#and. dramatic irony my love

[cheese-water]

Generation Loss is a comedic tragedy in every sense of the word. Every character we see exemplifies this fact, but no one other than The Austin Show proves its truth.

We begin at the carousel. Austin, Gay, takes his turn by pleading for himself to live because he has a wife and children back home. The rest of the cast interrogates him about his “wife and kids,” clearly suspicious of his truthfulness without even knowing his dubbed “title.” Everyone in the room treats Austin like a joke.

In turn, so do we.

Next, we reach the closet and shortly after the failed drag show, Austin remarks, “Look, I uh… I didn’t expect to die here.” It’s a moment of pure honesty, whether we like it or not. It happens again when the Puzzler tries to party with them, and Austin has to angrily remind him that they are his captives and are actively trying to kill them.

Austin: “What are you doing? What are you doing? What are you doing? We're trying to get out of here. I have children and wives— wife. One wife! What is this some sort of game? I’ve been stuck in hear for hours it seems. We’re trying to get out. Why is nobody else freaking out? We’ve got C4 strapped to our neck…”

It isn’t until Ethan’s death, his blood pooling out from underneath the door, Austin screaming at the others, begging them to have a reaction, to care about their circumstances, to care about death, that we finally understand Austin’s role in Generation Loss.

After all, in every great comedy, someone always has to play the straight man.

[benevolenterrancy]

Swords pining for each other's cultivator is my new favorite type of pining. Love your NieYao content! <3

I don't suppose we could get Baxia or Hensheng throwing a tantrum while Jin Guangyao / Nie Mingjue are away, leaving their owners to deal with the embarrassing aftermath?

Also, do you have any recs you'd recommend with these two?

this is the exact moment Nie Huaisang realised he was going to have to start meddling in his big brother's love life (con't: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5)

Hensheng, on the other hand, doesn't throw tantrums but WILL sulk...

[endlesslyautumn]

Peeta: *out of his mind with fever and stupidly in love* if I’m going to die at least Katniss is here 🥹

Katniss: he’s such a good actor, y’all. Like I really believed him for a second there!

[mostmagical]

for @zodoods, I hope this lives up to expectations 🙏

Words: 4k Summary:

Marinette knew she tended to get tunnel vision when she was focused, but luckily her boyfriend Chat Noir was always there to watch her back as they fought Monarch. With their enemy having disappeared, however, they decided together that it was finally time to reveal themselves. In public. Face to face. It's a little silly to have to introduce yourself to your own boyfriend, but after all, it wasn’t Marinette’s fault that she never knew her boyfriend’s name. (Adrien has never been to school, and Marinette doesn't know him.)

Marinette hadn’t known her smile could be so wide. Staring at herself in the reflection, she couldn’t be bothered to worry about the awful dark circles under her eyes, or the frizzy mess of her hair. Everything could be covered or smoothed over, after all. None of that really mattered. Not when her whole world was about to change.

Today was the day.

“Today,” she breathed the word to herself. “Tikki, can you believe it’s today?” she asked, turning around to look towards her kwami.

Tikki giggled from where she sat atop the dresser. “You and Chat Noir have only been planning it forever,” she replied.

The smile was beginning to make Marinette’s cheeks ache. “We have.”

For months following the disappearance of Monarch, Ladybug and Chat Noir had been planning and mentally preparing to finally reveal their identities to one another, eventually coming to the conclusion that they were both ready for it just a week prior. She could still see Chat’s goofy smile in her mind’s eye, clear as day.

“So, we’re really doing this?” he had asked as they sat atop a rooftop together. “For real?”

“For real,” she had replied, excitedly nodding her head. Taking his hand in hers, she had pressed three rapid kisses to the back of it, trying to impress all of her enthusiasm and all of her love into his skin through the suit. “I can’t wait to meet you, mon Chaton,” she had promised him.

His face was rosy, with that big, beautiful smile of his stretching out his cheeks. “Neither can I, my Lady.”

Marinette let out a low squeal at the not-so-distant memory, pressing her hands against her hot cheeks.

She was going to meet her boyfriend. For the first time.

Well, not exactly the first time, but first enough.

They had plans to meet at a little café just a few blocks from the Grand Palais. He had surprisingly been a bit apprehensive at first, but she assured him everything would be okay. Marinette promised to wear the rose he had given her in her hair, and she was going to look for the boy wearing the scarf she had made him on his pretend birthday (and then he could tell her his real birthday!).

She couldn’t wait.

This day was a long time coming, and Marinette had plenty of fantasies to prove it. She wanted to hold her boyfriend’s hand in public, kiss him and go to the movies, all without a crowd of people taking photos of them. She wanted to goof off and be silly with him, all without worrying about being a hero, or acting like a good role model. She wanted to take him over to her house, and have him meet her parents, and stay for dinner without the threat of a supervillain interrupting the desert.

And after today, all that could finally be reality.

She got to work applying her makeup and wrangling her hair, not wanting to waste another second. Although she was notoriously late for most events, this was something she hoped to actually arrive early to. The ruby red dress she had laid out the previous night while she should have been sleeping was the last to slip over her head, perfectly matching the scarlet of Chat’s rose tucked behind her ear. The knee-length skirt fluttered to and fro as she took one last scrutinizing look in the mirror. Everything had to be perfect for her not-so-first impression.

Once she was finally satisfied, Marinette tossed her purse over her head. As soon as Tikki was settled and comfortable, she at last headed out.

There was a skip in her step the entirety of the walk, completely out of her control.

Although excitement was certainly at the forefront of her emotions, she would be lying if she didn’t acknowledge that little seed of nervousness. What if he didn’t like her? (He would.) What if he wasn’t as kind as she thought, and his personality was nothing more than a front? (Impossible.) What if his nerves got the best of him, and he didn’t show?

With her heart thundering in her chest, she turned the last corner to bring the café into view.

Her eyes zoned in on a mop of blond hair instantly. It was neat and combed back— completely at odds with the wild wind-blown look she was used to seeing on her boyfriend, but something in the way her stomach twisted and swooped inside of her told her that she may have spotted him. Taking slow steps closer, she traced the curve of his posture with her eyes as he sat hunched over the tiny café table, gasping slightly as she located the familiar shade of blue peeking from his collar.

It had to be him. It had to.

A chorus of giggles broke her concentration, drawing her eyes to a gaggle of girls a couple tables over. They were whispering excitedly and pointing in the direction of the same mop of blond hair, all with cell phones raised. A sudden wave of heat ran up Marinette’s spine as she realized they were ogling him.

She wasn’t surprised that girls were looking at him. Chat Noir was the cutest, most handsomest boy in the world, so of course they would. But that was her cutest and most handsomest boy in the world.

Her slow steps quickly evolved into a fast walk until she was right beside him, at which she practically threw herself onto the table, bodyblocking the girls’ view. The boy visibly jumped at her entrance. She glanced at his face for his reaction, but his eyes were covered by large sunglasses, effectively hiding any expression of recognition. Face feeling suddenly warm, Marinette stood back up straight and cleared her throat, casually drumming her fingers against the laminate surface.

“H-hi. I’m looking for my kitten,” she said, uttering the code phrase they had planned to use to confirm each other’s identities.

The boy smiled, instantly easing her worries. “I saw a little bug on the flyer.”

A grin spread across her cheeks before she could stop it, giddiness overflowing to the tips of her fingers. “I found you,” she murmured, just quiet enough to be just for him.

He stood from his seat, still smiling, and Marinette thought he was going in for a hug until he stepped around her. She was only confused for a second before he pulled out the chair on the other side of the table.

“Oh.” So the gentlemanly thing wasn’t an act after all. Accepting the gesture, Marinette turned to sit, feeling him push the chair in behind her as she did so. “Thank you.”

He simply hummed, before returning to his own seat across from her.

“So, um–” Not really sure where to start, (how does one introduce themselves to the boy they’ve been dating for two years?) Marinette figured the basics should go first. She almost wanted to laugh as she realized she was essentially on a blind date with her long-term boyfriend. “I’m Marinette,” she said, tugging at her bangs before pushing them behind her ear.

“Marinette,” he breathed. Breathed, as in he actually sighed her name when he said it. Marinette thought she might melt. “That’s a beautiful name.”

She wondered how dopey her smile must look to him. “Thank you,” she replied. “And you are?”

Thin blond eyebrows raised over the rims of the glasses, before dropping back down out of sight almost as quickly as they appeared. He laughed. “Okay,” he said between chuckles. “I’m Adrien.”

Marinette wasn’t quite sure what was so funny, but his laughter was just as contagious as always. With a giggle, she stuck out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Adrien.”

His returning smile was soft. “Nice to meet you, Marinette.” He took her hand, and turned it to rest atop his on the table, running smooth circles over the back of her palm with his thumb. The feeling of his warm skin on hers was foreign and exciting, setting off yet another flurry of butterflies in her stomach.

“You still wear your pigtails,” he stated.

Naturally, her free hand trailed to her hair. She smiled as her fingers brushed the velvet petals of the rose. “They’re kind of my armor,” she replied with a shrug. “All the better for you to recognize me.”

The corner of his lip twitched, but the soft smile remained unchanged. Part of her wondered if he was still nervous about meeting. Hoping to ease his worries, she grinned.

“And I’m glad to see you don’t wear whiskers,” she joked.

He laughed again, and that seemed to be enough to lower the tension in his shoulders, to Marinette’s relief. “You’re right, I don’t,” he said. “I have a clean public image to maintain, you know.”

Marinette furrowed her brows, trying and most likely failing to hide the confusion on her face. It was surprising; Chat Noir was definitely the type of person who would grow “whiskers” just to commit to the bit. To each their own she supposed. Mustaches did seem to be more supervillain-y than superhero-y, after all.

“I do have to ask, though, what’s with the glasses?” she asked, moving the conversation along. “They’re so big, they’re covering half your face. Any plans to take those off?”

“Well, I–” Adrien’s head turned minutely towards the girls at the table behind her, barely perceptible to anyone who wasn’t looking for it. “I don’t know.” His hand pulled at the scarf where it crossed over his black t-shirt.

“Please,” she insisted, putting on her best baby-doll eyes. “How unfair you get to see all of my face and I can’t see all of yours.” She held his hand tighter, imploring but hopefully he knew it was still light-hearted.

“Marinette, it’s just–”

She pulled out her secret weapon: the pout. His mouth instantly stopped moving.

“I’ve never really seen your eyes before,” she added. At his answering sigh, she felt a bout of pride swell in her chest. Victory.

Hesitantly, he removed the sunglasses and folded them on the table, all the while looking shyly up at her through golden lashes.

Marinette’s pulse quickened as she finally— really— met his eyes. Such strange feelings of déjà vu ran through her when she caught sight of how green they were. It was the first time she had seen his whole face, and yet it already felt so nostalgic and familiar. It was almost as if she had seen him before, and she supposed she had, in her dreams at the least.

“Gorgeous,” she sighed, unable to stop her tongue from embarrassing the rest of her.

All the regret she might have held drained out of her, however, when she saw how pink his cheeks went in response. His dropped jaw slowly curved into a small smile, and those pretty green eyes closed in half moons as he replied, “Thanks for the compliment.”

Was this really the same boy?

Marinette snorted. “What? No cheesy remark about how you knew I wouldn’t be able to resist you?”

“I’m just far too stunned by the beauty in front of me to think straight,” he said, mouth pulled sideways. “I daresay you could outshine me anyday.”

There he is.

She rolled her eyes in response, but she couldn’t deny the coils of warmth that spread across her skin. With a fond shake of her head, she brought one elbow to the top of the table to cradle her chin in her hand.

“You know, you’re taking this really well,” Adrien said, the smirk fading back to a humble smile. It was odd seeing him so reserved. “Better than I thought you would.”

“Taking what well?” she asked. Her heart squeezed in her chest as she recalled his apprehension from the night before. She attempted to keep things light, sliding into a teasing tone as she conspiratorially whispered, “Did you think I wouldn’t like you without the cat ears, mon Chaton?”

“Well, no, that’s not exactly—”

She cut him off, making sure to speak with all the sincerity she could muster, “Because there is no universe where I wouldn’t like you.” With a coy wink, she added, “Believe me. I checked.” She grinned with pride as her fingers squeezed his on the table, feeling as though she had one-upped him in cheesiness.

Again, his mouth hung open slightly as he processed her words, but soon morphed back into the soft smile. His head tilted to the side. “You always know what to say to make me happy, my–” The corners of his lips twitched, his intended endearment clear to both of them— “my Marinette,” he said instead, pulling their joined hands up to brush his lips against the back of her palm.

Dimly, Marinette registered the sound of a squeal from somewhere behind her.

“But, um, no.” His countenance took on a much more nervous expression, his free hand drifting back to play with the nape of his neck. “I meant more–” He paused, waving his hand awkwardly towards himself.

“What?”

His brows furrowed, mouth open and clearly poised to explain himself, but he was interrupted by a waiter arriving to take their orders, and the moment was surreptitiously forgotten.

As the date went on, conversation flowed freely between them. Marinette learned so many of his favorite things, what he was studying in school, that he was an only child just like her, and of course, his birthday, time and year. So many things that she would normally have naturally learned over time, which was something that she took for granted in her other relationships with family and friends. It was odd, but wonderful that this absurd blind date was just another unique experience that they could share together.

She would have been more than happy to talk to him forever if she could, but a trill from Adrien’s phone stopped their conversation short.

His eyebrows turned down as he read the screen. “How did it get so late?” he pouted, just as cute as before when he wore cat ears on his head. “I’m sorry, Marinette, but I have to go.”

Her smile was sympathetic, barely holding herself back from mirroring his pout. “That’s okay,” she replied. “We’ll just have to have our next date sooner.”

The answering smile on his face made it all worth it.

Adrien’s fingers flew across his keyboard for a second, before another trill responded. “My bodyguard says he can take you home, though!” he announced happily. “So we can spend a little more time together.”

Marinette couldn’t stop the confused noise from escaping her mouth. “Your…bodyguard?” she repeated slowly.

“Yeah!” He looked up from his phone, lips softly quirked upwards. “And don’t worry; he may look mean but he’s the kindest man I’ve ever met.”

That certainly wasn’t something Marinette was worried about, but now she felt like she needed to be.

She tried to cross the appropriate wires in her head. Okay, so Chat Noir, famed superhero of Paris and wielder of the power of destruction, had a bodyguard in his everyday life. And that bodyguard apparently drove him places?

Perhaps she needed to collect more evidence.

Too busy thinking to come up with anything to say, Marinette mutely nodded her agreement.

Having already paid the bill— well, Adrien paid, despite her protests—, the two stood from their seats and headed down the sidewalk. Marinette followed Adrien closely, too busy sweeping her eyes across the busy street to spot this ‘mean-looking’ man to notice Adrien’s knuckles bumping into hers. She finally looked up at him when he laced their fingers together and squeezed. His green eyes almost seemed to shimmer as they looked into hers, and Marinette could feel all that wound-up tension melt away in response.

The spell between them was broken by a sudden honk.

Adrien was the first to break eye contact, turning back towards the street. “Oh! There he is.”

Marinette followed his gaze. Her eyes widened as they landed on the sleek sedan that had pulled up to the curb in front of them. She didn’t know much about cars, but she knew enough to identify the logo of a luxury brand. The car was well-washed and shiny, unlike most of the vehicles that parked along the dirty city streets.

A burly man emerged from the driver’s side door, and walked around the car. To Adrien’s credit, he did seem a bit scary, based on sheer size alone, but Marinette supposed her Papa was probably about the same size. She figured if the man smiled a bit more, he would come off much friendlier. He greeted the two of them with little more than a low grunt and a nod, before briskly opening the rear passenger side door.

Marinette froze in place as she waited for one of the others to move. She couldn’t for the life of her understand what was going on. Was Adrien going to drive and this man was graciously letting her have the front seat?

“Marinette?” Adrien cleared his throat. “Are you ready to go?”

She blinked a few times, looking back and forth between the open door and her boyfriend’s face. “Um, yes,” she replied nervously. “I’m ready.”

He bowed his head, gesturing with his free hand towards the open door. “Then, after you, my lady.”

The familiar name quelled the voices in her head long enough for her to step forward. “Thank you, my prince,” she teased in response.

Though she did step in first, she held fast to his hand, pulling him along with her. The inside of the sedan was just as clean as the outside. Small tablets nestled into the back of both front headrests, and a far fancier screen than Marinette had in any of her devices at home was centerstage on the dashboard. She could feel her eyes widening as she took it all in.

Chat Noir was rich.

Chloé Bourgeois rich, maybe.

That was… unexpected. Admittedly, she never imagined Chat to have a high-class upbringing (if she could even call Chloé’s that). She had always envisioned him as a rough and tumble sort of kid. He would take soda over wine any day. Canned tuna over caviar. He had never turned up his nose to fast food, or cheap nosebleed seats at a concert, or acted like he was any better than anyone else.

No, Chat– Adrien— was amiable, gracious, and an appreciator of the little things–

“Marinette?”

She whipped her head around to meet her boyfriend’s gaze, having been yanked from her thoughts. “Yes?”

Adrien seemed to be holding back a laugh, clearly having recognized her thinking face. “Your address?”

“Oh!” She leaned forward in her seat, directing her attention to the driver. “12 Rue Gotlib, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”

Adrien’s face lit up in the rearview mirror. “That’s just around the corner from us!”

“Really?” She was reminded of that flash of déjà vu she had felt upon seeing his face for the first time. Maybe they had met before. Most people who lived in the 21st arrondissement got their baked goods from her parents’ bakery, and Marinette often worked the front counter. They must have had at least one encounter before as their civilian selves.

It was almost a shame.

She would have loved to know that her favorite person was just around the corner.

He tightened his grip on her hand as she turned back to face him. “Almost too good to be true,” he said, echoing her thoughts.

All lamentations of lost time were forgotten at that, and she chose instead to be happy in the moment they had now. She smiled, squeezing his hand back.

They were content to spend the short ride in comfortable silence after having spent the majority of their time together with endless conversations. Adrien’s bodyguard didn’t ask any questions after Marinette gave her address, so she saw no reason to try chatting with him when she could cuddle into Adrien’s arm instead. The world was pink and fuzzy, and the only leather pressed against her skin was that of the car seats. Feeling the rise and fall of Chat Noir’s breaths through warm cotton was a wholly different, welcome experience.

The ride was too short, however, and before she knew it, they had pulled up in front of her family’s bakery.

Adrien’s short intake of breath pulled her eyes upwards, and she noticed him staring at the sign with eyes full of wonder. “Whoa, you live so close to the boulangerie,” he noted.

Marinette grinned. “Well, yeah, I live above it,” she said, delighted when his head whipped back to face her. “My parents own it.”

His eyes looked about ready to bulge out of their sockets. “You do?”

She pointed to the sign. “And I designed the logo. Tom and Sabine Boulangerie,” —she turned the finger towards herself— “Tom and Sabine daughter.”

Adrien’s face was painted with the most excitement she had seen from him all day. “That’s so cool! They have the best macarons— I’ve had some at events when we get catering— and I’ve asked Nathalie a few times, but, well–” His face was a bit pink as he paused. “You’re amazing, Marinette.”

“I’ll have to bring you some macarons next time I see you,” she giggled.

His eyebrows danced over his eyes. “Now I know why you’re so sweet.”

“Oh, hush.” She lightly shoved his shoulder. “Takes one to know one.”

Following some pointed clearings of the throat from the driver’s seat, they eventually got out of the car and Adrien walked her to her door. She left him with a quick kiss and a promise to text him later.

The remainder of the day went by in a blissful blur. Dinner, homework, and television with her parents faded into the background as she slipped lovingly into her daydreams. Adrien was too busy to talk, but he had sent her a few hearts and memes throughout the evening, and she looked over all of them with her chest fit to burst. Before she knew it, it was time for bed and they were texting each other good night.

It wasn’t until the next morning that Marinette realized the true shift the world had undergone.

The incessant buzzing of her phone was an unwanted wakeup call. Marinette blindly slapped her hand against the mattress until her fingers met the smooth plastic of her phone case. She slowly cracked her eyes open as the screen lit up again with notifications.

New Message - 🦊Alya🔥(32), Missed Call - 🦊Alya🔥 (2), New Message - Adrien ♥️🐈

Wondering what was so desperate for Alya to be blowing up her phone so early, Marinette quickly responded to Adrien’s “Good morning <3” in kind before opening the floodgates. She was immediately treated to a number of news articles, all caps messages, and photos. Photos of her and Adrien.

Her fingers flew through the slideshow of photographs: Adrien waiting alone with those ridiculous sunglasses, herself haphazardly draped over the table, Adrien kissing her hand, the both of them stepping into his car. She paused on one of the last photos. It was of the two of them, hand-in-hand as they waited for their ride. Adrien’s soft eyes that had mesmerized her up close were just as soft from a careful distance.

She blinked rapidly as she processed it all.

How did Alya get these?

Scrolling back up in her conversation history with Alya, she looked at the articles again, scanning over the headlines: “Adrien Agreste - Dating?” “Adrien Hits the Town with Mystery Girl!” “Who Caught the Eye of Adrien Agreste?” “Agreste Son is Growing Up!”

…Agreste?

The conversation shot down to the bottom as another text from Alya came in: CANT BELIEVE YOU DIDNT TELL ME????

Faster than she could process, Marinette swiped away from her messages to plug “Adrien Agreste'' into her search engine. A shocking thousands of images popped up, all of her boyfriend in various poses and campaigns— including one with the bowler hat she had designed for a competition run by Gabriel Agreste.

A banner notification popped up at the top of her screen, Marinette’s finger tapping it automatically.

Adrien ♥️🐈: I have a photoshoot until around noon, but do you want to get ice cream after?

Marinette dropped the phone as everything suddenly became clear.

Perhaps maybe their civilian relationship wasn’t about to be quite as low-key as she thought.

[theinternetisaweboflies]

crossdressing joker moodboard

[justletmeon12]

Emily: "I actually have a really good magnet to decorate one of your drones with."

Thermal detonator cost flashes onscreen

[ahalliance]

qétoiles n qbagz’ convo about his code arm + fun banter from last sunday :] english subs + transcript below da cut

[Video transcript:

Etoiles: But yesterday when he [Forever] talked to me, he was so frightened, basically he was like, ‘But one day won’t you lose your shit and want to kill the Eggs with the Code, and everything?’ Though I was telling him, ‘But the fact is, I know the Code very well’—

Baghera: Oh, so you told him you joined—?

Etoiles: No, no, no, not at all. It’s just that he has these assumptions that I’m really allied to the Code because—

Baghera: I think it’s due to your Code tattoo, also, it gives off the impression you’re in the process of transforming into a Code, Etoiles, let’s not lie.

Etoiles: That’s it, that’s it. But, basically I told him that I’ve had it since—

Baghera: But you don’t give a shit? You’re taking it well?

Etoiles: Well, yeah, I don’t give a shit because I know he’ll never beat me. Basically I—

Baghera: But you don’t give a shit about the code literally popping up over your body?

Etoiles: Well, yeah, because it’s a part of me now. It’s normal.

Baghera: How?

Etoiles: Well, after— after fighting someone 17 times, you start— you start creating links. But those links—

Baghera: But— you know that’s not how things work. Like— look, we cross paths. Right now we’re crossing paths. You see? We’re crossing paths. I kick your ass. Like, for free. You see? I see you, I’m like, ‘Bro, I don’t like his face,’ so I kick your ass.

Etoiles: But no! Because if you tell me ‘Good fight’ at the end—

Baghera: I see you again— wait, I’m not finished. I see you again like 12 times, and I tell myself, ‘Hey, I’ll do it again,’ I kick your ass again. After a while, Rayou, I won’t get diabetes!

Etoiles: Well, maybe you will, huh.

Baghera: Yes, but it’s not— it doesn’t work, like— there’s no correlation, you see!

Etoiles: You know you won’t have those cells anymore, you know, it’s possible.

Baghera: But— no— what I mean is— Etoiles! That’s now how it works! It’s worrisome! It’s normal for us to worry!

Etoiles: Well, yeah, but, uhhh. Basically, you’re all used to talking with me on the island. And you understand very well that there’s nothing able to corrupt me.

Baghera: That we don’t know, Etoiles! Because— if it’s— I know that your morality, and your enormous brain, and your big body, won’t get corrupted. But if there’s suddenly— well, what I mean is that we don’t know what all the possible systems of manipulation on the island are.

Etoiles: It’s true. No, it’s true. But for the moment I’m doing well.

Baghera: Yeah, well, so much the better. But—

Etoiles: For the moment I’m doing well!

Baghera: If you feel any change, Etoiles, mention it, okay?

Etoiles: Oh, I’ll talk about it. But for the time being I’m doing very well.

Baghera: So I can understand peoples’ fear upon seeing you LITERALLY transform into a Code and who tell themselves, ‘Oh, strange, maybe there’s a thing with the Codes.’

Etoiles: It’s true but who can better know the dangers of the Code than someone who’s confronted it his whole life? Instead of someone who—

Baghera: I’m well aware.

Etoiles: No but it’s— it’s— it’s for that reason that I told Forever. I totally understand the fear and everything, it’s normal. You see a dude turning into a Code, you ask yourself, ‘What’s the guy who sent him doing?’

Baghera: Well, yeah, there you go.

Etoiles: Like, ‘Who sent him?’

Baghera: But you don’t feel any different? Nothing?

Etoiles: Absolutely not, no. Everything is going well. I still hate the Code whenever I see him, I still want to kick his ass. Everything’s fine. Even if right now I want him—

Baghera: But you join up with them when he suggests it, yeah. Well, it’s to get the shield back.

Etoiles: It was just for the shield, believe me. Believe me, if I run into them again- if I run into them again and they don’t offer me things to save the Eggs and everything, it’s goodbye. And considering what I’ve prepared— considering what I’ve prepared, I objectively think that 5 Codes won’t be enough to kill me. There’ll need to be 10 of them.

Baghera: They might bring 10, huh.

Etoiles: Yeah, well, then again, we have time.

Baghera: Well, in any case, they don’t want to kill you anymore since you’re working with them.

Etoiles: Well, in fact, we’re not really— actually— I don’t really know what he’s thinking. Because the last time we talked I told them, ‘But if you lay even a finger on the Eggs, I’ll kick your fucking asses, you sacks of shit.’ And they left, and they didn’t answer me.

Baghera: Then again, they’re a bit cryptic, the Codes, you know.

Etoiles: Yeah, but normally they— I managed to talk with them a bit, so— so I don’t know. Personally, I’m telling you—

Baghera: Okay, no, what I mean is that I understand why when people see you they think, ‘Maybe it’s possible he’s getting a little bit corrupted by the Codes.’

Etoiles: No but yeah, yeah, I totally get it. But honestly, never. Never in a million years.

Baghera: I believe you! I trust you. But if there’s— if once you feel any difference or something of the sort, you mention it, okay? To whomever you want, but you mention it.

Etoiles: Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah (10000x)

Baghera: You know you’re not very reassuring when you say that, as an answer.

Etoiles: That’s true. But I’m telling you there’s no problem. And— actually. The moment I start feeling strange, I’ll put numbers. And so you’ll have to come get me.

Baghera: Okay, okay. I’ll remember that.

Etoiles: Just that. But I— I— yeah. I whisper in the Code’s ear.

Baghera: The day you start talking to me in binary, there’ll be an issue, basically.

Etoiles: The day I say, ‘10001’, that’s it. But actually, I’m telling you, I could never be corrupted because I have AVAST, my wool block which blocks viruses.

Baghera: That’s real, that’s real.

end video transcript.]

[a-lilacsong]

Queen Miranda, Mistress of Evil

  The story behind this is that when Halloween rolls around, on the third year of her being queen, Miranda decides that she really wants to dress up this year for Halloween, because she hasn't yet since coming to the palace. Back in the village she always used to dress up as a villain, but she was not sure if that was still acceptable now that she had become queen. Of course, as soon as she mentions this idea to her family, they told her that they thought it was a fantastic idea, and she should go for it! In fact, maybe she should even “take over the Kingdom” for Halloween (A.K.A. themed Halloween party where she's in charge)! So she made her own costume and the rest is history.

  Wormwood can't talk yet at this point in time, but everyone could tell that he wanted to be her evil sidekick for Halloween, so he's acting as Diablo to her Maleficent. (Even though he knew this whole thing was fake, Wormwood still very much enjoyed this because Maleficent is his favorite villain of all time and Miranda is surprisingly good at acting in character).

[jerreeeeeee]

tragic actual play siblings…

[ddarker-dreams]

Panacea.

Yan Kazuha x Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, mentions of blood/injury (not on Reader).  Word count: 3.5k.

If you were to associate any one color with Kazuha, it would be red.

From the odd strand that stands out against his otherwise snow-white hair, to the depths of his eyes, and the long, billowing details of the various fabrics and tassels on his person. The hue impressed itself upon you and made itself unsuitable for prolonged viewing. He had stolen the pleasure you once experienced when gazing upon fiery sunsets, or in observing the leaves change when scorching summers came to an end. How could you derive enjoyment from that which you associated so intimately with your tormentor?

Indeed, Kaedehara Kazuha was red in your mind’s eye, the two so closely intertwined that they could not exist apart.

However…

Has there ever been this much red?

He’s trying to stand. It’s futile in every sense of the word. He grimaces, one bandaged hand clutching where he’s bleeding the most, the other struggling to remain wrapped around his sword’s hilt. The blade has been thrust into the ground so he may use it as leverage to lift himself up. This is his fourth attempt, you think. Perhaps the number is higher than that.

You wouldn’t know. Thinking is a luxury you aren’t currently blessed to have.

Kazuha’s usually fluffy hair clings tight to the edge of his face, sticking to his perspiring skin. Each breath he takes is a battle — one he’s losing at that — heavy and audible even from over here where you stand. Observing. Waiting. For what exactly, you couldn’t say. When was the last time you held the reins to your own life? The feeling is so surreal, so beyond your comprehension, that you find yourself at an impasse when the path ahead should be the clearest it’s ever been.

Illuminated in bright sunlight, all signs pointing with arrows pointed big and bold for you to see.

Get away from him while you can.

You made it a few paces in the opposite direction but haven’t dared to venture further, past the invisible line he wouldn’t want you to cross. You must be teetering on it already, teasing him with your hesitation, for he’s using what remaining strength he has to try and close the distance. If his attempts at standing continue to fail, he’ll likely try crawling next. Pride is a useless obstacle he’ll cut down if it clears the way to you.

The bodies of the nobushi littering the ground beside him are seemingly endless. Their ambush was brutal, a nightmare playing out in reality with you thrust onto the stage. Metal clanged against metal in a cacophony composed to the most dreadful melody. It still reverberates inside your skull, the sounds, sights, and smells of battle. Even if Kazuha had been in full health, the sheer numbers on their side would’ve proven to be a challenge.

You’re not exactly sure when he had fallen ill. You guess he did what he could to conceal it for you, for it was his strength that forced you to remain by his side. He hadn’t been eating as much of the foraged meals he’d fix for you both, he struggled to rest at night, and his complexion had taken on a dull pallor. Whatever ailment he’d contracted was likely to fix itself with a little time and rest, had it not been for the nobushi’s machinations. He fought around you, parrying endless waves of blades, leaving openings in his stance so they’d target him instead.

It’s no exaggeration to say Kazuha saved your life, numerous times at that.

You shake your head. He’s the reason you were in danger in the first place. Had it not been for him taking you away, you would still be in your family’s estate on the outskirts of Inazuma City, safely tucked away behind tall walls and screen doors. What would you have been doing now, anyway? Koto lessons alongside your childhood nanny? Tea ceremony with Kamisato Ayaka? It’d be something tedious, but something safe.

A soft rustling coming from behind earns your attention and horror in equal amounts. Sharply, you turn your head, expecting to see a towering figure clad in armor. Instead, you spot an inquisitive rabbit emerging from the forest’s verdure. A shaky sigh leaves your lips and your shoulders drop. While you might not know exactly what to do, standing here and twiddling your thumbs probably isn’t in your best interest either. Nobushi tend to stick together. Any patrols that happen by would witness the massacre of their comrades and desire revenge.

Meanwhile, Kazuha has managed to stand on his unsteady legs. You go stiff as a board, unsure of what to expect, as he stumbles toward you. Does this mean it’s useless to flee? The last time you made the mistake of trying to run, he tied your wrist to his for days to keep a closer eye on you. The restrictions and lack of privacy had shattered what little remained of your dignity. He had been so apologetic too, explaining in that calm voice of his that he ‘only wants to ensure your safety’, when what you need safety from is him.

While you consider what to say in case he accuses you of trying to run, his knees give out, forcing him back onto the ground.

Could this be a ploy? A way to test your loyalty? Such petty schemes seem beneath him. Then again, the man you thought you knew had proven to only be a pretty veneer that hid festering rot within. Your trepidation causes you to take a step back, your unblinking eyes never leaving his form. When no condemnation ensues for your boldness, you take another step, then another, your heart writhing in your chest.

He isn’t trying to stop you. No… he can’t stop you. Not in this state.

A choked sound leaves his lips. It’s only when he repeats himself, in between coughs this time, that you realize he’s speaking your name.

“Y-Yes…?”

You don’t know why you bother replying, the word leaves you almost as if you were in a trance. This should be where the curtains close. Without the threat looming over your head of his pursuit, you should be able to make your way to civilization. You might not have any valuables on your person, but your surname alone should be enough to incentivize others, granting you passage back home. You’ll have to leave Kazuha behind for your freedom to be secured. Gazing down at him now, you consider the power dynamic that has shifted overwhelmingly in your favor.

This is how it has to be. No one would blame you — would this not be considered appropriate atonement for his crimes? Maybe… maybe some kind soul might wander by and give him aid. Then he should be smart enough to know better than to try this again. Your father would undoubtedly increase the security around the estate tenfold after this stunt. That’s right, your father, he would demand the death penalty on the last living member of the Kaedehara clan if he were to learn who was behind your disappearance. He held enough sway in the Tri-Commission to make it happen.

There’s no way the potential consequences of his actions were unknown to Kazuha.

You think back to the moonless night he took you away. His soundless footsteps that rivaled the most well-trained Shuumatsuban, the scent of saltwater on his skin.

“Would you be willing to accompany me for a while?”

Never had the scale of his nefarious plans crossed your mind. This was an almost ordinary occurrence since you had both entered your teenage years; Kazuha sneaking into the courtyard where you often stargazed. He’d whisk you away for a few hours then return you before anyone caught on. It was the lone thrill in your otherwise mundane life. There had been many nights where you’d purposefully stand in plain view, hoping that he might come by, every little breeze rousing your excitement. However, he was as unpredictable as a conniving kitsune. He couldn’t risk tipping off your family to your little late-night ventures.

The Vision Hunt Decree put an unexpected stop to this long-held tradition, since Kazuha chose to flee Inazuma rather than give up his Vision.

You had all but lost your usual decorum upon his silent return. You would’ve personally thanked each of the Archons just to know he was alive and well, never had you dreamed you’d see him again in person! Emotions seeped through the cracks of your perfect, well-bred façade, you wept loud enough that he was forced to cover your mouth with his hand to keep his presence a secret. Your consent was readily given for what you thought would be another bite-sized adventure.

Would you get to sample mouth-watering street food from vendors Kazuha paid off in return for them acting like they never saw you? Or maybe you’d run barefoot again through the cool waters alongside Amakane Island, then retire to a secret spot that offered the most stunning view of Inazuma City’s silhouette?

Your exhilaration quickly morphed into all-encompassing terror when morning came and he showed no signs of taking you back home.

The sensation weighing down on your shoulders presently is much the same. Elation is fleeting, like grains of sand slipping through your fingers. There is no fairytale ending where some good-natured samaritan swoops in, saving Kazuha, allowing him to come to his senses and see the error of his ways. He won’t repent and swear to never involve himself in your affairs again. That isn’t how this world works. How reality works.

You have two options. Leave him and let him die, or stay, a part of yourself dying as recompense.

An eternity seemingly passes before he has the strength to speak again, his voice croaky. “Hurt… are you… hurt?”

It’s a wonder you don’t fall as well. Not a single hair on your head has been harmed, yet you feel cold pangs all over, his words slicing you to the bone. Why? Why is he concerning himself with you? Why has he always concerned himself with you? Why couldn’t he have been like one of those evil spirits your nanny used to tell you about growing up so you wouldn’t misbehave? Oh, how easy it’d be then, to curse him and turn your back without a care over his inevitable fate. His face would fade from your memory like ink dipped into a river.

Of all the wrongs he’s committed, making you care about him might just be the worst.

Maybe there is a third path, hidden past the overgrowth. You must risk dirtying your hands by moving it aside to know for sure.

You act without thinking. The ringing in your ears is loud enough to cover up nature’s ambiance, your spirit too heavy for the nearby thrush’s song to lift. Your shadow encompasses Kazuha while your frenzied mind considers what to do next. Staying here is not a viable option, you need to get moving now. You doubt you’re strong enough to carry him, you’ll have to settle for helping him walk. Crouching down, you secure his limp arm around your neck.

“On three, I’m going to need you to stand, no matter how much it hurts,” you mumble, uncertain if he even heard you. “Okay… okay… one, two, three!”

Hoisting him up puts your muscles to the test. He boasts a fair amount of muscle despite his lean body and you’d never done heavy lifting in your life. Kazuha must have somewhat understood your words, for he does what he can to make your task easier, his Vision radiating a soft glow. Wind currents far weaker than what he can usually produce aid in getting him to rise. He’s panting softly, his body slumping over onto yours once this strenuous task draws to a close.

With some difficulty, you lead him beneath a natural overpass, decently far away from the battlefield. You prop him up against some mossy rocks and assess his dire condition more clearly.

He’s lolled his head to the side, his skin as white as a ghost. There are a few cuts and bruises marring his person, but the most concerning is the deep gash on his lower right side. Your frown deepens at the sight. The fight had mostly been an inscrutable blur from your perspective, aside from how he sustained this damning injury. He had ordered you to stay put, to not move an inch from where you stood, yet the horror you were forced to witness was too much. You’d never witnessed the light leaving a person’s eyes, the pungent odor of death. Shrinking into yourself, you mistakenly took a step backward, losing your balance in the process.

To a former samurai, that was the only opening they needed.

Kazuha was blindingly fast — so much so that you barely realized what had happened — the hit intended for you digging into his flesh instead.

“What do I do, what do I do…?” The sheer desperation in your voice comes as a surprise to yourself. The man lying before you had kidnapped you and deprived you of your basic autonomy. Still, all you could think about were days from a bygone past. When his father was alive and there were negotiations of your potential betrothal in the future. The unfair collapse of the once illustrious Kaedehara clan benched those discussions forever, though Kazuha never voiced a single complaint.

“It’ll be okay, [First],” he had told you then, his little arms wrapped around your form. His voice had always been so gentle. “That just means you get to choose to marry me. It won’t be commanded of you. I much prefer it that way. So please, don’t be sad.”

Fortune was not kind enough to acquiesce to a child’s wish. Neither of you voiced this mutually understood sentiment as you both grew older — that someone of your standing couldn’t ever wed an individual with no prospects. You locked away this silly wish deep down and assumed he did the same, for he never brought it up again. The seed had been planted and the roots had taken hold.

Your hands shakily hover over his wound.

What would be necessary to treat this? Antiseptics, stitches, clean bandages; you have nothing like that. Do you apply pressure, like he had been before you brought him over here? Or would that make it worse? There must be something you can do. You’re not asking for a miracle. So long as it holds him over long enough for you to get more qualified help, you’d take back every awful thing you said about the gods these past few months.

You don’t know who is struggling to breathe more, you or him.

Something comes into contact with your shoulder. Wearily, you look up, discovering the unknown offender to be Kazuha’s fingers. They brush over the fresh blood that’s begun to sink into your fabric. His eyebrows furrowed together, his mouth contorting in displeasure.

“When did this happen?” He whispers, leaning forward to inspect you better regardless of the agonizing pain the movement must cause him.

You gape at him, at a loss for words. The blood loss must not have him in his proper state of mind. “It isn’t— isn’t mine. It’s from when I walked you over here.”

“Ah…” he trails off. His eyelashes flutter shut and he smiles softly. “That’s a relief.”

Your teeth begin to chatter from how hard you’re shaking. “Kazuha, please, tell me what to do. How do I fix this? How do I make this better?”

With some effort, he manages to open his eyes again, the tenderness nestled within them overshadowing the pain. “I thought… thought you were mad at me.”

Had it not been for the severity of the situation, you’d say he almost sounds like a petulant child, pouting after getting scolded. You want to wrap your hands around his shoulders and shake him but think better of it. Tears pierce the corners of your eyes, building up yet refusing to fall. Despite the cold numbness enveloping you from head to toe, your face flushes with raging heat. You attempt to extinguish it by jabbing a finger against his chest accusingly.

“I am! Of course I’m mad at you! None of this was supposed to happen! If you had just… taken me home, like you did hundreds of times before, everything would be how it’s supposed to be. I don’t understand you. Why you did this to me, why you went from the one person I looked forward to seeing to the one I dread the most. None of it makes sense! None of it!”

Kazuha attempts to take your hand in his but lacks the strength. His arm falls back down, and he coughs, sputtering up that damnable shade of red that’ll forever be burned into your mind forevermore. His breathing is getting softer and softer whereas yours grows more labored. He isn’t going to last much longer. Throwing caution to the wind, you press your hands flush against the wound, praying with all your might that applying pressure might buy him some more time. Then you could go get him help. It might not be a fairy tale ending, but it’s better than the alternative.

Time itself distorts in the moments that follow. A second, minute, or hour may have passed, you’d have no way of telling.

Your hands feel soaked. Whether it’s from your tears, or his blood, you don’t know, for you don’t peer down to check. How could you, when you’re transfixed on the sheer bliss engraved into his face? It isn’t right — it’s as if the entire world had tilted a few degrees and you were just beginning to notice. This sensation swirls around you like a whirlpool, drenching you in its abnormality.

“You’re crying for me again,” he sounds truly blessed, as if he were on top of the world. “You don’t know how happy this makes me. To share such a special moment with you.”

Is this the mad, final mumblings of a man rapidly approaching his demise? For this reason, you hold your tongue, allowing him to speak without reproach.

The next time he tries, he has considerably less difficulty reaching to intertwine your fingers. “I’m grateful to these hands of yours for giving us more time together.”

You have no choice but to look at your hands due to the angle he’s holding them at. What you see — or, to be more specific, what you don’t see — has you squeezing your eyes shut and shaking your head. Looking again confirms that you weren’t imagining things. There’s no blood. Your hands should be coated in it. You felt the wetness, you saw how much was oozing out even through his multiple layers of clothing.

Kazuha takes advantage of your stupefied state to continue speaking. He’s able to get out more words than he could before. “You chose to stay with me even when you could’ve left me for dead. I didn’t even have to ask you to stay. I wanted that to be a choice you made for yourself. Ah… I’m glad… I’m so, so glad… I would’ve been happy knowing you cried over my death, but this… this is so much better.”

There’s a light weight on your lap.

Pulling free from Kazuha’s grip requires all your might, but you manage, stumbling backwards in a scramble to make sense of what is happening. A metallic cling resonates in the air upon your abrupt movements. It doesn’t matter how much you don’t want to look. You know you have to.  So you do. And your world becomes slightly more tilted because of it.

Is that… a Hydro Vision?

It doesn’t register at first. Nothing does. Not the flock of birds that takes off to your left or the grazing deer scrambling to your right. You think you may have screamed, but you never heard it, not when that metallic spinning is playing on a loop in your head. Hurried, you rise to your feet. The blue gleaming gem becomes even more unsightly than the red you’d sworn yourself to loathe.

The gods didn’t answer when you prayed for your sake, but they did when you prayed for his.

You didn’t want Kazuha to die, and now, you don’t know if you want him to live. Not when you’re so far away from civilization and at his mercy. This isn’t the first, second, or third option; it’s something far worse. Unspeakably worse. For you, that is.

“Please, don’t look at me like that,” he sounds far more like his usual self. He’s regaining his strength, slowly yet surely. You shiver. “I wouldn’t ever dream of doing you harm.”

Kazuha’s position against the wall is far more relaxed. His vivacity is returning in small increments, from the slight rosiness of his cheeks to the bright warmth in his eyes. Red. It’s on him everywhere except for where it should be. Had you been callous, had you been able to realize that what once was isn’t enough to risk what will be.

Whatever divine beings rule over this world must consider you to be the focal point of their amusement.

Presently, you’re faced with two options.

Do you want to find out if you’re fast enough to outrun him, or should you save yourself the trouble and never learn the answer?

[fountainpenguin]

Shout out to the 'fic writers who go for realism vibes with the Hermitcraft Season 9 rebellion plot and do not change the name Soup Group to something "more serious"; I fall for the vibes and get sucker-punched EVERY TIME and can't stop laughing

[ozzieinspacetime]

"Oh, She's more than smart," Says Beetee. "She's intuitive." We all turn to look at Beetee, who seems to be coming back to life. "She can sense things before anyone else. Like a canary in one of your coal mines." (Catching Fire, page 399)

Something something talking about Wiress brings him back to life,, Something something him trusting her with every aspect of their plan even when hes hurt and shes lost,, calling her a canary,, ough

[themanlykittenkayden]

Hey what if the Blue team IS cursed, but in a way we don’t expect?

The whole premise of Puragatory is “You’re all sinners competing here to repent for your sins”, right? And the eye has openly and directly reprimanded the players for the way they’ve acted in the game so far.

So what if the “goal” of the game is actually to prove one’s worthiness to be a caretaker for the eggs? If the “winners” of the game are those that maintain the most of their humanity, not giving into base instincts? People like Phil, who has a very defensive approach to the game, or Etoiles, who has refused to stoop to dirty plays on in favor of continuing to have honorable fights.

By that measure, Bad actually HAS been cursed, because there is no universe where he wasn’t pushed over the edge by video from Dapper. To him even if there is the smallest chance that the video is real, then he has no choice to follow it. He believes he might be the only one willing to sacrifice everything for the eggs, and so he has he believes he a duty to do so.

The only way to win is to repent and regret one’s actions, both in purgatory and back on Quesadilla Island (in whatever tangible way that would be represented in the game). Bad will never regret his choices so long as there’s even a minuscule chance that it’ll save his son.

Blue team is cursed to lose from the start, not through mechanics or chance, but because of the lengths one of them is willing to go to win.

[sundancefemme]

FINISHED THE FIFTH ELEPHANT. SYBIL RAMKIN I LOVE YOU

[drysaladandketchup]

22 Mattdrai please

Thank you anon! I hope you enjoy :)

22. things you said after it was over

Last year, it was Matthew's precious Flames that got punted out of the playoffs. To add insult to injury, it was at the hands of the Oilers. Which is why, that same night, he sent Leon a slew of drunken texts from some dingy downtown bar because he was not in the mood to even look at Leon, let alone go home with him.

Those texts included one declaring they were breaking up, which Leon didn't take to heart because not even five minutes later he got another message assuring him that no they were not actually breaking up Matthew was just going to hate him for the next 48 hours. That, Leon could handle.

Hell, he'd probably have gone for 72 hours. Minimum. And he had to rest his ankle anyways, if he wanted any chance of seeing ice-time the next game. He'd be there when Matthew was ready.

This year, it's the Oilers who go out first.

Leon just barely keeps it together through the post-game media frenzy. He doesn't want to look at the cameras, barely keeps the shudder from his voice, which is little more than a whimper because he just can’t breathe. Hunkered down with his hood up because it feels safe, the only barrier between him and a world that just crushed his dream. Again.

It's not like he can be mad at Matthew, because he fucked off to Florida, a whole other division, so Leon has no excuse for not answering any of his texts, or the six separate times Matthew tried to call after Vegas knocked Edmonton on it's ass.

Only once Leon's back home for the night, drained and exhausted and dazed, refusing to go out with Connor and the guys because he really, really doesn't want to exist right now, does he look at his phone.

Cuddling Bowie in his arms, he sits on the couch and scrolls through the avalanche of texts from Matthew. The last one catches him off guard, and he stares at it, reading it over and over.

come down and see me. please.

And... yeah. Through the doom and gloom of another lost season, he misses Matthew. Matthew, who's season isn't done. Matthew, who doesn't need Leon, but wants him. Wants him to be there.

So Leon books a flight to Florida, and starts packing.

The next day he goes in early for clear-out, says his goodbyes, and drives right to the airport. After an almost nine hour flight--including a layover in Denver that's great for his legs but not his morale--he lands in Fort Lauderdale just as the sun hits the horizon.

Matthew's waiting for him at Arrivals, dressed in board shorts and sandals and button-down shirt, sunglasses and that damn bucket hat. He smiles when he sees Leon, waves, and the simplicity of it chips away at the heavy stone sitting on Leon's chest. He always breathes better when he's with Matthew.

"What, not even a sign?" Leon calls out once he's in earshot. "I thought you were excited to see me?"

Matthew slaps the brim of Leon's hat down over his eyes. "Next time I'll bring confetti canons and air horns."

And fuck, just hearing Matthew's voice again without a phone between them lifts a weight off Leon's shoulders. It almost makes the defeat worth it.

His hands are too empty suddenly. He wants to hold Matthew's, wrap him up in his arms, touch him anywhere and everywhere, inside and out. Replenish old memories, make new ones. Never let go again.

Matthew gets the jump on him once they're in his car, dragging Leon over the center console by his shirt and into a sloppy kiss. It's all tongue and teeth, scratchy beard and plush lips, and as always, it's perfect. This too, aches like a phantom pain when they're on opposite ends of the continent. Phone sex and a bit of imagination with his own hand can't totally replace the sex, but it definitely can't replace the sweetness of a kiss.

When he pulls back, Matthew looks like he's going to immediately drop the one thing Leon really doesn't want to hear--the dreaded I'm sorry about what happened--so he jumps first.

"I missed you."

If Matthew knows he's purposely being cut off, he doesn't show it. He bumps their foreheads together and closes his eyes, like he's just soaking Leon in.

"Missed you too."

As the dusk fades to night, they drive, and drive, and drive. Not to Matthew's house, that's immediately obvious, but Leon doesn't ask where they're going. He slumps in the passenger's seat, leg tucked up against the dashboard, and goes between watching palm trees and glistening waterfront, to watching Matthew.

He tries not to think about hockey, but it was a long and restless flight, and Matthew's got a stupid little air freshener shaped like skates, and the playoffs aren't actually over, so of course the first thing Leon says to break the silence is, "When's your next game?"

Matthew taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music playing on the radio. "Thursday. Against Carolina. We're flying out the day after tomorrow."

"Hmm. So what are we doing with all that time?"

"Fucking, hopefully." Matthew glances sidelong at him, tongue poking between his teeth. "At least for part of it. I still have practice, and you need to relax."

"What am I doing while you're gone?"

"Waiting for me to come back? You can stay at my place. Come to the games when we're at home. My family's going to drop in too, so, you know, be prepared for that."

Won't be Leon's first tangle with the Tkachuks. Pretty sure he's an honorary member of the family at this point, even if he still struggles to keep up with the energy they bring to a room. Not that he minds.

The rest of the drive is quiet enough that Leon dozes off. When he wakes up, groggy with jet lag, it's dark aside from the street lights, and Matthew is pulling into a parking lot up from a small, deserted beach. Leon doesn't know which one; there's so many here. He follows Matthew out of the car and down the promenade, down the stone steps to the sand, where grains slip between his toes and the sound of the waves soothes the storm in his own head.

Which is exactly why Matthew brought him here; somewhere secluded, somewhere that can't hurt him. Because Leon loves the ocean, and Matthew loves him.

He follows Matthew along the beach, going nowhere in particular. Matthew walks purposefully nonetheless, head high and shoulders back, warm breeze tugging at his clothes and ruffling his curls. Something Leon loves to do too, and can't wait to do again.

This place looks good on Matthew. If only it weren't so far away.

"I'm glad you came," Matthew says over his shoulder, slowing until Leon catches up. "I wasn't sure you would."

Why not? The year-round heat and the beaches and the seemingly endless bars are a nice change of pace. But more importantly, this is where Matthew is. Of course he was going to come.

"Beats sitting around re-watching the second round wondering what we could have done differently," Leon says instead, because it's true, and because he doesn't need to tell Matthew what he already knows.

"Hey, that's not a bad thing. But it's not what you need right now." Matthew swallows, takes an uneven breath like he's the one getting choked up. "I saw your interview yesterday. After the game. Leon, you know I didn't call you down here for me, right? Don't get me wrong, I'd fucking love for you to be here watching us play, but the way you sounded... I was worried you'd end up sitting around your house all alone and depressed."

"I'm not depressed. And I wasn't going to. I was planning on going back home."

"Great, so you can mope around in Germany instead."

"I wouldn't have been alone."

"Much as I love Bowie, he doesn't count, babe."

Leon stops walking, staring at the sand until Matthew stops too, turning back and right into Leon's space to block the wind, which has taken on a chill.

"Leon--"

"Our season's over, Matthew," he mutters. "I really thought we could... I didn't want it to end here."

Matthew sighs, but his eyes are sympathetic. "Yeah. I know. But you're not done. There's always next year. And a bunch more after that."

The same platitudes, every time. It's empty words. Leon knows it. Matthew knows it. But what else is there to say? You fall, you get back up, you try again. Rinse and repeat. That's what this league is.

In any other circumstance, Matthew would probably make some crack about the Oilers and how assuming you guys can actually get your shit together, you may have a chance, but it's, you know, fucking Edmonton, so...

But he's being kind for Leon's sake. Because Matthew's forked tongue turns to silk when he's off the ice. He's so gentle at times like this, handling Leon with kid gloves like he thinks he'll shatter if he so much as breathes too hard.

"I'm just getting tired of it always being 'next year'," Leon admits easily, because it is easy with Matthew. "Every time we come close, we get knocked down. It feels like shit. I'm fucking tired of it."

Every time he climbs the ladder, he tastes victory. The higher the wrung, the sweeter it is. And every time he falls, there's a tiny part of him that worries he'll never get his feet off the ground again.

"Hey." Matthew cups his cheek, forcing Leon to look him in the eye, into pale blues that dance and shine even in the dark. "You're not giving up on me, are you?"

The question catches him so off guard Leon jerks like he's been struck.

"What? No. Fuck no. The hell kind of question is that?"

Quitting has never even crossed his mind. He didn't come into this league thinking it would be easy. He's worked his ass off to get where he is, and sure he's got his own liabilities to work through, but he'll keep going until something gives out.

"Good. Just making sure." Matthew looks so damn smug, but Leon's learned to find that endearing too. "Only place left to go is up, right?"

Right. Leon said something like that to Matthew, once. You win or you lose. Only two options. If you lose, then all you can do next time is win. If you win, you keep winning until you make it to the top. Anger into action, failure into fortune.

Matthew's hand slips down Leon's forearm, searching for his hand, but stops when Leon flinches, and brushes a callused thumb back and forth over the bruise there.

"This from Pietrangelo?"

Leon huffs. "Maniac, yeah. It's fine. It wasn't as bad as it looked."

"Want me to rough him up a little if I see him down the line? My treat. Actually, it'd be my pleasure."

There's that blinding confidence. The Matthew that's going to ensure they blow right past Carolina, through Dallas or Vegas, and raise the Cup. Who's dumb enough to argue with him?

"If you want." Leon's almost too tired to smile, but he tries anyways.

And Matthew softens too, cheeks pinked and teeth showing between his parted lips. It's hard to think back to a time when he would never look at Leon like this; like he's so fucking in love with him it's physically impossible to hide it. Leon can only imagine how he looks to Matthew.

"I'll make you another deal while we're at it," Matthew says.

"A deal or a promise?" Leon knows what's coming, because he knows Matthew. His heart still jumps up into his throat.

"I'll win the Cup for you."

They've learned to say I love you in a million different ways. Somehow, they keep finding new ones.

It's so stupid. Matthew's not arrogant. But then again, he seems to be playing a game no one else is, in a way no one else can. He oozes confidence and bleeds charisma, possesses the kind of karma that can change destinies.

If anyone could actually say it, and do it, it's Matthew. Damn if Leon doesn't believe it, too.

So all he has to do is smile, nod, and say, "Okay."

"Just to be clear," Matthew says, "I'm not doing it for the Oilers. I'm doing it for you. And for me and the Cats, obviously. Maybe... maybe a little more for me and the Cats. No offence, babe."

Leon snorts. "It's fine. It's yours. You earned it."

"So have you." Damn right he has. "Shit just sucks sometimes."

Leon scoffs and rolls his eyes to whatever unseeing deity keeps fucking him over. But he's done wallowing. He's got something so much better standing right in front of him.

"You said this was a deal." Leon tugs him closer, one hand cupping the back of Matthew's head, pressing the words against his mouth. "So what do you want from me?"

Matthew smiles under his lips. "I just want you to be there to see it."

[kurtmustdie]

Love the tragic idea of Death still not being able to fully handle sitting with people while they’re dying and taking their spirits to the other realm. It gets even worse if he spends more time with them and gets attached, like I assume he does with the Patient. Like imagine you’ve been dead for decades and it’s your job to sit with people in their final moments from the instant they start to die and you can’t opt out of it. You know you’re going to watch them either wither away or die some kind of painful or sudden death and you just can’t do anything about it

Like he puts on that cynical apathetic facade but in my mind it’s a bad habit for him to make friends with the people he’s supposed to be moving onto the afterlife, and it’s like a gut punch every time he has to say goodbye.

Explains how in his perspective he kinda begs the patient to wake up in sleep i don’t remember exactly where I heard that idea but I really fucking love it. Like holy shit with that plot point in mind I get chills every time I hear that section of the song. Screaming for someone to wake up. Kinda dreading that you’re gonna see them again but it’s in this kind of bittersweet circumstance after they’re dead. It also wraps around to being a bit selfish since the Patient is very clearly suffering and Death just has to accept letting him go.

Like fuck. “Yeah I’m kind of doomed to be immortal and it’s literally my god given job to watch people die, I’m a little fucked up in the emotional attachment department.”