#counterpoint: why the fuck would they send this

[cakemoney]

i realize this is in fact a very nice problem to have but what do i do when i receive an unexpected birthday cake delivery and it does not say who sent it ksmldkmfalksm

[tea-cat-arts]

(Uh, hi. Currently doing my first 3 Hopes playthrough)

WHY IS EVERYONE IN SCARLET BLAZE BEING A DICK TO MY BOY ASHE! CHRIST, WHY'D NO ONE WARN ME THAT RECRUITING HIM JUST ENDS WITH HIM BEING EMOTIONALLY KICKED IN THE NUTS FOR 12 CHAPTERS STRAIGHT!!! WHAT HAPPENED TO HIS BLACK EAGLE FRIENDSHIPS!!!

Anyways, Shez, Mercedes, Raphael, and Rodrigue are the only characters that passed the vibe check on how they treated Ashe (so far at least). Everyone else should reconsider their life choices

[blushweddinggowns]

“I am sorry,” Eddie said for probably the millionth time, cringing at the glare Chrissy was sending his way. She wasn’t nuclear pissed but she was pissed, “Don’t look at me like that! You know I’d just be miserable if I went.”

Chrissy sighed, but she didn’t sound very surprised, “I just can’t believe after all that talk, you’re ditching me again.” 

Eddie shrugged, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. But his mind was already made up,  “I’ll owe you twice. But for now I’m staying right here.”

“Yeah, yeah. Cute boy trumps over me, I get it, ” Chrissy joked as she peered over at Steve, “Y’know, you could come with us. It’s only for a few months. And uh, you could bring a friend. Or two.”

It was actually kind of impressive, how fast Steve was able to move to cover Robin’s mouth. The yes was written all over her face, but Steve was ready to be the voice of reason, “Unfortunately, no. Nancy has the BAR exam in a few weeks and Robin has already been enlisted to help her through it.”

“Shame,” Chrissy sighed, laughing when Robin shook Steve’s hand away from her with a glare. But the lack of response made it clear she had no counterpoint. Chrissy went on, her eyes going back to Steve, “But that didn’t explain why you couldn’t go.”

Eddie watched, a little nervous about what he would say. Because while yes, it would be fun to drag Steve around the world on tour with his best friend, Eddie was kind of hoping to keep him to himself awhile longer. 

Steve blushed at the invitation, “That’s uh, quite the offer but-”

“But you should pay him if he goes,” Robin said bluntly, nodding Eddie’s way, “Especially if he quits his job for you. Honestly, I think you should reimburse him for the sick days he had to take because of your lying ass-”

Steve slapped her on the arm, his face on fire, “Robin!”

Chrissy just laughed as she watched them, “See? Stuff like this is exactly why I like you!”

Robin flushed at the compliment, but shrugged , “What? I’m just adding some realism to the whirlwind romance in case he fucks you over again.”

Huh. That was kind of a good point. Eddie hadn’t even thought of that. He didn’t know how it looked to literally add his boyfriend on to the payroll but…

“We could do a trust fund kind of thing?” Eddie offered instead, “That might be easier. No strings attached.”

“Irrevocable?” Robin asked, ignoring Steve trying and failing to shut her up again. 

“That would be the no strings attached part, yes.”

“Ooh, I like that-”

“He’s not going to pay me to be his boyfriend!” Steve interrupted with a huff, looking between them like they were the ones being unreasonable, “You can’t be serious about this.”

Eddie frowned, “Baby, it wouldn’t be paying you to be my boyfriend. You would get it if you dumped me or not. It would be more like…”

“A thank you for being his boyfriend!” Robin finished for him, “Honestly Steve, it’s the least he can do.”

Eddie nodded with her, “It really is.”

Steve stared at him, eyes wide, “Holy shit, you are literally insane. You are a crazy person.”

“Get used to that,” Chrissy sighed as she picked up her bag, “Now I gotta go. Hug me.”

Eddie did just that, sweeping her up into a big hug, one that took her clear off the ground. She laughed as he squeezed her, giving Eddie a quick kiss on the cheek goodbye. She did the same to Steve, though both of them politely looked away when she took things a little further with Robin. Even Eddie was a little surprised. He knew Chirssy could move fast but this seemed a little too… loving. Even for her. 

“I’ll call you when I get back. Just text me when Nancy gets off work,” She said quietly after she stepped back from her, a light flush to her cheeks, “I hope I can see you both again. It was fun.”

“I-yeah. Definitely,” Robin stuttered out, “Will do that. Yes.”

They all waved goodbye, watching her disappear into the airport before turning back for the car. 

“So,” Robin said as she got back into the backseat, “Trust fund. How do we make that happen?”

Steve groaned, covering his eyes with his hand, “Please stop trying to make me into an escort, Robin.”

“Oh my god, has love made you stupid?” Robin asked as she rolled her eyes, “He’s a millionaire who fucked you over. Why shouldn’t you get any money?”

“Babe, for the love of god shut the fuck up. He’s right here.”

“I don’t mind,” Eddie chimed in as he started the engine, “Besides, I think she’s right. It is the least I can do. I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable-

“That isn’t the insane part!” Steve interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose as he took a deep breath, “Both of you… just stop talking.”

Eddie sighed but listened, glancing in the rearview for Robin’s reaction. She didn’t look pleased either, but when she caught his eye she perked up.

Text me about it, Robin mouthed at him through the mirror.

I will, Eddie mouthed back, snapping his mouth back closed when Steve glanced at him. 

Eddie didn’t think much of it after that. He dropped Robin and Steve off, texted her about the idea on and off throughout the day, checked in on Chrissy when she made it home, then picked Steve up from work. He made him dinner, listened as he talked about his shift, and then pulled him into his lap for some bad reality television. 

It was an incredibly normal night, one that Eddie still couldn’t believe he got to keep. But fuck, was he grateful. 

“Hey, baby?” Steve said around a half-hour in, his voice sleepy and adorable. 

Eddie couldn’t help but kiss his forehead, smiling down at him, “Yeah?”

“Can I see your phone?” Steve sweetly asked.

“Sure,” Eddie said, handing it right off to him. He had nothing to hide, not anymore. He was even back to the convenience of having one phone, his stupid extra donated to charity the day after he got Steve back. Besides, it made sense for Steve to have the code anyway, it was his birthday after all. He didn’t even think about it as Steve unlocked it.

He probably should have thought about it. 

“I fucking knew it,” Steve groaned before shoving the phone right back into his face, “What’s this?”

Eddie blinked at him, biting his lip as he was confronted with a pretty indepth trust plan with Robin. Eddie shrugged at him, guilty as charged when he answered, “You just told us to stop talking then. You never said we couldn’t bring it up later.”

from the next chapter of this fic

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

📓 <333

Okay back to answering these

I have this one very sprawling, episodic fic I call the Peter Parker Roommates AU that I deeply adore that’s basically based on the idea that, when the three Peters hugged at the end of multiverse, they got kind of glitched together and gained the ability to hop into each others universes.

They discover this fact entirely by accident after the entire matter is settled, everyone’s been sent back to their home universes and forgotten Tom Holland!Peter.

WHAT THEY SHOULD DO:

Tell the fucking wizards

WHAT THEY DO NOT DO:

okay so the thing is

They know, okay? They know that this is probably “cosmically dangerous” and “endangering the fabric of reality” or whatever. They all don’t want to rip a hole in the space time continuum that destroys all of existence.

But there’s a very compelling counterpoint to not telling the wizards.

And that’s that all of them are homeless and rent is very very expensive in every version of New York City and it is very very hard to get a roommate when you’re secretly fucking Spider-Man. They have never had such an unparalleled opportunity to split rent three ways before.

the thing is that apparently changing the fates of people who were “important” to your “past” may or may not change the world you come back to. 2/3 Spider-Men did not know they would be homeless coming out the other end of this and are very unprepared. The last 1/3 only had like 7 minutes of forewarning and is likewise caught off guard.

THE SPIDERMEN AND THEIR RESPECTIVE LIVING SITUATIONS:

Tom Holland!Peter (“Pete”): cold, homeless, alone, and sad. Has no idea if he still legally exists or not

Tobey McGuire!Peter (“Peter B.”): see the thing is that he’s been figuring things out and on/off with Mary Jane for a long time and when he left his universe last he and MJ were actually making a pretty good go at long term domesticity and had an apartment together and were really happy. He gets back and they’re very much off again and not on speaking terms, apparently, for reasons that he can’t figure out because they’re not on speaking terms. He has no idea where he lives. He cannot find it. He has tried. Where are all of his things. Currently has the clothes on his back and nothing else.

Andrew Garfield!Peter (“Peter P.”): not technically homeless but seriously considering it as a preferable alternative. The thing is that when he last left his universe he was living on his own, having moved out of Aunt Mays house for her safety and sanity. The universe he returned to was not that. He’s back in his childhood bedroom and apparently in this universe he was fighting a crime ring he was not fighting when he left because his closet is full of cocaine and he does not know why or where he got it or what mob he stole it from. It’s just. It’s an enormous amount of cocaine. He can’t remember what to do with it. He needs to get out of his aunts house and take his cocaine with him.

Anyway they realize that Peter B.’s aunt may never lost her house (a de-Goblin’d Norman Osborn paid it off and refused to accept any reimbursement whatsoever in complete guilt over what happened with Pete’s May). However, she is the oldest out of any May by a lot and needs to be in full time assisted living care home (also forcibly paid for by Norman Osborn for reasons that. Yeah. Would not explain. Makes sense why now.) and the 3 Peters decide to move in together at Peter B’s home and split living costs from there.

Honestly it’s too sprawling of a fic to adequately summarize so here are the highlights:

Peter B’s universe has a long time Daredevil that he’s absolute best friends with and neither of them will admit that they’re friends. They’re in a “purely professional” relationship except they like send each other recipes and go antiquing together on the weekends. Both of them fucking hate their universe’s Avengers, who just cropped up.

Okay it’s not that they HATE them it’s just that they hate them. The thing is that this universes avengers didn’t get the hard launch of an alien invasion. Peter B’s universe had Just Spider-Man for a very long time and then Daredevil and Luke Cage and Jessica Jones and other street folk popped up and now the government is trying to roll out their own superhero team. The thing is they don’t have a super large amount to work with since there’s no alien invasion and people fucking love Spider-Man and other solo heroes so they just play the team angle really hard. The government basically launches a PR campaign that’s about how superhero teams are inherently more trustworthy and have more accountability because you have them keeping each other in check. They’re trying to rope in Spider-Man because he’s got the most street cred out of anyone like just join a TEAM get support from a TEAM and it’s just. It’s so annoying and inconvenient. Leave him BE.

Daredevil is having similar problems and is similarly angry about it. He’s not joining a team with tony stark out of all the godforsaken people. Get off of his rooftop and stop trying to recruit him.

They decide “fuck it” and to form a “team” with each other so that way they can say LOOK we have a TEAM we did the TEAM thing leave us alone now. What’s their team name? Uhhh… red. Team red. Because they both are wearing red. Leave them alone now.

This leads to some random guy named Deadpool taking out billboards and television ads begging to be made a part of their team. They don’t know who he is. He left a muffin basket nailed to the Peters front door with a knife as a bribe/for your consideration gift. How does this man know where they live and who is he. Anyway the muffins were fantastic

(Pete during Peter Bs biweekly bitchfest about the avengers: hey it’s probably a good idea you’re not teaming up with them because shield was secretly nazis in my universe

Peter B, slamming his hand on the counter: I KNEW IT)

(Peter B’s Matt (“Mr. Murdock”) waking Pete up in the middle of the night: what do you mean they were secretly nazi’s

Pete, violently realizing that his attorney was daredevil the whole fucking time: oh I’m gonna torture him with that *cue three months straight where he makes a bunch of lawyer jokes around his universe’s daredevil to drive him mad with paranoia*)

Mike Murdock shenanigans when Pete’s Matt gets caught as Daredevil, arrested, and put on trial and Pete, who has decided he owes him a life debt for his help when he was in the hot seat, concoctes a wild scheme where they claim it was his twin brother Mike Murdock all along. Forces Mr. Murdock to go along as their “Mike” by promising to find a way to reveal SHIELD as secretly nazis, because they’re so fucking annoying and Mr. Murdock wants public humiliation and pain for the inconvenience of having to deal with them

When they do reveal them as secretly nazis they do it through Peter B’s universe’s Bucky, who ends up moving to Pete’s universe in a sort of recovery/witness relocation thing. He moves in with Pete’s Matt (“Matt”), who hates this fact. Leave his home.

Peter B’s universe’s Steve hurdles into depression when it’s discovered that he was working for Nazis and Bucky doesn’t want to see him (he immigrated to another universe and they were planning to tell 0 people that fact) and keeps moping where Peter B has to see it, ruining his now AMAZING mood now that the avengers and shield were publicly ruined. So he drops him off at Matt’s apartment. Matt hates this fact. Leave his home.

This Steve decides that immigration to another universe is the only and best option and becomes a barista and decides his fake name is going to be his favorite character from his favorite book from the 40s that was sadly mostly unknown. So he goes around as Frodo the Barista now. What do you mean that book is popular here. He can’t change it again.

He fights crime as a vigilante in Brooklyn with his Bucky in his free time. Matt is frothing with rage that this is his problem and demands Pete do something about it. Pete starts spreading the rumor that this is the ghost of Captain America and Bucky Barnes haunting Brooklyn, obviously. He is aware that his universes Bucky is still alive. People believe it anyway. Now there’s ghost tours in Brooklyn to see the ghost of someone who’s still fucking alive.

(Matt: I need them out of my home I can’t take this anymore

Foggy, squinting at him: you fucked both of them didn’t you

Matt: that is BESIDES THE POINT)

Peter P’s universe is the only one without a daredevil and he is SO UPSET. He loves daredevils. He wants one so so bad. This is so unfair.

Then law student Matt Murdock starts dicking around in black sweatpants and Peter P could not be more excited. Oh god oh fuck yes yes yes yes it’s happening

His Matt is deeply confused as to how he already caught Spider-Man’s attention and doesn’t want to team up with him. He’s just cleaning up his neighborhood. This isn’t a Thing he doesn’t have a superhero name. When Peter p insists on knowing who he is he just replies “I am a Man of Justice”

Peter P is so fucking psyched and blinded that he got a dramatic theatre kid Matt Murdock that he forgets himself and decides “I’m gonna call you MJ. You look like an M name” and then has a panic attack because BOTH the other Peters fell in love with an MJ. Did he jinx this cosmically?? Oh god

The thing is that Peter P’s universe didn’t get an Avengers, they got a fantastic four. Peter P is in a very unwilling and one sided rivalry with Johnny Storm on account that Johnny Storm keeps trying to rival him and he’s like. Fucking 17. Peter P is an adult man in grad school he can’t, this is, it’s just embarrassing is what it is. However Pete fucking betrayed him by dating Johnny Storm (re: had a star crossed and doomed to fail genuine relationship with him that helped him recover from losing MJ and Ned and crashed and failed due to the fact that Reed Richards was chasing the multiverse and Pete decided he couldn’t risk what he had with the Peters after losing his entire family to the multiverse last time. They broke up and both were devastated)

(Peter P, under the impression he has Big Brother Authority, which does not exist: I FORBID IT

Pete: I do not care man

Peter B, has a headache: let’s all take a step back

Peter P: he’s, he’s immature and bad and always dating new people every week and and he is trying to steal your sweetness

Pete: *stares at him* *ungodly screeching*)

The thing is that the Johnny Storm led to an agreement where they could not date each others friends/enemies multiversal counterparts because it got weird fast. What do you MEAN that your MJ is your Daredevil Pete has ONE FRIEND IN HIS ENTIRE UNIVERSE AND THATS HIS MATT PETER P CANNOT DATE HIS MATT

This leads to a period of time where Pete insists upon living out of a little hobo sack in his universe, which leads to an even more embarrassing period of time where Peter B is aggressively trying to hunt him down and force him to talk about his feelings, which is the one thing Pete is refusing to do. Peter B refuses to let Pete (who is in his self destructive loner phase, they all have one, it’s a Peter Parker thing) live alone. He needs a roommate who can patch him up or peter b will fucking web them together. Pete says “fine” and gets a roommate. The roommate is the Punisher. He is the only one who thinks this is a solution. Except Frank is weirdly good with angst riddled seventeen year olds and pete gets more emotional actualization and moves back in with the other Peters

Peter Bs JJJ has actual journalistic integrity and some modicum of concern for this random teenager that his photographer took in and thinks he just needs stability and structure and support in life to succeed. He keeps trying to be a mentor figure in Pete’s life who is simply not having it.

He eventually ends up in multiversal shenanigans and discovers Pete’s version of him, who he decides is the Evil Version of him who sells fucking scam multivitamins and slanders a perfectly nice young man. His thing was different they’re not talking about that anyway he has to kill the version of him without journalistic integrity

Peter B, could not be more tired: *deep breath*

Mr. Murdock is in a long standing polycule with his Karen and his Foggy and the thing is that both his Karen and his Foggy have baby fever but can’t adopt because their lives are hostile to children’s continued survival and he decides that what he really needs for them is a durable orphan who can be their like, pseudo child and he can be like the weird uncle to. He just sort of shoves Pete in their path, who fucking owes him for the entire thing with Mike Murdock, and it’s really very extremely awkward when they figure out he was doing it to help Karen and foggy get out their latent parenting instincts. Pete feels violated.

There’s this entire subplot with scarlet witch and multiversal versions of her orphaned twins trying to find a version of their mom (who died in Peter B’s universe) that they can be with that would take too long to get into but whenever they misbehave on the quest to find Pete’s scarlet witch and see if she ever considered motherhood they threaten to send them back to their home universe to be Mr Murdock’s durable orphans

There’s a lot more but this is very long already

[finniestoncrane]

please please consider: knifeplay with Hancock

Hancock x GN!Reader, word count: 800 anon you have tapped into my desire for violence and reminded me of that moment i first fell in love with this rotten little bean ☢️ request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: threats, knives, knife play, cnc elements, he talks a big game but this softie would never hurt you

"Quit it!"

You knocked the inhaler out of Hancock's hands, turning from him as he watched it tumble to the floor in dismay.

"Hey! Watch it, princess."

"You watch it, Mr Mayor. That's mine, not yours."

He furrowed his brow, deep, black eyes narrowing with it.

"You're awfully bold around me."

"Yeah... why wouldn't I be?"

Hancock was suddenly hit by the realisation that he'd spent so long around you, opening up to you, loving you that you no longer saw him as the threat he felt he was. Did anyone, anymore? He'd set aside his mayoral duties, and he'd been so busy helping you in this settlement that neither of you had done anything particularly bloodthirsty as of late. Maybe he was going soft. But he was damned if he was going to let you walk all over him.

"Because... I'm a very dangerous guy."

The sincerity in his voice made you snort, a short, mean spirited laugh that you immediately regretted as you turned to him and saw the disappointment in his face.

"Sorry, Hancock... but it's hard to see that now. It's not a bad thing! You're sweet, and kind, and you've got a strong moral compass. But you're undeniably quite a gentle guy."

"Are you nuts? You didn't see me in my heyday, but I ran Good Neighbour with an iron fist. No one stepped out of line, and no one stepped out of line."

Standing in front of him, you reached for the sleeve of his red coat, tugging at it playfully, flirtatiously, as you offered up your counterpoint.

"Yeah... but you were also benevolent, welcomed anyone, and made it a safe place for people who didn't have one. And I imagine a lot of those people respected you, fell for your charms like I did. That's probably why they cause any upset. They just didn't want to disappoint you."

You had turned from him again, hoping to end the silly argument by returning to the shelves you were stocking with supplies. Hancock's mouth was open in shock, and he wetted his lips before he calmed himself, speaking his rebuttal slowly, softly.

"I think you're forgetting how we met."

The memory flitted across your mind. That man, his name forgotten completely, stopped from killing you by Hancock. Quick with his decisions, quicker with a knife. In all fairness, he had you there. It was quite a display he had put on.

Turning to him, you were caught by surprise by his presence right there in front of you, having silently crept up behind you while you were deep in thought. In his hand he held his knife, the same knife you had just been fondly remembering, and had you moved an inch or two closer to him, the point would have been imbedded into your body.

"Hancock, I-"

"Step back to the wall, I think we need to go over a few things."

You did as you were told, immediately recognising the playful glint in his eyes. But there was something deeper, something that pushed aside your knowledge of his softer demeanour and tried to warn you to stay on your toes. The excitement of it made you squirm.

"Now... I might be soft with you, but don't ever let that lull you into a false sense of security..."

Hancock's fingers twitched around the handle of the blade as he brought it to your shoulders, scratching the skin, digging in enough for you to feel it, but not enough to mark you or to draw blood. No, this was just a threat. A generous first strike.

"I could bury this knife up to the hilt, 'cause I know that's how you like it."

A tight coil formed in your stomach, body tingling in anticipation, a twisted desire for him to plunge the blade in, to penetrate your body with it.

"I'll take what I want from you, princess. Chems, caps, your body. I'll fuck every hole you have, wear them out, until I have to make new ones. Understand?"

You nodded, biting your inner cheek, suppressing a moan as your clit throbbed.

"Good! Glad to know you understand."

His grin was still pressed onto his scarred lips as he plunged the knife into the wall beside your head, a quick, sharp, loud gesture that made you jump.

"Oh, you're not off the hook yet, angel."

He was smiling, back to his usual self, that softness returning slowly to his face before a sharp glimmer of cruelty passed over him once more, stopping you from moving away from the wall.

"It's just that I need both hands for what I'm going to do next."

[sortyourlifeoutmate]

Ah yes! And let’s not forget PFI! That’s not gone anywhere!

My favourite part is the counterpoint argument from those benefitting from the ever-ballooning costs of the PFI contracts. They make fantastic reading because they are fucking shameless. The brass! You could see your face in it!

Basically, many schools (and other places, but the news today is specifically about schools) are locking into contracts with private firms to provide, well, a bunch of stuff �� catering, ground maintenance, building maintenance, whatever. But like I say, they’re locked in, and the cost of these contracts has gone up and up and up. Above inflation, no less! And you’re locked in! You got no choice! You pay, and you obey the rules! You keep the grass on those playing pitches at two and a half centremetres even in the middle of winter when they’re waterlogged and they’re not using them!

What’s that? You think we’re doing a bad job maintaining the building? Radiators keep bursting and sending scalding jets of water arcing across the room? Half the school is locked off because of this? Ceilings are collapsing? Fuck you, pay us! We’ll fix it! Maybe. Eventually.

What’s that? Someone cheaper? No! Fuck you! We have a contracts, fuckers! And it’s just gone up!

But yes, that’s my hyperbolic setting the scene. Here’s a slightly more concrete example: Middlefield Primary in Speke. Cost of their PFI contract for this year? £470,000, which is up by £151,000 since 2021. This is such a burden that the school has been unable to replace four members of classroom staff since 2020. So that’s four teachers who should be there who aren’t, because someone wants their cut.

Ah! But the company in question would be willing to renegotiate the grass length. That’s nice of them, eh? Oh wait, the legal fees would make it pointless. Whoops.

Oh, also, as a bonus, a lot of these PFI contracts come with NDA’s built into them. Why might that be? Why would you not want people talking about this, I wonder? Hmm…

But yes, the brass. The brass is that, faced with all of this – none of which is new, by the way, it’s just got much worse – those defending these contracts are adamant they represent good value of money for the taxpayer. They are resolute on this! This is value for money! It might not look like it, but it is! It might look like thousands and thousands of pounds of public money is going into the pockets of people doing a shitty job and charging more for the privilege every year, but it is good value! Honest!

The real problem is that school budgets haven’t kept up with PFI contracts! Hear that? The real problem is that the budgets haven’t kept up with OUR EXTORTIONATE FUCKING DEMANDS! That’s the problem! We’re milking the taxpayer TOO QUICKLY! The government can’t keep up even if it wanted to, AND IT DOESN’T!

Fuck you all with a broom.

[canary3d-obsessed]

Restless Rewatch: The Untamed - Episode 02

Warning: Spoilers for all 50 episodes!

(Masterpost ) (Previous Episode) (Next Episode)

Donkey Riding

way ho and away we go, donkey riding donkey riding way ho and away we go, riding on a donkey

Wei Wuxian and Apple are doing their best for the Ministry of Culture and Tourism. 

Xiao Zhan had trouble riding the donkey sitting side-saddle, so the Department of Questionable Practical Effects made him a fake leg to wear while riding regular style. 

Can you spot it? It’s very hard to spot. It is very convincing.

Simple Pleasures

Wei Wuxian takes his time wandering up the nearest mountain, and half of the cultivators in the land also wander up this mountain because...Night Hunting! The cultivators are hot and thirsty from walking because they forgot that they all know how to fly. 

Wei Wuxian relaxes by a well and listens to people stanning him. 

Also

I’m going to say it: Wei Wuxian never met a drinking vessel he couldn’t blow.

Everything is Beautiful at the Ballet

The actress who plays A-Yan is named Zhang Linran. She probably has studied dance since she was 4 and now she gets her big break which turns out to be feeding an apple to a donkey. So let’s pause for a second to look at how beautifully she moves.  

Reunions are Awkward, Part 1

Wei Wuxian meets up with one of his family members and it goes super well. 

I...like Jin Ling? He’s much less of a douchebag than his dad, his uncles Jin, Jiang, and Mo (the three stooges), and every damn one of his Jin cousins. He’s genuinely brave (his Dad’s primary good quality) and his hair is on fleek. He’s still a whiny diaper baby, but I like him. 

(much more after the cut!)

Then Jiang Cheng shows up, looking fine as hell and radiating peak arrogant-prick energy.

When he discovers that ‘Mo Xuanyu” stuck a piece of paper to Jin Ling, he tells the child to literally murder him. Excellent uncleing! A+++++ would recommend.  

“In fact, literally murder anyone who uses Yiling Laozu’s tools, like talismans, lure flags, or spirit compasses - basically murder everyone in the Lan Clan plus those other fanboys we saw coming up the hill. Then get out there and make some friends, goddamn it!”

These nets full of cultivators on this daytime night hunt are the only time we ever see anything in a net during a night hunt.  In fact dudes constantly go night hunting and the only prey we ever see is rock lady, murder turtle, and a couple of rag mops in the lake. 

You Are Not Qualified to Speak to Me

Also radiating arrogant-prick energy on this occasion is Lan Wangji. He has been using pettiness as a weapon since long before he met this Jiang Cheng turkey, and he *brings it* when Jiang Cheng tries to have a conversation with him.

Letting your eyes wander everywhere except to his punchable face while you ignore his passive-aggressive questions? Quality work. 

Dropping a silence spell on his child and then letting your own child explain it to him? Golden. 

Lan Wangji is never ever going to forgive Jiang Cheng for what he did on cliff day, and his silence here is as pointed as an ice pick. I suspect the last words Lan Wangji actually spoke to him were “Jiang Wanyin, stop it,” sixteen years ago. 

Jiang Cheng is actually the bigger person in this particular interaction, visibly mastering his temper and telling Jin Ling to take his medicine. 

Reflecting

Wei Wuxian hangs out by a beautiful river and hallucinates for a while. River Jiang Yanli is nurturing and River Jiang Cheng is pissed off, so there are no surprises there.  River Jiang Cheng thinks that Wei Wuxian is a promise-breaking douchebag. He’s not exactly wrong. 

Courtesy of convenient gossiping cultivators, Wei Wuxian discovers that the 16 year old arrogant kid from the Jin clan who his brother from the Jiang clan has custody of is actually and quite obviously Jin Rulan.

Well fuck I guess now I care about something, that’s inconvenient. 

Needing to help parent the child of the sister who parented him is what draws Wei Wuxian fully into his new life. 

As soon as he has this realization, Apple comes back from roaming around, and never gives him any trouble after this for the rest of the story. Which...probably doesn’t mean anything. 

Wen Gravesite

Does Wen Ning hang out here because it’s where he and his (dead) people came from? Oh great, now I am sad. 

Judging by all the leaves on this grave thingy I’m going to say that this grave tender dude is, ah, not very good at his job. 

Get him, Jingyi!

I feel like maybe we all focus too much on how Lan Jingyi is so hilarious and sardonic and not enough on how he is a such a biscuit. 

Soul Grass

As mentioned in the previous post, Chinese spiritual concepts don’t always translate well into English. Soul grass? Sure, why not. 

This is where Wei Wuxian’s Sherlock Holmes brain starts to work, although he still doesn’t remember really basic stuff about Dafan Mountain. Dying and changing bodies is rough on the old neurochemistry. This creates more opportunities for flashbacks, however, and if there’s one thing The Untamed deffo needs more of, it’s kissing flashbacks.

Temple Statue

Presumably grave-tender dude is also in charge of clearing away spiderwebs at the temple, because it’s not getting done. 

Jin Ling walks into the temple blaspheming at full volume. 

Since this isn’t a Greek story, he isn’t immediately struck blind for this. Then when he wishes for the statue to come alive, it obligingly does.  Everything’s coming up Rulan!

Wei Wuxian shows up to rescue all the kids by throwing talismans at the monster which does not tip anyone off to who he is. 

Baby Cultivator Babysitting

Lan Wangji chills out in the cultivators’ pavilion with Jiang Cheng and their mutual hate boners.

Meanwhile, Wei Wuxian forgets all about his nephew and turns into cool professor guy, explaining the basics of soul-eating to the baby cultivators and gleefully encouraging their fear of Hanguang-Jun’s punishments. 

Because the Lan babies are good filial children they are super respectful and engaged with this random adult who is lecturing them. They also - like their own Hanguang-Jun at their age - see and admire Wei Wuxian’s intellect. It’s easy to forget how extremely smart Wei Wuxian is, because of how extremely dumb Wei Wuxian is.

Lan Jingyi suddenly figures out Wei Wuxian is not crazy. 

Bis. Kit. 

Then Rock Lady shows up and Jin Ling sticks 6 arrows into her while Lans Jingyi and Sizhui stand around not bothering to draw their swords.

I see a lot of comments about the bad effects in the statue sequences but I think Rock Lady is all right. The figure animation is decent and the lighting is no worse on her than on everything else in the scene. Her hair is nice, for a rock person.

Admittedly I just finished watching Guardian which has CGI monsters so bad they may have injured my retinas and possibly also my DNA, so the bar, for me, is pretty low. Rock lady clears it with room to spare.   

Note: Wei Wuxian’s flute playing does zippity towards controlling the statue. Not sure what his plan was here.

Wen Ning Kicks Ass

Now we get to meet Wen Ning, who appears to be a stone-cold badass. Later we will discover how hilariously inaccurate that assessment is. 

While all versions of Wen Ning are delightful, this version of Wen Ning is also...strangely attractive? He’s got a Patti-Smith-Horses-Era vibe here, instead of his more usual lost-baby-dork vibe. And his dreamy “I have nails in my head” expression is intriguing. 

I mean, he’s not a total snack like zombie Song Lan or pre-zombie Song Lan or blind Song Lan or post-zombie Song Lan, but this look is a good one for Wen Ning, is what I’m saying.

Reunions are Awkward, Part 2

Lan Wangji, who has 99% already recognized Wei Wuxian because of the haunted sword and the fierce jawline and beautiful neck and tiny tiny waist, is summoned by his flute playing as inexorably as the Ghost General was. 

Jiang Cheng also recognizes Wei Wuxian and goes into full beatdown mode, thwarted (silently) by Lan Wangji. Wei Wuxian attempts to preserve his incognito by sassing Jiang Cheng in as sibling-like a manner as possible. 

Hanguang-Jun’s Pro-Ghost Agenda Has Been Clear for Some Time

This Jiang/Lan fight is hilarious when you consider the implications.

Macroexpression vs. Microexpression

Mo Xuanyu brought Wei Wuxian back using sacrifice summons, a dark ritual invented by Wei Wuxian that he, most likely, did NOT show to Lan Wangji back in the day. So it’s a pretty safe bet that Lan Wangji doesn’t know that Wei Wuxian was gifted a body, rather than stealing one.

when your brother turns around, you must whip him you will never live it down unless you whip him

When Jiang Cheng lets loose with Zidian, it’s not just because he’s angry. He’s using purple power to force Wei Wuxian’s ghost out of the body he’s apparently possessed. And Lan Wangji instantly STOPS him from doing that.

Clan Leader Jiang: this person has been possessed, against their will, by an evil ghost

Future Chief Cultivator Lan: Counterpoint: I am banging the ghost

Flashback Time

Welcome to your 30-episode flashback!

Once I used to join in Every boy and girl was my friend Now there's revolution, but they don't know What they're fighting

Let us close our eyes Outside their lives go on much faster Oh, we won't give in We'll keep living in the past

Road Tripping to Summer School

Gosh I’m looking forward to younger, kinder, more relatable Jiang Cheng.

...prick. 

Incidentally, until now this episode didn’t know that Jiang Cheng has smile muscles, and neither did the person who glued his wig on for him.

I Like Rabbits

Here we have our first rabbit in a large collection of rabbit iconography that appears in The Untamed. 

Instead of sending everyone to the Wikipedia page for Tu'er Shen I’m going to take this opportunity to rec the short film Kiss of the Rabbit God by Andrew Thomas Huang (tw: blood, tw:body-mod cutting) which you can read about and watch over at  Nowness.com 

Particularly if you are a queer person of Chinese heritage, check it out. 

So. What the fuck are these? Are they food? 

Are they made from wax? Or corn starch? or pig intestines? 

Wei Wuxian runs off to get laid drunk and Jiang Cheng grumps about it. Jiang Yanli reminds him that being free is a Jiang Clan Rule, so really Wei Wuxian is following the rules by not following the rules. Does that mean he’s not free? My head hurts. 

Jiang Cheng: yes but grump grump grump

Jiang Yanli: Nothing bad will ever happen because of A-Xian’s choices, trust me

Outro

Wei Wuxian faint tally: one  Caught by: the cold hard ground

Soundtrack: 1. Donkey Riding by Great Big Sea 2. Living in the Past by Jethro Tull 3. Whip It by Devo

Fic prompt:  Lan Wangji’s internal monologue while he sits in the pavilion with Jiang Cheng 

If you write a fic from this prompt and want to share, please post a link in comments!

Bonus: Wang Zuocheng, macro-expression king

Episode 03 Restless Rewatch coming soon!

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 8,506

Chapter Warnings: swearing, blood, major injury, seizure, character death

Chapter Summary: In which the sun rises.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Twenty-One: morning sun

He has a lot of thoughts on poetry. Poetry, he often finds, is just music without the tune. The rhythm is there already, and the words can be their own melody, if they’re written right, with a shape and a contour and a buildup and a decrescendo. He knows poetry. And poetry can tell stories, too, can tell whole narratives, can show a hero’s journey from the beginning to the bitter, bitter end, because something he noted a long time ago is that in the old stories, the old poems, in the meter and rhyme, there are few heroes who get happy endings. There are few stories that end with the hero growing old and finding peace. The heroes in the stories he was drawn to, the stories that Technoblade told him as they grew from children to lanky teenagers to adults, the heroes in those stories come to tragic ends.

So, he knows poetry.

Is there poetry in death?

Once, he would have said yes. Once, he would have said that death, perhaps, after a long fight, after a struggle lost, after all the world goes caving in and the hero stands alone knowing how far he has fallen, knowing there is only so much further to go, knowing that every cliff has its bottom and every sea its floor, after all of that—once, he might have said that death, after all of that, was the most poetic thing of all.

But he thinks he knows better now. He thinks that death is not poetry at all. He thinks that death is pain and suffering and hurting those who were left behind, and death is an ending that cannot

(is usually not, and perhaps he needs to examine that, too, needs to start considering himself lucky for the second chance that no one else ever gets, because he gasped back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes and there has been so much pain since then but there has been beauty and now revelation)

be revised once the pen has left the paper, and all the best stories are edited before they are consumed.

But life is not a story, and he is a person, not a role, even if that thought turns everything upside-down, forces him to consider everything he thought he knew about the axis on which the world spins.

And dying cannot be poetry, because he thinks he is dying, and there is nothing lovely about it at all. Not now.

(and not then, either, though you were not ready to know it)

“Shut up, you’re not fucking dying,” Tommy says, and with the words come a wash of cold clarity, focus that he clings to desperately. It might be a mistake, because the pain comes back to the forefront, too, sharp and everywhere and overwhelming and he wants to retreat from it, and he thinks he’s going to retreat from it, if it keeps on like this, so it’s a matter of how long he can manage to hold on.

He’s only just recovered his footing. He’s not going to let himself slip away. Not when he’s only just figured out he wants to keep standing.

And then his heart spasms, sending a burst of hot pain ricocheting in his chest, and he is reminded that he might not have a choice in the matter. He tries to draw in breath, and finds his airways blocked. He tastes iron on his tongue. He tries to draw in breath, and he can’t, and his lungs are burning, burning—

“Turn his head,” Tubbo says sharply, “turn it, he’s choking—”

Someone wrenches his head to the side. He coughs, once, twice, and then he’s wracked with them, curling in on himself as best he can, hands coming up to clutch at his chest, his throat, and he can feel the blood spilling from his mouth, pooling in his cheek and splattering on his lips. Blood. It waters the vines, the vines that are turning to dust. The blood vines are watered, and nothing at all happens, because the vines are dead.

The vines are dead, and he is dying, because he’s pretty sure that his internal organs are all giving out.

“He’s coughing up blood,” Fundy says, near hysterically, “why is he coughing up blood, what’s wrong with him—?”

“The Egg hurts you when you hurt it,” Tommy answers, matching his tone, his high pitch, his fear. “The Egg—and I fucking forgot, oh my god, why did I let him do it, we should’ve figured this would happen—”

“Does anyone have pots?” Tubbo demands. “Does anyone have pots, because I don’t.”

“I didn’t grab any,” Fundy says, “it all happened so fast, I didn’t think to grab any—”

“Wait, shit, I’ve got one,” Tommy says. “Here, c’mon.”

He feels hands on him, gently pushing him out of the position he’s folded himself into. And then, he’s leveraged to sit more upright, and he groans, something in his abdomen screaming in protest at the shift. He doesn’t have the strength to keep his head up, so he lets it fall back, and it hits someone’s chest. He’s propped up against someone, and as his vision clears, just a bit, he sees Fundy crouched to one side, hands hovering over him, and Tommy kneeling right by him, tugging on the cork of a potion, so it’s Tubbo that he’s leaning against.

“Here, Wilbur, just,” Tommy starts, and then the glass is being held to his lips. He parts his lips compliantly, and he feels the liquid slide across his tongue, but there’s too much blood in his throat for it to go down smoothly, and in the next second, he’s coughing again, sputtering, trying to suck air into a throat that’s too clogged and lungs that won’t quite inflate. He jerks, and Tubbo’s arms come up from behind him, grabbing his shoulders and holding him steady even as his body tries to escape the inescapable.

“C’mon, Wil, please,” Tommy says, and his eyes are wide and so very blue, and there’s a sheen across them. Tears. He’s making Tommy cry. “Please, you’ve got to swallow.”

He can’t get in a good enough breath to be able to tell him that he’s trying, that he would very much like to swallow, it’s only that absolutely nothing seems to be cooperating with him at the moment. But surely Tommy knows that, knows that he would if he could, and he’ll keep trying, even though—even though everything hurts, and really, there’s no other way to put it than that. Everything hurts, every inch of him, like his skin is being stretched too tight and he’s boiling from the inside out.

(but then again, Tommy doesn’t know the realization he’s just come to, he just sees his brother limp on the ground and fading away before his eyes and coughing up the potion he’s given him, coughing up what might be the best chance they have to save him, and that is what Tommy sees, so is there any wonder that he automatically assumes that)

No. No, he needs Tommy to know. He needs all of them to know that he doesn’t want this, that he doesn’t want to go, that he’s not giving up.

Tommy presses the potion to his lips again, desperate, insistent. He parts them again, and this time, some of it goes down. A bit goes down the wrong pipe, in fact, setting him to coughing again, but that burn is nothing compared to everything else. He can feel the magic begin to take effect right away, racing inside of him, trying to repair what has been broken and torn apart, and because he can feel it at work, he can feel exactly what’s wrong, can feel it try to patch holes inside of him that the Egg’s death throes ripped open, can feel it surrounding his heart, trying to encourage it to beat in a steady rhythm again, can feel it in his lungs, trying to reopen one that has half-collapsed. He can feel it all, and he knows that even if he managed to down the whole flask, it wouldn’t be enough. Not for this.

Because magic can only do so much. Because magic only goes so far.

Despair pools in his chest along with the fire, but he bucks against it, because he doesn’t want

(he doesn’t want to die and it took him so long to decide as much to understand himself enough to realize it and he doesn’t want to die but his body is giving out even as he fights to stay and this cannot be how it ends, it cannot be, because the world is cruel and the world is unfair but he cannot believe that it would be so unjust as this, so unjust as to take away what he has only just realized he wants to keep)

(but then again, the world does not often listen, does not often care for what is good and what is fair, because the world simply is, and that was a lesson he learned long ago, chased from the podium, the arrow in his back, betrayal and desperation playing a counterpoint melody, and it would never have happened if fairness was something the world at large took into consideration)

(but then again, does the universe not listen, when it well and truly counts? though to say as much would be to imply that it never counted before, when it did, did and still does, still does, because perhaps he can heal if given the chance but he will not forget and neither will anyone else)

to die. He doesn’t want to die. And if ever there was a moment to fight against despair, to fight against despair and win, for once, it is now. It is now.

“I’m trying,” he gasps out, and then immediately has to stop, has to struggle for air again, his chest heaving. He’s shaking, his bones trying to flee his skin.

“I know,” Tommy says. “I know, just come on—” The potion is back, and it’s the last of it, and he manages to force down some more. His vision sharpens, his breathing becoming just ever so slightly easier, but it’s not going to be enough. His heart falters, skips several beats, sends deep pangs shooting through his ribcage, and he knows it’s not going to be enough.

“I am trying,” he insists, as soon as he has enough air for it, “I am, I don’t—I don’t want to go—”

He coughs. Something inside him shifts, grating against other things, and fuck but that hurts, and there’s blood dribbling down his lips again. Hot and sticky. Damning.

“Okay, okay, that’s good, you’re not going anywhere,” Tommy says, “you’re not, we’re not gonna let that happen—”

“Comms are still down,” Fundy says. “I’m not getting through to anyone. Should I—should I go and get someone? I’m a fast runner, I can make it there and back.”

No.

No, no, he—it makes sense, what Fundy is suggesting, but he doesn’t want his son to leave him, because what if he leaves and he—he never gets to tell him all the things he wants to say, all the things he should have said a long, long time ago, what if he leaves and the last that Wilbur sees of him is his retreating back and that’s all, that’s all there is for either of them, what if he dies here and now and he never gets to—

(a scene, imagined: the sun setting over the water, a warm, lazy breeze rustling his hair, and they are sitting side by side, quiet and companionable, and they are fishing, their lures bobbing together in the lake, and all is not fixed and all is not forgotten but there is peace and forgiveness and an opportunity to repair the once-burnt bridge and he wants that he wants he wants)

He moves his arm. The first time, it flops back down uselessly, but he tries again, expends far more effort than he should, and he hooks his fingers into Fundy’s sleeve. Fundy stills, and Wilbur looks at him. Really looks. Meets his eyes and keeps his gaze there. And he doesn’t know what he looks like, doesn’t know how bad he must appear at the moment, but though there is worry on his son’s face, there is something else there, too, something more complicated.

“Wil?” Fundy says softly.

He might not get another chance for this.

“I love you,” he says, and he can feel the words sliding into each other even as they leave his mouth, but he hopes he’s comprehensible. He prays, because he needs Fundy to know this. “I love you, and—I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I’m so sorry. I wanted to be better this ti—”

His heart squeezes, like it’s doing its level best to collapse in on itself, and he breaks off with a strangled squawking sort of noise. And Fundy makes an odd noise of his own.

“Shut up,” he says. “You’re not—you’re going to be fine. Stop talking like you’re going to—you can’t leave again, okay, you can’t do this to me again, you can’t—”

He’s hurting his son. Hurting his son just like he has all along, and he’s powerless to stop it, powerless once again. And there is some measure of gladness in it, in knowing that Fundy does not want him dead, but he is hurting him, hurting him when he never wanted to do so again. When all he really wanted was a chance to make things better, if he could. If he would be allowed.

He tightens his grip on Fundy’s sleeve. Fundy’s face shutters, and then he reaches over with his other hand and pries his fingers off, and Wilbur thinks that actually he might die right here and now.

Except then, Fundy takes his hand and intertwines their fingers, clutching them tightly. He tries to squeeze back and only manages a flutter, but it’s enough.

(because all is not well between you and perhaps it never will be, but know this, know that your son still loves you)

“I’m so sorry,” Tubbo says suddenly, and he can’t crane his neck to look at him, so he has to settle for listening to the words. “If I hadn’t used the totem, maybe—”

“Oh my god, don’t fucking say that,” Tommy snaps, and Wilbur quite agrees, because if Tubbo hadn’t used the totem, then perhaps this would feel very different, and perhaps he would not be terrified of the sensation of his life slipping away from him, because he would have death’s most effective preventative measure resting in his hand, waiting for his heart to still in order to repair the damage. But if Tubbo hadn’t used the totem—and he didn’t see exactly what happened, occupied as he was, but he can guess well enough from the still-present echoes of terror on Tommy’s face—then Tubbo would be dead. And that is not an acceptable loss.

“It’s the truth,” Tubbo insists.

“No,” he forces out, “no, that wouldn’t—that wouldn’t be any better—”

And then, his muscles seize. His back arches, and he hears himself cry aloud, and then the world goes away for a bit.

When it all returns, it crashes in on him at once, and he feels disoriented, exhausted, like his brain is seeking anything recognizable, anything to help make sense of what’s happening, and coming up with nothing. It takes a moment for him to remember where he is, what’s just happened, and even then, he feels dazed, almost outside of himself. He still hurts, but it’s distant. Like it’s happening to someone else.

He’s lying fully on the ground. There’s something soft under his head. A jacket? There is no one holding his hand, and a low keen rips itself from his throat. But no one’s listening—sound filters back in, and it takes effort to parse the voices from each other, speaking over themselves as they are.

“—going,” Fundy is saying, and Fundy, Fundy, he’d like Fundy to come back and be next to him, but he forces his head to flop to the side and sees that Fundy is standing now, standing with the rest of them. “I’m going, we need help, he’s—he’s literally dying right now—”

“He’s not fucking dying,” Tommy says, “would you stop saying that, he’s not—”

“If you’re gonna go get help, then go and hurry up up about it,” Tubbo is saying at the same time, and—

That’s right. He’s dying. He might have just had a seizure. That’s probably what that was. Caused by—seizures can be caused by traumatic brain things, right? Injuries? Having the Egg fucking around in there probably counts, and even beside that, he felt it die, felt it as the power of the universe flowed through the sword in its hand and tore it apart, even as it took him down with it.

(and there are some things that a mortal mind is not meant for, and surely, surely, the universe in its glory and its infinity is one of them and yet it is in your head always humming always there and it will not leave even when you do not pay it heed)

So that’s that. He’s just had a seizure, and he thinks his body’s gotten to the point where it’s given up on trying to fix anything, because the pain is fading, fading back into numbness, as if all his nerves have collectively decided that this situation is a little too fucked up and there’s nothing they can do, no point in working on it anymore. No point in signaling that anything’s wrong when nothing’s being fixed.

He’s dying.

(he doesn’t want to go)

“No way he gets back in time,” someone says. “You’ve got minutes at most.”

He’s not sure who spoke, but he agrees. Short of a miracle, he’s—he’s dying, and he wants to cry, because he doesn’t want to go. His surroundings blur.

He’s alone. Why isn’t anyone next to him? They’re standing, around him but not with him, talking to each other, voices so frantic and scared, and they’re just kids, and it’s so unfair that any of this is being put on them at all, and he doesn’t blame them for it, of course, but he thinks that if anyone was going to go for help, it should have been done right away. Not now. It’s not going to do any good now.

If he’s going to die, he doesn’t want to be alone.

(he intended to die alone, at the end of it all. he intended for himself to be the only one to be hurt. that’s one of the only reasons why he didn’t blow it all to hell sooner, because people were there, people talked him down, people like Quackity, people like Tommy, and they didn’t talk him out of wanting to do it but their presence reminded him that he didn’t want them to be hurt, he only wanted himself to hurt, because that was what was fair and that was what was right)

(but he didn’t die alone, at the end of it all. Phil held him, and he felt a little less afraid under all that relief, and the last thing he remembers from that day is warmth overwhelming, and if he’s going to die again, he doesn’t want to be cold, alone, alone)

He tries to talk, to say something, but he really is having trouble breathing now. His chest rises and falls in quick, short pants, too shallow to supply enough oxygen, too little to support his voice. He tries to move to get their attention, but his limbs don’t respond to his commands.

And then, Fundy’s taking off, running for the entrance, and no, no, no—

He finally manages to meet Tommy’s gaze. Tommy’s crouched by him again in an instant, and Tubbo is, too, grabbing his hand, and he’s glad of it, glad for the contact, but—

“It’s okay,” Tommy tells him. “You’re gonna be fine, Wilbur, Fundy’s gonna go get someone, and they’ll bring more pots, and, and another totem, too—”

His vision is darkening. He wants Fundy to come back. His heartbeats are growing more erratic, slower, weaker.

“Tommy,” Tubbo says, voice small, and stops. Tommy goes silent for a moment.

“No,” he says, then, and his voice is a sob. Wilbur wants to comfort him. He can’t move. “No, no, this isn’t fair—”

He knows. He knows, and he can’t do a thing about it.

“I—” he manages, pushing the word out with what little air is circulating through his lungs. “I don’t want—”

He can’t finish.

“I know you don’t want to go,” Tommy says, “I know, so, so you won’t, you won’t, you’re going to be fine—”

“We’re here, Wilbur,” Tubbo says. “We’re right here.”

He’s glad. He wants to stay with them.

“Jesus, Wilbur.” There’s that voice again. Not Tommy’s, not Tubbo’s. Soft and exasperated, and perhaps a little bit concerned, but he’s not sure. His ability to think, to reason, is slipping from his grasp, and one some level, that terrifies him, but on another, he can no longer care. “You giving up?”

The peculiar combination of derision and amusement is familiar. He opens his eyes; he hadn’t realized he’d closed them. Above him, a face hovers, upside-down from his vantage point. Dark hair, scruff, chipped horns, a blue sweater. Schlatt.

How long has he been here?

“Is this how you’re gonna go out?” Schlatt asks him. “Taken out by a—whatever the hell this was? You know, I’m still not clear on that. None of you assholes ever explained it to me. Some kind of demon bullshit. But you’re just gonna let this happen?”

Somehow, his voice cuts through the haze that’s filled his mind, cuts through even where Tommy and Tubbo’s voices have blended together, becoming one with the background. Perhaps it’s the sudden burst of annoyance, an energy he thought he no longer had; of course he’s not letting this happen. There’s just not a whole lot he can do to fight against acute organ failure. Does he look as if he planned this?

“You don’t want to go, though,” Schlatt says. “I heard that. Good on you, I guess. Deciding that life’s worth something after all. I’m real proud.”

He tries to glare at him. He has no idea whether his face is doing anything or not. If it is, he hopes that the boys don’t think he’s mad at them.

“Okay,” Schlatt says. “Okay, you know what? Let’s give this a try. You’re a real jackass, though, you know that? I want to make sure you know that. I need you to remember that to the end of your days. I want you to put it on your tombstone when you do finally kick it. Here lies Wilbur Soot, he was a real jackass.”

He doesn’t understand what Schlatt is trying to say. He’s rambling, as if to himself. And the world is sliding away again.

(he’s trying to hold on but there’s only so much he can do if the entire cliff face gives way there’s only so much he can do to fight against it there’s only so much)

But then, he feels it. The tether. The rope that binds them. The trailing connection. It opens up, pulling like gravity on his heart, and there’s that familiar sensation, energy leaving him, flowing down the line, except this is energy that he truly doesn’t have to spare, and the last embers of his panic flare up again, because surely Schlatt can feel it, can feel that he has nothing to give, that this is only going to kill him quicker, within seconds if he keeps this up and he may not have much of a chance here but he doesn’t need Schlatt making it worse—

“Holy shit!” he hears Tubbo say, backed up by, “What the fuck are you doing?” from Tommy an instant later. He can’t see them. He can’t see anything. Their voices are far away, and he’s trying to reach them, but he’s falling, and he can’t stop it, can’t stop himself, and the void is close.

(and he’s scared)

“Hey Tubbo,” he hears Schlatt say. Distantly, from a long way away, and getting quieter. Everything is dim. He’s floating. “You deserved better than me, kid, you really did.” A pause. “Tell Fundy the same thing, would you?”

His heart beats. Once. Twice. And then does not beat again. He’d be in pain if he could still feel it. But it’s all gone. All falling away, and the void is close, the void is reaching out to him, and he is—

And then, the tether reverses.

Energy flows back into him. What Schlatt took, and somehow, inextricably—more.

He slams back into himself all at once, gasping for air, back arching off the ground as he is hit with—everything. Sensation, in his fingers, in his toes. Pain, in every inch of him, every atom. Lungs that inflate, barely at first and then more fully. Ruptured places repairing themselves. A heart that starts again, and beats, beats, beats.

“C’mon,” Schlatt is muttering, over and over, and though Tommy and Tubbo are still talking, it’s the only voice he can latch onto. “C’mon, c’mon.” His hand is splayed across Wilbur’s chest, firm and solid, pressing down. “C’mon.”

He has sight again. Schlatt is still there, is still leaning over him, strain written on every line of his face, and Wilbur doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand what he’s doing, doesn’t understand where this energy is coming from, doesn’t understand how it’s—healing him. It’s healing him. Though—Schlatt is a ghost, is usually intangible, has to rely on Wilbur’s lifeforce if he wants to do anything, but perhaps that doesn’t mean Schlatt has none of his own. Perhaps it’s just not enough to sustain him. Perhaps it’s not enough to form him a body, not enough to create life from death.

But perhaps it’s enough for this.

Just as he works through it, Schlatt loses his solidity. His hand slips down, passing through Wilbur’s chest, and he shudders at the sensation, tingling and cold. But Schlatt doesn’t pull away, and the energy keeps flowing, and then, Schlatt starts to flicker, his form wavering in and out of reality.

And finally, Wilbur thinks he understands.

(reciprocity is something they both know well, and a connection once opened can flow both ways)

“You’re giving too much,” he says, though he’s practically mouthing the words, so thin is his voice.

“Yeah, well,” Schlatt says, his voice echoing and distant and staticky. Like a snowfall. “Maybe I want you to prove me wrong.”

Prove him wrong?

(a sunny day, flowers twisted absently in his hands, blue flowers to match the blue sweater, blue sky above, and Schlatt’s voice saying, people like us don’t change, and he once believed that, believed that his role was set and there was no going back, and he believed that for Schlatt as well, believed that for the both of them there could be no redemption, but now he isn’t so sure, and he looks into Schlatt’s eyes and he thinks that perhaps)

“Schlatt,” he whispers, and Schlatt gives him a long look. Hard, but not cruel, measured, but not mocking, considering, not dismissive. And perhaps, just perhaps, there is a little bit of regret there, too.

(regret for the boys they once were, full of life and ideas and hope, tongues sharp and minds sharper, and what good friends they used to be, in the days of their youths when they were free and unburdened and war was a tale from the past and politics a distant future and betrayal a joke and a game, when they were young, when they were young)

“Prove me wrong, Wilbur,” Schlatt says, and then, he is gone. He winks out of existence, and there is no shimmer of blue in the air, no feeling of being watched, of eyes on him, and the tether breaks, snaps apart, and he lets out a soundless shout as the backlash hits him, like a rubber band snapping back into place. The energy stops, and there is nothing in its place, and he reaches out, instinctively, searching, and finds nothing. Where the ghost was, there is blank space. Only the world, and no hum of the stars.

(the hum of the stars is in your mind and your mind only and you are alone inside of it and there is no other not anymore)

And he is alive.

“What the fuck,” Tommy is saying. His hands paw at his neck, pressing up to find his pulse, and Wilbur can feel it. The touch is warm. “What the hell did he do to you, that fucker—Wilbur? Wilbur, c’mon, answer me, man, are you still—”

“Here,” he says, and Tommy falls silent. “I’m here.”

He is here. He is lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and the vines are still turning to dust above him. He is here, and he hurts, still, deeply and acutely, every inch of him aching, but his heart beats steadily, his lungs expand when he breathes, and there is no catch in his throat, no urge to cough, no churning in his stomach, no convulsions wracking him, and his vision is clear.

“Wilbur?” Tubbo asks. His voice shakes.

“I’m here,” he says again. “I’m not going. I’m still here.”

“Oh my god,” Tommy says, and then, Tommy’s all but on top of him, lying on his chest, wrapping his arms around him, knocking the breath right out of him, and Tubbo follows a short second behind, taking up all of the space that Tommy isn’t. He wheezes, but it’s a good sort of wheeze, even if it hurts. It definitely hurts. But he’s hardly about to get them to stop.

They pile on him, grabbing onto him like their lives depend upon it,

(or like his life depends upon it)

and he feels warm, and present, and here. Still here.

(safe)

(alive)

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. That’s about all the volume he can manage; his throat feels shredded. “I’m so sorry I scared you.”

“You’d better be sorry,” Tommy chokes out. “I thought you were gonna die.”

“I thought I was too,” he says. “But I didn’t want to. I fought it, I swear. I don’t want to go. I mean that.” They’re on top of his arms, pinning them. He gives them a nudge, experimentally, but they don’t give an inch, so he’s going to have to settle for not hugging them, apparently. “I’m staying right here. I don’t want to die.”

The words are novel. He thinks he’d like to say them over and over again, just to test them out, to feel the truth in them. He doesn’t want to die, and more than that, he rather thinks he wants to live. What a revolutionary thing it is, to want to live.

“You dickhead,” Tommy mutters, and buries his face in his shirt, which becomes damp in short order. He won’t call him on it.

“Please don’t do that again, though,” Tubbo says. “That was actively terrifying.”

He manages a laugh. The sound of it surprises him. “I’m not planning on it,” he says.

Despite the heavy weight of two teenage boys resting on him, he feels lighter than he has in weeks. Since he woke up in that forest, rain falling on his face, and turned to the arctic, to the snow and the tundra and the promise of family that he didn’t know how to feel about, the promise of a family that was scattered and broken into too many pieces. Since seeing his brother again a scarce day later, standing in the rain, the notes of the guitar fading in the air. Since the Egg, since the prison, since arguments and tentative reconciliations and everything that’s happened between now and then. And the thoughts still lurk. He can sense them in the shadows of his mind, ready to swell forth again, ready to tell him all about what he deserves and how he will be betrayed and how everyone hates him and he hates himself but for now—

For now, in this moment, he wants to live, and he wants to live well, and he pushes aside the whispers of what he deserves and lets himself be, and lets himself love.

(and lets himself be loved)

And then: footsteps. Several pairs, rushing down the corridor. He can’t get a good look, and the boys don’t seem inclined to take much notice, either. But he has a feeling as to who it is, and his suspicion is confirmed a moment later, as Fundy’s voice floats toward him, saying, “—bad, I mean, it’s really bad, I really think he’s literally dying, and I don’t, I just don’t—” He sounds as though he’s been keeping up this litany for some time, perhaps more as something to say than anything else, something to focus on, something to distract him a bit. His voice gets closer, and then stops. “Oh my god, is he dead?” His voice pitches upward, and overlaps with a sharp inhalation—Phil’s, he recognizes.

So there’s only one thing to do.

“Help,” he rasps, “I’m being crushed.”

There is a long moment of silence, and he almost wishes that Tommy and Tubbo would get up so that he could see the looks on their faces. Almost, but not quite. He’s content to stay like this for a good while longer.

“Oh my god, he’s alive,” Fundy says, and there is a sharp exhalation, also from Phil.

“You fucks,” Phil says, relief audible. “Do you know how scared I was?”

“I wasn’t,” Techno says. “I wasn’t worried at all.”

Finally, Tommy stirs, lifting his face from his chest and glaring off in the direction of the entrance. He also lifts a hand and flips them off.

“Fuck off,” he says. “We’ve just had a traumatic experience, we have. Are you going to stand there and be—and be twats, or did you bring anything useful? Like—” He stops, looking back down at him. His face is vaguely tear-stained, though Wilbur’s pretty sure that most of it is in his shirt. “Do you still need some pots? Or did—what the hell did he even do, anyway? How did that—you were definitely dying, and then he was there, all, all like that, and then he disappeared and you were better. What did he do?”

“Changed, I think,” he murmurs, and judging from the expression on Tommy’s face, he doesn’t get it. But that’s alright.

“Okay,” Phil says, and then he’s sweeping toward them and kneeling. His wings are on full display, he notes, no effort at all put toward hiding them, and maybe it doesn’t really mean anything, but he can’t help but feel glad. Phil should never have to hide his wings, no matter what condition they’re in. “Alright—here, Tubbo, could you move over a bit?”

Tubbo shifts off of him, too, his breathing unsteady. His eyes are slightly red-rimmed to match Tommy’s. He doesn’t say anything, just shuffles to the side so that he’s sitting next to Tommy. Phil shoots a quick smile at him, one that’s probably supposed to be reassuring but comes off as strained, and then, his hands are on Wilbur’s shoulders.

“You think you can sit up, Wil?” he asks, and Wilbur tries. He tries, but immediately gives it up as a lost cause as all his core muscles cry out in immediate protest.

“Sitting up ability is currently on strike, I believe,” he says, and Phil’s brow furrows in concern, but he takes it in stride. Behind him, Fundy and Techno are both hovering—though Fundy’s far more obvious about it. It is a bit funny how they’re both doing it, though, and the contrast between them, Techno’s bulk and general everything next to Fundy’s fidgeting. Fundy keeps casting glances at Techno, too, nervous ones.

Phil pulls him into an upright position, and he moans, his head swimming for a second before the lightheadedness abates. He hunches forward, letting gravity pull him back down a little; he thinks he’d flop over like a ragdoll if it weren’t for Phil steadying him.

“Where are you hurt the worst?” Phil asks, voice quiet. “Fundy said you were coughing up blood. And that you had a seizure, I’m guessing, judging from what he told us.”

He can still taste it on his tongue. Sharp iron. And his limbs are all very sore.

“A bit everywhere,” he admits. “I’m pretty sure all my organs were giving out on me at once, so I don’t think there’s one specific area that needs attention.” Phil’s expression widens into open dismay at that, and something very much like fear, and perhaps he shouldn’t have phrased it quite like that. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so blasé about his imminent death in front of the man who he begged to take his third life and definitely emotionally scarred in the process. But he’s still a bit wrapped up in the fact that he’s alive at all, alive and glad to be so.

“Okay,” Phil says, in a way that implies he definitely does not think that it’s okay, but he’s trying to keep it together. “Okay. That’s—okay. Do you think you could get down a regen?”

He pulls a face, but nods. Regen potions have never been his favorite; their magic is rough, unsubtle, far more concerned with function over comfort. But he likely needs one, or two, or several, or as many as his body can keep down, because he is alive, but probably far from alright, still; the continuing ache is evidence enough of that, and he’s fairly certain that if he tried to stand, he would tip over immediately. Phil has no reservations, bringing out a pot from his inventory and holding it up to him, a mirror of Tommy’s actions a minute before. Only this time, he brings up a shaking hand to help support the glass, even if he can’t hold its full weight, and he swallows all of it without coughing.

It gets to work. He winces, and then decides that he’s been on the ground long enough. The energy from the pot is more than enough for him to attempt to get up.

“Whoa,” Phil says, “wait, Wilbur—”

He’s up. His vision blacks out for a second, but when it clears, he’s still up, if woozy. He imagines he might need help to walk any significant distance, but he won’t need to be carried, at least. Which is nice. Being carried is undignified.

“You should absolutely not be standing up,” Tommy snaps, and he raises an eyebrow.

“And yet,” he says, spreading his arms. Once again, he gets the impression that he’s being far more casual about all of this than he should be. He imagines that it will hit him later, the horror of it, seeing Niki’s face twisted in rage, letting the Egg inside his mind once again, almost being unable to pull himself out, almost dying right after he figured out that he didn’t want to. It will all his him, he’s sure, but for now, he would like to walk out of here under his own power, his family by his side, everyone alive and unharmed, the trouble dealt with at last. “I’m alright. I actually mean that. I’m not going to keel over.”

He inhales. Wrinkles his nose. Actually, it doesn’t smell very nice in here.

“Is the rest handled?” he asks, glancing at Phil. Phil is standing very close to him, wings flared, likely ready to catch him if he needs it. He won’t, though he appreciates the gesture.

“We felt the Egg go,” Phil says. “It was like—like the world itself distorted for a second, and then patched itself back up. We were already on our way here when Fundy came to get us. In a nutshell, yes, it’s handled. Dream was still up when we left, but the rest of the Egg people just sort of—stopped. And nobody on our side went down hard. Eret and Puffy got the worst of it, but they’ll both be fine, last I saw.”

“But Dream was still up,” he says. Beside him, Tommy’s shoulders hunch.

“Not for long,” Techno says. His gaze is fixed behind them, on the Egg. “We would’ve stayed if we weren’t sure of it.” His eyes drift to Tommy’s for a second. “The others are handlin’ it. But we can go see.” And then, to Tubbo: “The totem came in handy.” A statement, not a question.

“Yes,” Tubbo says, expression inscrutable. “It did. Thank you, Technoblade.”

Techno shrugs. “I gave it to be used,” he says dryly. “Let’s not make a habit of it.” And that is a Techno way of saying you’re welcome, of burying the hatchet as much as he is able, and it’s not nearly enough, but it’s a first step. And then, Techno literally steps forward, and Wilbur is a little too concerned with the way that Tubbo stiffens to notice exactly what his intent is, which is why it takes him by surprise when Techno takes his head in his hands and presses their foreheads together.

Just for a second. But it’s an old gesture, a familiar gesture, and not one that he ever expected to receive again. His breath catches.

(you were kids the first time he did this, the first time he butted his head against yours, impossibly gentle, tender in a way you hadn’t realized Techno knew how to be, and it wasn’t until later that Phil explained it to you, explained piglin instincts and the concept of a sounder and how Techno always, always feels far more than he lets on, and always, always cares, perhaps too much, and he still does, despite everything, he still does)

And then, Techno walks forward, past them, to the husk of the Egg that lies behind, and the moment is over. But it was there. It was there, when it didn’t have to be, when Techno would still be well within his rights to hold back from them, from him, to keep his distance. But here he is, displaying open affection, and he’s not naive enough to think that means it’s all fixed, but—

Hope is a dangerous thing, but he feels in the mood to indulge. And beside him, Tubbo relaxes, and Tommy, just for a second, wears an expression that suggests a bit of hope of his own.

He turns to watch Techno as he roots through the dust, a crumbling, greyed-out monument that barely holds any shape. A reminder, and nothing more. An empty shell, and that, too, will disintegrate soon enough, leaving a room of dust and lava pools, and statues long abandoned.

Techno huffs. Reaches down. And from the middle of the Egg, he pulls out—

“Is that fucking Skeppy,” Tommy states, flat as a fucking pancake.

He blinks. Because it—is. Somehow. Fucking Skeppy. Though he looks different; parts of him are the same blue, but many patches are discolored, greyish white, and as Techno hoists him up, Wilbur thinks he sees red slipping off of him, like runny paint.

“Oh my god,” Tubbo says. “Was the Egg Skeppy this whole time?”

“I was wonderin’ where this guy got off to,” Techno says, and throws Skeppy across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, apparently unconcerned. “He hadn’t been by to bother me in a while. And BadBoyHalo kind of just sat down and started cryin’ about him, which, I won’t lie, I had no idea how to handle, not my area, but I thought he might be here. Are we leavin’ these two here, or takin’ them?”

Niki and Jack. Both on the ground, chests rising and falling. Free of the Egg, now, but he’s not sure where that leaves them. Though it would likely be—

“Leave ‘em,” Tommy says, startlingly vehement. “Just, we’ll come back, leave ‘em here for now.”

“I don’t think he meant to,” Tubbo says quietly. “I think it just happened really fast.”

“Don’t care,” Tommy says. “Leave ‘em.”

He looks back and forth between them. Gold still dances across Tubbo’s skin. And he wasn’t turned around, didn’t see what happened, but he thinks he can guess, based on everything, based on Niki’s sword at Tommy’s throat and Jack pinning Tubbo to the ground, based on their desperate, misdirected need for vengeance and the way Jack shouted and a boy who would do just about anything to ensure Tommy’s safety. Hears I don’t think he meant to, and thinks about other times, darker times,

(and meaning does not always matter, because intent is washed away in impact, and he never meant to hurt them)

and he decides not to ask. Not now. Not yet. Though it should be addressed. A lot of things should be addressed, a lot of things that they have not, yet, because there has been no time, because everything has been moving at a breakneck pace, but the pace will be slower now. The pace will be slower, and they will have time.

He looks to Fundy. Fundy stares back, not saying anything at all. His eyes are wet.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” Fundy murmurs. Quiet enough that he doesn’t think anyone else hears it.

“Me too,” he says. “And I’m glad you’re here.”

A start. A first step. There are so many of those that still need to be taken. For now, Fundy’s lips curl into what might be the ghost of a smile.

They will have time.

***

The scene they return to is this: some are standing, some are sitting, all gathered in the courtyard of the castle. The gates lie wide open. The vines are gone. The sun is rising.

There is Eret, standing tall, though blood still runs down from a wound on their shoulder and another long gash on their arm. Their crown is blood splattered, their glasses still perched on their nose, though slipping down, and Wilbur glances away before he can take in something he’s not meant to see. There is Puffy, kneeling, her blood on the grass around her; it is her leg that is wounded, though it is difficult to tell how badly. There is Sam, shifting, uncertain, a lost look in his eyes as his fingers flex around his trident. There is Purpled, on the outskirts, on guard but perhaps an ally, though he has no reason to be. There is BadBoyHalo, sitting, curled into himself, tears running down his face, which is less ashen. The other members of the Eggpire cluster around him, seemingly in various states of shock. None of them move. They are mostly ignored.

There is Ranboo, also sitting. His eyes are wide. Tears are streaming down his face, too, and a bit of steam rises from his skin. He pays no mind. He’s trembling, occasionally gasping for breath through a sob.

There is Quackity, still standing, hands clutched around an axe like it’s the best protection he knows how to have. He wonders if there’s any truth to that; Quackity has never been one for fighting, though he tries.

(he wonders if Schlatt wanted to say anything to him, too. wonders if it would have done more harm than good)

And then there is Dream, lying on the ground. There is George, crouched by his side. There is Sapnap, kneeling, all his weight on the sword piercing Dream’s chest. Dream’s chest rises and falls, shallow and slow, and nobody moves. Sapnap’s face is flushed, tears in his eyes, and whether they are from anger or grief, he can’t tell.

Dark smoke puffs out from under Dream’s mask and dissipates in the air. Tommy makes a small sound, and Wilbur fits his hand into his. Tommy doesn’t look at him, doesn’t look away from the sight in front of them, but his fingers curl around his.

Sapnap moves as if to draw the sword out. Dream’s hand comes up and wraps around the hilt, stopping him.

“No,” Dream says, voice a reedy whisper, free of shadow. “You need to be sure it’s gone.”

And so they stay. The only sound is crying, and Sapnap’s harsh breaths, hitched and desperate. Both angry and grieving at once. George’s hands inch forward until they’re curled into Dream’s hoodie. It’s like a painting, the three of them. The sun crests the walls of the castle, and the rays fall on them like a caress, and the smoke stops appearing. The sigils carved into the sword dim.

Dream stops breathing. Quietly, and without fanfare. Like a sigh.

As one, more than a dozen communicators chime.

Tommy exhales shakily.

(is this closure? is this what he wanted? he doesn’t know, but there is no going back, no going back to the old days, when they were all still friends and the war was a game)

(and after everything that Dream did perhaps it feels wrong that this should end so abruptly or that he should not shove the sword in his chest himself for what he did to Tommy or that Tommy should have no say in his fate but at the same time perhaps it is right and perhaps this is the way the circle breaks at last)

Techno sighs, walks over to where Bad sits, and dumps Skeppy in front of him. As if a spell has been broken, Tubbo moves, too, crossing to Ranboo and crouching before him, speaking to him in low tones. Several others start moving, like the world was on pause and has only just resumed. Sapnap draws the sword from Dream’s chest, but he remains there, kneeling by the body.

Dream looks peaceful. Though with his mask still on, it’s impossible to tell. No one motions to remove it.

Tommy presses close to him. On the other side, Fundy steps closer. Against his back, he feels one of Phil’s wings brush against all of them, a promise of shelter, of safety. Perhaps this time, it will be kept.

Just like that, it is over. Can it be over?

(is it ever truly over?)

(but in every ending there is a beginning, and the world still spins, and the grass still grows, and the sky is still blue, and finally there is more reason to look forward than back)

The sun rises. Is rising, has risen, will rise again and again and again. And he’s lived to see it.

[oreoambitions]

Part 9 of 12

Parts 1-3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 5.5 // Part 6 // Part 7 // Part 8 // Ao3 “It’s me,” Alex murmurs. Her voice is all but a whisper and still it sounds too loud in the empty stairwell of Kara’s apartment building. Alex feels like an intruder, like a stranger, like she’s suddenly stepped into an unfamiliar place of worship, and the quiet isn’t helping any. Her footsteps feel heavy on the stairs, her very breath clumsy and inconsiderate as she climbs.

Maybe this time won’t be like the other times. Maybe this time…

She lingers at Kara’s door with her hand raised to knock, and she listens. Knocking, of course, is a waste of time. If Kara is here, she’s already aware of Alex’s presence. And if she isn’t here, well, knocking on the door certainly isn’t going to summon her back. Alex knocks anyway, winces as the sound of it seems to thunder in the silence, strains her ears for anything, anything at all.

“She’s not here,” Sam says from the stairwell. She tosses Alex the car keys as she makes her way down the hall. “I parked us a couple of blocks down. You ready to go in?”

Alex shuffles a little and looks away. “Give her a minute. Maybe she’s got headphones on.”

“Alex. She’s not here.”

Alex knows this already, knew it before Sam dropped her off at the curb, knows it even as Sam gently takes Kara’s wedding bouquet so that Alex has both hands free to fumble with the keys. She knows it even without Sam’s x-ray vision or the super hearing, but it was nice to indulge in a little wishful thinking for a moment. A moment or two longer would have been nicer. She pushes the door open, and she pushes the thought aside.

Kara’s apartment is almost exactly as it was the night before she left for the cabin in the woods. A little dustier perhaps, and a little tidier. Alex has had increasingly less to do on her weekly visits, and so the throw pillows on the couch are meticulously straight and the handles on the coffee cups are all pointed the same way. Anything to prolong her time in this place where she can imagine that Kara has just stepped out. She’ll be ducking through the window any minute now, brushing something off the sleeves of her super suit, flashing Alex that cheeseball grin before she superspeeds into a pair of pajamas for movie night. Alex can almost see it all play out as she steps into the empty apartment. Almost.

Sam settles the wedding bouquet into a vase with steady hands and a studious expression, the perfect counterpoint to Alex’s trembling fingers and anxious wandering eyes.

“In the bedroom, you think?” she says. “That room gets the least light…”

“Sure,” Alex replies. She doesn’t rehash the argument they’ve already had about the flowers, though the tension of it lingers thick in the air. Sam feels that having the bouquet preserved was a gift, something Kara will be grateful for in time. Alex fears it’ll be the thing that sends Kara running again as soon as she returns, and she knows the fear isn’t rational, but then, neither was Kara the last time they saw her.

“Don’t forget about the succulent in the bathroom window,” Sam calls as she makes her way down the hall.

“Right,” Alex mutters. She nudges open the fridge door. Nothing has expired yet, but she and Sam have brought fresh groceries anyway. All of Kara’s favorite foods to rotate in, and they’ll take the old with them to be sure it isn’t wasted. And if Kara comes home - when Kara comes home - it’ll be one less thing for her to worry about. That’s all Alex can do about any of this now.

“How was Lena this morning?” she asks when Sam wanders back into the living room.

Sam makes a noncommittal sound. “She’s been better. Been worse. Can you hand me that tumbler?”

“I heard about the perjury trial.”

Sam hesitates at the sink just long enough that Alex doesn’t quite believe her when she says, “Clark will handle it.”

There’s a long silence between them then. Sam waters the plants and Alex considers echoing her reminder about the bathroom succulent but the words die in her throat as she wipes imaginary grime out of Kara’s spotless fridge. Rotate in a new carton of milk, a carton of eggs. Sam brushes dust off the door frames.

“Maybe she’s on Argo,” Alex suggests for the hundredth time.

“She’s not,” Sam says.

“Well what if she-”

“She’s not.”

She isn’t. Alex knows this, has been caught up on the details around Kara’s hastily suggested engagement to Ren-Ar, understands the implications of her decision to marry Lena anyway. It may be a long while before Kara can show her face on Argo without causing a scandal big enough that Clark and Sam would have heard about it even from Earth. Alex tries not to wonder whether Argo will still cooperate when it comes to protecting Lena from the law.

“We should check the Fortress again,” she says.

“Clark was there this morning. No sign of her. Kelex is still saying she hasn’t been around since before the wedding.”

“She could have asked him to-”

“Alex.”

Alex bites back the words I’m sorry because Sam will only tell her not to be. “It’s been six weeks,” she says instead.

“I know."There’s another stretch of silence. Alex thinks she’s beginning to hate silence: the silence growing between the two of them, the silence in Kara’s apartment, the long silence over the coms line she keeps open for Kara all the goddamn time. Simon and Garfunkel were onto something when they said ‘silence like a cancer grows.’ She stands in the kitchen under the unbearable weight of it wishing there were something left for her to do here, and there’s nothing. There’s just Sam emptying the tumblr into the last of Kara’s houseplants, brushing a spiderweb from the windowsill as she goes.

"Lena still thinks she’ll show up to the gala next weekend,” Sam says. She doesn’t look up as she says it.

“Kara?” Alex doesn’t know why she asks. It’s not as if they could be talking about anyone else, but something about the way Sam refuses to look at her draws the question out of her anyway.

Sam shrugs. “It’s Lena’s first big public appearance since their marriage was, uhm, exposed.”

“Fabricated.”

Sam shoots her a look then, brief and meaningful. “Exposed. Lena thinks Kara will make an appearance just to keep the press from noting her absence.”

“The press has already noted her absence from the entire planet.”

“Well, that was before there was a perjury trial on the horizon.”

Alex lets out a long breath. It’s absurd to suggest that Kara might be more concerned about the press seeing her with Lena than she is about the world seeing her in National City, but the more Alex thinks about it, the more she follows Lena’s line of thought. Sam has been here to wear the cape in Kara’s absence, and she’s done a passable job for someone brand new to the whole beacon-of-hope gig. But she can’t protect Lena from the press; only Kara can do that.

“You’ll text me,” Alex says. “Right? If Kara shows, you’ll tell me right away.”

Sam licks her lips, her eyes on the floor. “Actually, I was hoping you’d be there.”

“You want the DEO to run security?”

Sam laughs at that, and she looks Alex in the eye at last. “I didn’t say the DEO,” she says, and her tone is warm and still full of laughter in a way that makes Alex’s stomach flutter. She wants to look away, fearful somehow that Sam will see the nerves in her, will see her desire and affection and it will be too much. But Sam’s gaze holds her in place.

“I’m not exactly National City high society,” Alex says, tugging on the lapel of her leather jacket for emphasis. “And I’d make a terrible undercover bodyguard.”

“You do clean up nice though,” Sam comments, and Alex flushes. She flushes even worse when Sam adds, “You’d clean up even better if you’d let me do your hair.”

Alex does look away then. “Nobody touches the hair,” she mumbles.

Sam is suddenly close. Too close for someone who was just watering a plant clear on the other side of the apartment not half a second ago, and Alex wonders absently whether there was a super power involved in their sudden proximity. She looks up just in time for Sam to brush a daring hand across her cheek and through her hair and fuck. If there’s an Earth where she never stops doing that, Alex would like to go there.

“Nobody, huh?” Sam says.

Alex swallows, but no clever quip passes her lips.

“That’s a shame,” Sam continues, twisting a lock of Alex’s hair between her fingers. “Because I was hoping you’d be my date for the evening. Got a dress picked out for you and everything.”

Alex stumbles right over the word 'date’ and lands on, “You want me to wear a dress?”

Sam half shrugs, and then she locks eyes with Alex so intensely that it almost feels like a challenge. “Do you want me to wear a suit?”

Alex’s internal monologue is replaced by a distant warm buzzing as her gaze drops to Sam’s mouth. “Yes?”

“Good. Then that’s settled.”

And just like that the moment passes. Sam scoops up the bag of groceries rotated out of Kara’s fridge and pantry and starts towards the door. Alex stares after her for a long moment and then has to hurry to catch up before it’s awkward. Sam did say 'date,’ right? As in the two of them, together, possibly with romantic intentions, possibly-

“Alex,” Sam says without looking back. “The keys.”

Still on the kitchen counter. Fuck. In her defense, there are other things on her mind.

[fbfh]

“forever” paxton hall-yoshida x reader

genre: fluffy romance + mutual pining (not too slowburn tho lol)

word count: 3.4k

au: none?? jock x theatre nerd ig

pairing: Paxton x broadway baby!reader 

requested: yes !! i hope u like it uwu

warnings: one hell one motherfucking and i think that’s it for swearing?? um brief self deprecating/talking bad abt urself from paxton (bby boy needs a self love boost), reader and paxton are home alone together for a little while but nothing bad happens, uh,,, i think that’s it

summary: when Eleanor can’t run lines with you, she sends over a very attractive, mutually pining substitute.

reccomended songs: “Seventeen” - Tuck everlasting OBC, “The Kiss” -The Princess Diaries score

a/n: i’m p sure i kept the reader p gender neutral but there’s implied slightly long hair, and you play the lead (a girl named winnie) in ur schools production of tuck everlasting but like it’s theatre so anyone can play anyone lol,, this took so got dam long bc i’m fucking s o f t for jock x artist and it just sorta happened lol aLsO,, not super thoroughly edited so there might be a typo or two?? im tired lol

requests r open <3

You had only ever seen two athletes present during rehearsals. Once when Madeline (who at the time was playing Penny in your production of Hairspray) was dating a guy from the soccer team. The other was when the star of the basketball team had come in to give your choreographer pointers for the basketball scenes during High School Musical. 

Until now.

You had run onstage part of the way through “Live Like This”, which wasn’t out of the ordinary since so much progress had been made on the costumes. You were still tying the ribbon on your pinafore as you jumped into the song, but when your eyes met a face in the usually empty auditorium, you faltered. You almost sang the wrong verse, but recovered quickly, continuing with the blocking. What felt like a moment later, the number was almost done and you were nearing the end of your counterpoint with Mae Tuck - played by Eleanor, of course. Who could be better for the part? You held out the last note, trying to stay in character despite all the distractions in the back of your mind. You had to talk to Eleanor when the director called for 10; she’d started telling you how Devi was being weird recently. Also, what the Hadestown was Paxton Hall-Yoshida doing chilling in the auditorium? You shoved all that away, focusing on staying in character until the director called for a break. 

‘I want to go to the fair. I want to go so badly! I just need a change, need to get out of this house for a little while. I never do anything, so this can’t be asking for too much, right?’ 

You projected all that into your everything - face, voice, mannerisms, energy.

“Hold!” 

Everyone froze.

The director wrote a few things on his paper, sighed, and underlined something several times. 

“Okay, good job! I need to revise some of the blocking, then we’ll do notes, so take ten.” Your sudden nerves had definitely made you pitchy, you knew that would be one of your notes for sure. 

A chorus of “Thank you ten”s erupted, and you immediately ran to Eleanor, telling the others good job as you passed. 

You leaned in and started speaking to her, quietly.

“Okay you need to finish telling me about Devi, and that other news you’re being so cryptic about! Also, what’s up with Fierro over there?” you nodded towards Paxton hoping he wouldn’t see, and you noticed Fab is sitting near him. You realized they’re probably waiting for Eleanor and/or Devi. That must be it, he’s been hanging out with them lately, right? Eleanor gasped.

“You’re right! Paxton is such a Fierro!”

You cringed inwardly a little bit as her voice carried through the auditorium, mixing with the others. Your eyes darted over to him for a fraction of a second. Oh god. He was looking at you. Or in your general direction at least. Lena, the costumer, walked around the set gingerly, following you around and getting you out of your dress incredibly carefully as you and Eleanor walked off stage. 

“No! Well, yes- but no. What’s he doing here? Jocks never come here during rehearsals. I saw Fab too, are you guys and Devi getting dinner or something?” You said, entering the auditorium, and stepping out of the dress. You grabbed sweatpants and a silky, floral kimono jacket from your bag to throw over your leotard and tights. She waved back at Fab before sitting down in the front. You both grabbed your fans and dramatically flicked them open in sync. Your wrists fluttered, cooling both of you off.  A knowing, and slightly mischievous, look came on her face. 

“Devi and Fab and I are. Paxton must be here for something… else.” she shrugged, nodding towards Paxton. You looked over again. He was staring at you. You did a double take and tried to hold back your smile. 

“Wh- I do not know to what you are referring.” 

“To what I am referring is the blush on his cheeks.”

You barely held back a nervous, bubbling laugh.

“He is not blushing! Why would he be blushing!”

“I don’t know,” She shrugged, “Just like how I don’t know that he’s been loitering in the halls outside the music room during your last three solo music rehearsals.”

You struggled for an answer. Before you could form one, you were interrupted.

“Okay, okay what is the best Lin Manuel Miranda musical? Because Kathryn thinks it’s Hamilton-” 

“Duh!”

“-But I think it’s In the Heights! It’s an underrated jewel!” Jonah interjected, still wearing his Jesse Tuck hat. 

You considered for a moment.

“I mean, they’re too different to compare. In the Heights has the same energy as Rent - showcasing what goes on in ordinary people’s lives, and how love ties us all together,” he nodded in agreement, “But Hamilton is on a way larger scale, almost Les Mis meets Fun Home vibes. But in terms of personal preference…” Eleanor scoffed at your answer, and Jonah went back to debate further with Kathryn.

“Anyway,” you turned back to Eleanor to ask her what the hell she meant by Paxton Hall-Yoshida was blushing. But before you could-

“Eleanor, we need you to try on your blue dress again,” Lena was already pulling her away, “I had the empire waist in the right place but half the pins fell out, and it’s just...” And she was whisked away before you could finish the thought. You just had time to help Holly get out her wig pins and drink some lemon water before notes. Eleanor still wasn’t back, so you made sure to write down hers for her. It was pretty standard; be quiet backstage, go over your lines, don’t touch props that aren’t yours, don’t eat in costume, and a couple blocking changes you made note of. After your end of rehearsal warm downs and huddle, everyone left relatively quickly. You ducked into the bathroom to freshen up a little. Sometimes it was hard coming down from such intense energy after rehearsal. You mentally ran through your to do list. You needed to get some more tea, write that essay when you got home, go over your notes- You gasped, cutting off your own train of thought. You ran out of the bathroom to look for Eleanor, still clutching her notes in hand. 

~

Your voice still echoed in Paxton’s ears. He wished he had a whole album of you singing. Your voice made him want to ruin his spotify algorithm by listening to nothing else. You had looked at him a couple times, and his heart had almost stopped. He didn’t know eye contact could be so intense. It’s probably just cause you’re like, the only person in the audience. Where else is she supposed to look? He deflated a little. He heard his name and looked over to you and Eleanor talking together. Hopefully it was about him. Hopefully it was good. He checked his phone, trying to look busy. When he glanced up to see if you were looking, you were gone. He started to look around for you when he saw Eleanor waving at Fab, and sure enough, you were next to her. What he didn’t expect was you dropping your dress to the ground. Time slowed down (and his heart sped up) as you stretched a little, and pulled out sweatpants from your bag.

Wow.

 You had on what looked like a bathing suit on underneath, and a few other people had done the same, but he knew that image would be in his memory, probably forever. His heart was beating in his ears and he knew he must be blushing.

“You okay, Paxton?” Fab asked, a seat or two away. Oh god, he didn’t want people asking why he blushed every time he looked at you! He muttered something about needing to make a call and headed for the doors. Don’t look back at her, don’t look back at her… His eyes involuntarily darted in your direction right before he left. You had on a flowy translucent jacket, your hair thrown back supermodel style as you fanned yourself to cool down. He needed to cool down too. Maybe a cold shower, a really cold shower.

~

You managed to find Eleanor just before she left. Two girls were with her, you had seen Fab once, and you’d heard a lot about Devi, but had never been introduced. 

You gave Eleanor her notes, and she hugged you.

“You’re a lifesaver!” 

“Of course, I-”

“Uh, who’s this?” you looked over, and the shorter girl - Devi, based on what you’d heard about her -  was giving you a weird look. You introduced yourself. 

“Nice to meet you. How do you know Eleanor?” said the taller girl - definitely Fab.

“Oh,” you smiled, “she’s my almost mother in law. And my arch rival,” you counted on your fingers, “my sister, my niece, my lover, my husband, and…” you trailed off, trying to think of the other dynamics your characters had had in past shows.

“Your co-conspirator.” 

“Right,” you laughed. Devi and Fab looked at you two.

“We’re in the musical together.” you clarified. You were about to part ways when you called to Eleanor, “Hey, we’re still on for running lines tomorrow night?” 

“Uh… Sounds good!” she walked away quickly, speaking to Devi and Fab in hushed tones. Something was definitely up. That was typical Eleanor Scheming behavior. 

~

That night, you almost couldn’t sleep. This wasn’t the normal post rehearsal can’t sleep. In fact, Tuck Everlasting was the last thing on your mind as you readjusted your pillows and snuggled into your duvet. You stared at the neon blue stars projected and swirling on your ceiling. You sighed. Again. Your brain was a 24/7 livestream of Paxton Hall-Yoshida to relax/study to. You saw him again, his face in the dimly lit auditorium, Adonis in a sea of faded seats. If you hadn’t been sure before, you knew now that red was definitely his color. You rolled onto your side. Your heart picked up speed as a thought crossed your mind. You could almost see Paxton now, kneeling next to you, his fingertips brushing your cheek. The piano underscore to “Seventeen” ran through your mind. You could imagine him saying “Wait with me, we could share the world…” so vividly it almost hurt. He leaned in, and… 

You let out a loud sigh and rolled over again. Your heart was fully saturated. That’s more than enough pining for tonight. 

~

“Paxton!” 

He was a little surprised when Eleanor just walked up to him at lunch the next day. Most people were too intimidated to approach him out of the blue. 

“I have a plan.”

“Uh, I don’t know what you-”

“Cut the crap, I know you like her.” 

His face blanched. Well, yeah of course he did. Who wouldn’t? He was going to ask Eleanor if there was something he could do to win you over, just not here, not now. Not where everyone could watch and jeer and rib him for it. Just like they were doing now. 

“Woah, dude, who is it?” Trent asked. He fumbled for words. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He hadn’t kept his crush a secret because he was embarrased of you, he’d kept it a secret because his dumbass friends wouldn’t get you. Hell, he barely got you. You were so deep, and emotive, and artistic... 

“Bro, if you like her as much as it seems like you do,” Trent continued, “you gotta win her over.” He was a little shocked at the agreement murmuring through his group of friends. He didn’t know how to respond. Trent turned to Eleanor.

“What’s the plan, drama mama?”

“First of all,” she said, an almost humorously dangerous look on her face, “never call me that again. Second,” she shoved some papers into Paxton’s hands, “meet me in the music room immediately after school.” She started back for her table. Trent looked back over to Paxton. 

“You gotta do it, dude. We’ll cover for you at swim.” 

The rest of his friends agreed. He was pleasantly surprised at how supportive they were being. 

“Yeah, I guess... we’ve got a plan.”

~

The next day went by pretty smoothly. No rehearsal was scheduled since they were finishing construction for some of the sets, but everyone was instructed to do a couple read throughs of the script, focusing on scenes they’re still forgetting, to make sure everyone’s off book. You stopped by 7 Eleven to get a blue slurpee (for homework) and a couple coconut waters (for run throughs). You texted Eleanor on your way to the slurpee machine. 

okay so do you like the mango coconut water or the pineapple one?? It’s the mango one right?? i always forget lmao

sent at 4:16 pm

btw I don’t have that much homework so you can probs come by around 5:30 if you’re ready by then

sent at 4:16 pm

Bae Tuck

OMFG!! I totally forgot about running lines tonight, I can’t make it! :( but I’ll send someone over to help you out. :)

sent at 4:17 pm

You squinted at your screen. That was weird. Eleanor never used colon parentheses smilies. Like, ever. She always used emojis, and usually way more than two per text. 

yeah np, are u good? ♡

sent at 4:17 pm

Bae Tuck

Yes :)

sent at 4:18 pm

Bae Tuck

Also get the passionfruit one 🥥🍠 👀

sent at 4:18

that’s,,, el that’s a sweet potato,,

sent at 4:19 pm

Bae Tuck

Close enough 🤷🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️

sent at 4:19pm

...Okay? That was definitely weird. You shook it off and headed for the counter to pay. You stopped half way there, and turned back to swap the mango for passionfruit. 

Not long after you had finished your homework and tidied up your room a little, the doorbell rang. You exited the kitchen, drinks in hand, and opened the door. Your heart caught in your throat. Paxton Hall-Yoshida was standing outside. And you were pretty sure he looked nervous. You both just stood there for a second. No one breathed, no one spoke. 

“Uh, hi, do you want to…” you backed up, motioning for him to come inside. 

“Yeah, thanks,” he said, entering the doorway. Paxton motherfucking Hall-Yoshida was in your living room. You held out a hand to him.

“Coconut water?” he took the box, looked at the label, and smiled. 

“Yeah, thanks,” he said again, this time a faint, yet unmistakable note of joy in his voice. He took a sip. He smiled.

“Passionfruit’s my favorite.” You silently thanked Eleanor, who you knew must have planned all this. Most of the evening was a blur, and you thanked god your family wasn’t home right now. You went upstairs, texted Eleanor asking what the actual fuck, made some surprisingly comfortable small talk, then filled him in on how to run lines. 

“Do you think playing the soundtrack would help you… get into character?” he asked. 

“I would probably just end up singing the whole thing,” You laughed and tried to ignore the butterflies in your chest. The main scene you struggled with was before “Seventeen”. It was harder to get into Winnie’s head because you had no romantic feelings for Jonah, and you always just made each other laugh. You had started with a few easier scenes of Winnie and Jesse, like the fair, and the dialogue before “Top of the World”. 

“That was really good,” he said, and you felt the sincerity of his words. 

“Thanks…” you smiled and took a sip of coconut water, hoping you weren’t blushing too hard. 

“So what next?” he asked. 

“Probably the scene before ‘Seventeen’,” you said, giving him the page and scene number, “it’s one of the hardest ones for me. I guess I just can’t connect to Jonah the way Winnie does.” 

“Huh,” he said, skimming the page. When you looked up at him, he had something between a smile and a smirk playing at his lips. You made yourself look away before you got too distracted. You refused to think about the fact that you were sitting across from Paxton Hall-Yoshida on your bed, in your room, like you were… close with each other. His eyes skimmed the script, finding the dialogue. He glanced up at you and nodded, indicating he found his place. You began.

“I was so afraid you wouldn’t get away,” you said, jumping into character.

“I may be 102, but I can still outrun anyone,” a smile played at his lips. You smiled, then let your face fall.

“I’m so sorry, I-I tried to warn you-”

“No, no,” he interjected almost seamlessly, “It’s okay, it’s… refreshing having someone look after me who isn’t my mom.” His eyes flickered between your face and the page. You smiled with him for a second, then let distress cloud your face.

“Jesse… that man came by my house today. He heard the music box, he knows about you-”

“I know he knows…” 

You continued on with the scene and he trailed off when he came to the sheet music for the song Seventeen. You took in a breath to start the dialogue in the middle of the song, but before you could…

“Six years from now you will turn seventeen,

Turn seventeen,

The same age as me,

Six years from now,

Go to the spring,

Go to the spring and drink…”

He was singing to you. He was looking at you and singing to you. His eyes only flickered down to the page to confirm the lyrics. He was nervous, you could tell. But through his hesitance, the emotion in his voice was sincere. Your heart was beating faster. You didn’t even notice your pulse was ringing in your ears, you were too focused on Paxton. 

“I'll wait for you till you turn seventeen,

Turn seventeen,

The same age as me,

Six years from now,

Go to the spring,

Go to the spring and drink…” Your hand rose to cover your mouth. He hesitated, and you remembered your dialogue.

“Uh, wh-what if I… forget where the spring is?” He reached out and took your free hand in his. Your pulse was off the charts. “I’ll go get you some water. Just… remember to keep it somewhere safe. Somewhere no one will find it.” You got the feeling he wasn’t just talking about the water. You knew he had never really been in a serious relationship before, and it clicked suddenly - if he learned an entire song to duet with you, just how much he must like you. You exhaled a breathy laugh, unsure how to process the sudden euphoria you felt. 

“You make the world sound so… exciting. I just want to drink the water right now!”

“Uh, no. You have to wait.” you both smiled, anticipating the upcoming joke.

“Why?” you ask, “What’s the difference?” You held your breath as he tried not to laugh through the delivery of the punchline. 

“Believe me,” he rubbed his thumb over your hand, “there’s a difference.” You both chuckled, and he continued singing. You were so focused on him, so… touched that he would do all this for you. 

“Winnie, wait with me,

And we could be married,

Winnie, wait with me,

And we'll share the world,

Winnie, you can stop time,

And live like this,

Forever…”

“I could live like this forever,” you echoed.

“Live like this...” you sang in tandem.

“What do you say, Winnie? Do you want to…” he broke character suddenly, and asked, his eyes boring into yours, “Do you want to go out some time?” 

He could see the adorable smile blooming on your face, even from behind your hand. You nodded.

“Yes, I-I would love that,” and you began to sing the last line in the song, “Forever-” 

But before you finished holding out the note, his lips were on yours. His mouth moved slowly, intentionally, against yours. You followed his lead, flustered. He leaned further forward, his palm caressing your cheek. It was everything you imagined it would be, and you had quite the imagination. Your head was angled up and your hands rested themselves on his back, one tracing little shapes. Your shoulders were pressed against each other and neither of you could think. He was so warm. He tasted like coconut and passion fruit, and a distant part of your mind silently thanked Eleanor again. 

You really could live like this forever.

[meltingheartsandcores]

Yoooo your new fic is so cool!! How will lwj react to finding out about his daughter?

So, when I wrote the story, I had no idea, hence why I ended it there. But I was thinking on how to answer this last night, and ended up writing an entire second chapter at like one am. And then editted it through my Bio lecture (which was not my best idea but it’s just a kahoot quiz rn so not that bad of idea) but also means it’s lightly editted at best, sorry.

Oh and for Daiyu’s characters, I’ve lost the file that initially had them, but I’m like 80% sure they were 黛玉 which should be Dark Jade if I’m not wrong.

Anyways, hope you enjoy the story, I’ve put this under a read more because it’s long, lol.

Lan Wangji was not happy when Lan Xichen revealed that they did not know where Wei Wuxian was. Nie Mingjue was not happy with Lan Wangji pouting, so Lan Xichen had to stop several attempts of just telling Lan Wangji the school they had picked the kids up at yesterday and the park.

Just because they found out about Daiyu that way, does not mean Wangji has to. In Lan Xichen’s opinion at least. Truly it was up to Wei Wuxian.

So, while Nie Mingjue was cooking breakfast, Lan Xichen texts Wei Wuxian a very simple;

Wangji is here. Would you like to see him?

The question feels a little ridiculous to ask, after all they had just cleared up a major misunderstanding, the only reason Lan Xichen was aware of that they broke up, why wouldn’t Wei Wuxian want to see Lan Wangji? Then again, it has been five years. While Wei Wuxian asked after Lan Wangji’s relationship status, he gave nothing of his own. Aside from the fact that he was living with Wen Qing.

Who, to Lan Xichen’s knowledge, Wei Wuxian hadn’t been all that close to before they had broken up. And considering he was told the Wens moved away from the city barely a week after Wei Wuxian left the Jiangs, there wasn’t much time for him to get so attached to move across the country with them.

So, while waiting for Wei Wuxian to text back, Lan Xichen did his best to distract Lan Wangji. Except, Lan Wangji was not having it.

“Xiongzhang,” Oh that tone was not good. “If Wei Ying does not wish to see me, just tell me.” Lan Wangji asks, sounding serious but looking, to Lan Xichen at least, like if he did as asked he would be breaking Lan Wangji’s heart.

“I’m sure Wei Wuxian wishes to see you. The problem is, is that this is now rather fresh for him. And there are some things he’s told me that make me concerned to just, point you in his vague direction.” Lan Xichen explains since, yes, it was odd for him to be restraining Lan Wangji. In their teenage years Lan Xichen all but pushed Lan Wangji to hang out with Wei Wuxian. And sometimes he did, actually physically push Lan Wangji to hang out with Wei Wuxian.

“He disappeared five years ago without a word.” Lan Wangji states, reminding himself of that oddity before asking, “What happened?”

And the conversation Lan Xichen did not want to have. “After he left the Jiang family, he came to the house to spend the night as he hadn’t expected to be kicked out so soon. You were out with me,” Lan Wangji nods, remembering the night he very much did not want to spend out of the house, “so Uncle answered the door. He told Wei Wuxian you wanted nothing to do with him, and to never contact the Lan family again.” Lan Xichen admits, wincing when Lan Wangji’s eyes go coldly furious. “Of course, this is only what Wei Wuxian has told me, I have not had the chance to hear what Uncle has to say on this.” Lan Xichen reminds, but it didn’t matter. Lan Wangji cared about what Wei Wuxian heard, not what their Uncle meant all those years ago. It does, at this point, seem more important. Even if Uncle hadn’t said so in so many words, it did result in Wei Wuxian disappearing for five years with Lan Wangji’s daughter.

“You should speak to him.” Lan Wangji states coldly, clearing meaning for Lan Xichen to get an explanation that does not result in Lan Wangji dropping contact with all of them and moving in with Wei Wuxian.

Lan Xichen’s not entirely sure that’s not going to happen anyways, considering Daiyu.

Thankfully, Lan Xichen’s phone goes off with an alert, and he’s relieved to see Wei Wuxian texted him back, and the message also relieves, a little.

What the fuck. How the fuck did he get here. I’m not kidding, the trains don’t run overnight here, it’s literally impossible for him to be here. What the fuck. Oh, but, send him to the Starbucks. There’s literally only one in the town so. I’ll meet him there at 10

The idea of going to Starbucks makes Lan Xichen want to send Wangji to the park, but he ignores it and instead repeats the place and time, and Lan Wangji immediately gets on his phone to get a cab to the city. Lan Xichen could offer to drive Lan Wangji himself, or even their car, but he wants some time with Nie Mingjue. And he wants their car at their place tomorrow morning, which if all goes well, Lan Wangji will not be returning to the cabin.

So he lets Lan Wangji leave in a cab.

--

Lan Wangji will admit his actions the previous night were illogical. And rude. First he hung up on his brother, then he ran out on his Uncle without a word (although considering what Lan Xichen told him, he doesn’t feel bad about it anymore) and paid a lot of money to be taken to the rather remote town Wei Wuxian had decided to live in. But now that he knows where Wei Wuxian was, how close he was, he was more than eager. He had been looking for Wei Wuxian for the past five years, never with any success. He had never been sure what had caused Wei Wuxian to leave without a word before, always thought to the weeks previous for anything he’d done. Now that he knows the truth...

He wishes he never agreed to go out with Lan Xichen that night.

But he cannot change the past. All he can do is cherish and love Wei Wuxian now.

Even if that means going to Starbucks.

Lan Wangji pays the cab and walks up to the Starbucks. He can’t help the face he makes, the places are always too loud for him, and it’s a show of excess that makes him twitch. Wei Wuxian always liked them, so he always made an effort to at least tolerate the places, but he couldn’t help the cringe.

Of course, the cringe drops from his face as he hears a familiar bark of laughter, snapping his head to the side to see Wei Wuxian. Looking the same as ever. No. Not the same. Older. More lines, more age, but no less beautiful. With a bling bright smile, “What’s with Lans and Starbucks?” Wei Wuxian asks laughing.

“Wei Ying.” Lan Wangji whispers, before processing the question and answering, “You know our principles, do you not think it’s the opposite of everything we value?”

Wei Wuxian shrugs, tilting his head to the side, “I guess. Counterpoint, their Frappuccino’s are delicious.”

“Excessive amounts of sugar.” Lan Wangji counters, feeling sixteen again and like lecturing Wei Wuxian on what those drinks will do to his health.

“Hey, some sugar is good. Besides, I don’t think I ever got you to try their Matcha Frapp.” Wei Wuxian says, grabbing Lan Wangji’s arm and dragging him into the Starbucks.

“Why.”

“Why not?” There was the smile again, bright and beautiful.

And Lan Wangji couldn’t argue. This Starbucks was quieter, than the ones Wei Wuxian would drag him to years ago, Wei Wuxian orders quickly for them both, and Lan Wangji did nothing but stare.

“Aiyah, Lan Zhan, what’s with the staring?” Wei Wuxian asks after noticing while waiting for their drinks, an amused smile gracing his lips.

Lan Wangji debates his answer, he could say many things, most would probably make Wei Wuxian blush, but in the end he decides on, “Worried Wei Ying will disappear again.”

Wei Wuxian huffs a laugh, “Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying shakes his head, and then his smile drops, which makes Lan Wangji furrow his brow, “So, how much did Lan Xichen tell you?”

“He told me you were here. And what Uncle said. Which was untrue.” Lan Wangji states, not sure what else there was to say. Perhaps how Wei Wuxian chose this place?

Wei Wuxian chuckles, “Yeah, Lan Xichen made that clear yesterday.” Wei Wuxian scratches his nose three times, clearly thinking about something, considering his next actions. Normally it would predate a prank, but Lan Wangji has the distinct feeling Wei Wuxian is not going to be pulling pranks right now. “So, he just said that?” Lan Wangji nods, becoming confused. “Let’s wait for our drinks.” Wei Wuxian decides, confusing Lan Wangji further, but all he does is nod. For now, he’s fine with Wei Wuxian setting the pace.

When they get their drinks and sit down, Lan Wangji eyes his green frapp with contention, only taking a sip when prompted by Wei Wuxian. It wasn’t, terrible. He still didn’t like it. But it was better than the other frapps Wei Wuxian has had him try over the years.

He still didn’t drink more beyond that sip.

Wei Wuxian sighs and sips at his drink a little, before setting it aside, “Well, I suppose I can’t do this the same way I did it with Lan Xichen and Dage.” Lan Wangji furrows his brow slightly, becoming confused once more. “Not unless you’re willing to wait five hours.” Lan Wangji shakes his head, he was not in the mood to be waiting today. Not for long. He’s finally seeing Wei Wuxian again. Wei Wuxian nods, “Didn’t think so. Uh, so. How to say this...”

“You say what you are thinking.” Lan Wangji states, almost on reflex, having said it to Wei Wuxian so many times when they were together, when Wei Wuxian was having trouble putting words to his thoughts.

“I’m thinking how to tell you I was pregnant without breaking your brain.” Wei Wuxian retorts, clearly on reflex, as he always would when Lan Wangji would make that remark. Normally it allowed for Lan Wangji to assist in phrasing, as while Wei Wuxian was better at conversational talking than Lan Wangji, he also typically just trailed off and made half sentences he expected the people around him to understand. While Lan Wangji would consider his words until he knew exactly what he was going to say. Making it easier sometimes, for Lan Wangji to assist.

This time however.

Lan Wangji blinks.

Once.

Pregnant.

Twice.

Pregnant

Thrice.

‘Wei Ying was pregnant when he left.’

Four times.

“And I broke you, shit.” Lan Wangji was not truly paying attention to Wei Wuxian, he should be. Now more than ever. But he can’t.

‘Wei Ying and I had a child.’

‘Wei Ying and I have a child’

No. Maybe not. Wei Wuxian could've- “Did you keep it?” Legally, Wei Wuxian wouldn't have been able to abort without Lan Wangji's permission. But then, legality has never been a concern to Wei Wuxian for all Lan Wangji has known him.

Wei Wuxian blinks, clearly caught off guard by the question. “Uh, yeah. Her name is Daiyu, she’s four. Turning five. In a couple of months actually.”

“Daiyu.” Lan Wangji repeats, nodding, it’s a nice name. She’s four. “May I meet her?” Did Wei Wuxian want him in her life? Did he want Lan Wangji in his? Maybe he met someone else? Maybe what Uncle said stuck with him hard enough that he doesn’t want anything to do with Lan Wangji anymore.

“Well. She’s at school. Well, not school. Qing-jie said she could start next year if she really wants to, but four is too young.” Wei Wuxian shrugs, “I didn’t start school til I was nine so, I don’t really have an opinion. Or, I don’t get one.” That felt wrong. But Lan Wangji has not being helping Wei Wuxian, so, he also does not get an opinion. He thinks. “But there are these activities that go on at the school. From eight to eleven, and then from twelve to three. Technically she’s too young for those too, but the organizer is scared of Qing-jie, so, she’s allowed.” Wei Wuxian nods, “Our daughter is terrifyingly smart Lan Zhan. She might take over the world.”

“She will deserve it.”

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian exclaims, “You cannot endorse your daughter taking over the world.”

“If she can do it, why shouldn’t she?”

Wei Wuxian’s mouth moves, clearly intent on saying something but nothing comes out but a bark of laughter, “Holy shit. Wen Qing is never going to believe me being the sane parent. What the fuck.”

Ah, too much? He does have four years to make up for. Besides, why shouldn’t he support their daughters business ventures? Or would this be politics? Ah, it would be politics. In that case, “Not until she is at least fourteen.”

“...You’re so going to be the soft parent.” Was Wei Wuxian’s only comment. Then he checks his phone and stands up, “We should start walking over to the school. You can meet Daiyu, and we’ll see if she took our conversation last night to heart.”

Lan Wangji furrows his brow slightly at that, standing as well. Did, Did Daiyu not have a high opinion of him? No, of course she wouldn’t. No matter what Wei Wuxian said, he has been absent. Wei Wuxian chucks both their drinks, which seems like a horrible waste but Lan Wangji was not about to suggest he actually finish that drink, so he follows Wei Wuxian out without comment.

“Does she not like me?” Lan Wangji asks as Wei Wuxian leads them to the school.

Wei Wuxian hums, “It’s not that. It’s just, ok, for the past five years, it’s been the general belief that you essentially had your Uncle break up with me for you in like, the shittiest way. So, in general the Wens aren’t the Lans biggest fans. After Lan Xichen explained what actually happened, the adults are all coming around. Daiyu seemed to be also, but it might still take a while. I mean, yesterday she thought you wanted nothing to do with her.”

“Incorrect.” Lan Wangji would never not want anything to do with his child. He only wishes he had known about her sooner.

Wei Wuxian snorts, “Yeah, explained it to her last night. We shall see if she remains unconvinced.”

He hopes not. He would like to meet her. He would like to help raise her. He should move out here. “If Daiyu is amicable, how do you feel about me moving out here?” He should ask. It might be overstepping. They did break up five years ago, technically.

Wei Wuxian blinks, clearly surprised, “Ah, to spend time with Daiyu? I don’t know how your uncle would feel if you moved out here, maybe you could use the Nie’s cabin every few weeks, for visitation? That way you could still work, and meet people.”

Why would Lan Wangji want to meet people? He hates people. Wait. Lan Wangji considers the words, coming to the conclusion that it was a euphemism. But for- Oh. Ew. “No people. Only Wei Ying.”

Now Wei Wuxian was surprised and confused, and he chuckles awkwardly, “Lan Zhan, it’s been five years.”

“It’s only ever been Wei Ying.” Lan Wangji affirms, then, softer, “If Wei Ying no longer wishes for a relationship...” it would hurt, but he would get over it.

(He would not. He would spend his decades with the bunnies Wei Wuxian got him writing sappy love songs. As he’s been doing for five years. Although, in those decades, he might actually relent to Nie Huaisang’s plans of recording and selling those songs.)

Thankfully Wei Ying shakes his head, “Ah no! That’s not-” Wei Ying nods, and steals Lan Wangji’s wording, “Only Lan Zhan.”

It makes Lan Zhan smile softly, entirely entranced by Wei Wuxian, entirely in love with the man in front of him.

When they arrive at the school, there are children running about the front area on the grass. “Oh, they must’ve let out early. We still have ten minutes.” Wei Wuxian comments idly. Lan Wangji was curious as to what he planned for them to do for ten minutes, but that was moot now. Instead, Wei Wuxian was scanning the yard, presumably for Wei Daiyu. Eventually he seems to find her since he makes several ‘come over’ motions.

Soon enough a small child barrels into Wei Wuxian’s legs. “Oof. Nice to see you again too.” Wei Wuxian jokes, smiling down at their daughter.

Daiyu doesn’t look at Wei Wuxian, instead, still clinging to Wei Wuxian’s leg, she turns her head slightly to look at Lan Wangji. Lan Wangji’s breath catches in his throat, she had Wei Wuxian’s nose and chin. He crouches down to be on her level. “I am Lan Wangji, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Wei Daiyu.”

Wei Wuxian snorts, “You don’t need to be formal with your own daughter Lan Zhan. A-Yu,” Wei Wuxian puts a hand on Daiyu’s back, making the young girl look up at him, “this is your A-Die.”

Daiyu returns her gaze to Lan Wangji, “Why are you here now?”

“I was told where you were.” Lan Wangji states truthfully.

“How come you didn’t look for us?” Daiyu demands.

“I did.” Lan Wangji admits, making Wei Wuxian stop, blinking in shock, “But your A-Niang is very good at disappearing.”

Daiyu seemed to consider before nodding, accepting that answer, “Are you staying?”

“If you’ll let me. If you want me here, I will be here for you, for the rest of my life.” Lan Wangji promises.

Lan Wangji worries, for a moment, that they were the wrong words as tears well up in Daiyu’s eyes, but then she was in his arms, burying her face in his shirt, soaking it with tears and snot- not that Lan Wangji minded- telling him he was never allowed to leave. Lan Wangji wraps his arms around his daughter, holding her close with a soft smile on his face.

So, they were the right words.

Lan Wangji smiles up at Wei Wuxian, who seemed utterly relieved and happy, just smiling softly at the pair, Lan Wangji knows he still irrevocably in love with Wei Wuxian, and seeing him like this makes him confident that Wei Wuxian still loves him. With that, Lan Wangji knows with absolution, that he's moving out here.

Whether he tells anyone is still up for debate.

[ryuichirou]

I saw one very stupid post on my dash about how snk is OBVIOUSLY nazi propaganda and trying to convert all of us into imperialists and white supremacists. tbh it’s not the first time I’ve seen that kind of stuff and probably won't be the last, but for some reason this time it gave me a lot of anxiety (I got wordy, I'mma need to send another ask, sorry)

(part 2) It's been more than half and hour and I still feel this awful sensation in my chest. It's just overall pretty fucked how to have something you hold dear being misinterpreted in the worst way possible, and I was just wondering what are your thoughts on this situation or how you deal with people claiming all sorts of awful shit.

(part 3) I imagine that as an artist some people probably direct their issues with snk towards you, 'cause I don't even post that much fanart and I've gotten anons "trying to educate me" on why this series is so wrong, after posting drawings. Of course, you don't have to reply, maybe the topic makes you anxious too and I don't want to bother you, so sorry for the depressing topic (｡•́︿•̀｡)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Tiiish, I want to hug you, I’m really sorry that this happened to you. I hope you’re feeling a little bit better now.

Like we already mentioned a while ago, when we were talking about that darn article, after we read through it and did a little fact checking (and I mean it when I say a little, because there weren’t many facts to check), we stopped caring about it. It’s not research at all, just a manipulatively written speculation on Yam’s motives and worldview, but sadly, people easily believe these accusations because they hate SnK and want to find a valid reason to hate it and shit on its fanbase. Because “I hate it because it’s nazi propaganda” sounds much cooler than “I hate it because it’s popular”, doesn’t it?

It’s easier to ignore the article itself though, and it’s much harder not to think about tumblr posts or those Twitter threads that get very popular (although there are a lot of bots on twitter, trust me…), and it’s especially difficult to ignore it when it’s specifically directed at you. But the only thing that these people deserve is a good ol’ block and (if they’re getting too offensive and abusive) a report for harassment. The thing is, their opinion doesn’t matter: it won’t change SnK’s story, it won’t affect its success and popularity, it doesn’t affect anything other than our mood (temporarily lol). Because they aren’t critics who actually give a flying fuck about the subject matter, they’re just random assholes with a hateboner for SnK, who sit in their echochamber and discuss the same shit over and over again. And if they’re “fans” of the SnK, it’s just them “consuming it critically” 🙄 such a convenient phrase and so easy to abuse.

If we think about these accusations again… they’re so damn nonsensical, it’s almost amazing. I’m not going to reread it or to make a proper counterpoint article out of this ask, so this is just based on how we remember these accusations.

Like, what part of SnK approves and pushes the idea of imperialism in any way? When the entire idea of the story is that war is bad? When people like Onyankopon, whose homeland was invaded by Marley, exist? And it’s never portrayed as a good thing? Having only one country dominating the world’s situation is literally the main reason why everyone’s suffering??

And come to think of it, Isayama is one of the few manga artists to kind of sort of openly critique Japan: he literally drew Kiyomi losing her cool and drooling while thinking about all the profit and wealth she would get from the deal with Paradis. Why do people never talk about that? What is it, if not a critique of greedy and two-faced nature of people from Azumabito clan, who are heavily implied to represent Japan? I don’t read a lot of manga in general, but do you know how many mangakas I’ve seen who directly talked shit about Japan while being Japanese? Two. Excluding Isayama.

Isayama is clearly invested in the Western culture and he understands the World’s History. He understands that political relationships are complex and that there are no “bad” or “good” countries. I don’t want to make assumptions about how much perspective of the world’s relationships the average person from Japan has, but I still feel like Yams has a pretty good understanding of it. He did his research for the subject matter, and while it’s obviously not perfect, it’s clearly there.

These people also claim that SnK is anti-Korean and anti-Semitic, but if Hetalia had taught me anything, it is that if the story has or used to have any anti-Korean undertones, the Korean readers wouldn’t want to have anything to do with it. They would be the first people to ditch the manga, they would be the first people to critique SnK, and rightfully so. They burnt Uniqlo clothes, their overall domestic policy is pretty anti-Japanese, so there’re literally zero reasons for them not to destroy SnK if they see it as anti-Korean. But the size of the Korean SnK fandom suggests otherwise, doesn’t it.

And the “big noses = Jewish caricature” argument, seriously? How anti-Semitic can you get? Who the fuck looks at people and goes “oh, those have big noses, bet they’re caricature of Jews”?? Sorry I’m getting heated lol The argument about “Asian artists portray Westerners with prominent noses because that’s what we look like to them” has been done a lot of times, I’m not going to go over than again.

And god forbid Isayama to use Germany and Europe to draw a story where his characters are (approximately) Germans and Europeans! Let’s go fetch our pitchforks to punish Isayama for using their aesthetic to make his story look more believable and authentic, right? “Oh, those areas where they hold Eldians resemble places from real life”, like no shit???? Ofc they would??? That’s what references for making the story more grounded are used for??? If I were to write a story about a fictional place based on a real one that I don’t live in, I’d use some visual references to help me to make it more believable??? Why do I even need to explain that?

In my previous post I talked about the armbands and ghetto and stuff, but I’ll reiterate: even if there are thematic similarities, it doesn’t mean that the story mirrors our history. And it doesn’t mean that there is an analogy, since Eldian’s situation is quiiiite different than what Jewish people had to go through. It’s just thematic similarities. And it still doesn’t plant any specific idea in the reader’s head, other than “having people shoved into ghettos with 0 civil rights is a horrible thing”, and I can’t comprehend what’s anti-Semitic or imperialistic about it. Also I’m sorry, but nazis are not the only people who genocided a bunch of people, breaking news. Nor did they invent armbands. Same goes for Japan in WWII.

And now for my favourite argument: Erwin is nazi because his name is Erwin and he was born on the same day than some nazi guy died… I won’t even talk about why this idea is hilariously stupid, I just want to appreciate the level of nitpicking that’s going on here.

So… yeah. People who have nothing else to do but to complain about the show they hate don’t matter. And people who consider themselves a part of the SnK fandom and still say this bs (yep, there are people who do that) are huge hypocrites. The heck are they doing in this fandom then?? Of course, any story is up to interpretation, but this is so backwards?

Sorry for rambling so much… anyways. We’re happy enough not to encounter any hate related to this topic, but we think it’s because we ship Ereri and people already hate us for that, so the majority of shit we get is related to that, I guess we’re a lost cause for them. We’ll see if anything happens after this post though.

But once again, I’m very sorry that you had to go through this. Please remember that this isn’t personal at all, and people who harass strangers on the internet just want to flex their high moral ground while acting like complete assholes. You don’t have to explain anything to them, you don’t have to talk to them, you don’t have to listen to them or give them any attention. I hope you’ll never stumble upon anything like this; but if you ever do, please block them, don’t even bother reading their attempts at “educate” you. Isn’t worth it.

Please have a good day, Tish. And everyone who’s reading this reply.

[firelxdykatara]

incidentally, i really wish i gave a shit about hazel or his redemption. genuinely! his fight with salem was pretty cool, the dust vs magic shit was clever and well-done, but like... the show failed to give him believable motivations as a villain, so why am i supposed to care that he suddenly switched sides for no reason at all?

leaving aside how pointless the scene with jinn was ( @itsclydebitches covers it well in her recap but like, how did just seeing a naked blue genie answer any questions he had??? and also why didn’t they just ask a fucking question to make the relic useless to salem, i do not understand-), i have never understood hazel’s point as a villain to begin with--at least not once the gretchen reveal happened. before that, he was actually pretty interesting--a counterpoint to adam’s needless ferocity, seeming like he might be the One with a Conscience among the bad guys, but then he just goes absolutely feral trying to kill oscar because of ozpin and all of that just flies right out of the window.

the show could have established that gretchen was on a mission for ozpin when she died. that way, hazel’s anger would at least make marginally more sense as he connects gretchen’s death specifically to ozpin’s orders. have oz apologize for sending her into a situation she wasn’t ready to handle. or even establish that salem lied to hazel, and made him believe that the war was ozpin’s fault! that he was ultimately to blame for the grimm existing and the war continuing for so long. something. instead, all it says is that gretchen was enrolled at beacon, and that she died during a training mission. a risk students training to be huntsman and huntresses know and understand going in. it is a risk they accept when they decide to train to fight grimm. presumably it’s why the huntsman academies are college rather than high school aged--young enough to be able to intensively train and potentially have a decades-long career, but old enough to be able to decide for themselves if the risks are ones they are willing to undertake.

which is exactly what gretchen did. she accepted the possibility that she might die fighting grimm, because that is literally a huntress’ job. it’s tragic that it happened so young, and on a training mission, but it would’ve been just as tragic if she were a fully licensed huntress dying on her first mission, or her fifth, or her fiftieth. because people dying young is a tragedy. but it’s still a risk that huntsmen and huntresses choose for themselves. it’s the risk gretchen agreed to when she enrolled at beacon.

so what it ends up reading like is ‘my sister made a choice i can’t understand/didn’t approve of, and she died, so since i can’t blame her for it i must transfer my rage to the nearest potential target’. except that he is now working directly for the woman who created the grimm that killed his sister. (something something themes about choice vs fate vs destiny being a cornerstone of the show, and yet blaming ozpin for the choices of other characters -cough- pyrrha -cough- is a thing this fandom [and lately the show] does constantly, but i digress) ok, so v8 established that he went after salem first and tried to pulverize her again and again and eventually realized she couldn’t be killed. fine. so he........starts working for her. helps her murder huntsmen and huntresses who made the same choice his sister did.

to avenge his sister.

yeah ok.

and the thing is, confused/twisted/seemingly nonsensical motivations for villains aren’t inherently a bad thing, or even bad storytelling... but the story has to acknowledge that it’s happening! or at least, it has to if i’m expected to buy it and ultimately care about the character in question. where is the acknowledgement from hazel that his rage at ozpin was ultimately misdirected, and he is finally choosing to respect his sister’s choice by following in her footsteps? where is the realization that she made her choice and the outcome might not have been any different if she’d gone to another school, or if she’d graduated and become a fully fledged huntress and died facing grimm anyway?

(and let’s not forget, please, that in the midst of all this, he’s been beating the everloving shit out of a young boy, several years younger than gretchen would’ve been when she died at her possible youngest. i’m sorry but i don’t fucking buy hazel’s sudden concern and compassion when he gave no fucks about oscar before, just because he housed the soul of the headmaster who just happened to be running the school his sister chose to attend.)

we don’t get that. we get “no more gretchens, boy” which.... like? what is the alternative? what, exactly, does hazel expect the world to do rather than risking potential ‘gretchens’--that is, people training to fight grimm and ultimately losing that fight, either in training or afterwards? what is the alternative to the huntsmen academies, exactly? just rolling over and letting grimm slaughter people rather than training them to fight to protect themselves and others? it’s not as if people didn’t train to fight grimm before the academies--there were combat schools scattered throughout the kingdoms, and exactly how different would hazel’s current situation be if gretchen had attended a small combat school and then gotten killed by grimm, rather than beacon? and for that matter, would hazel really have been perfectly fine if his sister had, idk, been 23 or 25 instead of 17-21 when she died?

it seems to me that the only way to prevent ‘gretchens’ from happening again is to.... stop training people to fight grimm. and that’s a recipe for disaster, because it’s not as if the grimm are slowing down. it’s not as if salem can be stopped permanently, as far as hazel knows, and she will always be able to just... make more grimm. he’s seen that personally.

so, ultimately, his sacrifice rings very hollow for me. i already didn’t care for his origins because they made no sense, even in their illogic, and i care even less for his more nonsensical decision to defect. and it’s a pity, because i’ve always been a sucker for a good villain redemption story. hazel’s just... wasn’t that, at all, for me. (i did enjoy emerald’s part, but it remains to be seen how that’ll be handled in the rest of the volume. and frankly, i’m a little salty that hazel got this role rather than mercury, for whom i could actually see something like this working.)

[swampofiniquity]

Modern Chemistry (Leon Kennedy x Reader)

Part One of the new Point / Counterpoint series 

Rated: Teen and Up

Word Count: 2,260

Cross-posted from AO3 (Pizza_Of_My_Eye)

Summary: Life sucks so you drag your best friend to a bar and attempt to drink your problems away. Probably not the smartest idea you’ve ever had, but you’ve had worse nights.

Warnings: Self-medication, some language, maybe not the most healthy friendship ever.

You relished the feeling of the alcohol rushing to your head as you stared into your now empty glass. It was smudged with your lipstick and fingerprints and the swirling patterns of each captured your drunken attention, the bar and your best friend’s voice melting into background noise as you zoned out completely.

Three drinks in and you were so close to achieving your goal of blissful inebriation.

“Y/N!”

You jumped, the volume of his voice calling out your name startling you out of your stupor. Judging by the annoyed furrow in his brow and the sharp clench in his jaw, it wasn’t Leon’s first attempt to get your attention. You closed your eyes and rolled your shoulders, trying and failing to nonchalantly force the bubbling pit of anxiety back down your throat.

God, you needed another drink.

You forced a smile and focused your increasingly blurry eyes on the man beside you. Even after five years of friendship, it was still surreal sometimes, seeing him outside of work and very nearly blending in with regular civilian life. To the untrained eye, he pulled it off perfectly, but you could tell by the way he sat - spine just a little too straight, feet planted a little too solidly, stool angled just right to keep the bar’s exits in clear view.

He had seen too much in his relatively short life to ever be truly relaxed in public again.

“You don’t have to shout; I’m right here,” you admonished, plucking the glass from his fingers and knocking back the remainder of his whiskey. You winced as the warm liquid burned on the way down.

“Are you?” he sniffed, clearly unconvinced, and flagged down the bartender for another round.

You shrugged, a little inelegantly from the three vodka cranberries you’d already killed that night, and swayed a little as you reached for the fourth when your fresh drinks were slid across the bar. Leon grabbed them both first and held them to his chest as he frowned at you again, his blue eyes narrowed in the low light.

You laughed, misreading his intentions completely, and the sound was harsh and overly loud as most drunken laughs tended to be. “Didn’t think mixed drinks were your thing, Leon.”

Leon’s lip twitched like he was fighting a smile, or maybe a sneer, but otherwise didn’t respond. After a moment, you whined impatiently, all your dignity pretty much checked out for the night at that point. You were about to make grabby hands for your drink when a sudden wave of dizziness washed over you, causing you to need to grab the bar for support. “Give it, Kennedy.”

“Not sure that’s a good idea.” The words sounded off, almost forced, like he was fighting his own teeth to get them out. “Why don’t switch to water for a while, sweetheart?”

“Jesus, what are you my dad all of a sudden?” You snorted. It was a throw away line, a joke so completely lacking in self awareness that it would have made your skin crawl had you been sober.

Leon licked his lips and leaned forward, crowding you so close you could smell his shampoo. “Dunno, you drinking to mask your fear of me too?”

You shouldn’t have been so shocked that he called you on it, because of course he did. He was one of the few people in the world with the security clearance to even know about your father, but, unsurprisingly, binge drinking to repress your rampant daddy issues also came with the side effect of being slow on the uptake. Was it really too much to ask of your friend to let you drink yourself into oblivion and ignore reality in peace?

The alcohol in your blood was enough to swing the irrational pendulum of your mood from shock to fury in record time.

Thankfully, the music was loud enough in the bar to cover the sharp crack of you slapping him hard across the face, a move you would come to regret by morning, but one that the rage burning hot through your veins had demanded in the moment. Whether or not he deserved to be on the receiving end of that rage wasn’t the point, not that you were in any sort of condition for nuanced introspection. The point was you were angry and scared and had finally been pushed too far.

Leon straightened on his stool, mouth agape and eyebrows up to his hairline. He hadn’t been expecting that. You had never hit him before, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t given you plenty of reasons to over the years. Hell, he had spent nearly the first full year of your acquaintance obnoxiously and endlessly trying to get you to sleep with him. He wanted to deck himself just thinking about it.

He sighed and turned to place the drinks back down on the bar, quickly scanning the room to check that nobody had witnessed your little scene. When he turned back around, he caught your arm raised to strike him again and pulled, knocking you off balance so that you had to hold onto his shoulder to stay on your stool.

“Fuck you,” you seethed too loud, struggling to snatch your arm free. Leon’s free hand shot out to your hip, countering your weight to prevent you from falling since you seemed alarmingly unconcerned with the way your actions were making your stool wobble.

“Oh so that’s not what you’re doing here then? Will ya quit trying to hit me, goddamnit , people are staring.”

“ Fuck. You .”

“Fine, I’ll just leave then. Good luck getting your belligerent ass home yourself.” He stood, but your hand on his shoulder latched onto his jacket lapel and you were pulled forward onto your feet. It could have been the abrupt movement or the new fear of him actually abandoning you in a dive bar or just another stupid drunken mood swing, but you could feel the rage start to drain from your body along with any energy left to keep yourself upright. Instinctively, Leon caught you against his body before you could crumple to the bar’s dirty floor like a stringless marionette.

You both stood there, pressed together and silent for a while. Almost an entire verse of Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin” came and went over the speakers, and Leon started to worry that you might have fucking passed out on him until you heaved a deep breath and finally spoke.

“Leon…” you muttered, your face smushed against his chest.

He sighed again, his breath puffing out against your hair and sending a pleasant tingle down your spine. “What?” he asked, not unkindly.

“Don’t - please don’t leave me?” You shifted in his arms, winding your own around his waist and squeezing, either for reassurance or in an attempt to adhere yourself to him like a barnacle thus making leaving you impossible.

“You gonna hit me again?”

You shook your head and sniffed. “‘M sorry. Shouldn’t have done that.”

“Well, alright,” Leon replied and took his seat again, arms spread as if to say the floor was all yours.

You heaved yourself back up on your stool, still a little wobbly, but you waved off Leon’s move to help you. “But you shouldn’t have said that. It was fucking out of line and you know it.”

And there it was, the end of his rope. With how frustratingly evasive and cryptic you had been all night, he was surprised that he’d been able to make it as far as he did. You had called him to talk, not the other way around, and getting anything more than a despondent “I’m fine” out of you so far had been physically painful. Leon fought the urge to throw up his arms and scream at one of his few friends.

“What the hell do you want from me, huh? We’ve been sitting here for hours now on a fucking Tuesday night and you have yet to even allude to what’s bothering you. So, let me help you out and save the two of us some time, hmm? Your old man’s getting paroled and you’re scared.”

Leon’s threshold for being jerked around was normally pretty impressive - one didn’t get as far as he did in the DSO without willingly and exuberantly jumping through some pretty ridiculous hoops. He’d become an expert at playing the long game.

But his patience with you was always shockingly limited, despite his genuine affection towards you. Maybe it was because he knew you so well and expected more. Or maybe you were just the only person he actually let get under his skin and as such had a more direct line to his nerves. Leon really didn’t like to dwell on it.

The blood drained from your face, your mouth suddenly full of spit. You didn’t know if you were about to pass out or vomit or both as reality crashed back onto you with a vengeance. “How-” you croaked. “How do you even know that?”

“I keep an eye on you. Bad habit, I know, but I’ve been doing it for so long now that I can’t seem to help it.” His lips twitched into the barest approximation of a smile and you just blinked at him, stunned.  

“Jesus, Leon, I don’t know whether to be touched or to slap you again. You keep an eye - do I even want to know what that means?”

“I don’t know, when you first told me about your father I pulled his file at the DSO’s office. The shit he did, what he put you through -” he paused, taking a moment to polish off the rest of his whiskey. “I didn’t - I couldn’t let anything like that happen to you ever again. In fact, that reminds me, I called in a favor with the DA’s office and had them draw up some papers for you to sign, restraining order and the like. I’ll have them sent to your office when they’re ready.”

You had forgotten how far up the ladder Leon had climbed. Mr. Right Hand of the President, having favors to cash in from the District Attorney. He’d come a long way from the sarcastic, reckless, young agent you used to bandage up after missions.

“I don’t… Leon -”

“Unless, do you want your own lawyer to handle things? Though with the way that clown bungled the parole hearing, I wouldn’t trust him with my dry clean- hey!”

He was cut off by you all but launching yourself off your stool and into his arms again. He caught you as you whispered, “I can’t believe you did all that…”

Leon let out a surprised, uncomfortable chuckle and pulled you more securely onto his lap. “Yeah, well you know me. Big fan of contingency plans. Hey, c’mon are you crying? Gorgeous, don’t - you don’t have to be scared, okay? I swear to you, if he comes near you, if he even thinks about trying to find you - he’s a dead man.”

It was said with the same sort of nonchalant certainty one usually reserved for low stakes, banal declarations like “it’s going to rain later” or “we should get Thai food for dinner” not promises of violence. A chill went down your spine as you were reminded of the fact that, for Leon Kennedy at least, being a thoughtful, caring person and being a killer weren’t mutually exclusive. It came with the territory of being an agent.

But what did it say about you that the first feeling at the thought of your own father dead at the hands of your closest friend wasn’t horror or revulsion, but gratitude?

“Thank you,” you murmured into his neck, struggling to compose yourself.

Leon shrugged, as best he could with his arms full of a weepy woman, and pressed a kiss to your temple. “I got your back, you know that. Now, can we be done with this crying shit please? You’re making the entire bar uncomfortable here.”

You nodded and took a deep breath, letting his expensive cologne and warm touch sooth you. It was remarkable how safe Leon made you feel after the tormenting trip down memory lane that had been your life since it was announced that the government was willing to support your father’s appeal for parole in exchange for information on his old boss. You had been so sure that you could do it alone and not let him get to you. But seeing that man again at the hearing, having to give another statement outlining the years of abuse and horror you and mother had suffered, only for it all to mean absolutely nothing. To have to see him walk free again...

It turned you right back into that terrified, weak little girl that you had fought so hard to put behind you. But being in Leon’s arms, knowing that you had his support, helped. Made you feel less alone and vulnerable. For the first time in weeks, you felt yourself actually start to relax as you finally let someone else shoulder a little bit of this burden that had been breaking you down.

“That’s my girl. We good now or are you going to continue using my favorite jacket as a snot rag?”

You let out a watery laugh and pinched Leon’s side, making him jump. “Asshole,” you muttered, hiding a genuine smile into his chest.

Leon laughed, smoothing the hair back from your face and titling your chin up until your eyes met his. “Let’s get you home, kid.”

[cosmermaid]

Thaidakar

Okay so Keslier as a PoV character is a wild ride, especially with the fandom’s take on him and Sanderson’s own opinion of the character. Real talk, I never really picked up on any vibes of Kelsier being a bad person in any way, not even with the ego and self-confidence thing. I know Brandon himself has described Keslier as “disturbing” and comparing him to Denth from Warbreaker even but like, counterpoint, we have a book and a novella where he’s a PoV character and we get to see inside his head. His motives seem genuine, he does not seem okay with the injustices around him, and he shows genuine love for his friends and even empathy. I get it, Kelsier is an extreme person, but he also lives in an extreme world (at the time anyway). He and most of his friends would have been legally killed for simply existing, and I’m not sure what the reasonable response people would expect of him to be, especially against an oppressive immortal god-emperor that actively prevents the world from changing in any way. So I *need* another Secret History novella for this Kelsier=Thaidakar reveal, because Mraize is doing some legitimately evil shit on Roshar that I can’t imagine the Kelsier I know from Mistborn being cool with. Sure, I can picture him sending assassins after Jasnah, but I CAN’T picture him sending anyone after Lift and selling her out to the Fuzed. Either Kelsier doesn’t know what’s up or there’s been some backwards character development in the last three hundred years of cosmere’s history. Or maybe it’s something really fucking juicy I’m not smart enough to figure out. ...Also Iyatil is a dead-ringer for Vin and I wonder if that’s why Kelsier recruited her. If so then I need to go lay down and cry. A lot.

[kob131]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GrPxDH_A1f8

‘Is Ren the best character now?’

He had one scene. A scene people could see coming a mile away. A scene that he pulled in Volume 7 and you called him shit for it. A scene that wasn’t really all that special since RWBY has done this shit before but subtler.

The only difference is you feel as though Ren is sucking your dick.

‘Oh finally, a character with common sense because he said they’re in over their heads!’

... So Yang, Weiss, Blake and Qrow are also the best characters right?

Since the three mentioned this in the Apathy part of Volume 6 and Qrow did the same in the episode before stealing an airship from Cordovon.

We’ve already had this moment in RWBY. It’s just REN wasn’t there and hasn’t had to deal with this. You COULD talk about how the experiences between Ren nd Yang change their perspectives and how it makes sense for them to take these positions due to said experiences...but I looked through your video footage- You do not show anything about Ren’s past or the Apathy, the big contributing factors between the two’s conflict

‘They clearly don’t know what they are doing and they should be in school!’

Again, already been through this with the Apathy, where the team pointed out that they were in over their heads and wanted to quit. Already showed that doing nothing will not solve the problem. And of the adults that know of Salem and are mentally prepared to deal with her- The one guy with an actual good track record (Ozpin) is currently not available.

What we have left is a dead guy (Lionheart), a non-player (Vacuo Headmaster), a little blind lady unknown to most people (Maria), a crippled man unknown to most people (Pietro), a man with several depressive issues alongside being unwilling to work with people if they cross his line (Qrow) and a man who needs approximately seventeen different psychiatrists with tranq darts to deal with his mental problems whose not even willing to listen at this point, about repeat Ozpin’s mistakes (Ironwood). There’s really no one who they CAN hand over stuff to because the adults in power either A. Do not have the knowledge and mental preparation to deal with Salem or B. have numerous issues that prevent them from taking over completely.

‘They’re behaving like this is normal and it makes no sense!’

... Because these kids have been doing this shit for awhile and they’re the ones informed on what to do along with having the resources to do it? 

Seriously, try imagining any other adult in the series in Team RWBY’s place right now aside from Ozpin (who wasn’t willing to do anything). ... Suddenly doesn’t look good huh?

‘Well Yang’s plan was to face Cinder, Raven and Vernal with one arm! Dur, bad plan!’

And the other option at the time was...what exactly? Do nothing and have the Relic taken for certain? Send someone else...who were farther away and would get caught more easily...and fail equally in your eyes?

Rather telling Vexed never gives an alternative when bringing this shit up. Almost like he KNOWS there’s not a definitive good action but by being vague and avoiding the problem, he can pretend there is.

‘Ruby won because she had cheat codes!’

Actually she had the tools all along, she just slipped up in the moment. The so-called ‘cheat code’ just gave her a second shot. Which, by how you phrased and showed the scene, wouldn’t actually give Ruby the win against the Leviathan.

‘I’m not sure is Yang is stupid or in denial-’

Maybe take off the blonde wig and look in the mirror Vexed, your ‘rebuttals’ don’t actually work. They’re just based on audience bias (knowing your viewers WON’T challenge or even engage with your points) and misinterpretation (like that ‘cheat code’ bullshit).

Yang’s position is pretty fucking understandable. ‘Stupidity’ or ‘Willful Ignorance’ are the only explanations (Well, that and ‘being a biased hack’ but I’m assuming SOME credit should be given.)

‘If they did nothing, portal lady could have the relic!’

You mean the coward of a woman terrified of Salem who can only teleport to certain people...who all have PUBLIC CONNECTIONS and can be KILLED.

Yeah, real great option there. Funny thing about Vexed and people like him- For all their supposed skepticism, their counterpoints collapse at the first challenge.

‘Ruby is a bad leader because she didn’t give the Relic to Ironwood!’

Which would mean Salem would have reason to assault Atlas even more so now, even ignoring how Neo could just steal from Ironwood too thanks to her Semblance.

‘So the writers are acknowledging-’

Nope.

Even ignoring how this is clearly a ‘both sides have a point but AREN’T correct’/’Friends have differing views and are clashing’ moment (and thus Vexed is IGNORING the purpose of the scene)-

You have COMPLETELY ignored what the writers have said through their work MULTIPLE times. You do not suddenly get to use this when you can strawman it. Stick by your fucking principles.

‘Ren’s doing that thing in my Episode 1 review so I approve!’

And I’m sure that has NOTHING to do with your bias right?

‘Ironwood’s not perfect but at least he has a plan-’

No he doesn’t.

I’ve said it before: he only SOUNDS like he has a plan because he sounds like what our society views as pragmatic. But his ACTUAL plan is...what exactly? ‘Float up?’ How is that any more of a plan than Team RWBY’s ‘Fight’’? People can make a similar argument with Team RWBY, saying that at least they’re being proactive and trying to stop the problem unlike Ironwood.

They have as much a plan as each other.

‘This dig at Jaune is weaksauce since his cheating hasn’t been relevant-’

Ignoring JAUNE hasn’t been relevant for at least two Volumes without his Semblance-

You went on and on and on about how they’re in over their heads, they’re not prepared and they should be in school. And yet you can’t connect THAT to Jaune being in over his head, not being prepared and needing to be in school since DAY 1? Especially since Ren is currently losing his cool and lashing out?

‘Either Jaune has proven himself or-’

Or Ren is being emotional, getting heated and lashing out which we can tell from his tone of voice, body language and the music in the background along with having this be one of the most cliche scenes of all time?

‘-he hasn’t.’

... You know, why should I expect media literacy from you at this point?

‘Yang should feel helpless right now-’

A. Already been through that, we’d just be repeating the Apathy.

B. Not the purpose of the scene.

And C. She’s not the focus.

‘Where’s the Apathy Grimm when you need them?’

... So you motherfucking KNEW about the similarities with the Apathy Grimm and are either so stupid to not see how god damn RETARDED it would be to just repeat that same moment with a character that already went through this problem ONCE with NO changes?

Or you’re so desperate to satsify your ego you act as though someone gouged out half your brain?

‘Here me out for a second-’

I’ll hear you out as much as you hear out the show.

... Fuck you.

Basically Vexed proceeds to list EVERY SINGLE COUNTERPOINT I HAVE GIVEN...then proceeds to act as though this is all somehow a debunking of this point that Ren supposedly had. ... Ignoring the context of how Ren has been acting in the show recently. Ignoring the NUMEROUS signals the show gave you to indicate Ren is NOT being rational. Ignoring the music that couldn’t be screaming ‘emotional moment!’ louder unless Casey actually started SCREAMING. Ignoring the very scene and setup is one of the most commonly used in fiction.

Everything he says here kills his previous half of a video since it shows Ren isn’t right...and the first half kills the second because he’s demonstrated doesn’t actually understand the scene.

God, is this video stupid!