#goddamn these kids are tragic

[blimbo-buddy]

It's not actually that hard to not make a female character's entire arc about motherhood or being guy characters' love interests or what have you I think you guys just need to become better writers

[sinkfood]

more childhood AU stuff! nowhere is safe from nikolai.

also i decided that fyodor had a cropped jackets phase at 13 because he thought it made him look older (it didn’t.)

[wewontbesleeping]

I miss being able to just listen to music and know absolutely nothing about the people who made it

[naivesilver]

Since it persists on being too hot to focus on my more useful OUAT fics, have a disgustingly self-indulgent Pinocchio Swap AU turned "Please Let Piccolino Have A Loving Family" AU moment 🙃🥰

"Grandfather," Pinocchio asks, standing on his tiptoes to peer over the worktable, "why are there so many clocks here?"

He half expects Mr. Marco to scold him for asking such a silly question, but instead the man just chuckles fondly and pats Pinocchio over the head, earning himself a giddy grin. "Ah, that's just because I like fixing them, lad. They need a more delicate touch than doors and plumbing, you see."

"But only one of them is working. Why's that?"

"That is because I don't have the time to spare for them all." Mr. Marco gestures vaguely towards the single working clock, hanging from the wall on the back of the workshop. "That one, though- August helped me sort it out, when he'd just arrived here. Do you want to see it?"

"Yes!" Pinocchio immediately interrupts his curious poking around the table, all but bouncing with enthusiasm. He likes learning about things August is involved with. August's always doing some really cool stuff, it seems.

As such, he lets the old man pick him up and lift him high enough that Pinocchio can see the clock from up close, and doesn't protest when the boy leans even closer, marvelling at the nice carvings in the wood - Pinocchio doesn't wiggle out so much to risk falling, which would for sure earn him a scolding, but still, it's the principle of the thing. He wouldn't feel so certain that he's safe being held like this, with some other people.

He thinks he knows a little of how things work in Storybrooke, now. Not everything, of course, but at least what he needs to get by on a normal day - he knows he can close the window blinds at night if he's worried someone will enter as he sleeps, and that he doesn't need anyone's permission to do so; he knows he can go crawl on August's lap if he's lonely and the man is writing or talking to someone, so long as he doesn't get too much in the way; he knows that if he wants to go pet Dr. Hopper's dog there are multiple adults who'll hold onto Gina for him, because dogs are so much bigger than her and she gets frightened easily around them.

He still doesn't know whether Mr. Marco is okay with Pinocchio calling him Grandfather or not, but that kind of thing is so confusing here, he's not sure he's ever going to puzzle it out. Back home he was supposed to address all older people like that, but Storybrooke? Beats him. Maybe it's too formal for them, who knows.

The clock ticks by another minute. Pinocchio squints at it, following the moving hands with his finger for a moment - the numbers are written a little different from what he remembers, but it's not too long before he can safely declare: "It says it's six minutes past two. That's it, right?"

"Very good," Mr. Marco praises him, and it doesn't feel like a mockery, even if he does sound genuinely surprised. "You know how to tell the time already, then? What a clever boy."

"Yeah." Pinocchio's chest swells with pride, and he points eagerly at one of the other clocks, the still broken ones. "That one's saying it's half past six, but that's because it's stuck. And that one thinks it's midday. Or midnight, I don't know."

"Yes, that's right. Good job. Say, who taught you so well?"

"An old man in a town. He said that because I had a nice watch, I should know how to read the time."

He doesn't like thinking about that too much, honestly. The old man, yes - he'd met a lot of nice elderly people in his travels, more than he did nice younger ones, at least - but the memory of the watch itself makes his chest clench painfully, like the time he was underwater without air before the dogfish happened.

He wonders what they did with it, after he lost it when he turned into a donkey. He's not even sure it still worked at that point, because it fell pretty hard, and the Coachman didn't give him time to check on it before leading him away with his rope - Pinocchio hopes it didn't break too badly, even if he can't have it anymore. It was a good pocket watch, nice to look at. He'd never owned anything so nice before that, and even though he's received lots of gifts since he came to Storybrooke, it's not the same thing. People are richer there than they were in his old land. They always seem to have something to spare for him, especially August and Mr. Marco and the gruff lady at the diner.

He must have gone quiet for too long, however, because the man gives him a little shake, if not a very rough one. "You alright, lad?"

Pinocchio nods, even though the picture of the golden watch is still flashing in front of him, as if it were the sun and he'd stared at it for too long. "Grandfather?"

"Yes, Pinocchio?"

"Can I see how to fix them, too, when you have time? Like you and August did?"

He's not really thinking he could manage it, honestly. He's not good enough for that. But anything's better than being stuck remembering the same thing over and over again, with no way to stop it. Physically doing something usually works as a distraction, like when he couldn't solve his math problems and he'd just up and start running.

For a couple seconds he worries he won't be able to explain himself if Mr. Marco asks him about it, but the old man doesn't, and instead simply nods, his mouth curling in a warm smile.

"Of course," he says, sounding a little choked up. "You're a smart boy. I'm sure you'll learn very fast."

"Really?"

"Well, yes. Why don't you go look for August and ask him, too? I bet he'll say the same thing."

Pinocchio nods again, allowing Mr. Marco to carefully put him down and darting away towards August's room as soon as his feet have touched the floor. He's not completely certain he didn't say something wrong yet, especially when he was distracted, but it's fine. He's fine. He would have been told, if someone was mad at him. That's how it works in Storybrooke.

And even if he did make someone mad, he can learn how to fix that. Just like the clocks. Just like the golden watch, stuck in another world that it might be.

[corrosivesaints]

pacing my room like a middle aged detective do you understand hawkeye pierce is a tragic figure locked in the sisyphean sitcom structure. you can’t watch the finale and tell me with a straight face that hawkeye’s arc in it is not deeply heartbreaking. yes he’s the court jester, the jolly harlequin, but his mom died when he was ten & everybody keeps leaving him! all he wants is to heal people and bring joy and laughter! but he got removed from his life by the american war machine to work against an endless tide of Death and Human Suffering for years and he kept rolling that rock up that goddamn hill until it rolled back down and crushed him. he survived, but my god. my god the cost it had on him. do you understand? do you? he’s hamlet he’s cassandra he’s the goddamn Hanged Man. his cousin tried to kill him when he was a kid. he nearly killed himself trying to save every life that landed on his table. he was stuck in purgatory for 3 and/or 11 years. he’s in the goddamn iliad. troy is burning, and he’s not sure if he’s getting out

[racmune]

and not to forget: killing as a reflection of the suppressed desire to be with another man, breaking down from the stress of forcing yourself to be "the perfect man", harming others being an easier fall from grace than becoming true to oneself whatever,

what im trying to say is gay sex wouldve fixed them

ohhhh the suppression of the desire to kill as a metaphor for the suppression of the desire to be with another man.... the desperate attempts to stop the need to commit to something 'wrong'. the slow break down of control and the deep seated guilt etc etc

[livwritesstuff]

Honestly, Eddie doesn’t know why it had taken so long for him to realize his and Steve’s children could understand the shit that came out of his mouth.

(It took an embarrassingly long amount of time).

Even when Moe’s third or fourth word was fuck, he didn’t realize it (and she was using it mostly correctly too, which should have been a serious flag, but nope).

What made him realize it was when they started repeating the shit that came out of his mouth. 

To strangers.

In public.

The first time Eddie had been really caught off guard by something one of his daughters said was when Moe, who was three at the time, had proudly announced to an unsuspecting grocery store cashier, “Daddy says my Papa’s a DILF!”

And, like, Eddie had just heard the term for the first time, and obviously he was goddamn delighted by it because…duh. Steve. 

It just hadn’t occurred to him that his toddler might have caught it too, but little pitchers have big ears, or so the proverb suggests, and Eddie had taken it as a wake-up call that Moe isn’t a baby anymore (tragic as it may be).

He’s not the only problem though – Steve is just as bad, (if not worse, because he really doesn’t bother to check where their kids are before he starts running his mouth).

One particularly damning incident was at a restaurant, which is something they don’t even do all that often because, seriously, going to a restaurant with very young kids should be an Olympic event or something.

(The last time they all went out to eat, Nancy and Robin had made a drinking game out of all the times Steve and Eddie had to take a child to the bathroom and ended up so far gone that Eddie had needed to drive them home).

The incident started with the waitress asking, “Can I get you started with anything to drink?”

And it had ended with four-year-old Moe confidently announcing, “My Papa needs a fucking margarita.”

Thank god, the waitress had been a twenty-something college student and thought it was hilarious, but Steve had still been completely mortified.

[cultofcipher]

Bill Cipher thoughts (BoB Spoilers Ahead)

I'm really sitting on how Bill's displayed so much of himself indirectly in the BoB. How during the Love section he denies having exes, marking them out. How said exes show up SEVERAL times scratched out or are regarded with this bitterness of someone who did NOT do the breaking up part. Bill got dumped. Every time. And is desperately trying to bury his feelings.

And that's something I think the Book of Bill really highlights in a way. The fact that Bill has feelings. That deep down he's a broken triangle. It's all over the book's writing. Him pointing out how to use denial and rationalization and other bad coping mechanisms to basically ignore and lie to himself (and show us how to do it) and basically convince himself that he is as heartless as he tries to be. Him avoiding his exes. The tone he uses and the avoidance really giving the "I don't handle breakups well and I'm still petty about it". Him constantly telling himself that he's fine. He's not fine. Him crying over Ford leaving and getting wasted. Him being bitter about the henchmaniacs not calling. His regret over what happened to his world. His loneliness. GOD his loneliness. His self-hatred. His scathing remark about definitely NOT having some tragic backstory that humanizes him and how he's not an "I can fix him case". Calling himself a monster. His longing for home. The "Last one breathing". The "I tried to change the past". The "my hands shaking, as I realized I could never undo the". The "until there was no one left but me, covered in blood, alone in the universe". The goddamn "I don't want to die alone" Valentine's card. The last few pages. Just, the last few pages. That isolation, his pained "I'M FINE". The almost sad plea for someone to let him out.

Bill cares. He's fucked up, unstable, violent. But he does care about people he gets along with and he feels understand him. For every "I'm just playing the bit" and using people with nice gestures, I think a fraction of that is somewhat genuine. And he hates it. He hates his own vulnerability. He hates his lack of apathy. He's denying himself his own emotions constantly under so many layers of distractions, eldritch horrors, and repression. He can't think about home, about failure, about how every relationship he's ever had, platonically or otherwise, ended. And it wasn't on his terms.

Him talking about/to his mom when he's drunk. How his mom called him Billy as a kid. How his home life sounded simple. How Bill as an individual is anything BUT simple. And how his drunken state holds such fondness for that simplicity, yet it was suffocating. How he would've broken free eventually, inevitably, because he knew that's who he was. It's his nature. He was destined for more.

How it cost him everything.

How he's constantly chasing insanity like it's a drug. Like he needs the power trip to stay high. To not think too hard. To drown out his emotions and his self-reflections and everything he hates about himself.

How in Gravity Falls he still tried to get Ford to side with him after everything, cause that was his vulnerability showing, for the slightest glimpse of a moment. Cause he doesn't want to do it alone. Him reaching out to the reader in his book, because he doesn't want to do it alone. Can't do it alone. Even when he eventually betrays that person, I think him offering Ford that cushy spot alongside his henchmaniacs makes me think that yeah, Bill actually would've upheld his end of the deal.

He thinks he wants multiversal domination. He thinks Weirdmageddon is his Magnum Oppus. His purpose. But he's so lost. If he ever does get what he wants, he won't know what to do with himself. He'll be faced with the "Now what?". He'll hit the end of the road and realize how unsatisfying it is. How this isn't what he wanted.

How lonely it is to be God.

I think the Axolotl sees that in Bill. It's why he doesn't try to destroy him or attack him or anything. He sees that inner self of Bill. Sees him for what he really is. Someone who needs a LOT of therapy, a true, honest to goodness friend or partner in his life, and maybe a more sustainable life purpose or hobby. He has so much potential and in a way his pursuit of power, rather than being an actualization of his abilities, is a waste of them, because it gets him nowhere.

And he needs help, even if he doesn't think he does. He's a depressed alcoholic frat boy trying to drown his misery in a way that hurts and kills worlds. He's a girlfailure, a bisexual/pansexual disaster (he's at LEAST canonically bisexual or at MOST canonically pan cause this guy has dated both ways).

Bill's book is so incredibly amazing for what it is. All the lies, all the unrealiable narrator parts of Bill's facades and flaws and him being himself and all of his genuine thoughts and feelings bleeding through the lines and showing themselves but only in a way that you can really understand if you understand him and can tell when he's lying and when he's not. To see the real parts of him, and everything else. This book was perfect, and it was perfectly imperfectly him. This truly is Bill's book. It's so him in such a raw and genuine yet dishonest way. I'm gonna cherish this damn book forever.

[lavender-twilight23]

I can’t deal with the cuteness of Cherik and they’re so in love, HOW did I ever think they were platonic????

Anyways, in light of this, may I present:

The Homoerotic Cherik Touches

(To no one’s surprise, six out of the nine of these moments are from the satellite scene in First Class)

Those are last though, first, we have the ALMOST touches:

Every time they brush past each other I can FEEL the sparks flying. And not to mention they’re stepping aside to talk about their MUTANT KIDS.

I mean come on, Charles literally says, “they’re just our kids”

The triumphant, supportive back pats

Erik is SO happy 🥹🥹 our boys are in LOVE

lil shoulder tap 🥰

And THIS ONE THOUGH???

First of all, Charles licks his lips- he wants Erik so goddamn bad.

Second of all, Erik looks sad to watch him go.

Third, that wasn’t a shoulder tap, that was the most homoerotic gay pat ever.

And this one 👇🏻 I tragically FORGOT, so thank you to @lenichque for reminding me!

And Erik’s little glance at him KILLS ME 😭

@wishchip106‘s reblog reminded me that I literally made gifs for more homoerotic touches but I guess I missed them in my camera roll 😑😑😑 I’m so ticked at myself lol but yall are wonderful with reminding me 😂

The supportive shoulder tap 😭❤️

Well okay that’s actually more like a SLAP

My man REACTED to that one like “damn that was violent but sexy” 😂

GUN 😁🫱🏻🔫🤏🏻🫤

😭😭😭😭THEM.😭😭😭😭

THIS SHIP IS MY LIFE RIGHT NOW 🥹🥹

GIFs made by me in Canva! ❤️

[rocketbirdie]

YOU. You are correct about Cloud Strife. Everything you say about him is CORRECT

Hi I'm going to use your ask as an opportunity to go on an unhinged tangent about him below the cut.

I believe that EVERYTHING about Cloud Strife as a character makes total sense once you realize: it's autism.

Here's a character whose entire arc revolves around the erosion of his identity and his desperate attempts to adhere to an ideal image, at the expense of his own wellbeing; and how self acceptance is the thing that brings him back from the edge of despair.

Youtube theorycrafters waste hours of their lives trying to piece together Cloud's psyche, when the answer is just... autism. It really is that simple. I will die on this goddamn hill.

In Trace of Two Pasts, we learn that even as a toddler, Cloud really was just... like that. Unemotive and awkward. And the entire lifestream sequence in the OG shows us a young Cloud who behaves in baffling ways. Tifa and her friends invited Cloud into their group, but he rejected their friendship while simultaneously harboring a seething jealousy. How the heck does that work, huh?

Viewing this through the Autism Lens™️, his approach make way more sense. Fearing his own inability to read and reciprocate their intentions, he pushes them away, and the resulting loneliness crushes him. He mistakes that loneliness for anger. He turns that anger outwards and gets into fights. Because the other kids don't understand him, Cloud sees them as stupid and immature. It's the perfect recipe for disastrous distrust. The tragic result is that, when Tifa gets into her accident, Cloud is immediately blamed by kids AND adults. He's seen as inherently dangerous and unpredictable, even though he did nothing wrong. It's like they were already looking for the perfect excuse to hate him.

The worst part is, because he struggles to articulate his own thoughts and feelings, he starts to just... accept what other people say about him. He's a pain in the ass. He's a selfish brat. He could try being a bit nicer. Any attempt that he makes to argue, backfires and proves their points even more. He's being childish. He needs to get his shit together. Nothing's ever good enough for him. He stops fighting it and lets people drag him around and violate his boundaries, because no matter how loud he yells or how intelligently he argues, nothing he says ever reaches their ears. He trims away more and more of himself to try and appease others and nurse the constant emotional pain. (And that's not even addressing the entire traumatic *waves hands* everything that he's gone through by the time he reaches Midgar! That would have to be its own tangent lol.)

It's hard to watch as a player; the secondhand embarrassment of Cloud's social blunders is immense. Some people don't like Cloud as a video game protagonist, which is perfectly valid. But a lot of times, they justify their opinion by perpetuating the same damaging language. He's an asshole, he's a weirdo, he hates people. The irony would be hilarious if it wasn't so frustrating. I know Cloud is just a fictional character, he doesn't need to be defended from harsh criticisms. But I can't help but wonder what these players think about the "weird people-hating assholes" that they meet in real life.

It also makes me wonder if they were even paying attention. I think the games make it pretty damn obvious what's going on. He's an asshole because other characters treat him like one before they even get to know him. He hates people because he doesn't understand them, and they don't even try to understand him. He's a weirdo because he has a strange way of showing how deeply he loves and cares, and he's afraid that his love will be misinterpreted like every other emotion he's ever dared to show.

The autism is everywhere. It permeates his entire being. It's in his silly responses when he takes things too literally. It's in his painfully practical way with words. It's in the stiff expressionless look and the flat tone of voice. It's in him constantly adjusting his gloves, shifting his weight, looking down at his feet. It's in his questionable idea of what you're supposed to do with your body at a yoga session. It's in the half a dozen flustered high fives, it's in the motion sickness. It's in the contagious eagerness with his special interests in SOLDIER and materia and chocobos.

It's in the moments where the facade crumbles and we get to see the real Cloud, the one that Aerith knew was in there— the one that Tifa finds in the lifestream— the one that Zack gave his life for— the Cloud that cherishes the whole world. He's got so much of everything inside of his heart, and he doesn't know how to get it out. You'd be a weird asshole about it, too.

[crylirium]

THERE IS SOMETHING infinitely tragic about zack fair, and i know i am not the first buffoon to come to that conclusion considering he’s a character quite literally created for the catalyst of his death, but like— hear me out.

if you play the original ff7 a certain way, you can bypass his storyline completely. crisis core came out ten years after the original game and yes, we are given his story, but before that all we had was the scraps that could be scrounged up in ff7. he’s a shade. a shadow. a presence in the background. he’s haunting the narrative like no character has ever before, and yet he’s so easy to miss.

imagine it. he is zack fair, SOLDIER first class. a birth and a childhood. parents that loved him. his favorite boots scraped marks into the floor right beneath his mom’s cherry wood chairs. his fingerprints on his sisters’ mirrors and his bookmark snug in between the pages of his grandfather’s books. he taught his younger brothers how to drive their dad’s beat up old truck without it backfiring. he helped his mom with the laundry because she couldn’t quite reach the clothesline. his father called him “son” and “boy” and “kid.” he joined the military at fifteen years old and quickly outranked his peers. he worked with the elite. he made it to first class, and now he’s dead on a cliffside. no grave to bury him in. and the only kid on the goddamn planet who witnessed zack fair fighting to live and succumbing to his death immediately forgets him.

without him and his death, cloud strife does not exist in the form we know him as. zack is cataclysmic, omniscient, an entire universe of untapped potential and yet, AND YET, he exists just for his death. there is no need for the potential of zack fair: living. the importance of his character is in zack fair: dearly dead. imagine it. he exists for the purpose of not existing. he exists to extract all of his potential and purpose and importance just to stuff it all into cloud.

ff7 is cloud strife’s story and zack fair’s grave. it’s always been like this. he cannot exist outside of his own dead body on the cliffside. he’s been dead since the beginning. he’ll always be dead. he’s never going to exist. there’s no moment in time where zack’s importance falls outside of being fucking dead. god i could go crazy.

[bitethedevil]

If Raphael was supposed to be Gortash dad (makes sense they even share the same outfit style and all) maybe that explains Haarlep? His dad was feed up with Raphael having kids (worthless to him)

Yes! It does make all the sense in the world, to be honest. Especially since everyone except the Archdevils aren’t really supposed to have sex or reproduce. Haarlep as a gift makes much more sense in the context that Raphael had stuck his dick where he shouldn’t, and Papa wasn’t having it.

I got all the information from this link where they talk a lot about the House of Hope and Raphael as a character and there were some interesting things in there that I had no idea about.

Gortash’ clothes and all the parallels between those two make even better sense if they were actually related. It makes less sense that someone who was essentially a captive should wear clothes that represent their captor.

We were also supposed to be taken to Mephistar to meet Mephistopheles after defeating Raphael. The thing we saw in the scrying orb thingy was supposed to be a whole thing, but they scrapped it.

We were supposed to meet Papa Meph and he was supposed to thank us for getting rid of Raphael. It only proves what I’ve always thought about him: Raphael isn’t just some wittle cambion dude with a superiority complex (well he is ALSO that but). He must at least be somewhat good at playing the game since goddamn Mephistopheles himself could not get rid of him and seems thankful that he finally doesn’t have to deal with him.

Back to the thing with Gortash: It would also just be that much more tragic in a way. It’s the perfect example of children inheriting the same shit from their fathers, and it would be tied together perfectly if we actually saw Mephistopheles too.

Imagine this:

We meet Gortash and learn about his past. We learn that he’s Raphael’s kid and suddenly everything makes sense. Raphael has been a distant, shitty father so Gortash broke off to do his own thing and learned how to be independent.

We then kill Raphael and meet Mephistopheles, who is just like “thanks for killing my shitstain son! Cheers” and eats him in front of our eyes. It doesn’t take much deducing that Raphael grew up in much the same way. He broke off with his dad. He became independent. He sought his own power. And when he got a kid, he treated them exactly how he grew up anyway.

The cycle of abuse and everything. The story is already sort of there with Gortash, even though they were not blood-related, but it would have tied it all together in such a fascinating way.

Also, the fact that Raphael’s son stole the very thing he desired himself the most. Imagine the bitterness of your son succeeding where you couldn’t. That in itself has most likely been Raphael’s wet dream his whole life, and now his son succeeded in doing it instead of himself.

Like I said, many of these elements are still somewhat present in the current storyline, but it would really just have hammered it home.

(Thank you for the ask <3 Sorry I started rambling lol)

[s0ckh3adstudios]

Eugene makes me crazy because like. he's without a doubt definitely my favourite character in Detective Beebo, Beebo himself right beneath him, because he's so unforgivable and so awful but he has so much NUANCE to him?

Like yeah. He sucks. He's a bad person and there's no getting around that. But he's also tragic in a way. In many ways. He's tragic and unforgivable. Because he has so many goddamn issues that made him the shithead he is now.

Parents? May as well not exist. Eugene was forced to grow up too early. Take care of his sister. Learn how the world works. He never had time to be a kid, he probably saw all the other kids around him getting Lego and playing games and doing all this stuff that he never had the time or ability to get into or purchase. And he was jealous so so so jealous because Eugene wants what he wants. Not to mention the few implications about their parents we do get and just. there's a lot of reasons Eugene would have Mental Issues which seems Very Clear.

Then he encounters that stupid fortune teller doll that tells him he'll die young and it sends him into a SPIRAL. Because he doesn't want that! He hasn't gotten to do everything he wants to do yet!! And there's so much he wants to do because He Was Never Able To Do It. There was always something in the way! So he has to make sure he can take back what he thinks is rightfully his, take back all that time and make sure he can do it forever. He's terrified of dying, of losing his chance to live and do what he wants. He'll do anything. He honestly seems to lack a lot of empathy and that could boil down to how he was raised or like. I don't know. he's on the spectrum /j

He's tired of taking care of people. When can he take care of himself. He doesn't seem to understand the consequences of what he's doing and why it's so shitty. He knows it's shitty, but he also just doesn't care because why SHOULD he? He's focused on his goal and that's it and like. ouuuuufuffhghhhghghgh

[atty-goldstein]

Thinking about the Wrong Kids and the implications

Ragh taking the Seacaster eyepatch which makes the user immune to fear, when during the sophomore year quest, he'd been plagued with the threat to his mom's life. Ragh possibly carrying so much guilt because he himself had been possessed in the Nightmare Forest to attack his own friends. The very friends who were the first to accept him and treat him like family when he came out. Because we don't know if the Bad Kids died before they were able to snap their hirelings out of the mind control

Same goes for Tracker. But if it happened before Kristen resurrected herself, that's what would make it a lot more tragic for her. Cuz we know that Kristen discovered how Sol, Helio, and Galicaea were all just in kahoots with each other after the Nightmare King killed her. So they could have promised Tracker revenge on the Nightmare King if she worked for Helio instead. And it's because Kristen doesn't get to tell her about the influences behind those gods.

Speaking of, people are saying Tracker wore silver bracers to make herself stronger, but listen. What if she's wearing them also as a callback to the handcuffs she and Kristen used to use

And god, both Tracker and Zelda taking on physical reminders of their lost loved ones. Tracker still having the tattoos even if she's covered it up, Zelda with the white streak. I guess that's yet another thing Kristen and Gorgug have in common besides dying on the first day of school.

But also, it's like Tracker and Zelda are on the opposite ends of the same spectrum. Tracker became someone Kristen avoided becoming, while Zelda became what Gorgug wanted to be

Wrong Kid Zelda intrigued me so much cuz it could be interpreted that she's behind the Wilma and Digby automatons, but we don't know if she made them because they also died or if they pissed her off somehow she decided to just change or replace them. I'm inclined to think it's the former, and that Zelda also picked up artificing from them cuz they would have grieved together and chances are, the Thistlesprings also treated her like she's one of their own

And goddamn, considering they did get the livestream for the Nightmare King battle set up, then that means she and Gorgug literally just made up. They literally just said they loved each other. They didn't even get the chance to see each other again in person after that cuz the next time he contacted her, she watched him die. If she'd been told Gorgug was alive in Fig's timeline, would she also have switched sides?

But another question about Wrong Kid Zelda tho. What happened to the Seven then, if she teamed up with the other Wrong Kids instead?

And yeah, Penny makes more sense to take Riz's place instead of Zayn, but maybe it's because Penny is Becca's character now

Meanwhile, Aelwyn would have literally just turned against the Abernants, for Adaine. They were supposed to start being sisters. And she loses her. Aelwyn, who used the last of her strength to save Adaine from their father, whose magic is about protection, not being able to protect and save Adaine in the battle with the Nightmare King

Also, what do we think happened? Did she get her lycanthropy from Tracker because they're on the same team now? Or did she get it from Jawbone? Did Jawbone give her lycanthropy to aid in her quest for vengeance, or did she make him give it to her?

Most of Wrong Kid Ayda's deal was explained, I think. But I'm then curious about what happened to her relationship to Arthur in that timeline. He's probably not dead cuz Gorgug's dead a second time, but Ayda probably lashed out at him even more because he was the one who sent the Bad Kids on that quest in the first place

But my biggest question is, why was it so tragic for the Bad Kids to die in that battle? Fig would've still been an Archdevil, so wouldn't she just be in hell then? Wouldn't Fabian just be reunited with his father and they go on adventures together? Wouldn't Riz also be reunited with his father again and start being a full-time agent for heaven? Wouldn't Gorgug end up in heaven too, since Gorthalax fixed that thing where he went to hell? Kristen would probably still be fighting the gods, she probably would even punch Helio again for trying to recruit Tracker. Maybe even pull off what Arthur Aguefort did and knock some gods out and posed as them. And Adaine could maybe reach out beyond the grave to the next Elven Oracle, like the previous one did to her.

Also, we know there are other clerics powerful enough to bring them back from the dead, cuz of Yolanda and Lucy being brought back even after being dead for a while. Surely, Arthur also has more connections to make that happen, especially if Ayda's that angry with him and he wants to fix things with her still.

[drizzledrawings]

As someone who doesn't have any plan to watch Gravity Falls, pls explain why you like these 2 old men so much and why so tragic

Kay imagine this: they’re twins right… DOOMED twins

Ones named Stanley and the other is named Stanford, their dad named them that cause they were only expecting 1 kid

So Stanford was born first, meaning Stanley was the extra

Stanford is smart, a genius, and was born with 12 fingers. Stanley isn’t as “bright” but he’s strong and is very loyal to his family (mostly his brother)

They plan to sail around the world together, repairing this broken boat they found

Except it doesn’t happen that way, they start to grow distant, Ford spending more and more time in his studies

It all comes to a head when ford has a chance to get into a very good university based on an evaluation of a science fair project

Stanley accidentally breaks it, ruining Ford’s one chance

He gets kicked out for it and Stan and ford don’t speak for over 10 years. Ford goes off to university at a different school and Stan ends up homeless and in jail

When they do see each other again, ford is asking for Stan’s help, to get rid of a journal he wrote that has information that could end the world

They fight and Ford gets pushed into this portal, and is lost in it for THIRTY YEARS (he spends that time running from dimension to dimension, trying to kill this stupid triangle demon guy that he has a very odd relationship with, his name is bill and he’s the one who wants to end the world)

Stanley fakes his death and steals fords name and spends all of those thirty years trying to repair the portal to get his brother back

And he does!! But he gets punched in the face for his efforts and also almost ends the world but don’t worry ford is super cool and fixes it (for now) and then ford tells him to get lost at the end of the summer

And then the world does almost end for other reasons

And at the end, the only way to save the kids is to let bill enter fords body to get the information he needs

But they switch clothes, and Stan sacrifices himself instead. Ford erases his mind with Bill inside, killing him and stan in one go

He gets his memories back but goddamn isn’t that insane, he pretty much kills his own brother

They end up finally going on that sailing journey after all is said and done

[wadewnstonwilson]

die hard with a xmas vengeance;

summary: Logan and Wade embark on a chaotic Christmas themed "date night" involving a high-stakes break-in to retrieve a seemingly worthless VHS tape of Die Hard dubbed in Esperanto, which Wade insists is a "priceless collectible."

word count: 6.3k

author's note: this was SO much fun to write, and I hope everyone enjoys it! happy holidays!

It began like any other "date night" in Wade Wilson's twisted little world, only this time with a festive twist: breaking into a high-security facility, dodging a hailstorm of bullets, and retrieving some absurdly specific item he insisted was a "priceless collectible." Tonight’s objective? A Die Hard VHS tape dubbed in Esperanto, because according to Wade, it was the Christmas movie to end all Christmas movies. Why Esperanto? Only Wade knew, and Logan had long since given up trying to decipher his chaotic logic.

The pair stood outside an imposing industrial building, its sleek walls and fortified security system practically screaming do not enter. Floodlights swept the surrounding area in slow arcs, glinting off patches of frost and snow that crunched beneath their boots. The night air was sharp and bitter, stinging any exposed skin, but Wade seemed unfazed, practically vibrating with energy like a sugar-high elf on Christmas Eve. He adjusted the straps of his katanas, which he’d gleefully wrapped in a gaudy string of blinking red and green lights, and fiddled with a small device in his hands.

“Alright, Claws,” Wade said, spinning on his heel to face Logan, his grin so wide it looked physically painful. His voice carried that manic edge, like a kid hopped up on Pixy Stix and pure adrenaline. “Tonight’s the night! The heist of the fucking century. The coup de fucking grâce! We’re talking legendary shit. Oceans Eleven? Amateurs. The Italian Job? Snooze-fest. This is art, my friend. This is history in the goddamn making.”

Logan crossed his arms and leaned against a nearby lamppost, his silhouette bathed in flickering light. His expression was the textbook definition of unimpressed, his dark brows pulling together in a scowl that could have withered lesser men. But not Wade. Wade thrived on Logan’s disapproval.

“You’re stealing a VHS tape, Wade,” Logan said flatly, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the cold night air like the bite of winter wind. Somewhere in the distance, the faint jingle of a Salvation Army bell echoed, as if the universe itself disapproved of Wade’s antics.

Wade gasped, his hands flying to his chest like Logan had just accused him of murdering a litter of kittens under a Christmas tree. His masked face tilted dramatically toward the sky, illuminated faintly by the string of festive red and green lights adorning a nearby lamppost. He staggered back a step, clutching at his heart like a tragic hero in a Hallmark holiday special. “Stealing?” he exclaimed, his voice dripping with exaggerated offense, almost drowned out by the faint hum of Silent Night playing in the background. “Stealing? How fucking dare you, Logan? I’m not some petty criminal swiping candy canes from a kid’s stocking! I am an artist, a goddamn patriot! What I’m doing is rescuing! No, liberating! I’m liberating this priceless cultural artifact from the greedy clutches of corporate indifference!”

Logan raised an eyebrow, his breath visible in the frosty air as he watched Wade fumble dramatically with his pockets. “Do you even know what this is?” Wade continued, yanking out a crumpled, folded piece of paper like it was some sacred holiday scroll. “This isn’t just some run-of-the-mill VHS, oh no, my furry little Canadian. This—” he paused for effect, “—this is Die Hard, in fucking Esperanto."

Logan didn’t flinch. Not even an eye twitch. The man was a goddamn statue of apathy. His arms crossed tighter over his broad chest, his lips tugged into a scowl that could frighten most humans. “Pretty sure you don’t even speak Esperanto.”

Wade froze mid-wave, his masked head snapping toward Logan like he’d just been called out for farting in church. “Not the goddamn point!” he yelled, waving a finger in Logan’s direction as if accusing him of high treason. “This is about the principle. The fucking principle! Do you think Bruce Willis crawled through sweaty-ass ventilation shafts with glass in his feet just so some corporate dickheads could bury this cinematic masterpiece in some lame-ass vault? Fuck no! That man bled for us, Logan. Bled! For the art of explosions and one-liners and Alan Rickman’s silky, villainous voice!”

Logan’s eyebrow arched a fraction higher, the barest glimmer of amusement breaking through his otherwise immovable frown.

“I don’t even think you understand what kind of legacy we’re talking about here!” Wade continued, undeterred by Logan’s lack of enthusiasm. He began pacing back and forth like a deranged motivational speaker, his hands flailing wildly as his rant gained momentum. “This isn’t just a fucking movie, Logan. This is a fucking movement! Bruce Willis crawled so Vin Diesel could drive cars through skyscrapers. He suffered so Keanu Reeves could shoot guns in slow motion while dodging Matrix-y bullshit! And you—” Wade stopped dead in his tracks, pointing a dramatic finger directly at Logan. “You dare to stand there with your judgmental, grumpy-ass lumberjack vibes and call this stealing?”

Logan let out a long, low sigh, his expression unmoving. “Still don’t speak Esperanto, Wade.”

“Jesus Christ, Logan, for fuck’s sake!” Wade clapped his hands together, his excitement bubbling over as he all but vibrated in place. “I don’t need to speak Esperanto. Esperanto speaks to me. It’s the fucking universal language, okay? It’s practically written into my DNA. And even if it wasn’t, it’s fucking Die Hard in a language so obscure, it might as well be hieroglyphics. That’s gotta count for something.”

Logan ran a hand down his face, the kind of exasperated gesture that only Wade Wilson could inspire after years of relentless antics. His voice was a low growl, laced with irritation. “You done yet?”

“Not even close,” Wade shot back, his grin as bright and unapologetic as a string of mismatched Christmas lights. “But we’ll circle back to my holiday sermon on why you’re the Grinch incarnate. For now—” He spun dramatically, arms wide as if presenting a snow-dusted wonderland instead of a high-security facility, “—we’ve got a yuletide miracle to save, Claws. So, if you’d kindly unwrap that stick from your ass and join me, we can go down in holiday history!”

With that, Wade practically skipped toward the building, humming an off-key and very deliberate rendition of Ode to Joy. Logan groaned, the sound carrying the weight of a man who’d just been forced into a poorly wrapped gift exchange. He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Merry fucking Christmas,” and trudged after him, boots crunching against the frosty ground.

Wade crouched in front of the security panel, tools scattered haphazardly on the ground beside him. His hands worked with alarming speed, twisting wires and jabbing at the delicate mechanisms like a hyperactive raccoon rummaging through a trash bin. All the while, now he hummed the Macarena—loudly and off-key—occasionally breaking into bursts of mumbled lyrics. “Dale a tu cuerpo alegría, Macarena… Fuck, why can’t I get this stupid thing to—oh wait, there it is!” He let out a triumphant cackle, pausing only to wiggle his fingers like a magician about to pull a rabbit out of a hat.

Behind him, Logan stood with his arms crossed, his patience wearing as thin as the soles of his boots. He scanned their surroundings, the dimly lit alley eerily quiet except for Wade's incessant noise. The low hum of nearby streetlights and the occasional distant bark of a dog only added to the oppressive stillness.

“You could just walk in the front door,” Logan muttered, his gravelly voice dripping with irritation as he leaned casually against the wall, one leg bent. “Probably easier."

Wade turned toward Logan, his body language broadcasting an almost theatrical level of offense. He threw up his arms, his red-and-black suit creaking slightly as he gestured wildly, and his mask twitched with disbelieving amusement. His voice, when it came, was pitched in that mock-incredulous tone he favored whenever Logan said something that rubbed him the wrong way. And damn, Logan had excelled at that tonight.

“The front fucking door? Seriously?” Wade demanded, as though Logan had just proposed they stroll into a nunnery wearing clown suits and juggling live grenades. His eyes were practically bugging out behind the mask. “What’s next, we knock? Hand out some goddamn gift baskets to the guards before we waltz in? Where the hell’s the foreplay in that, big guy?” He leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Listen, babe, this isn’t just a mission—it’s a goddamn date night.” He put lascivious emphasis on those last two words, like he was savoring them. “A little B&E, a bit of illegal entry”—he paused, wiggling his eyebrows beneath the fabric—“that’s like the fucking aphrodisiac of our relationship, right there. Without it, we’re just two dudes loitering around a fortress. Lame as shit, if you ask me.”

Logan, rolling his eyes so hard he might have pulled a muscle, released a gruff, weary groan that spoke volumes. He’d seen this routine a hundred times over—Wade’s incessant, high-octane energy, peppered with enough F-bombs to level a small city. And yet here he was, still somehow tethered to the merc’s side. “You’re exhausting,” he said, each syllable dragged through sandpaper, his patience stretched thin.

A twisted, mocking grin split Wade’s face, warping into something both delighted and diabolical. “And you’re fucking old,” he retorted without missing a beat, like he’d been waiting weeks to drop that line. The door’s security panel flickered green and emitted a crisp beep, the deadbolts sliding back with a metallic thud. “Boom!” Wade cried, throwing his arms in the air triumphantly. “Who’s the badass now? That’s right—moi, motherfucker!”

As he pushed the door inward, Wade strutted through like he owned the place, the high-tech hallway stretching out under harsh fluorescent lights. The corridor had that sterile smell—disinfectant, burnt wiring, and the faint tang of metal. Logan followed him in, every sense on edge, nostrils flaring as he tested the air. His eyes swept over the bland, featureless walls, the distant hum of HVAC units, the crisp echoes of their footsteps. Danger lurked somewhere ahead, he could feel it.

“Still me,” Logan muttered, low and grim, reaffirming his own steady competence in the face of Wade’s theatrics.

Wade ignored him, pulling a crumpled, grease-stained piece of paper from his pocket, squinting at the barely legible scribbles he called a plan. “Alright, vault’s down this hall. We’ve got a laser grid—fuck yeah, a real laser grid, by the way—then a couple of rent-a-cops who probably can’t shoot for shit, and then this lock so complicated it makes your little Swiss Army claws look like a kid’s craft project.”

Logan raised a single eyebrow, unimpressed. “Laser grid?”

“Oh, hell yes,” Wade said, his grin spreading so wide it looked borderline painful, like a kid seeing presents under the tree on Christmas morning. “Some real Mission Impossible shit, my man. I’m talking acrobatics, sweat glistening like tinsel on the ol’ bod, maybe a slow-motion flip or two if I’m feeling spicy. You know, the kind of holiday magic that gets the ladies—or in my case, the fellas—hot and bothered.”

Logan rolled his eyes, his patience thinner than holiday wrapping paper. “You’re full of shit.”

“Excuse me?” Wade shot back, clutching his chest like Logan had just insulted his dead mother. “I am full of charm, wit, and possibly that expired Taco Bell from yesterday. But shit? No, sir. I’ll have you know, this laser grid is my time to shine, grumpy pants. Now, try to keep up—or don’t. I’m not your babysitter.”

Without waiting for a response, Wade darted ahead, moving with an energy that could only be described as caffeine-fueled chaos. Logan followed at a slower, measured pace, dragging his boots along the cold, sterile floor.

When they reached the entrance to the laser grid, Wade spun on his heel, his entire body practically humming with excitement. He slapped his palms together, a gleam in his eye that screamed this is going to be so goddamn stupid.

“Alright, honey badger,” Wade began, his voice dripping with theatrical flair, “prepare to witness the greatest fucking show on Earth. Wade Wilson, a.k.a. the Merc with the Abs, a.k.a. your favorite pain in the ass, is about to bend, twist, and contort his ridiculously flexible body through a high-tech field of death lasers. For free! I mean, who the fuck needs Vegas when you’ve got me?”

Logan crossed his arms, leaning casually against the wall, the faint glow of red and green security lights casting a soft hue across the dim hallway. “Are you gonna talk all night, or are you actually gonna do something?”

“Patience, Daddy,” Wade shot back with a wink, the faint jingling of bells on his utility belt—because of course he’d added bells—echoing faintly. “You don’t rush perfection. Now, sit back, relax, and watch as I make these lasers my bitch. Call it my holiday miracle.”

Without another word, Wade launched himself into the grid, his body moving with an absurd combination of grace and insanity. He twisted and flipped through the crisscrossing beams, his commentary sprinkled with festive flair.

“Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, eat your hearts out!" Wade muttered, barely dodging a laser with an exaggerated spin. "I’m the real MVP of this Christmas caper!”

Logan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re gonna end up a charred ornament if you keep this up.”

“Charred but festive,” Wade shot back mid-flip, a grin plastered on his face as he continued to maneuver through the glowing red maze.

“Oh, fuck me sideways—this one’s tighter than my ex’s leather pants. Whoa! Almost lost a nut there. You see that, Logan? You watching? You better be fucking watching, because this—oh shit, that was close—this is some artistic genius right here!”

By the time Wade reached the other side, he struck a dramatic pose, arms spread wide as if he’d just won an Olympic medal. “Ta-da! Who’s your daddy now, huh? Say it, Logan. Say, ‘Wade, you magnificent bastard, I bow to your superior laser-dodging skills.’ Go on. I’ll wait.”

Logan didn’t even flinch. Instead, he stared at Wade with a deadpan expression, his arms still crossed. “Deactivate the damn grid.”

Wade grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief like the lights on a freshly decorated tree. “Your wish is my command, Mr. Fuzzy Pants.” With a dramatic flourish, he tapped a button on the nearby control panel, the lasers powering down with a faint hum that reminded him of holiday lights flickering off after a long night. He gestured grandly toward the now-clear hallway, his grin as smug as a kid who just peeked at his presents.

“After you, grandpa.”

Logan grunted, waiting until Wade deactivated the grid completely before stepping forward. His movements were calm and deliberate, like someone unwrapping a gift they weren’t entirely sure they wanted. The intricate maze of lasers that had Wade practically bouncing with adrenaline didn’t faze him in the slightest.

“Impressive,” Logan deadpanned as he stepped through unscathed, his tone as flat as a holiday card from someone you barely know. “You’ve got a future in circus work.”

“Goddamn right, I do,” Wade said, spinning on his heel to face him, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. He extended his hand dramatically, palm up, as if waiting for applause. “Step right up, folks! Feast your eyes on the world’s most flexible, most charming, most devastatingly handsome sword-swinging motherfucker this side of the apocalypse.”

Logan sighed heavily, rubbing a hand down his face. “Just get on with it.”

“Fine, Dad. Merry Christmas to you too,” Wade quipped, rolling his eyes with exaggerated flair before grabbing Logan’s hand in both of his own and yanking him down the hall. “Now, let’s go kick some ass and maybe commit a light sprinkling of felonies. You know, festive bonding shit.”

As they moved deeper into the facility, the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridor stretched ahead of them, the silence broken only by the soft hum of the overhead lights.

Then came the sound of footsteps—heavy, deliberate, and closing in fast. Wade grinned, tightening his grip on his katanas. “Looks like Santa brought us some company, claws. Let’s deck some halls, huh?”

Logan didn’t need any encouragement. With a low growl, he unsheathed his claws, the sharp snikt echoing through the corridor as he stepped forward, his body coiled like a predator ready to strike. He moved like a force of nature, silent and precise, as he closed the distance to the first guard. A single slash of his claws sent the man’s weapon clattering to the floor, disarmed and incapacitated in one swift motion.

“Efficient,” Wade muttered, watching Logan’s attack with mock approval as he spun to face the second guard. “But boring as fuck. Allow me to demonstrate a little pizzazz.”

With that, Wade sprang into action, his body a blur of chaotic, almost balletic movement. He twirled his katanas with an unnecessary flourish, the blades catching the harsh light as he closed the gap between himself and the second guard.

“Hi there, asshole!” Wade greeted brightly, dodging the guard’s swing with an exaggerated lean that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else. “Just here to fuck up your night and, oh, probably your face too.”

He spun around the guard, his katanas slicing through the air with precision as he disarmed the man in a series of movements so unnecessarily theatrical they resembled a choreographed dance. “What’s the matter? Not a fan of my interpretive violence routine? It’s called ‘Death by Sexy,’ and you’re the star of tonight’s performance!”

Logan glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Wade land a sharp kick to the guard’s chest, sending him sprawling to the floor. Wade stood over the fallen man, tapping the flat of one blade against his shoulder as if considering his next move.

“You know,” Wade mused aloud, his tone conversational as though they were discussing the weather, “I could totally just knock you out and call it a day, but where’s the fun in that? So, here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna—”

“Wade,” Logan growled, cutting him off with an impatient glare. “We don’t have time for your goddamn monologues.”

“Fucking killjoy,” Wade muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes as he turned and tossed the second guard’s weapon down the hallway with the flourish of someone tossing an ornament onto a tree. “Fine, fine. Ass officially kicked. Happy now, Mr. Buzzkill?”

Logan grunted in response, already moving toward the next objective with the determination of someone trying to beat the holiday rush. Wade twirled his katanas one last time before sheathing them with a flair so dramatic it could have been mistaken for a festive ribbon flourish. He glanced back at the groaning guards behind him, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“Don’t worry, boys. You’ll have plenty of time to recover while reminiscing about how badly I whooped your asses. Consider it my early Christmas gift to you. You’re welcome!”

Wade crouched over the unconscious guard sprawled on the cold concrete floor, his hands moving with the speed and precision of someone who had done this far too many times. His fingers rifled through the guard’s jacket pockets, then dipped into his pants pockets without an ounce of hesitation. “Jesus Christ, what are these uniforms made of? Kevlar and shame? Fuck, does he not have a goddamn keycard? Come on, pal, don’t make me dig in your underwear. Although, knowing me, I’d make it work.”

With a triumphant shout, Wade yanked a thin, rectangular card out of an inner pocket. He leapt to his feet, holding it aloft like he’d just won the fucking lottery. “Ha! Found it! God, I’m amazing. I mean, really, Logan, sometimes I even impress myself. And I do not impress easily.” He spun around to face Logan, tossing the keycard at him with an exaggerated flick of his wrist. Logan caught it mid-air, his stoic expression unchanging.

“Here, Mr. Responsible,” Wade continued, a wide, shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “Open the damn vault so we can bask in the glory of my brilliance. And maybe get you a personality transplant while we’re at it. You’re welcome.”

Logan rolled his eyes, grumbling under his breath as he approached the reader. He swiped the keycard through with practiced ease, and the door let out a sharp hiss before sliding open to reveal a room that looked straight out of a billionaire’s wet dream.

The walls were lined with shelves overflowing with priceless artifacts—ancient sculptures, glittering jewels, stacks of cash neatly bundled in plastic. But Wade didn’t even glance at any of it. His eyes zeroed in on the back of the room, where a single pedestal sat under a spotlight, cradling what had to be the most unremarkable object in the entire building: a dusty VHS tape.

“There it is,” Wade whispered, his voice dropping an octave into something almost reverent. The snark vanished from his tone as he took a cautious step forward, like approaching a rare, endangered animal. His boots scuffed against the floor as he crossed the room, his fingers twitching with anticipation.

He reached the pedestal and gingerly picked up the tape, holding it with the kind of care usually reserved for newborns or rare, fragile artifacts. “Die Hard,” he breathed, his eyes wide and glittering with awe. “In fucking Esperanto. I’ve done it. My life is complete. I can die happy now."

Logan crossed his arms, watching Wade with a mixture of disbelief and faint amusement, his gruff voice laced with dry sarcasm. "This is what we risked our lives for?"

“Hell. Fucking. Yeah,” Wade shot back, his tone dripping with giddy defiance as he clutched the VHS tape to his chest like it was the Ark of the Covenant. He pressed it to his cheek, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “You see this, boo? This isn’t just a VHS tape—it’s a goddamn piece of history. Bruce Willis should canonize me for this shit. I’m a fucking hero.”

Logan exhaled deeply, shaking his head. “You’re an idiot, that’s what you are.”

“Idiocy,” Wade began, holding up a finger like a smug professor about to deliver a lecture, “is just another word for courage… said no one, ever, but fuck it. Let’s roll with it. Now, let’s blow this popsicle stand before one of those drones grows a pair and tries to roast my jingle bells.”

With the tape tucked securely under one arm, Wade led the charge out of the building, his red suit catching the faint glow of a string of twinkling holiday lights strung haphazardly along a guard’s desk. He darted through the hallways with the kind of reckless confidence that only he could pull off, humming Jingle Bell Rock under his breath. Logan followed behind, grumbling like a grizzled Scrooge, his claws at the ready in case anyone dared interrupt their escape.

“You know,” Wade called over his shoulder, “this would be way more festive if the guards were wearing little Santa hats or, like, had candy cane batons. Missed opportunity, really. Corporate America, I tell ya, no imagination these days.”

Logan groaned. “Can you shut up for five seconds?”

“Not a chance, Frosty. Someone’s gotta keep the holiday spirit alive while you brood your way through the halls of Ho-Ho-Horrors.” Wade threw a glance back, smirking. “And let me just say, your claws would make excellent stocking stuffers. Bet you never thought of that.”

The duo narrowly avoided a hovering drone, Wade hurling an impressive string of profanities at it as they ducked around a corner. “Nice try, motherfucker! You can’t touch this. I’m like MC Hammer but with better abs and a hotter ass.” He flipped the bird at the camera mounted on the drone, holding it in place just a second too long as Logan physically dragged him toward the exit.

Once they burst onto the street, Wade threw his arms up like he’d just won the goddamn Super Bowl. “Freedom! Sweet, glorious freedom! And tacos!” He turned to Logan with a grin that was almost manic. “We’re celebrating. Right now. No ifs, ands, or grumpy fucking buts.”

Logan scowled, already regretting the inevitable. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am. Serious as your stupidly furrowed brow. We just survived death drones, laser grids, and at least three guards who probably hate their lives as much as you do. We earned this.” Wade was already halfway down the snowy street, his boots crunching against the frost-dusted pavement as he gestured wildly for Logan to follow. “Come on, big guy. Tacos wait for no man—or holiday!”

The faint glimmer of string lights from a nearby shop window cast a warm glow on the icy sidewalk, and Logan muttered a string of curses under his breath as he trudged after Wade. They arrived at a rickety taco stand nestled into the corner of a dimly lit block, its small garland of blinking red and green lights blinking unevenly around the menu board. The smell of sizzling meat, freshly chopped cilantro, and a hint of cinnamon from a nearby street vendor selling roasted nuts filled the air. Wade practically threw himself at the counter, his breath fogging in the cold night as he bounced on the balls of his feet.

“Look at this!” Wade exclaimed, pointing at the menu board decorated with a crooked paper snowflake. “Festive and delicious. It's a Christmas miracle, Claws! Alright, listen up, my tortilla-wielding saviors,” Wade began, addressing the taco stand workers with a dramatic flourish. “I need three carne asadas, four pollo, two of whatever the fuck is on special, extra guac on everything, and enough hot sauce to set my intestines on fire. Oh, and throw in a churro. Daddy’s feeling fancy tonight.”

The man behind the counter gave him a long, skeptical look, then glanced at Logan, who stood a few feet away with his arms crossed and a look of weary resignation on his face. “Is he for real?” the worker asked.

“Unfortunately,” Logan replied, his voice as flat as the griddle behind the counter, the faint hum of Christmas music in the background doing little to soften his tone.

“Damn right I’m for real,” Wade interjected, slapping a hand against the counter with enough force to rattle the nearby pepper shaker adorned with a festive Santa hat. “Do I look like a man who messes around when it comes to tacos? No. I am the fucking Michelangelo of taco consumption. Watch and learn, Logan.”

“You’re addicted to this crap,” Logan muttered, shaking his head as Wade’s excitement only seemed to grow, his eyes darting to a tacky string of blinking red and green lights strung along the edge of the counter.

“And you’re addicted to me,” Wade shot back, flashing him a wink so exaggerated it looked like his entire face might cramp.

Logan responded with a low grunt, the kind that could mean anything—annoyance, reluctant agreement, or just sheer disbelief at the bullshit he willingly put up with. Wade, however, chose to interpret it as an admission of undying love, and his grin widened.

The pair sat at a rickety, graffiti-covered outdoor table, the kind that screamed health code violation waiting to happen. A string of mismatched lights dangled above them, flickering sporadically like they couldn’t decide whether to commit to functioning or give up entirely. The air smelled of grease, stale beer, and a faint hint of desperation—all of which Wade found utterly intoxicating.

While Logan sat nursing his beer, Wade dove headfirst into a towering plate of tacos with the finesse of a rabid animal. Salsa dripped down his chin, a stray piece of lettuce clung to his mask, and his suit bore the brunt of a guacamole explosion. He didn’t seem to care—or notice.

“This,” Wade said around a mouthful of food, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten taco, “is what fucking happiness looks like, Logan. You see this shit? Pure, unadulterated joy. You wouldn’t get it, though, Mr. Brood-and-Scowl. You’re probably allergic to happiness. Or maybe tacos. Or both. Wouldn’t fucking surprise me.”

Logan shook his head, his lips twitching as if he were holding back a smile. “You’re a goddamn tornado,” he muttered, watching Wade tear through another taco like it had personally insulted him. His voice carried that familiar mix of exasperation and the barest hint of amusement, like he couldn’t decide whether to punch Wade or laugh at him.

Wade froze mid-chew, one hand dramatically clutching his chest. He swallowed hard, then smacked the table with his free hand, making the plates rattle. “A tornado? A fucking tornado? You wound me, Logan. I prefer to think of myself as a hurricane of brilliance. Or maybe a fucking earthquake of charm. But a tornado? That’s just low. Low, even for you, you hairy fuck.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You done?”

“Not even close,” Wade shot back, waving a taco in Logan’s direction for emphasis. “You think you’re so goddamn cool with your grumpy-ass lumberjack aesthetic and your gravelly ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude. But deep down, you fucking love this. Admit it. You love the chaos. You love me.” He punctuated the last word with a wink so lewd it should’ve been illegal, his eyes twinkling like festive holiday lights.

Logan leaned back in his chair, taking a slow, deliberate sip of his beer. “You’re exhausting.”

“And you’re predictable,” Wade quipped, pointing at him with a greasy finger. “But here we are. You. Me. Tacos. The fucking dream team. So shut up and enjoy the goddamn night, Logan."

Logan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as Wade grinned triumphantly, bits of cilantro still clinging to his teeth like tiny festive ornaments.

When they finally stumbled back to the apartment, the building's flickering hallway light cast ominous shadows on the chipped walls, reminiscent of a run-down advent calendar with doors you weren’t quite sure you wanted to open. Wade fished out his keys with a dramatic flourish, jingling them like sleigh bells before unlocking the door. "Welcome to Casa de Fuckery," he proclaimed, throwing the door open as if unveiling a surprise Christmas morning gift—one you’d definitely want to return.

He waltzed inside, immediately kicking his boots off with enough force to send one sailing into the corner and the other smacking into the wall with a dull thud, narrowly missing a string of fairy lights haphazardly draped over a coat rack. "Make yourself at home—just don’t touch anything sharp, sticky, or suspiciously festive. Actually, fuck it. Touch whatever you want. Mi casa, su casa, claws. Consider it my gift to you, ya grinch."

Logan followed him in, the scent of old takeout and something vaguely metallic hitting his nose like a brick wall. He scowled at the sight of the familiar chaos: half-empty soda cans, mismatched furniture that looked like it had been salvaged from a dumpster fire, and what appeared to be a katana propped up in an empty cereal box. "You live like this?" Logan grumbled, his gravelly voice dripping with disapproval as he scanned the disaster zone.

"Live? No, no, no, I thrive like this," Wade shot back, flopping onto the couch with a loud groan, as if he’d just completed the hardest mission of his life. He held up the VHS tape with both hands like it was the Holy Grail, his eyes wide with faux reverence. "And tonight, my hairy, judgmental friend, we transcend. You ready for some top-tier, grade-A, primo-ass Die Hard magic? The Esperanto dub. Fucking cultural enlightenment, baby."

Logan didn’t answer right away, choosing instead to step over a pile of suspiciously crusty laundry and head toward the fridge. He yanked the door open with a grunt, scanning the sparse contents: three beers, an unmarked Tupperware container he refused to investigate, and what appeared to be an expired jar of pickles. He grabbed two beers, cracking one open as he turned back to Wade.

"Beer me, claws!" Wade called from the couch, patting the cushion beside him. "Come on, don’t be shy. There’s room in this magical shit show for the both of us."

Logan trudged over, handing one of the bottles to Wade. Their fingers brushed briefly, and Wade raised an eyebrow, shooting Logan a smirk that was half-amused, half-suggestive. "Ooh, hand-touching. Scandalous. Next thing you know, we’re picking out curtains together. Fucking domestic bliss, am I right?"

Logan ignored the jab, muttering something unintelligible under his breath as he sat down beside him, keeping a small but deliberate amount of space between them. Wade cracked open his beer with a flourish, spilling a bit of foam onto his already stained shirt. He didn’t care, taking a long swig before setting the bottle on the cluttered coffee table, right next to a half-eaten chimichanga.

"So," Wade began, holding the VHS tape up again and turning it over like he was examining a priceless artifact. "You think Bruce Willis knew, in his balding, action-hero glory, that one day his masterpiece would be immortalized in the motherfucking universal language of love? Because I’m telling you, claws, this is fate. This is destiny. This is what we were put on this Earth to do tonight."

Logan shrugged, his expression a perfect mix of boredom and mild irritation. "Just put the damn tape in."

"Patience, Grandpa!" Wade said, wagging a finger at him before hopping up from the couch with more energy than anyone should have after the night they’d had. "This isn’t just a movie. It’s an experience, like sipping hot cocoa by the fire or listening to Mariah Carey on repeat—festive as hell, and experiences take fucking time. Now sit tight while I find the VCR… which is probably under one of these pizza boxes. Or tangled up in those Christmas lights I was totally going to hang. Shit, I don’t even know anymore."

Wade eventually came bounding back into the room, triumphantly holding the dust-covered VCR aloft like it was the Holy Grail. “Behold, motherfuckin’ technology!” he declared, his voice practically vibrating with excitement. “This baby right here? State-of-the-art. Cutting edge. Straight outta the dark ages when people had to rewind shit by hand. By hand, Logan. Do you even comprehend the barbarity?”

Logan, who had been nursing a beer and silently questioning all his life choices under the soft glow of a string of mismatched Christmas lights Wade had half-assedly strung around the living room, grunted noncommittally. “Just plug it in, Wade.”

“Plug it in, Wade,” Wade mimicked in a high-pitched voice, sticking out his tongue as he crouched in front of the TV, his red-and-green socks peeking out from under his pants. “Bossy-ass lumberjack, can’t even appreciate the holiday miracle that is vintage porn—err, I mean, cinema. You’re lucky I love you, you grumpy Christmas tree of a man.”

“Love’s a strong word,” Logan muttered, watching Wade wrestle with the VCR like it was a rabid reindeer.

“Yeah, well, so is fuck you, but I haven’t said that to you yet tonight, so maybe write that in your letter to Santa,” Wade shot back, finally jamming the VCR into place with a loud clunk. “There. Merry fucking Christmas, Panasonic.”

The merc-with-a-mouth grabbed the remote and flopped onto the couch beside Logan with zero grace, sprawling out like he owned the place. His boots hung off the armrest, one sock was mysteriously missing, and there was already a suspicious smudge of salsa on his shirt from earlier. “Alright, Logie Bear, let’s get this cinematic fuckfest rolling,” Wade said, jabbing at the remote. “Prepare to have your hairy little mind blown.”

Logan leaned back, resting his arm along the top of the couch as the screen flickered to life with a low hum. Wade shifted closer, shoving Logan’s thigh with his elbow until Logan sighed and adjusted his arm, letting it settle over Wade’s shoulders.

“See? That’s more like it,” Wade muttered, leaning into him with a satisfied grunt. “Big ol’ grump finally giving in to my snuggly charms. You’re a goddamn marshmallow, admit it.”

“Shut up, Wade,” Logan said, but his tone lacked any real bite. His fingers tightened slightly on Wade’s shoulder, pulling him closer as the opening credits of Die Hard began to roll.

Wade exhaled, his body sinking into Logan’s side like he belonged there. His head rested against Logan’s chest, and for once, his mouth stopped moving. Almost.

“You know,” Wade whispered after a moment, absently running his fingers over Logan’s knee in slow, deliberate patterns, “Bruce Willis should’ve won, like, a thousand Oscars for this shit. Fuckin’ masterpiece. I mean, Die Hard in Esperanto? This is the goddamn pinnacle of human achievement. Screw the moon landing.”

Logan smirked, his gaze fixed on the screen, the faint twinkle of Christmas lights from the corner of the room casting a soft glow. “Thought you were gonna shut up.”

“And miss the opportunity to enlighten you with my superior holiday-themed film commentary? Ho, ho, hell no.” Wade raised his beer in a dramatic toast, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as snowflakes danced silently outside the window. “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker.”

Logan couldn’t suppress the low chuckle that rumbled in his chest as he clinked his bottle gently against Wade’s. “Yippee-ki-yay, Wade.”

The warm glow of the TV flickered over them, mingling with the soft hum of the movie and the faint scent of pine from the slightly crooked tree in the corner. Wade leaned just a little closer, his head brushing against Logan’s shoulder, and Logan didn’t pull away. Instead, his arm shifted ever so slightly, settling around Wade’s back in a gesture of quiet affection.

In that moment, the chaos of their lives seemed to melt into the background, like the last traces of snow on a fire-lit street. The room was filled with nothing but the soft murmur of dialogue, the glow of twinkling lights, and the quiet comfort of each other’s presence. For Logan, as he held Wade just a little closer, that was more than enough.