though, which he is a little disappointed with, but nothing he can do to force you out of that trait of yours.

he does wish you'd say no or stand your ground whenever you were uncomfortable with something, but then again, like all great pretenders, you took every favor and request with a smile and a pep in your step. it was like you wanted everyone to know you live to serve, that you wanted nothing but to be useful to everyone, even if it put a strain on you.

however, when you and your team came back from a mission with significantly more injured spiders than usual, instead of being greeted with your concerned yet reassuring self that'd rush to the side of the injured spiders, you ran away when you got back to HQ, leaving them behind as you looked away in what appeared to be... unbridled shame.

miguel weaved his way through the small crowd that gathered around the injured spider people when he was told they'd all be out of commission for a while, but otherwise, do okay; he had to find you, because he had a feeling something was off about you, something must've happened.

miguel wordlessly searched for you, thinking that if he called out for you, you'd run away and hide even more. not long after, he heard soft sobs and whimpering by a nearby broom closet. miguel halted in his tracks and moved closer to the door. his expression softened and became one of genuine worry, but he still remained his composure as he realized that voice that was choking up tears and sobbing was yours.

he knocked on the door of the broom closet, and soon, the sobbing stopped for a minute. "...do you want to talk?" miguel asked you after that moment of pure silence. you didn't respond for a little while, but you gave in and slowly opened the door, your eyes and nose puffy and red; your lip quivering at the corners--you really weren't okay, and this was a rare sight to behold.

miguel's expression soon cracked into one of worry. he instinctively moved toward you a step closer, but held back in fear of you sobbing again. "what happened?" he asked you in a gentle voice, a voice that promised he wouldn't judge you for whatever answer you give him, because miguel always had that feeling: there were a million unsaid things that were so, so wrong; but you never uttered a word about it, nor cried a plea for any help, and kept all your feelings locked away behind your insincere, forced smile.

you looked down, not wanting to make eye contact with miguel... or anyone, for that matter. you tried to shake your head, deny anything was wrong, but not this time. you had betrayed yourself, your own feelings, wants, and needs for the longest time that they all just came spilling out and being released from you in a much needed sob.

you could feel yourself tearing up again, and you tried to fight it, but miguel shook his head and put his hands on your shoulders. "no. stop it." he said in a concerned yet stern voice as he gazed at you and your glassy eyes, keeping your tears in the best you could. "stop holding it in. please. i know you want to see everyone happy, i know you don't want things to go wrong anymore, but please... don't keep your feelings bottled up. it does you more harm than good." he uttered softly as his grip on you tightened a little.

you heard it. finally, you heard it. those words that you longed to hear, in the many years you've been hurt, lied to, and abandoned by people you loved and cared about; you finally heard permission to cry, to be vulnerable, to be weak for a moment. you finally had a moment of respite from all the pretending you were sick of doing.

in a moment, you went from being composed, yet red and puffed up in the eyes and nose, to a full on sobbing mess in front of miguel. he let go of you when you started sobbing, but you held on to him as you cried. he took that as a sign that you didn't mind him holding you as you cried, you never had that luxury before anyway, being held as you cried, letting go of everything you've been holding for the longest time.

it was relieving, it was soothing, but it was painful. it was a remedy for your wounded emotions, crying your heart out as miguel held you. you knew you might get sick afterwards, crying so hard your heart might break, but miguel pat your back--albeit a little awkwardly--and whispered words of encouragement to let it out, let it all out.

"i hurt them..." you muttered through your sobs. "i told them i had it, i thought i had it, i thought i could take out the villain all on my own." you murmured as your sniffling continued. "i didn't want them to get hurt, really, i promise... but i took one wrong step, and–" you choked out as you cried even more as miguel shushed you and told you it was okay to let it out.

"i... just... i just don't want–don't want to be left alone anymore... i don't want to be hated, i don't want to be talked bad about behind my back; i want to feel like i belong." you whispered as your crying slowly stopped to let you breathe for a bit, taking in a ragged breath as you leaned against miguel, exhausted after letting out exactly what you felt and held in, all this time.

"you're... so very brave." he murmured as your sobs drowned out what he was saying. he didn't raise his voice at you, and especially not when you were in this state. "but so, so foolish." he remarked as he looked down at you, still sobbing. he sighed as he put a hand on your chin and angled your head to look up at him, the softness in his face ever so present as yours became redder and puffier.

"you're amazing, you can do anything and everything asked of you, and everyone loves you for that. and yet, you can't seem to give yourself a break. you're... you're forcing yourself to become someone you don't want to be." he says in a soft voice. "...i might just be doing that." you say as the realization of what you've been doing to yourself dawned on you.

miguel pulled away from you a little and ran a hand through his hair, still looking at you, but thinking of what to tell you. "if you're scared of them rejecting you for showing weakness or this... vulnerable side of you, don't be. i've worked with many of these people for years, some i've only met recently, but all of them–all of the people here love you." he told you as he watched you wipe the tears from your eyes, still sniffling. "every single one of them, they all have something nice to say about you. but we're all concerned for you," he said as he took your hand in his.

"you're constantly taking their burdens upon yourself. you don't think they realize that? they appreciate you, so, so much; but they want you to stop and think about yourself first." he tried getting his words through to you in a pleading voice. "we're a team. you don't have to go through this alone. and, really..." he said as he rubbed his thumb over the back of your hand, staring down at how much smaller, more vulnerable you were compared to him. "...i wanted to be the one to keep you from falling apart and letting yourself forget who you really are. i know i knew you for, what, a few months? but even before that, before you joined us, before you are who are now, i've seen how you are, how you act--and i've been informed of... tribulations you've gone through, things you keep hidden underneath the surface. you've been through too much for one to bear all alone."

you look up at miguel, and for the first time, you feel something new; you feel as though, despite the troubles you've gone through, the troubles you sometimes inflict upon yourself, you do have someone looking out for you. and it's always been him, ever since the beginning.

"and because... i know what it's like. i know what it's like to have to mask yourself so nobody gets worried about you, so no one thinks you're easy pickings... so you don't hurt or get hurt anymore..." miguel continued as his voice got softer. he took a breath in, and letting it out in an exhausted sigh, as if he, too, were also sick of hiding exactly how he felt and who he was. "it's the things we keep hidden that always show." he said as he looked at your eyes. "but don't... don't be scared to show it. and if not the others... you have me." he said softly, slowly reeling back from you, letting go of your hand gently and widening his eyes as he realized what he was saying. a silence befell you two as you stared at him, in wonder, at this side of miguel; this side he was hiding that he soon showed, that he soon brought to light in front of you.

"can you do something for me?" miguel asked as he broke the silence, looking into your swollen eyes. "please promise me that when you say 'i've got this'... remind yourself that i've got you. i'm right here for you to call, any time you need me." he said with a small smile as he wiped the tears from your eyes. "do you promise me?" he asked you as you slowly nodded, with his hand lowering down to your cheeks and resting there. "i promise. i... got this. i've got you." you said with a small smile. he returned the smile with one of his own. "you've got me." he said as he rubbed your cheek softly.

and as miguel were about to pull away, you wrapped your arms around him, your bright, signature smile returning to your face. your eyes were still puffy and swollen, but they shone, even in the dim light of this tiny broom closet. "thank you, miguel." you thanked him before he could leave, your arms tightening around his waist as you held him close, not wanting to let him go. it wasn't out of fear that you didn't want to let him go, you wanted to let him feel just how much he's saved you from yourself, how good it felt to be told those words for the first time in a long, long while.

miguel was shaken at first when you held him, he... hadn't been held that way in... ever. he didn't know what to do in the beginning, he wasn't sure when you'd pull away, but as the embrace prolonged, he found himself wishing you wouldn't pull away. he soon brought his arms up, then, he brought them close to your back, still hovering his arms in the air awkwardly as you leaned into the hug.

then, in one final swoop, he took the plunge and embraced you back; and miguel had never felt a happier silence than that, embracing you, who finally let yourself show how you truly felt, and how, even if you were scared of being abandoned again, being left alone... miguel was not one of those people for you to fear would leave.

not now, not ever.

a/n: NERIJOBFIURBIUBRIBVVBBNE NGL I FEEL LIKE I KINDA DRAGGED THIS OUT AND DIDN'T EXPRESS EVERYTHING I WANTED TO SAY, BUT THIS AAAAAAAAAA I'M CRYINGGGGG

tags !! @thecoolerdor @miguelswifey04 @luvstarrstruck

[writing-for-life]

To Be Human Means to Die (Even for Morpheus)

I know one of the biggest points of contention in the Sandman fandom (especially between show-only and graphic novel fans) is the end:

On the regular, we all hear the wish that the ending should have been more hopeful, that Morpheus dying is soul-crushing and devastating and sends the wrong message. And while I agree that it is incredibly sad upon first read (I actually cried my eyes out many moons ago when I first read World’s End, because that’s when I knew, without a doubt, what was going to happen), I would like to expand a bit on why I think we are actually getting the most hopeful message of them all…

It’s a Tragedy: Yes, but That’s Also Simplifying It

Let me briefly talk about tragedies first, because many people, myself included, often bring up the purpose of a tragedy first when we are talking about why realistically, there can be no other ending to The Sandman than the one we already have. That purpose is that we, as the audience/reader, are supposed to do better, and that we are supposed to learn from our hero’s fatal flaw(s).

And while all of this is true, it is also too simple.

Yes, Morpheus has fatal flaws, his inherent rigidity being the most prominent of them (on that rigidity, everything else hinges: his occasional cruelty, his sense of responsibility even if it destroys him, his inability to hold down relationships because he won’t communicate and compromise…).

But it would be too easy to say: “This is what we are supposed to learn from it, let’s not do that and instead be capable of change. Lesson learned, the end”.

For me, the most important personal truth of The Sandman goes far beyond that, and it is connected to the through-line:

Gods Can Die and Humans Can Be Immortal

When we first meet Morpheus, he is Endless in the truest sense of the word—although captured, it is very clear that he is not mortal, not human, and one step further: That he also doesn’t always understand what it means to be human. We get to know him as aloof, arrogant, proud, often devoid of empathy, and even cruel. And we all know that this changes throughout his arc. That the being who always asserted he is incapable of change finally has to admit, to himself and others, that he has changed, most poignantly in The Kindly Ones (e.g. when he tells Nuala that he lied to Ishtar when he denied he had changed).

And that change was initially a slow one--perhaps that is why he denied it for so long. But by the time we arrive at the end of Brief Lives, his change and, yes, his humanity, are already so clear to the reader that most of us probably went: “You really are slow on the uptake sometimes.”

Even Frank McConnell writes in his intro to The Kindly Ones: “And with [killing Orpheus], Dream has entered time, choice, guilt and regret—has entered the sphere of the human.” And Nuala is right when she asks him: “You want them to punish you, don’t you? You want them to punish you for Orpheus’ death.” Guilt, regret, and a choice. And his reply is silence, and it’s deafening.

On Becoming Human

By the end of The Kindly Ones, Morpheus basically is human in the metaphorical sense: He feels like a human, and even his body (or at least his relationship to his body) has changed. The most important indication for the latter is when we put in contrast that the Corinthian stabbing him in Collectors doesn’t draw a single drop of blood, but the scorpion whip of the Fates in The Kindly Ones does, and that scar remains. We can of course argue about who can hurt him and who can’t, but in either case, we see a Morpheus now who is more flesh and blood than he has ever been, and he feels a sense of mortality not only mentally/emotionally, but also physically.

(I have to throw in here that the change they made in the show at this point greatly confused me, and I think it is significant, as are a lot of other changes that have been made. And I personally hope they only use them to hint at a more human side to him from the outset to make us relate more, but not as a change to the whole arc. I will admit that I would have preferred if he didn’t bleed at this point because to me, it would have had more impact when we finally do see him bleed at the end. And we got foreshadowing for the scar in the show, when the earthquakes crack one of the windows and he looks through it for the second time. Yeah, I’m really that obsessive when I rewatch it, it’s embarrassing).

To Be Human Means to Die

And before we all collectively go into our evolutionarily ingrained wish to pretend that’s not true (because most of us fear death):

It is our mortality that gives our lives meaning. Without an end, life has no meaning bar feeling empty responsibility (or endless hedonism that gets boring at some point). And after 10 billion years, maybe the burden of that responsibility simply becomes too heavy (“But even the freedom of the Dreaming can be a cage, of a kind, my sister,” he says to Death in #69. And that he is “very tired”). It can’t make up for what truly makes our lives worth living:

The Impermanence of it.

Destruction got it right when he said that the illusion of permanence basically depends on our vantage point. That we can pretend if we so wish, and that there is comfort to be found in that, but that things simply don’t last. And that the Endless are truly no exception to that rule (“…even our existences are brief and bounded. None of us will last longer than this version of the universe.”)

And yet, we look at Morpheus choosing death and think: ”But that’s it then, he can't go back on that, but he deserved happiness because he has changed, he deserved (insert preference/head-canon of choice) and will never get a chance to have it now.”

And I get it. Psychologically speaking, we often fight the idea of death tooth and nail. We fear our own, and we have to deal with the loss of loved ones. So the denial is real—it’s not one of the stages of grief for nothing. But staying in that stage of denial is stagnation—the very antithesis of change. Death and change are linked—in the Sandman, they are not truly presented as alternatives, even if we might think so. They are two sides to the same coin. Death says to her mortal form in The High Cost of Living that the fact that life ends is what gives it meaning. That’s why it always ends. And that message has already been given to us in The Wake: “(Death) gives you peace. She gives you meaning. And she bids her brother goodbye.”

It’s Not Just About Dying, It’s Also About Coping With Grief

It tells us something about our own mortality, but also about mourning our loved ones. That’s why The Sandman doesn’t end with Morpheus’ death/The Kindly Ones, but we get a whole story arc after he is gone/The Wake. Because mortality isn’t just about us. It is also about the ones we love, the ones we need to let go while keeping on living, but we also hold on to them in certain ways (“humans can be immortal” because we make them so). All the mourners are us, and in the case of grieving Morpheus, many of us are probably a bit like Matthew:

In the throes of grief, we don’t care that there might be someone else who might even be more kind and loving (poor Daniel)—we don’t want a “replacement”, we want back what we have lost. And we are not ready to move on, until we somehow are/do. And that path is painful and long, as everyone who ever lost a loved one will be able to attest to. The pain never truly goes away, but it changes, from something so raw and painful that it knocks the air out of your lungs, to something that shows up here and there unexpectedly, still painful, but a little less so. Until it only hurts around the edges of memories that make us smile, miss and love someone, all at once. That love is permanent, even if life is not. It doesn’t really die with us either, because we can pass it on.

And it is somewhat fitting that the idea of “to be human means to die”, and that death is what gives life meaning, also extends to storytelling:

Without an end, a story has no true meaning. Our lives are stories, and every story has a beginning, a middle and an end. Morpheus’ story is meaningful because it has an end (I already wrote about this before in “Why the order of the last three issues of The Sandman matters” and have attached a long reblog chain)—not because it plods on endlessly (no pun intended). And that end is exactly what makes it last, what makes people feel, reflect, understand, learn, pass it on.

We, a whole fandom. continuously talk about how upset we are that he died, what we learned from it, what we would do differently (be that in our own lives or in a retelling of the story), and I’ll just leave it at that, because it drives the message home so much more than any further exploration could….

[lily-onher-grave]

Okay I saw Wicked again and I’m reobsessed so anyway some of my favorite things from this performance and just in general

The first word of the show is good and the last word of the show is wicked and if that doesn’t sum up how well the symbolism hits idk what does

Watching NOMTW it really did just hit me all over again the themes of fate and destiny and the limitations society puts on us and the limitations we put on ourselves

Wicked is a tragedy in the truest sense! No matter what Elphaba does she will not win and she cannot change things! No matter what Glinda does she will lose Elphaba!

Glinda’s sad face in NOMTW, and also how she is surrounded by the Ozians but is still so alone. They’re all giving her so much space, she has to walk across the stage and reach out just to get them to look her in the eyes (she’s lost the only people who ever saw her as a person rather than a doll)

The first time Elphaba runs downstage and she’s grinning so wide and she has so much hope for herself and for the world

The silence while Elphaba is dancing alone at the Ozdust, but more importantly, the way the music starts all soft and quiet when Glinda starts dancing with her. It’s the most romantic tune in the first act, maybe in the entire show

All the hand holding

The way that Glinda almost goes with her in Defying Gravity

The way Glinda reaches for Elphaba once she starts flying. Not caring at all that the guards and the Ozians and everyone else on stage can see. She’s just trying to reach her one last time

(The way Elphaba reaches back)

Glinda’s solo in Thank Goodness (Celia Hottenstein nails Glinda’s lower parts and she was an absolute dream especially in this song)

When Elphaba returns and Glinda walks into the room, the first thing she does is run into Elphaba’s arms. She’s horrified at the situation later but at that moment she doesn’t even notice anyone but Elphie

As Long As You’re Mine. Look Fiyero and Elphaba are Not It for me but the intensity of that song, the way the music slides into these dark little motifs, the harmonies. It’s so good

Glinda mourning Nessa when no one else is around

Elphaba blaming herself and Glinda immediately trying to comfort her even though they’re mad at each other

Idk if this is a normal thing and I’ve just never caught it before but when Fiyero was holding Glinda at gunpoint Elphaba was shaking her head, she looked so scared

Glinda tossing Elphaba her hat back and telling her to go

The opt up on FiyeeEErroooOOOOOOooooo

(All of No Good Deed)

Especially when she’s further back and the smoke is whirling around her and everything is purple and gold and it’s so sinister and her cape is flying around her and she is well and truly broken

I actually really love March of the Witch Hunters. It sounds sick af and it makes me imagine a world where the musical was closer to Maguire’s book and kept that super eerie, darkly violent vibe

(I feel the same way about when Fiyero is alone after ALAYM, and the music gets all intense and he’s running around the stage, holding up his lantern. idk those scenes hit a very specific vibe and I don’t quite know what it is but I like it)

Before For Good, when Elphaba started to tell Glinda to run, Glinda sobbed her name and it hit so hard

Have I mentioned the hand holding?

The way that they stand so still in For Good. So many songs have such insane movement to them, or even interludes between parts but For Good is just the two of them

(It’s such a love song)

Elphaba blew a kiss to Glinda and then pressed her hand over her heart when she hid her behind the curtain before the melting scene

Glinda’s sad face in NOMTW pt2

Again idk how common this is but before the lil For Good reprise Fiyero started to lead Elphaba away and she was about to take his hand but then Glinda started singing “who can say…” and Elphaba immediately turned away from him to go walk toward Glinda

[coquettepotato]

My trip to Venice Mall

Desolate, that’s the word that comes to mind when you take in the chubby plain faced girl, trotting behind her parents in heels she hasn’t yet learnt to properly walk in, with a moody look the only makeup for her dulling skin. Her black and white kurta complimented her figure nicely. It wouldn’t be so bad to date her, one might think, with a hint of superiority, reflecting this author’s own sense of inferiority. She looked the serious, studious kind, this girl, but her coloured hair gave her the look of someone who indulged in things considered bad, say smoking.

Walking abreast were, in varying amounts of obesity, the mother and father. Is there some significance to positioning mother before father? Is my subconscious trying to tell me something? Ah, leave such matters for Freud! My readers moan. Very well, then. We shall continue. The mother clad in black, a busty middle aged woman whose bright pink lipstick wore her and a pot-bellied ageing man with hard work and diligence etched onto his face. Rather unassuming, plain folk wouldn’t you think? The hair on their heads didn’t turn grey for nothing haha.

We look at the daughter again. How she wishes to lie in the comfort of her blanket, reading that book that had become her latest obsession, had consumed her so largely that she’d begun to adopt its title into her meals. Butter, butter, everything butter. The exploration of same sex desire. It was no coincidence, she decided. And that brings us to thoughts of her greatest love, a former friend, someone she let consume her entirely. She missed her, as does this humble author. It’s a great loss, a pain that seeps into your very bones, making you so weary that you just want to curl up in your bed and cry and oh, how wonderful would it be if someone were to hold you then!

This mall that the family went to, it was…it was empty yet beautiful. Superficial, in a sense, with phony-looking people roaming the halls of the scattered showrooms. A towered, twisting staircase- pretty, a good place to make out, her university-trained brain muses. The artificial, blue shallow waters and the simple electric boats, the walls carved and painted to look just like Venetian homes- it all seemed such a bore to this thought daughter. Yes, that’s what she was, is. A new woman, utterly besotted with culture, the humanities and art. Pinterest, reddit, Instagram, tumblr, spotify, her journal and books, access to anime, movies and tv shows, writing poetry, learning from professors and students, researching, debating, spontaneous writings, all this gave her soul the fire that had been dangerously close to going out in recent times. A tragedy, indeed, for an eighteen-year-old, a fledgling, to have gone through so much. Even as I write, delicious music plays in the background haha!

At the floor just above, the aroma of baked goods wafted up to her, tingling her nostrils. Her mouth watered, anticipating salt, sugar, fat and carbohydrates in the most scrumptious combinations possible. And oh the joy when she finally had the taste of those Korean Soboro cream buns! Perfectly crispy, rich with butter, light and cool when settled in the throat and a steaming cup of coffee on top- heaven in the truest sense. That was precisely the moment that this young depresso became a happy espresso, even agreeing to have her pictures taken! Good food can do wonders for your mood, mind you. The people working there were so well- mannered and polite! And the girl that served the coffee and confectioneries was so cute that our protagonist yearned to be her age and a man. Again, the themes of the novel she’d been reading hit her like a maelstrom. Will her skin glow too? Shall she let go too of what society demands from her? What would happen?

[eleanorfenyxwrites]

The Man From Y.I.L.I.N.G.

Chapter 12: Interlude

--//--

THE BURIAL MOUNDS – INFORMATION – LEVEL 4

Wen Ning loves his sister.

When they were both far too young, Wen Qing became both mother and father to him, caring for him, looking out for him, feeding him, clothing him, scolding him, comforting him —

They’d had extended family to help, of course. She’d been too young to truly do it on her own, but the fact of the matter is that everyone has their own lives to lead, and though they were (are) important to their family, everyone is always dealing with the tragedies of life, large, small, and mundane; the pair of them becoming orphans was ultimately just another minuscule tragedy in the long suffering of human history. They picked themselves up and got on with things.

Wen Ning has understood from far too young an age that to survive is sometimes the best that they can ask for, but that to ensure at least that much sometimes sacrifices must be made.

Wen Qing, as pragmatic a woman as she is, can’t bring herself to commit violence even against those who wrong them. Wen Ning respects her boundaries, understands that as a doctor (in the truest meaning of the word, down to her soul), she can’t bring herself to harm when her hands were always meant to heal.

As a boy, Wen Ning had loved learning medicine at her side as she learned it first from the elders in their family and then practiced it herself, honing her craft under Wen Ruohan’s generous sponsorship until she’d grown up and proven herself skilled enough to tend to him personally — where he’d subjected her to witnessing horrors she still won’t discuss. He’d always thought, when he was young and naïve, that he would share her passion for healing, and be a gentle soul worthy of practicing at her side.

Some might say now that he’s been corrupted by Wei Wuxian’s influence; some believe the rumors that Wei Wuxian is irredeemably evil, cruel, twisted, that he mocks the world and all things good simply by existing. The truth, of course, is that he’s a powerful man who can’t stand to see the weak being bullied, and he’s unafraid to take whatever drastic measures he deems necessary to maintain as clean of a conscience as he can.

Wen Ning — who understands that the world is uncaring and that hurting no one often means becoming the one who’s hurt — finds a sense of relief in having become the weapon in his best friend’s right hand. He doesn’t have the talent for subterfuge that his sister does, nor her ability to ignore the violence of others in order to adhere to her own strict moral code. It’s been far better for him, in the years since they barely escaped Wen Ruohan’s ‘protection’ with their family and their lives, to train hard and let himself be honed into a weapon to be used with judicious care, and always with gratitude from the man he owes his life to.

Wen Ning stalks through the halls and corridors of the Burial Mounds – the dead mountain, mined to nothing but its own bones, that Wei Wuxian has claimed for them as a home and fortress; his experiments in nuclear technology buried too deeply underground to hurt anyone, and his righteous love and protection extended to anyone brave enough to set foot in this place — and wants nothing more than to find the person who put his sister (and Chifeng-zun) in danger. Somewhere in his home there is an inconsequential worm who thinks they can betray someone as fundamentally good and as deeply enraged as Wei Wuxian and get away with it unscathed. They must be taught why the world rightly fears the Yiling Laozu.

More than anything, Wen Ning hates to see those he loves disrespected, and this insult isn’t the type that Wen Qing’s empty threats and sly words can return.

“Find the rat,” Wei Wuxian had said, though couched in roundabout language that wouldn’t alarm their deeply traumatized guests. After all, it wouldn’t do to frighten them when they’d only just gotten the boys to settle enough to stop flinching every time someone looked their way. In Wei Wuxian’s eyes, dead and glittering above his perpetual smile, there had been the simple, silent instruction: “Make them pay.”

All things told, the actual operation of the Burial Mounds is accomplished on a fairly small scale. Not many people truly want to live their lives on the edge like this, and most of the people who come to Wei Wuxian are looking for help and security, not to be a gun in his (miniscule) arsenal. At any given time, the majority of the occupants of the Burial Mounds are civilians in the living quarters, followed by researchers (whose jobs do not, under any circumstances, require them to put their lives on the line), followed by internal security, and only then, the smallest portion, are the people who go out on the missions Wei Wuxian deems absolutely necessary for furthering his goals.

The only people who would be at all in the know about the plans involving Chifeng-zun and Jin Guangyao would be the on-duty internal security who had been briefed with minimal detail on the strangers’ presence in the bunker, and then their need to leave it again almost immediately using the classes of vehicles typically reserved for Wei Wuxian and those he trusts the most. After all, not just anyone gets to leave the Burial Mounds in one of their precious few aircraft ‘borrowed’ from the PLA Air Force division, and fewer still get to leave it in the company of Jiang Wanyin on Sandu.

Inner security is so sparsely staffed that Wen Ning can exonerate over three quarters of them through simple exclusion — anyone not on duty on the interrogation floors within the last two days would know nothing of their true plans regarding the Wens and the Jins, and of the people on duty within those 48 hours only two of them are currently unaccounted for amongst all of the security posts and patrol routes in the mountain.

With all of that in mind, it’s laughably easy to find the person who had decided they had information worth sharing (their betrayal carried out via an embarrassingly straightforward and poorly-made system of self-installed radio and telegraph transmission that piggybacks directly off of the Burial Mounds’ locked-down communications bay). 

The man responsible is a relatively new addition to the Burial Mounds. He’d appeared some time ago with very little to recommend him beyond having once held some minor position in the Lans’ intelligence agency prior to its destruction, followed by an equally unimpressive and even briefer stint in the Jins’ research labs. But Wei Wuxian is a good man who rarely, if ever, turns away someone claiming to be in need. Wen Ning has always liked that about him, even though his sister has often muttered that it’s a habit that’ll get them all killed one day if he doesn’t start getting more selective about his rescues. It is especially appalling, then, to find that someone who had sought out their help has seen fit to put the people Wen Ning loves in needless danger.

“I did you idiots a favor!” the man shouts as Wen Ning drags him, bound, down the unremarkable hallway of Level 4, no sounds but the one-sided scuffling echoing back to them from the miles of unyielding black stone broken only by the sickly phosphorescence of the old mining lamps. “Is this how the Yiling Laozu treats his own people? He truly is a heartless devil like everyone says!”

Wen Ning, his Ghost General — half-dead and only walking, only conscious at all, thanks to Wei Wuxian’s love and his dogged pursuit of fringe medicine techniques that would put most of Wen Ruohan’s ‘doctors’ to shame — simply drags his wriggling prey to an unremarkable iron door and hauls him inside with inhuman strength. He shuts the door softly behind himself and turns to face the sniveling weasel who’d dared to betray the man who once held Wen Ning’s dead heart in his hands to force it to start it again; who sneers around Wei Wuxian’s name and spits that Wen Ning’s savior is a devil; whose actions put We Ning’s beloved sister in grave danger, and continues to endanger a man under Wei Wuxian’s explicit protection.

When their eyes meet, Wen Ning can see that his prey suddenly understands just how badly he’s miscalculated.

“Wei-laoshi is not a devil, gongzi” he gently corrects as he begins to remove his ever-present gloves. Black leather slips away to reveal bone-pale hands that never truly feel warm anymore, thickly cross-hatched with silver scars bit into him by blades and fingernails and teeth and every other manner of self-defense imaginable; weapons that, in the end, he’s always been able to overwhelm. “He only made one.”

... -.-. . -. . / -... .-. . .- -.-

THE BURIAL MOUNDS — MOUNTAINTOP HANGAR

Wen Qing arrives home in a controlled panic, Lan Wangji there to meet her in the hangar with his usual stoic expression made grimmer by his news.

“Tell me now,” she sighs, exhausted and aching all over from the blows she’d taken on her way back out of Nightless City. “What have you found?”

“The source of the leak here and the executor of their plan in Qishan.”

Wen Qing, thanks only to years of practice, finds enough patience that she manages not to snap that she figured that, she wants to know who, dammit! (Perhaps, she allows, being married to Jiang Cheng has involved more…personality blending than she’d originally thought it would.)

“Who are they?” she asks with what she feels is admirable neutrality under the circumstances.

“New additions to Wei Ying’s inner security. One rogue, one formerly Lan. Both known to work for the Jin within the last two years.”

It takes an extra beat of expectant silence for her to put two-and-two together, but when she does she can’t resist the urge to tilt her head back and swear loudly enough (a deeply cathartic, “FUCK!”) that Lan Wangji glances around on instinct to make sure A-Yuan isn’t lurking near enough to hear her, though naturally he should be asleep this late at night. (Or is it early in the morning? She supposes the latter, considering the far-off eastern horizon is a shade of robin’s egg blue rather than the black of this endless night.)

“And of course those two bastards are the ones who volunteered to go test Nie Mingjue their first night in Yiling–“

“When no one could locate Jin Guangyao until he joined xiongzhang and Chifeng-zun at the park. Yes.”

“They’re in his pocket,” Wen Qing asks, but at this point it’s hardly a question. What other answer could there be?

“It is unconfirmed but…possible. He is untrustworthy, but do not make assumptions. Ge trusts him, and we will learn the truth from Jin Guangyao ourselves in due time.”

Wen Qing barely refrains from reminding her sort-of-brother-in-law that she warned them all this would happen! Wei Wuxian’s generosity is one of his most wonderful features, she acknowledges that and has absolutely benefited from it for the majority of her adult life, but there need to be limits! She can’t stand to see the people that she loves betrayed and taken advantage of, and there is no one that she knows with a worse self-preservation instinct than Wei Wuxian. He’d cut himself open and tear the beating heart out of his own chest if he thought someone he loves could make better use of it than its valiant attempts to keep him alive (without ever considering for a moment that what the people he loves want most of all is to see him thrive).

Rather than delivering the biting ‘I told you so’ that they both know is on the tip of her tongue, she asks, “Where is everyone? What happens now?”

“A-Ning is on Level 4. Xiongzhang has gone to Lanling.”

Wen Qing, with barely any of the skill in reading Lan Wangji’s microscopic expressions necessary to communicate with him properly as Wei Wuxian and the other Lans do, can still see the fear in his eyes as clear as day.

If the Jins have been tipped off as to their plans — if Jin Guangyao is truly the rat in their home — then Lan Xichen has just walked straight into a trap which he is highly unlikely to walk back out of. It strikes her as suddenly as a bolt of lightning, utterly unexpected and utterly terrifying, that her husband is in Lanling, taking the snake right back to his den.

“A-Cheng-” is all she manages to say, sharp as a knife, before the fear chokes her and she staggers, everything that’s happened in the last roughly-24-hours hitting her all at once in the safety of her own home.

Lan Wangji’s quick reflexes keep her upright, one of his hands cupped firmly under her elbow to hold her steady as she gets her feet under her again, a palm pressed to her forehead and her eyes squeezed tightly shut against the sallow lights of the hangar.

“Wei Ying is sleeping at Jiang-guniang’s insistence, we will not move until evening at the earliest. You should rest.”

Wen Qing ruthlessly tamps down the panic Lan Wangji’s suggestion sends racing through her veins, fresh adrenaline chasing away the exhausting crash from the previous rush, when she’d narrowly escaped her uncle’s clutches once again.

“I won’t sleep until he’s home,” she tells him as she gently shakes his supporting hand off her arm and straightens herself out with an effort. The thought of sleeping fitfully, full of nightmares, just to wake and learn that her husband has left her a widow while she’d been tossing and turning? Utterly unbearable. “Is Lan-xiansheng still monitoring the radios?”

“Mn.”

“I’ll join him, I want to know what’s happening as it happens. Let Wuxian sleep as long as he can.”

It isn’t often that Wen Qing pulls ‘rank’, as much as one can within the family. But when it comes right down to it, she is Wei Wuxian’s partner in this, and in many ways outranks Wei Wuxian himself. This is her family. This is their place. Wei Wuxian has been brought into the fold, he protects them, he does what needs to be done. But so does she, and so does Wen Ning.

Lan Wangji, who better understands the intricacies of their mutable authority than anyone else except Wen Ning, simply nods and falls into step at her side when she takes a deep breath and strides deeper into the mountain.

... -.-. . -. . / -... .-. . .- -.-

YILING CITY — 莲花 VILLA

Jiang Yanli sighs as she finally lays down in her own bed, more exhausted than she’d like to admit from the day and yet unable to shut her mind off enough to feel capable of sleeping just yet.

Jin Zixuan, snoring softly beside her, wakes a few minutes after she lays down with a sharp inhale and a hand groping for hers across the sheets, as always his first desire upon waking: to find her, to reassure himself that she’s safe. It warms her heart as it always does and goes at least some way towards quieting some of her worries, enough for her to turn onto her side and smile at him across the pillows as he opens his eyes.

“Hey,” he rasps, bringing his hand up from hers to cup the side of her head instead, his fingers sleep-clumsy but still gentle as he runs them through her hair to push it back over her ear. “Everything alright?”

“Mm. A-Xian finally fell asleep.”

As expected, Jin Zixuan clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes, though she knows at this point it’s mostly for show.

“We’ll have to get him a fruit basket to thank him for giving you so much practice putting infants to sleep.”

“A-Xuan,” she chides, laughing behind her hand, and she loves the way it makes him smile and drag her in closer, his arm around her waist now so he can reel her in and kiss her forehead.

They linger there in the silence for long enough that Jiang Yanli is fairly certain Jin Zixuan has fallen asleep; he surprises her when he kisses her forehead again, firmly enough that it’s clearly intentional and not simply him seeking her out in his sleep.

“I don’t want to keep living like this when the baby comes,” Jin Zixuan admits in a whisper, as if by saying it softly he might be able to pretend he never said it at all. She understands why, of course; it’s highly unlikely that either Jin Guangshan or Jin Fangyuan have ever truly allowed their son to want anything they didn’t expressly agree with, and with those two for parents she suspects that there were no other options for the future even hinted at to their ‘only’ son and heir.

“It’s not exactly the best environment for an infant,” she agrees, smiling sadly where she’s hidden tucked away under his chin. “It’s not really the best environment for any of us, is it?”

Jin Zixuan exhales long and slow, shaky like he’s releasing some tender emotion she can take a pretty good guess at.

“No.”

Jiang Yanli hums and reaches up to curl her arm under the comforting press of Jin Zixuan’s so she can at least rub her fingertips in circles between his shoulder blades, soothing and slow as he trembles in the way that means he’s trying not to show weakness.

“What am I going to tell my father?” he finally asks, an agonized whisper against the top of her head. Jiang Yanli blinks her eyes open in the dark and very pointedly, very concertedly, does not laugh at the absurdity of this whole thing. Jin Zixuan is continuing before she’s quite gotten a handle on the desire to laugh at the most absolutely inappropriate time (perhaps exhaustion is making her a little giddy). “I’ll tell him everything A-Li, I swear I will. I’ll tell him that I’ve fallen in love and that we’re going to be married and why — all of it. I just..I don’t know how. All father really cares about is the business and his mistresses, he never really cares what happens with me so long as everything is business as usual…”

Jiang Yanli finally gets a hold of herself enough to cup the back of Jin Zixuan’s head and hold him in place long enough to tip her own head back and kiss him quiet.

“Let’s talk about it in the morning,” she suggests, rather than saying ‘We’ve just sent your brother to kill your father, actually, so it’s completely up to you what happens with the Jin next! Congratulations’. It just seems a bit cruel, and that’s probably the sort of thing that Mo Xuanyu should be made aware of at the same time and —

Well, it’s late. It’s a conversation better had in the light of day (and after the confirmation of Jin Guangyao’s success has arrived; there’s no sense in telling Jin Zixuan that his father is dead until he definitely is, that’s really just putting the cart before the horse).

Jin Zixuan sighs and kisses her again, placing pin in the conversation for a few hours at least, and releases her long enough to let her turn onto her other side to sleep. He cuddles up behind her back instantly, arms wrapping firmly around her and holding her close for his own comfort, she knows, as much as her own.

Things are going to have to change. Jin Zixuan finishes tucking himself around her only once he can gently, carefully, rest a hand on the slight swell of her belly under the loose silk of her nightgown, and Jiang Yanli curls her smaller hand over his with a sense of determination perhaps disproportionate to the intimacy of the gesture. Jin Zixuan is absolutely right — things can’t go on like this, not if they want to hope for a better future for their children (and not just theirs, but also for little Wen Yuan under the care of all the Wens and Wei Wuxian, already far too accustomed to grief and tragedy for a boy his age; and for all the children who will inherit whatever world they create for them).

Jiang Yanli sighs into the darkness of her room — the first hints of dawn bluing the window opposite her gently enough that it’s only visible in the pitch-black her eyes have grown accustomed to — and attempts to heed her own suggestion. She can think about this later; for now, she needs to sleep as she’s always admonishing the people she loves to do, and the rest will simply have to wait.

... -.-. . -. . / -... .-. . .- -.-

THE BURIAL MOUNDS — COMMUNICATIONS — LEVEL 13

Lan Qiren’s life is hardly what he would have ever imagined it to be when he was much younger and, he knows now, much more naïve.

Of course he’d known at a relatively young age that ‘intelligence’ work for the other family syndicates wasn’t as bloodless as his family liked to claim, but in his time leading the Cloud Recesses he’d done his level best to make it as true as it could be. Wen Ruohan had put paid to that rather thoroughly, and Lan Qiren — along with his beloved nephews and the surviving members of the Lan organization’s core — had been forced to choose: A life of open bloodshed to eke out their own survival, or a cruel and agonizing death at the hands of either the Wens or the War.

There were many who had chosen to die in their principles. Lan Qiren may have been one of them, but his responsibility to his nephews had ensured he hadn’t had that luxury. He’d been left no choice but to do his duty: to survive, and to ensure his nephews did as well, by whatever means he could stomach.

In the years between his moral surrender and being brought into the fold of Wei Wuxian’s small operation doing everything they can to help the world limp towards peace, the War had taken its toll and left him bitter and jaded, thoroughly unable to remember how to see the good in people when all he knows anymore is atrocity after atrocity, pain and suffering the likes of which his honored ancestors in all their wisdom could have never anticipated when they’d established the governing rules of the clan so long ago. How can one truly believe in justice and mercy and the worth of all beings after seeing the things that he has; the things people are willing — eager even — to do to each other; the monstrous weapons the powers of the world create and turn on each other with reckless abandon?

It’s a question that Wei Wuxian doesn’t have an answer for either, but at least he’s been doing something to attempt to whisk the newest class of barbaric weapons away where others can’t use them to level entire cities again. Working with Wei Wuxian is not something he would have ever anticipated in his life Before, when the boy was loud and uncouth and vivaciously bright, blinding in his arrogance and his love for life unfettered. Now, he’s a very different man than he was in those halcyon days, burdened with an early maturity born out of harsh necessity, and against all odds Lan Qiren has realized over the years that he respects him on a much deeper level than simple like or dislike could ever touch.

They’ve all changed, in the end. Even him.

Wen Qing joins him in the communications room at daybreak and wordlessly takes the seat beside his to plug into the neighboring section of switchboard and begin the laborious process of unplugging and reinserting her line in a new spot every few moments, scanning the lines with practiced efficiency as, with her free hand, she runs the radio scanner through their most used frequencies on an endless rotation. Lan Qiren offers her a nod, silent commiseration for the fear of not knowing and simply having to wait, and ruminates some more on how things change.

He’s sitting beside a Wen. And not only sitting beside a Wen, but working with her, trusting her judgment and her integrity — and that of her entire family that populates the Burial Mounds. Of course he doesn’t live here permanently, he’s only here from Gusu until this latest plot of Wei Wuxian’s is resolved and he can retreat once again to continue the laborious work of rebuilding his home, but the fact still stands; the times are changing and Lan Qiren has changed with them as much as he’s been able. His implicit trust in the Wen heiress sitting beside him is proof of that, if nothing else is.

“A-Cheng!” Wen Qing gasps sharply a few hours into their vigil, startling Lan Qiren away from his half-asleep monitoring of the sonar signal from the river and the radar reading the skies. There’s no accompanying pip on the sonar of Jiang Wanyin’s Sandu coming back down the river, but of course the telephone lines stretch much further.

“Laopo,” he hears faintly through Wen Qing’s headset, the sound carrying easily through the deep silence of the room buried in the heart of the mountain. He resists the urge to clear his throat and announce his presence to Jiang Wanyin in the hopes of preventing further endearments. (After observing Wangji’s and Wei Wuxian’s frequent and enthusiastic affections, Jiang Wanyin and Wen Qing can hardly be considered offensive, after all.) “You’re home.”

“Where are you? What’s happened?”

“Too much to say over the wire, and I’ll have to keep moving in a few minutes. I’m fine, I swear.”

Lan Qiren does harrumph just a little at that — of course Jiang Wanyin is fine, he hadn’t doubted that for a moment even with the suspicions laid against Jin Guangyao. Jiang Wanyin is one of the few young people in this world outside of his own family that Lan Qiren has a genuinely high opinion of, even when taking into consideration his quick temper and penchant for violent expressions of said temper.

“And the others?”

“Mianmian is flying Zewu-Jun and Jin Guangyao to Qishan, they want to rescue Chifeng-Zun.”

“Give that to me,” Lan Qiren finally says and gestures for the headset. Wen Qing’s expression stills like she’s attempting to hide a flash of irritation, but she works the headset carefully over her updo and passes it across the space between their desks without complaint.

“Did Jin Guangyao betray us?” No one has ever accused Lan Qiren of delicacy.

“What?? No! They beat the shit out of him Lan-laoshi, and whatever he did to get rid of Jin Guangshan, Jin Fangyuan, and their shithead nephew was enough to make even Mianmian a little pale.”

“He could use our goals to accomplish his own and still be responsible for the betrayal in Qishan,” Wen Qing muses, raising an eyebrow at him with an elegant shrug. “Despising his father does not mean he’s loyal to us, and he and Chifeng-Zun have little love for each other.”

“I heard that — I’m telling you, no way,” Jiang Wanyin protests instantly. “He’s with us, I can tell. Besides, if he’s not, then he’s at least loyal to his siblings, and we’ve got two out of the three at jiejie’s house, with much easier access to get at Qin-guniang than he has if we need extra leverage. He wouldn’t jeopardize their safety like that.”

“Surely he knows we wouldn’t truly hurt the Mo boy? We were freeing him, not actually using him as bargaining chip,” Wen Qing sniffs, but this time Lan Qiren counters her insistence on wasting precious time by arguing with her own husband by shooting her a piercing glare.

“Do not argue with family for it does not matter who wins. Trust your husband, Wen-guniang. If you grasp after the vengeful ghosts of your imagination you will find only empty air,” he reprimands, sharp around the edges. “Your refusal to set aside your suspicion will blind you to any facts you do not care for and color your understanding of the truth; I suggest you curb your suppositions in favor of logic.”

“Only an abundance of caution, Lan-laoshi, but this one thanks you for your instruction,” Wen Qing sighs, mostly just sounding tired.

“My nephew?” Lan Qiren asks Jiang Wanyin next, aware of valuable time ticking by but still, he needs to know.

“He’s perfectly fine, Lan-laoshi, I promise. He wasn’t even in Lanling for an hour in total, and most of that was spent waiting for Jin Guangyao to finish getting rid of Zixun so they could both leave for Qishan.”

“Mm. It would seem that our support will be needed to the north, then,” Lan Qiren sighs. Confronting Wen Ruohan will not be a simple task, nor a bloodless one if he’s any judge of the old monster. He trusts his nephew to handle himself, but despite his admonition to Wen Qing he’s also too inclined towards ‘an abundance of caution’ to allow one of the men he raised (who may as well be his son at this point) to fly straight into the lion’s den with no support beyond Jin Guangyao, who has likely had a very long night.

“Maybe. Listen, I’m about an hour upriver I’d say, we can discuss it when I get there. I need to go, I’ve been in one place too long.”

Wen Qing gestures sharply for the headset again and Lan Qiren gamely passes it back.

“A-Cheng, wait-“

“I’ll see you there,” Jiang Wanyin promises, followed by a few more things he says too quietly for Lan Qiren to overhear. More reassurances, he assumes, as Wen Qing’s shoulders slump an entire inch and she closes her eyes for a long moment before taking the headset off again to set it down gently on the desk.

“I’m going to find A-Ning to give him the update,” she announces and stands with a bone-weary sigh.

“As you wish.”

Wen Qing nods and turns for the door, her boot-heavy footsteps pausing when he calls to her over his shoulder.

“Wen-guniang.”

“Lan-laoshi?”

“I would say something before you inevitably leave for Qishan, and abuse my right as your elder to say whatever I please.”

Wen Qing turns slowly on one heel to raise an eyebrow at him, her arms crossed delicately across her middle.

“Yes?”

“Should you and Jiang Wanyin ever have news of a very…particular sort to announce, I hope you’ll consider me close enough to your family to inform me of it as well.”

Wen Qing blinks at him a few times slowly, uncomprehending, but when he sees the implication land he has to hide a hint of a smile with a clearing of his throat and a stroke or two to his goatee.

“Ah — Lan-laoshi — we haven’t really…”

“Jiang-guniang’s forthcoming announcement will suffice for the time being, but I should warn you I believe I will require a steady supply of grandchildren, and it seems my nephews will both shun this particular filial duty and leave it to others to carry the torch.”

“Wait, Yanli-jie — you know about that?”

Lan Qiren snorts and turns back to face the greenish glow of his monitors with an unamused hmph. “I am not yet so old that I cannot see the obvious signs, Wen-guniang, even had I not been in the business of dealing others’ secrets for most of my life. It is my job to know things that will be of benefit to me and my family, and I would count her situation as being of benefit to me. Now go find your brother, he will require calming before you leave, and you should both sleep as well. You’re young, not invincible.”

Wen Qing splutters for a moment behind him, wordless surprise and a couple aborted beginnings of questions before she simply gives up with a huff and wishes him a somewhat uncharitable, “Goodbye Lan-xiansheng,” on her way out of the room.

As the underwater sonar suddenly pings an incoming craft at the furthest range it can read, Lan Qiren muses that perhaps it’s beneficial on occasion to spend some time away from home. He’ll never be able to restore what was completely, and there is of course no restoring the lives lost that he’ll carry guilt for for the rest of his life. But it’s good to be involved in the work of repairing at least some of the damages wrought — and bothering young people who think they run the entire world is much more fun than he would ever have anticipated.

He makes a mental note to talk to Wei Wuxian when this is all over about taking a more active role in his organization, but for now they all have a job to finish; he intends to do his part to help them all see it through to the end.

... -.-. . -. . / -... .-. . .- -.-

YILING CITY — 莲花 VILLA

It is near noon, and Wei Ying is still sleeping.

Lan Wangji is glad to have Jiang Yanli and Wen Qing as his allies in ensuring everyone else allows him to stay that way; they don’t understand. No one else in this room (save him and the two women Wei Ying holds in his heart as his sisters) truly sees the way that Wei Ying stays awake for days on end, sometimes even a week or more with only a stolen hour or two of sleep every so often, and that only when his body simply collapses from the strain of it all. No one else seems to understand that Wei Ying is killing himself to keep them all as safe as he can, that he views the personal cost of his own life as a reasonable price to pay for their continued survival. Even fewer people see how thoroughly it shatters Lan Wangji’s heart to watch the man he loves more than his own life carve piece after piece off of himself in the service of those closest to him, who would wish first and foremost to see him well.

Jiang Wanyin has been their staunchest opponent, too sharp around the edges as he voices his plans to wake Wei Wuxian as soon as possible and begin hashing out the next part of his scheme. Wen Qing is proving to be of most value there, curbing her husband’s enthusiasm with her equally sharp tongue and, he’s seen in moments when she thinks no one is watching, a few jabs with her claw-like nails between Jiang Wanyin’s ribs that always make him settle, grumbling, into an uneasy acceptance that he’s not going to get his way.

Lan Wangji doesn’t particularly care about his brother-in-law’s pride, or that he wants to go tearing off to Qishan immediately to end this once and for all. They’ll finish it when the time is right, of that much he’s certain, and that doesn’t necessarily mean running headlong into unknown danger just because Jiang Wanyin is a man incapable of sitting still.

(Jiang Wanyin isn’t the only voice urging that they leave for Qishan immediately but he’s certainly the loudest and most belligerent [and also Lan Wangji kind of hates him], which feel like valid reasons to make the man the focus of his current irritation.)

The boys they’ve rescued, Mo Xuanyu and Nie Huaisang, are sitting in the midst of it all sipping at Jiang Yanli’s best jasmine tea, watching the proceedings with wide, curious eyes and not a hint of fear despite Jiang Wanyin’s blustering and the fact that Wen Ning, when he arrives from the Burial Mounds, still has some flecks of blood on his face from torturing Su She for as much information as he was willing to share. (Lan Wangji remembers the man as particularly loose-lipped, to the detriment of the entire Lan clan that survived the initial attack by the Wens, and, in a turn of events he could never have expected that awful day, finds himself hoping that this was still the case.)

In greeting, Lan Wangji pulls a white handkerchief from his pocket and dips a corner in Jiang Wanyin’s abandoned glass of water to hold out wordlessly toward Wen Ning as the man half-observes Jiang Wanyin and Jin Zixuan arguing against Wen Qing with the air of men who know they’re losing but who feel honor-bound to do so with as much fuss as possible. Wen Ning takes the handkerchief with a confused slant to his brows until Lan Wangji taps his own face with a fingertip in the appropriate spot, and his husband’s best friend hurries to wipe away the evidence of his night’s activities with a bumbling sort of hurry that’s thoroughly at odds with his well-deserved reputation for ruthlessness.

“Th-thank you, Hanguang-jun,” Wen Ning murmurs somewhat guiltily, though that’s also just sort of…how he always is, especially since Wei Wuxian dragged him back from the brink of death and Wen Ning has never let himself stop carrying the weight of that ‘debt’ on his shoulders.

“Mn.”

“Mr Lan?” Lan Wangji blinks down at Mo Xuanyu, wide-eyed and looking more than a little shell-shocked. “Did Jiang-jiejie’s didi really just say that Yao-ge killed my father?”

“ —e need to go get them now, before Wen Ruohan learns the truth!”

“Word won’t travel to Qishan that fast, you just said Mianmian blew up all of their communications on your way out!”

“Wait-” Jin Zixuan cuts in on Jiang Wanyin and Wen Qing’s spat, and a quick glance is more than enough to note that he’s just as pale and shocked as Mo Xuanyu (which Lan Wangji supposes answers Mo Xuanyu’s question in the affirmative). “My father is dead?”

The ensuing silence is a welcome reprieve from the endless rounds of arguing that preceded it, though Lan Wangji realizes it’s probably not a pleasant silence for anyone else.

“Did you…not know that?” Jiang Wanyin asks, and he at least has the decency to wince. Lan Wangji does not allow this to skew his opinion in any positive direction, as he loses points immediately for asking such a pointless question in the first place. Clearly Jin Zixuan didn’t know or else he wouldn’t be asking, nor would he look like he’s about to vomit.

“Um. No.”

“Is it true though? Yao-ge killed him?” Mo Xuanyu asks the room at large, much more insistently.

“He did.” It is, mercifully, Wen Qing who confirms this, her voice businesslike but not cruel, in the particular way she has that Lan Wangji has long admired. “Sometime around dawn.”

Hm. This has the potential to be a decent enough way to distract everyone from their insistence that Wei Ying wake to lead the charge to Qishan. Lan Wangji glances around at the general unease and the variety of emotions on everyone’s faces — guilt, on the Jiang siblings’, constipated nausea (what else is new) on Jin Zixuan’s, cautious elation on Mo Xuanyu’s, shrewd calculation on Nie Huaisang and Wen Qing’s, and a polite sort of anticipatory patience on Wen Ning’s — and he decides that he’d very much like to leave them to their arguing in favor of the rare opportunity to join Wei Ying in bed for an extended period of time.

The faint rustling of silk as he straightens his shoulders in preparation to speak sounds strangely loud in the strangled silence. “Wei Ying will wish to leave for Qishan as quickly as we reasonably can — most likely this evening. I will ensure he is informed of the new developments when he wakes. Rest now and be prepared to move by sunset.”

“Hanguang-Jun,” Wen Qing says, a simple acknowledgment of his authority to speak for his husband along with a nod; she’ll have everything ready to go by sunset, no earlier, no later; of that he can be absolutely sure.

Lan Wangji sweeps out of Jiang Yanli’s living room with all the dignity he can muster (which is quite a lot) to slip through as small of a crack as he can into the guest suite where Wei Ying had finally been cajoled into resting. The light is muted, the heavily-curtained windows west-facing and therefore sheltered from the way the rest of the villa is aglow with golden noon light. Here, the light is a soft, warm blanket of gray, and Wei Ying is little more than an indistinct lump under lilac silk. Lan Wangji carefully slips out of his outer layers, folds them to set them aside, and lifts the sheets just enough to join his husband, who instantly stirs from his corpse-like stillness to bully his way close enough to leech some of Lan Wangji’s body heat, thankfully without waking.

Pressing a soft kiss to his husband’s forehead is as natural as breathing, and as thrilling as flying. To be allowed to hold him is still a pleasure Lan Wangji cannot possibly take for granted, and so rarely does he get to hold Wei Ying when he’s still and quiet, finally resting his tired bones. He presses a few more lingering kisses to his sleep-warm skin and then settles in to ruminate on what they know so that he may present Wei Ying with multiple possibilities when he wakes.

The facts, as they currently know them, are this:

Jin Guangshan, his madam, and his most bloodthirsty nephew (who could possibly challenge Jin Zixuan’s leadership) are all dead.

In their escape from Jinlintai, Luo Qingyang and Jiang Wanyin blew up Lanling’s main research facility and their communications bay to prevent any upstarts from taking advantage of the temporary absence of a leader to abscond with any worthwhile information, though Luo Qingyang grabbed most of what was worth having anyway.

Jin Guangyao is, for now, presumed innocent of any involvement with this latest plot by Su Minshan and Xue Yang (though Lan Wangji well remembers the strength of the friendship between the three over his years spent undercover in Lanling, and feels…disinclined to truly give him the benefit of the doubt no matter what his brother and uncle say. Lan Xichen’s insistence that he can be trusted is currently the only convincing argument in favor of Jin Guangyao’s innocence).

If Jin Guangyao is not innocent, he has both Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue trapped in Nightless City at his and Wen Ruohan’s mercy, which is much less than ideal.

And, finally:

Wen Ruohan and his sons are still alive and all in Qishan. If they play their cards right, Lan Wangji and Wei Ying will finally be able to make them pay for their crimes.

There is no doubt at all in Lan Wangji’s mind that Wei Ying will want to see this finished in person. There is also no doubt in his mind that very soon after Wei Ying wakes, he’ll become as cold and unreachable as he had been during the war, a man so deeply traumatized and convinced that his value lies solely in his utility that he will, briefly, forget what it’s like to be loved. To be soft.

Lan Wangji already knows that he will stand at his husband’s side anyway and wait patiently for reality to creep back in and thaw him slowly, piece by beloved piece.

The Wei Ying who will arrive in Qishan will be a ruthless murderer; a weapon that obliterates his targets with a righteous, vengeful fury; a natural disaster barely contained in flesh and bone. How quickly people seem to forget that Wei Ying is the foremost authority on nuclear technology in the world for a reason, and that he has gained his knowledge of it through truly heinous practical application. How quickly people forget that the Yiling Laozu is not a man to be crossed if they value anything remotely resembling a decent life.

Wei Ying sleeps deeply in his arms, and when he wakes Lan Wangji kisses him into the mattress, gifts him a necklace of lovebites to leave evidence of his devotion under Wei Ying’s skin where it’s safest and not easily forgotten, and only then does he tell his husband what they’ve learned since he let his sister convince him to sleep last night.

By the time they leave for Qishan, the sun is a baleful, burning eye, blood-red and bloated with ill omen, watching from the West as they fly North to end this once and for all.

[monstroso]

All the humanized Ludwig designs I've ever seen fail in one particular crucial aspect that personally ruins the whole concept for me. Whether he's young or old, clean-shaven or overgrown, the artists always make him so subdued and dour.

The beauty of Ludwig is his unwavering conviction. He's a knight in the truest sense of the word, a sworn holy warrior who believes 100% in his cause even as that loyalty has corrupted and broken his body and eaten away at his mind. There is genuine joy in his voice when he recalls the power of the Moonlight Blade and is able to call upon it once more. In this fleeting moment of clarity he remembers himself, and he is happy.

To me, this is the true Ludwig, shown when his boss name changes to Ludwig The Holy Blade, the title he carried before he lost himself to beasthood. Here is one who serves with not only dignity but also gleeful pride. It accentuates the tragedy of his character exquisitely that this thing which has brought him so much joy is the thing which eventually dooms him. So when artists draw him before the corruption as this grim-faced stone wall, I think it misunderstands his motivation and what makes him so compelling in the first place. More happy Ludwigs is what I'm trying to say.

[gealach-in-a-misty-world]

1828. Robin Swift, orphaned by cholera in Canton, is brought to London by the mysterious Professor Lovell. There, he trains for years in Latin, Ancient Greek, and Chinese, all in preparation for the day he’ll enroll in Oxford University’s prestigious Royal Institute of Translation—also known as Babel. The tower and its students are the world's center for translation and, more importantly, magic. Silver-working—the art of manifesting the meaning lost in translation using enchanted silver bars—has made the British unparalleled in power, as the arcane craft serves the Empire's quest for colonization. For Robin, Oxford is a utopia dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge. But knowledge obeys power, and as a Chinese boy raised in Britain, Robin realizes serving Babel means betraying his motherland. As his studies progress, Robin finds himself caught between Babel and the shadowy Hermes Society, an organization dedicated to stopping imperial expansion. When Britain pursues an unjust war with China over silver and opium, Robin must decide: can powerful institutions be changed from within, or does revolution always require violence?

"There are no kind masters". R.F. Kuang's Babel, or the Necessity of Violence: an Arcane History of the Oxford Translators' Revolution is a bleak and tragic tale about racism and colonialism. It's a hard read, it doesn't mince words, and it's a tragedy in the truest sense of the word. It's also a beautiful exploration of languages and philology, and a love letter to the act of translation, which powers magic in this world. It's an alternate history that draws on very real and terrible things, like the opium trade. It deserves to be on this blog because of the unspoken and unresolved attraction between the two male main characters, but I wouldn't recommend reading it merely because of the evanescent queer content. It is a phenomenal tale, though, and one I think everyone should read.

✨ 5 stars

[You can find more of my reviews about queer speculative fiction on my blog MISTY WORLD]

[chaithoughts006]

My trip to Venice Mall

Desolate, that’s the word that comes to mind when you take in the chubby plain faced girl, trotting behind her parents in heels she hasn’t yet learnt to properly walk in, with a moody look the only makeup for her dulling skin. Her black and white kurta complimented her figure nicely. It wouldn’t be so bad to date her, one might think, with a hint of superiority, reflecting this author’s own sense of inferiority. She looked the serious, studious kind, this girl, but her coloured hair gave her the look of someone who indulged in things considered bad, say smoking.

Walking abreast were, in varying amounts of obesity, the mother and father. Is there some significance to positioning mother before father? Is my subconscious trying to tell me something? Ah, leave such matters for Freud! My readers moan. Very well, then. We shall continue. The mother clad in black, a busty middle aged woman whose bright pink lipstick wore her and a pot-bellied ageing man with hard work and diligence etched onto his face. Rather unassuming, plain folk wouldn’t you think? The hair on their heads didn’t turn grey for nothing haha.

We look at the daughter again. How she wishes to lie in the comfort of her blanket, reading that book that had become her latest obsession, had consumed her so largely that she’d begun to adopt its title into her meals. Butter, butter, everything butter. The exploration of same sex desire. It was no coincidence, she decided. And that brings us to thoughts of her greatest love, a former friend, someone she let consume her entirely. She missed her, as does this humble author. It’s a great loss, a pain that seeps into your very bones, making you so weary that you just want to curl up in your bed and cry and oh, how wonderful would it be if someone were to hold you then!

This mall that the family went to, it was…it was empty yet beautiful. Superficial, in a sense, with phony-looking people roaming the halls of the scattered showrooms. A towered, twisting staircase- pretty, a good place to make out, her university-trained brain muses. The artificial, blue shallow waters and the simple electric boats, the walls carved and painted to look just like Venetian homes- it all seemed such a bore to this thought daughter. Yes, that’s what she was, is. A new woman, utterly besotted with culture, the humanities and art. Pinterest, reddit, Instagram, tumblr, spotify, her journal and books, access to anime, movies and tv shows, writing poetry, learning from professors and students, researching, debating, spontaneous writings, all this gave her soul the fire that had been dangerously close to going out in recent times. A tragedy, indeed, for an eighteen-year-old, a fledgling, to have gone through so much. Even as I write, delicious music plays in the background haha!

At the floor just above, the aroma of baked goods wafted up to her, tingling her nostrils. Her mouth watered, anticipating salt, sugar, fat and carbohydrates in the most scrumptious combinations possible. And oh the joy when she finally had the taste of those Korean Soboro cream buns! Perfectly crispy, rich with butter, light and cool when settled in the throat and a steaming cup of coffee on top- heaven in the truest sense. That was precisely the moment that this young depresso became a happy espresso, even agreeing to have her pictures taken! Good food can do wonders for your mood, mind you. The people working there were so well- mannered and polite! And the girl that served the coffee and confectioneries was so cute that our protagonist yearned to be her age and a man. Again, the themes of the novel she’d been reading hit her like a maelstrom. Will her skin glow too? Shall she let go too of what society demands from her? What would happen?

[imnothinginparticular]

#finishedbooks Romeo and Juliet by Shakespeare. Got this a long time ago in a set of 15 (he has 38 plays total) at a drive in liquor store for 5 dollars. I was on a good pace of reading them until I got back to Tokyo where I started on my old "to-read stack" I already had. Think since 2022 I have only read "A Winter's Tale," so finally continuing Shakespeare ... with "Romeo and Juliet." This was among his earlier plays and along with "Hamlet" perhaps his most performed where even the title is archetypal. With that, serious Shakespeare enthusiasts (sure their is a word for people who obsess over him lol) it is regarded to a much lesser degree than his other plays, due in part typically to anything deemed too popular...even for Shakespeare. To a strict criteria of a Shakespearean tragedy, it falls short due to at times forced comedic elements that messes with the tone, a true lack of ethical purpose, plot inconsistencies, and general misgivings about the emphasis on pathos as well hurts it. Course to anyone it is a tragedy, just not in the truest sense that one looks at Shakespeare. Of course there are all the other staples: the ingenuity of language, brilliant characterization, and portrayal of young love. Because we know it is an earlier work (a Shakespeare study in itself) it is unfairly pitted against the later tragedies, the pace of which I noticed here was frantic for Shakespeare. Most often talked about are the supporting character inventions he added from the combination of two base Italian stories that Romeo and Juliet is derived from...in the comic character Mercutio. Guess in all, this is me trying to continue where I was during the pandemic where I had unlimited time and was curious after some structuralist studies the basis of cultures... this entailed Shakespeare as with others I read Arabian Nights, Greek tragedies, West African tribal folk tales, the Bible , etc.

[moonrisecalamityretreat]

Matthew 26:16

[♫♫♫]

The figure that appeared from behind the rabbits walked with purpose in each step. A black shroud connected to an upside down lamb mask obscured all of their features from view as they took steps beyond the bunnies. Their movements were slow and though their face was completely obscured they could all make out that a red cape was draped over their shoulder. Wings around the neck and running down the inner side of the cape. All lined with reds and gold. 

Upon this figure that could only be The Shepherd, a red teardrop shaped mark laid upon the pale skin of their palm. Beneath the cape, a black sweater vest over a white collared shirt. Black pants and brown dress shoes. If it wasn’t for the cape and headpiece this person surely would look completely normal. As if they were any person that you could find right off the street…but they weren’t…This person approaching was the Mastermind of this tragedy…

Miyazaki throws his entire body around at the sound of The Shepherd’s voice. His teary eyes immediately feel with fear as they take more steps towards him. 

“N-No…no…no…”

His voice shakes and his face depicts nothing but dread…he…is frozen in fear. Miyazaki tries to move his hands, he tries to step back but his legs are cemented into the ground.

“You won’t ever come to my side will you? I have been trying so hard and yet you still defy me. Why don’t you love me? Why can you not keep your promises to me?”

Miyazaki shakes his head. 

“I-I’m sorry…I just…I ain’t…I ain’t wanna hurt ya…Why can’t we stop this!? Please…Please!!”

The figure stops a few feet away from Miyazaki…it tilts its head.

“Stop? Again with this asking to stop? It’s too late to stop. Nobody is going to stop. This is the finale after all. You don’t want to hurt me and yet that is all you do. You fill my heart with so much despair. Thank you for that.”

There is joy that leaks from The Shepherd’s words. 

“The constant betrayal, the constant pushing me away even though we made a promise as kids. Even though we are inseparable. Two halves of a whole we’ve always been.” 

They take another step forward…and Miyazaki finally moves his body to pull his Komori blade from his pocket. He had been the only one left with a weapon and now…he points it at the mastermind.

“You turn your weapon on me? Of all people? I trusted you more than anyone else. You know that. You want to hurt me this bad…this badly?”

There is a movement in The Shepherd’s shoulders and it turns into a full release of pure joyous laughter

“Praise be to all! This is so exhilarating! My most precious person turned his blade on me! This kind of behavior needs to be enjoyed to its fullest! What a horrid thing! What an amazing breed of suffering you have made for me! Ahahahahaha!!!”

The Shepherd moves quickly to the front of Miyazaki

“No!!! Stay away from me!! Get away!! Stop, stop it!!! Don’t hurt me!!!” 

You remember this…you remember this screaming…this pure display of pure and utter terror from Miyazaki. It was just like what Miyazaki displayed when he saw what The Shepherd had actually done to the world at the end of the third trial.

This was fear in its truest sense. The Shepherd speaks and their words are soft…gentle…loving even.

“Don’t worry…I just want to stop your tears forever. I want you to feel this glorious once in a lifetime despair…won’t you let me do that?”

The knife in Miyazaki’s hand moves in a flash. For those that catch a glimpse it almost looks as if it floats from Miyazaki’s grasp and into the hand of The Shepherd.

The Shepherd lifts it high…

It shines bright in the light of the trial room…

Miyazaki’s eyes grow wide, his mouth opens to scream…

And the blade comes down like a bolt of lightning…

“Juzo-nii-chan.”

His growing scream stops abruptly. The sound of steel tearing through flesh and bone assaults your ears till the blade is to the hilt into Juzo’s chest. The sounds stop only to be followed by the swift sound of the blade being ripped from its spot in him. Juzo’s body sways and falls to the ground with a thud.

Staring you all down behind him…is the bloodied sheep mask of The Shepherd.

[everything-a-wolf-could-want]

To me, shipping doesn’t necessarily mean I think these two people would be good for each other. In truth, it means that maybe half the time. Maybe. Might be a bit less, actually. So what does it mean?

To me, shipping means There is a story here. Sometimes that story is a love story, in the truest sense of the word. Sometimes that story is a disaster waiting to happen. Sometimes it’s a tragedy, or a comedy, or a porno. Sometimes it’s a horror story, in the worst way. But it’s a story I’m interested in exploring, for whatever it has to say.

Maybe I want to see what it would take to turn the unhealthy into something healthy. Maybe I want to see the opposite. Maybe I just want them to fuck. Maybe I want them to meet in a new way, to see if that changes things. Maybe I want to see how broken they are across an infinite number of universes. The point is, I don’t ship all of the things I ship for the same reasons. I ship them for so many different reasons it’s not really feasible to list them all. Humanity is a spectrum of living emotion and infinte possibilities, and I enjoy using fiction as a dollhouse where I get to play with those things.

Sometimes there’s a wedding and children and a happy ending. Sometimes, someone bakes a person in a pie or pushes them off the roof. Sometimes there’s sex, and sometimes there’s tears, and sometimes there’s laughter. And sometimes there’s a cruelty that steals your breath from your lungs and leaves you wondering how it hasn’t killed you. All of that is okay. Because it’s a dollhouse, and all I’m doing is playing pretend.

And I can play pretend any which way I damn well want.

One thing that always baffles me and that I legit continuously forget about because it's such a weird concept to me is that lots of people think that to "ship" a pairing is to view it as completely healthy and ideal for both characters involved, and to thus want it to be canon.

But that's... just not the case with so many ships??

Think of it this way. I could legitimately see a ship as "relationship goals" and "should be canon", but I could just as easily see it as a thriller or toy train crash or a way to vent about my own, real issues that I've had to overcome.

When I watch a horror movie, I don't necessarily want my favorite characters in it to die. And even when I do want people to die, it's not because I think it's a good thing?? It's because I know it's fake and it's fun to watch or think about. It's fun to play superhero punching the bad guy. It's fun to play games where you set people on fire or make a giant fish swallow them.

And when I "ship" something ungodly toxic or downright awful, it's not because I'm under any impression that it represents a relationship that should be imitated or strived for. It's because it's thrilling. It's exciting. It's weird. It's even uncomfortable sometimes, but it's uncomfortable in a therapeutic way.

I've never seen someone ACTUALLY glorifying the unhealthy aspects of their favorite ship. I only ever see people playing toy trains or coping with trauma.

And it's goddamn bizarre to me that so many people think of "shipping" as an inherently prescriptive thing when it's actually just a game.

It's just a game.

It's JUST A GAME.

[camelots-daffodil]

It’s proven time and time again that Merlin values Arthur’s life over everything- including his own life, his friends, his morals and beliefs… literally countless times.

But what gets me is the way he also values Arthur’s feelings above all those things, too.

Look at all the times he saved Uther. Look at the times he saved Uther at the cost of others. In 3x09 ‘Love in a time of Dragons’, Merlin actually puts the way Arthur would feel if his father died, over Alice, a person he knows is extremely important to Gaius. Regardless of the Manticore, Merlin protects Uther and is prepared to allow Alice to die in order to protect Arthur from losing his father. It becomes a situation where he has to make a choice between saving Gaius’s feelings or Arthur’s, but the difference is Alice is a good person under the influence of an evil creature, while Uther is a genocidal tyrant through the entire show. Yet Merlin chooses Uther.

He sacrificed so much for the promise of a golden age, became whatever he needed to become for what the world asked of him, and he did it all for lifetimes waiting for his friend, with no idea when or if he will ever actually rise.

Idk when the writers decided to make this show a tragedy, but it is, in the truest sense of the word, a tragedy.

[risingsunresistance]

gonna keep sharing tweets from hypixel staff just bc i know most of you dont follow them and i dont want their messages to be lost

from simon: so f' sad after watching your dad's video @Technothepig ... I wish you had more time with us, life is so unfair to take away such a wonderful person like you... rest in peace Technoblade, I will never forget you, love you and you better carry me in video games in the afterlife

I keep watching this and crying, man what a legend he was https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQMtDL5M9k8 [techno’s video where he was given youtube rank and a small party from some staff/friends]

from noxy (quote-retweeting simon): RIP Techno. We had a lot of moments together, but this one was my favourite. This is from when he hit 30k subs on YouTube and qualified for the YT tag. A tragedy in the truest sense. All of Hypixel is heartbroken.

from pensul: I have no words other than to say thank you to Techno for everything he's done for all the communities he's been a part of. really changed my life and countless others. rest in peace, techno, you touched the hearts of so many.

from landon: I’m glad I was able to watch Techno’s videos in the short years he was here. I went for the job at Hypixel because of his videos and the inspiring and comedic message he had. Rest In Peace Technoblade, you will be forever missed. Now go make MC videos in heaven. I’ll be waiting.

from jacob: Techno, I first found Hypixel through your videos. You made me laugh, and inspired me to continue Minecraft development and shoot for the job here. I would not have a job I love so much if it weren't for you and your videos. Thank you for being a part of my life for many years.

[noys-boise]

Unlikely lovers is such a song to me.

It's about love. It's about regret. It's about fear. It's about calmness in the face of absolutely chaos. It's about joking around in the most serious situation ever. It's about people who've known each other forever. It's about enjoying the moment while it lasts. It's about what could've been and about ignoring what could've been and concentrating on what is. It's about denial. It's about acceptance. It's about trying to keep it together while you're absolutely falling apart. It's about the inherent solidarity queer people have for each other. It's about compassion. It's about belonging. It's about found family. It's about laughing when you should be crying. It's about appreciating the little things. It's about the horrible reality of the AIDS crisis. It's about tragedy. It's about inevitablity. It's about how even when it hurts, even when you know it changes nothing, being with people who care about you and you care about makes it all less painful. About how it was worth it. It will always be worth it. And it says all of this in such a different way in the original version and the revival version because it's such a different world the musical is set in and it's such a different audience watching it but yet at the end of the day it's the same conclusions. It's not even about love. It's about something more ethereal i don't have the words for but what i could mostly describe as love in a higher sense. It's what Falsettos is to me. It's pain and yet comfort. It's escapism from itself. It's art at its truest form.

So much of this is left unsaid but if you listen, you'll hear it. You really will.