#cobble and i are gonna lose it

[urbanbirdbud]

it’s been. a very rough afternoon

[sourpatchsquids]

I NEED TO TALK ABOUT IN STARS AND TIME FOR A SECOND

Okay i just finished watching my girlfriend play ISAT and I felt the urge to dig into the music a little bit and lost a whole day to it. So i think i have to post about it. General spoilers below, read at your own risk.

Ok so Im gonna talk about the title theme and one other song here, which is a secret for later. (This part took like 2 hours to cobble together ill post the other one tomorrow)

In the first statement of the melody, we have a very bog standard i -> III -> IV -> Cadential 6/4 moti-- wait a second.

With where these lines intersect, the A in the middle voice actually dips below the bass voice for the statement of this chord, which means that the chord lands in a second inversion. You wouldn't normally put a i6/4 just after a cadential 6/4 unless you were actively trying to make the resolution feel weaker for some reason. As if you intentionally wanted the listener to not feel a strong sense of returning to the tonic.

When the strings come in we are treated to lush root position 7th and 9th chords to really feel magical and detached from ourselves. Just as well, that cadential 6/4 turns into an entire tonicization for A major! I adore the way the strings milked the motion down from D to C# to C, its a perfect suspension of the old tonic into the tonicized dominant :>. The themes of not feeling at home continue from here. We get the briefest glimpse of a happy A major chord in measure 8 before we lose any sight of an A that feels at home in the harmony. Measure 10's A in the melody is completely unsupported by the G major chord underneath, and the only A's to play in measure 11 are in the bass and the frenetic synth line bouncing between left and right panning, as the upper string descend to a G and the melody completely skips over the A in otherwise stepwise line. I wonder why home is so hard to latch onto in this piece? You're only ever able to grab onto it for a little bit at a time, when you even know what you're listening for.

As we approach the end of the phrase, we finally get a reasonable resolution to the tonic! We made it! However, it is nowhere near as harmonically pleasing as it should sound. Even with the faster pulse flipping back and forth between the ears and the actual stepwise enclosure of the tonic, when a tonic chord finally rings it quickly darts back, and what we get is empty. The 3rd of the tonic is played for the length of a eighth note and is quickly kicked out of our aural memory by the staccato E in the same instrument. And then all previous accompaniment leaves, save for the strings, as the piano enters to play one last statement of the B theme. The title theme makes very clear, we are allowed to approach home, but we are not allowed to linger. As quickly as a taste of it comes about, we realize how much it tastes like nothing.

Finally, we are rewarded with another cluster of A's and E's to leave us feeling empty and full of ennui. Truly we are meant to interpret this piece as Siffrin feeling lost and alone, no home to return to, nowhere to truly rest. That about wraps up my analysi-- hey wait a fucking second.

HEY WHAT THE FUCK.

If you listen at the very end, the strings jump back up to a D chord at the very end of the piece. D, the key we originally thought we were in. This single chord completely recontextualizes the entire piece and im not kidding in the slightest. If everything that happened while we thought A was the home key was actually just elaborating the dominant, then what does it actually mean? And more importantly, why is it so quiet? What is the purpose of the final D chord, the actual end chord of the piece, when it is so removed from what feels like the real ending of the piece. It's as though it's being intentionally kept at bay, as if we as listeners are actively pushing it away. It's like song itself doesn't want to really end.

Oh.

Studio Thumpy Puppy, if any of you ever read this, please know that I am in absolute awe of your ability to bake in the themes of the story into 42 seconds of music.

Not only does the title theme convey Siffrin's emotional pain from not being able to remember his home country, it manages to tell the listener the crux of the plot before a single line of exposition hits the screen. Siffrin doesn't want his party to leave him alone, he doesn't want their journey to end. He is so desperate to prevent his party from returning home without him that he breaks the structure of the piece, hides the final chord, from his own god damn opening theme. To stop the journey from ending.

If you've gotten this far, please support the artists behind this amazing game. If you haven't bought and played ISAT yet, go do it, and while you're here, also buy the soundtrack. Give these people money!! They're really good at what they do!

Next up: We're With You! Look forward to it, it's also amazing.

[insomniamamma]

Needles & Pins: Tattoo Artist! Ezra x F!reader w/Cee

A/n: written for @secretelephanttattoo's Secret Springs challenge! Thank you, Mayor El, for planting this seed. I am currently mulling over a tattoo much like the one described here.

Warnings: Angst. Talk about failed marriage. Reader is an empty nester. Reader has grown children. Mentions of self harm scars. Blood. I have tattoos but it's been decades and I've done a bit of research to figure out the current state of it. Any inaccuracies are on me. And yes, Pedro's red devil Met Gala look was my inspiration for tattoo artist! Ez.

A bit of flirting. It is Ezra after all. But mostly gentle fluff.

 A chain of bells on the door jingles as you push your way through, briefly glare-blind from the sudden dimness, green afterimages from the sizzling sidewalks, air-conditioned cold hits hard, and you stand, blinking and foolish as the girl behind the counter sizes you up, wild mullet of bleach-blonde hair, face set and disproving, black lacquered nails and ears spangled with golden studs and bars.  “I’m sorry— I’m a bit early, I can come back—“ And she smiles, big and open and wide--  “Oh, heck! You’re the tardigrade lady! Ez did a bunch of sketches. Lemme go grab him-“ and she rattles her way through the beaded curtain behind the register and disappears “Ezra! Your three o’clock is here—“    A co-worker had recommended Needles & Pins when you’d admired her ink, a half-sleeve magpie with a skeleton key in its beak and constellations drawn behind it like an old map. It’s in Secret Springs. That’s kind of a haul. Yeah, but Ezra’s one of the best in the business. You’ve got plenty of PTO piled up. You’re just gonna lose it if you don’t use it. You could get out of here for a bit. Yeah, maybe. And Moira gives you a pitying look. You both know the chances of you using any of that PTO are slim. This last year and change has been a rollercoaster ride, your youngest graduating summa cum laude and fucking off halfway across the country, some job at an aerospace start up that you can’t even begin to understand, but she seems happy, and the vice-gripped, duct taped, cobbled together thing that your marriage had become finally shat out. I love you, he’d said, but not the way you need me to. And on that humid night, watching heat-lightning flicker through the clouds, you say nothing, just nod, because he’s not wrong, the two of you have been holding on for a long time, for the kids, for appearances, and it’s like unclenching a fist. Kept it civil, he let you keep the house rather than selling it and splitting the difference, moved back home with his brothers and his dad, still talk about once a week, mostly about Lilly and the boys. Married so young that you never learned to be alone. So you throw yourself into your job, because if there’s one thing you know how to do it’s press your shoulder to the wheel and shove.You and Moira laugh together, but when you get home you start researching Needles and Pins and Secret Springs, tiny state park with campsites and trails, bracketed with BNB’s and small shops, strange gerrymandered artifact, small strip of beach that hasn’t been subsumed by hotel chains and timeshares. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been on vacation, the last time you’ve done anything for you and no one else, and you’ve e-mailed Needles and Pins almost without thinking. Why not? Why the fuck not?

  Appointments only. No walk ins. High end. Serious inquiries only.   And part of you balked, new to this possibility, had your ears pierced at Claire’s when you were twelve or so, and you’d felt stupid when you sent the e-mail off with some images attached. Sorry to bother you.   What a lovely idea. Water bears and fireweed together speak of resilience. The awakening of something new after a time of trial. There are species of pine that require the heat of wildfire to dry out their cones enough to spread their seeds. I would gladly meet with you to discuss this further.   And that’s how you ended up here, in this air-conditioned cave, narrow space full of framed flash art and old maps and framed photos of Ezra and the girl behind the counter, C? Sea? You didn’t quite register her name, flustered by the cool dark in contrast to the blazing heat outside.   “No need to yell, Birdie, I’m comin-“ Ezra rattles through the curtain. Broad is the first thing you notice, loud is the second. He is a confusion of color, heavily inked arms and a Hawaiian shirt bedecked with flamingos in sunglasses, spangled ears and a gold ring through his lip, bright shock of blonde hair amid his unruly curls. Smiling bright and wide,   “Hi there,” he says, purred southern drawl, and offers his hand, “I’m Ezra.”  “I figured,” you say and take his hand, warm fingers around yours and then he folds his other hand over yours, and you see that his right hand is an elaborate prosthetic, his whole arm up to his shoulder,  gold on black, a fearsome dragon framed in blooming orchids. You barely have time to register this and Ezra is ushering you through the curtain.  “I am guessing by your demeanor that this is your first tattoo,” and you smile, but can’t quite meet his eyes, his hand finds yours again and squeezes gently. “I’ve got several sketches based on our initial discussion, but i want you to know up front, if the art is not to your liking or if you change your mind about this entire venture I’ll not judge you for it.  “But the deposit—“  “A formality. Tends to keep people who aren’t sure of themselves away. I will never ink someone who isn’t fully committed, if you decide this isn’t for you i will refund you. No harm no foul. No pressure, clear?”  “Yeah. We’re clear.” Ezra smiles, dimples sinking into his scruffy cheeks, eyes crinkling into crescents.  “Excellent,” he says, “Let me show you what me and Cee came up with.”

 

 “That one.” A tardigrade drawn in the traditional style, brilliantly colored in blues and greens with bold outlines, with two crossed fireweed fronds in watercolor.  “This is an approximation-“ says Ezra, “I will replicate the colors as best I can—“  “That one.” You say, “I like the hard and soft together.”  “I do as well,” says Ezra, “I must admit that I was hoping you’d choose this design. Strength and softness are not mutually exclusive. I should warn you though.  Watercolor tattoos tend to fade a bit faster than the more traditional styles-“  “Sunscreen and plenty of it” you say, and he smiles.  “That’s right, and A&D ointment as you heal. There’s plenty of fancy tattoo healing ointments to be found but A&D has always got me through. Why fix what’s not  broken? We’ll send you home with some instructions.” He takes the sketch you’ve picked out, “Hey, Cee! Can you finagle the scanner-“ Cee pops her head and arm through the beaded curtain. She grins, devilish and sharp like a crescent moon. “Old man, still can’t figure it out, huh?” Takes the sketch from his hand.  “Oi! You are but a humble apprentice,” says Ezra, but he smiles, “An initiate! A novice even!” Cee smiles back. This seems like an exchange that happens at least three times a week, and you feel yourself smiling along with them.  “Get her prepped. I’ll do the hard part.”  “That girl,” he mutters, “You take a seat right there—“ He gestures towards a set up that looks uncomfortably like a dentist’s chair, “Cee has my station set up, I just need to glove up and we’ll talk placement.”  “Left inner arm,” You frown. You’d said so over e-mail. Can’t help but watch the flex and bend of him as he pulls a shoulder length veterinary glove over his prosthetic, and then gloves his left hand, “It’s a bitch to take apart and sanitize. I can if needs be, but best to avoid all of that. I cannot exactly autoclave this thing. And I find the calving glove less unwieldy than Saran Wrap-“  “Wait a sec, Saran Wrap? Like on a plate of leftovers?”  Ezra dimples at you.   “Exactly like that. First time Cee witnessed it, she laughed so hard i thought she might drop dead right there on the spot. Next morning there was a case-pack of calving gloves on our front stoop like some sort of-“  “It’s Amazon, Ez, not witchcraft,” says Cee, popping back through the curtain with a sheaf of papers, shoots you a knowing can you believe this guy look, “You’d be lost without me. Just admit it.” Ezra takes the papers from her.   “Go on now, don’t you have fanfic to read? What’s that Star Wars thing? Reylo?” Cee’s face scrunches in a cartoonish display of disgust.  “Man, I never should’ve told you about AO3.” And with that she’s gone.  “Your daughter’s really something.”  “She ain’t mine,” says Ezra, leafing through the stack of prints Cee handed him, draws a pair of reading glasses from his front pocket and perches them on his nose, “I don’t have that honor. Her parents kicked her from the nest and she found her way here.” He holds two of the prints in front of his face. “Show me your arm.” And you offer him your left arm, hand turned palm up. He cradles your arm, runs his gloved fingers over the thin skin there, noting the network of silvered scars, like contrails in a hazy sky, because how can he not? Old enough to be flattened and flush with the rest of your skin, no one’s noticed in years, but you know he must and you tense, waiting for him to say something, but he doesn’t, just selects a printed sheet at holds it up to you arm.  “This the orientation you want?”  “Yeah, I want him standing on my hand. Um, Ezra, the scars-“  “won’t be a problem, darlin, they’re old and soft-“  “I’m not gonna screw up your handiwork,” you say, and he folds your hand in both of his, gentle pressure that grounds you and when you look up at him, his eyes are soft.  “I know you won’t,” he says, “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.  We can rewrite this part of your story. I trust you.” 

 Ezra preps your skin, alcohol wipes and mild soap and he shaves your inner arm with a disposable razor, rubs some gooey stuff on you that makes you think of putting on aloe after a burn. Gotta let this dry a beat, he says, we want the stencil to come out nice and clean, rests his hand over yours while the transfer solution dries, got to let it get tacky, he says.  Not quite holding your hand but not letting go either.  “I should warn you, the bit over your inner wrist will likely be the most painful,” swipes his hand over your skin, testing the resistance against his glove, “Skin’s thin there. Not a whole lot of meat between the skin and all the veins and little fiddly bits.”  “Fiddly bits,” you echo, and feel yourself smile, “You mean the bones?”  “And tendons,” says Ezra, clips out the stencil.  “That looks like carbon paper,” you say, and Ezra grins, “It’s functionally the same, but Cee insists that the thermographic printer makes cleaner stencils than the old methods, so here we are.” He lays the sheet of paper over your arm, rubs at it with a balled up paper towel, “We want the transfer solution to soak into the paper. It’ll leave the stencil behind on your skin. There’s some tricks involving deodorant, but i find this method works the best-“ you can’t help but notice how pretty he is, face pinched in concentration, pout of his lips, those dark eyes focused on the strip of skin between your wrist and elbow like this bit of you is the only thing in the universe. “—hey! you still with me?”  “Yeah, sorry. What did you say?”  “You got a hotel room for tonight? It’s not by business, but i know you’re not local and getting tattooed blows a surprising amount of adrenaline-“  “I’ve got a  room booked,” you say, “Up over Peli’s.”  “Hope you brought earplugs,” says Ezra, “That place can get a bit rowdy on a Friday night.”   “I’m counting on it,” you say, “It’s been forever since I’ve gone to a bar.”  “Hmm,” he rubs at the transfer paper, “Do you feel your skin tightening a bit? We should be just about ready. I’m gonna click the gun on for a beat so you can hear it.”   “I’m not scared.”  “Didn’t say you were.” says Ezra, “I find this tends to go easier if people know what to expect. This buzz and my endless yap are going to be filling your ears for the next few hours-“  “It’s not bad. The tattoo machine, I mean.” And Ezra grins, slow curve that just hints at a dimple.   “My Ma always said my tongue is hung in the middle and wags at both ends. If, at any point in this venture, you need me to shut the fuck up do not be shy in saying so,” his face falls, eyes flick away a little, “There’s one more thing before we peel this stencil and get on to our business. I will need to stretch your skin, to make sure the lines are nice and clean, and for that i must rely on this foolish thing.” Ezra catches you around your wrist with his prosthetic hand and squeezes slightly.   “I do not have the sensitivity nor dexterity that i once had,” he says, “I have some haptic feedback, but it’s not the most reliable. If I grip or pinch too hard, you sing out and I will manually adjust the pressure.”  So focused on your left inner wrist and the tracery of your skin that he startles, flinches when you reach for him and grip his upper arm, brief squeeze and then gone.  “I trust you.” His eyes widen for a second, and flick away from yours.   ‘I suppose you do. Else you wouldn’t be here. Let’s get a good look at these lines before we get to fencin’.” Ezra peels the transfer paper up and you feel the pull of it, dark purple lines printed on your inner arm. And that makes it feel real.

You’re going to walk out of here with something like a story in your skin forever.   “The fireweed—“  “I know. The stencil lines are just there to keep me from going too loosey-goosey,” says Ezra, “That being said, how would you feel about some slight splatters? So the stems do not rise so harshly from the water bear’s back, perhaps a bit darker than the color of the fireweed. Something to really make this little fella pop.”  “Dark. Like a dark purple fading up into the pinks.”  “Yeah? What do you think?”  “I like it,” you say, and you feel yourself grin wide, and Ezra’s smile mirrors your own, “This is gonna be so fucking cool.”  “It will,” he says, those dark eyes bracketed in delighted crinkles, “I’ve got you, darlin. We’re gonna make some magic.”

 It doesn’t hurt as much as you thought it would, and you tell Ezra so, and he smiles, bent over your arm.  “Everyone’s pain threshold is a bit different,” he says, “You are squirming very little for your first ink.”’   “I was in labor with my oldest for twenty three hours. This doesn’t even register.”  “The linework is usually worse in terms of sharp pain,” he says, “The color and shading tend to be more persistently annoying. Like a shirt collar rubbing on a sunburn.” He has a light on a swing arm like a dentist uses, framing him in a bright halo as he hunches over your arm, catches his curls in bright filaments, the scruff of his cheeks, slope of his neck, breadth of his shoulders. Sharper pain as he touches the crease between wrist and hand, bracelets of fortune, you think they’re called, draw your breath in a sharp hiss, little hooked curves of the tardigrade’s claws.  “Breathe, sugar, you’re doing just fine. Worst part’s nearly done.” His eyes flick up to catch yours, warm soft and magnified by his glasses. “And I really must know. what’s your favorite dinosaur?”  “Deinonychus,” you answer unthinking, “Dromeosaurs are pretty cool in general, but Deinonychus is my favorite.” And you smile. Knowing exactly what he’s doing and thankful for it. “The raptors in Jurassic Park were actually Deinonychuses. Modeled on them at least. Actual velociraptors are turkey-sized.” Ezra smiles up at you, perfect plump lower lip bisected by a gold ring, damn he’s pretty, and nothing hurts at all.  “Huh,” he says, “And here I was thinkin you were a T-rex girl. S’pose that’s what i get for making assumptions.”  “Well you know what they say about assuming—“  “Indeed I do. My mother was very fond of whipping out that particular turn of phrase.” He stretches your skin so he can get the tardigrade’s odd little mouthparts just so.  “What’s your favorite?”  “Favorite what?” The curved, segmented back takes shape.  “Dinosaur. You can’t just ask someone that question and not answer it yourself.” Ezra stills for a beat, and then the needle starts up again, line sloping down to meet up with a hook-plated foot.  “Ankylosaurus.” he says.  “Really?”  “Sure. Mother Nature took a cow, a snapping turtle and a panzer tank and stuck em in a blender and then tied a cinderblock to the end of it’s tail. What’s not to love? Hmmm,” he swabs at the beaded blood and oozing ink, “Hard part’s done. How about a little breather?” Ezra stands and stretches like a lazy cat, rolls his neck side to side, heads for the refrigerator, tucked in the corner and plastered in stickers, punk bands or microbreweries, you can’t really tell.   “Stretch your legs,” he says, “This next phase will take some time.” You swing your legs over the side of the chair, stand up and then plop back down.  “You okay, darlin?”   “Stood up too fast.”   “Apple or orange?”  “Huh? Orange,” You feel your face going hot, “I followed your instructions—“ Ezra hands you a cold, sweating bottle of orange juice.  “I know you did,” he says, “When you get tattooed, you are signing up for an injury. One that happens over the course of several hours, but an injury all the same.  Everyone reacts a little different. Your sugar just dropped is all. You drink that juice and you’ll be right as rain in no time at all.”  “I thought I’d be okay-“  “And you are,” says Ezra, “I’ve had three hundred pound bikers slither out of the chair at the first sight of blood. It happens sometimes. I’ve gotten woozy a time or two myself.”

He shoves up his shirtsleeve and shows you a dog in a space helmet,   “That’s Laika,” you say.  “Patron Saint of one way trips,” says Ezra, “You can see a bit of wobble in the curve of her helmet. It was far from my first ink and it still hurt like a sonofabitch. You didn’t do a thing wrong, okay?” He rests his hand on your shoulder briefly, warm weight of it grounds you, and he hunkers down so his eyes meet yours, no judgement there, just concern, and without thinking, you mirror him, rest a hand on his vibrantly inked bicep, Laika brave and doomed amid a swirl of watercolored nebulae, his skin warm beneath your palm and you feel the breath rush out of you, didn’t know how hard you were clenching your jaw, didn’t know you tight your chest was.  “Thank you.” And for a beat those lovely, dark eyes hold yours, before they slide away, cheek curved up in a half-smile.  “You are most welcome. Shall we proceed?”

 The color inking goes much as he described, more annoying than painful, like a constant pressing of fingernails against your skin, different gun with more needles packed together, ink laid in, blood wiped away, back and forth over the same bits of skin, needles dipped and rinsed, tiny plastic cups of color that make you think of a child’s paint set, and the two of you settle into easy conversation, a flow back and forth like a gentle tide, mostly Ezra explaining all the hidden delights of Secret Springs, you simply must get breakfast at Cisco’s, it don’t look like much but they’ve got the best biscuits and gravy i’ve ever tasted, and Cee swears by their Hangover Helper, it’s like a layer dip of grease. Hash browns and corned beef hash and scrambled eggs with sausage gravy and cheese sprinkled over it. I keep tellin Frankie he should rename it the Heart Attack Platter, but he won’t hear it— Ezra’s voice and the buzz of the tattoo gun and the rhythm of him pressing into your skin and wiping away the blood and excess ink set you drifting, content to listen to him ramble, like the patter of falling rain.  “So what got you here?” asks Ezra.  “Moira. I saw her ink and asked—“  “No, darlin, what got you here?” And you find it hard to speak, to put into words, did everything right, married and had kids and a house and a good job and a husband who loved you until he didn’t, did everything right and still ended up with an empty house and no one to come home to except the cat. Lilly and Liam and Joey off on their own and settled and they all call you on Sunday like clockwork, as if you are an obligation and not someone who held them when they were small, talked them through the fears of monsters in the closet, talked them through the humiliation of first love, you know they love you, they tell you every time, at the end of every visit, hug you so tight and tell you they love you. Love you too, but you still come home to a dark house and an empty bed, you honestly can’t remember the last time you’ve been touched or kissed or held. Been so long since you did things for you without thinking of him and the kids that it feels wrong, shameful.  “I wanted to do something just for me, I guess.” You frown.  “I’m guessing you are not in the habit,” he says, “Of doing things just for the joy of it.” You laugh, a bright and brittle sound that pulls itself from your throat, even as your eyes burn, his eyes flick up from the brilliant pinks and oranges and purples, and you turn your head away.  “I’ve prodded a raw nerve, I’m sorry. Cee rightly says I have no filter-“  “It’s okay. It’s just…you do everything right and you still end up all alone, you know? Lil and the boys are all doing fine. They call me every Sunday, and I know I should be happy, and I am happy. Happy for them-“  “But not for yourself,” says Ezra. And you think of how the intimacy slowly bled out of your marriage, held on so tight for so long, thought you could muscle through it like you do everything else in your life, but love wasn’t enough, determination wasn’t enough, gritted teeth and stubbornness weren’t enough.   “No. Not for myself.” You frown. You haven’t put it in words before, too busy keeping it together, trying to gut through it like you do everything, keep your head down and push through, “You think your life is one thing and then it just isn’t anymore— this probably seems silly to you.”  “Not at all. I often think of cicadas,” he says, and returns his attention to the fireweed blossoms.  “Cicadas?”  “Yes. They live the majority of their lives under the ground, feasting on roots content with living in the dark and then something calls them up above. They split themselves open, crawl out of their old skins and take flight.”  “You’re saying I’m in the process of crawling out of my own skin,” you say.  “I’m saying that your future doesn’t have to look like your past,” says Ezra.

 “The past is another country,” you say, and you can’t remember where you’ve heard the phrase.  “Just so,” says Ezra, “Just so. We’re redrawing the map right here. And it is a joy to redraw it with you.”  “Are you—are you flirting with me?” Ezra scrunches his face in mock disdain, “I would never ever flirt with a client. That would be deeply unethical and Cee would undoubtedly yell at me. However, once I finish inking this last frond and we slather you in ointment and wrap you up you will no longer be my client-“  “And then?” He smiles at you, all dark eyes and dimples.  “Well then we are just two folks enjoying the moonlight and wetting our toes in the surf. If you’d walk with me a spell. If you can further tolerate my rambling,”  “I think I’d like to get my feet wet.”

[diazsdimples]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @theotherbuckley @steadfastsaturnsrings and @puppyboybuckley (who published the final chapter of the Mudslide Fic, PLEASE go read it!)

I wasn’t gonna do this today cause I had the shift from hell and didn’t manage to write anything yesterday between birthday things but I managed to cobble this together after my shift! Frostpunk AU weirdly came back to me so please enjoy this small snippet!

Much to Buck’s relief, both Edmundo and Christopher are still alive when they make it back to the city, in record time as Bobby will have him believe. Rappelling down the cliff with two semi-conscious, reasonably unstable patients is more difficult than they’d initially anticipated, so in a rush of fear as he watches Bobby struggle with Christopher, Buck offers to bring the boy down himself.

Much like they did the day Buck carried Christopher to the cabin, they strap the child to Buck’s chest, using a small harness stored in the med kit on a “just in case” basis. Christophers head clunks repetitively against Buck’s chest as he pushes them off the cliff, slowly letting the rope out with each jump. He wishes that it wasn’t a two-hand job, that he could cradle Christopher’s head with one hand and keep the rope moving with the other.

Above him, Bobby abseils down with Edmundo dangling to the side of him in a basket. They’d done one last temperature check on the two of them before descending into the heavy, cold mist that lay over the city, and Edmundo’s had been the lowest they’d seen it since the rescue. The way Eli’s face had paled and he’d instantly tugged Bobby aside, talking with him in low, hushed tones was enough to tell Buck about the state of his health.

It made a cold, thrill of fear rush down Buck’s spine, settling in the pit of his stomach as a constant reminder of how precarious Edmundo and Christopher’s situation was, as he carried the small boy to safety.

The moment Buck and Christopher touched the ground, they were pounced on by a team of medics, headed by Hen.

“What’s the story, Buck?” Hen asked as she hurried to help peel off Buck’s outer layers and unclip him from the harness.

“Found this guy and his dad half frozen yesterday. He’s probably 7 or 8 years old and got moderate to severe hypothermia. Eli’s been monitoring him and he’s stable but barely conscious. Probably malnourished and seriously dehydrated,” Buck pants as he lowers Christopher onto the stretcher Hen has prepared. The kid’s light brown curls fall over his face, curling against his eyelids and Buck reaches out a tender hand to brush them back before he can stop himself.

If Hen notices, she chooses not to mention the look in his eyes as he does this.

“Alright, we’re going to take him to the med tent now. What about his dad?” Hen asks as two medics swiftly hoist Christopher’s stretcher into the air and run off in the direction of the nearest med tent.

Buck watches, half in a daze as Edmundo is lowered to the ground. His lips are pale and chapped, and his face looks lifeless and devoid of colour as his head lols to the side. A sick feeling creeps through Buck’s body as he thinks of how close they came to not making it back. How close Christopher came to losing his father.

“This is Edmundo Diaz, severe hypothermia, dehydration and malnourishment. He’s had issues with his oxygen and heart rate consistently through the journey home. Hen, he’ll need around the clock care, someone to stay with him, to keep an eye on him,” Buck says, hearing the urgency in his voice as he speaks. He doesn’t know what compels him, other than a sense that Edmundo is the other half of a magnet that’s drawing him ever closer, but Buck continues talking. “You guys can’t spare another medic but I-I don’t mind sitting with him. I’m good at taking his vitals a-and I could keep an eye on the kid.”

Hen eyes him, as if trying to read what his true motivation is. “Go,” she finally says, inclining her head towards the tent. Buck doesn’t need to be told twice.

No pressure tagging @hippolotamus @spotsandsocks @evanbegins @smilingbuckley @thekristen999 @elvensorceress @rainbow-nerdss @wikiangela @daffi-990 @watchyourbuck @disasterbuckdiaz @bucksbackwardcap @fortheloveofbuddie @aroeddiediaz @jesuisici33 @buckbuckgoose @exhuastedpigeon @cal-daisies-and-briars @wildlife4life @slightlyobsessedwitheverything @nmcggg @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @kitteneddiediaz @epicbuddieficrecs @spagheddiediaz @loserdiaz

[pampushky]

Foot of the Gallows

trafalgar d. water law/reader - chapter 2 - 3.7k

ao3 link | masterlist | series masterlist | next chapter

2.) thunder root

thunder root: a jagged, sharp root that gains a rubber-like quality after being properly dried and treated. after isolating the starch from this tuber, it can be used to soften the blows of an enemy once cooked into a meal although it has a calming, drowsy effect, making it useless in battle.

The next five minutes are silent, aside from Law’s ragged breaths and both of your footsteps on the cobbled city streets. His wrists are bony, the skin rubbed raw from spending his time in mana-draining shackles. If he were his own doctor at this moment, he’d be giving you a rather aggressive lecture on the negative effects of sudden bouts of intense cardio after nearly three weeks of not being able to move properly. But, you don’t seem to pay him any heed, moving quickly through the city for the next half hour, almost as if you’re trying to lose anyone who could be following the two of you.

You don’t look back at Law as you maneuver him through back alleys and yards, eyes trained ahead. He hadn’t even known most of these little paths existed, looking at the brick walls of houses and buildings around him transition into wooden fences, and then to the wrought-iron fencing of a bridge that lead to the northern side of the city, where your shop is. You tighten your grip when he grunts and pulls slightly, looking back at him with a glare. 

“Stop that, you should be thanking me!” You snapped, turning on him with a snarl, and dropping his wrist when the two of you finally came to the back door of your little shop, “I’m going to kill Bepo for convincing me to do this for you,”

“Bepo masterminded this?” Law says incredulously, with eyes the size of a dinner plate when he looks at you. The door is open, and just as he makes a move to go in, you pull him back by his shoulder and reach up to rub away a string of runes on the door above it, hidden by a small slab of wood. Law frowns at the smudged chalk, and lifts the plank of wood, only to have you smack the back of his hand, making him look at you in shock “What was that?”

“Your lifetime ban being erased,” you sigh, almost sadly, and then shove him inside. There are still traces of the spell that would have kept him out lingering as he crossed the threshold, a wave of dizziness hitting him, but eventually fading as you sit on the small stool behind your little counter. The shop is the same as he remembered it, though with the blinds drawn, and the lanterns unlit in the corners. “Sanji’s gonna be pissed— it took him a week to formulate that, you know.”

“I…. didn’t know you were friends with that pervert,” Law mumbles, as you take your cloak off. You freeze, for a moment, and then start to laugh. 

“He’s better than you,” You don’t even turn to look at him and grant him some form of recognition for his insult and instead open up a drawer near you. “And he’s not a pervert, he’s gotten some deeply unsettling issues with a succubus possession his husband is helping him through.” 

“Ah.” 

Law doesn’t really respond after that and just moves around the shop. It’s… still the same, from your childhood, and the hours he’d spent in it as a kid, waiting for Corazon to pick him up on his way back from the the barracks. Still the same jars, probably not the same herbs. An orange, ribbed jar catches his attention, and he studies it. There’s a label with the scientific name, and then the little, embossed with the small language of dashes and dots, entirely unique to the apothecary profession. And just as he goes to run his fingertips over it, you smack the back of his hand again, even though you’re across the room. Instead, one of the large and winding pothos plants that hangs in the window has stretched and smacked him.

“Don’t touch that,” You only look up briefly, scowling. 

“I see your earthen magic got stronger,” Law scowls back at you, even if you’re not looking at him, rubbing at his hand as the pothos returns to its normal state, though he swears he can hear it laughing at him.

“And you’re still an asshole, but the world keeps turning,” You pull out a watering can, and reward the little bastard of a vine that slapped him. “Good job, Gertrude, always protecting my product,”

“You’re…. Talking to a plant,” Law lifts his eyebrows, and lets out a huff of disbelief, “Wow, you have really started to lose it— ow !” 

“Their name is Gertrude, and they agree that you’re an asshole,” You grin at him as if you’re taking pleasure in the plant hitting him again, smacking the back of his head when he wasn’t looking directly at it. Or, them, Law supposes, based on how you had addressed….Gertrude. 

“Fine, I take it back,” Law rubs the new sore spot on the back of his head. His hat has long since been lost, which does hurt a bit— it was a gift from his long-since passed sister. You, meanwhile, continue to search through your drawers for something, and when you’ve found it, you add it to the growing pile of tiny jars, salves, and strips of cloth on your counter.

With a final flourish, you pull out what looks like an eyedropper of some oily substance and add it to the pile. You look at him pointedly, arms folded as you jerk your head to the stool behind the counter. Law stares dumbly at you, and you let out an annoyed huff, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Sit there. You’re wounded, and I won’t have you contaminating my shop— it’s bad enough that I’ll need to clean down here from you mucking about with your shoes,” You look more upset at the dusty prints on your floor than him being hurt. 

If Law winces when you dab a bit of whatever salve or tonic you’re cleaning and dressing his wounds with, he doesn’t complain, nor thank you for being more delicate as you continue. Your touch is… oddly soft, for someone who has as much loathing for Law as you claim to have, but it’s the trained motions of someone who has been doing this for a long time, and he is the last person who will question why you have this medical knowledge. Your family was a long, respected lineage of apothecaries, both adopted and biological, it did not matter— your founding member was claimed to be the very deity of the earth and sky itself, and were not all mortals and immortals alike their child?

There’s a storm, though, clouding your eyes, especially when you bring the oily eyedropper out again, carefully unscrewing it to reveal a tiny brush, coated in a shimmering, amber slime from within the bottle. 

“Where are the more serious wounds?” Your voice is flat, and you watch as he carefully reveals a rather nasty bruise, some parts still tender and red, not even bruised yet, on his ribcage. You grimace and examine it with a hiss. “How’d that happen?”

“Member of the guard,” Law says simply, watching and you gently pull up a part of his shirt, eyes glued to the injury. “Said he’d show me, for using Lunar magic.”

You scoff, but bring the little brush close, and start to murmur. The bristles make contact with his skin, and Law moans, the pain suddenly condensed completely into the spot where you trace your tool as you draw a singular, continuous line, eventually forming one of the most complex circular runic equations that Law’s ever had the pleasure of seeing, the last line of your activation slipping past your lips just as the pain grows so intense that he feels he’s going to pass out before it stops just a second before he was certain he was going to die.

There’s no bruise left behind. Not even a scar, or a trace of what happened. The substance is gone, and you’re already tucking it somewhere Law doesn’t see— probably aided by ancient illusion spells— before he can so much as ask what that was. 

Whatever you did, it completely healed his cracked ribs. It probably helped with his left lung, too, as if you completely regenerated the entirety of that patch of his body—- reversing time itself to when he hadn’t been injured. It’s amazing, even as he touches his skin in wonder— it’s not even sensitive, blending seamlessly together, as though you had knit and split cells yourself, not just accelerating the growth through magic. There is no soreness, no aches, no puffy red skin— just… the same little splotches of pale white on tan and the ink of his tattoos. 

“What… was that?” 

“…family secret, I will pass to an heir one day,” you speak solemnly, and then pale as the sentence leaves your mouth. “…. Oh, fuck,” And you disappear up the set of stairs that separates the home from the shop, all your supplies still on the counter, some open. 

Law’s mind is blank, until he really has the chance to process how he got here, and isn’t currently a corpse in a cadaver lab. The walk to the gallows. The screaming of the crowd. Bepo not being there. The boredom on the face of the medical student as they waited for the execution to end, arms folded as they leaned against the wagon. The tone of Kizaru’s voice as you objected, and then the…proposal. The rather quick marriage ceremony— oh gods, had he even said a vow? 

You were married to him. Actually, legally married to him. Had saved him at the last possible second, dragged him away to your childhood home and shop, cared for his wounds, and then gone up the stairs as if this was a normal day. Somewhere, in the very back of his mind, this had been a long since given up on desire, wanting to spend his life with you, one that he himself had ruined all those years ago with anger and hurt. This…. Wasn’t how he’d imagined it happening, even in the dreams where he somehow did make it up to you. 

Would he ever, really, make it up to you?

Cautiously, he goes up the stairs, still remembering which ones creak, and comes into the kitchen-and-den hybrid that you had grown up in. The building that hosted your centuries-long family business and home was always changing, the layout shifting every hundred years or so. The current home is the same as he recalls, with the worn wooden floor covered in thick woven rugs, to keep the house warm and cozy. The island with the lava-stone stovetop, which your grandfather had ordered specifically from one of the more hellish realms to use in cooking and potion brewing.

He vividly remembers when he’d had to help wrap your hand after you’d burnt it by unknowingly placing your palm on it. Your tears, the way you’d whimpered at his touch even as your father told you not to cry so much, teasing you enough to distract you from the pain. You’d been ten, and he’d been twelve, starting to feel the strange stirrings in his heart that being around you brought. 

There are more plants now that you’re the main resident. Cooking herbs, with personal balls of solar light you’d conjured to hover over them sit against the wall under the cabinets. There’s a little cactus, dozens of tropical ferns, and well-maintained shrubs that make Law feel as though he’s walked straight into a greenhouse, rather than the home he had once known. A familiar, white-marbled pothos is wrapped around the top of the kitchen cabinets, and he even watches as one of the vines turns the faucet in the sink on, lifting up glass for you, where you stand, muttering to yourself in the kitchen. 

“I didn’t say you could follow me up here.” You don’t turn to address him, but take the glass from Gertrude, sipping it with a slight shake in your hands. 

“I didn’t know I needed your permission,” Law keeps himself at the top of the stairs. You seem… oddly vulnerable, despite his general asshole behavior, until you straighten up, and face him, scowling. 

“Fine, let’s get straight to business then,” You stride to stand right in front of him, eyes alight with frustration as you place your hands on your hips. “I am not the one who masterminded this bullshit. Bepo came to my shop directly after talking to you yesterday. As much as you are a prick I absolutely detest, you are unfortunately a half-decent doctor, and I’d hate to see your patients suffer because you decided to break the law by using illegal magic.” 

“Wow, how kind of you,” Law drawls, and your left eye twitches a bit. Must he always make it so difficult for you to be the bigger person? You’d love nothing more than to let his body be chewed on by dogs, or so you try to convince yourself. “I should be kissing your feet and worshiping you, I suppose now. Oh, great merciful apothecary, how shall I thank you?” Law's tone is painfully dry, and you fight the urge to punch him in the mouth.

“I’m not the one who used illegal magic,” you scoff and fold your arms, “Bepo found some ancient law that allows foot-of-the-gallows marriages, and after rather pathetically begging for me to save you—”

“Get off your high horse, jackass —”

“—oh, save your comments, this was quite literally the only way you’d still be living,” Deep breaths. You can be the bigger person, just float above, ignore his little jabs, and don’t sink down to his level, “I hate this just as much as you do. But, again, your patients don’t deserve to be out a doctor because you wanted to play with fire.”

“Do you even know what lunar magic is?”

“The opposite of solar magic.”

“.... gods help me, I’m going to ask your uncle to kill me, this is already worse than death,” 

“Oh, save me the dramatics! I haven’t even gotten to explaining everything yet!”

Law is desperately trying not to drag his hands down his face and let his composure cave. Every time he thought about reconnecting with you and making right his countless wrongs against you, this would happen. Picking and poking at each other would eventually and undoubtedly turn into screaming matches because you both had to get the last word in any discussion about who had done the other wrong more. Yes, he had started it, but dammit, you had elevated it to this point!

Like now, because he’s completely tuned out your ranting until you let out a loud curse, and scream “We’re lawfully married now, you utter dickhead! No take-backs, unless you want to die for real!” 

Law blinks once. 

Twice. 

And then you have to catch him before he falls ass over kettle down the stairs because he’s so shocked that he forgot he was just standing at the top of the staircase, and took a step backward. Both of your hands are tightly gripping his collar with a force that surprises him, you pull him back up, and he lands squarely on top of you, crushing you into the floor as you let out a little huff of shock. He's oddly heavy, and feels well-muscled, despite the circumstances he's been facing.

You smell so familiar to him. Medicinal, but not in the chemical way. Like the herbal teas and spicy desserts he got to try while across the ocean during his apprenticeship. He’s going into shock— he knows this, and can’t do much to help himself until you manage to squirm your way from underneath him, sighing. “What am I gonna do with you?” You mumble, chin in your palm, as you drag him to the couch. This is quite the situation you’ve gotten yourself into. Your parents will no doubt hear of this— Kizaru is an old war buddy of your uncle’s, and once your mother hears it from him, they’ll be sending countless ravens and your poor sending stone may crack from the number of calls it’ll no doubt receive when your uncle lets the news slip to your parents. 

They’ll be more pissed you didn’t tell them of your plan. Then be even more upset when they realize they’ve missed your wedding, even if it was just a high official in the guard using a binding spell for a placeholder until he could legally marry the two of you. 

“You could have let me die.”

You don’t respond and just keep your eyes forward, nodding.

Law just lays there in shock, eyes on the ceiling, even as you slump into the cushions beside him, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms with an exhausted groan. There are bags under your eyes he hadn’t noticed until now, and he chides himself. This hadn’t been an easy decision for you. Tying yourself to him for the foreseeable future, and stirring up trouble between your family and the guard when the relationship was already strained. 

Why had you done it though? 

He’d been nothing but a dick to you, now for over… nine years. Nearly a decade. You weren’t the teary-eyed fifteen-year-old, just at the start of your apprenticeship under your father, but now the owner of the family shop, a tired twenty-four-year-old with dark bags under your eyes and a wariness that most people didn’t have until their fifties. 

You were a good person, he knew this. Really hated you for it, sometimes. It had made you incredibly hard to hate, and the fact that avoiding you had been next to impossible, especially when you were the only reputable apothecary and source for medicinal herbs. 

“Why?”

“...no comment,” You stand from the couch. He can hear your murmuring over the stove, and the whistling of a kettle— was it the same, pale green one, with the wisteria and lichen sculpted onto it, from your childhood? He looked over the couch, watching as you made a cup of tea, sighing as you returned with an extra mug. “...You’re going to take a bath after this, and I’m going to use some of the most vile cleaning spells I can think of on… those,” you gesture to his outfit, frowning. “I think I have extras of my fathers, for the time being.”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Law holds the mug carefully, eyeing you with a barely disguised look of suspicion as you start to go through the chest off to the side beside the dining table. You return, with a mustard yellow tunic, black trousers, and a dark-gray woven belt to bring in the waist of the tunic. 

“They’re covered in mud and… gods, Law is that blood?” 

Hearing you speak his name, how it rolls so naturally off your tongue after nine years of ignoring him and only addressing him with insults and anger makes him shudder. The horror in your eyes, the stiffness of your shoulders as you look at him. You don’t drop your mug, but he can see how your hand shakes a bit. The concern is there for a second before it fades when he doesn’t answer after a few seconds. 

“.... You know where the guest room is—”

You’re interrupted by the sound of something bouncing off of a barrier, and a scream of pain. Both of you stand abruptly, and scramble down the stairs, to which you throw open the front door, seeing Penguin rubbing his forehead, with Bepo, Shachi, and Ikkaku standing over him. You let out an annoyed groan, and look at Law as if he’s responsible for this. 

“You’re going to let them in, aren’t you?” Law only prompts, looking down at his friend, who is being helped upwards by his husband. 

“... a month, it took to formulate those,” You grumble and walk to the back of the shop, returning with chalk-dusted hands and a deep scowl, as the two men manage to drag themselves through the front door, shuddering as the remnants of the boundary spell 

“You put a boundary spell on the shop?” Penguin groans, holding his forehead, and you scowl at him. 

“Only for you, your husband, and the dickhead,” You turn on your heel and shout over your shoulder as you walk up the stairs. “They’re still not allowed up in the home proper, Dr. Trafalgar!”

“...charming,” Shachi watches as you walk up the stairs, and winces when Gertrude goes on the attack, tugging at his ear. Bepo is terrified that he’s been added to the lifetime ban list, while Ikkaku just sits on the counter where you normally work, studying the four men before her. 

“Honestly, I can’t blame her,” 

“Whose side are you on?!” Penguin yelps, batting at very angry Gertrude the pothos plant, who seems rather set on cuffing his ears until he leaves or dies— whichever comes first. 

“The two people who just got tied together for what is likely to be a very rocky marriage,” Ikkaku snaps, glaring at the two men. Bepo cowers, even when she’s not looking at him. Law just rubs his forehead and lets himself slump onto the first step of the stairs. He’s too confused right now to really process that he is married. He can feel the binding spell that links him to you, it’s not quite choking, but it’s tight enough around his heart to remind him ever so often that it’s there, squeezing ever so slightly when he least expects it. 

“No one asked her to do this!” Shachi throws his hands in the air and makes sure that he’s said it loud enough for you to hear, regardless of being upstairs. 

Bepo lets out a nervous whine, that sounds like a balloon deflating slowly, loud, and high-pitched, eyes darting around the room between the four confused faces of the humans in the room, which are turning ever more suspicious when the whine doesn’t stop, and only continues to somehow get higher. 

You come down the stairs with a tray of teacups, a loaf of bread, and the kettle, looking unimpressed by the current state of the mink, who is now lying with his back on the floor of your shop, still letting out the whining noise, even as you settle on the stool in the corner, looking at the other five people with a heavy frown. 

“I think it’s time we talk then, no?”

[youphoriaot7]

He's gone.

First Felps. Then Cellbit. Then Pac himself. Then Mike. Even Richas wasn't safe. And now...Forever.

Forever, who was still recovering just as much as he was; likely more. Forever, who already had so much on his plate as the president. Forever, who had to keep interacting with that bear as if he was okay, as if he didn't want to rip its head off every time they talked. (Pac at least had the freedom to hide, if he so wished. The president received no such luxury.)

His head reels, mind nearly fracturing into a million pieces at the information. Putting the tape on feels like deja vu of an experience he's never had, and yet the situation is all-too-familiar: another family member missing.

Watching the video, it's as if his head is underwater. The quiet chatter behind him fades completely away, Forever's soft and dejected voice fully catching his ear. The words wrap around his mind, sinking in the way water soaks through a sponge. (Slowly.)

"Pac?" Tubbo's call brings him back, and he blinks for the first time in minutes, trying to pull himself out of his stupor. "What did he say?"

"...sorry," he finally replies, voice gruff as he reaches for the pause button on the tape. He translates the important bits, but his mind just feels...hollow. Empty.

Gone. The word keeps rotating, looping in his mind just as much as the tape sitting in front of them.

The others discuss the situation and what to do next, but Pac isn't listening. He can't. What even is there to do? What's the point of saving people when the Federation will just take another? Why bother fighting when they come back ten times as strong?

A gentle hand on his shoulder makes him nearly jump out of his skin, and his face flushes as he turns to see Fit at his side. "You alright?" Fit murmurs under his breath, eyes still trained on the two men in front of them. (Giving Pac his privacy. Pac appreciates it more than he will ever know.)

"No," he responds truthfully, voice coming out as a hoarse whisper. He manages to shake off the numbness in his limbs for just long enough to shake his head. "I'm not."

Fit doesn't say a word in response; simply squeezes Pac's shoulder tighter. Before either of them can move, Tubbo turns to them both, eyes darting momentarily to Fit's hand before he speaks.

"Pac, we're gonna investigate the dungeon I last saw Forever in," he says, voice decidedly too calm and even for the current events. Forever is gone. Why is no one panicking? "You coming?"

...oh, he wants an answer.

"Um...yeah, Tubbo, I'll be there in a sec," he replies softly, nodding even as he glances back towards the screen. "I just...I want to listen to this one more time, you know?" He offers a much of a smile as he can muster, which isn't much. "Make sure I didn't miss anything."

"Of course." Fit speaks before anyone else can, nodding. "We'll wait for you."

Tubbo shrugs and he and Pierre turn, chattering their whole way out of the base. Fit removes his hand from Pac's shoulder—damn, it was warmer than he'd realized—glancing at Pac as he moves forward. "You want me to stay? Or...?"

"You don't have to." He gives Fit a half-shrug, avoiding his eyes as he turns the tape back on and rewinds. "It's in Portuguese, anyway."

"I didn't ask if I had to." Fit steps directly into his line of sight, forcing him to meet his gaze. "I asked if you wanted me to."

To Pac, the distinction is negligible: either way, he's still inconveniencing Fit. But clearly, the decision means something to the other man, so he sighs, trying to cobble together a response.

"Whatever you want," is still all he can end up with, turning up the sound of the tape as it begins to play once more. From then on, his attention is lost, focused solely on the message playing on the screen.

He's failed. Again. Forever is gone. Again. His family keeps going missing. He's losing them all. And it won't stop. Everything keeps falling apart.

There's a sudden presence close to his shoulder—Fit crouches down on the steps next to him, eyes trained on the screen. "Then you won't mind if I stay," he whispers, in a tone that leaves no room for argument.

...perhaps...not everything.

The video loops again. Then again, then again, and again, and again. It's on the fifth loop that Pac can finally feel his emotions turning back on, waking up from whatever horrible limbo they'd been stuck in. He leans into Fit's shoulder—even closer than he'd thought it would be—and just cries. His tears wet the leather armor beneath him and his wails echo off the walls of the small office, but Fit doesn't say a word—just wraps an arm around Pac's shoulders, pulling him closer.

At least something is still here.

[enhastolemyheart]

BROKEN — P. SH

pairing sunghoon x reader

genre angst, unrequited love (?)

synopsis who knew that you would be too late when it came to confessing to your childhood crush?

warnings crying, overthinking, proofread but lmk if any mistakes

word count 1.2k

networks @k-films @/hyfenet

note HI! I'm back with a fic!! I wanted to write something out real quick and was feeling like angsty saur this is the result!! Hope you guys like it :)

Why can’t I just say how I feel? Why can't I just let Sunghoon know?

It shouldn’t be hard. It should be natural. The most natural thing on earth. Everyone does it, right? Everyone’s always done it. It’s nothing. Just one small step. A few words. A few taps of a keyboard, even.

I reach for my phone. I’m gonna do it. I could call you, or… no. I’ll text. It’s less stressful that way, for me and for you. It lets us make sure we say precisely what we mean. Less chance for misunderstandings.

I open up my messages and scroll to your name. It’s not hard to find. I could pick your face out of a crowd anywhere. Opening the conversation, I start to type.

Hey Sunghoon, I was just wondering, would you maybe-

No.

That’s not good. It’s too weak. Too apprehensive. You’d smell the fear through the screen. I need to project confidence. I try again.

Hey, do you want to go to dinner with me sometime?

I ponder this for a while, eventually shaking my head. It’s too abrupt and unclear. You might not realise that I mean as a date. You might think I’m talking about a casual platonic meetup. That’s not a mistake I want to make. I want you to know what I’m asking. I want to know what your answer means. Sighing, I glance around my room, searching for inspiration. It’s a waste of time. Hundreds of books and movies, yet not a single one can give me the answers I need. In desperation, I turn to the world’s most treacherous source of advice. The internet.

Sure, there’s a lot of garbage on there, but if you slog past the cheesy pick-up lines and pseudo-psychology, there really are a few hidden gems. Not that I can find them. Almost everything I read is about dating in person. Standing up straight. Projecting confidence through physicality. Maybe even a bit of light contact, a hand on the arm, that sort of thing. Solid advice, but utterly useless to me since, you know, you’re halfway across the country right now. Still, slowly but surely, I cobble something together that sounds more or less decent.

Hey, I know you were back in town recently. How about Friday we go for dinner at that pizza place you like, then afterwards take a walk through the park? They’ve revamped the gardens, and I think you’d love them.

Dinner and a romantic, moonlit walk. That sounds like a date, I suppose. I’ve managed to make my intentions clear. Plus, I sound confident. No umming and ahhing, no self-defeatism. The best thing of all is it gives you an easy out. If you’re not interested, you can say you’re busy that night. If you genuinely are busy, you can suggest another time. It’s not like the park is going anywhere.

The message is perfect. I’ve done it.

I’m ready.

Now, there’s only one thing left to do.

It’s just a shame it’s the hardest thing of all. My finger hovers over the send button, unable to take that final step. I keep telling myself to just press it and get this whole thing over with. But that annoying little voice in my head keeps arguing. What if they say no? What if they decide they hate me? What if they don’t want to talk to me anymore? It’s times like this that I wish I drink. A little bit of liquid courage is exactly what I need right now. That’d shut the damn voice up. But I don’t take a drink. Instead, I do the stupidest thing possible. I give myself time to think. Yeah. I’m an idiot.

Before long, that little voice is running rampant. What am I doing? This is stupid. So, so stupid. Sure, I want more from our relationship. But what if you don’t? What if, by doing this, I ruin our friendship? I don’t want to lose you. I tell myself again and again that I’m overthinking. That you aren’t like that. That it would take more than a bit of awkwardness to drive a wedge between us. But I’m not convinced.

Sure, maybe we’d be fine for now. But what if you find someone else? Will they be okay with us being friends, knowing how I feel about you? I’m not so sure. Besides, I know that you’re not exactly looking for a relationship right now. Truth be told, it’s probably not the best time for me either. But that shouldn’t matter, not really. If two people are right for each other, they can overcome anything, can’t they? The timing might not be ideal, but we can get past it.

Then again- I almost scream in frustration. I can’t do this anymore. Picking up my phone, I delete the message, deciding to wait until you’re back and tell you how I feel face to face. It’ll be better that way. I can put all that advice to use and win you over with my charming smile.

I’m lying to myself, of course.

I know the odds are good that I’ll still find a way to bottle it. I’ll still talk myself down. But maybe, just maybe, I won’t. Maybe I’ll find a way to beat that annoying little voice. Do you know what the worst thing is? You probably think I won’t say anything because you don’t mean enough to me. That my fear of rejection is stronger than my feelings for you. You couldn’t be more wrong. In a weird, paradoxical way, the strength of my feelings for you are what stops me from saying anything. You’re amazing. The most perfect human being I’ve ever met. Every time I see your smile, my heart soars like an eagle. And when I hear your laugh, dimple on display, my body glows with happiness. Even when I’m just listening to you vent about your troubles, I feel like I’m hearing a classic tale equal to anything Shakespeare, Austen, Hemingway ever created.

Because you’ve nailed the most important part of storytelling. You’ve made me care about the protagonist. You’ve made me care about you. And I couldn’t bear it if I did something stupid enough to drive you from my life.

The next couple of weeks pass in a blur. I throw myself into school work, glad of the distraction. In the brief moments I let myself think of you, I begin to convince myself that I really will tell you how I feel. That by not saying anything, I could be robbing us of so much time together. By the week before you’re due back, I’m certain. The next time I see you, I’m asking you out.

My muscles finally relaxing, I slump back into a chair. I’ve spent a long day at my desk and am ready to unwind. Turning on the TV, I grab my phone and begin mindlessly scrolling through social media to catch up with what my friends have been doing. I see some pictures of you celebrating a friends' birthday. I smile. You’re happy, and that makes me happy.

But then I swipe to the last picture and see you wrapped up in somebody else’s arms, your rosy lips pressed against theirs.

Fuck.

My head spins. My chest tightens. I feel like I’m about to pass out.

Putting down my phone, I put my head in my hands and start to cry. Why didn’t I tell you how I feel? Why didn’t I atleast try to see if you felt the same way? Why do I have to be so damn broken?

a/n: tysm for reading!! Hope y'all liked it

perm taglist: @jak-ey ; @snoowhore ; @hsgwrld ; @seungiesluv ; @1-800shutthefuckup ; @heeseungshim (send an ask to be added)

[deus-and-the-machina]

“Please.”

Cleo sighed. The necromancer was on his knees now, fully bent over and groveling on the ground. It would be somewhat embarrassing if it wasn’t so sad. “I’ve told you a million times and then some. I can’t.”

His head lifted up from the ground. There was anger in his eyes. “Can’t, or won’t?” He spat, “Because the way I see it, you mess around with time all willy nilly when it’s for your own benefit. God forbid you ever think about someone besides yourself!”

He was trying to get under her skin, to provoke her. Cleo bent down into a squat to come closer to his level. “Time is a delicate matter. You must know the rules before you mess about with it, and his demise was too long ago. If it was yesterday, or last week, then sure. The rippling impacts would likely be minimal and manageable. But several years of rewritten time...that’s too much.”

Scott’s face tensed. “But you can do it. You just won’t.”

“Exactly. I’m sorry to say this Scott, but people lose their loved ones every day. And if we used time travel to bring every single one of them back, we’d be in paradox hell. You aren’t special. Accept he’s gone, or figure out a solution yourself.”

His expression completely crumpled, frozen looking distraught as one, two, then a torrent of silent tears streamed from his face. He gasped and choked and let out an occasional sob, then fell forward and clutched at their dress. Cleo let him. 

“Please,” he croaked out. “Please, please, please. Just this once, I’ll never ask for anything ever again.”

“What I don’t understand is why the necromancer witch can’t just-”

“Because I’m not SMART enough for that!” he cried. “I have no idea what I’m doing, I’m just-I’m just fucking about with random texts half the time, I’m barely a witch. I have no idea why I was even brought here, but no matter how hard I try, I just never get better. It just-” Scott broke off into mournful unintelligible crying sounds.

Cleo let him sob. When he’d worn himself out and was lying hiccuping in the dirt, they reached down and picked him up, flinging the dead witch over her shoulder. “Let’s get you home.”

He said nothing, didn’t even try to protest as Cleo walked off.

“It can be done, you know. I’m living proof of that.”

“...And you won’t even tell me that much.”

She laughed dryly. “I couldn’t even tell you the first thing about it. One day I was dead, the next, like this.” They fell into a somewhat awkward silence as Cleo walked down the cobble woodland path. “That’s for you to figure out.”

Cleo felt his grip tighten on the back of their clothing. “And before you say anything, the Supreme Witch isn’t dumb. She wouldn’t have invited you here if you didn’t have potential.” Scott’s house was coming up into view. “You’re self taught, yeah? No mentor or school or anything? What you’ve figured out by yourself is pretty impressive on its own. So don’t let me ever hear you selling yourself short again.”

“...” 

“Now do you have a key to get in or am I gonna have to dump you outside your door?”

He cleared his throat. “You’re really bad at this whole comforting people thing.”

“Being a counsellor isn’t exactly my day job. I’m usually the reason people need counseling,” she chuckled. “Not because I’m scary or anything, just because of the lingering deja vu effects and nightmares of other timelines all this fooling around can cause. Real shame about all that.”

“Jesus.”

“And if you keep improving, one day you’ll be able to traumatize people too! Dig up hoards of zombies and all. I believe in you.”

That made him laugh. Cleo felt his body vibrate against hers, and smiled. 

[doublel27]

That’s so valid about Owen. “I’m gonna go annoy my kids now”

And there was something so squishy about the 3 of them being a lil family unit now 🥹

I'm sure whoever you are, dear sweet nonny, you threw this in here knowing I would likely meta on about it.

And I've been thinking about the end scenes nearly all day.

I'm notoriously interested in Owen as a character. He's a facinating character who, like his son, has had his life scarred by loss. Owen's whole raison d'etre is saving his brother. It's why saving that one little girl from drowning sent him into a life focused on saving others. Then he lost his entire firehouse in 9/11, and slowly lost other survivors of 9/11 to cancer and mental health disorders.

Then, he has to bring his son back from the dead and moves him to Texas in an attempt to save his life and restart, all while diagnosed with cancer. We lose Tim Rosewater which sets Owen into deep levels of depression and guilt, because he'll never be able to keep the promise that everyone who starts a shift goes home at the end of it.

Gwyn is in town, and they're still in love and he's working on making it work. They're gonna have a baby and Owen has a redo. He's got a chance to do it RIGHT this time. Because Owen's fatal flaw is always believing if things had been different, if he had been better, if he'd beena moment sooner: maybe he could have fixed things. He had a whole speech to that effect in last night's episode, where he figured if he'd known about 9/11 ahead of time that he could have prevented his whole team from dying.

Then the baby's not his and Gwyn leaves and whatever Owen managed to cobble together of his mental health for Gwyn and teh baby disipates and there's a lot of very classic PTSD/depressive/anxiety things that come up in Owen.

And then we lose Gwyn which is devestating to everyone but Owen soldiers on for TK, but he's...not doing well, at all. He finally gets his ass to therapy and even though we see him make some progress he's still keeping TK at a distance. Mostly because TK's doing well and Owen CANT be Captain Save a Ho for TK in these moments. He does crop up (usually) when TK's struggling, but only when there's something TO DO.

This episode marked a change.

Owen, in talking with O'Brien, who is giving a speech pretty reminicent of Owen's own speeches, about how he made a promise and he didn't keep it because look at this awful thing that happened, and Owen manages to give solid reasoning to be like "Look, he's alive and his son's alive and that's something."

And then it's like the lightbulb goes off in Owen's brain as O'Brien takes off after his great nephew - that Owen is indeed alive, and his son is also alive, and that's something. He may not have saved everyone but he saved TK.

Then, Owen goes and picks up food (which is really one of Carlos and TK's main love langauges, is feeding people - TK does it with takeout because he shouldn't be in the kitchen) and brings it over. But he doesn't just pick up any take out, he picks up the chinese food that TK introduced Gwyn to that they used to eat as a family.

I take this to be significant in multiple ways:

One, the Gwyneth Morgan of it all. Owen picked something that was a family thing and brought it over. Which is a very significant thing to do.

Two, it's one of the few times that food is involved and Owen doesn't mention the healthy/unhealthy nature of the food. Look, I could probably write a whole disertation on why Owen Strand, who has survived 21 1/2 years post 9/11 is obsessed with his health, but nearly every interaction with food, Owen has a coment about it. He doesn't make a single comment about this round of chinese food. I lied, he doesn't mention it in 3.08 either. But that's in the wake of grief, and maybe here Owen's still living in it.

Three, ordering chinese is very clearly TK's comfort meal. Look, a lot of us who are neurospicy joke about TK being neurospicy. And when you are neurospicy, there are certain foods that are..."safe" or an instant "yes" all the time. And we default to them often. I know when I'm struggling when I'm like "It's a comfort food day." (I have a rotation) but it eliminates decision fatigue and the need to emotionally regulate if it's not exactly what you wanted. Chinese food has a connection to Gwyn, and comfort and it comes up a lot when TK's stressed. (Even in 3.03, when Carlos doesn't come home, TK ordered chinese for them)

And then Owen does something he hasn't done...at all...since TK moved out (maybe they did when they moved into Owen's house and I don't know where they had chinese in 3.08) but Owen shows up at their place to share a meal with them.

And it's significant because TK and Carlos have invited him over for many meals between seasons 2 and 3, and Owen never accepts. Or, in the case of 2.11, Owen accepts and then goes off to catch an arsonist instead, which could be his hero complex but could also be a general avoidance of things that are uncomfortable for Owen, like TK growing up and not needing Owen anymore.

For as much as Owen has been an absent father for various parts of TK's life, because of his PTSD and trauma and general *waves hands* Owenness, Owen is a loving dad who would do just about anything for his son. We know this, we've watched him do it. But Carlos is also a competent control freak who Owen trusts implicitly with TK's life on numerous occasions. I do believe there's a big part of Owen's psyche that doesn't know what to do if he's not NEEDED.

But at the end of 4.06, he shows up, with chinese food, which is not needed because TK and Carlos already made a beautiful dinner and are looking very handsome, but he comes in and tells TK that he's proud of him, again. And you know, not trying to blow people up is a very low bar, but you know, TK clears it. And then they stay and have dinner, and Owen inserts himself in his son's life, not because TK needs him, but because Owen WANTS to be there, and that's such a drastic change for these two.

I love that Carlos and TK bring him in. Look, we could punish Owen for his mistakes and transgressions, but that's never been who TK is and this is his last living biological parent (Enzo forever) and TK loves him. And Carlos loves TK and respects Owen and wants them to have a good relationship.

And I cannot wait for Owen to "do what he does best" (owen's words) and be a pain in their asses about this wedding.

[morbidlychubese]

Resubmitting this ask just in case it was the one Tumblr ate. If its not then I guess you can ignore it like the last one. Either way I hope you have a wonderful day.

<--------------->

Fedee splitting open your wedding dress??? I fucking love it.

I can imagine you, Just bearly able to waddle down the isle. Having to use a walker or cane or something, being completely exhausted and out of breath by the time you make it to the alter, where I'm waiting for you. Absolutely no one expects your massive Fatass to stand, so there's a reinforced stool for you to sit on.

Your dress looks Painfully tight on your poor fat Fecund Blubber Gut. Yes Fecund, I decided 11 months ago that I wanted my bride to waddle down the isle with a belly full of my squiming brood. Its not my fault that due to scheduling issues our ceremony  had to be postponed and you had to hold them in an extra 2 months.

Anyway, Our lovechildren aren't the only thing that are bloating out your Blubber Gut today. You think you're soo cleaver. You think that you've stuffed your fat face as much as you possibly could before waddling down the isle and that No One would be able to tell under your vail. I can see through it, hell I can smell it on you. You fat fucking piglet, your mouth is covered in food from your gorging yourself.

Fortunately for you, my sole response to your shameless, disgusting, debased, glutinous, debauchery is Beaming Pride and animalistic lust.

However Pride cometh before the fall, and juuust when you thought you made it to the alter, and are gonna sit down on the stool, thats when it happens.

Your packed full stomach is working hard on your latest meal, as well as your stuffed full Guts are working on the massive meal you had this morning. All this squeezing into too small wedding dresses, and waddling down isles isn't very good for the digestion, so you overworked guts start fighting for more space. Unfortunately for you this wakes up the kids and they start fighting for space as well.

And thats when your pretty little dress loses the war.

⛔ 👗 ⛔

Your dress explodes and while your milk bloated blubber tits are still contained, but from the bust down your dress is naught but tattered ribbons.

The kids take this newfound freedom as an invitation to start playing hackey sack with your prostate, again 🙄. As usual, this makes you involuntarily cum buckets all over the church floor.

The bridesmaids and groomsmen all scramble to cobble together something from the ribbon scraps to cover you with. They eventually peace together a makeshift loincloth to cover you. The front of wich is soon complete drenched by your nonstop emissions.

Our children continue their relentless Assault on your prostate throughout the ceremony. Your bloated belly visibly writhing with their movements. Their all out attack forces you to shoot rope after rope after rope of ejaculate endlessly as the ceremony progresses. Soon the small puddle grows into a larger pool that all the bridesmaids and groomsmen are forced to stand in.

Only the preist, due to the pulpit is spared the 'rising waters'. A lone island of dry land surrounded by the still growing sea of your emissions.

Your thoughts?

It was this one! Thank you!!

I think this is my dream wedding. So utterly embarrassing to be so blissfully indulgent in front of so many people. I'm already round and gravid from you, and I'd have stuffed myself until I reeked like fast food. That's definitely a part of why I explode hehe. That, and being to fat to walk, but being made to waddle anyway. Using my tree trunk thighs for the very last time in front of everyone who thought they knew me. So fucking wonderful.

Also, I would totally read this if it were a kink short story

[dangermousie]

The little parallel with the scene in the rain in ep 2 when he tried to get her to join him! I am such a sucker "and then they save each other" trope!

Here she is mirroring but not to manipulate but to help (as opposed to his earlier actions which were a mix.)

It's telling that her solution is to get him to box and hit or be hit to work out his misery and to actually emotionally lose it. And the thing is, it works....

It's very much a story of people who cobbled together coping mechanisms and help with them in a DIY fashion best they could. This is her solution because this is something she had to cobble together after her own trauma. They are both groping in the dark to deal with what life throws them, doing the best they can, sometimes fucking up but the point is trying.

Her story about not being able to cry and figuring out she can in the ring by herself - and that is what she offers him - is comforting and horrifying at once.

The narrative wants us to see her father as having repented but honestly, his past abuse is not something one can get over easily. Extra helpings of soup aren't gonna cut it.

PS Speaking of other things I disagree with characters on - TY later says he didn't protect him but his hyung protected him instead and ummm I am glad that his tried to do so via suicide note but if he didn't get into this insanity in the first place then there wouldn't have been need for anything in the first place and how about TY now having his life in serious danger due to the man? That sacrifice is now meaningless but the danger still very much there.

[dujour13]

siavash! ‘A quiet sigh as they turn away.’

Thanks Spyri ❤️ Took a long time but I liked this one too much to throw it out there half baked.

---

The Queen was made of marble: straight-backed in her polished armor, face tilted up to reflect the pale gray light. “Your personal effects have been transferred to the inn. Be ready at dawn.”

Woljif saw Siavash bow his head and squeeze his eyes shut as the Queen turned sharply and left them standing in the Citadel courtyard like a bunch of spanked children.

Sidling up close, he muttered, “Fuck her.”

Siavash shrugged. “She’s right. She should never have given me the title in the first place.”

“Are you kiddin’ me? Everything you’ve done? You took back Drezen. And I wasn’t even around to give you advice.”

That got a smile.

“I’ll tell you what it is. You’re not doin’ it her way. I seen it a hundred times. Somebody plays the smart alec and makes the boss look dumb and down they go. Long as you wear the leash they’ll throw you a bone, but the minute you start thinkin’ for yourself you’re in a bag full a’ rocks sinkin’ to the bottom a’ the Sellen.”

“That’s not what the Queen’s doing. She’s not a mob boss. She’s…”

Woljif gave a wan snort. “What’s the difference?”

Siavash almost laughed. Wasn’t that what the democratic philosophers said? What is a noble but an institutionalized thug? Though in Galfrey’s case that felt uncharitable.

“She’s been fighting the Abyss for three lifetimes. That’s the difference.”

“And losing.”

“Well, yeah.”

“So what’re you gonna do? Say ‘fair enough’ and walk away?”

The amusement instantly left his face, drained along with all the blood—and all the hope. Siavash had to force the words out.

“I’m going to the Abyss.”

Woljif’s tail went still. “You’re really gonna do it.”

About a thousand emotions clamored in Siavash’s heart, but fear drowned the rest of them out. He started to reach for Woljif like a lifeline and thought better of it.

Let him go.

The act of dragging his eyes away and turning his back on him took every ounce of his remaining strength, which was scarce enough after the battle of the Fane and the Queen’s betrayal. It was not in his nature to be stoic, and yet for Woljif’s sake he had to be. His heart stung like it was tearing open as he turned.

The one thing he needed most right now, and the one thing he could not allow himself.

Let him go.

Wearily Siavash scooped up his bloody gear from the ground and slung it over his shoulder. By now the Free Crusaders had mostly wandered off; those who remained were bickering. The Merry Band stood about looking embarrassed and adrift. Even Iomedae’s Herald didn’t seem to know what to say.

What Woljif saw was a flash of terror as Siavash turned his back on him with a sigh like snuffing out the last candle.

“Hey—”

Siavash set off toward the inn, not looking back.

“Hey, you’re not pullin’ one over on me.”

He kept walking.

“I see what you’re doin’, you know.” And it did seem obvious: acting like a tough guy, turning his back because he was going to the Abyss without him. But… why would he do that?

There was only one possible answer.

They’d never said the words, but they hung in the air between them, binding like chains made of sweet sunlight, drawing him into a warm embrace, drawing him down to the Abyss.

Everything he’d secretly dreamed of. The best thing that had ever happened to him and also the worst.

He caught up but found he couldn’t speak as they went down the stairs side-by-side. In his head Woljif pictured the alternative: Well, g’bye chief, good luck. And then what? Back to business as usual? Fresh air in his lungs and cobbles under his boots, deals to make and strings to pull, but no heart for it. Alone and carved out hollow.

And on the heels of that thought came another, novel thought, the kind he usually classified as top secret, or a load of sentimental nonsense: that Siavash was a friend, the real deal—an idea he would have scoffed at not long ago—and much more now too, and to let him go off to the Abyss by himself would be an act so low not even Woljif Jefto would do it. He imagined Siavash standing there all alone in the Abyss, probably crying, knowing him, and it made his throat tighten painfully.

He stole a glance at him—his face, though drained of its usual joy, the one thing that had ever felt good and right in his life. How could his heart sink with fear and take wing at the same time? It was painful and confusing and… wonderful.

I’ll go the Abyss for you.

Because you don’t want me to.

How’s that for messed up?

He looked at him sidelong and confided, “You showed me your cards just now. You know that.”

Siavash frowned. “What are you—”

“If you really didn’t care, you’d pretend you did.” Woljif tapped his temple with a cunning smirk. “Gotcha figured out.”

“Nothing gets past you, does it?” Siavash wasn’t sure whether it was a laugh or a sob on its way out. He stopped mid-stride on the stairs and finally gave into the temptation to look at him: his clever yellow eyes and the conspiratorial smirk on his lips trembling with repressed emotion.

“We oughtta make a break for it, chief.”

The worst thing was that he seriously considered it for a moment, and with his whole heart: the two of them boarding a ship for Katapesh, sun on their shoulders and wind in their sails, that lighter-than-air feeling of freedom. So close, so real he could almost hear the gulls.

He didn’t mean to, but the wound had opened in the Fane and though the bleeding had stopped the pain had not, and his hand went to it reflexively, pressing as if to force the sundered flesh back together. Woljif’s eyes followed the movement.

“There’s nothing I want more,” he whispered.

Woljif sighed. “I know. Had to try.”

When the others came around the corner and started down the stairs toward the inn, what they saw was the ex-Knight Commander and Woljif caught in a desperate hug as if the world was breaking apart under their feet, holding each other in bloodstained arms and laughing or crying or maybe both.

[steveharrington]

https://youtu.be/HZOppCkC5UM

what do you think of this?

i think some good points were made! and also some bad points were made! i will break it down sorry if this is long but i love talking about st as you all know and this guy packed a lot of discussion into 10 minutes!

good points: he's absolutely 100% right about jonathan and joyce losing their Point in the story. it's so so so obvious specifically with jonathan that he was written and conceived to serve the plotline that revolved around his family, and when he's taken out of those relationships he's basically.....nothing. i've never seen anyone point out how jonathan didn't really need the nancy/steve plotline in s1 because it only really diluted his A plot centered around will before, but it's so true. i also strongly agree with his point about the russia storyline and how taking the characters out of hawkins and trying to bring in the world at large is a big mistake. it's one reason why i felt the russia plotline in s4 specifically was so hard to watch and literally had me wanting to skip every time the scene cut to hopper/joyce/murray because like.....why should i care about this! im invested in whats happening in hawkins, in vecna, and like the california plot okay fine it's tangentially related to hawkins and it brings back brenner etc but the russia stuff just feels so far removed and pointless. also he's so right about the tone of s3 feeling off specifically with scoops troop and how they tried to make a very serious dark plotline into a slapstick comedy.

bad points: the story is not all about will. sorry i will never buy into and subscribe to the whole "it starts and ends with will" thing and that's not even me being a hater, that's just me watching season one and understanding that el is just as relevant to the story as will. the author of this video essay sets up the s1 storyline and concept for the show as a whole as if it was Only ever supposed to be about will going missing and the results of that, which completely ignores the fact that we still have an entire parallel dimension and government sanctioned child testing lab to talk about? if the story was only about will going missing, it didn't need to be about supernatural elements at all. it could've literally just been will getting lost in the woods. but will's disappearance is the entry point for our characters into the upside down, and once they're aware that it exists, it can't just be nicely tied up in a little bow at the end of s1 and everyone moves on with their lives. i will never understand the "stranger things shouldve been one season!!!!!" argument because like how on earth can you expect joyce to get her kid back from the parallel dimension that also ate another teenager, with the lab that tortured a child still operating in their town, and just be like oh okay its over? HUH? like there's no further implications to discuss, no consequences of these discoveries? will went to hellworld and hid from a monster and he's just fine now that he's back home? we're just gonna all ignore it? whew sorry anyways im really defensive over s2 and i hate the suggestion that it's like hastily cobbled together just for the sake of a sequel when really it's such a rich season full of necessary and fascinating further exploration into the UD, the effects it had on the characters, the trauma they endured, etc.

new paragraph but still talking abt the bad points. i also don't agree with the assertion that s4 ended with everything tied up nicely and all the characters having closure. in fact i really don't understand how anyone could reach that conclusion (sorry to the author of that video essay if ur out there) like how can you watch the s4 finale and think "yeah everyone's pretty much good" like hello? eddie's death traumatized dustin and im sure there'll be conflict over the decisions made that led to it, max is literally in a coma, lucas still hasn't received any sort of closure or resolution irt any of his experiences or feelings, will still feels alienated within his friend group and tied to the UD, el still views herself as a monster, nancy/steve/jonathan are an absolute mess with no resolution either relationship-wise or just like personal storyline-wise. even if you don't care about these characters, or you feel like they were never important, the show can't just drop them into oblivion and leave each of their storylines unresolved. and that's what'll happen in s5.

also saying the agent orange speech was the best aspect of the russia storyline is um.....interesting. to me its not "bringing hopper back to his emotional roots" its a very lazy rehashing of the story arc he already overcame i.e. blaming himself for sarah's death and feeling like a black hole. like we already did that. and now we're doing it again

all in all i think the general thesis of the video is very correct--s5 is not going to be very good. the writers have written themselves into a corner, many of the characters have ceased to serve any function, and the non-stop action that the duffers keep teasing is going to feel like a different show and probably not play to the strengths of the series, which is character work and dynamics. and also he's right aliens is the best sequel ever <3

[nohara-rin-dot-mp3]

long and detailed ramblings about rin's character under the cut <3

rin is flatter than almost any other character in naruto- an impressive feat, considering how badly kishimoto hates woman. i'm not saying that everyone else was written better than rin- all things considered, the complete lack of attention focused on her means that she's probably one of the more consistent characters. no, the flatness arises from a general lack of anything interesting about her presented in an easy to understand or. um. intentional way.

fandoms take the traits that characters display and explore and expand upon them- when a character or concept is interesting but poorly executed in canon, it will often receive a large amount of attention dedicated towards giving it its due.

when a girl has no real personality to speak of and exists pretty much just to die and make two others guys sad- well, that doesn't lay a very good base to explore! it's no wonder rin is an incredibly overlooked character.  

not me tho. id never overlook my girl. this is because i am a little bjt insane and also rabid about her. take my hand. let's explore the deep rabbit hole ive been silently digging for half a year now. there's nuance to her character i prommy- let me show you it.

disclaimer before we begin: i'm aware that the amount of character depth i can extrapolate from rin was not intentionally written in. i mean, like, that's not gonna stop me or anything. but im aware of it. some of the things here have little to no canon basis- i cobbled my rin characterization together with dramatic irony, copious amounts of masks, and spite. i do think that viewing rin like this adds flavor to the canon story, though, so maybe keep that in mind?

the first, central headcanon that influences pretty much everything about rin (to me) is that she hates the idea of being misinterpreted in life or in death. despite that, she wears masks built of what people expect her to be, and makes no effort to remove them and build real connections. and then she gets mad when no one really knows her. she contains multitudes.

this also adds a delicious twist to canon- from rin's pov, obito's great fault is not the murders, the betrayals, or the longing for a perfect world; its him mis-remembering her so BADLY that he somehow mischaracterized the mask she was wearing. my guy.

part of the reason rin wears masks is because she is unsure of who she is and what she wants, and she views that as a personal failure. she has made the logical fallacy, of course, that she has an immutable "true self" who she has managed to lose. she's also 12 and living in kill people repress your emotions city, so i guess we can give her a pass on that. the real important thing to understand here is that rin views any presentation of herself that is not her "true self" (smth that doesnt exist) as equally false. therefore, she assumes that it is easier to continue on with the mask she is already wearing than switch it out for smth just as bad. she does not know that the self is something cobbled together over a lifetime of stealing thoughts, feelings and mannerisms from other people and mixing it with your experiences and innate personality. she paints her cheeks purple because her father does, and he does it because his father did, who did it because his mother did, and on and on, but she cannot comprehend that the laugh she learned from him is just as unique. lmao

another thing about personhood: kakashi and obito, from an outside view, seem very put together. they have goals, for heaven's sake, they must know what they're doing! rin doesn't have a crush on kakashi- she admires him because he looks like he's got his life figured out! (when you start thinking kakashi's put together, you know something's wrong.)

the thing about rin's relationship with the rest of her team is that it's very one-sided. rin is obito's best friend- obito is not rin's best friend. the team spirit and unity that konoha tries to impress on them is lost on rin because she interacts with them like she's on an infiltration mission, and then gets mad that they don't know the "real" her, gets sad that she doesn't know the "real" her, and then puts on more masks to make sure no one notices, and the cycle repeats. the rest of team minato is fooled into thinking that they are close with her, and rin drifts further and further away. we see this when obito "dies-" she almost unaffected by it. now, it's probably portrayed like that as to not take away from kakashi's reaction, but it feeds nicely into my interpretation that she just… doesn't really care.

after obito dies and kakashi starts falling apart, i do think he and rin get a bit closer. he's obviously not in a great mental state to be worrying over her in any manner except physical safety, but he does wonder when her smile stretches a bit too thin and brittle. he never knows rin- not by her definition- but i think sometimes he gets to see her without any masks on: a limp doll who's tired of pretending at humanity.

last point on rin's mental state before we move onto the totally-there-and-real symbolism aspects of her character: she has a very, very apathetic attitude towards death that's only exacerbated by the fact that she's not really close to anyone. she's not exactly suicidal, but she wouldn't care if she died. she's not jumping at the bit to sacrifice herself- that apathy means she doesn't really care if anyone else dies, either. she holds on until she can't hold on anymore, and then she drops it like a hot potato. rin voice: wait if there's an afterlife why are we scared of dying. and then no one ever explained it to her so she never unlocked her fear of death.

ok! symbolism time! i, personally, am a huge proponent of moth/astronaut/icarus rin. there's a few threads that weave into that tapestry, so stick with me while we make our way through em.

first: remember what i said earlier, about rin hating obito for mis-remembering her rather than the whole infinite tsukuyomi gig? well, part of that is because she just really hates being misinterpreted, but the other part is that she wouldn't think infinite tsukuyomi was bad at all! remember, rin is very… nihilistic, and already has a tenuous relationship with consequences- she wouldn't see the problem with fixing things with an illusion. this slots into the moth interpretation- she's chasing the moon! 

second, there's the whole chidori thing. idk if you guys remember it, its only the most defining moment of rin's entire character in canon. the chidori looks like the sun. icarus. do you catch my drift

the rest of the points towards this symbolism are more vague and tend to lean more towards like. obscure references to the challenger crash and a reliance on my insistence that moths and icarus and astronauts ARE basically the same thing, thank you very much, but i think i've said enough to get my point across.

there's more i could say- we could explore aus where rin lives to adulthood, and how she would grow and develop, or we could dive into the fascinating relationship she has with minato and being a mednin, or how she and sasuke are 2 flavors of the same guy, but this post is already stupid long, so i'll save that for another time. just know that rin is the coolest girly ever. and she deserves to kill.

[gokartkid]

you KNOW I'm gonna ask for brocede hehe 🤭 + voice in head (or tattoo if that calls you)

Lewis throws himself onto the bed next to Nico— he squawks and rolls out of the way of his sharp elbows. 

“Man, you have got to stop thinking so much,” Lewis laughs and pushes at him. Nico makes a face, pouts his lips and scrunches up unattractively, blonde hair flopping all in his face. 

“It’s not my fault,” he complains, pink mouth opening wide. 

Lewis has always been fascinated by his cobbled-together accent from crossing borders his whole life, ending up somewhere between German and British diplomat’s kid. He’d been confused first hearing it in his head— didn’t know at all where his soulmate would be from because ‘dad I’ve never heard anyone talk like this before!’

“You’re going to distract me in the race and then we’ll lose!”

“Just drive faster then,” Nico retorts, puts his nose in the air. It loses its symbolic power when he squeals as Lewis dives towards him, tickling him furiously, wrestles him off the bed and onto the ground.

“Stop it! Stop!” Nico kicks at him until Lewis lets him push him over onto his back, smiles helplessly up at his messed up hair and reddened face. Nico stares down at him— a complicated expression on his face before he presses down and kisses him, once, sweetly. 

“I won anyway,” Lewis says when he lets him up, “so I guess if you stopped talking I’d be way too fast!”

----

Nico’s barely in his head all of 2016. 

It turns out, that it wasn’t his voice slowing Lewis down at all.

soulmate prompts

[f1shbonez]

"You found me." (@vastayan--vigilante )

Everything that followed the mission had been a bore. 

There was no adrenaline now. No electricity. People moved like their limbs were attached to anchors, scuffing their feet, as they convened with hollowed eyes. Some of them were still crying. Eugh. Was this what happened whenever somebody didn’t come back from a mission? Jinx doubted the same rituals of grief would be extended if she’d been the one who hadn’t made it back. 

Whatever. Whilst everyone wasted time stewing on Scar’s Oh-So-Brave sacrifice, playing it over in their heads, blaming themselves and mentally replaying time, Jinx contemplated her last glimpse of the vastayan. Sevika had got him preeeeetty good. Sure, that usually was a death sentence. But how long did it take to drive a blade through somebody or shoot them in the head? You didn’t waste time binding someone’s wrists if you were gonna kill them good ‘n quick. You didn’t! Sevika didn’t. You tied someone up to play the Long Game. Jinx had seen it done more times than she could count- she’d even partaken in a few of the ventures herself. So that had to mean Scar wasn’t dead, at least not yet…right? If he was dead his body would be left in the street. Sevika and her goons never tidied up their messes. 

Jinx wandered idly past the memorial wall’s latest cluster of visitors, lighting candles and painting. Sheesh, were they that used to their friends dying that they’d already given up hope? Had nobody else picked up on the signs out there? Pausing, Jinx scanned the group, noting Ekko near the heart of it. For a moment, she hesitated before turning on her heel and heading towards the tree. 

She could dart back out there to check if Scar’s body was left in the gutter. What if his body wasn’t there and her hunch was right? Priggs? There was nowhere else they could take him. Priggs still had its old boltholes. Maybe she could find a clue. Something useful to bring back to Ekko and all the others so they stopped being so…boring. Maybe Scar was going to be kept for some questioning. The Firelights had made more of a name for themselves, so it made sense for Sevika to be closing in. What if I find him? Jinx thought to herself whilst taking pains to fill her pockets with enough fresh supplies to see her through another ugly scuffle. Safety first! 

If Scar was in there, it was good news! Jinx to the rescue! It made perfect sense. The idea was exciting. Fun. WAY more fun than blubbering and drawing Scarface next to a sea of dead guys. It wasn’t hard to slip away, not when just about everybody’s mind was a million miles away. 

The first part of the plan was easy. The streets were much quieter in the wake of everything. No Scar-shaped bodies were left bleeding out into the cobbled streets. Finding Priggs was easy too. The place was massive, after all, and not entirely unknown territory. Slipping into Priggs and digging around, eavesdropping and keeping an eye open for any familiar faces was also easy. The challenge came once Jinx had prized herself into the air vents. It was harder to listen in from here; harder to get your bearings and moving took more time and effort. The good thing was, the vent system seemed to lead to just about every room. The bad news? Priggs was huge. 

It took a long time of crawling and listening at vents to get a real heading. The mention of ‘visitors’ had seemed promising, until Jinx followed it to a Chem Baron meeting. Then she followed the voices out, took some turns in an order that felt right and paused to write her last will and testament on the inside of one of the vent panels before continuing. The whole journey was beginning to feel like a game of hide and seek that she was hours into losing until one very familiar voice sounded near the closest hatch in the vent system. Sevika. 

“How’s the guest?”

“Quiet.” Sevika’s oafish voice grunted.

Jinx strained in an effort to prize more words out of the unintelligible muttering. Nothing. But ‘guest’? That felt important. And the guest was going to be in one of the rooms in the opposite direction to where Sevika was going now. Jinx pressed forwards. After what felt like years, one of the dim holding rooms revealed the sight she was looking for. Crumpled and much smaller than Jinx remembered him, there was the unmistakable shape of Scar in a funny position on the floor. Jinx bit back a victorious squeal of excitement. 

Gotcha!

For a long moment, Jinx simply watched, fascinated by the poor state of her friend and his confinement. He was definitely alive…which was the most anyone could really ask for right now. Laying on her stomach, Jinx propped her head onto one hand, pursing her lips down to the very miserable lump that she now called a friend. 

For a moment, she considered the need to be discreet. Sound carried, after all, and compromising this good of a find wasn’t an option. So, what then? Jinx began trailing a finger absently against the grating at the mouth of the vent into the room. It only made a small noise, but maybe to a person in an empty room it would be enough to steal their attention. Jinx waited. Nope! Nothing. Okay fine. Screw being quiet. She’d tell a joke. Scar looked like he could use a good joke. Before Jinx could settle on one, her nose itched from the disrupted dust and with a half-caught breath, a sneeze sounded from the vent.

Ah well. May as well rip the baid-aid off now. Cat’s outta the bag!

“I knew I’d find you.” Unbridled pride swam in Jinx’s words. As Scar turned, Jinx grimaced at the sight of his face. Wow. Was this the right guy?

“You found me.”

“Uh. Yeah!” Jinx drawled, as though it were an obvious conclusion to the latest events. “Didya miss your old pal Jinx?”