#could be a nursery

[pricegouge]

Get Her a Dog (She'll be Happier For It)

Part Three | master list | MDNI

Soap x reader, Price x reader, eventual PriceSoap x reader

series cw: cheating. dubcon. angst. cuckholding. pet play.

chapter cw: angst, extremely vague/brief mentions of injury. talk of wanting a baby

reader is fem and fat

It takes the bouquet a full two weeks to become so withered it's no use trimming the stems or mixing up that special sugar solution which keeps them in bloom longer anymore. Johnny doesn't call. You tell yourself that's standard for middle-of-the-night type missions and keep the twenty four hour news feed on at all times even though all it does is irritate you. You were never much good at reading between the lines of these things anyway, at picking out which bits of the endless scroll of World Gone Wrong News are actually just state fabricated lies to cover the pieces deemed too big and scary for the general public to know the intricacies of. You shut it off after the fourth mass shooting comes and goes with no update.

The flowers were a nice touch. At least more than you expected to get after being woken in the middle of the night to murmured apologies and promises of a big day out when he got back. If he got back. You know it's not a helpful thought, feel terribly selfish that you'd only thought it given the circumstances, but it crosses your mind nonetheless. Digs its fingers between the slots of your ribs.

It takes the bouquet a full two weeks to become so withered it's no use trimming the stems or mixing up that special sugar solution which keeps them in bloom longer anymore. Johnny doesn't call. You tell yourself that's standard for middle-of-the-night type missions and keep the twenty four hour news feed on at all times even though all it does is irritate you. You were never much good at reading between the lines of these things anyway, at picking out which bits of the endless scroll of World Gone Wrong News are actually just state fabricated lies to cover the pieces deemed too big and scary for the general public to know the intricacies of. You shut it off after the fourth mass shooting comes and goes with no update.

After eighteen days away, you finally get a call from an unknown number and nearly drive through a red light when the notification pops up on your car's display. In theory, it could be anyone. But you know.

John's voice is too formal, too stiff. He calls you Mrs. MacTavish and guilt twines itself so thoroughly with your general sense of dread as to become inseparable. The cable cord holding up your life. Your stomach cramps hard enough you think you might be sick. They're at the A&E, John says, and while he may go on to explain there's no reason to panic, you're too busy racing through the streets of York to listen at all. 

Kyle waits for you outside the entrance, escorting you through the labyrinthine halls and (somehow) multiple elevators to a quiet corner of the surgical waiting room. You've been here before, think vaguely that the vinyl seating should be familiar by now. You'd think after so many instances that you'd get used to moments like this, that Johnny's apparent constant death wish would stop weighing so heavily on you. There's part of you that's come to believe your husband is indestructible, a bedtime story you tell yourself when his side of the mattress lays empty and cold: it doesn't matter what befalls him in the dead of night while you lay your head on down pillows he bought, because nothing can ever break Johnny. It always crumbles apart when your phone rings like an alarm clock, John's steady, terribly formal voice there to rip you away from your fantasies. It's another reason you hate him; why you know you couldn't do this without him. When he comes back, clipboard in hand, John explains it was supposed to be a low stakes mission and how quickly it turned for the worst. You let it wash all over you with all the other intricacies of your husband's line of work because if you look at it for too long you start to understand those mums who poison their kids just to keep them home and under control. He returns his clipboard when he's done and Kyle picks up where he left off, voice much more soothing and sympathetic as he details Johnny's wound. Stray bullet, low in the belly where Johnny's vest didn't cover. He'll be right as rain in a few weeks, but they'd needed to re-open it up to get in there and make sure everything will heal up okay. 

They sit with you through the long hours as much as they are able, John occasionally pulled away by a cell phone which will not stop ringing. It bothers you more than it should, but you don't want to analyze that just yet. Best left be until you're holed up in bed alone again. Kyle remains steadfast, a constant supply of bad hospital coffee at hand. You don't know when or how he memorized the way you take it, but you're too distracted to ask now.

You feel like you're being strangled, or maybe hanged, that cord of guilt and dread your noose. It pulls tighter with each minute that passes and you spiral deeper into your memories of the last few days, how you moped around in misery, wallowing in self pity while your husband risked his life trying to make the world a better place. Selfishness eats at you like a physical thing, worse so when Gaz asks if you want to go for a walk and you snap at him about wanting to be alone. He holds his hands up at you in mock surrender, a crease forming between his brows. You trip over yourself in apology, but the long days must have weighed on him just as heavily because he only mutters his quiet acceptance and strolls out the door, fishing a cigarette out as he goes. 

John does not follow. You feel his eyes on you, that same steady gaze as always. Usually, it pins you in place just as much as it makes you want to squirm, but today it makes you seethe, temper flaring back red hot now that you have a real target in sight. John's the reason you're here, the reason you give yourself up to self pity every time you think about the shortcomings of your marriage. Because the truth is, Johnny's good when he's home - and that's a farside better than most women in your position get. 

"What?" you snap as you wheel on your companion. 

Though his face crumbles for maybe half a second, John's quick to recover, one bushy brow cocking as if in challenge - though you both know he would let you unload on him without so much as a word of protest. For some reason, the realization only makes you angrier and you stand in a huff, marching off in the general direction of the nearest coffee maker. A rustle of fabric tells you John is following, the distinct texture of your jacket telling you he's collected your things. Your jaw clenches so tight you think you might crack a molar, but you don't stop until he makes you, grabbing you by the elbow the second he finds a relatively inactive corner. You're already spitting when he wheels you around, pushing against his chest for all the good it does you as you rail on about everything being his fault. You think you start somewhere with his stupid taskforce and barrel right on through to his general form of leadership, delighting in the quick look of panic it brings as he drags you through a door, snicking it closed behind you. It's not until you have to take a breath somewhere around Johnny's general inadequacy that you realize he's locked you both in a bathroom, his hand covering your mouth while you pant for breath through the seams of his fingers. 

He still smells like gunpowder, that same metallic quality that clings to your husband, too. You can't tell if your face is hot with anger, embarrassment, or tears.

"You done?"

You'd shake your head no, but he's not actually giving you an option, grip firmly holding you in place as he leans close enough to make your eyes cross. 

"If I take my hand away, you gonna keep yelling about classified information in public?"

It's funny how you barely even register the guilt his words bring; a drop in the bucket. This time he lets you shake your head.

His palm is heavy when it shifts, grip changing so he can cradle your jaw delicately. The soft look from before is back, much as he tries to obscure it behind his stern facade. He's never been as good at maintaining it around you as he has his men. He calls you sweetheart, lets his voice trail off as he thinks of how best to address your laundry list of complaints. It makes you ache, for some reason. Perhaps the contrast to Johnny's quick, impulsive temper. Your husband's never been cruel with you, of course, but the two of you can be like oil and water when you're both worked up, and while you can see John's frustrations in the twitch of his mustache and the set of his brow, he takes his time to consider his words, trying to ensure proper communication. It's more than you deserve.

You'll tell yourself in retrospect that it's not you who leans in, that John's hand on your cheek was more insistent, his face tilted slightly closer. It's a lie, but John accepts the blame so gracefully everywhere else, surely he can shoulder this, too?

Knock, knock.

The speed at which you back away from the man before you nearly makes you stumble. John barks that the room is occupied, face clouded with an anger that doesn't reflect in the way he catches you, ensures you're sturdy on your feet before letting you slip from his grasp. For once, it's him who can't look at you and the thought makes your chest ache, propels you out the door before you have to hear him apologize for another person's shortcomings one more time.

Gaz is not yet back in the waiting room and you don't trust yourself to be alone with John again so you take the suggested walk around the hospital, letting yourself get lost in the long circuitous routes of wards that set you ill at ease. You do not linger, feet just as busy as your mind - just as directionless. You retrace the events of your morning like a skipping record, an endless revolution, getting lost in the panic of the phone call and the relief you'd felt in John's firm grasp before tracing the roots of your guilt deeper, the old growth spreading back years. These paths are worn, the familiarity almost comforting insofar as you've tread them enough times to know they do not end with you pressed against your husband's captain in a hospital bathroom while he gets his intestines sewn up mere yards away. Except, they do now, if you follow them long enough, and you spend some time trying to find the source of it, the tributary from which it branched. You worry maybe it was the day you met him, the day he waltzed into your life and you mistook his job title to mean he was a man who could help you wrangle the force of nature that was John MacTavish. Probably, it was earlier, when you'd decided to tie yourself to a man you thought needed wrangling. 

You don't pay much thought to where your feet take you until you're staring uncomprehendingly into the face of a rather stern, if concerned staff member. When she cocks her brow at you expectantly, you shake yourself out of your reverie and ask her to repeat herself. 

"I asked who you're here to see."

Blinking, your eyes slide past her, take in your surroundings properly for the first time. A glass panel backdrops her, separating you from a well-lit room, sparsely decorated with pastel tones. You think you spot the head of a baby giraffe mural over her shoulder and feel your face heat at being caught out, although logistically you know she's probably more concerned about the random distraught woman hovering around the newborns. 

"S-sorry. I'm not -. I guess I just didn't realize where I was," you admit. 

The woman - registered nurse Rita, by the ID clipped to her hip pocket - eyes you suspiciously for a beat longer, but whatever she sees in you softens her edges, brings her guard down. "Can't be here," she tells you, voice unyielding but far less harsh than it had been mere moments before. 

"Right," you agree, glancing around as if looking for the way you came. "Uh…"

"Do you know what room your… loved one is in?" She sounds slightly patronizing, but you can't force your eyes to focus on her for long enough to confirm. You think maybe all the coffee is catching up with you, know it's more likely the combined effects of your embarrassment and guilt making it hard to maintain eye contact.

"My husband's in surgery," you blurt. "Gunshot wound."

Nurse Rita balks, takes a minute to look around herself. "C'mere," she mutters, fingers surprisingly strong when she wraps them around the soft flesh of your arm and steers you toward a proper waiting area. You stumble after her, trying to avoid the gazes of the anxious pack of new parents she leaves in your wake. 

You're babbling when she comes to a stop. "It's okay, he's a soldier. He'll be fine. They just had to re-open it because they needed to tie up some loose ends."

There's a pause. Somewhere, a monitor sounds off. "Was that a joke?"

"Well, not a good one."

But despite your assertions, Rita does laugh. It's a good one, too, sets her heavy chest jiggling. She's got a nice smile, infectious. You're glad she works in the natal ward. You ease down with her, the deep breaths she pulls to catch her breath serving to calm you both. "Is it bad I like the repeat customers best?" She asks, conspiratorial. 

You grin, thinking you know what she means. You can't spend so much time around soldiers without developing an appreciation for gallows humor, after all. "Gotten about as good at dealing with it as can be expected, I guess."

Rita hums, her eyes darting down the hall. You imagine she's busy but you're too greedy to assure her you'll be okay without her company so you don't. "Except this time, it seems."

"There's been… a complication."

"Oh, honey," Rita coos.

"Not with my husband," you clarify, "Sorry. Poor choice of words. Um. I mean - his captain's here and I don't want to… I can't sit next to him any longer without going insane. You know?"

You can almost see Rita mapping the points of information she has, assess the mire between them. "And what brings you here?"

It's hard not to blubber, though you're unsure why exactly. "I think I want a baby," you whisper instead, the secret pulled from you easy pie once someone actually asks despite the shame you feel about it, the words catching like barbs in your throat.

"And Mr. Tin Soldier doesn't?"

You offer her a forced smile. "Johnny. And I don't know. He used to. I think his captain wants one more," you confess, gaze slipping away from her again. You feel her rock back away from you momentarily, her breath puffing out in one great gust. "I haven't -. We've never…"

"Okay," she asserts. You don't think she believes you, but if the roles were reversed you suppose you wouldn't either. "But you'd like to?"

The yawning chasm of loneliness in your chest tells you one thing, but your pride can only muster a 'sometimes.'

"So not limited to when your husband is under the knife?"

"Christ," you hiss, crumpling in on yourself. "I'm a monster."

To your surprise, you feel Rita's warm palm on your back, rubbing soothing circles into your skin. Her voice is strained when she speaks, like she's not sure she believes what she's saying, but her caregiving instincts must win out because she speaks anyway. "I don't think so. Think you're probably just lonely, honey."

You know why she says it, know only someone desperate te be understood would reach out to her so eagerly like this. Still, it hurts to be seen. Maybe worse than not being seen at all. But it's the good ache, the kind you get from John. You have a brief, wild notion of kissing Rita, and have to suppress a bitter huff of laughter. "Johnny's not… here, even when he's here, you know?" You snivel, knowing full well how unsympathetic you probably sound.

"And the captain is?" Rita prompts. You think it's probably meant to clarify, but it sounds more like a challenge.

"Believe it or not, yes. John's very attentive. And nurturing. And he's always around more often than Johnny."

Rita's hand stops. "Wait, they're both named John?"

"I don't wanna talk about it," you gripe goodnaturedly, but Rita's not giving in.

"Well at least you don't have to worry about calling out the wrong name."

The snort you emit is terribly embarrassing, snot breaking loose after all your moping. Rita procures a tissue from some scrub pocket, makes a comment about tools of the trade. You sit silently for a moment as you dab your nose, for the first time taking note of the area she's sequestered you in. You're surprised to find the street outside getting darker, lamps glowing in the rain-slick parking lot. Inside, the hospital has begun to adopt a low, gentle glow - so far removed from the sterile, cold cold lighting you're used to seeing on hospital procedurals. The recesses and corners lie dim and dormant, the one you've been tucked into only kept lively by your company's presence. Without her, you fear you'd slink back into the darkness as well, become just another shadow on the wall. For a moment, you think you want that, and then your phone rings, the same unknown number from before illuminating your screen.

John doesn't wait for you to answer properly before asking where you are, but his voice is much softer than you'd expected, a pleasant drawl you're not sure is meant to lure you in but does all the same.

You sniffle, suppress a laugh. You don't see much use in lying to him. "The natal ward."

Silence stretches from the other end, the sound of a passing gurney all that your phone transmits. "Soap's out." 

"I'll be right down." 

"I can come -." 

"I'll be right down, John." Next to you, Rita arcs a sparse, shapeless brow. You decide you love her, even if she has every reason to believe you're a bad person.

"Right. They're bringing him to room two seventy eight." 

"Thanks. Bye." 

Your departure from Rita is brief. She wishes you good luck and you tell her to swaddle some babies tight for you. You stand awkwardly for a moment, willing further conversation to come, but there's ultimately not much more to say to someone after baring your deepest shame to them basically unprompted, especially when they've so easily seen through you. So you wave in parting and beat a hasty retreat, trying not to think about how you'll forever be the cheating wife in her eyes, probably.

For as long as your meandering journey upstairs had taken, you find your way back quick enough. Still, it's Gaz who sits beside your husband's bed, Gaz who tells you the captain had to head back to base. "Just missed him," he sympathizes, nodding at a vase of familiar-looking flowers. "Left that for the happy couple, though."

You bypass them entirely, a sense of dread filling you when you spot the note tucked in among the buds. Instead, you fold yourself over Johnny's sleeping body, press kisses to his forehead. There's no faking the genuine relief you feel seeing him so you let it carry you through the motions, fuss about with his blankets and squeeze his hand. You fall asleep in the recliner next to him, waking some hours later to find your company gone, though an orderly tells you your handsome guest said he'd return in the morning. You suppress the urge to ask which one. 

***

The flowers eventually make it home with you, the vase carried in Johnny's big fist. You wait until he's been tucked into bed before getting around to pruning them, the majority of the heads having wilted after too many days in stagnant water and poor quality hospital lighting. You toss the note away with them, unread, though you can't help telling Johnny they remind you of the flowers he sent. 

"What flowers, hen?" He grumbles, still sleepy from the pain meds. 

"Nevermind, baby," you assure him, chest too tight to trust your voice anymore than a whisper. "Go back to bed." 

***

When he's feeling better, you tell Johnny you want a baby.

Next>>

[sapphoismymuse]

wdym the song bofur sang in the unexpected journey movie is canonically the full version of the nursery rhyme that bilbo wrote???

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 311

Alien biology is weird. Liminal biology? Even weirder. 

Ecto? Very much a wellspring for creation despite its association with death. Or rather undeath, but that’s a debate that many a realms denizen has tried to find the answer of. Usually there weren’t many liminals- ecto contaminated, yes, but enough to form Cores? No, only a few throughout history. Until the age of Heroes and Villains came about. But that’s a story for another time. 

See ectoplasm builds up over time in the human body, and even more so for those that have formed cores who create their own. And it’s not like it’s well studied, what with most not even being aware of the changes or the fact they aren’t fully human anymore. 

Why is this important? Well, what happens if two liminals (accidentally or not) mix their ecto together? Well, that depends on intentions, even if it’s just an impulsive thought at the time. Which in turns means that accidents? Yeah, accidents might’ve happened. Oops….

[youredyingthatsallthereis]

silly civilian au roachghost (entomologist roach, floriculturist ghost)

roach who has saved every single glass jar hes been able to get his hands on for the last several years and uses them for absolutely everything: cups, food storage (leftovers, cut up produce, making his own sauces), little terrarium tanks for bugs, vases, displaying cool rocks, spices he ground up himself, saving up coins, etc.

ghost who doesn't really get why he does it but finds it weirdly endearing: the first time he goes to roach's place he blinks when roach hands him what is clearly an old, cleaned tomato sauce jar full of lemonade and a straw when they sit down on the porch, takes in the the slim, tall jar in the middle of the table filled with carnations whos stalks have been cut almost comically short to make them fit properly, thanking him for the dinner plate full of veggies that ghost can see more of in the rather overgrown little garden on the other side of the yard

they sit for hours talking each others ears off about bugs and flowers and the closely connected relationship between the two; ghost laughs when roach says that he cant stand to use insecticides in his veggie garden because he couldn't bear to hurt bugs and hes "happy to share with them anyway;" roach leans his head onto his fist and watches ghost's face light up when he starts talking about how excited he is that he won a contract to help landscape a new public park, going into detail about all the different types of flowers theyre going to plant to help with local flora conservation and how hes been trying so hard to convince the project manager to let him put in a community garden for families to grow flowers and produce to share

they talk until the evenings become crickets and stars, ghost helping roach bring the jars and plates in; saying goodbye takes another twenty minutes because neither of them can stop talking; finally ghost makes it out the front door, leaving only after promising roach he’d be back next friday evening with his favorite book on symbiotic relationships between bugs and flowers to help roach with pest control in his garden that way 🪻

[arty-cakes]

horribly curious because I've seen lots of different takes on this and I'd like to know what the general consensus is

[honeynclove]

gay vampire polycule 🤤🤤

[mommyesque]

Unspoken Rizz vs Sexual Harizzment

[fallenclan]

If we’re recommending ravenstar songs, I think Old King Cole by the mechanisms would fit pretty well

oh HELL yes I absolutely hear this.... adding to the playlist 👍

[anarchotolkienist]

Fucking hate parents man - what my mother said about working in a nursery, that there are some wains you'll want to adopt so that they could get a good upbringing, is so fundamentally true.

The aforementioned wee autistic girl stims by chewing on toys, frequently softer plastic ones that are very bad for her, and we suggested to her mother that she should probably have a safe chew of some kind, which she refused because, and I quote, "I work with autistic kids, and I'm not starting her off on that - she'll just have to learn"

She's not going to stop stimming, because she's autistic - she doesn't fucking become autistic by having stim toys. The only thing that will happen is that she'll develop unhealthy stims - probably what I do, which is scratching and biting my nails and fingertips till they bleed almost constantly. Let her develop in peace and accommodate her needs, how fucking difficult is it? And if it turns out that she's not autistic and just has some behaviours commonly associated with autistic children (which, admittedly, is what autism is), what fucking harm did we do by letting her chew on a thing that's safe to chew on?

[littlecajunlady]

I can't decide if I want Colin and Penelope to win the baby race. BOOK only BABY SPOILERS

On one hand, I don't want to rush into a baby story for them. We don't know for sure if in part 2 Penelope will decide to give up LW, is outed, or is able to keep writing, but the fallout from it all would be enough plot for them in S4 I think. They really don't need the money or the house, and I don't know that Pen would want to live there anyway. Let one of the sisters (preferably Phillipa) have it. And I like the fact that Polin's first child in the books is a girl.

(Just a hope of mine, but if they have a girl on the show I want them to call her Felicity instead of Agatha. It wouldn't make sense in the show for their daughter to be named after Danbury and Pen's little sister from the books gets to be represented somehow.)

On the other hand, I want Pen to win because her family sucks and they don't deserve it. And it would be nice for their son at least to have a title since Colin doesn't have one to pass down.

[velvetjune]

The Nursery Rhymes mission is my favorite of the optional side quests for the game. Saga having some fun AND getting to see one of the FBC’s researchers destroy themselves—What more could you want?

[septembersung]

I’ve become a really good armchair house hunter recently thanks to Zillow and co (even though the likelihood of me ever moving again is almost zero) and in my professional opinion if you’re going to advertise your total square footage as being huge but half of that is the world’s most pointlessly enormous master bath and walk in closet, you are a deceiver and I don’t like you.

[virginwithasthma]

I just realized I haven't seen any new episodes for Delico's Nursery in a while and after doing some investigations, I discovered it's been pushed back till October 17th😭

[mumblesplash]

i think my favorite part about the last of us is that pedro pascal’s face+general vibes are so aggressively kind and fatherly that no matter how many times i watch joel murder people onscreen my brain is just like “wow what a trustworthy and upstanding fellow :) he’s such a good dad ­:)”

[artheresy]

Yingxing Appreciation 🎉🎉

hi, hello, it's Yingxing appreciation time and I'm dragging you into it bc he is my baby and I need more ppl to talk about him

Y'know I see a lot of people like in awe and hyping up DF and just giving him tons of appreciation while analyzing him specifically as an individual which is all so so valid, DF is amazing and very intriguing as a character and I love him sm, but I sadly don't see the same for Yingxing despite him I think also being so interesting. I also see him more so dismissed in the "literally God and some guy" kind of fashion sometimes

So I'm here to rant just a little bit about Yingxing, why I love him, why he's epic and why he ruins my day every single time I think about him! This is for any of my fellow Yingxing lovers who are also starved of any content of him

Firstly, this man is a genuine genius, like lest we forget this is from Baiheng's travelogue in which she met a young Yingxing who was still a child by this point.

He was a young boy but had already become a craftsman, a sign of his ability to learn exceedingly quick under Huaiyans tutelage. And his ability to work and progress incredible fast continues into his time as a young man on the Luofu.

We know he arrived probably somewhere around 18-21 (in my personal estimate) and by the time he saw Jingliu again (which itself was likely early into his stay on the Luofu given HCQ ages and timing), he had already impressed the Master Craftsmen of the Luofu's Artisanship Commission and earned himself a title.

There are also multiple things in game that emphasize his achievements and creations he crafted, some offhandedly mentioned in a readable or item while others are emphasized with importance.

Casually mentioned in the Discarded Ingenium Parts is his feat in the Great Trial of the Furnace (perhaps that trial is for gaining the furnace master title? Once again signifying an earlier achievement in his legacy) where it took him only a day and night to create a whole mechanical lion that moved and looked just like a real live lion from a bunch of defective parts and waste.

More recently in 1.5, they released a readable, the Ten-Lords Criminal Directory, which mentions an imprisonment method designed by Yingxing that keeps “Mirage” in a perpetual state trapped within a hallucination of their own making. Utilizing it’s own powers in order to keep it imprisoned. Something that with proper maintenance seems to have lasted for around 700 years so far.

And of course, how can we forget his most famous creations

The beautifully crafted weapons of the High Cloud Quintet, from Jingliu’s incredibly heavy sword remarked as being as heavy as three thousand catties, to Dan Feng’s Cloud Piercer with the ability to even cut through dragon scales, and the Devastator Glaive as well as Baiheng’s recurve bow. Each impressive in their own ways and seemingly crafted pretty early as well into his time on the Luofu with the HCQ given the distinction of Jing Yuan who (even if he likely was more a teen than a boy) still wasn’t an exact adult yet. So once again, let me emphasize this man’s skill here. With how many things he managed to do so so early into his time on the Luofu. A genius craftsman who deserved all of the praise he had garnered with his works.

Additionally, I know they keep harping about “ugh arrogant craftsman, ugh he’s so full of himself” but every single time we’ve seen his personality, he just seems like a genuine joy to be around. Bright, charismatic, sure he’s cocky but he also gives the impression of being incredibly fun and a bit silly if you ask me.

His behavior as mirrored by the mirage echo in Scalegorge Waterscape is distinctly playful even in what might be a more tense situation, lightly bantering with Dan Feng and even chuckling in certain languages.

In Jingliu’s character stories, it even furthers this bright, playful attitude he gives off with his distinct cheekiness shining through especially with that “toothy grin” of his. And if you listen to Jingliu’s (at least her English) voice lines during Clouds Leave No Trace when she speaks about Yingxing before getting into his transformation, there is a distinct fondness or amusement in her voice as she speaks of him especially that cocky nature of his despite her distaste for it at first.

While Baiheng is hailed as this kind figure in the High Cloud Quintet, perhaps their sun even casting light upon them, it doesn’t seem too far off to say Yingxing was a shining star among them in his own right. His easy going nature with them bringing about a bubbly playfulness similar to Baiheng given their closeness from when he was young. I could go into way more especially in regards to the casualness at which Yingxing seems to speak and treat others allowing for a more equal formation of relationships especially with Dan Feng but I’m saving that for another rant.

And all of this about him especially how expressive he seems at certain points he’s been mentioned, really just makes me so incredibly sad when thinking about Blade now. How severely separated he is from this identity. A division that exists from not only his death but from the way his mental state has been severely warped from his time with Jingliu and being affected afterwards by the mara.

The sheer dehumanization and lack of a personal identity in place of seeing himself as a solely a weapon when put next to Yingxing, with such a clear bold individual identity, really makes the transformation of one into the other all the more jarring and tragic. Especially with the emphasis on how Yingxing hated the abominations of Abundance only to become one himself, something that is still implied to have not been by his own hand. Blade is an immensely tragic character, but that tragedy only holds weight because of the life and identity Yingxing had. It is only with Yingxing’s light which shined despite the circumstances of his life that his descent into darkness hits harder, and it makes me so sad that I haven’t found many others talking or expanding upon this despite my searches because he really is such a well written character with so many details in his story that are both interesting and utterly heartbreaking.

And additionally, I want to say that I think there is a lost potential in examining the Xianzhou through Yingxing. Specifically in the way he is treated as a short life species. We know how the relationship between the Vidyadhara and the Natives, especially as it’s changed after Dan Feng, but there is a very interesting relationship to be explored between the Xianzhou and the Short Life Species the end up there, especially through Yingxing’s relationship to the different Artisans guilds whether on the Luofu or the Zhuming.

In the end, it becomes another sad element to Yingxing’s story. Yingxing managed to change his attitude regarding how the Zhuming masters treated him and even grew more of a confidence, but even in the Luofu's Artisanship Commission, he can never truly get as far as he deserves. Just as Jingliu says

Even with his work impressing the master craftsmen of the Luofu, even after more than showing his skill and earning the title of Furnace Master for that skill, he still would be denied higher positions and could only prove his true worth by the High Cloud Quintet.

And just let me say it again, him being a short life species allows for such an interesting examination of the world and people around him based upon that. While we don't know exactly how they met, we do know that Yingxing was Huaiyan's personal disciple and the only one he mentions of the celestial masters to treat him with respect and believe in his capabilities despite knowing he's a short life species. Through his treatment of Yingxing, we learn quite a bit about him. Through Baiheng's treatment of him as well, we learn a lot about her, more than anywhere else.

He's just UGH I need more exploration from Yingxing's perspective, the lack of it feels as if I'm being starved. He's so interesting, he's so fun, he's incredibly tragic, and he makes me cry every single time he crosses my mind. Please do yourselves a favor and think more about his character so you'll end up as sad about him as me. Or don't maybe. I dunno. All I know for sure is that you absolutely need to read Views of the Universe From a Starskiff: The Zhuming if you haven't. Anyways bye, thanks for listening to this rant, I gotta go cry over him.

Peep the tags also for a rant about my own characterization of YX if you wish to witness my insanity

[hunsa-jars]

Dread be dreading