#crying in echo parallels

[phantom-of-the-501st]

"You are where you need to be."

"If that's where you feel your place is, then that's where you belong."

"It's where I was needed."

"I'm going where I'm needed."

[vind3miat0r]

just finished listening to cataclysm (i am in shambles)

[mooonjin]

*gives you screen captures after bawling my eyes out*

tbb ss2 02x07 and 08 spoilers!

SENATOR CHUCHI BELOVEDDDDDD

slip deserved better.

LOOK AT THEM TT i just wanna give them the biggest hug ever

REX OMG REX OMG REX HIIIII

poncho omega <3

"you can't leave... we're a squad."

[ckret2]

So a while ago some friends were talking about fans who claim the Same Coin theory is canon. And I made the mistake of saying:

Do you know who also has tons in common with Bill? Mabel. Yet nobody claims Bill reincarnated as Mabel. …wait now I want a "same coin but it's Mabel" AU. Funniest Bill reincarnation option. The all-seeing arsonist is making macaroni glitter art. The omnipotent tyrant is crying because a unicorn called her a bad person.

And then I overthought it for two months.

So—AU where after death, Bill's soul shoots 13 years into the past and reincarnates as Mabel. I'll call it ✨ Sparkly Coin AU ✨

Don't leave yet. Lemme show you why it works. Behold the eerie amount of parallels in their personalities, dialogue, behavior, mannerisms, tastes...

I could have kept going but my attention span ran out. All right, we all on board now? Convinced we could segue from one personality into the other? Great. Now here's why you should be interested: the juicy post-Weirdmageddon angst potential.

As long as a small fringe of the fandom still thinks Weirdmageddon is Mabel's fault, why not amp that up x100 and have some fun with it?

Is everyone sold now? Great. Let's get into the details. I've got 8 more pieces of art under the read more.

So the AU starts the instant Bill dies. Thanks to invoking his deal with the Axolotl—one way to absolve his crime, a different form, a different time—the Axolotl gives him a new shape and shoots him thirteen years into the past. Apparently, the Axolotl thought it would be very funny to stick Bill in the family that defeated him.

Which probably made for a jarring transition.

(It's fine, she's like 10 minutes old, she probably can't even tell who she's looking at. Not being able to tell who she was looking at is what got her into this situation ayyyy)

When Dipper & Mabel come back from Gravity Falls complaining about this triangular jerk Bill, their parents mention that Dipper's name was nearly Bill. See, after they knew they were going to have a boy, one night their mom dreamed about a visitor—some kind of magic pink salamander??—calling her child "BILL." Then at the next sonogram they found out they were having twins, the girl must've been hidden at a weird angle the first time, and they wanted matching names, so they thought, Bill and Bell. But they didn't really like Bell; but eventually they stumbled on Mabel, so to keep the names matching they switched from Bill to Mason. Isn't that the darnedest thing?

(Of course, Mabel and Dipper assume Bill harassed their parents to try to trick them into naming a kid after him. To be a jerk.)

When Bill meets Mabel, he's unaware that she's his future self—Bill's notably bad at doing things like, say, double-checking to see whether he's going to die anytime soon—but like... he can tell something's up.

Naturally, before visiting Gravity Falls, there were echoes of who Mabel used to be—but nothing anyone would be able to identify without context. All her Bill-ish quirks either smoothed out with time (see: how between second grade and fourth grade Mabel went from being the "freak" to the popular girl in class), or else they were accepted by her family as Mabel-ish quirks.

After they meet (and kill) Bill, they have the context to understand some of Mabel's behaviors... and unfortunately, some of Mabel's latent Bill-ness starts surfacing after she's been directly exposed to her prior incarnation.

The part of the Pines family familiar with Bill thinks the worst case scenario is that maybe Bill's survived and is slowly possessing Mabel; but far more likely, they think this is just some weird way of trying to subconsciously process last summer. Mabel doesn't think she's being weird, you guys are being weird, stop giving her weird looks. They get attacked by one triangle and now she can't wear yellow or pick up macrame as a hobby??

(It's not all red flags and uncomfortable triangle imagery, though. When Stan asks her what she'd like as a gift for some important event, she shyly admits that she thinks she's starting to outgrow her plastic gem jewelry and maybe she's old enough to get her first piece of real gold jewelry, if that's not too expensive? And Stan's never been so proud of her. Thirteen years old and already thinking about buying gold!)

But of course, the real fun starts when Mabel finds out.

That's the face of a girl who's just discovered that she tortured her great uncle. Now imagine running into the brother she possessed.

But I've already spent a million words and thirteen images on this post. If enough folks are interested in the AU maybe I'll expand on it later. Let me know what y'all think.

[seraphicsentences]

all mine (pt.2)

closeted/in denial abby anderson x reader

pt.1: you told me your new man don’t make you nut, that’s a damn shame.

please click here!

tags: sub!abby, dom!reader, experienced!reader, mentions of owen, tbh trauma from owen, strap-on sex, cunnilingus, 69ing, dry humping, grinding, nonexplicit masturbation, lowkey voyeurism+exhibitionism ish? there’s plot i swear.

A/N: im well aware that i apologize in every post i make and that its redundant, but im still sorry that i took forever to write.

so. some of this may sound a little familiar from the first part, but it’s simply just drawing parallels between abby’s and your stances on one another.

this gets gradually worse and worse. i think the quality started landsliding once i reached the smut. enjoy!

it’s been near ‘round a week later, and abby’s avoiding you like the fucking devil. in fact— by the way she’s been acting, you think she might even believe so. she’s never felt so inexplicably thrown off. clickers, bloaters… couple of well-aimed shots and they’re no deal. but you? the ghost of your touches haunt her day and night. she’s like a woman possessed. and she’s insatiable.

her once weekly visits to the chapel have become daily: hour-long stays spent on her knees, prayers whispered hastily under her breath, eyes darting to paranoically try to catch potential eavesdroppers.

even owen, the air-headed asshole, has been left victim, or perhaps victor, to the effects of your actions. in a desperate attempt to ease her whirling mind, or rather, to ease the painful throbbing between her thighs, abby’s seemed to have turned to her boyfriend as a last ditch effort.

abby’s newfound flood of arousal, pooling and pleading, only to be met by owen’s two incher every night have had his ego blowing up fucking obnoxiously.

“god, abby, you’re fuckin’ desperate for my dick lately,” he’d gloat, hilariously blind to his girlfriend’s infidelity.

unfortunately for abby, her pathetic resorts have done nothing to quiet the moaning mess of guilt-filled memories. if anything, they’ve done quite the opposite.

she’s been left to the mercy of her palm, heel of it digging into her clit while she’s beside the sleeping figure of owen, straining every massive muscle in her body to give her that orgasm she so badly needs.

it’s to no avail, though. stuck gasping and tearing up against a pillow, her poor pussy crying for some semblance of relief. and what’s left is a week-long edged abby anderson, ms. “top soldier”, who’s back to shooting no better than a freshly new recruit.

what’s up with that, hm?

~

2am now, in the isolated west dormitory’s showers, and abby’s at it again. her body starving for your touch; your sinful, corrupting, addictive touch, and she’s failing to appease her needs once more.

“mmph- fuck, ah-please,” abby begs into her forearm, groaning as two thick fingers plunge deep into her sopping hole, thrusting in and out messily.

it’s exhausting to fuck the way you do. even with her arms the impressive size they are, it’s impossibly demanding to reach every nerve you had reached, filthy sounds echoing along the tile walls, taunting her.

abby knows what’s coming, or really, the lack of it.

skin pink from the heat of the water, she abandons her effort, shutting the stream off with a squeak and ventures the locker room to get dressed for the night.

her mind wanders to you— that’s all it ever seems to do as of recently, and she thinks about how she almost misses your antics. she can’t place her finger on what it is exactly about you that makes her chase every teasing interaction so masochistically.

maybe it’s your lopsided smile that lures her in, or that glint in your eye she gets caught up in. or maybe it’s just that she knows she shouldn’t want you, and it’s so deliciously wrong, and that’s why she’s got to have you.

towel flung over her shoulder, abby makes her way out, only to stop in her tracks when she hears the loud slam of a locker door.

what the fuck? wasn’t the bathroom empty when she last checked??

cheeks burning at the mistaking of her privacy, she swivels the corner, furious to see who the fuck else is using the west dorm showers at this hour. of all the hours.

and, well, abby’s frozen in place when she’s met with the sight of a mystery someone’s bare back. but oh, how she recognizes you, you and your wet hair, slinging droplets down your smooth skin, trailing lower and lower and-

you cough, breaking her trance. baby blue eyes dart up, caught, as you slide your tank on, smirking.

“hey, anderson.”

that just about does it for her. abby slams an open locker door shut, almost sprinting out of the room.

and really, there’s no choice but for you to follow her, practically hunting her down as she sharply turns down random hallways, clearly attempting to outrun you. abby makes a wrong turn soon enough, and you honestly think you might burst out into laughter because of the funny way fate seems to string the two of you together.

the blonde’s backed herself into a corner, and it just so happens to be your residential corner. you can’t help but wonder if she already knew where your room was located.

“scared, anderson?” slips out of your mouth, and it feels significant, reminiscent of the week before. you stare her down, wet strands clinging to her skin to match yours, and it’s like the two of you know what’s to come with your words. the inevitable.

you’re not sure which one of you moves first, rubber band of tension snapping as your lips collide in a catastrophic sort of way. you’re scrambling to blindly dial your dorm code in and tugging abby by her shirt in a tangle of limbs and saliva.

“i’ll play nice,” you pant, “even after that disappearing stunt you pulled last week.”

abby laughs, whispering, “whoops,” under her breath before pulling you in for another dizzying kiss, tongue eagerly curling into your mouth like she’s been waiting years for a taste.

you wrap your fingers around her hair with a tug, and the low groan that escapes from the back of abby’s throat has you repeating the motion again and again as you veer her backwards to fall atop your bed. you follow, straddling her, not wanting to spend a second apart from the fucking drug that her mouth is.

your hips grind down on their own, burning and desperate for stimulation. abby, in return, wraps a strong hand around your throat, pulling you even deeper into a sloppy kiss to swallow your moans as she pushes her hips up to meet yours.

“fuck,” you gasp, clit catching against the seam of your shorts with every roll.

abby’s mind has gone blurry with arousal, drunk off the satisfaction of finally getting what her body’s begged for. every pretty noise that slips out of your mouth sends pulses of pleasure straight through her bundle of nerves, and every touch of skin has her feeling set ablaze.

but as always, she needs more.

she maneuvers you easily under her big frame, your head tipping back in a soft whine as she latches herself onto your throat, biting and soothing your skin over.

she’s lodged a leg in between your own, mimicking your position as she wildly bucks her hips down onto you. “please,” she breathes out, tears welling in her eyes with how foreign this feeling is. she can’t bring herself to care about how needy she’s acting, because to starve, is to take anything.

“just like that, baby, you’re soaking my thigh,” you coo, continuing to dry hump her leg like she’s nothing but a toy to you. the whimper she lets out at the name you call her is downright criminal, and the way her movements pick up have you groaning it out again. “c’mon baby, make a mess of yourself for me,” you grab her meaty hips, grinding her harder down against you.

“gonna-“ she gasps into your neck, before shuddering against you as she cums with a cry, muscular thighs holding you so desperately tight in place. you almost scream, caught in the iron grip she has your body in, stopped so close to your own finish. you dig your nails into the flesh of abby’s hips, hearing her moan as the pain mixes with pleasure, and echo the sound yourself as the burning in your core starts up again.

“just let me, for a minute- i need you- just stay here, shit,” you ramble, gripping her hair for leverage while you fuck yourself faster against her thigh.

every twitch of a muscle beneath your soaked pussy has you reeling, unable to wrap your mind around what a massive fucking crime it is, for another woman not to have experienced the absolute blessing it is to have abby anderson’s defined-ass thigh to grind on.

you glance down at abby, and the fucked-out expression she has on, all watery doe-eyed as she peers up at you, mesmerized, has you throbbing enough to match your heart rate.

curse after curse flies out of your mouth as she attaches her mouth to your neck again, biting down as you let go of that coil tugging on your navel.

abby’s no sooner clambering atop you, diving in to taste your sounds as she scoops you onto her lap, practically growling, “fuckin’ get over here,” under her breath.

as your vision returns, she attacks your mouth with a sloppy kiss, colliding teeth, and you’re unbearably hungry for more.

“let me- i’m gonna taste you,” you breath out, shoving abby’s back down with a push.

she falls back with a soft thud, eyes not leaving you once. “please, fuck- taste me, have me,” abby affirms, scrambling to tug her shorts off.

the massive soaked patch at the center her boxers have your eyes rolling into your skull. “shit, anderson,” you run a finger over her clothed slit, giggling as she jerks her hips up.

“shut up,” she rasps, her words harsh, but the small smile on her face says otherwise.

you grin up at her, “didn’t say anything,” before licking a fat stripe up her covered pussy.

her response is immediate, hands fisting into your hair to pull your mouth closer, actions the epitome of more, more, more.

you flatten your tongue, licking, and meshing her arousal with your saliva to entirely soak her boxers wet. you wrap your lips around where you guess to be her clit, based off the place her legs tremble when your tongue reaches it, and suck hard.

“there,” abby whines out, back flying off the mattress, and you’re so very desperate to see what other fun reactions she has in store for you, you grab at her waistband to unveil her pretty dripping pussy.

up close, face to face, you get to really admire the work of art she is. the divets of muscle adorning her thighs frame her pussy almost in a greek-goddess sort of way. light brownish-blonde curls of hair that reach out to your mouth, trying to pull you in closer. she’s beautiful. you’re in complete control of her right now, and holding the reins of such an unreal being has you groaning into her slick eagerly, hands holding her spread wide open while you feast.

you’re dipping your tongue into her sopping mess, teasing and thrusting, feeling her gummy walls flutter around every brush of the muscle. you dart a thumb up to circle her puffy clit, red, from her earlier actions, and the way abby’s legs kick up— almost hitting you in the face, has you giggling again into her pussy. the vibrations of your laugh make abby squeal, thighs clamping around your head, and then she’s tugging at your hair, chanting, “stopstopstopstop,” and you, of course, oblige immediately.

your face comes up covered in her wetness, arousal dripping from your chin as you lick your lips in an halfhearted attempt to clean yourself up. “sorry, sorry, i- did you want me to stop?” you ramble, concerned that you might’ve gone a little too far this time, getting yourself involved with a taken straight girl.

abby’s face flushes a deep red, even darker than it had been from your actions, as she catches her breath and looks away. “no, i- can you, uhm.”

you catch on to her hesitation, newer to sex thats more than just, well, dick. you rub her calves soothingly, “use your words, baby, you got it.”

she visibly gulps, thighs pressing tight around your body, “can i?” she asks, almost sulkily as her hands move to tug at your shorts.

“oh-!” slips out of your mouth, surprised, “yeah, yeah you can.”

she lets out a soft okay, tugging harder now, slipping her calloused fingers under your waistband as well so as to drag both down together. abby’s groans, low and heady, at the sight of your glistening pussy, practically dripping down your thighs from just getting her off. “this too,” she murmurs, sliding your tank off before you can blink.

she’s pulling you in closer, as if she’s in a trance, as she wraps her lips hesitantly around one of your perked nipples. the high-pitched sigh you let out is more than enough encouragement for her to continue, warm tongue flicking at it as she sucks around your breast. “is this okay?” she pulls away to whisper, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear as she looks up at you, eyes wide.

“fuck- yes, just,” you push her head back in, her lips abiding immediately as they gently pull at your nipple, teeth grazing the most sensitive parts of your chest as you arch your back into it, quiet moans ringing in her air.

all of a sudden you’re being turned around, confused, until your hips are being lifted up towards abby’s stuck-out tongue and you’re shaking with your face pressed to her thigh while she experimentally kitten-licks around your hole, unknowingly teasing you.

her nose brushes ever-so-slightly over your pulsing clit as her tongue passes just over your dripping mess, and it has you crying out, “there, please- right there, please,” breath hot over her own throbbing pussy.

her hips jerk up at the sensation, and you take the hint— latching your lips around her own clit and stuffing two fingers easily into her hole, moaning at the feeling of her squeezing tight around you.

it’s no wonder abby’s the top soldier of wlf. for a girl who’s only ever been with the most lacking, vanilla man ever, she picks up fast. each action of yours is borderline self-serving, with the way abby’s mimicking every move not even a moment after, so adorably eager to please.

abby had this insistent need to pull every pretty sound from you, whether she got it through grazing her teeth against your clit, or curling a thick finger against your g-spot, she was determined to hear it— to the point where you thought she might’ve even needed it. and it’s what made sex with her so intoxicating.

she wasn’t like any of the other girls you typically hooked up with, and that’s not to say the girls you usually got with were bad to fuck… they just weren’t as invested in your pleasure as you were with theirs. and as the type to get off on giving rather than receiving, this was especially new. you’ve never been with someone like you. and god, does it take the cake.

abby’s really coming to terms with all the ways she can use her especially large everythings to make you feel good, murmuring into your pussy, “‘m fuckin’ splitting you open with my fingers, pretty,” as she pushes in a third finger to your sopping hole, relishing in the squelch that comes with the thrust.

your thighs shake around her head, stimulated beyond compare as you continue your ministrations on abby’s pussy, humming mhms into it to encourage more of her bolder ventures.

“mm-fuck, can feel you choking my fingers. you gonna cum, hm?” she mumbles cockily, the high from your reactions sending her mind into a frenzy.

“shit, please, need it so bad,” you croak out, taking only mere seconds apart from tonguing down her puffy clit.

“ah- god, me too, pretty. cum on my tongue,” she says, and the fucking vulgarity of it, so downright shocking to hear from ms. straight christian prude over here, has you riding your orgasm out, trembling heat overtaking your body like a california wildfire. matched moans come from beneath you, as abby’s hips fuck up against your mouth, legs flexing deliciously as the two of you reach your peaks together, the world slowing.

you slide your body off of hers, turning around to be met with a sight to behold. your cum, all over abby’s mouth, shining on the tip of her nose, remnants leaked onto her chin— and you have not a doubt you look the same mess. you yank her into a sloppy kiss, fluids mixing in your mouths in the most animalistic nature.

“i’m not done with you,” you say, eyebrows scrunched as you take in her fucked-out expression.

“i know,” she whispers, “give me more,” she breathes out.

abby slips out of her tank, finally, using the cloth to gently wipe your face and hers, action a bit too intimate for what you guys have, but neither of you decide to call out on it.

“you gonna let me fuck you?” you ask quietly, running a hand over her chest softly, enamored, as abby shivers from your words.

“please fuck me,” she whimpers, tone all pouty and petulant as she watches your hand trace ambiguous shapes over her skin.

“so polite,” you tease lightly, pulling her in for a brief kiss before reaching over to your bedside drawer and pulling out your favorite strap, just the one for the special girl in front of you.

8 inches, hot pink, with a slight curve to it, but most importantly, never been used on anyone other than yourself, by yourself.

“it’s so-“ she stutters nervously, thighs rubbing together in anticipation as you secure the toy onto your hips.

“pretty?” you finish, unable to help your laugh as she looks at you, so clearly not thinking of your response.

“yeah,” she shrugs, “suppose it is.”

it’s quiet in the room as you finish latching the silicone dick onto yourself, the two of you settling into the weight of your impulse-fueled actions.

you gently pull open her closed legs, settling yourself between them as you tease her entrance with the tip of the toy, covering it with her cum. you then spit down onto it, twisting your hand around to coat, and hear abby ask, “what’re you doing?”

you continue to prep the toy with easy motions, committed by memory, “i know you’re soaked, anderson, but it’s still a dick you’re taking, baby.”

“i just mean- i, you know,”

you hum, “owen doesn’t put in the effort, huh? and i bet you’re not even a quarter as wet for him as you are for me,” scoffing.

“don’t-“

“it’s the truth though, isn’t it?”

“…yeah.”

“that’s what i thought.”

you thumb her clit in circles, using her slick as lube to rub over it smoothly, relishing in the way abby’s head falls back and her hips jolt up. “that’s it, ease up for me,” you murmur.

you prod again at her entrance with the toy, sliding the tip in slightly as she hisses, “‘m sti-still sensitive.”

“and you’re gonna take it like the fuckin’ slut you are, anderson, aren’t you?” you tsk, pushing a couple inches more into her.

“shit- yes, yes ma’am,” she whimpers out, legs threatening to close from the new stretch.

“because even after all that time in the shower, nothing can fill you like i do,” you finish, thrusting the full length of you into her tight pussy, abby nodding repeatedly as her back arches up.

her moans pick up alongside your hips, voice breaking with every thrust as you push into that one sensitive spot deep inside with obvious expertise.

“so, s-so go-od,” she cries, hands gripping into the bedsheets as she searches for some tie back to reality.

you smirk satisfactorily, fast pace fueled by the sight of abby’s open mouth, drool spilling out the sides as her voice grows hoarse from constant use. you fuck her hard, strength channeled from the anger you bore against her homophobic attitudes, and jealousy you garnered towards owen and his idiotic male self.

you lock your eyes with abby, sweat dripping down your face as you zero down on her, slamming into her pussy with no reprieve. “no more owen,” you say, each word punctuated by another deep thrust.

“this is so wrong, this is so fucked,” abby rambles, nervous eyes darting around the room so as to avoid your gaze. her eyebrows are tugged together, head shaking no: but no to argue your words, or no to agree with them?

“has something so wrong ever felt so good?” you pant out, “tell me baby.”

“i can’t, i can’t, i can’t,” she repeats, torn between what felt right in her head, and what felt so right in her heart. “turn me over,” she babbled, not wanting to head-on face the fucking sin-filled act she was committing.

“you tried running, baby. and how’d that work for you?” you ask, fed up. “you’re still back here, a fucking mess, and all for me.”

“what’s it gonna take for you to face the fact that you’re getting fucked by a girl, and it’s so much better than anything you’ve ever experienced?”

abby’s eyes scrunch tight, trying to tune you out, but her moans still wrench out from the back of her throat, guttural and unstoppable.

you slide out finally, earning you a soft whine of disagreement, toy dripping with her slick with the tip pressed against her folds. “look at me, abby.”

and fuck. she’s never taken notice to the fact that you’ve never said her name before—but god does it sound so pretty coming out of your mouth. and god is it enough to make her wrestle her eyelids open and stare you dead in the eyes, blue clashing with the darkness you reeked in.

“say that again,” she whispers, look full of pleading. 4 letters, 2 syllables, but it has her core tensing and her heart racing a mile.

“tell me you’re mine, abby,” you breath, and she almost finishes right there and then.

“i’m yours,” she says, a single tear breaking free from her right eye, baptizing her skin, absolving her of guilt.

“good,” you choke out, bottoming entirely into her as she releases a cry. your movements quicken, ravenous, chasing the sweet whines that fill the room.

abby’s tits bounce with each thrust, and you reach down to give her sensitive nipples a pinch, making her reach an all time new height of pleasure. her chest heaves, curses slur, as she squirms under your touch, nearing an unbearably overstimulated state.

“feels- gonna cum,” she moans, barely holding on.

“cum for me,” you demand, needing to see her fall apart now more than ever as you pound into her harder, fingers rubbing harsh circles into her clit.

“s-shit,” she gasps, throwing her head back as her walls tighten around the toy, “‘m- fuck, god- fuck! ‘m cumming!”

loud squelching noises overtake the room, complete with the sight of abby writhing beneath you as spurts of her juices drench your moving cock.

her chest heaves, mouth open in a silent scream as she comes down from her high, squirming with overstimulation.

you can see the moment her brain clicks, panic in her eyes clear as her skin turns pasty white.

“i’m so sorry i didn’t mean to do that i don’t know how-“

“abby.”

“-that happened ive never done that before, like who-“

“abby.”

“-fucking pisses on someone like that i’m so sorry ill clean it-“

“ABBY.”

her eyes shoot up to meet yours, frame cowering as she mumbles a quiet apology again, so obviously uneducated in the realm of half-decent orgasms.

“you squirted, abby, you didn’t piss on me for christ’s sake. it was hot. now don’t worry about it, i’m very honored,” you chide lightly, cradling abby’s heated face in your hand.

you stand up, grabbing a clean towel and wetting it with warm water from your kettle. striding over, you spread abby’s legs lightly, running the towel gently over her worked-out center, breath hitching, hips jerking with your touch.

“why are you- you don’t have to-“ abby stutters, grabbing your wrist.

you pause, confused. “abby, i’m not a fucking dick, contrary to belief,” you scoff.

she doesn’t let go. “no that’s not what i- i didn’t mean it like that, it’s just, you know.” she waits for you to look up at her, before looking away. “you don’t have to fuss over me.”

a laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it. “you mean owen doesn’t-? yeah, who am i kidding, of fucking course he doesn’t ‘do aftercare,’ god, what a dick!” you groan, facepalming.

“abby, baby, this is fucking normal. owen just sucks,” you smirk, her cheeks flushing at your words. “let me take care of you,” you continue more softly, nudging her grip off as you drag the towel over her sternum next, cleaning off any remnants left from the two of you.

abby’s quiet now, eyes following your every movement, curious almost, a bit hesitant— as if she’s not sure what to do with herself in the meanwhile. she’s stiff to the touch, frame shrunken now due to the sheer vulnerability of it all. bare as the day she was born, and touched like she’s never done wrong a minute in her life.

she doesn’t know how to feel about it. wisps of hair tickle her nose, and so she scratches it, pushing her hair away, tugging it behind her ears. and you’re right there on it, wordlessly turning her around as you begin to comb through her hair loosely, pulling it into a simple braid. the same hairstyle she displays everyday, always done by her own hand: tight, knot-free, and burning into her scalp. a reminder to remain true to her virtues, live by strict rules, and not stray from the lord’s path.

but the way you braid is so different. you’re careful to tie in the tickling wisps, but not harsh. effective, but not pushing. with owen she feels like an accessory, but you make her feel like someone worth worshipping. and so, the only burning she feels is not on her scalp, but behind her eyes.

you do notice the subtle tremble in abby’s shoulders, droplets trickling down her cheeks as you weave her hair through, but you make no comment on it. certainly not with the way your own hands fumble her golden strands, fingers shaking into the knots. you tie the end of it up.

“i should go,” abby whispers, standing to grab her scattered clothes.

you remain seated, mouth opening and closing like a fish, as your lips struggle to wrap around the words your heart is singing out for.

you settle on one.

“stay,” you blurt, louder than you intended, the word ringing in the tense air.

abby freezes, hand outstretched towards her tossed shirt. her head edged just the slightest bit towards you, like subconsciously, she was waiting for you to say something.

“just- stay,” you whisper this time, more unsure. waiting for the rejection you know is to come. and while your brain is screaming for you to let her go, your eyes are hooked onto abby’s figure— searching intently for the smallest signal of her response.

you see her breath catch in her throat.

“okay,” she whispers back, and her head turns just enough for your gazes to lock, matched desperation surging.

she’s drawn back to the bed like a magnet pulled to its twin, the mattress dipping as she settles in the space beside you.

and abby feels the heat of your drilling stare, one she refuses to return. she has no more fire left in her, not for you, just contemplation. a longing for more, an urge to savor, an ache to feel.

so abby faces the door, and you face her back, waiting for the day she’ll turn around.

so what did we think guys?!?? this was 4.7k words. crazy.

ok. so notice the tear coming from her right eye during that whole end part of the sex. note that it came from her RIGHT eye. scientifically speaking, that’s a tear of joy. BOOOOOOM MIC DROP.

i, unfortunately, shot for the stars and tried to make this deeper. hard to do that when you’re not in touch with your emotions. so now you guys are stuck being confused. good luck!

anyways. the final scene is supposed to represent where they metaphorically stand in their relationship. reader is trying to bond with abby, or at least making an effort to, hence her facing abby. abby can’t come to terms with all this, but she’s trying! she’s not fully accepted the homosexual part of herself though, the side that comes out with reader, so she’s facing the door. FACING IT, not leaving through it. ;)

also, yes, owen goes in dry. it’s canon. do not come at me.

taglist:

@pricefieldsuperiority @heartlexs @graviewaviee @liaphrodite @k1ngpin42 @deadbolted @be3flow3r @mrsabbyanderson

@rob1nbuckl3ys @vivispace @bookpagecandlescent

@thelosstvalkyrie for photo creds ty baby <3

[serufu]

It's one of those think about how incredibly good the use of literary devices and narrative structures are in the Chainsaw Man manga kind of nights I guess

[its-avalon-08]

so seb and y/n broke up after 2011, super messy break up, alot of tears, and they have never spoken after that. she switched jobs into mercedes. he has a panic attack and is gasping for breath and keeps asking for y/n. y/n comes running and seb breaks down sobbing. note the date is the same as the day they broke up. he confesses that he messed up and is so sorry. Thanks! love ur blog <333333333333333333

🍂🍂🍂🍂 one of my fav 🍂🍂🍂🍂

breathe baby breathe (sv5)

The air in the Red Bull garage hung heavy. The tension wasn't new - ever since 2010, ever since the spectacularly messy break-up that left a trail of shattered trophies and tear-stained pit walls, Seb and Y/N existed in an uneasy parallel universe within the F1 circus. He, a stoic German with haunted blue eyes, remained with Red Bull. She, a steely Brit with a heart encased in ice, had taken a high-profile switch to Mercedes.

Qualifying had been a disaster for Seb. A gearbox issue had left him stranded on track, his championship dreams spiraling down like a flaming meteor. Now, back in the garage, a cold sweat slicked his palms. His vision swam, the faces of mechanics blurring into an incomprehensible mess. His chest tightened, a cold vice squeezing the air from his lungs. He tried to take a breath, but it came out in a ragged gasp.

Panic clawed its way up his throat. This wasn't right. This wasn't just disappointment. His heart hammered a frantic tattoo against his ribs, each beat a deafening boom in his head. The air, thick with the smell of burnt rubber and ozone, offered no solace. He fumbled for his water bottle, the plastic slick with sweat in his trembling hand.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. He stumbled back, his vision going dark at the edges. A primal fear, a terror he hadn't felt since he was a child lost in the supermarket, seized him. A strangled cry escaped his lips – not a word, just a raw sound of terror.

Mark Webber, ever the teammate, noticed Seb's distress first. "Seb! You alright?" The concern in Mark's voice barely penetrated the fog of panic muddling Seb's thoughts. He needed Y/N. It was a nonsensical thought, a desperate plea from a drowning man clutching at a straw. But it was the only lifeline he could grasp.

"Y/N," he rasped, his voice a pathetic croak. Mark's eyebrows shot up in surprise. The name had never passed Seb's lips in all these years. But right now, reason had abandoned him.

Mark didn't hesitate. He knew the history, the bitter fallout, but in this moment, all he saw was a teammate in distress. "Y/N!" he bellowed, his voice cracking through the tense silence of the garage.

Y/N was huddled in the Mercedes garage, dissecting the telemetry data from Lewis's qualifying run. The news of Seb's car trouble had filtered through, a bittersweet pang twisting in her gut. She'd long buried the ghost of their relationship, or so she thought.

Mark's urgent yell shattered her focus. "Y/N!" It echoed through the corridor, laced with a raw panic that sent a jolt through her. Memories, both bitter and sweet, flooded her mind. Ignoring the bewildered stares of her colleagues, she surged towards Red Bull's garage, a primal fear urging her forward.

The sight that greeted her ripped the carefully constructed wall around her heart clean open. Seb, usually the epitome of stoicism, was a crumpled mess on the floor. His face, drained of color, was contorted in fear, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. His normally steely blue eyes were wide and frantic, searching for something, someone.

The past dissolved. This wasn't about their break-up, not anymore. This was about a human being in distress. Ignoring the initial shock, she dropped to her knees beside him, her professional training kicking in. "Seb, hey, focus on me," she said, her voice firm but gentle. He didn't respond, his gaze flitting around the room like a trapped animal.

Panic threatened to engulf her again, but she forced it down. Taking a deep breath, she mirrored it, holding his hand and speaking slowly, deliberately. "breathe baby breathe for me Seb. In with me, slow and steady." He flinched at the touch of her hand, a flicker of recognition crossing his face, then quickly masked by raw fear.

He tried, or rather, his body tried. His breaths came in shallow gasps, each one a struggle. Seeing his plight, she knelt closer, gently pushing a stray strand of hair off his damp forehead. It was a simple gesture, born of instinct, and it seemed to anchor him.

"That's it," she murmured, her voice a soothing balm. "Slow breaths. You're alright, Seb. You're with me." As the words left her lips, a strangled sob ripped through him, shaking his entire frame. Tears welled in his eyes, threatening to spill, but he squeezed his eyes shut, a desperate attempt to hold them back.

Y/N's heart ached. The sight of his vulnerability shattered the years of built-up resentment. Without a thought, she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. His trembling body crumpled against hers, the final dam breaking. Sob after wracking sob escaped his lips, raw and unfiltered.

He didn't care if she saw. In that moment, all he needed was a human anchor, a safe harbor in the storm of his panic. And for the first time in years, Y/N felt the familiar pull of protectiveness surge through her. The past was still there, a shadow lurking at the edges, but right now, all that mattered was calming the storm raging within him.

The tremors in Seb's body gradually subsided, his sobs muffled against her shoulder. His grip on her arms tightened, a silent plea for comfort. Y/N held him close, stroking his hair with a gentleness that surprised even her. The scent of his familiar racing cologne, a mix of leather and adrenaline, flooded her senses, a potent reminder of a past she couldn't fully outrun.

"Y/N," he finally rasped, his voice hoarse. Shame laced each word, a stark contrast to the bravado he usually wore. "I miss you. So damn much." The words hung heavy in the air, a confession ripped bare by his vulnerability.

A lump formed in Y/N's throat. Part of her wanted to pull away, to retreat back into the icy fortress she'd built around her heart. But the raw pain in his voice, the vulnerability etched on his face, held her captive.

"You messed up, Seb," she said, her voice barely a whisper. It wasn't a question, but a simple statement, a truth they both acknowledged.

He flinched, a choked sob escaping his lips. "I know. I know, and I regret it every damn day. Even my parents yell about it. They keep saying I threw away the best thing that ever happened to me." His voice cracked, raw with self-loathing.

Y/N's breath hitched. She knew his parents adored her, a stark contrast to the strained relationship he had with his father at the time. The revelation stung, a reminder of what they'd lost.

A hesitant breath escaped her lips. "Seb," she started, unsure how to proceed.

He cut her off, a tremor running through his voice. "And the worst part? Even after all this time... I still love you, Y/N. Madly." He confessed the words in a rush, as if afraid to hold them back any longer.

Silence descended upon them, thick and heavy with unspoken emotions. Then, a soft, surprised sound escaped Y/N's lips.

"You still...?" She couldn't finish the question, the weight of his confession settling on her chest.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching hers, a desperate plea for a flicker of reciprocation. "Every damn day," he whispered. "Even now, on our monthaversaries, I still go get your favorite pad thai."

The admission, a small, vulnerable detail from a past they both cherished, cracked the ice around Y/N's heart.

A wry smile tugged at the corner of Y/N's lips, a flicker of disbelief coloring her voice. "Pad thai, huh? You never did learn to like that."

Seb chuckled, a wet, shaky sound. "No, I never did. But seeing you devour it with that look of pure joy... it was worth every forced bite." His gaze softened, lingering on her face for a beat too long.

The weight of his words, laced with a longing that mirrored her own, threatened to unravel the careful control she'd maintained. Taking a deep breath, she confessed, "You know, I used to stalk your social media, Seb. Every model the tabloids linked you with, I'd dissect their pictures online, a jealous wreck." Shame burned in her cheeks as she admitted the truth.

His eyes widened in surprise. "You... you did?"

"Don't judge," she countered, a hint of defiance lacing her voice. "We both have things we regret."

He shook his head, his expression softening. "Never. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, even if I was a colossal idiot back then."

Y/N couldn't help but let out a small laugh, the sound surprisingly warm. "Maybe a little," she conceded. "But even after switching teams, a part of me still wants you to win every race, Seb. It's a terrible conflict of interest, I know."

He squeezed her hand, a flicker of hope lighting up his eyes. "Really?"

"Don't get cocky," she teased, a playful glint returning to her eyes. "But seeing you on that podium, the pure joy on your face... it's hard to explain."

A comfortable silence settled between them, a stark contrast to the storm that had raged just moments before. Then, a mischievous thought struck Y/N.

"Speaking of confessions," she began, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Remember those chocolate chip cookies Mark always seems to have a stash of during race weekends?"

Seb's eyebrows shot up, a flicker of recognition dawning on his face. "Wait, you...?"

"Guilty as charged," she admitted with a sheepish grin. "I figured you still loved them, even after all these years."

Seb's lips curved into a genuine smile, the first one she'd seen in far too long. "You have no idea," he confessed, his voice thick with emotion. "They were... a ray of sunshine on some pretty dark days."

Their eyes met, a spark of something new igniting in the space between them. The past, with all its baggage, still loomed, but for the first time, they weren't facing it alone.

two days later

Two days had passed since their tearful encounter in the Red Bull garage. The air crackled with unspoken emotions, a constant undercurrent in the sterile environment of the Formula One paddock. Y/N sat hunched over her laptop in the Mercedes motorhome, the glow of the screen illuminating the dark circles under her eyes. Sleep had been a distant dream, replaced by the whirring of her mind replaying every stolen glance, every hesitant touch with Seb.

A soft knock startled her from her thoughts. Wiping the fatigue from her eyes, she called out, "Come in."

The door creaked open, revealing a sheepish Seb holding a familiar white paper bag. His hair was slightly disheveled, and there was a nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"Hey," he mumbled, stepping inside hesitantly.

"Seb? What are you doing here?" Y/N asked, her voice laced with surprise.

He held up the bag, a small, hopeful smile playing on his lips. "Pad thai. Your favorite. I, uh, thought maybe you could use a break from all that data?"

A wave of warmth washed over Y/N. "You remembered," she whispered, her gaze dropping to the bag.

"How could I forget?" he replied, his voice softer than she'd heard in years. "It's become more than just a dish, Y/N. It's a reminder of everything we were, everything I messed up."

He took a tentative step closer, his eyes searching hers. The vulnerability in his gaze tugged at her heartstrings.

"Look," he continued, his voice thick with emotion, "I know this is crazy, showing up here unannounced after everything. But I can't stay silent anymore. These past few days have been torture. The thought of you... of losing you again..." He trailed off, his voice choked with emotion.

"Seb," Y/N started, her own voice trembling.

He held up a hand, silencing her. "No, let me finish. These past years have been a living hell without you. Every race win felt hollow, every victory parade a painful reminder of what I'd thrown away. My parents were right, you know. You were the best thing that ever happened to me."

He took another step closer, the air crackling with unspoken emotions between them. "Y/N," he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, "I love you. I never stopped. And if there's even a sliver of a chance, I want you back. I want to rebuild what we had, stronger this time."

Tears welled up in Y/N's eyes, blurring his image. She couldn't take his beautiful monologue any longer. With a strangled cry, she launched herself at him, her arms wrapping around his neck. The pad thai forgotten, they fell into a desperate embrace.

"Seb," she sobbed, burying her face in his chest. "I love you, I love you, I love you," the words tumbling out in a breathless rush.

He held her tighter, the sound of her choked sobs a balm to his tortured soul. "Never letting you go again," he murmured against her hair, his voice thick with a promise they both desperately wanted to keep.

In the heart of the bustling Formula One paddock, amidst the roar of engines and the relentless pursuit of victory, they found solace in each other's arms. The road ahead wouldn't be easy, but for the first time in years, they weren't facing it alone. They had each other, a second chance at a love that had weathered the storm and emerged stronger, more resilient than ever before.

[zot3-flopped]

Sylvia Plath did not stick her head in an oven for this! When Taylor Swift took the Grammys stage last month to claim her award for Best Pop Vocal Album for Midnights, she saw that spotlight as an opportunity to announce her 11th studio album: The Tortured Poets Department. The follow-up cut to audience members—Swift’s music industry peers, mind you—told us all that we would ever need to know, and the collective disinterest across the crowd echoed through our TVs.

Folks from all walks of life took to social media to express a multitude of reactions. Swifties clamored to their beloved monarch’s forthcoming era, while others lambasted the terminally cringe title and artwork and ridiculed Swift for making a night recognizing musical achievements across an entire industry about herself—knowing perfectly well that it would send her fanbase into a surge that would, no doubt, overpower the excitement around the ceremony itself.

Quite a few people questioned whether or not that moment suggested that a critical—definitely not commercial—tide would turn against the world’s most-famous pop star. And, perhaps it has—but, to most, it will look like nothing more than a single ripple in Swift’s ocean of successes.

Swift remained relatively hush-hush about The Tortured Poets Department up until its release, leaving her fans, admirers and haters alike with nothing but an album title to ponder about. And it’s a bad title.

If you have never been in Swift’s corner, her taking the route of labeling her next “era” as “tortured�� was likely catnip for your disinterest. If you are a fan—not necessarily a Swiftie, but even just a casual lover of her best and brightest work—you might be beside yourself about the first Swift album title longer than one word in 14 years.

In terms of popularity—certainly not always in terms of quality—no musician has been bigger this century than Swift, which makes it impossible to really buy into the “torture” of it all.

This is not to say that Swift being the most famous person in the world makes her immune to having multi-dimensional feelings of heartbreak, mental illness or what-have-you.

But, she has made the choice—as a 34-year-old adult—to take those complex, universal familiars and monetize them into a wardrobe she can wear for whatever portion of her Eras Tour setlist she opts to dedicate to the material.

Torture is fashion to Taylor Swift, and she wears her milieu dully. This album will surely get comparisons to Rupi Kaur’s poetry, either for its simplicity, empty language, commodification or all of the above.

And, sure, there are parallels there, especially in how The Tortured Poets Department, too, is going to set the art of poetry back another decade—as Swift’s naive call-to-arms of her own milky-white sorrow rings in like some quintessential “I am going to take pictures of a typewriter on my desk and have a Pinterest mood-board of Courier New font” iPhone fodder. 2013 called and it wants it capricious, suburban girl-who-is-taking-a-gap-year wig back!

Soaking our book reports in coffee or having our moms burn the edges with a kitchen lighter cannot come back into fashion; the cyclical notions of culture cannot make the space for such retreads.

There is nothing poetic about a billionaire—who, mind you, threatens legal action against a Twitter account for tracking her destructive private jet paths—telling stadiums of thousands of people every night that she sees and adores them.

Tavi Gevinson says it well in her Fan Fiction zine: “When 80,000 people are also crying, you become less special, too.” If Swift can return to one of her dozen beach houses across the world, kick up her feet and say “I’m a poet of struggle,” then who is to say that millions—maybe billions—of people with access to a notes app and a social media account won’t dream that dream, too?

Maybe that looks like a net-positive, but it’s inherently damning and destructive to take an art form that has long stood on the shoulders of resistance, of love and of opposition to power, systematic injustice and climate warfare and boil it down to the new defining era of your own 10-digit revenue empire. “My culture is not your costume,” yada, etc.

The Tortured Poets Department does begin with a shred of hope that, just maybe, Swift knows what she’s talking about—as she sneaks in a cheeky “all of this to say,” textbook transitional phrasing for poets, on opening track “Fortnight.”

But “Fortnight” unmasks itself quickly as a heady vat of pop nothingness, though it isn’t all Swift’s fault. “I was a functioning alcoholic, ‘til nobody noticed my new aesthetic,” she muses, attempting to bridge the gap between a behind-the-scenes life and on-stage performance—only for it to occur while propped up against the most dog-water, uninspired synth arrangement you could possibly imagine.

Between producer Jack Antonoff’s atrocious backing instrumental and the Y2K-era, teen dramedy echo chamber of a vocal harmony provided by out-of-place guest performer Post Malone, “Fortnight” chokes on the vomit of its own opaqueness.

“I took the miracle move-on drug, the effects were temporary,” Swift muses, and it sounds like satire. This is your songwriter of the century? Open the schools.

The Tortured Poets Department title-track features some of Swift’s worst lyricism to-date, including the irredeemable, relentlessly cringe “You smoked then ate seven bars of chocolate, we declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist / I scratch your head, you fall asleep like a tattooed golden retriever” lines glazed atop some synthesizers and drums that just ring in as hollow, unfascinating costuming.

Aside from the Puth nod, which I can only discern as a joke (given the fact that he is one of the 150-most streamed artists in the world and is one of the blandest pop practitioners alive—I don’t care if he can figure out the pitch of any sound you throw at him), I think Antonoff should stick to guitar-playing. Get that man away from a keyboard, I’m begging you.

Synths can be, if you use them correctly, one of the most emotional and provocative instruments in any musician’s tool-box. There’s a reason why keyboards defined the 1980s; they rebelled against the very oppressive nature existing outside of the cultural company they kept. There’s resistance in electronic music that, while they brandish an aesthetic that, to a layman’s ears, seems like technicolor hues for any infectious pop track, it’s a genre that aches to tell its own story. That is simply not the case here, and that electronica hangs Swift out to dry when she drags us through the lukewarm “I laughed in your face and said, ‘You’re not Dylan Thomas, I’m not Patti Smith’ / This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel, we’re modern idiots” lines, only to hit us with a softly sung F-bomb that sounds like a billionaire’s rendition of that one Miranda Cosgrove podcast clip.

I used to rag pretty heavily on Reputation—mostly because I thought (and still do, mostly) that it sounded like Swift had given up on making interesting, progressive pop music; that, in the wake of her (arguably) best album, 1989, it seemed like she’d lost the plot on where to go next. But as she’s put out Midnights and The Tortured Poets Department back-to-back, I find myself clamoring for the Reputation-era more than ever—at least seven years ago, Swift wrote songs like she had something to prove and even more to lose.

That was the always-obvious charm of Reputation, even despite the downsides—that she took a big swing from the echelons of her own musical immortality, that the comforts of winning every award and selling out the biggest venues in the world were no longer pillowing her aspirations. Even though that swing didn’t land, she still made it in the first place—and Swift is at her best either when she is clawing upwards (Reputation) or faced with nowhere to go but into the studio and noodle with the bare-bones of her own sensibilities (folklore).

You get something like The Tortured Poets Department when the artist making it no longer feels challenged, where she strikes out looking.

The mid-ness of The Tortured Poets Department will not be a net-loss for Swift. She will sell out arenas and get her streams until she elects to quit this business (a phrase decidedly not in her vocabulary, surely).

She will sell more merch bundles than vinyl plants have the capacity to make, and rows of variant LP copies will haunt the record aisles of Target stores just as long as Midnights has—if not longer.

Perhaps, in five or six years’ time, we will speak of this record just as we now do of Reputation. But right now, it is obvious that Swift no longer feels challenged to be good. The Tortured Poets Department is the mark of an artist now interested in seeing how much their empire can atone for the sins of mediocrity.

Can Swift win another Album of the Year Grammy simply because she released a record during the eligibility period? The Tortured Poets Department reeks of “because I can,” not “because I should.”

On “I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can),” Swift tries stepping into the shoes of the country renegades who came before her—the Tammy Wynettes and Loretta Lynns of the world. But her self-aggrandizing inflation of importance, glinting through via a seismically-bland bridge, is backed by a minimal set dressing of guitar, drum machine and keys.

“Good boy, that’s right, come close,” she sings. “I’ll show you Heaven if you’ll be an angel—all mine. Trust me, I can handle me a dangerous man. No, really, I can.” On “Florida!!!,” Swift calls upon Florence + the Machine to help her sing the worst chorus of 2024: “Florida is one hell of a drug / Florida, can I use you up?”

Even Welch, who is a fantastic pop singer-songwriter in her own right, delivers a grossly watery verse: “The hurricane with my name, when it came I got drunk and I dared it to wash me away.”

Not even the typos on the Spotify promotional materials for this album could have foretold such offenses. I won’t even get into the sonics, because Antonoff just rewrites the same soulless patterns every time.

What separates The Tortured Poets Department from something like Reputation is that, on the latter, Swift made it known what was at stake and who she was making that album for—herself, in the aftermath of her greatest long-standing criticisms (“Look What You Made Me Do” triumphs exactly because of this).

On The Tortured Poets Department, there is a striking level of moral nothingness. The stakes are practically non-existent, and the album sounds like it was made by someone who believes that they had no other choice but to finish it, as if Swift fundamentally believes that her creative measures are firmly embedded in the massive monopoly her name and brand currently hold on popular music. That’s how you get meandering pop songs about hookups, wine moms, Stevie Nicks comparisons, Jehovah’s Witness suit mentions, hollowed-out, tone-deaf nods to white-collar crime in lieu of empowerment and, topically, Barbie dolls.

(Don’t even get me started on the Anthology lyrics, which feature these absolute barn-burners: “Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto” and “My friends used to play a game where / We would pick a decade / We wished we could live in instead of this / I’d say the 1830s, but without all the racists / And getting married off for the highest bid.”) This album and its hackneyed grasps at relevance exist as “Did I just hear that?” personified, but in the most derogatory sense of the notion.

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys” features another low-point in Swift’s lyrical oeuvre, as she sings “I felt more when we played pretend than with all the Kens, ‘cause he took me out of my box”—perhaps a measure of her capitalizing on the Barbenheimer mania that none of us could escape, not even the musician who spent most of 2023 flying across the world from one country to another.

But you, us, the listener—we want to believe that Swift makes these records because she has the artistic will, drive and interest to continue giving us parts of her story in such ways that they exist as an archival of her life.

But the problem is that, on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift is packaging her life into a form that is easily consumable for the 17 or 18 years olds who pour over her music. Just because her Eras Tour film is on Disney+ doesn’t mean she has to strip her songwriting (which we know can be, and has been, phenomenal) down for the sake of it being digestible by a wide spectrum of ages.

And, sure, maybe that makes the work accessible. But on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift makes Zoomer jargon her bag—titling a song after one of the most popular video games in the world and conjuring flickers of “down bad” and “I can fix him”—and it feels like she’s cosplaying because the Fountain of Youth was out of order.

Now that Swift is in her 30s, it sounds like she is infantilizing her own audience more than ever before—that singing to them at a level that could force them to reckon with something more akin with adulthood would be some kind of kink in the coil or her consumeristic threshold, that writing lyrics that sound like they were penned by a 30-year-old would, somehow, deter the interests of the billions of people who adore her.

If making one, continuous coming-of-age album is what Swift has been doing for 15 years, folklore and evermore were hiccups in the timeline—existing as the most fully-formed renderings of Swift’s own insecurities and concerns. They mirrored our platitudes towards an uncertain future with sweet, stirring remarks about isolation and heartbreak and the unavoidable, hard-worn truth about getting older. On those records, her larger-than-life living seemed, for once, to truly feel as close to the ground as ours.

Now, though, Taylor Swift is at the top of the mountain. Far better artists have made far worse records than The Tortured Poets Department, but you can’t read between the lines of this project. There is nothing to decipher from a place of quality.

Sure, Swift’s fan base will pour over these lyrics for the rest of their lives—insisting they know, for certain, which song is about who. But you cannot place a bad album on the shoulders of lore and expect it to be rectified.

We are now left at a crossroads. Women can’t critique Swift because they’ll run the risk of being labeled a “gender traitor” for doing so. Men can’t critique her because they’ll be touted as “sexist.”

And, sure, Swift is probably too easy a punching bag in this case—and most of the time, I would argue she is undeserving of being a victim of such barbs. But, you cannot write about someone being a “tattooed golden retriever” and get away with it and still retain your title as the best songwriter of your generation. You just cannot.

Sisyphus should be glad he never got the boulder to the top of the mountain—because Taylor Swift is showing us that such immortality and success ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. And, when you’re standing on the peak alone, who else is there left to hit?

In a recent interview with The Standard, Courtney Love said that Swift is “not interesting as an artist,” and I think The Tortured Poets Department proves as much. She has nothing to fight for, no doubters left to drown.

So where does she turn? Well, to boredoms of celebrity thinly veiled as sorrow everyone and their mother can latch onto—because we’ve all had to “ditch the clowns, get the crown” at some point in our lives, right?

The billionaire is having an identity crisis, but there are no social media apps for her to buy up. So she sings like Lana Del Rey and writes meta-self-referential songs about looking like Stevie Nicks.

What’s hollow about The Tortured Poets Department is that the real torture is just how unlivable these songs really are. No one can resonate with “So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street, crash the party like a record, scratch as I scream ‘Who’s afraid of little old me?’ You should be.” And normally, that wouldn’t be an end-all-be-all for a pop record—but when your brand is built on copious levels of “I’m just like you!” as the demigod saying it to their fans does so from a multi-million-dollar production set, it’s hard to not feel nauseated by the overlording, overbearing sense of heavy-handed detritus we’re tasked with sifting through on The Tortured Poets Department.

Love’s words to Lana, her advice to “take seven years off,” should be applied to Swift. Now, that doesn’t mean that, to make a good album, you must sit on material for years and labor extensively through the sketching, shaping and recording in order for it to be transcendentally landmark. But it’s obvious now that not even Taylor Swift wants to be the head of an empire—that she, too, can’t outrun the damning fate of being plum out of ideas by hopping in her jet and skirting off to God knows where.

See you at the Grammys.

****

[celebrimbormylove]

In This Lifetime

I WROTE THIS FOR YOU @morganas-pendragons <3 Hope you like it!!!

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧⋆⭒˚｡⋆

Golden leaves fell slowly off of the giant tree that overlooked the great elven realm of Lindon. They were a sure sign of the end that was creeping closer every day. By the time they would have all fallen, the elves would become nothing more but lingering fragments, a sign of a great race, trapped in time. 

Standing there, in front of the Great Tree, did not help ease your mind as you had originally hoped it would. When your mind was in chaos, the mere sight of the tree could usually bring back your peace. This time, however, it brought upon nothing but sorrow. Knowing the fate of your people, and knowing you could do nothing about it, left you in despair.

“These rings, they could save our people. They could save the entirety of Middle Earth.” The words of your closest friend echoed through your head at that moment. He spoke highly of three rings that he claimed to have the power to prevent the disastrous fate that you were stuck dwelling on. Though you knew not of any such power. You feared what would happen if such rings were to be made. It would be no different from going against the Valar themselves.

“Do you still believe that the rings are a bad idea?”

His voice startles you as he comes to stand with you, under the tree. He gazes up at it, contemplating something that you believed to be far beyond your comprehension. He was always thinking of something, but that is what made him into the genius he is.

“They will forever be a bad idea, until you can create them in a way that does not disrupt the natural order of things.”

Your response caught him off guard. When he had proposed the idea to you, he did not imagine that you would linger on it for so long, nor that you would think so deeply about it. Though he did admire that about you. Your mind worked in wondrous ways.

“What if I could convince you that the rings are working parallel to the natural order? They would not stir up any trouble.”  He held your hand gently as he spoke, and while you wanted to believe him, you found it hard to do so. 

“How would you convince me?”

“Come back with me to my forge. Let me show you how I wish to make the rings.”

A part of you wanted to fight back, but his sweet words, his gentle voice, it all swayed you to follow him back to Eregion.

His forge was nothing short of breathtaking. Gems and other beautiful trinkets were placed carefully around the room. The light from the setting sun showered the room in a beautiful, soft glow. You couldn’t help but to be reminded of the early days in your friendship with Celebrimbor. He would often have you stay with him while he worked on his latest project, claiming that you were like a good-luck charm for him.

”Come, have a seat. I’m gonna make some tea and then we’ll get into the rings.”  He led you to a rather soft looking chair and then hurried off to make tea. He was always so hospitable to you, even after the countless times when you would tell him that he didn’t need to be.  

A sudden crashing noise, from the direction he was in, had you on your feet and racing towards him in a matter of seconds. It seemed as though he wasn’t quite paying attention and had dropped one of his teacups. Hardly something to cry over.

”What happened? Are you hurt?”  You slowly walked towards him, so as not to startle him.

”I was making tea and the cup was in my hand, it was so secure. I have no idea how it fell.”  He was staring down at the cup as though it was a wounded animal. This would have been quite amusing, had you not been so concerned from the start.

”It is just a cup, my dear friend. There is no need to be so upset over it. Here, let me help you clean it up.”  You grabbed a nearby towerl and  knelt down beside the broken cup. Before you could even start picking up the pieces, you noticed little spots of blood, which you deduced to be his.

”Celebrimbor?”

”Hm?”

“Let me see your hand.”

You stood up again and extended your hand, waiting for him to offer his. But he hesitated.

”I am fine you know, there’s no need for this. In fact, I can clean the cup up myself. You should go have a seat, my dear.”  He tried to usher you away but you stood your ground.

”Hand. Now.”

He hesitated for a second longer before finally giving in and placing his hand in yours. Despite being a master smith, he had quite soft hands. It dawned on you then that you had never really held his hand before. You carefully examined it and found a small yet deep cut on his ring finger.

”Your hands are your best tools, Celebrimbor, you cannot hurt them.”

He sighed at your words. You brought him back to the main room and found a clean cloth and some ribbon. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the only option at that moment. You brought him over to the chair you were previously sitting at and sat him down, squishing yourself in, between him and the arm rest.

”You know, you could just heal it.”  He looked down at you with a playful smile on his face.

You frowned at him. 

“No. You and I both know that my healing abilities are hardly something to rely on.”

”It is a small cut, my dear. I believe in you.”

”Celebrimbor-“

”I trust you with my entire being.”

His words made you freeze. You had been friends with him for many, many years. It was only natural for you to develop feelings for him, even though you had convinced yourself that he wouldn’t feel the same way. So to hear those words from him now…it made your heart flutter and suddenly, the room seemed way too warm.

You said nothing in response as you carefully cleaned the cut and prepared to heal it. Your healing abilities were not at a level where you could save someone from the brink of death, but it should be good enough for this.

A soft, light blue glow shone from your hands as you hovered over his cut. You closed your eyes, focusing your energy on healing him. He watched you carefully, admiring the focused look on your face while also taking in how beautiful you were. Especially this close.

”There, it should have worked.”  You slowly opened your eyes and examined his finger. The cut was gone, not even a scar left behind.

”It would seem as though you are not giving yourself enough credit, my dear.”

He smiled gently at you as he flipped his hand around in yours and intertwined his fingers with your own. “I should keep you here with me, to be my personal healer.” He laughed as he said this but he was only half joking.

”That would only work so long as you do not injure yourself gravely.” You slowly pulled your hand out of his and brought your other one up to cup his face. ”I cannot lose you, and I would not be able to save you.”

It was more than a profession of love. You were telling him how you had felt for many years now. You couldn’t live without him. He had left such a lasting impression on your life that it would feel like a void if he were to leave.

”Lucky for you, I do not intend to go anywhere. I will stay right here with you, for as long as you will have me.”  He closed his eyes and leaned into your hands, relaxing against your touch.

You sighed deeply, letting go of all of the worries you held earlier. Your hands seemed to move on their own, as they traveled upwards and gently traced the outer shell of his ears. He let out a soft sigh and tilted his head back, letting his head fall deeper into your hands.

Oh how he had been waiting for this moment. He longed for your touch, for you to hold him, to know that you felt the same as he did. The feeling of your delicate fingers running along his ears, it made him feel as though he was touched by the Valar themselves. He felt invincible. You made him feel invincible.

”My dear?”

”Should I stop?” You slowly started to pull your hands away but he quickly grabbed them and held them in place.

”Do not stop. Please.”

His voice was so soft, full of love and desperation. He needed you more than he needed air. You were his lifeline.

”Marry me?”

You dropped your hands in shock at his words. He was staring at you now, his eyes full of intent. He truly wanted you, there was no doubt about that.

”Celebrimbor? Do you truly mean it?” 

“With every breath in my body, with the very blood that runs through my veins, I mean it. You are more precious to me than anything I have ever created, more beautiful than any jewel in the universe. You are my everything. Please, Y/N, marry me.”

He was holding your hands in his now, his face mere inches away from you. You leaned in to him, your lips were hovering over his now. 

“I will marry you. In this lifetime and in every one in the future.”  

He could not longer find any words to say. He instead decided to pull you onto his lap and hold your head in his hands. Reciprocating your earlier movements, he traced the tips of your ears before pulling you into him and kissing you. Your little noise of surprise was drowned out by his deep sigh as he deepened the kiss, leaving you both absolutely breathless.

He finally felt as though he had everything wanted in his life. You always were the missing part of his life. He silently vowed to never let the world harm you, for as long as you both lived. As you had said, in this life, and every one in the future.

[ariseur]

kindly requesting a dante x reader where hes so stupidly flirty with his accountant who gets flustered easily

you grimaced once you had entered the office of the ‘devil may cry’, the place dark and dreary inside. you squinted as you heard dante’s footsteps walk ahead of you, almost as if he knew where everything was without the lights. you hummed, “i suggest you start paying your bills, dante.”

he sighed, the moonlight shining through the windows’ glass panes while he leaned back in his chair— painted a blue shade as the illumination was the only source of light in that forsaken office. “bills, money, work.. that’s all you talk about, dont’cha think?”

your shoes tapped against the floor, echoing in the quiet room with only the whirring of the air conditioning in the distance. “well, you hired me for a reason,” you mumbled, looking around the messy workspace.

“and what reason is that?” dante clasped his hands, leaning over the desk as he looked at you.

you tilted your head at him, letting a beat of silence passed as you placed a hand on your hip. you pressed your lips together in a tight line. “so that i make sure your dumb ass doesn’t get careless.”

he sighed, “oh, how i love it when you talk dirty to me.” your brows furrowed as you crossed your arms against yourself, gaze shifting off to the side. you huffed, walking over to the vacant space of his desk and pulling out your legal notepad— the dingy yellow standing out behind the faint parallel red lines. your hand reached into your back pocket as dante’s eyes lingered on your movements a little too long, focused on the way you pulled a ballpoint pen from your jeans and pressed the top as it let out a satisfying click.

“just—.. look at these finances, devil may cry isn’t exactly doing the best right now. i’m telling you, you have to go out on some more jobs—“

“how’s about,” he turns his chair over towards you, leaning back further, “i go out with you instead?”

you looked at him, your mouth shutting instinctively. your tongue went dry as your stomach churned with a weird sensation.

“what,” you gulped, “are you talking about?” you winced at the way your voice quivered. were your ears heating up? at this stupid fool?

he laughed, “i think you know exactly what i’m talking about.” dante waved his hands around in a dismissive manner, “i’d like to take you out on a date.” you narrowed your eyes at him, a cool, thin wave of sweat following your thoughts.

standing upright, you grabbed the pocketbook and notepad. you tucked in under your arm as you walked away with haste. “i suggest you get your shit in order, dante.”

he tipped his head back a little as he watched you speed walk away. “oh, trust me— i will.” he said, his words cut off abruptly with the sharp sound of the double doors quickly shutting behind you.

dante danced his fingers along the wooden desk, a dejected exhale leaving his lips as he closed his eyes. “one day,” he sighed. for now, he’ll only keep trying.

[vickyvicarious]

It seems like the general first impression was "The Demeter crew is suffering and sleepless and dying, while Mina is having a nice sightseeing vacation", but... Doesn't it seem less of a contrast than that?

Lucy's now increasingly odder sleepwalking was there from day one of Mina's arrival, making Mina sleepless. While the crew sleeps with one eye open.

Even on the first day on Whitby, Mina was taking about death and lost ships. While the crew was beginning to lose men. Mina and Mr Swales talk about tombstones and suicide. While the First Mate jumps to his death.

*Mina voice*: the reports of my hot girl summer have been greatly exaggerated...

You're onto something here, definitely. Of course, in the original book, we don't see anything from the Demeter until a little ways into Mina's stay, so it (re)reads as more foreshadowing than it seems like a parallel, but that's one of the really fun things to notice in the daily format! I'm reminded of Lucy's three suitors and her letters about looking into her mirror coming so soon on the heels of Jonathan's encounter with the three vampire women and with his mirror getting broken.

I never noticed just how much a lot of Mina's storyline here lines up so well with the Demeter though. And now that I'm thinking about it... There's a bunch of those kinds of connections!

Of course, there are overall ones. Like you said, Lucy's sleepwalking begins right away, and it robs Mina of her sleep. Meanwhile, the crew of the Demeter are kept awake by storms, by double-watches, by having to pick up the work that no one else is left to do. But though that's pretty overarching, there are also some moments that line up really well. For example, July 27: "Lucy walks more than ever, and each night I am awakened by her moving about the room." and July 28: "Four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of maelstrom, and the wind a tempest. No sleep for any one. Men all worn out."

Then there are Mina's conversation with Mr. Swales, especially the latter one with its talk of suicide, of going to hell - only two days before the mate leaps to his death rather than allow Dracula to get his soul. Mr. Swales also parallels the first mate a bit in being, as Mina says, "a most dictatorial person in his day" and very insistent that there's nothing supernatural going on, though as yet he's not been proven so terribly wrong about that the way the first mate was.

On July 24, Mina says there is "a buoy with a bell, which swings in bad weather, and sends in a mournful sound on the wind. They have a legend here that when a ship is lost bells are heard out at sea." That same day the Demeter is approaching more bad weather, and later on they get lost in the fog. (Though we never get mention of any bell ringing.)

Mrs. Westenra is afraid of Lucy's sleepwalking because she "has got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out on roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs and then get suddenly wakened and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes all over the place." On August 2, the captain is awoken by a cry that sounds close, but which he cannot see the source of in the fog. The next day, the mate runs up onto the deck crying out after being figuratively 'wakened' to the true horror of who he's up against just before he leaps over the side of the ship. Also on August 3, Lucy goes about searching for the key so she can get out, and the mate went searching through the boxes in the hold. He clearly found what he was looking for, and it had terrible consequences; if Lucy finds what she seeks in her sleepwalking, what might happen to her?

And, one that I can't believe never occurred to me before... Mina's not only worried about Lucy, of course. She's very afraid for Jonathan. Because he, much like the men on the Demeter, has vanished unseen. He went off to his work (on watch/work trip) and hasn't been seen since. Even when she hears from him, it's brief and she can sense the letter is uncharacteristic of him, short and lacking detail. The reason, though she doesn't know it, is of course that Dracula stopped him from saying anything else/more. Jonathan's real sentiments and words were 'lost in the fog' so to speak (the false trail laid by the letters being the metaphorical fog here). It reminds me of the one sailor's cry that awoke the captain. And even with that, she's still waiting for more word of him and should have had it by this point. But he's simply gone.

It's not endless horrors for Mina at the moment, but the ominous tone is certainly building over time despite more positive moments happening too. To use a weather metaphor, more and more stormclouds have been gathering over time, looming threateningly overhead. And it looks an awful lot like the weather Dracula brought to the Demeter.

[fellthemarvelous]

Without hope, we have nothing.

(Spoilers and speculation included a bit further down)

This is actually a post about the Bad Batch and not Star Wars Rebels, but this bit is important so...

Try not to cry when you remember that Tech is the one who taught Hera Syndulla how to mask her ship's signature, a move that made her a massive threat to the Empire and a move that she often used to her advantage. She was such a threat to the Empire that they wanted to capture her alive so they could make an example of her for her years of defiance.

And then also try not to cry when you remember that when Hera was taken prisoner by the Empire, Kanan Jarrus sacrificed his life to free her and save the future of the Rebellion. Try not to cry when you think about the fact that Kanan Jarrus aka Caleb Dume was the Jedi padawan the Bad Batch protected (except for Crosshair) from the Empire during Order 66 by claiming Hunter killed him.

Hunter, Tech, Wrecker and Echo lied to the Empire to protect a Jedi.

And Tech taught Hera how to evade the Empire when the Bad Batch helped her family (Chopper included) escape Ryloth after being accused of treason.

Clone Force 99's actions had a direct outcome on the success of the Rebellion. They refused to commit treason against the Republic and all they did was commit treason against the Empire. They were strong enough to resist the effects of the inhibitor chip (Crosshair and Wrecker for awhile), outright ignored Order 66 (Hunter and Tech), or were tortured and turned partially into a machine against his will by the Techno Union and used as a weapon against the Republic who, upon rescue, immediately jumped back into Separatist territory and fucked their asses up (Echo). Luckily, with the help of Rex, they got their chips removed after Wrecker tried to kill all of them.

Everything under the cut is pure speculation. I'm having a galaxy brain moment, I just have no idea if it's pointing me in the right direction or not lol.

If you disagree with me, I don't need you to rudely tell me why.

After his time on Tantiss, Crosshair can now identify with Echo more than anyone else in the Bad Batch (and Tech if CX-2 is Tech).

When they went to rescue Echo, Crosshair is the one who snidely told Captain Rex that he would have left Echo behind too.

Which is exactly what happened to Crosshair when the Empire turned him into a weapon against his own brothers. He had no choice because the Empire attached him to a machine and amped up the effect of his inhibitor chip so he could not disobey orders.

Rex told Cody "I think Echo is still alive" and Cody told him that was impossible. Anakin accompanied him on this rescue mission with The Bad Batch (we know Cody would have too if he hadn't been injured).

I think that if Tech is CX-2, Crosshair already knows or highly suspects it. He's terrified of Tantiss. I think we're going to have a parallel moment of Crosshair possibly saying the same thing, knowing that he could never leave a brother behind again after what he went through, especially if CX-2 is Tech. (I also wouldn't be surprised if Omega suspected something after her trip back to Tantiss with CX-2.)

We never saw Echo's body after the explosion. Instead we got this image. An empty helmet and a droid arm.

Crosshair defected from the Empire when he witnessed the Empire tell him that Mayday was only a clone and not worth giving medical attention to. Those actions resulted in the death of Mayday and that's when Crosshair chose to shoot an Imperial officer between the eyes (similar to Dogma's execution of General Krell in many ways).

If Tech is CX-2, that is the second Bad Batcher the Empire has turned into an enemy against his brothers.

This is the last we saw of Tech.

Hemlock was fucking lying when he said that Tech's glasses were all they recovered. Why the hell would he have found Tech's glasses and not Tech? All we see below him are clouds. And this is the last bit of Tech we see. That gun is in the shot with his glasses for a reason.

I feel like this is going to parallel Echo's rescue from Skako Minor. Tech and Echo are both highly intelligent huge ass nerds (remember that the battle plans being used against the Republic were written by both Rex and Echo, and Cody acknowledged that Rex was one of their best strategists in the GAR) who always ended up working best together.

Part of me wonders if we are heading into a show centered on the clone troopers in a post Order 66 world going up against the Empire as they try to rescue more of their brothers. Enough to become a problem for the Empire.

Part of me also wonders if the inclusion of Force sensitive children in the Bad Batch means Rex will need to call Ahsoka into the fray. Wolffe has only appeared once so he hasn't even switched sides, let alone even started blocking Ahsoka's messages to Rex yet. During the Clone Wars she had to save Force sensitive children from Darth Sidious. During the Rebellion, the saved more Force sensitive children from Darth Sidious. It makes me wonder if she is also going to save Force sensitive children from this too? I might be reaching a bit too much here, but it could be a possibility! She seems to always show up when Force sensitive children need to be rescued from Darth Sidious.

No matter what ending we get for the Bad Batch, I know it's going to leave us with hope for the future because the message in Star Wars has always shown us that hope will always be stronger than fear.

A simple act of kindness can fill a galaxy with hope.

Without hope, we have nothing.

These episodes are all relevant to Echo's journey. The Domino Squad was referred to as a bad batch and Echo was the one who seemed to struggle the most with orders that conflicted with doing what needed to be done. He is the one who memorized the regulations manual after all. And now the Bad Batch are on a similar journey because they have never trusted regs before, but now it seems they might have to trust the regs to come to help them the way they helped Rex and Echo before the war ended. The way they helped Gregor after the war ended.

If I'm wrong, I'm wrong, but that's a fanfic I can always write!! I don't want to get into who I think is going to die or survive, but I have my suspicions there too and I'm already in too much pain to keep going.

[bittrlys]

The Dragon Prince season 6 is like watching people write themselves into a corner in real time. Exciting! Massive spoilers ahead, of course.

THE GOOD

Opening on Aaravos crying was a very strong choice, this is the actual 'Mystery of Aaravos' type content I've been waiting for

Terry picking up Viren while they're excited about him being alive is very cute

As ever, Terry being extremely ride or die is 👍

Terry taking care of Claudia was very sweet; Terry cutting Claudia's hair and Claudia's new haircut in general. Cute.

Viren and Claudia on the beach, "No parent wants their child to suffer for them." Oof.

In general, I was quite happy with everything Viren, Claudia, and even Soren, and I actually wrote a note of "i hate soren" at the start because I thought we were gearing up for another season of him just being a bad joke machine with no real character or feelings to speak of. But then they gave him, like, actual pathos! They let him interact with people in a way that feels human! They let him be resentful and complicated! Wow! Magefam is so back baby!

Viren trying to reconcile with Soren and be a better example for Claudia really got to me. His final sacrifice (OMG CRIMINAL BY FIONA APPLE JUST CAME ON SHUFFLE.......WHAT I NEED IS A GOOD DEFENSE CUS I'M FEELING LIKE A CRIMINAL.......AND I NEED TO BE REDEEMED TO THE ONE I'VE SINNED AGAINST.....) is tied so strongly to his children and that feels like a natural place to leave his character. Now, I've been saying forever that he was going to get a redemption via death, and figured Aaravos would be the one pulling the trigger, so none of that surprised me, but I thought the actual execution was generally good. I do have some more negative thoughts but I'll save those for later.

Viren is very good at justifying himself, and I like that you see him falling back into that, at times struggling with it, at times not even catching himself doing it. It feels very real. At the same time, I don't think he's ever seen himself as a hero, so it was interesting to let him go out on such a heroic note.

Viren's kind of abuse-coded (not actually abusive, IMO, but I understand if this makes people uncomfortable in a similar way) act of forcing Lissa to cry into the vial is interesting. It echoes him taking Sarai's last breath.

Him writing out his whole confession on this subject and then burning it because he realized it was only going to do him good was also very nice.

Though I wish Claudia had stuck by her 'I'm going solo' guns a little longer, I still think there's something to how she is so incapable of being alone, of thinking for herself, and desperately seeks direction. She is literally just like her dad, and it makes them both easy targets for Aaravos.

Like, Viren being such a force that Claudia easily followed him, then Claudia being such a force that Soren and Terry both easily followed her, and Aaravos being a supreme force Viren and Claudia both easily follow because at heart, they're more followers than leaders despite the force of their personalities and ambitions -- it's interesting.

Aaravos using Sol Regem to casually destroy a kingdom and kill Viren just as a small step in his plan is pretty fun. We love a grandiose villain!

Looking forward to Claudia and Aaravos. She's in some ways even more unequipped than Viren to handle Aaravos's manipulations, but at the same time, she's a lot more unpredictable than Viren. If this leads up to a confrontation between them, I think that could be really cool.

Aaravos tragic backstory with deleted child was really not on my bingo card at all -- I never thought 'noble revenge' would be his motivation. I like how this parallels him to Viren.

Aaravos crying enough to fill a sea is great imagery

The lore of the startouch elves being actual stars that descend is SO COOL. This is like, the first bit of worldbuilding in this show that's actually seriously impressed me. I love it.

Actual lore as to why humans don't have magic. Well. Not entirely. But it's better than what we had.

I liked Amaya and Janai's wedding looks. Cute.

Janai like Ehe I'll bring out my armies after I get married 😜 is funny. She isn't a very good queen but she is the moment! The gossip blogs would love her.

Ezran eating shit and not having his """diplomacy""" work out. LMAO.

SOL REGEM DOWN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉

Kinda getting a y'know vibe from Soren and Corvus. I wouldn't mind that. I like that Corvus feels a little more tolerant of Soren than everyone else. It's funny Soren is like finally I'm away from my shit family but his new friends don't seem to care about him at all. Go and be totally free of all this, dude, or get a boyfriend.

Runaan back just when I was starting to think this show really hates gay males.

Rayla correcting her assumption about the sex of the diary's author was cute with the voice over changing. (cont...)

THE BAD

(... cont.) Did unfortunately then make it feel like "Had to be a woman because the author will be pining for a man."

Why is Zym STILL just a dog. Bro. It's like if all through Avatar you had to be aware Appa was going to be king someday. STOP BARKING.

Waiting for the whole cast to become vegetarians and somehow I suspect that will not be happening

When Claudia is listing the spell ingredients she could harvest from that cat thing I was just desperate to have Terry go, "Well, some of those could be ethically harvested, right?"

I find prophecies fairly corny as a writing tool and I get why they're going there -- predicted futures are the source of the anti-human oppression -- but still, I sighed.

Luna Tenebris putting a collar on her pet feels like, weird, right? Right? Right? She's not human and dragons otherwise seem so Respect all magical creatures. (Allegedly.) What is the uneven treatment of animals in this universe.

Naming your episode Red Wedding and I don't see a bloodbath ... oh, come on.

That ramble about ships from Caleb. Shudder.

Jeez, who is Rayla going to save? Her uncle who is an actual character or her backstory parents who are obviously happy and at peace? God forbid one of our main heroes has an actual hard choice to make.

Related: Caleb's 5 second rehab from dark magic.

Making his inner truth being about one other person is ... well ....

Cutting from Viren's rapidly cooling corpse to Lujanne receiving a sensual back massage was certainly a Choice.

Viren missing his wife THIS MUCH when he's barely mentioned her up to now was a little weird. I honestly think they saw the homoerotic interpretations of the very intense dynamics he had with Harrow and Aaravos and have been steadily backpedalling from that. Don't get me wrong, I can believe he loved her and he misses her, but the degree of it feels totally unearned.

I get children's media will have mascots for the children, normally I don't mind them, but dear god this show is hitting critical mass on annoying sidekicks (Zym counts as a very big one and he's already nigh unbearable.)

THE UGLY

I can imagine that the descendants of the human children Leola granted magic to are now able to do magic naturally and this could be the lore behind either Caleb or Ezran's abilities. I actually don't mind this as finally being in-universe explanation for this disparity that isn't just 'they want it more' or whatever, but it doesn't help this show's "Better People Are Born Better" messaging. Now, in that vein ...

King Ezran is a KING. Have we mentioned this? He's a king. He's divinely ordained to be above everyone else. You must show him respect because he's KING. Even Rayla emphasizes what a KING he is. BOW BEFORE HIM.

Ezran's idea of """diplomacy""" is just going "Be nice, please." (Followed by a threat LMAO.) "Go live somewhere else." WHERE. What if they try to occupy territory that isn't theirs? Xadian society seems quite separated and territorial. Ezran doesn't consider this. He doesn't consider anything. He has no actual diplomatic skills because he never offers anything, he just expects people to listen to him because he's KING.

You know in Parasite when they're like Of course the rich people are nice, they can afford to be? When Ezran was going I'm a king and I can choose kindness I was like, You're king because of an accident of your birth, and all your privilege and people looking out for you allows you to operate the way you do.

(Janai having an evil brother who is Not The True Heir To The Throne and Trying To Steal It is just part of the show's overall obsession with this narrative -- see also Viren coming from a less privileged background.)

Of course it's still funny to see Ezran be continuously characterized as So Compassionate, So Loving but when it comes to say, Not burning his own people alive or Extending the hand of kindness to one of his oldest childhood friends or her father, he just turns that shit off. This could be interesting hypocrisy if I thought the show was trying to intentionally paint him this way, instead of just wanting him to not be a total pushover because he's THE KING!!! ALL BOW BEFORE THE KING!!!!

The unbelievable frustration caused by a scene where Claudia is begging to not have to use dark magic -- Terry coming in and saving the day with natural magic -- Claudia staring at the peaceful solution and realizing she needs to change -- BUT IT'S STILL A FUNDAMENTAL DISPARITY IN HOW HUMANS CAN EXIST IN THIS WORLD? Is Claudia supposed to die because dark magic is too wrong to use? Now we have the reveal that humans are being actively denied magic I'm hesitantly hopeful they may get some justice in this regard, but it doesn't change the reality of humans right now. What are humans supposed to do? Rely on others for help? Oh, sure, most of the elves and dragons we meet now are just so nice and helpful to humans, because of the show's 'bad apple' approach to prejudice I've mentioned before, but we know that wasn't always the case.

Like, this actual reminder that the difference in power between a single dragon and a human settlement, and unlike the last time we're on the side of humans this time so you can better appreciate the horror of it ... it's depressing to feel like "Only by grace of your betters do you survive." It's echoes of Janai's 'forgiveness' of the human who put out the fire of that elf who assaulted her. "Aren't you lucky we're so NICE?"

This is all compounded by what I meant at the start of my review, that they've written themselves into a corner, especially wrt dark magic. In universe Soren sees no choice but to ask his father to do dark magic, something all the characters scold each other for constantly. Out of universe, the writers had a huge fuck off dragon come along to commit genocide against the humans and the only realistic solution is .... having Viren do dark magic, something the narrative constantly reinforces as bad. They ultimately frame this act as heroic, and according to a writer (I believe) on the discord, he speaks the spell forward to represent how this act of inherent good overcomes the "inherent evil" of dark magic (quotation marks theirs, interestingly.) I think the writers, for the most part, clearly like Viren and Claudia a lot, and like giving them 'big moments' with dark magic ... but this is part of the reason why the show has continuously reinforced a NEED for dark magic without giving any viable solution for the average human who doesn't have natural magical powers or is friends with dragons and elves like our main heroes. Ultimately, it feels hypocritical of the show to keep going on about the evil of dark magic (now very firmly an addiction metaphor) while having no solution for humans in tricky situations that aren't "magic you and only you can do, for some reason" or "queen dragon who somehow still isn't dead dear god coming to save you" or, y'know, "dark magic." Only one of these is really viable for the average person.

Like, you make it an addiction metaphor, but where's the alternative? Vampires need to drink blood to survive but vampire series often show vampires refusing to drink human blood as an addiction metaphor ... they drink animal blood instead, or something, and you get the metaphor. Right now, in TDP, it's either, do dark magic and suffer, or don't do dark magic and ... suffer more? Okay. I'm not saying life has to be fair or that there isn't value in accepting loss, but when Viren scolds Kpp'Ar for having all his fun with dark magic and then very callously dismissing Viren's fear for his son, I felt that. Viren isn't begging for a beer here. He's begging to save his son. Addiction metaphors need to match the scale and reality of what is being shown to you.

Sorry, I'm now going to harp on more about the Your Betters Are Born Better stuff now because I was actually enjoying (you know, tearfully so) Viren's death until his final lines. WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I GASPED!!!!!!!! HOLD ON!!!!!!!!!!! Like, let me get it out of the way, I get it echoes his last exchange to Harrow and his loyalty to Harrow is tied to his loyalty to Katolis, and they're saying "He was power hungry but now he is acting in a way that is purely, totally selfless for maybe the first time in his life," which is fine. The problem is, I have sat through six seasons of this show kissing royal ass. I have seen Aanya (shudder) mock him for not being a real noble-born ruler. I have seen Ezran's divine authority be reinforced time and again, and seen Viren throw himself submissively before his King to submit to his judgement as King, not as someone he once hurt. I have been reminded time and again that less privileged people who want the power necessary to succeed in a world biased against them are power-hungry lunatics unless they submit themselves enough to the Supreme Order of the world. So to have Viren's last words be him reinforcing that the most heroic thing he can ever be is A LOYAL SERVANT is just ... horrible. If they'd just kept the framing of Viren's death on his love for his family, it would have been way, way better.

Altogether I uh guess the season was mostly fine. They actually did a better job tying disparate narratives together with common themes which I appreciate. I liked the magefam stuff. I hope Soren eventually learns the stuff Viren chose not to tell him. I hope there's realistic forward growth on the attitude towards dark magic and why humans feel they need it, like some acknowledgement that Katolis was only saved because of Viren (make that two nations he has explicitly saved.) Maybe even Ezran can take a break from being unbearably sanctimonious to properly acknowledge his sacrifice. That would be nice!

I really hope humans get some justice for how they've been actively denied a valuable resource. It seems a self-fulfilling prophecy (they punished Leola for giving humans magic, this made Aaravos go darksided, Aaravos gave humans dark magic, humans are very set against the magical community for the way they've been treated so they're more callous about using dark magic) so I hope the ultimate lesson won't be "humans don't deserve this" but "humans only ended up here because they were treated like they don't deserve it, but they do, by right of existing as beings in this world." If Callum (+ Ezran) end the series as the only or some of the only humans with magic powers, I'm going to eat drywall.

[bisclavret]

what SICKO wrote the last scenes between gwaine and merlin is what i want to know. because even lancelot's last episode with merlin - which had to have been intentionally gay-coded since it's obvious the man is grappling with his feelings for merlin morphing from platonic to explicitly romantic - is still subtext because he doesn't have the tools to healthily express his feelings so he goes for the biggest romantic gesture he can think of: sacrificing his life to save a loved one. the writers also make sure to root this gesture back to gwen by adding a scene where she's inadvertently asking him to make that sacrifice first, so although it's very obvious that it's more for merlin than for gwen that lancelot dies for, she is there to add some plausible deniability, thus keeping his sexuality within the realms of subtext.

i don't want to delve too deeply into arthur's last scenes with merlin as there is both so much to unpack about what they mean to each other and there is also somehow nothing left to say that hasn't been said before. my point is just that there's so much at stake that if the viewer doesn't want to deal with the romantic subtext between them they can hang onto the 38 other dynamics merlin and arthur have represented to each other that the writers spent 5 years plastering on top of the gay subtext. basically, while the romance feels textual emotionally-speaking, it isn't "canon".

i don't mean to say that any relationship is better than another (even though i obviously have a preference) but that in gwaine's final scenes with merlin there's just no subtext anymore. his becomes the most explicit expression of romantic love towards merlin, and therefore the most explicit acknowledgment of homosexual love and the existence of queer people on the show:

it starts out with merlin suggesting that gwaine saved a girl from the saxons and then looked after her because he has a more than platonic interest in her, and they show us that merlin is right - gwaine and the girl eira slept together - even as gwaine half-heartedly denies any interest (which, why even deny it? merlin saw them holding hands! unless the lie is part of the point). then in that very same scene and directly after this exchange, merlin needs rescuing from the saxons, calls after gwaine, and gwaine performs the exact same role for him that he performed for eira: he saves him from the saxons and looks after him (for as long as merlin lets him).

the parallel between merlin and eira with such quick cause and effect (it literally all happens within the same minute) is where the shift from subtext to text becomes undeniable. yes, there have been other moments on the show where a character's affections towards two different genders are beat-for-beat the same, but, again, there has always been plausible deniability. in this case the parallel is meant to be taken at face value: the core point of it is to show us how gwaine expresses his attraction.

then, the dialogue they chose to bookend this scene with takes it a few steps further by functioning as a textual love confession to merlin himself: the scene opens with gwaine thanking merlin for everything he did for eira, and merlin saying that there is no need to thank him as it was the least he could do. a minute later, after merlin thanks gwaine for protecting him from the saxons as both merlin and the show just concluded gwaine did for eira for romantic reasons (even as he denied it by outright lying), gwaine parrots what merlin said when gwaine thanked him: no need to thank me, merlin, it's the least i could do.

but this comes off as the opposite of dismissive: in fact, this echoing of merlin's words is meant to jolt both merlin and the audience. by saying this right after saving merlin from the saxons, gwaine has now intentionally pointed merlin's attention towards the explicitly romantic parallel between himself and eira. gwaine is directly implying he just did for merlin what merlin correctly deduced he did for a woman because he desired her sexually and romantically, and he is using merlin's own words to challenge him into seeing past the initial flimsy lie that there is nothing between them. and what's behind the lie, of course, is that gwaine has done all of this and more because he desires merlin sexually and romantically. the camera even lingers on merlin, allowing him and the viewer to absorb what just happened. that for as long as we have known gwaine, his motivations have always boiled down to "i want to be there for merlin". and now both the audience and merlin finally know for sure what was motivating him the entire time.

what's more, by using merlin's own dismissive words, gwaine also implicates merlin's penchant for repression and denial and never allowing himself to be given credit where it's due. this unfortunately never properly gets dismantled on the show, but this moment shows that gwaine knows merlin well enough to know that he goes above and beyond for people, and that merlin's reasons for this ring as false to gwaine's ears as gwaine's reasons for saving damsels do to merlin. it also bittersweetly implies that gwaine has accepted that these are the platonic, repressed terms on which he can have a relationship with merlin. but i think the way in which he explicitly points all of this out to merlin is meant to imply that he isn't entirely happy about having to accept that. or, to circle back to eira, that merlin seems to be cheering for him to enter a heterosexual relationship when gwaine would clearly rather be with him.

what's additionally interesting to me about this is that this is one of the only scenes on this show that touch on same gender attraction that isn't using magic as a metaphor - because merlin doesn't have magic at the moment, yes, but also because gwaine is the more active character in this sequence, and he's an adventure hero, so he simply fights the bad guy to protect the person he loves. there is no metaphor to wrap this in, so he just gets to explicitly state his bisexuality. in the next scene, the very last one he and merlin share, it all becomes about magic again, which is both representative of merlin's sexuality and the show's "plausible deniability" approach to gay-coding, and so neither gwaine or merlin are permitted to acknowledge it. also, and this is for another post altogether, but all things point to "gwaine knew". not least because he gets to come out as queer without the complications of the magic-as-gay-metaphor which in turn emboldens him to ask merlin for the truth as directly as the metaphor-suffocated narrative will allow it.

tldr gwaine textually and canonically expresses and then confesses his feelings to merlin in a shockingly well-written and layered scene which makes gwaine the most explicitly queer character on bbc merlin and it's entirely because he exists outside the magic-as-gay-metaphor plot while loving someone who embodies that entire metaphor and it's crazy to me that we don't talk about this more. once again i ask what SICKO wrote this and where were they for the entire rest of this fucking show

tldrtldr at least gwaine is bi. its like i always say. at least gwaine is bi. at the end of the day. gwaine is bi. dont cry ok? gwaine is bi. at the end of the day. gwaine is bi. when all else fails. gwaine is bi. we'll always have. gwaine is bi

[lightwise]

Full Circle - The Return to The Outpost

The Return is a masterpiece in visual, verbal, metaphorical, and situational parallel and payoff. We have been waiting for 3 long seasons to see Crosshair and his family come to terms with their choices, reunite, and move forward together, and this episode somehow manages to give us all of it by walking us point by point through the scene of Crosshair’s change of heart—The Outpost. Most likely the themes presented here will continue to be parsed out for the rest of the season, but their fulfillment is begun here. 

We start with Crosshair outside of the ship, choosing target practice as a thinly-veiled excuse for avoiding his brothers. He is reunited, but not yet comfortable or fully trusted. In The Outpost, the scenes open with Crosshair outside of the ship on a smoking toothpick break, and he is approached by a Lieutenant who is decidedly not amenable to him. In both instances he is starting to be a little more open, however—his helmet is off, and in the first is listening to a group of regs, and the second, chatting with Omega and letting her show him physical affection. 

After a reunion on everyone’s part with Echo, who we see fully embrace a hug from Omega, and slip back into familiar banter with Crosshair, we are taken to the dining area on Pabu. This is a callback to the dinner that the main group had when they first arrived on the island, except this time, Crosshair and Echo have come home, and there is an empty chair symbolizing the absence of Tech. This episode shows no other characters besides the Batch (now including Batcher as the best girl that she is). The conflicts and themes in this episode are meant to fully delve into the heart of what makes this family tick. 

Barton IV is, as Crosshair states, a “remote, understaffed facility. It shouldn’t be a problem to infiltrate.” He can barely hold eye contact with Hunter while saying it, when once he was Hunter’s second. Hunter wants Omega to be safe and instructs her to remain behind, but she is adamant that they should stick together, just like she always has since joining them. Hunter almost looks like he’s going to cry, but he relents to both her demands and Crosshair’s input, although he is still suspicious of Crosshair’s motives. 

Before they leave, Crosshair has his original Bad Batch armor returned to him by Wrecker. His old identity and loyalties, kept by his family the same way he never left their hearts. A contrast to his previous mission, where Crosshair and the other clones are considered “used equipment,” and their only purpose is to protect and retrieve the shiny new armor meant for their replacements. 

As they make their way to the base, the weather also points to a drastic difference between the two episodes. In The Outpost, the weather is MISERABLE. Cold, stormy, clouded, dangerous. Crosshair’s inner turmoil at that time cost Mayday his life, and broke his allegiance to the Empire. But on their return it is clear, sunny, calm, settled—almost serene (on the surface). Crosshair has thawed and grown as a person, and his emotions appear to be in a much calmer, if somber, place. As they land, Echo states that there are no signs of life on the scanners. 

The planet is a graveyard. A memorial. A resting place. Made to dredge up and bury. 

A baptism. A resurrection. 

They exit the ship, and a vulture shrieks overhead, a reminder of Crosshair’s failures. Crosshair lifts his head to look at it, and his shoulders slump. (There’s an excellent little explanation of the vulture symbolism here.)

Mayday had told him that the vultures are vicious creatures who find a way to survive. They bury the dead and they take the scraps and they clean up for everyone else. They are shunned but beautiful. And they survive. Against all odds. 

The second the vulture disappears, tension between Hunter and Crosshair begins to spill over. While the others are happy to see Crosshair assuming his old identity, Hunter is suspicious that the planet is deserted yet still heavily guarded by sensor beacons, and rounds on Crosshair demanding explanations. Crosshair has willingly led them to the site of his trauma but he is NOT ready to talk about it yet, and matches Hunter snark for snark. According to him (he should know) the danger (local raiders) has been taken care of. Hunter is even more pissed off as he gets a glimpse of Crosshair’s activities under the Empire, and Omega is disappointed in both of them. Their feelings remain tense and tight as Echo convinces them all to get inside and focus on their mission. 

Once inside, Wrecker asks a question that encapsulates the fate of all the clones. 

“So why’d the empire abandon this place?” “I guess it served it’s purpose.” “Hmm, sounds familiar.” 

This prompts Crosshair to separate from the rest and go to a side storage room, where he first comes across the same heater that Mayday had once carried over to him as a gesture of friendship. It is dark and dead now. A sweep of his flashlight, and an even more sickening sight awaits him. All of Mayday’s troopers helmets, once lined up in a silent memorial, are now in a pile on the floor. And Mayday’s is among them.

Crosshair must have known this was a possibility, coming back. He isn’t ready to talk about his feelings toward this place, but his face tells us all we need to know about his grief and his regret. He steps over and in reverence, greets the helmet of his friend. He understands now. Loss, grief, death. The burden that Mayday carried. Succumbed to. At the time, Crosshair had merely watched. Now he participates and gives Mayday and his squad the honor they are due. Hunter, who has become more and more suspicious of what Crosshair isn’t telling him, catches sight of his brother honoring a (supposedly) random group of regs, but slips away to not disturb him. Yet. 

Crosshair rejoins the others as the sensors are turned off to redirect the power supply, and Batcher suddenly starts acting up. Crosshair takes her seriously, although he is forgetting something important that Mayday once told him—“you’ll freeze to death in that armor—if what’s in the ice doesn’t get you first.” Typically this is Hunter’s job, to be alert to shifts in the environment, but he is so focused on Crosshair “leaving” that he seems to be completely unaware of something stirring outside. 

Crosshair walks out both to scout and to process his feelings, and is greeted with an up close look at the ice vulture that has haunted him. He starts to scowl and as the bird takes off, asks “are you going to be my shadow everywhere?” A statement that could hold true for both the vulture and Hunter, who has followed him. And Hunter gets right to the heart of it.

“I know you,” he says. Or I did, before you became someone I don’t recognize. Someone who would betray us and leave. “There’s more you’re not telling us. Start talking. What did you do to get on the Empire’s bad side?” Hunter needs proof. He wants to know how the brother who swore loyalty to the Empire thrice over and stayed on that Kaminoan platform had a supposed change of heart. But he frames it bitterly, believing that Crosshair is simply repeating a pattern—one that had almost made them enemies. 

Crosshair’s hand shakes so much that his toothpick slips (like the sharp and pointed wit that often protects and comforts him), and we see a rumbling in the ice. Their emotions are starting to bubble and seethe.  

“You thought we’d take you back and not ask questions? I don’t think so.” Hunter is losing his grip on his emotions and physically shoves Crosshair in an attempt to spark the fight. His face is drawn, angry, and anticipating hurt. 

Crosshair remains remarkably calm, not even necessarily wanting to make an argument out of it, but he eventually responds to Hunter’s indignation with his own. And this time he doesn’t hold back. He starts at the end, admitting he killed an Imperial officer, but holds the tender explanation of why close to his chest still. Instead he tells Hunter what he thinks he wants to hear—that his betrayal of the Empire mirrors his betrayal of the Batch. Except Crosshair adds his own perspective—that he only betrays after feeling like he has been betrayed first.  

Hunter doesn’t have time to ponder that information as Crosshair now unleashes the root of his own turmoil onto him—and he knows how to hit Hunter where it hurts. Where he’s failed.

“I risked EVERYTHING to send you that message! You ignored it. You let Omega be taken to Tantiss.” The hurt blooms on Hunter’s face. “You failed.”

Crosshair isn’t even concerned about what happened to him on Tantiss. He’s concerned about Omega. And he knows that fact will twist Hunter’s gut in ways nothing else can. Hunter is their leader. He by default bears the blame of what happens to them, even though his squad makes their own choices freely. Crosshair doesn’t want to let him forget it. Hunter never lets himself forget it either. 

Both men only know their own sides of the story. And it’s tearing them apart.

They’re ready to trade blows but their attention is pulled back to their family and larger circumstances by Batcher barking. Hunter finally realizes where their emotions have brought them, but it’s too late. The snow erupts from a giant wyrm creature, no longer kept at bay by the high-pitched hum of the sensors. No matter the gulf between him and Crosshair, Hunter’s first priority is to shove him away screaming “move!”--echoing Mayday trying to save Crosshair during the avalanche. They fall to their knees and the ground splits between them. They barely make it back to the base as the symbol of their outburst chases them across the snow. 

Plans are made. The squad won’t be safe until this threat is dealt with. Each member volunteers their strengths. Hunter is in mission mode now, his face open, and extends an olive branch after his brother offers to shoulder the burden of leading the creature back beyond the perimeter alone. “We’ll do it together.” But now it’s Crosshair’s turn to be suspicious. Will Hunter really trust me again? Can I trust him?

The creature follows them. Disaster strikes. Hunter shrieks and falls below the ice. All animosity gone, Crosshair rushes to him, panic lacing his voice. Hunter! I can’t lose you the way I lost Mayday, buried beneath the snow.

And now, it is Hunter’s turn to tunnel into the darkness below the ice and face everything he’s been running from. Shot for shot, Crosshair has already been on this journey, already faced himself, his fears, his failures, down there. They can’t reconcile their perspectives, because Hunter has yet to do the same. Hunter commits to making sure that the wyrm is led away from his family, putting himself in harms way to make sure they stay safe. However, he has a safety line—Crosshair and Batcher up top, tracking him, covering for his usual role. 

“We found a weak point in the ice. We’ll try to dig through.” “You’ll try?” Their old banter makes a hesitant appearance. Hunter is still running. Crosshair is willing to try, as long as that effort is acknowledged. But despite their words, they hope that they won’t let each other down this time. 

“Am I going to have a way out or not?” “If you end up where we hope you do.” Hunter needs reassurance of an outcome first. But Crosshair reminds him that he is the only one who can plot his path, and its consequences. Hunter has to take responsibility for his own journey. The way out of this predicament hinges on how far, and where, Hunter lands. And he won’t take shortcuts, even when Crosshair begs him to go ahead and exit the tunnel once they find each other. He begged Wrecker to get Tech back onto the railcar. This time, he’s in the trenches himself. 

Tuned into his senses again, Hunter still doesn’t jump even as he feels the wyrm get closer, until the sensors are reactivated. Finally, he accepts Crosshair’s to help pull him out of the literal mouth of danger as the worm barrels into view. And they run again, leaping to safety just in time, having accomplished their mission. The wyrm is now harmless, roaring at them from the other side of the perimeter, chastened until it finally slinks away. 

The boys collapse, share a fully open look. All they need now is a nod. They have each others’ backs. Approval, gratitude, and trust now have space to grow. They are brothers again.

And Crosshair gets a redo of his trek back to the platform, except this time, instead of Mayday dying in his arms, Hunter is by his side, unharmed, and Batcher prances alongside them. Instead of silent TK Troopers and the insolent sneer of Lieutenant Nolan, they are greeted by Echo and Omega’s shining faces, and Wrecker running to meet them (and hug them. We all know they secretly loved it.)

(Side note: both Crosshair and Hunter have shown self-sacrifice on behalf of someone else in these parallels. Behind the scenes, Echo and Omega have a conversation that hints at the fact that Omega might be contemplating the same. The outcome of the guilt and confusion shadowing her even while Crosshair returns to the light remains to be seen, but it does not bode well.) 

The episode could end here. But it doesn’t. Now the real conversations can begin. It’s late in the evening and they have dug their ship out in order to depart. Bathed in warm light, Crosshair is finally ready to open up, at least a little, although he can’t face Hunter in the process. 

“I thought I knew what I was getting into with the Empire.” Owning up to his perspectives, not shifting blame. It was a choice he made. “I’ve done things. I’ve made mistakes.” Ones that he regrets. Crosshair's default is still to paint himself in the worst light possible when trying to reconcile with someone, in the hopes that the darkest parts of him will be accepted. He so desperately wants to be accepted for who he is, even when he knows he has done terrible things, and maybe especially, because he hasn't fully forgiven himself for them yet. So he tries to shock and hurt in the hopes that either his inner self-loathing will be corroborated, or his need for forgiveness can come from an outside source. 

And Hunter does forgive him, and doesn't even dwell on the many, many things he could blame Crosshair for, now that his own anger has passed. He acknowledges that he has regrets too, gives an even playing field by saying that none of them really had full information of what was going on when their separation first began, and extends solidarity in the best way he knows how. 

A smoothing of the path behind, and a glimpse toward the path ahead. He doesn't know what it holds either, but he's willing to walk it together.

And I think their choice of words is what they needed from each other. Hunter needed to know how Crosshair viewed his own actions. Crosshair needed to know how Hunter felt about the consequences, both those caused by him and those caused by Hunter’s own choices since. Hunter has always questioned his brother’s perspectives—his mind. Crosshair has always questioned his brother’s heart—his loyalty. Their strengths--and also their weaknesses.

“All we can do is keep trying to be better. Who knows? There might just be hope for us yet.” 

And for now, it’s enough. Crosshair looks into the sky, watches the ice vulture flying overhead once again, except this time, it flies off into the sunset, leaving him still mournful, but slightly more whole than when he first arrived. 

✨ Tag List ✨

@drafthorsemath @freesia-writes @sunshinesdaydream @the-bad-batch-baroness @heyclickadee @the-little-moment @ladyzirkonia @jedizhi @burningfieldof-clover

[phfenomena]

❝ in a world of boys, he’s a gentleman. ❞ || Luke Hemmings x F!Reader

| A/N- completely self indulgent i love luke hemmings too much

| WARNINGS- slut shaming, wine, ice cream, crying, confessions of love, two idiots in love, threats of violence (joking manner)

luke hemmings x reader fluff

the apartment was dark, barely illuminated by the small lamps scattered around. she was freezing but couldn’t be bothered to turn the air off after the afternoon heat sizzled away. the word just keep echoing inside of her mind. slut. slut. slut. what made her a slut to them? the people who built her career for her, the people she thanks everyday for supporting her?

she couldn’t breathe, having tossed her phone towards the wall in a fit of sadness she didn’t even know how long she’d been laying there. it felt like days but in reality it was probably only a few hours.

all they did was get coffee. he asked her to go get coffee, like friends do. she couldn’t even see the paparazzi, now a hashtag with her name and canceled on the end of it is trending. she hadn’t been with that many guys, has she? she recounted how many men she’d been publicly seen with and she could count it on two hands. if she were a man she’d be praised for her game and her dedication.

maybe she shouldn’t have thrown her phone. she can hear it buzzing and dinging across the room, each notification drilling the word deeper into her head. she’s such a slut! can you believe she’s seeing another guy? #SHESOVERPARTY.

as her legs sloppily and gingerly moved towards her phone she didn’t find thousands of hate messages from her friends like she’d expect. they were there for her. they cared. as she scrolls through the messages, most of them going in one ear and out the other. one stuck out, it’s from luke. she hadn’t been telling what’s going on with her and how she felt. she shakily typed back to him ‘shit i’m so sorry i didn’t answer. just not feeling like going on my phone. thank you for the kind words.’ the bubbles indicating he’s typing appear almost instantly. he’s happy she’s okay, and that she’s texting him. he wants to come over and see how she’s doing. shit. he wants to come over.

she frantically throws her clothes into the closet and tries her best to not look like she’s been wallowing in her self pity for days. even though she has.

as they sit on her couch with wine glasses almost full to the brim, he’s saying how worried everyone was and he feels so horrible that this is happening to her.

“it’s not your fault, luke. i shouldn’t have gone out to coffee with him. i should’ve known better.” she says matter of factly. he turns towards her and furrows his eyebrows.

“no, in no parallel universe would this even be on you. you’re not to blame at all. the internet was so quick to tear you down and call you…that, because they always need a victim. someone to hate on and someone to blame everything on. it’ll never be your fault.” his voice softens towards the end, his free hand rubbing comforting circles over her knee.

the dam collapsed, she fell into a fit of sobs and struggled breaths. placing the wine glass down on the table and putting her head into her hands.

“it just feels so horrible! to have everyone hate you, and call you a slut, a whore, any other insult they can think of!” she’s choking on her own sobs now as he sets his wine glass next to hers and wraps his arms around her. tracing shapes onto her back.

“i’ve never been through this, i can’t imagine how you’re feeling. but i’m your best friend and i’ll do anything in my power to make you feel better. if you want i’ll go out there right now and track down those internet trolls. i can go all james bond on them.” she smiles at his joke but it barley reaches her eyes.

“can we go get ice cream? with full masks on, and every inch of our bodies covered so no one will know it us?” his smile is plastered across his face as he releases her. “i will buy you the entire menu if it’ll make you feel better.” she wipes her tears and stands up.

they’re sitting in his car, windows rolled tightly up. she’s laughing now. she’s laughing at his jokes. he made her laugh. his hands feel like they’re still on fire from when he held her. she was so close, he could feel her heartbeat. her face is lit up by the moon hanging low, almost casting a halo-like effect behind her head. how fitting.

there are traces of their endeavor on her chin, just below her bottom lip. he wipes a napkin across her face trying to rid of the splotch. she laughs and grabs the napkin from his hand

“i’m not a toddler, luke. i can wipe my own face.” she teases while she’s staring into the mirror and wiping her own face. “you’re so pretty” tumbles out of his mouth, barley above a whisper. by the time it traveled to her ears she froze, and went red. her insides felt like they were on fire, in contrast to the temperature outside of the car.

he was quick to apologize before she cut him off. “you’re pretty too. but i’m sure you hear that enough from your fangirls. does it ever creep you out how many people have your face on their bedroom wall? it freaks me out. a picture of me watching them like i’m jesus.” she diffuses the tension whilst also avoiding have a tender moment with him. self-sabotage.

“your fans are normal, though! mine literally figured out where the band was staying and sat outside the hotel for twelve hours.” he exasperated as she laughed. hard.

“they’re just devoted! they’d never call you a slut, even if you slept with the entirety of california.” her eyebrows furrow as she tries to say it seriously, but the idea of him sleeping around the state made her laugh all over again.

“well, i’m one of your fans and i’d never call you a slut. i actually run three different fan accounts for you just to show my pure unbridled devotion to you.” he holds a finger up acting as if he’s telling her a statistic.

“oh my! what a gentleman you are, luke! my reputations never been worse, so you must really like me.” in a world of boys, he’s a gentleman. they feel giddy and high off of eachother presence. as the laughter quiets down and she looks at the radio, she smiles softly seeing ‘you are in love (taylor’s version)’ playing at a low volume.

“you’re my best friend in the whole world, you know that? you’ve always been there and i hope you never leave.” he quietly confesses, his gaze fixed on the moon. desperately avoiding her eye contact.

“you’re my best friend too, luke. i really appreciate everything you did for me tonight. i feel a lot better, thank you.” her hand rests on top of his and a sweet grin settles upon her face.

his hand comes up to cup the side of her face and she leans into it, closing her eyes. “i love you.” he whispers. her eyes slowly open and before he can take it back she meshes their lips together. moving in sync as taylor swift plays softly in the background.

“i love you more, luke.”