#he succeeds but in the process something terrible happens to him and he doesn’t bring it up at all on their reunion. just lets them believe

[psychicthepsychic-daily]

“I can’t believe you would lie to us about something so horrific!” Girlfriend’s going to lose her voice if she keeps up this yelling.

“I didn’t lie to you,” Psychic gives a humorless little chuckle, and whatever accusation Girlfriend was going to fling at him next dies in her throat. “You all assumed from the beginning that I was fine. I just didn’t tell you anything different.”

[soren-apologist]

enough edelgard discourse, time for ashnard discussion

it’s really too bad that people don’t talk about ashnard very much, considering he’s actually a really fascinating character. he starts off as generic evil king, but as the story develops, it shows how he’s sociopathic and macchiavellian, yet he still has cohesive thought behind his actions that parallel the mercenaries in a really interesting way.

ok, i’m not gonna sit here and attempt to argue that assnards is a good person— he’s an absolutely massive douche. part of what separates discussion of him from ones about edelgard, despite them having similar “the ends justify the means” plans, is that a. the game never tries to convince you he’s a good person, and b. ashnard doesn’t try to convince you he’s a good person. one of the things he says to ike is essentially, “i’m going to let history decide whether or not i’m justified.” i find that really interesting, considering that, despite the fact he’s attempting to conquer tellius for what he believes is a good reason, he has enough self-awareness to realize that this doesn’t inherently protect him from criticism. in contrast, one of the major themes behind edelgard is that she’s deluded to the point where she thinks she’s completely in the right with what she’s doing, despite, y’know, the fact she’s sacrificing countless lives of her countrymen and the rest of fódlan for her own ambitions. but this is about ashnard, so i digress. the fact that he doesn’t view himself as some “hero of the people” despite his actions potentially helping in the long run (giving the poor an opportunity to rise in the ranks by becoming knights, attempting to change the world so that the strong are the ones in control, etc.) is just something you tend not to see that frequently. i’m not saying his plans are necessarily foolproof— historically, meritocracies don’t do very sexily due to how they basically just end up being a situation of “the rich succeed, the poor fail.” that’s actually what i find beautifully ironic about the ending to cf, edelgard believes that she has found a way to fix fódlan but just puts them back at square one (instead of crests determining power, it will ultimately lead to the wealthy becoming powerful, since they can, y’know, afford shit). i bring this up because it’s pretty similar to how daein was run, though instead of it being run by nobles that would eventually become corrupt, it was run by soldiers who, more often than not, were bloodthirsty, cruel bastards willing to sacrifice their men if it meant a chance at more power to them. i really like how the two situations relate to each other, as in their leader’s well-intentioned quest to improve the lives of the people, they end up not really doing a whole lot.

for the record, i actually happen to like edelgard as a character, this isn’t a bash session that’s thinly-veiled as a character analysis. the difference between me and most of her fans, though, is that i like her because she’s kind of an ass, which is more or less the same reason i like ashnard. despite what i may have implied earlier, ashnard is a really, really horrible person. as some examples, he:

•forces powerful soldiers to fight to the death for his entertainment

•abandoned his infant son when he didn’t have any wacky and uncharacteristic dragon powers

•used said son to bait rajaion and drive him insane to use as a mount

•fully supported the use of feral drugs on laguz

•made no attempt to end the widespread laguz hatred of daein despite him boning one

and so on. but you know what? i like the fact that he’s such an unabashed asshole, and he doesn’t pretend like he’s the good guy in the situation, which is why i prefer him to edelgard, who always has to try and justify her actions. he’s absolutely relishing in just how terrible of a person he is, and it makes him really entertaining to watch. it makes for a really interesting contrast with the greil mercenaries, who also have a main purpose behind fighting and warfare, but have completely different intentions behind it. the mercs are good at heart, at times taking hard jobs for lackluster pay simply because it’s the right thing to do. ashnard does what he does because he thinks it’s the right thing, but in the process cares little for just how much bloodshed and destruction he causes. i just think the parallels are neat.

anyway, to sum up the point of this discussion, i think we should embrace the shitty behavior of morally gray characters like this instead of trying to find ways to justify them.

reject justification, embrace assholery

[cherrynojutsu]

Title: Like Gold

Summary: Sasuke grapples with love and intimacy regarding his developing relationship with Sakura after returning to the village from his journey of redemption. Kind of a character study on Sasuke handling an intimate relationship after dealing with PTSD and survivor’s guilt in solitude for so long. Blank period, canon-compliant, Sasuke-centric, lots of fluff and pining, slowly becomes a smut fest with feelings.

Disclaimer: I did not write Naruto. This is a fan-made piece solely created for entertainment purposes.

Rating: M (eventual nsfw-ness)

AO3 Link - FF.net Link - includes ending author's notes

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Chapter 8/?: Grasping

Sasuke awakens abruptly, nausea clawing its way out of his throat like a soup of sepsis that’s been left percolating on a stovetop for too long, finally boiling over and soiling everything.

Stomach churning, he tries to aim it at the floor - he’s gotten better at doing that, over the years - but he doesn’t quite succeed. Hot bile, acidic with mostly digested dinner, coats the side of his bedding and part of his sleeve.

He coughs, gagging on acid and torment and hyperventilation. Then his stomach lurches again, and he turns to retch another round at the floor. Part of it floods his nostrils, stinging, and he rasps more.

That triggers another round, after which he waits a minute, sharp coughs punctuating the stillness, familiar at this point with what his stomach’s settling feels like. He shrugs off his shirt once it does, and makes his way to the kitchen, hacking on a foul aftertaste and vomit-inducing visuals flashing before his eyes.

A glance at the clock tells him it’s half past midnight as he gulps water, snorting in a manner very undignified to clear out his nasal passages and soothe the putrid taste overwhelming his insides. Then he chokes more of it down, feeling the beginnings of a pounding headache.

There are times when having a near photographic memory is not a good thing. He is very tired of recalling crackling electricity, of stumbling over body after body with lifeless eyes. Men, women, children, all with charcoal irises like his.

And teammates, with irises decidedly not like his, luster flattened to single dull colors.

And himself, at the end, deranged and dispiteous, standing where Itachi had stood a long time ago, looming over remains as if he himself is the final obstacle to defeat before it just ends, the culminating villain in some fucked up fable. All at once, he’s a child again, gagging on a demented form of truth, left to stew there for years and years and years, rotting him from the inside out.

He's noxious. He knows he is. He wishes he could spit himself out along with partially digested yakitori.

Sasuke takes another sip of water as his vision blurs, trying desperately to focus on the wood grain of the cabinets and not daring to close his eyes, lest another flash snake its way into his ocularity and undo the mild soothing the water is providing. He coughs again, throat raw. Then his mouth starts watering, a telltale sign that he’s going to throw up again, so he walks carefully to the bathroom, bottle in hand and trying not to jostle his stomach more than is necessary. Switching on the light and flipping up the seat of the toilet, he makes it just in time.

This round it’s mostly just water, and it burns a little less. The murky brown color he’s faced with seems very reflective of what he feels inside, ignominy and wretchedness and self-loathing, no substance at all, just a bitter aftertaste of that which was left behind on a wood floor a lifetime ago. There had been saliva then, too, seeping from his mouth to the floor in his cowardice.

He swallows once, a gargantuan effort. Then he takes another sip of water, studying the text on the label to try to distract himself, vile and unsettled as he is.

He doesn’t deserve Sakura, not after what he’s done. When his vision starts to blur again, he can’t read anymore anyway, so he looks at the mangled mess left of his left arm instead.

He deserves that, a maiming to fit the crime. He wishes he were a better man.

Slowly so as not to further disturb his stomach, he lies down sideways, pressing his cheek to the coolness of the floor. He feels disconnected from everything, at a loss for proper coherent thought, a mess of misery sprawled on a tile too clean for his own rancidness.

Nothing matters for a long time. He just stares into nothingness, a mild burning in his throat and eyes on a void of pure white that he doesn’t belong in, thinking about how it matches the skin tone of bodies that have been drained of all their color. It’s like he’s barely there, nothing seeming real except the hollow feeling in his chest and the buzzing sensation tempering the edge of his consciousness, like his brain has been stuffed with cotton but parts of it are burning away to nothing. Everything of substance singes away in a controlled burn, destined to always have gaping holes of meaning scorched away at random wherever the fire takes hold.

He doesn't know if there ever even was anything in the first place, deep down. Maybe corrosion is a terrible metaphor, because what's left, at the end of it? Layers and layers of useless shale and sandstone and limestone, packed atop Precambrian filth that’s been decaying there for what feels like centuries. Or magma, set to burn anything he touches.

Or electrocute it.

XXX

Suddenly it’s hours later, and a bird is chirping outside, twitters resounding through a metaphysical tunnel of distortion. Gradually it shifts into an audio that doesn’t sound quite as echoed, accentuated by light filtering in through the miniscule bathroom window.

This happens, sometimes, the nightmares and the absconding into abeyance where his brain seems to shut off, a resulting loss of significant chunks of time. Not sleeping, just staring at something dully for a while, stuck on the same cycle of repeating thought. The memorial stone is a trigger for it, he thinks. It’s why he dreaded going there, upon his return, although it's complicated. Occasionally, visiting it seems to bring feelings that are almost positive, where it feels like he’s reaching out to reclaim tiny shattered shards of what used to be his heart. Mostly, though, it’s just mourning. The reading of names may be what compels the worst of them; sometimes he thinks if he looks too long, he’ll learn things he doesn’t want to know.

Exhausted, he drags himself to his feet and begins wryly picking up the pieces, chest hurting from heaving. He throws his bedding and his shirt haphazardly into the washing machine, drowning them in soap before he grabs cleaner to do the same to his floors.

It smells disgusting, like it’s been petrifying in his stomach for years. He supposes that makes sense; a lot of things have.

Once the surface is clean, he gets in the shower, not caring that all of the hot water is being used for the laundry; the icy cold helps wake him up. He’s fatigued, lethargic, but he knows better than to try to go back to sleep at this point.

As he fights shivers in the towel afterwards, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looks awful. Pale and sickly, repulsive, purple sallow staining his skin the same color as the Rinnegan. His normal eye is bloodshot, vacant charcoal that pollutes everything it touches. He lets the black of his hair shift over his Rinnegan eye in a manner he's well accustomed to by now.

His remaining eye inches to the corner of the mirror, the front of the medicine cabinet.

He carefully procures a cough drop, and then makes sencha tea, hoping the caffeine will dull his headache. There’s a part of him that still feels like he’s hardly there, like he’s a ghost just going through the motions. When he takes a sip, it feels good on the throat, but the vomiting earlier has partially singed away the surface of his tongue; he hardly tastes it.

Sasuke then takes the photo from when they were Genin to the living room, grasping onto it for dear life in more ways than one. He alternates between studying it and gazing out the glass, to the cherry blossom tree across the street.

An hour passes, slowly, sitting there thinking about what he does and doesn’t deserve, a mess of thoughts swirling down the drain of his mind. Then another. The luminescence of the day begins trickling in more, green buds across the street gaining back their pigment.

He’s not sure if he should even go to Sakura’s still, because he feels like he’s going to make even worse company today than he usually does, as tired as he is. But he’s weak, and he selfishly wants her; there’s an equanimity only she can provide, the swingback of a pendulum briefly through a sense of normalcy, and he needs the chance to look into jade eyes, to see the light hit them, to ascertain that the chatoyancy has not been dulled. And she’s not dead, despite his inner psyche screaming at him that she would be, had Naruto or Kakashi arrived just a second later. He needs to thank them for that, when he gets the chance, though the timing has never felt right to bring it up.

And he loves her. He's not sure if his love is worth anything, contemptible as he is, but it’s the main reason he can make sense out of the absolute mess that is his inner thought process this morning. So he goes.

XXX

It helps. He’s enormously exhausted, and the light of day hurts his eyes, even once he’s inside and is only absorbing its rays from the diamond window, but it helps.

“Sasuke-kun,” she greets in a voice like honey as she opens her door to him, dimple on open display. She really is so lovely, multi-faceted jade sparking with life that nearly instantly calms some of his anxiety.

He is briefly concerned about what he looks like to her, today. He checked prior to coming over here, brushing his teeth thrice in the hopes that his breath wouldn’t be bad, that he could drench his innards in enough clarifying mint to be even remotely deserving of a small amount of her affection. His eye was a little less bloodshot at that point, but overall he still looked like hell, sickly and pallid.

“Sakura,” he murmurs in response, voice hoarse from being put through a ringer of his own making.

There is a prolonged moment in which she examines him, wearing an analytical expression that reminds him of clinician Sakura. Then the spell is broken, as if she’s forcibly turned that part of herself off, and she’s stepping aside and telling him softly, “Come in! I made onigirazu.”

He steps inside her entryway, setting his book on the console table momentarily beside where Hazel Wood lies, ready to be returned. He then shifts out of her way so he can remove his shoes. He’s not particularly hungry, but he’s glad it’s something fairly simple and heavy on the rice; he should be able to eat it fine.

He follows her inside, appreciating the subdued luminosity of her lamps along the way. The blankets are already laid out on the couch, a promise of simple warmth and companionship that he is very much looking forward to.

As his eye adjusts and he enters the kitchen, ready to grab a plate, his gaze locks on remnants of sliced tomatoes atop a cutting board he recognizes, though it’s familiar to him from his own apartment, not hers.

It’s exactly the same design as the one Naruto gifted him.

A fire roars to life in his ribcage as he freezes for a split second, an exhausted icy hot appreciation. It’s an implication that means the world to him, and particularly well timed.

She wants him around, to help prepare future meals.

“I put some sliced tomatoes in yours. I hope it’s okay,” Sakura says as she hands him a plate, not addressing the elephant in the room at all, as if she just needed a new cutting board and happened to pick up that one, though he knows that cannot possibly be the case; he'd seen at least two in her cupboard, before. “Would you like tea, or maybe some water?”

He nods stiffly, vision a bit blurry, then comprehends the second question.

“Water is fine,” he manages thickly.

They sit in front of her window, supple sunshine streaming in. It’s not too bright here, angled just right.

“...How was your morning?” He asks after taking a sip of water, voice still gravelly. He is beyond content to be sitting here, just looking at her, so much better than a picture.

“Good. Ino and I walk or jog in the early morning on Sundays, if it's nice. Hinata comes sometimes; she did today.” She chews a bite of her rice sandwich.

Sasuke blinks; she hasn’t mentioned that yet. Another chunk of her schedule falls into place. “...Where?”

A half smile blooms on her lips, dimple pushed into being. “Sometimes we run laps around the village, but usually there's no real destination; we just walk and visit.” She takes a sip of her own water. “It’s nice when Hinata comes; it tones Ino down a notch.”

He would snort, if he was in a different sort of mood.

“We went to the southeast part of town today,” she continues. “Ino wanted to see a new building they put up. Her mom has a big order of flowers to deliver there later this week.”

Flowers. In the chaos of the night he’s had, lily bulbs fell to the wayside of his mind.

Sasuke carefully takes the first bite of his own food. It’s good, as he expected; a mixture of salmon, tomato, and salted rice, simple enough to hopefully help settle his stomach. He can kind of taste it.

He chews slowly, reverently, alternating between eating and taking small sips of water as she chatters animatedly. “The flower shop's orders are really taking off now. Ino’s usually busiest once May comes. Hopefully things stay peaceful, so she can stay in the village for the most part; her mom can always use the extra help.”

They wash and dry the dishes together, afterwards, a routine that is beginning to feel familiar. She still doesn’t say anything about the cutting board, but Sasuke greatly appreciates the way it feels in his hand when she gives it to him, weighty and with a designated home under her roof. It slides into place easily in the cupboard with the two others.

They read for a while on her couch again, wrapped in their respective blankets; Sakura keeps her apartment fairly cool. It’s cozy in a way that makes his head feel funny, like he could fall asleep in minutes if he really tried, lulled by the soothing scent of berry and cleanliness. He wonders if it would be restful, if he did. Usually once enough time ellipses, well into the next day, his brain cuts him some slack, though it could be that he's just too exhausted from being up most of the night for the neurons to fire up again to such a frenzy.

Sasuke finishes the last chapter of his book sluggishly and contemplates the ending, a lengthy description of the fisherman gripping the solid railings of the dock with both hands as he comes ashore for the first time in months.

When he flicks his gaze to Sakura tiredly, she’s a third of the way through a new book, titled Among the Ruins: Post-War Reflections. It appears to be a memoir; he assumes it must be one she’s purchased, as it doesn’t have the library label. Perhaps it’s new, picked up this morning while she was out, or it could be one from her bookshelves. He would like to peruse the titles she has, sometime. He drowsily wonders which war it’s about.

He takes a careful breath and just revels in it, being here with her, mere feet away with his eyes closed but able to sense her presence, worn out with thoughts that have edges as frayed as he is. He would like to stay for dinner, too. He thinks it’s perhaps becoming implied that they’ll eat together if she doesn’t have other plans, but he doesn’t want to be rude or overstay his welcome.

Sasuke hopes he can stay awake. Maybe he shouldn’t have said no to tea earlier; the additional caffeine might have helped. He could offer to make them both some, he thinks fuzzily, but then he starts wondering if that would be odd or overstepping. It’s her tea, and her kitchen, and her cups.

Then he sleepily remembers the cutting board.

“You can take a nap, you know,” Sakura murmurs kindly, soft words echoing a little in the stillness of her space. “If you’re tired. I don’t mind.”

He blinks his eyes open, vision adjusting as he realizes he nearly dozed off.

She’s smiling from the other end of the couch. “I can make dinner later, and wake you up when it’s ready. You should rest until then.” She pauses, then adds, “I can grab you a better pillow from my room, if you want.”

His brain catches up to his auditory processing, and then his ears warm.

Oh.

The offer is tempting, though he doesn’t want to be rude. If it were any other day, he would force himself to stay awake, to spend more time with her. But it’s not any other day, and he’s drained, enervated in a way that makes him want to give in. He should ask, to make sure it’s okay, but he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t offer if it wasn’t.

“...Here?”

A flush inks its way onto her cheeks as her expression turns thoughtful. “Yes. Or... you can use my bed, if you want.”

Sasuke forces his gaze away from hers, because his face feels extremely warm all of the sudden. “...I meant… here, at your apartment.”

“Oh.” Sakura laughs in a way that sounds nervous; he hears her fiddling with the book in her lap. “I, um… just meant whatever’s most comfortable.”

When he hesitantly looks back to her, she’s red, too.

“...What will you do?”

She gestures with her hand in a waving motion to indicate it's fine. “I can read, or do some laundry or work stuff. It’s no trouble. Really, Sasuke-kun.” Her blush deepens. "...I would like you to stay… And to have dinner later. If you’re free."

He swallows before slowly nodding his acquiesce, and then Sakura is up and heading to her bedroom in a blink of mismatched eyes. Muffled footsteps pad back moments later, a pillow with a lavender pillowcase clutched in her hands.

Her bedding must be a variant of violet, then, a pastel contrast to the black of his own. He is curious about the color of her bedroom walls all over again, but then she’s handing him the pillow, and he’s too tired to continue thinking.

“...Thank you.”

The smile she wears is so soft, treasured. “You’re welcome.”

He’s out within a few minutes of laying his head on the pillow, drowsing eyes barely catching the lamps flickering off one by one as she meanders around her space.

The pillow smells like her, too, cogent in its beckoning. He sleeps like a rock.

XXX

Sakura nudges him awake hours later, leaning forward to rest her upper body against the back of the couch. The scent of miso and roasted tomatoes drifts into his nostrils while lively jade peers down at him. The light coming from her window has dimmed quite a bit. It must be well into the evening; she let him sleep for a while.

“Dinner’s ready,” she murmurs softly, wearing an expression that is incredibly fond.

He stretches slightly as he rises from her sofa, working out a crick in his shoulder and thinking that he feels much more rested. Sasuke is about to head to her kitchen to get his own bowl, until Sakura turns towards the table, and he sees that she's already set out food for both of them, green market light switched on overhead.

There's onigiri, too, and a steaming cup of sencha placed on his side that he's sure is decaffeinated.

His side.

The realization, albeit a good one, disarms him.

He has a side of her table. And a side of her couch.

Sakura recites a story Hinata told her this morning as they eat, about how Naruto initially buried every single flower bulb in their garden beds six inches deep instead of reading the directions, so they had to dig everything up and salvage the instructions on the package from the trash to replant.

“He mixed them all together, too, instead of planting them in sections like a normal person.” She laughs, and his lips turn upwards in shared amusement. “She said she hopes they didn’t miss one. Iris and echinacea can sometimes multiply out of control. She was happy she didn’t add bee balm to the list, too, or they’d really be in trouble; those can grow anywhere, even in gravel.”

The soup and tea feel good on his throat, and the rice is filling in a way that would be difficult to throw up, absorbent of moisture and chunking together to expand in his stomach until he is full, in more ways than one.

He can taste again, the richness of tomato and miso and calming ubiquitous green on his tongue and in his heart, thoughts of flowers and their idiot teammate helping to cast aside his earlier melancholy.

Sasuke loves her so much in that moment that it physically aches, her voice a balm that puts the rawest parts of him at ease.

"Thank you," he says quietly at the conclusion of the meal, grateful in ways he's not sure he'll ever be able to put into words.

Her response is simple, gentle, pure. “You’re welcome.”

As they wash and dry the dishes together in the dim light of her kitchen, Sakura tells him softly, “I put leftovers in containers for you in the fridge. Please take them with you tonight.”

He nods as his eyes sting with appreciation. When he turns to put away the teacups, he blinks to clear them as she wipes down the sink one last time for the evening.

As she sorts through her movie selection afterwards - it’s her turn to pick - he asks, “How is the poison antidote coming?”

Sakura glances at him curiously for a second from where she’s perched on the wood floor, rifling through the lower cabinet. “I think we might have it solved. Blarina toxin from a southern short-tailed shrew, and then possibly lionfish toxin, laced with algal bloom cyanobacteria. The lionfish toxin is part of the trouble; it’s such a trace amount that it was hard to identify, not enough to cause swelling on the exterior body like you’d see if you were stung by one in person. We’re still running tests, but the neutralization seems to be working on the mice so far.” She blanches a little. “Or, rather, the mice we have left. It’s diminished our stocks; shrew venom is particularly deadly to them.”

Sasuke knew it was likely to kill several of them, but not quite to that extent. He’s interested in her work, so he asks, “How many?”

She turns back to sift through her cabinet as she answers, pulling out another movie to examine. “A gland-full of venom is potent enough to kill up to two hundred of them. It’s why it took us longer than usual; we had to give them the absolute tiniest dose in order to not kill them within hours. I guess it makes sense; they’re one of the things they eat in the wild. The dose in the poison sample was high, though, venom from multiple shrews. A single bite usually isn’t enough to do any harm to humans, but when it’s quadrupled in dosage and laced with other things, it’s more severe.”

“...What’s the treatment?”

Sakura rattles off the extremely complex answer as if it’s nothing. “An antihistamine, steroid, botulinum toxin, and an antibiotic. We’re also giving them blood transfusions and flushing out the blood as it comes to the exterior machine, to get rid of the cyanobacteria. Kind of like conventional water treatment… just more complicated. More steps, filtration, and obviously we can’t use chlorine, so it takes longer.”

Sasuke blinks somewhat in awe. She really is so intelligent.

“...That sounds lengthy.”

She shrugs, movie still in hand. “It is. It’s why we’re not one hundred percent sure if we’ve solved it yet; the lionfish venom is still the weak link, and will be until we can see that the other portions of the treatment have worked to isolate it.”

“...I’d like to learn the process.”

A smile plays at her lips and a flush inks its way onto her cheeks. He supposes it was a roundabout sort of compliment; he could have worded it better, but she seems to have understood him anyway. She does about a lot of things, he thinks.

“I can bring home a kit, sometime, and teach you the basics. It could be useful.”

He nods; he would like that.

There is a long pause as Sakura bites her lip before further examining the movie case in her hand.

Then, she asks, a tentative expression on her face and peeking at him to gauge his reaction, “Want to watch a bad one?”

Sasuke wonders if she knows he would watch any movie with her, if it means he gets to be in her company like this, saved from a room with white tiles or dark wood.

“...Sure.”

She wasn't exaggerating; it is truly terrible, riddled with plot holes so nonsensical that it’s almost funny. The acting is bad, too, though perhaps that’s more to blame on the script rather than the actors.

“Even the camera work is awful,” Sakura says at one point, gesturing towards the left side of the screen. “If you look in the background here, there’s an extra that just… walks into the wall.”

He watches, and sure enough, behind the main characters, a girl walks directly into a corner and just stands there.

He snorts, genuinely enthused in a manner he would not have thought possible hours ago. Sakura laughs at the other end of the couch. It’s a sound he could listen to forever, sweet and chiseled into his heart.

They play an extensive round of go afterwards, venturing well into the night with the plinking of small pieces into place. It’s nearly eleven when she finally walks him to her doorway, two containers of tomato miso soup and onigiri in her hands. As he pulls on his shoes, Sakura sets them by his library book on the console table.

“Would you want to read tomorrow afternoon?” She asks as he rises to his full height.

He nods. “...I’ll meet you here.”

Her dimple makes a reappearance. “One fifteen?”

He inclines his head again in agreement, then decides to ask. It’s becoming easier, now that she has said yes so many times.

“Dinner, after?”

Her smile widens. “Of course. I was thinking gyudon. Light on the sugar. You could…” She bites her lip and shifts a bit. “...You could help me cook, if you’d like.”

Something turns over in his belly. “...Okay.”

She glows at him. He swallows once before reaching out to skim her freckle, enjoying the feel of her cheek against the pad of his thumb.

And then her fingers against his fingers, holding him there against her cheek, soft and steady.

Then he leans down, and his lips are on hers, a breath exhaled in unison as her entryway falls away. Her free hand twists around his neck, delicately brushing the fabric and a fraction of his skin in a way that nearly makes him shiver. It’s a long moment of quietus, a finishing stroke to a day that could have gone very differently.

It is also the longest kiss they’ve shared yet, and it is over far too soon.

He’s pulling away to look at her, letting his hand drop away, when she wraps her arms tenderly around him.

He can hardly breathe, taken off guard by the absolute sensation of comfort he’s enveloped in.

She doesn’t say a thing; just hugs him tight, her fingertips spreading across his back and face pressed to his sternum. Berry invades his olfactory senses.

Slowly he lifts his arm to carefully return the hug, swallowing a tender sort of truth, a kind that goes down easy, the evidence and action of her affection. He can feel Sakura’s heartbeat against his chest, a tempo teeming with life.

They stand there together in her entryway for a long time.

XXX

He sleeps wrapped in a clean comforter, and though it’s not for very long, it is dreamless.

He’s eating leftover onigiri when he receives a mission summons, barely past seven in the morning. He finishes his meal and pops a cough drop in his mouth before departing for the Hokage’s office.

It’s a nice day, he thinks as he walks, coming to a decision as he admires vernal greenery lining the streets. The sun is just lifting over the horizon, painting everything pale amber.

“Sasuke,” Kakashi greets as he walks in; he’s the first one there again, apparently. “Good morning.”

“Kakashi.”

Their old sensei smiles at him in the strange all-seeing manner he has. Sasuke notes the presence of a new picture frame present on his desk, replacing the one he’s given him.

He is extremely grateful to have that picture to grip onto in his darker moments. Sasuke considers thanking him then, for Iron, but then Naruto is barreling in noisily.

“Whaizzit?” He yawns raucously, as if he just woke up, sleep still clinging to the corners of his eyes. They are multi-faceted, too, even in their barely aware state, and Sasuke inwardly breathes a sigh of relief, normalcy shifting fully back into place as the door clicks behind his teammate.

Then Naruto registers that Sasuke is present. “Eh? Teme?!” Cerulean scans the room as if he’s searching for something, then he frowns, directing a lengthy glare Kakashi’s way.

“If you've called me here at seven in the fucking morning for anything that isn’t a Team Seven reunion mission, I’m going to lose it.”

Ah. He was looking for Sakura.

“Afraid not,” Kakashi answers cryptically from his desk, and Naruto’s sleepy glare tightens. Then the Hokage smiles, as if something is incredibly amusing. "Guard duty. Kotetsu and Izumo deserve a break. Things are slow this week, and we have the extra numbers.”

The copy ninja skillfully dodges Naruto’s sandal as it flies towards him. “You’ve got to be kidding. You woke me up for this? You could have told me later in the day or something!!”

“Future Hokages don’t receive special treatment, and it’s professional to give more than twenty-four hours notice if possible.”

Naruto grumbles. "All week?"

Kakashi grins. "Tuesday through Friday."

Inwardly, Sasuke twitches.

"I should specify; nine to six, Tuesday through Friday."

Outwardly, Sasuke twitches.

It's not exactly her work schedule for all four days, but it lines up closely enough that it's fairly obvious what Kakashi’s doing.

Naruto barely reacts; just snorts in a way that is caustic, as if he finds the times unsurprising. "Cool. Can I go back to sleep until it’s time to kick teme’s ass now? Hinata-chan and I were cozy."

Sasuke rolls his eyes; when they spar in the mornings, it’s typically between eight and nine. He’ll have around an hour's extra sleep at best, though he supposes he’s not in any position to judge at this point, given his nap on Sakura’s couch yesterday.

Kakashi’s smile widens, mask wrinkling. "Sure. Dismissed."

They both watch on in faint amusement as Naruto stumbles sleepily out of his office, neglecting to collect his missing shoe.

“...Some things never change,” the Hokage murmurs, sighing.

“...No, they don’t.”

“Well, anyways, before you go…” Kakashi turns to him, tapping the pen at his desk absentmindedly. “How are things?”

Sasuke blinks, recalling leftovers and a new cutting board and the feeling of Sakura’s arms around him.

And kissing. Mostly kissing. Probably too much, if his neck’s sudden warmth is anything to go by.

“Good.”

A lone visible eye crinkles at the corners. “Great. Don’t hesitate to let any of us know if you need anything.”

He lets the words hang in the air for an extended few seconds before nodding slowly.

"I was thinking…” Kakashi continues, gaze flicking down to the photograph on his desk. “...Perhaps we could make Team Seven dinners a monthly thing. It would be good, don’t you think?"

“...Yeah.”

A dark eye locks on him again. "Sai could come, too."

Ah.

"...Sure." He really should make an effort to get to know him better. His replacement seems nice enough, peculiar as he is.

"Wonderful. Let's plan on the first Saturday of every month at six, shall we? If we're all in the village, that is. I’ll let him know when I call him in later this morning."

“Okay.”

A long moment passes, then Kakashi is procuring the shoe from the area behind his desk. Sasuke notes that he holds it as far away from him as his arm will allow.

“...I don’t suppose you’d return this, when you see him later?”

Sasuke says nothing.

“...Though I suppose I could assign it as a mission to some Genin.” Then he's sighing, setting it on the farthest edge of Naruto’s work area. “Too bad I just gave an assignment to my last two.”

Shooting him a withering look, Sasuke departs the Hokage’s Office. He gets the distinct feeling as he goes that Kakashi is incredibly pleased with himself, solidified by what he calls after him.

“Tell Sakura I say hi.”

Guard duty is easy in theory, but spending thirty six hours with the dobe may be… a challenge. He supposes if the reward is being able to see Sakura after she works most of those days, he'll take it. He's sure Kakashi won't keep him in the village forever; eventually duty will call him away for extended periods of time.

It solidifies his decision; he should take the opportunity of being here to plant something.

He stops by the market vendor on the northern end to buy two packages of lily bulbs on his way home. The market is fairly slow, so there are few other people around.

The packages feel good in his hand, lighter than he expected.

Sasuke works through a section of one of his other books before Naruto shows up on his doorstep, still appearing for all intents and purposes half asleep. Their spar ends in another draw; luckily there are no cracked bones this time.

He eats more leftovers for lunch after, appreciating the taste.

XXX

Sasuke feels at home in Sakura’s kitchen, cutting scallions easily while she broils beef and prepares the egg mixture for gyudon just a few steps away. The meal comes together quickly between the two of them, savory with a sauce that is heavier on the mirin and sake than the sugar.

Food they prepare together somehow tastes even better. It’s late when they finally sit down to eat dinner, gazing out through glass at the streets below as they take their first bites.

The sauce is perfect; not too sweet.

“...I have guard duty this week,” he mentions after a while.

“With who?” She asks, though her lips twitch upwards.

He rolls his eyes. “...Guess.”

She bites her lip, and he tears his gaze away from her mouth and up to her eyes. The green is filled with mirth, twinkling with illuminated flecks.

“Good luck,” she says sincerely. “What times?”

He glances away, ears warming and wondering if Kakashi has mentioned anything to her about them being… together.

“Tomorrow through Friday, nine to six.”

There is a long pause. When he peeks back at her, she’s blushing.

“...Kakashi-sensei is nosy.” Sakura takes another bite of her food, looking shy for some reason, and suddenly Sasuke is certain that their sensei has said something to her, perhaps on multiple occasions. He wonders what.

“...He is.” He thinks, then adds as an afterthought, “...He says hi.”

They do the dishes together and play two rounds of chess. Sakura wins once, and the second round is another stalemate, though he suspects he was close to beating her.

It’s close to nine by the time they’re putting the board away. As he works on packing up the last of the pieces to store in their allocated compartment, he notices she’s gazing out the window, scanning the sky as if distracted.

The way she’s angled puts the freckle on her cheek in plain view, pale hair loosely tucked behind her ear.

Then she turns to him, pink flooding her complexion, and Sasuke realizes he’s been staring, the remaining few pieces still clutched in his hand, frozen in midair in his distraction. He hastily finishes putting them away as his own face warms. Sakura rises from the table to put the box away, footsteps echoing softly through her living space.

He looks outside quizzically for a moment, embarrassedly trying to will the color away from his face and wondering what she was looking at. It’s a clear evening, calm without a cloud in sight.

"I was wondering if…"

His vision snaps to her expectantly across the room, and her cheeks flush darker; he can see it even though it’s dimly lit, shifting from one foot to the other. She seems nervous.

"If you would maybe want to… go stargazing for a bit tonight?"

His pulse quickens, pushing at the seams of chambers and ventricles in a way that makes it feel like the vines have twisted their way in, taking hold of whatever they can clutch.

She apparently does still like that sort of thing.

And she wants to go with him.

He nods immediately, struck speechless with elation before he manages to form the question, "...Where?"

Her expression is one of relief. "I was thinking just outside the village. There’s…” She looks away, smiles. “There’s a place Ino and I go to sometimes; we went today for a bit, after training. There are wild lilacs blooming right now.” She shifts her gaze to him again. “It's supposed to be a little cooler, but the sky’s clear. We could bring tea in a thermos; I have two."

Heat creeps up his neck as he agrees, heart stammering in his chest a little, because he’s started thinking about it now, and stargazing together is very clearly romantic in nature, amongst flowers even more so.

Sakura brews tea for the both of them as he distracts himself by slicing a lemon for hers. When he glances at her surreptitiously, she’s still blushing, and jade eyes snap away as if this time she’s the one that’s been caught staring. That makes his heart pound, to the extent that he’s glad she’s a few feet away, because it’s so loud that she might hear it.

They meander to the edge of the village as evenfall settles, into the forested area just beyond the gates. As Sasuke trails behind her, divagating through subtly flattened pathways between the trees, his thoughts wander to bygone seasons.

There once was a pond, three quarters of a mile outside of the village, beyond where the Uchiha District used to be. It wasn’t officially a part of their grounds, but it was remote enough that it wasn’t easily happened upon by anyone other than their family, off the beaten path and through thicket and thistle as it was.

Itachi used to take him fishing there.

He thinks they’d gone four or five times in all, but he remembers it well, because he had been terrible at fishing, not a shred of patience. His brother caught most of them, but he would sometimes set the hook before passing off the reel to Sasuke to help him learn. It was quiet, peaceful in the way that only the wilderness is, away from the pressures of expectations. Wildflowers poked up everywhere in the later summer months, situated on a hill towards the far side of the pond. They picked some together for their mother, once; Sasuke clutched them in his hands while they made the trek back to the village, Itachi carrying their bucket of perch and bass.

It was nice in the autumn, too, warm tones flooding everything. One could sit in the swaying overgrowth flush with falling leaves for hours taking it all in and still not see it all, an overwhelmingly pure sense of peace, made heartier by the taste of freshly grilled fish later in the evening.

The walk had seemed like it took forever back then, on short legs looking upward. He’s never returned to that place, not once, since he was eight. It would hurt too much, for different reasons now than when he was twelve.

He remembers passing wild lilacs then, too, on the way there and back. He supposes they probably thrive in the chaparral throughout Fire Country, if one cares to traipse through the foliage to look for them. He stumbled upon many on his journey, just passing through on roads less traveled.

The small clearing Sakura leads them to reminds him of the pond a little, wild and flush with fading hues, framed by fragrant lilacs in bloom as she said, but there are no memories tied to it yet, so it’s better. Huge bushes of them grow unaided here, wispy purple redolence scattered by the wind into the earth's cracks, ushered in by whispers through the trees.

The wilds are not so far from Konoha, really. Like the cherry blossom tree on the hill, it's a good reminder that some things can grow easily even on rougher terrain.

Sasuke sits rather close to her, so they can drink their tea together. The sun slips just below the horizon, a cloudless sky awash in a shifting gradient. He catches jade as he takes a drink, appreciating the taste, a small bit of warmth on a cool night.

The way she’s looking at him makes his heart rate accelerate again, a serene expression that implies there is nothing she would rather be doing right now than be here.

With him.

Eventually stars begin inking into existence overhead one by one, the last bit of sun lingering just on the horizon, a muted blur of violet bleeding into black. Things are slightly clearer here, beyond the boundaries of the village, no glass or light pollution to obscure the retinas.

Once she finishes her tea, Sakura lies down the same way she does on the hill, so he does, too, trying to calm his heart rate, because he is very close to her, just within reach. The forest breathes around them, coating everything in a lilac perfume.

He used to think about her, when he looked to the stars, feeling worlds away and wondering if she thought of him that day. Being next to her is better, revered, the calm din of an evening he has craved for a long time.

When he turns to steal a look, her eyes are already on him, and there is something about that moment, as the last light fades, being here with her, that makes his chest go aflame.

And then Sakura turns slightly, reaching out towards him with her right hand, and he blinks.

She sweeps his hair away from his Rinnegan eye, a thumb gently skimming his cheek as he has hers, before her hand falls away. Though they are cloaked in the gloaming of dusk’s darkness, enough he hopes to hide the warmth that has crept into his face, there is adequate light left to see her expression, so tender, jade eyes desaturated to dark sage.

He feels seen in a way that he hasn’t felt before, recalling soft words in an exam room.

Not me.

The sky is fully lit in short order, beautiful and dark with only a tiny sliver of the moon visible. It is truly lovely, Ursa Major, Leo, and Hydra scattered before them like a painting a million years old, ageless messengers traveling from who knows where, as he did. It took many steps to get here to her, scattered revolutions passing wide arcs around the sun, yearning for a day to close the gap, to feel like he was close to ready.

It was worth every single one.

A question is on the tip of his tongue, so he decides to ask it, to give in to the impulse.

“...Any poems?” He wants to learn the words she likes, what kinds of meaning she applies to things, intelligent as she is. Sasuke imagines the inner workings of Sakura’s mind to be quite complex, teeming with all of the things she’s read, research and fiction and nonfiction. He would like to know her favorite pieces of poetry, what she holds dear in her own heart.

She shifts slightly; he thinks she must be looking at him for a split second.

There is a lengthy silence punctuated by crickets before she finally answers, “A short one,” voice hushed like the breeze around them; if he wasn’t so close to her, he wouldn’t be able to hear.

He shifts his gaze to her on his right, barely able to make out her silhouette in the dark.

“Take notice of what light does - to everything.”

The words sink into him like rain on freshly tilled soil, triggering a bricolage of recollections. Instantly he is reminded of light through the window of his bathroom, stirring him from a pit of self doubt and guilt. Then light through the windows of Sakura’s apartment, cooking and doing the dishes together in her kitchen. A nap, comfortable on her couch as day fades into dusk, lamps switched off for a period of much needed rest. Flowers, grown by a doorstep with the sun’s rays seeping in through diamond patterning. The shadow of a jasmine plant, inked onto her cheekbone, and neon lights reflectant atop pale pink hair.

The intricate stitching of an uchiwa fan, thread catching iridescence as she holds it daintily in her hands as if it is something important, to be cherished.

Her eyes when she is happy, hints of gold flecks, catching like fractals of color atop shifting seafoam.

The way white nerine lilies looked drenched in sunlight, on days that are decidedly not summer monsoons.

Stars are a form of light, too, and despite being far away, they are refulgent in their luminosity, a beauty that cuts through murk and offers much for contemplation; the gaps of darkness between them are what allows people to make meaning out of them, constellations strewn together.

He is home, surrounded by spring. It is something to behold.

“...Did you write letters to Naruto?” Sakura asks after a lengthy period of reflection, so softly that her voice is almost a whisper.

The concept is so ridiculous to him that he would snort, if not for the moment they are sharing right now and the way she asked it, no hint of a joke in her tone.

So he answers seriously, just as quietly. “No.”

There is a long pause.

“...And Kakashi-sensei?”

Ah. He understands what she’s really asking. “...Other than missions, no.”

It’s hard to tell, but he thinks he sees her fingers grip in the grass next to her, gently as if in reflex.

Sasuke tries very hard to swallow his doubts.

When they were on missions as Genin, she used to lay sprawled out like this, hands spread next to her. So did Naruto. It bothered him then, because he liked his folded together on his stomach and he was very particular about personal space, which they both invaded.

Sasuke doesn’t have another hand to fold his with anymore, though, and he’s less concerned about personal space with her than he used to be. The darkness helps bolster his confidence, too, nyctophile that he is; she won’t see the heat that’s spreading to his face here, lit merely by distant flickering stars.

Take notice of what light does - to everything.

The luminaries above them offer only a little of it, yet it's a transfixing sight, something of the epochal and the divine present that he has been drawn to for years.

So he reaches out to skim her hand with his, a tentative sort of constellation in itself, recorded in points of contact and palm prints on the skin rather than etched in alembic light in the sky.

There are soft fingertips, a knuckle gently gliding by. Then she’s interlacing her fingers with his, and suddenly it’s not tentative at all. It’s leal, steady, her small hand in his as if it has always belonged there, the scent of flourishing blooms wafting around them and painting everything in his head lilac starlight.

Her thumb brushes his skin once, twice, thrice, achingly gentle.

He should have reached out sooner, but he supposes they’re young, still. There is a lot of time ahead of them. The stars will align eventually, slow in their revolutions around common centers of mass as he is in letting people in. She accepted his apology for being late already, fine fingertips clutching an uchiwa fan with a touch just as gentle as now.

If he can only hold her hand in the dark, maybe that’s enough for now, a single star he can reach. He hopes he'll reach the others eventually.

Hours pass with her hand in his, and he is a small bit closer in revolution by the time he walks her home.

Lilac and raspberry and starlight coalesce against his lips when they collide with hers, an allegorical perfume he could easily get drunk on. He skims the freckle again, tenderly osculant, and realizes that is the start of a constellation, too, a novitious star burning brighter every time he reaches out. Kissing makes three.

Her hands around his neck make four. This time he does shiver, but he doesn’t pull away.

Sakura’s lips are so soft.

XXX

He plants the lily bulbs shortly after they say good night, under the cover of the caliginous dark that shepherds in the dew of the morning, tiny drops of moisture beginning to collect on nearby blades of grass. The stars are still out, bright enough to be beautiful but dim enough so that he can’t read the names.

Sakura would help him if he asked, he knows, but he doesn’t think he’s quite ready for that yet. He settles for trying to make his touch as gentle yet sure as hers, an elegy of calloused fingers digging carefully through the dirt, grasping and placing lily bulbs one by one. There are four bulbs in total, so he plants two on each side, nine inches apart, allowing them to poke up through the soil slightly and frame the stone; he reread the instructions when he stopped by his apartment earlier. It’s a different brand of corrosion, manually digging up layers of dirt rather than hoping they slough off, but it’s progress, and it doesn't require digging too deep.

There has to be something beneath the layers of sediment, he thinks, to feel the way he does about her. He hopes that what he feels is enough, that his slow revolutions will be worthwhile for her, in the end.

I’m sure it will be lovely, when everything finally comes together.

Being in Konoha is not easy, after everything, but being with Sakura is.

When he’s lying in his own bed a short time later, he recalls the love in her fingertips against his. It lulls him to sleep.

[rosethornewrites]

Fics I read this week!

I started this right after posting the last one, so I’ll hopefully keep it up. A lot of the multichapter fics are ones I subscribed to that finished. A lot of the one-shots are under 5k words, with some being 100-word ficlets.

Finished:

Not Rated:

Wei Changze's weird day, by Weiyingbestboy

Wei Changze was minding his own business, when four potential time travellers dropped out of the sky. Literally.

Serenity Cave, by Anonymous

The travel home had been mostly silent. Lan Zhan and Wei Wuxian competing for who could say the least amount of words.

Then, as they’d been walking along the mountain path, just a little past the gates of Cloud Recesses, a hole suddenly opened up in the ground beneath them and they fell into a small rock cave. Then the hole shrunk until it was barely big enough to poke a sword through. Just enough of a gap that they had a bit of light and wouldn’t suffocate, but definitely too small to escape through.

The earth had swallowed them.

…

In the middle of an argument, Lan Zhan and Wei Wuxian get trapped in a cave.

In Which Lan Xichen Returns to the World, by AshurbanipalJones

Lan Xichen ends his isolation after the death of Jin Guangyao.

In Which Lan Qiren Requests an Audience, by AshurbanipalJones

Lan Qiren wants to discuss Important Matters with his nephew. His nephew is kinda not having it.

Mercy Meet Vengeance, by ShanaStoryteller (7th in a series)

The first time Wen Qing meets Wei Wuxian, she has a white sash around her waist.

Rated E:

Thirty-three Lashes, by Winglesss (20 chapters)

Yiling Laozu is dead. He's been dead for over a thousand years. For over a thousand years Lan Wangji has been wandering the world alone, helping where he's needed.

It's when he meets a mysterious cultivator and a strange curse starts to torment his body that the past and the present start to mingle, igniting emotions Lan Wangji almost forgot he was able to feel.

curiosity is the beginning, by everyearning (noctiphany)

He's just curious. Wangi's brother always said he had an insatiable thirst for knowledge. He also said it was going to get him in trouble one day.

Rated M:

devil from heaven, by incendir (3 chapters)

He would like to think that he knows what Lan Wangji could enjoy, if he’d let himself do so.

(or, wei wuxian's road to discovering lan wangji's yiling patriarch kink)

in this lifetime, by hauntedotamatone

Lan Wangji must reach him. There is still time. All he has to do is reach him. They’ll take A-Yuan and whoever remains and they’ll go as far and fast as they can. The world is vast, there must be a place for them somewhere, and if there is not, then he will carve one out from nothing if that is what it will take.

“Wei Ying!” he calls out to him over the roar of the flames and the familiar and terrible sounds of battle. At first, he thinks that Wei Ying is ignoring him or otherwise does not hear him. Then, his fingers still over his flute. He looks up with those empty eyes, unseeing. There is no hatred in them, but there is no affection or recognition either. There is nothing at all.

Lan Wangji has a terrible nightmare for the first time in years. For the first time in years, he does not wake up alone.

We Are Family, by Duochanfan (13 chapters)

Jiang Yanli heard the words spewing from Jin Zixun's mouth and said enough. After putting the man in his place she leaves the Hunt with her brother and Lan Wangji. The three come across Wen Qing, and with that simple meeting, they change what could have happened to something else entirely.

until it's time to see the light, I'll make my own with you each night, by backbones

His husband would never go back to sleep if he sensed something was wrong, and he always did. He knew him better than he knew himself, sometimes, and maybe that was why that feeling was so foreign it was horrifying. He wanted to keep that part of himself close, a well-kept secret, and now, deep down, he knew it was too late for that.

Or: After having a nightmare in a deep sleep, Wei Wuxian has a surprise visit from an old childhood habit.

Rated T:

Wei Wuxian Discovers Bisexuality, by arcaladiwoompa

AU where WWX decides he quite enjoys being passionately kissed against a tree by an unknown assailant and acts on it instead of just sitting there going herp derp I wonder who this very strong cultivator could possibly be.

Rescue, by WithBroomBefore (6 chapters)

Post-Sunshot fix-it AU featuring Jiang siblings taking care of each other, among other things.

Over the Rotted Bridge, by vailkagami (41 chapters)

Lan Wangji saves the Wen remants from execution but is killed in the process. The Yiling Patriarch loses himself in grief and rage and the determination to bring him back no matter what.

The world is not on his side in this. It is not on either of their sides when he succeeds. But The World is not all of its people, and some things can always be salvaged from the ruins.

Across, by vailkagami

An epilogue to the story "Over the Rotted Bridge", set in the far future. Cannot stand alone.

Centuries after the fall of the cultivation world, Wei Wuxian and Wangji return to the burial mounds for the last time.

Completion, by youjezebel

Lan Wangji misses raising A-Yuan. Wei Wuxian wants to be a father. In the end, everything works out perfectly.

Second Nephew, by vividneonmanias

"You need to stop talking to Wàngjī," Lan Xīchén told him, in the uncannily stern tones of a Sect Leader and not a nephew; "and preferably stop talking about him, if you cannot control yourself."

In the years following Wèi Wúxiàn's death, Lán Qǐrén learns to hold his tongue. But he still wants to know his second nephew. Some things need to be said; some questions need to be asked.

oceans, drowned in starfire, by stiltonbasket (10 chapters)

Lan Wangji breathes.

There is a tattered red ribbon trailing through the water beside him, and below him, a crooning, echoing song that clears his mind and stops him from struggling against the waves.

Lan Wangji breathes, and sleeps, and wakes again.

When he opens his eyes on the beach to find Huan-ge and Shufu crying over his body, he hears a lifeguard say that he was underwater for almost half an hour. ___

Tired of life in the business world, Lan Wangji returns to his mother’s old house to pursue a career as a novelist and search for the mysterious fisherman who rescued him after he nearly drowned on a whale-watching trip twenty years ago.

He wasn’t expecting much more than a quiet refuge to serve as inspiration for his work, and restore his spirits after half a lifetime spent in the city. But when a lost merbaby washes up on the beach in Caiyi, Lan Wangji realizes that his childhood savior might be closer than he thinks.

adding shadows to the walls of the cave, by Fleetling

It didn’t take Wei Wuxian long to see what he was pointing at, and as soon as he did, the smaller man turned back to face their juniors. “Cave!” he shouted across the thunder of the raindrops hitting the muddy path. “Hanguang-Jun found us a cave! We’ll stop to dry off, and head out again once the rain has stopped!” Beside him, Lan Wangji inclined his head in silent agreement. The bickering of the juniors cut out as they focused on making it the remaining short distance on the slippery ground.

They all huddled into the entrance of the cave, taking refuge from the rain, but waiting for directions before heading in.

Ouyang Zizhen ran his hand over the wall, feeling slight bumps and indents below his fingers. He brushed off the dirt, reading the characters revealed. “The lovers’ cave,” he read, shaking his head with a smile. Probably a local pair who came here occasionally. It was a bit romantic, when one thought of it. It also probably meant that the cave was safe - no lovers would hide away in a cave that contained resentful energy or other dangers.

Say It Until I Hear You, by DrowningByDegrees

Lan Zhan does not say what has him rattled, but neither does he retreat. He concedes by fractions, an embrace he does not shake off, a shaky sigh when his forehead comes to rest against Wei Wuxian’s collarbone, a wordless surrender when Wei Wuxian gathers him closer. Wei Wuxian doesn’t know precisely which ones, but there are ghosts in bed with them tonight, sorrow and regret and all the might have beens they cast aside so long ago.

Dull Comforts, by Just_Another_Mystery

Five times Làn Sīzhuī pondered the existence of a parent he does not remember having.

Downpour, by milesofheart

The way Wei Ying had looked at him…warily, expecting a fight, steeling himself for Lan Wangji to denounce him. Waiting for the worst from Lan Wangji.

Lan Wangji’s heart cracked down the middle and his whole body shook as he wept now in the rain, the mud of Qiongqi Path seeping into his once-pristine robes.

on the importance of home (and all it implies), by nixtothou

The Burial Mounds are empty.

Wei Wuxian had expected this, yet for some reason it still hurt to see.

The Best Place to Study, by adrian_kres

Lan Zhan decides to study in the law library this time. He leaves with a boyfriend.

Rated G:

cadillac converter, by mdzsed

lan zhan's car starts making weird noises so he takes it to get it repaired. the new mechanic does not look like he knows what he's doing. good thing lan zhan is no fool.

or: lan zhan makes a complete idiot out of himself but hey, it scored him a date with a handsome mechanic so it's all good.

a small spark, by sebfish

It had started, as many things did, because Wen Qing was worried, and Wei Wuxian had learned early on that she wouldn’t budge until she’d gotten her way.

Winter in Cloud Recesses, by Sarehz

Winter in Cloud Recesses was cold. Really cold. It was a chill that penetrated Wei Wuxian's bones and reminded him of that period after his parents died when he shivered alone in the streets.

His Face, by AshayaTReldai

Among Su She's possessions was found a qiankun pouch containing a sheaf of sketches of Hanguang Jun, inspiring a lifetime's exchange between Wei Wuxian and his husband Lan Wangji, studies of his face.

anger, by theninjacat

Beloved Old Lines, by Preludian_Staves

A quiet Wuxian was a creature Qiren had learned to never trust in mixed company.

I Don't Wanna Fight Tonight, by Sarehz

Wei Wuxian was sitting on the roof. Again. It had become his go to place recently when he had to attend these sort of boring meetings where all the Sect Leader's met up and congratulated each other on defeating Wen Ruohan and blah blah blah.

Unexpected, by WithBroomBefore

It is not, from Lan Wangji’s perspective, an unpleasant kiss. He has no particular objection to kissing people, though admittedly he has only ever done so as a prelude to activities that involve various other bits of the body. And it is Wei Wuxian; nothing involving Wei Wuxian is awful. The kiss is...fine.

Modern AU, just some aroace/aro queerplatonic roommates finding the words.

An Accidental Clothes Thief, by Preludian_Staves

He should have probably realized what he'd accidentally done before starting work on a new talisman.

Groupie, by Speechless_since_1998

Being the manager of a band was hard work, but someone had to do it. And Lan Xichen was the only one able to keep members of his brother's band in line.

A Silver Thread, by DizziDreams

Lan Wangji is brushing Wei Ying's Hair before bed, when he sees it, glinting like a fish through the dark glassy waters of a deep pool:

A single, silver hair.

The sky is overcast and I'm sorry, by hamlets_ghost (8th part of a series)

Wangji's brother is gone once again.

A-niang explains.

Follow the sound of pipe, follow this song, by fairyprincess2

He took the last steps needed to reach the opening and there he was, black and red clothes flying with the wind, hair bound up in a ponytail with a red hair band. He was standing with his back facing Lan Wangji but it was him, he knew it was.

(In)Hindsight, it's obvious, by Potatoes_Radishes 

Lan Qiren woke up undisturbed, calm and refreshed, that was enough for him to immediately know something was odd, mainly due to the lack of noises during the night that made him suspect it, he grumbled away his frustrations regarding what he assumed would have been another prank as he got up to get dressed.

When he left the bathroom and moved outside, a very different set of robes awaited him, one he hadn’t worn in years. He finally took a notice of his surrounding, the room was different resembling the one from before their rebuilding, not caring about his state of undress as he open the door almost on the verge of panic, the first thing that rang out in the morning was a loud yell of “WEI WUXIAN!!!”

Unfinished:

Rated E:

taking over you, by sassybluee (3rd in a series)

Before, he’d once fantasized about giving in—shutting Wei Ying up with his lips, stilling his limbs with his own forehead ribbon. He imagined himself making demands. And then Wei Ying went missing. Wei Ying was presumed dead. And Wei Ying returned from the Burial Mounds. By then, Lan Wangji’s desires had long since cooled, and all that remained was longing. Longing to ease Wei Ying’s suffering. Longing to help him know he was not as alone as he seemed to feel. He would have gladly given him everything back then, if he knew how to ask for it. Would have surrendered his body to show him he cared.

And now?

_____

Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian explore married life, and all that entails.

Rated M:

Keep Holding On, by abCEE

As they reached an inn and Wei Wuxian got them a room with three beds, the world seemed to have frozen for Jiang Yanli when her brother suddenly fainted and Jiang Wanyin was just fast enough to catch him before his body could hit the floor.

"A-Xian!"

"Wei Wuxian!"

In which after the Lotus Pier Massacre: Wei Wuxian was greatly injured by Zidian, Jiang Yanli left the inn to buy the medicines and food, and Jiang Wanyin distracted the Wens.

(With a bonus of Wei Wuxian knowing the title of the song and more things ensued inside the Xuanwu Cave that may or may have not involved Lan Wangji's forehead ribbon)

Canon diverged from there.

Sacrifices Made with Blood, by NocturnalFriend

Lan Wangji knew it was too late, there was too much blood on Wei Ying's hands already. Still, if he asked his brother for help, surely. There was a way to rescue the man who held his heart?

Or: Trust is not easily given and all to easily shattered. Lan Wangji learns this in the worst way, when Lan Xichen gives into the demands of the cultivation world. Although nobody could have predicted the whims of fate, giving them another chance at righting things.

lan jingyi vs. the laws of time itself, by agloeian (2nd in a series)

His kick has dislodged some stray fragments of Guanyin Temple's destroyed ceiling beams. Jingyi stares at them as he kneads his toes through his boot. They’re as red as the blood that stains the floor beneath him, sharp and splintering. Wind whistles through the wood and stone, though there’s a flickering too - the sound of paper fluttering in the breeze.

A talisman written in blood.

---

Lan Jingyi finds a way home.

Dream a little dream of me, by Moominmammashandbag

Lan WangJi braced himself.

“Wei Ying.” he said.

“You are not dreaming. This is real. You have been rescued.”

“The kissing bit comes first!” said Wei Wuxian impatiently.

“But…I cannot kiss you if you think you are dreaming!"

“I don’t see the logic in that.” said Wei Wuxian. “I obviously want you to kiss me or I wouldn’t be dreaming about it!

Rated T:

Love Song In Reverse, by timetoboldlygo

Wei Wuxian gasps back into life without a single memory left. His friends, his siblings, his home — all lost to the fog in his head, nothing more than a mystery slipping through his fingers. What else was there to do but carry himself around in bits and parts, trying to become whole, a letter waiting to be written? He is – he is Mo Xuanyu, isn’t he? In this body, with these people. This family. He has to be Mo Xuanyu, he didn’t know anything else, even if the name sounded wrong. That was all he had.

Well, that and Hanguang-jun.

Lan Wangji, for his part, has had his taste of love and lost it. In all his grieving and searching, he didn’t expect to find another.

-

Wei Wuxian gets resurrected, loses his memories, and falls in love.

Here We Go Again, by Alliandra

He looked over to where the swordswoman was still fighting, but her focus seemed entirely locked onto that fight so it was unlikely that she could have had anything to do with the energy drain. He was still wracking his brain for something else to do to assist, so this thing didn’t kill them both, but now he was feeling weak, dizzy and currently not far from helpless.

~~~~~~~~~~

It has been several months since the events at the Guanyin temple and Wei Wuxian is wandering around on his own. After he helps a stranger kill a very dangerous beast he uncovers what seems to be a conspiracy aimed at ending his life. He heads back to Cloud Recesses with his new companion in tow, looking to get Lan Wanji's help in working out what is involved.

Meanwhile, Jiang Cheng and Jin Ling made a surprising discovery under Koi Tower that may well be linked to the threat against Wei Wuxian's life.

Can they all work together to find out what is going on and put a stop to it, before something disastrous occurs?

A Teacher’s Oath, by MaelStromm

Deep down, only one thing really matters.

It is not being a good Lan, despite what the entire cultivation world may think, nor is it "sucking the fun out of life" as some disciple had once said.

More than anything, Lan Qiren is a good teacher.

Despite too many to count prejudices and the boy's chaotic behavior, he'll burn his ribbon before he lets this genius be wasted.

Or :

An AU where LQR gets along with WWX and somehow ends up having to deal with far too much drama.

I've Heard of Second Chances, but This Is Ridiculous, by velvet_green

One of Wei Wuxian’s experimental talisman arrays sends himself, his husband and his brother to that mythical land of long ago – the Gusu Lan lectures of their youth.

Wei Wuxian is amused. Lan Wangji is silent. Jiang Cheng is angry.

And their younger versions are mostly just very, very confused.

[annaraebananawriter]

1: Just a Bad Dream; Dying in LA

PLEASE READ NOTE BEFORE STORY:

Yellow everyone! I just wanted to warn you that I’m still kind of recovering from burning myself out, so don’t expect anything too awesome this week. I think Day 1 is actually the best that I’ve written for it, so far, so...It’s really just for me to stretch my muscles out again and get back into the flow.

With that said, this is Dy 1 of Dark Cream Week by @zu-is-here

Fandom: Undertale, but specifically UTMV

Characters: Shattered Dream (Who belongs to Galacii), Cross (Who belongs to Jakei) and mentioned Nightmare (who belongs to Joku)

Pairings: For now, implied Cream/Dark Cream

Warnings: I can’t remember, so let me know!

Word Count: 2096

~oOo~

The moment you arrived

They built you up

The sun was in your eyes

You couldn't believe it

~oOo~

They say that fate determines how you end up in life.

They say that destiny determines what you do in life.

These two things work in harmony with each other, one influencing the other around and around in a never-ending circle. Everyone was touched by them before they were born, the seed for skills necessary to succeed planted in them, waiting to be grown. No matter what happens, nothing pushes you away from what fate and destiny have determined for you.

It does not matter if your actions are good. If you give everything away and help everyone you come across. If you love your friends and family and strangers unconditionally. If you ignore yourself in favor of others.

It does not matter if your actions are bad. If you spit and sneer at everyone around you. If you yell and hit in anger and hate. If you hold your needs in front of everyone else and ignore those who should have just a little bit of attention too.

It simply does not matter.

Your fate and destiny have been determined already.

Why bother changing it?

~oOo~

Riches all around

You're walking

Stars are on the ground

You start to believe it

~oOo~

Cross was familiar with loss and guilt. When you kill your family and friends, try to delete other worlds, you tend to do so out of pain, driven only by a desperate hope that you can fix what you’ve done. But you can’t. Actions have consequences and the world will not let you go without them. He knows this well, almost too well.

Nothing stops the hurt, though. He’s tried. It was still there, stinging through every bandage and healing balm. If it shrunk, it only grew stronger. Other people tried to help as well, but their efforts were also in vain. Guilt comes from the loss that his actions have caused and that guilt causes this pain that will always be there, no matter how small and weak it eventually becomes.

This was his consequence. He’s learned to accept that now.

He’s learned to walk through the hurt and try and be better.

It was hard, yes. Stumbling and tripping over his feet, hesitant to make any decision lest it be the wrong one and reset his progress. There were many times where he thought that he’d stepped over the line and that they were going to quit on him, leaving him alone again. But they didn’t. They stayed, and the stumbling smoothed out to captiousness, the hesitance smoothed into nervousness. He would not be as confident as he once was, not for a while yet, but it was a start.

He was trying. That’s all that mattered.

And now he can stand on a hill, look into the blue sky and see the colours surrounding him and he can smile. A small, serene smile made of pure content, pride for himself. He can relax his shoulders and just breathe for a moment or two.

Everything was getting better.

Until he looks to his left and see yet another consequence to his newer actions, what his pained words snarled in a patient yet hurt smiling face.

Until Dream takes that step off the edge.

~oOo~

Every face along the boulevard

Is a dreamer just like you

~oOo~

“Don’t touch me! Just…just stop trying to help!”

“I lost my entire family, my home, and he gave me the hope that I could get it back. Why should I believe that you’re not just giving me the exact same false hope?”

“Some guardian you are…”

“You don’t know anything about what I’ve been through!”

But Dream did, Cross realized it now.

Dream had lost his family, his home, too, in the blink of an eye. Not only that, but he was put in a position to fight his brother, whom had changed so much he might as well’ve been a stranger, over and over again. The pressure to do that and still be happy, or at least act like it, must’ve been immense. Cross couldn’t begin to imagine it.

They had both lost their family and been hurt in very similar ways.

Cross just wished he realized this sooner.

~oOo~

You looked at death in a tarot card

And you saw what you had to do

~oOo~

Cross didn’t try to stop Nightmare as he ran away.

He was focused on the skeleton in pain in front of them. The one who was crying, black sludge spilling down and covering his bones, tinted gold as if in reminder of what it used to be. The one who reached a hand up, to try and stop his brother from leaving, but didn’t get far before dropping it to the ground, another pained noise escaping him.

Cross was frozen. He willed his legs to move, instinct in his mind saying to turn and run away too, away from danger, away from him. But he didn’t. He stayed put, legs not listening and just watched.

Underneath the instinct was a different kind of pain. It burned instead of stinging and left his soul aching in a way he had never felt before. He was suddenly all too aware of the ring he kept in his pocket, one the skeleton in front of him had turned down. It made a lump grow in his throat and he swallowed, clenching his hands.

Dream hunched over, arms wrapped around himself.

And all at once, Cross realized something.

If his words had had any part in leading up to this…

His legs finally moved and he rushed forward, reaching for Dream, for the one he held so close to his heart, wrapping his arms around him, even though he could not shield him from something within.

If his actions had this consequence, if his consequence had given up on himself, then he would have to be the one that stayed, that brought him back.

He’ll do it, or die in the process.

~oOo~

But nobody knows you now

When you're dying in LA

And nobody owes you now

When you're dying in LA

~oOo~

If fate and destiny have predetermined your story, then what does it matter how you act? If your good or bad, what does it matter? What does it matter if all your actions just bring you back to the path, no matter how far you try and stray from it?

What does anything matter?

~oOo~

When you're dying in LA

~oOo~

Good can be bad and bad can be good.

This is a fact.

But does it change anything?

What does it matter?

~oOo~

When you're dying in LA

~oOo~

“I’m tired.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why can’t you see that I’m just like you?”

“Why do we have to be enemies?”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry”

“Please…don’t leave me alone again…”

“I love you.”

~oOo~

The power, the power, the power

Oh the power, the power, the power

Of LA

~oOo~

Good is bad and bad is good.

What will change because of this?

~oOo~

Nights at the chateau

Trapped in your sunset bungalow

You couldn't escape it

~oOo~

Dream is familiar with emptiness and betrayal. He’s watched his home burn, his mother cut in half and his brother metaphorically die. All of these were caused by the villagers, people Dream once believed to be his friend, no matter how harsh they might’ve been at times. When you see everyone you care about die by the hands of someone you also care about, that is what causes the emptiness.

This emptiness did not mean he didn’t feel, no. He felt quite a lot actually. Happiness, grief, calmness, anger…love…he felt them all, some more so than others. They weren’t smothered or dulled in anyway by the emptiness. No, the emptiness was rather just a numbness he’s gained to certain situations. He can’t change it.

It was his consequence. He accepts this.

He hasn’t accepted fighting his brother nonstop until one of them is dead.

It was disorienting when he started, almost like he was trying to wake on quicksand and every step he took only dragged him further down. Everything was new. He had to learn fast how to shoot a bow, how to dodge, how to block, how to run. How to survive. All while his brother watched and laughed in amusement.

That was what hurt most of all. The amusement. Brothers were supposed to care for each other, help each other stay safe and heal from injuries. They weren’t supposed to laugh at you while you barely dodged the tentacle aiming for your soul. They aren’t supposed to be trying to kill you at all.

He hated it.

~oOo~

Yeah

~oOo~

Apples are dangerous. They’re enticing. You want to take a bite of it, regardless of the effects it’ll do to your body and soul, in what ways it’ll warp your mind. They beckon you and lure you in, until all you can think about is what it’ll taste like, that savoury bite.

Nightmare wasn’t able to resist this temptation.

And if the saying goes that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree…

Then it should only make sense Dream would follow in his footsteps.

~oOo~

Drink of paradise

They told you put your blood on ice

You're not gonna make it

~oOo~

Nightmare ran away from him.

The coward.

Dream doesn’t understand why. Brothers should support brothers when they decide to become better, to change how the world sees them, to try and prove they can’t be all good. They shouldn’t run, horror etched on their face as if this wasn’t supposed to happen, that he’d made such a terrible mistake.

“You can’t make mistakes, you’re positivity! You have to be perfect all the time.”

He runs his hands over each other, taking in the new coating of sludge while he waits for Cross, his lov—subordinate to wake up. It was just like Nightmare’s, the same consistency and everything, though his had a golden tint to it, rather than turquoise.

Of course.

Even corrupted, he was still positivity.

~oOo~

Every face along the boulevard

Is a dreamer just like you

~oOo~

He felt stronger. But weaker at the same time.

Was that a thing?

He felt like he could bend people to his will, make them listen just like he wants the entire multiverse to. He can’t stop thinking about people crying as he plays out illusion upon illusion in front of them, slowly dwindling their hope and love and any other positivity until it was completely shattered.

And yet, he can’t help but get the feeling that there’s a shakiness within him. Something is unbalanced, wobbling in his soul. It feels poisoned. He has no clue what it could be. He did everything the right way, he’s proven his worth, so everything should be fine now, right?

Everything was fine.

It had to be.

~oOo~

You looked at death in a tarot card

And you saw what you had to do

~oOo~

Cross groaned behind him, making Dream perk up. “…Night…mare?”

Were they really that similar now? Interesting. The thought that his brother and him can never stop being twins makes Dream giggle under his breath as he turns, smiling as Cross’s eyes widen.

“Not quite.”

~oOo~

But nobody knows you now

When you're dying in LA

And nobody owes you now

When you're dying in LA

~oOo~

Fate and destiny are predetermined things…but they are not a gift, no.

They are a curse.

Bad gets jealous of good and tries to prove he can be just the same as his counterpart, but only succeeds in cursing himself farther. Good is hurt by this and centuries go by.

Good gets desperate, nothing enough anymore, so he tries to prove tat he can be just the same as his counterpart, both succeeding and failing. He’s cursed himself, too.

Bad runs away, leaving good.

And now they’ve both strayed from their path.

~oOo~

When you're dying in LA

~oOo~

Good is bad and bad is good.

Or are they?

How can we tell? Who are we to say?

They will determine that for themselves, who is who.

~oOo~

When you're dying in LA

~oOo~

“…are you crying?”

“Don’t stop.”

“It feels amazing!”

~oOo~

The power, the power, the power

Oh, the power, the power, the power

~oOo~

Fate has bended and destiny is broken.

How will this change things?

~oOo~

Of LA

[sykilik101]

Third Wheel

Ash was never one for expressing his emotions with any kind of subtlety. Courage, pride, anger; he only knew how to articulate his feelings at max power. As it turned out, that also applied to being love-struck. Between all the flushes of red on his cheeks and the ways he’d keep glancing in Misty’s direction, it wasn’t hard to figure out how he felt about her. That, and the picture of her I caught him staring at last week.

It had been an accident, naturally. He’d scrambled to hide the evidence, but at that point it was obvious to us both that I knew. Well, I’d known sooner, but he didn’t need to know that. Not right away, at least.

After taking a vow of silence for his sake, I’d expected Ash to never bring it up again. He hadn’t actually admitted to liking her, and I didn’t feel like coercing a confession out of him. I assumed he’d just deny anything if I asked, as he’d often done to everyone who ever teased him about liking her.

And yet...

“Brock, are you even listening?”

I nodded, swirling the wooden spoon through the stew. “Yeah, sure.”

“Really? Then what did I just say?”

“You think Misty is pretty.”

“...I already said that.”

“You’ve said it every night this past week, after all.”

“Well, that’s because it’s true!”

The night after my photographic discovery, Ash had approached me, his head down and his smile sheepish. Misty was bathing at the river, leaving the two of us alone. Ash coming to me during my preparation of dinner was common; the fluster written all over his face wasn’t.

Before I could say anything he’d simply blurted it out. “I like Misty.” No build up, no warning, as blunt as I’d come to expect from him. I’d nearly fumbled my knife from shock, which would have been terrible; that would mean leaving dinner to them two, and I actually felt like eating that night.

“You...really?”

He’d nodded, his smile losing its hesitancy and growing in joy. What followed was a spiel of Ash putting all of those amorous glances at her into words. Even as my focus had been on making sure our dinner was cooking properly, he went on and on about Misty’s traits that had apparently become flattering practically overnight. Every night since, whenever Misty was off bathing, Ash used that time to unload all his sappy thoughts onto me.

Well, I guess it’s not like I hadn’t seen it coming a mile away.

It was funny how Misty was quick to call Ash dense when she’d never caught on to all the ways Ash had started falling for her over the years. I’d certainly noticed, though, like how he always made sure to eat next to her or set his sleeping bag by her side, things like that. I don’t think Ash consciously knew how he felt right away, but he must have caught on at some point, and Misty was none the wiser to any of it.

Ash prodded at my arm with further annoyance. “You’re supposed to be listening here, Brock.”

I offered what I hoped was a sympathetic smile. “Sorry, just focusing on dinner. I’ll listen this time for sure, promise.”

He crossed his arms and huffed, though his face quickly shifted to a more morose expression. “Do you think...does she really only think of me as a friend?”

“Are you talking about earlier?”

For the millionth time over the span of our journey, someone had interpreted Ash and Misty’s antics as romantic, and in the usual fashion they both denied it vehemently. Her remarks revolved around Ash simply being a friend and traveling partner, one who still owed her a bike. It was a common dismissive comment for her, and I’d allowed myself a glance at the little twitch in Ash’s eye when she said it.

“She’s forgotten about it before, so I kinda assumed that she actually likes traveling with m- us.”

I grinned at his little attempt to keep me included and I shook my head. “If it makes you feel better, Ash, I’ve enjoyed traveling with you up until this point. If she’s the Misty that we both know, I think she feels the same way, too.”

“Well, why does she keep bringing it up? Can’t she just say we’re just friends? Not that that’s any better…”

The last sentence was more mumble than exasperation. I gave the pot an extra stir. “She’s probably just used to saying it by now. Y’know, a bad habit. I can’t think of many other reasons she’d stick to the bike excuse.” I actually could, but I didn’t want to assume anything.

He didn’t answer right away, opting to lean forward on the log and lace his fingers together. I could hear him inhale slowly, but sigh sharply. “What do you think she would do if I actually paid her back?”

“How are you planning on doing that?”

He shook his head. “I’m not saying I can right now. I’m just thinking, do you think she’d stay on this journey with us?”

Being so used to Ash’s musings being upbeat and, well, gushy, it was off-putting to hear his tone get so down with regards to Misty. I didn’t have a real answer, but I could at least encourage him. “Y’know, I’m pretty sure she would. Don’t forget, she wanted to go on a journey to become a water Pokémon Master, right? I’d say she’s doing that and being with us. And besides,” I allowed myself another grin, “I’m sure she’d find some excuse to stay by your side even if you got her another bike.”

His face began to brighten. “You really think so?”

“You bet. I could imagine her saying that you’d never win another badge without her help.”

His first laugh of the evening resonated through the campsite and I savored my own delight at having cheered my friend up. “I could win any badge I wanted to all on my own. But…I’m really glad to have her cheering for me.”

“You know, you don’t hear everything she says during your battles.”

“What do you mean?”

I almost felt guilty at how quickly his mood shifted just by giving different context to Misty and her different relations to him, but since I was using this power for good, I swept it under my mental rug. “Sometimes you’ll make a mistake and she’ll say ‘don’t do that, Ash’ or ‘get it together’, you know, stuff like that.”

In a flash his grin plastered itself back onto his face, though it had brought along a pair of rosy cheeks. “Does she really?”

“Mhm, all the time, especially when you’re losing.”

It was like a twinge of annoyance had momentarily tried, but failed, to break through his smirk. “Lucky for me I haven’t lost a match in a while, huh?”

I nodded, sensing that Ash’s ego was starting to flare up, which was a funny thing to happen when talking about a crush of all things. Then again, I’d never gotten the impression Ash would know what to do with romantic feelings if he ever developed them, so I couldn’t say I was surprised.

Actually, what was Ash planning on doing about his crush?

“Are you gonna tell her?”

“...tell her what?”

“That you like her?”

Ideation of his recent win streak was clearly still on his mind and his brain hadn’t processed the question yet. Seconds later his mouth twisted as he sputtered out what I assumed was an answer, but it sounded more like the cry of some Pokémon that hadn’t been discovered yet. I checked the taste of the stew to hide my smirk. “I’m gonna need you to repeat that, Ash.”

“I’m...I’m gonna tell her. Eventually.” I wasn’t really convinced, and judging by his new expression he could probably tell. “I’m just not really sure of the right time. I kinda wondered if it would be okay to tell her when I got her another bike.”

“Whenever that is.”

“I’m really gonna pay her back, okay?”

“Are you worried she’ll say no?”

“To me getting her a new bike?”

“Ash.”

His thumbs began rolling in slow circles, the rest of his body still aside from his breathing. He nibbled at his lip. “Even if Misty doesn’t like me back, I don’t think we’ll stop being friends because of it. It’s just...when I think of liking Misty, it makes sense to me, you know? It’s the same with me liking Pokémon. I can’t really explain it, but I know it. I guess I’m kinda scared that I’ll lose something that makes sense to me.”

I gave the stew one last good stir before setting the spoon across the top of the pot. The conversation had gotten to the point where Ash deserved my full attention. “What would be the best case scenario if you told her?”

“I guess...she’d say she likes me back.”

“And then?”

He leaned his head back, a thousand-mile stare matching his now reddened cheeks. It took him a few extra seconds to break away from his fantasy world. “I guess we’d do what people who like each other do. Y’know, holding hand and...all that stuff.” A sudden look of realization straightened his face out, blinking before turning to me. “Actually, Brock, you always seem able to hold a girl’s hand or talk about being in love with them so easily.”

I chuckled nervously, touching my fingers to the back of my neck. “W-well, my case is a little different from yours, that’s all.” I wouldn’t say jealous was the word, but while I was fascinated in finding an everlasting love somewhere out in the world, it was obvious to me that Ash had already found his. He just needed a bit more time and courage to get to her.

He didn’t look fully satisfied with my answer, but shrugged all the same. “I just wonder if it should even be this hard. I want her to like me back, but every time I think about telling her, I get all tense.” He smirked. “That’s kinda why I wanted to tell her when I got her another bike. It’d be like...I’m not just telling her, but showing her, you know?”

It was always my view that Ash was dense to romance, or at the least didn’t understand when it applied to him specifically. However, that little grin and the way his interlaced fingertips started bouncing back and forth said enough about how natural it was for him, at least with regards to Misty. Knowing him he probably didn’t even consider what he’d just said as an act of love, just a solution to his nervousness issue.

“If you think that’s the best move, then that’s what you should go for.”

What else was there to say? My gut told me he’d probably succeed no matter what he did, but if he wanted the bike to be his vehicle for delivering his confession, I didn’t have much room to say otherwise. Not after that kind of admission.

He nodded, but before he could say anything else the sound of footsteps cut him off. “I’m back.”

Our attention was pulled towards Misty re-entering the campsite, her hair down and still damp. Without missing a beat I glanced towards Ash, newly appreciating that giddy little smile he was clearly trying his best to hide. Twice now he’d gushed about how Misty looked with her hair down, but the look on his face said it all.

I still had no idea how Misty hadn’t figured it out yet.

“It’s your turn, Ash, and don’t just jump in and out. Actually clean yourself for once.”

“Misty, I always clean myself! At least I don’t spend forever taking a bath like some people!”

“For your information, I need to wash away all the dirt and sweat from walking all day! Didn’t your mom tell you to clean yourself properly?”

Their squabble was going to last another minute or two, and I used the chance to check the stew once more. Perfectly done, ready to eat.

With a huff, Ash meandered towards the river. I hadn’t noticed if he won the argument, but then it never really mattered between the two. If anything, as I watched Ash vanish around the corner, I could probably imagine the smirk he was wearing. I chuckled to myself; I’d probably have to deal with his nightly gushing for a long while.

“Hey, Brock?”

Misty took a seat next to me, returning her hair to its normal ponytail. Her hands fell to her lap, an uncommon awkwardness plastered on her face.

“What’s up, Misty?”

Her fingers tensed and relaxed over and over as her gaze glued itself to her knees. She drew her bottom lip between her teeth and I felt a strange sense of déjà vu. The sole of her foot bounced up and down, flatting the dirt below it.

“Can I talk to you...about Ash?”

She turned to me with the same reddened cheeks I’d just finished looking at not a minute ago. Same discomfort, same wavering eyes. I almost wanted to fall back in my seat in disbelief, but I settled for a small grin that elicited a curious look from her. Shaking my head I patted the log next to me, turning to face her.

“I’m all ears.”

I guess I wouldn’t just be dealing with Ash’s gushing for a while, either.

I initially wrote this fic just because I wanted to write about the idea of gushing, but then I ended up using it to practice a slight deviation of my writing style. Hope you all enjoyed it!

[ckret2]

If someone managed to permanently off Sir Pentious during a fight, how would CDIH!Alastor react once he found out? Is Sir Pentious being erased in a fight against someone stronger something he's worried about?

So his first course of action, naturally, is murdering the shit out of whoever got Sir Pent. No joking around, no pretense of making it a performance, not even an explanation for why he's decided to do this. Just carnage. Rips them to shreds, finds whatever angel weapon they used on Sir Pentious, and uses it to dice up the shreds.

After that, his reaction depends on his current mental state and support system, but it's gonna be some mix of extreme grief and relief. The grief for obvious reasons—somebody he loves dearly has been erased—and the relief because this means he's finally free. He no longer has to wonder about what-ifs; he doesn't have to see an airship flying over the city or a face in the paper and be reminded; he doesn't have to torture himself thinking about whether he might still have a chance to change things... because no, he doesn't have a chance, it's over and done.

Alastor had always subjectively felt like he's doing best when he's as far from reminders of Sir Pentious as possible. "Out of sight, out of mind." He figures that now he can fully get over Sir Pent.

However "ignore it" is a terrible way to deal with grief, so odds are good he'd get super depressed for a while. Suicidal ideation/attempts are a possibility. Mainly because I imagine that underneath the surface he's already got REALLY awful mental health (from being cut off from his family since his death and from the extreme social isolation he's been subjected to in Hell) so this would be the straw that breaks the camel's back.

Whether Alastor succeeds partially depends on timing. Like, if he hits rock bottom the same week the angels are swooping in? He's gonna succeed. But if he doesn't, that'd be the point where what friends he does have realize how much distress he's been hiding, stage an intervention, and help him start processing that grief healthily. Eventually he'll be fine, there's just a lot of tears and yelling first.

And to your other question: yes, Alastor is CONSTANTLY worried about Sir Pent getting erased in a fight. Not least because lately Sir Pent has been so desperate to regain his former power that he's started picking fights with people too strong for him.

During angel attacks, instead of getting in a bunker as secure as he can find, Alastor instead tends to hole up somewhere with a window and peek through the blinds to make sure the damn fool isn't flying around testing a new weapon on the angels. "Did Sir Pentious survive" is usually the first thing he checks for once the all clear's been given, along with checking on his other friends. (That may be why he just happened to be watching 666 News when Charlie announced the hotel, considering the story they'd just aired.)

One of the only things keeping him from going on a rampage destroying as many of Sir Pent's current enemies as he can is the knowledge that Sir Pent would be pissed as hell. ("How DARE you show me up by taking out my foes like they're nothing!! Are you trying to make me look bad?! Are you really that petty?! We haven't even spoken in over fifty years and you're still trying to make a fool of me?! The audacity! The NERVE—") That, plus the fact that Alastor is pretty sure the only reason the overlords stronger than him haven't made a concerted effort to bring him down is because they think his arrival-in-hell rampage was a one-time-only incident. Alastor's survival is dependent upon overlords like Vox considering him too much trouble to take out. If they think Alastor's a threat again... suddenly, he's worth the trouble.

So Sir Pent's on his own. But that doesn't stop Alastor from fretting.

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

Soulmarks, Part 18

First part

Previous

~~~

Tim hugged himself. He was, in a word, shaken.

In many words, though, he was absolutely terrified of what Inamovibi-Lady had become. From dropping him and Bruce off a building to murdering Harley and Joker in gruesome ways, she was extremely amoral in how she achieved her goals. Sure, he’d known that akumas have their own moral code, but it had never really sunk in until he’d been faced with it.

And the akuma had told him that Marinette was inside there, and that she wasn’t particularly against anything she was doing.

But how true was that?

It appeared that she was just now starting to process what she’d done. She was shaking a little bit, her eyes wide. He hesitated and detransformed momentarily to get his jacket and then draped it over her shoulders. It wasn’t a shock blanket, but it would have to do.

She looked at him for a second and seemed to smile a little more (it was hard to tell) before looking down at her yoyo.

He went back to standing a careful distance away, his eyes wandering to his family. Everyone seemed a mix of sickened and frightened by what had happened.

Adrien was full on crying, curled up on the floor with his head in his knees. Fair enough, this really wasn’t his night. He’d found out his father was the supervillain he’d been fighting for years, had his best friend akumatized, had difficulty communicating with everyone, and now an akuma that he’d helped create had brutally murdered two people. A breakdown was pretty much inevitable.

Dick sat down next to him and pulled him into his side. Adrien didn’t seem to know what to do with the affection for a second before burying his face in his shoulder.

“Master Fu’s house, please,” said the akuma, bringing his attention back to her.

He hesitated slightly.

He was definitely going to be alone for this one. Even if he could break the moral barrier keeping him from taking a crying Adrien along to fight her, he doubted that he would be of much help.

But it wasn’t like he was really getting any choice in this. Her next target after the ‘Master Fu’ person was definitely going to be Hawkmoth and, though he could admit that she was stronger than normal, they definitely weren’t prepared to fight him. He had to beat her.

How, though? Sure, he at least knew that she wasn’t trying to hurt him (he’d just found out what would have happened to him if she had actually wanted him dead), but that didn’t mean much when she went to drastic measures to ensure that things went her way. He didn’t know how lenient she would be with him if she actually thought him a threat, because she obviously didn’t --. 

He felt a hand rest on his arm and pulled himself from his thoughts to send Inamovibi-Lady a smile.

“Sorry.”

She raised an eyebrow at him and crossed her arms over her chest. He tried not to think about the bloody handprint now on his arm as he glanced at his family. Still no help. Great. How dare they be in shock?

He gave Inamovibi-Lady an awkward smile and opened a portal underneath them.

When they dropped into the tiny shop it took everything in Tim not to slam his head against a wall. Master Fu was just sitting at the table, drinking tea and eating sandwiches. He’d had a five hour warning, why the fuck hadn’t he even tried to run?

She twirled her yoyo, her black eyes narrowed to slits.

“Hello, Marinette.”

“Inamovibi-Lady,” she corrected. Her head tipped to the side. “You’re not going to run away?”

“If you’d like to air your grievances, I would love to hear them.”

The akuma, if possible, looked even more suspicious. “Really?”

Master Fu shrugged and gave a tiny wave of his hand before leaning back. “Mhmm. Go on.”

“I…” Inamovibi-Lady began, then stopped. There was a few times where she opened and closed her mouth, unsure what to do in this type of situation, and then she shrugged and brought her microphone to her hand. “Right, um… citizens of Paris! I’m back, and I’m here to do hearing number five! Well, four for you guys, but five total! With us today is Wang Fu!”

The old man caught Tim’s gaze and then flicked his eyes to the side quickly. Was Tim sure it had meant something? Yes. Did he have any clue what this guy was trying to say? No.

“Now, what he did was particularly messed up. Imagine, you’re a kid on their way to school, and you see this old man about to get run over. You help them. And, because of this, this random guy decides to give you the responsibility of making sure the entire city of Paris never falls to a superterrorist!”

“You must understand --.”

“Shut up. I’m not done.”

Tim rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and took a few short steps back so he could hopefully stay out of this conversation.

He also took the chance to detransform out of Inamovibi-Lady’s view. He didn’t know if Hawkmoth could hear and see everything that the akuma could, but he wasn’t going to test it. Kaalki floated over to Master Fu and stole the bread off of his sandwiches before settling herself on Tim’s shoulder to eat.

“Let’s skip over the fact that you asked two thirteen-year-olds to protect an entire city for now, because let’s talk about the fact that I didn’t have a choice!”

“You could have refused at any point.”

“Like hell I could! The city was under attack and it was obvious no normal person could do it, and then after that I was too popular to just disappear! At least the Americans recruiting kids ask them if they want to do it before they set them up as vigilantes!”

Tim transformed again and crossed his arms over his chest as he considered what to do.

He kind of wanted to let her attack the old man -- he knew first hand exactly how stressful being a vigilante is, and the idea of being thrown into it without warning was enough to make him wince -- but, at the same time, letting her do that would be kind of messed up of him.

Also, he had no plan at all, which was kind of a problem if he was going to be trying to stop her.

“So, now for your judgement.”

Shit!

“How about…” She tapped her finger on her chin as if in thought for a moment before smiling widely. “I take those miraculi off your hands. You’re clearly too old to make proper decisions about who to give them to, and I have someone better in mind.”

He needs a plan! And now!

Ah. There’s one. A bad one. But one nonetheless.

He launched himself at the akuma from behind and they both cursed as she stumbled and threw them off-balance.

But, instead of just falling to the ground for a wrestling match, her back hit something invisible and they screamed in a mix of panic and confusion as the illusion broke to reveal that they were in the turtle miraculous’s shield. They had bigger problems, though, as they rolled through the room.

They came to a stop when they hit the wall, which was unfortunate considering they were at the top. They fell the few feet to the bottom of the hamster ball and groaned.

Tim peeled his face out of her stomach and slowly pushed himself up and looked around.

Master Fu was wearing both the turtle and fox miraculi.

Well, now he knew what he’d been trying to tell him earlier: to move so he wouldn’t be caught in the hamster ball, too. Wow. Wish there was a hand motion for that or something, because Tim was not eager to be back inside, and especially not with a particularly angry akuma.

Actually, now that he was thinking about it, she was taking this remarkably well (for an akuma). Inamovibi-Lady laid back in the hamster ball and started doing tricks with her yoyo.

“You can’t keep this up forever, Fu. You have to sleep. I don’t.”

Oh. That made sense. Unfortunately.

“Besides, since Hawkmoth knows you have miraculi here, I’m expecting him to come by at some point. Gonna protect yourself and the miraculous box or keep me in here?”

Can she please stop making sense? Just for a few minutes?

He sighed and covered his ears. He needed to concentrate. He needed a plan. He had quite a bit of time, he assumed, but the faster he fixed this the faster everything could work out.

Well, not work out, they were long past that point, but at least it would be over.

His eyes found their way to her yoyo. Of course they did, it was moving around wildly, and the human eye is attracted to movement. But…

Tim shrugged to himself. A terrible plan came to him, it was really too bad they were desperate. He grabbed the akuma’s arm and opened a portal underneath them.

And they were falling.

Inamovibi-Lady screamed obscenities as they plummeted towards earth, the Eiffel Tower whizzing past them at lightning speed. He pulled her actual yoyo from his belt just in case he was wrong in how he thought this would play out...

She pulled him to her side and he breathed a sigh of relief as she threw her yoyo. She hooked it around a beam and their fall came to a jerking stop that he was not ready for. He swore he left his stomach about ten meters up.

But no time to think about that! He wrapped his arms around her as well.

“That went to plan,” he said.

“Really? Your plan was to almost die, then?” He couldn’t tell for sure, but he knew she was rolling her eyes. “You’re literally so stupid. You and Chat should have a stupid-off.”

He grinned.

She looked around for a safe place for them to land. “You might need to climb the string to get up. How good are you at that?”

He gave a tiny shrug and made a move to push himself up, only to pull the earring from her ear.

Relief flooded through him as purple and black engulfed her and her weapon. Done. Finally.

He only came to realize his mistake the moment her yoyo started to disappear.

And they were falling again.

And she was barely conscious.

And he had no idea how yoyos worked as weapons or grappling hooks are you kidding me?

He looked at the one in his free hand and shrugged mentally. He either doesn’t try and they both end up dead, tries and fails and they both end up dead, or tries and actually succeeds. He hooked his arm and legs around her as tightly as he could and prayed that it was even slightly like his grappling hook as he threw it.

They swung to safety. Kind of. He caught them pretty close to the ground, and the yoyo didn’t really hook around the beam all that well, so it mostly just slowed their fall, but outside of a few bruises they’d probably be fine when they took off their suits.

He groaned quietly and crushed the earring in his hand and caught the akuma.

And then he let himself lay down beside a confused and groggy Marinette.

Tim watched the sun start to rise and sighed, bringing an arm up to cover his eyes.

It had been a long night, but it was over now.

~~~

Next part

Taglist

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[blu-eh]

Prompt request if your up to it (kinda specific idk how I came up with it). You know the idea that Peter steals the Avenger's food when they don't yet know who he is? I was thinking if he were ever stealing Thor's poptarts (or whatever other food) and Thor decided to put Mjolnir on top, maybe record footage of it at night, and Peter is half asleep while moving the hammer and taking the pop tarts leaving everyone watching him super confused at the whole situation. Weird I know but I thought this could be super funny, do with it what you'd like.

as per what I usually do with prompts: I took this and then ran with it in the opposite direction. messy & unedited ofc

“I know the hazing rituals for the Avengers would probably be a ride or die but this is just ridiculous,” Peter says.  

“It’s punishment,” Mr. Stark tells him. 

All in all, it’s pretty terrible punishment. Peter had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar—or the poptart box, in this very specific case—no less than three times in the past mouth which, yeah. Peter can’t really say he was the best at sneaking around but, to be fair, it wasn’t like he knew the poptarts were Thor’s specifically. 

Following a very important Avengers level meeting that involved the entire team, the conclusion to protect Thor’s poptarts was not to write his name on them like any sensible person but instead to take his very large and very magical hammer and leave it on a box of poptarts so Peter could no longer access them. 

Which is the exact scene that Peter Parker walked into on that early Sunday morning after taking a car to the side and getting smashed around by the lizard. Devastated seems a little dramatic to describe the feelings Peter experienced upon realization, but there had been nothing he’d been looking to more than taking a poptart and possibly a nap. And as cool as it is to see Thor’s hammer up close, it’s currently in the way of Peter’s very important weekend cooldown that usually involves some tasty preserved parties and a bed. 

Now that won’t happen because the Avengers put Thor’s hammer on said box of poptarts. 

Still. You would think the Avengers would be more creative in their Anti-Spider-Man Stealing Mechanisms. 

Peter tells Mr. Stark as much. 

“Doesn’t need to be creative if it works,” Mr. Stark says which is more than a little hypocritical considering Mr. Stark takes the word creative to the extreme on a good day. “It’s stopping you right now, isn’t it?” 

Peter sighs with all of the exasperation of a super-powered teenager who hasn’t had food in at least two hours and a truck load of determination to spare, rolls up his nonexistent sleeves on his t-shirt, and says, “Okay. No one can say I don’t like challenges.”

 - 

“If you can put Thor’s hammer in an elevator and the elevator still moves up, then we’re working on the assumption that the hammer is only heavy when something interacts with it so—hey, Mr. Stark, could one of your suits lift it?” 

“Not with me in it,” Mr. Stark says. 

The rest of the Avengers had taken to watching Peter try and figure out the like it was some 90s soap opera—which is to say, they have been absolutely invested since the moment that Peter started writing on the whiteboard and pacing around the common room. 

“He’s still going at this?” Mr. Steve whispers to Ms. Nat. 

“He hasn’t stopped since he came here,” Ms. Nat says right back. 

Peter dutifully ignores outside conversations and scribbles his notes on the Avengers- approved whiteboard that he’d dug out of Mr. Stark’s lab for the sole purpose of trying to figure out how to free a box of poptarts from a magic hammer. “Yeah, you’re not worthy so you wouldn’t be able to lift it—”

“Thank you for the reminder, Underroos.” 

“But I’m talking about like, if it were just the suit. Hey, would FRIDAY be worthy? Could she drive a suit and lift the hammer? She’s not technically alive so maybe…Never mind, we’ll test that later. Would something like a pulley work? If I’m not directly lifting it, would that still influence the magic still? Dr. Banner, what do you think?”

“Truthfully, I have no opinion on this, Peter,” Dr. Banner says.  

“I think,” Sam says. “That you are putting way too much thought into a magic hammer.” 

“A magic hammer that’s on my food.” 

“It’s Thor’s,” Sam says. “Not yours.” 

“That hammer? I figured that was pretty obvious.” 

“Sam looks two seconds away from lunging and wringing Peter’s neck. He takes a deep breath and says, “No. The food.” 

“Minor detail,” Peter says. “Hey, do you think—”

 -

Clint whistles. “Impressive.”

Sam’s got that mom-friend worrying look in his eyes and a hand on his cellphone already to dial emergency services or, worse, Peter’s aunt. “Is that…is that going to work?” 

“Honestly, I have no idea,” Peter says. 

‘That’ is a cumulation of nuts and pipes and bolts and various scrap metal that Peter has managed to scrape up and put together in the last two hours. It towers over the living area and into the kitchen. A roller coaster of science, compacted down into a Rube Goldberg constructed out of more than a couple thousand dollars of junk pieces and starts with a single marble that’s no bigger than a quarter. 

Peter’s done a look of cool stuff in his two years of Avengering—missions, messing around in Mr. Stark’s lab, working on top secret projects for an even more top secret government—but he’s not quite sure anything lives up to this masterful creation. 

Mr. Steve and Mr. Stark are off to the side with the rest of the Avengers who cared enough to watch him construct everything after the five hour mark. Mr. Steve leans over to Mr. Stark and whispers, almost too quiet for Peter to hear, “Should you stop him?”

“The good mentor slash guardian thing would be to stop him,” Mr. Stark says right back. “But at this point, I’m invested so no.” 

That’s about as good of permission as Peter’s ever going to get so he takes the first step and drops the marble into a pipe. From there, it moves through wood pieces, metal sculpted into ramps and tunnels and pulleys until it’s caused a cascade of reactions. It takes a solid three minutes before it nears the end and Peter can only wait with baited breath and the whole mechanism comes to a valiant conclusion and the last piece slams into the hammer and…

The hammer doesn’t move. 

Sam doesn’t even bother hiding his laugh. “Better luck next time, spider-kid.” 

Clint shrugs. “It was a good effort.” 

In science, it’s not uncommon for things not to work. Peter’s had his fair share of exploding inventions, spider webs in his face, and code that doesn’t run. It still doesn’t prepare him for the crushing disappointment that he feels upon seeing that magic hammer still sitting on a box of poptarts that he so desperately wants to free.

At this point, it’s not even about the food anymore. Peter’s too invested to not see this through some way or another. 

So he starts building and tries it again. And again. And again. 

By the time night had fallen and the starts were covered by light pollution in the heart of New York, Peter’s no closer to those poptarts than he was during the early afternoon. The rest of the Avengers had lost interest at this point—content to longue around the lobby with a movie playing in the background and an ear peeled just to make sure Peter hasn’t accidently injured himself yet. 

Eventually, Mr. Stark wanders back into the room and knocks on the wall. When Peter looks up, Mr. Stark says, “Alright, Underoors, it’s bed time.” 

“But I’m not done,” Peter says. “I’m so close, Mr. Stark!”

Mr. Stark takes in the scattered pieces of junk and the hammer still sitting atop the poptart box, unscaved and unmoved. “Uh huh. Right. Well, I’m sure it will still be there next time you stop by but it’s a school night and I don’t want to face your aunt’s wrath if I bring you home too late.” 

“But…” 

“I am sure you can thwart the poptart box some other time,” Mr. Stark says which is really just the tipping point for this entire situation. 

By the end of it, Peter’s so frustrated the he goes to yank the poptart box out from under the hammer itself, damned if the poptarts get crushed, ripped, or otherwise destroyed in the process. He puts one hand on the hammer and one hand on the box and just pulls.

It’s not the poptart box that comes loose. 

There’s a hammer in his hand that hadn’t been there before, lightweight in a way that made Peter think he had been holding a piece of paper and not an extremely destructive magic weapon. The room around him goes so quiet that a pen could be dropped and the echo would be heard all the way down the hall. 

“Oh,” Peter says. “Huh.” 

“He did not just do that,” Sam says. “Please tell me the fourteen year old did not just do that.”

Peter pivots on his heel and points the hammer at him. “I’m sixteen.” 

The rest of the Avengers are looking at him in a way that Peter can’t quite really describe in a totality. Dr. Banner has a hand over his mouth, Clint’s jaw is about as close to the ground as it can be, Ms. Nat looks somewhat amused but there’s something else there—Peter’s not fantastic at reading expressions and even less fantastic when it’s reading expressions of a superspy so he doesn’t even try there. Mr. Stark looks a bit more exasperated than surprised but it’s that exasperation when you think your kid can’t do something and are pleasantly surprised to see them succeed. Mr. Steve is standing, white-knuckled grip on the couch’s arm and eyes wide in an expression of shock that Peter’s never really seen on him before.

Peter’s surprised the Avengers a handful of times but he thinks, with the hammer in his hands and the poptart box freed, that this is situation is the best. 

“I think,” Mr. Stark says in the same tone voice he always has when he’s trying to take control of a situation where he has very little control in. “That we need Thor. Right now.” 

[giffingthingsss]

J/C, C/7, and Me

Disclaimer: I am not necessarily a J/C shipper. I just have eyeballs and enjoy the show. Long ass post. 

In the Beginning

Was a Janeway/Chakotay romantic plot baked in? I tend to think not. At least not at the very start. But this is pure speculation on my part.

If romance is your goal, then it’s much more interesting to have Chakotay not immediately being 100% supportive. (An AU where they never get lost and it’s just Janeway pursuing this Maquis leader and maybe eventually being persuaded and helping him, please.) 

I think initially they were flirting with the idea of Janeway/Paris. The character of Tom was described as being a potential love interest for Janeway. That idea doesn’t seem to have made it past the character sketches, but you can see a trace element of it in the very beginning. 

The writers played with a number of character combinations. A pretty natural chemistry was cropping up between Captain and First Officer. Little things were dropped into scripts. Performances certainly came across as interested, whether intended or not, who knows. 

Ramping Up

Where before there were hints and moments, Resolutions kicks off a series of flashing red sirens.

From this episode on there would be declarations of... ‘you bring me true peace’, and ‘I’m frickin jealous, okay?’ and bawling declarations of ‘you can’t die!’ These developments are not in the shipper’s imagination. They’re building toward something. Clearly. Obviously. Said all the people with eyes. 

For the first couple seasons, Janeway being engaged kind of kept this at bay. But now they’re fully playing with it. 

Road Block

However, Kate Mulgrew (and maybe others, I dunno) was like, ‘sure. develop the relationship. but no sex. the first female captain isn’t going to be having booty calls in the ready room. not gonna happen. people are going to take this captain seriously.’

So they played with it here and there, but it could only go so far. Kate seemed to want the best of both worlds. A deep, complicated, growing relationship, that never tipped over into the sexual. Her focus was on getting the crew home. 

Beltran flat out says (in one of the books I own that I don’t feel like digging out) that Chakotay was in love with her. But Beltran was getting frustrated. When Year of Hell came around, he apparently called up the writers and said, ‘how long is this guy gonna keep throwing himself at a woman who never reciprocates? it’s getting pathetic. either do something with these two or don’t.’ 

Loner Janeway

Along the way, I think Kate became enamored with the idea of the loneliness of command, the sacrifices it entails. Fell in love with the poignancy of it all.

This is not something that’s out of character for Janeway. Beyond the fact that in the beginning she was engaged, pairing off was a luxury she didn’t think the captain had. So any kind of romantic relationship she might pursue would have to start with her being broken out of that mindset. 

That’s basically what Resolutions did. Once they finally pried Voyager out of her fingers, you could see a burgeoning love very clearly. But then Voyager came back. And with it her... resolutions. 

Coulda Woulda Shoulda

If they had wanted to snip it and move on, they should have had that conflict between Janeway and Chakotay at some point. Perhaps after Beltran called them up and said, ‘hey. Make up your minds.’ 

Have the characters actually talk about it and reach a conclusion and there ya go. But maybe the writers just didn’t know wtf they wanted to do with it and wanted to leave their options open. And then did nothing at all. 

Me, a Non-Shipper

Personally, I tend to agree with the Mulgrew side of things (and can also see why Beltran would be bored with the eternal holding pattern and not mind when they said ‘hey, you can kiss Jeri Ryan.’)

They developed the Tom/B’Elanna romance, which was great. We didn’t need non-stop romantic plots. I think the shippers could understand Kate’s reasoning and were willing to go with the slow burn...if the writers had actually sat down and decided that’s what they were doing. If only they hadn’t dropped the ball at the very end.

Here’s the thing: if you build up a relationship like that, you can’t be upset when people notice. And you can’t give up on it behind the scenes without telling the audience on screen. ‘There are some lines we never cross’ might have been an attempt, but was too late. And was certainly not closure. The audience deserved better. 

C/7? WTF!?

Well, if you thought there was no build up for it, it’s because there wasn’t. If you felt like it was whirlwind and came out of nowhere, it’s because it was, and it did. Apparently even in the writer’s room. 

Brannon Braga wanted Seven to die in the finale. He was writing her episodes to gear up for that. Human Error, the episode where Seven experiments with romantic ideas with a holographic Chakotay (with a kiss that was apparently the result of a dare Beltran made to Jeri), was written with Seven’s death in mind. It wasn’t supposed to be the opening salvo of an actual relationship. 

I think Seven of Nine should have bit the dust. I think there had to be a real sacrifice for this crew getting home, a real blood sacrifice. Seven of Nine was, for me, designed to be a character that was gonna die tragically. I planned that.... There’s an episode called Human Error that I wrote...she's trying to feel emotions. She actually succeeds and then almost dies. She learns there’s a Borg implant, that if she becomes too human, it will kill her. And it was that moment in my mind that would set up the finale, where she realized she can’t live here, she can’t live there. And she dies getting her family home. - Brannon Braga

I’m glad they didn’t go that way for various reasons. I love Endgame as it is. But it’s interesting to know the thought process. They weren’t gearing up for romance, they were aiming for tragedy. At least Braga was. 

Human Error was only about six episodes from the end. At the time of that writing, that's what was in at least his head. 

Human Error was not written with an eye toward a C/7 future. Without that episode I doubt highly C/7 would have been a thing. And it wasn’t even written to make it a thing.

Endgame obviously didn't go that way. Janeway-palooza instead. So. What do we do now? What to do with Seven? And from here on, all I have is speculation.

Retooling

'Well, we've got this holodeck scenario from the episode we wrote when we were planning to kill her off that hints that she might like Chakotay. So. I guess we'll go with that.' 

It appears to me that they retooled recently written story elements to fit their ending, to provide more motivation for that ending.

They picked the three people it would kill Janeway most to lose. Tuvok, obviously. An ongoing torment, visiting him every week. Seven dies (a remnant of plan A) and in a sense takes Chakotay with her. 

This is all fuel for Admiral Janeway without making it about saving her lover (unless you’re a J/7 shipper, in which case, hog heaven).

When you think of it only in terms of ‘what can we do to make the finale work’, it’s not terrible. When you think of it in terms of seven preceding years, it doesn’t work at all. They got myopic. 

In hindsight I think the writers could probably admit it was a mistake in terms of the show, and they should have resisted the urge to do something that was thrown together and jarring rather than nothing at all with Seven.

Gossip

Apparently neither Mulgrew or Beltran were opposed to C7 in the end. Maybe because they had at points been a bit frustrated with each other behind the scenes. Whether those frustrations were forefront in anyone’s mind at the time, idk. 

I tend to think Kate really was over the idea of Janeway’s destiny having much to do with romance at all.

It is interesting that when Seven first arrived on the show, Kate specifically mentioned not wanting the writers to throw her with Chakotay. At that point perhaps feeling a tad possessive. Perhaps didn’t want him ‘sullied’ by the busty blonde.

But this was seasons in the past by the time the finale rolled around, and I doubt highly it had anything to do with anything. Who knows. 

Me on Endgame

Personally, I'm glad Endgame was a Janeway palooza. I love 99% of Endgame. I’m glad it was about Janeway vs.Janeway vs. Borg Queen. I wouldn’t have wanted it to be about J/C either.

But if you’re not willing to go there, leave it then to the imagination. It's cruel to basically tell your audience that these two would be together if not for their delta quadrant circumstances, and then rip the rug from under them the second they get to the quadrant where this romance is supposed to be possible. Not cool, man. Not cool. 

When I first saw Endgame (as a non-shipper with eyes) C/7 was jarring and weird. But I thought the scene where Seven was distancing herself was well acted and stirred up an emotion or two (even if it was a little histrionic, considering they'd just started dating). So I wasn’t throwing things at my television. Just confused.

I also basically dismissed their future relationship. They got home after like one date, not ten years of marriage. And now their lives will completely change. So I just kind of hand-waved it away. "It did its job for the episode, but the future's changed and they won't last. So whatever."

Headanons on Janeway’s romantic reasoning and original timeline reaction to C/7

Captain Janeway had no idea how long it would take to get back home. Obviously you hope for tomorrow, but it could be twenty years from now. She resigned herself to not pursue romance. Her sole purpose in life was to get the crew safely home.

So I speculate her reaction to C/7 would be quite stoic. She would recognize it’s not fair for him to just pine away, possibly forever. That she has made this choice and he shouldn't have to be alone because of it. Her being alone is just part of the price she must pay, the burden she must bear. Her own wants and needs must take a backseat. She has greater responsibilities.

In fact, I can see her encouraging C/7. She would see it as a form of selfless love. ‘It doesn’t matter that he’s with me; it matters that he’s happy.’ Of course feelings would rear their heads from time to time, but she would quickly corral them into that channel.

Lots of lovely internal martyrdom. She would make it her mission to make sure they were both okay and happy. A bit of a masochistic streak that she buries under a sense of nobility and sacrifice.

This is the kind of angle I think Mulgrew came to prefer. That lovely little tragic pang. She loves drama, if nothing else.

“It’s a lonely thing, but I’m gonna get this crew home.” - Kate Mulgrew

“You always made it hard for yourself. If there was a rocky path and a smooth one, you chose the rocky one every time.” - Coda

This is a woman with a lot of love to give. But finds herself, or perhaps unnecessarily forces herself, depending on your view, in a place where that’s not a possible life choice. So those instincts expand outward, enveloping them all. She finds fulfillment in the well-being of the crew and the ship as a whole. 

Post Endgame

Their trip was shortened by a lot because of Endgame. The future is no longer written in stone. So the possibilities are endless, the sky’s the limit. And apparently Seven’s a lesbian (I haven’t seen it, but I hear tell). So. There ya go. 

(She is crying here, btw. I never noticed before I did that episode and feel the need to point it out once again. Lest anyone else still not have noticed.) 

If you actually read this whole thing, congratulations. Hopefully it made sense. I now continue with my rewatch and probably won’t talk much about this in the future. Unless something new comes up, I’ll just continue to be a non-shipper with eyeballs, enjoying whatever’s around. 

[warship005]

Why people prefer the relationship between Geralt and Jaskier more than the one between him and Yennefer

DISCLAIMER: This is all based on my opinion. Also, this is not an anti-Yennefer post. I just wanted to post my thoughts on why we weren’t as drawn to the ship as the showrunners thought we will be. 

WARNING: This could’ve been better structured but I needed to get the idea out of my head before I forgot it, so sorry if it’s a bit messy.

Well, let’s get to business then! Here’s why we instinctively decided to NOT ship Yennefer x Geralt as much as Jaskier x Geralt, and it all boils down to one episode.

Episode 5 was meant to be the moment when two of the main timelines of the show finally clash and we see two of our protagonists finally meet. How does that go?

...

Look, I’ll be honest here...Episode 5 did a bad job at making the viewers root for the relationship between Geralt and Yen. Why? Well...

1) Um...do we have time for that? Geralt, Jaskier is dying--GERALT! STOP LOOKING AT BOOBS WHILE YOUR BARD IS GROWING ONE ON HIS NECK!

I could’ve focused on the relationship between Geralt and Yen and actually root for it if the timing wasn’t so terrible. The only reason why Geralt meets Yen in the first place is because of Jaskier (who ends up becoming a motif throughout all the scenes Geralt and Yen share together in this episode).

And it’s not even a good reason. Geralt states it again and again that he was there because Jaskier was hurt and needed help. 

Also, when Yennefer asks about his insomnia during the bathtub scene, he states that impending death (Jaskier) was a bit more important than his own problems.

So yeah, even Geralt of Rivia, the “I have no feelings nor friends” White Wolf acknowledges what is more important at the moment, AKA making sure Jaskier doesn’t die. 

That’s why having to watch both of them give bedroom eyes to each other felt very awkward and out of place and no amount of background orgy could change that. 

The orgy is also the only reason the flirting doesn’t seem out of place to us. Think about it.

2) The infamous bathtub scenes (this is a long one boys)

What’s funny about this one is that both Jaskier and Yennefer had a bathtub scene with Geralt, and where one failed, the other succeed to make fans root for the ship like no tomorrow.

The first bathtub scene we see is the one from episode 4 with Jaskier.

Then the one from episode 5 with Yennefer.

Let’s compare them a bit, shall we? 

JASKIER BATHTUB SCENE:

When Jaskier gives Geralt a bath, it’s because he pretty much needs it. He’s covered head to toe in monster guts and needs to be clean for the party Jaskier asked him to attend to as his bodyguard. 

During this scene, Jaskier actually washes Geralt, which is the main point of a bath to be honest. Along with that, we get some funny interactions between the two, which do a good job at helping us understand the relationship between these characters:

Jaskier being too slutty for his own good. Geralt being too edgy for his own good. Both being able to see through each other’s bullshit (”How many of these lords wanna kill you?” and “So you just let strangers rub chamomile on your lovely bottom?”).

We also get to see Jaskier being very comfortable with doing things around Geralt that would probably get many fools killed in the process, such as taking away his drink because “he should stay sobber” or being very casual around Geralt, whose facial expression screams bloody murder.

And how can I talk about this scene without bringing up the icing on the cake

Geralt: I don’t need anyone. And the last thing I want is someone needing me.

Jaskier: And yet, here we are...

So yeah, what makes the scene with Jaskier great is the fact that it advanced the plot and did a good job of presenting the characters and their personalities. 

YENNEFER BATHTUB SCENE

Let’s look at the scene where Geralt takes a bath with Yennefer. Some of yall gonna be real mad at me, but I have to say it: This scene did not need to happen like that. 

No amount of naked Henry Cavill is gonna fix it. They needed an excuse to show both of them naked next to each other otherwise we wouldn’t find their talk romantic or something. 

I rewatched both bathtub scenes, and during the one with Yennefer, Geralt doesn’t wash at all. The only reason why that scene even happens is because, according to Yennefer, Geralt smelled so bad you could guess his horse breed.

Does he do anything to fix that? Nope. He just stands there naked and brooding while Yennefer joins him for some reason, despite that water probably being gross as fuck if what she said about his smell was true. 

And she’s the only one who washes between the two... if you can call that a wash. She just grabs a sponge and rubs it a bit around her neck and that’s all.

The dialogue was cute, and it showcased their personalities a bit, but as I’ve mentioned, it didn’t need to happen in a bathtub. 

Here’s how I’d fix the scene:

They’re both in the same room and Yennefer needs to change from her black dress into that more comfortable white one. She tells Geralt to turn around while she does, and their conversation goes as it happened in the bathtub. After she’s done, she hands him his new clothes and tells him that she’ll accept their conversation as payment enough...but only if he takes a bath (aka what happened BEFORE the bathtub scene). Then it cuts to him, fully changed and clean, walking into the room where Jaskier is asleep and the episode resumes as usual. 

3) Wow, she really did that...

I’ll bring up something that kinda makes many people not that fond of the ship, AKA Yennefer kinda mind-controlling Geralt and sending him to attack the people who wanted Yennefer out of the town. 

In her way of getting revenge from them, she made Geralt get the death penalty tho.

We’ve seen Geralt fight before and win, but this situation seemed kinda lost until he found out he was the one with the wishes. His wish to make the guard’s head blow up was probably the only reason he got out of there alive.

4) ”She saved your life”

They really could’ve convinced us to ship Geralt and Yennefer during the last few mins of the episode, but they just decided to replace “relationship development” with “sex scene” because, hey, we didn’t know by now that Geralt was a slut.

What happened before that was way worse for their development tho. 

So, Jaskier leaves the building, bumps into Geralt and they begin to walk away until Geralt realizes Yennefer is about to die inside. He then decides to go there and save her despite almost getting him killed. 

If Geralt had a greater sense of self-worth, he probably would’ve walked away, but he still decided to go save her because she’s the love interest after all, right?

The thing is... When Jaskier stops him, Geral doesn’t mention anything about how great Yennefer is, or how nobody deserves to die or how she doesn’t deserve such a fate.

No no. His only argument is that she saved Jaskier. So yeah, even in a moment meant to build up their relationship, Geralt mentions doing something because of Jaskier.

Somehow, everything between those two in this episode had a little bit of Jaskier in it. Even during the sex scene, we see Jaskier for a few seconds.

5) “Just a friend, I hope?”

This one is more for the shits and giggles, but the fact that Yennefer has to ask twice in the episode if Jaskier was “just a friend” is a bit...like, even she was uncertain whether to hit on him or not.

In conclusion.

Episode 5 really did a poor job at making the viewers root for the relationship between Geralt and Yennefer. The good scenes they had were outshined by the bad scenes and this gets worse with episode 6. 

We had 4 episodes to get used to Geralt and Jaskier together. But Yennefer and Geralt? We had episode 5, which was a mess, and episode 6, which was a time skip. 

You see, because it’s a time skip instead of seeing their relationship develop better after they’ve met, we’re just told that Geralt kept Yennefer as his booty call over the years and that they PROBABLY had some sweet moments together.

The only good scene these two had was the tent scene from episode 6, but that’s forgotten immediately because of the argument they have on top of the mountain. 

And you can see how much the fans cared about Geralt and Yennefer together because at the end of the episode most of them were weeping from what Geralt said to Jaskier than from the argument he had with Yennefer.

So yeah, blame it on the poorly structured episode 5.

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

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

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

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

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

Chapter Word Count: 6,196

Chapter Warnings: swearing, implied s.uidical ideation, non-graphic panic attack

Chapter Summary: In which Wilbur frankly has no idea how a reunion with his father is supposed to go, considering the circumstances. Also, a ghost makes an appearance.

(masterlist w/ ao3 links)

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

Chapter Three: listening for that angel choir

He comes to awareness violently, lurching into a sitting position, his hand outstretched before him. He is silent, but that’s probably only because he trained himself to be, back when they were so afraid of someone finding where they were, down in that dark, hidden ravine, stone on all sides and darkness above, closing in. He doesn’t remember what he was dreaming about,

(fire all around and the world falling to pieces and it’s all so very beautiful, and the worst thing is Tommy’s horrified face but he’s too far gone to care)

but the vestiges cling to him like cobwebs, difficult to shake off. He takes a moment to steady himself, to bring his breathing back under control, and then looks around, the remembrance of where he is coming swiftly. Technoblade’s living room is unchanged from last night, but there is no sign of Technoblade himself.

There is, however, someone in the kitchen.

He can smell food—eggs, he thinks. There’s someone moving around, their tread light and sure, and he knows those footsteps, knows them like he knows his own name.

He is standing before he can think better of it, and it is habit that keeps his own strides silent. He walks to the doorway of the kitchen and stops there, stops because there is a man at the stove, his back turned to him, but Wilbur doesn’t need to see his face to know him. He never has.

Something about this picture is wrong, though, and he doesn’t know what it is. He’s seen this a thousand times, if not in this setting, has woken up to this exact thing on countless occasions, back in their old home, back before Techno started going off to tournaments, before Tommy and he left to make their own ways, before Phil started spending more and more time on hardcore worlds, out of contact. Before all of that, it was just this, just Phil making them all breakfast in the sun-soaked morning.

Something about it is wrong, and he can’t pick it out, and he can’t stand here forever. He could leave, could turn his back and slip out the front door when no one is watching, but that won’t be well-received, and he hardly wants to be followed. That really only gives him one other option, and it’s ridiculous, how fast his heart is beating, because it’s just Phil.

(it’s just Phil, and that’s the problem, isn’t it? just Phil, and you can’t face him, not after what he did, not after what you made him do)

It’s just Phil.

So he leans against the doorway, and he clears his throat.

Phil whirls around, spatula raised.

(was he always on such a hair trigger? or is that new?)

He lowers it after a split second, his face flickering through several expressions too fast for Wilbur to process. Eventually, he settles on a warm smile, but there is something lurking around the edges, something that he is hiding, though Wilbur has no hope of figuring out what. For some reason, this doesn’t feel like seeing Techno again at all. With Techno, it barely took a moment for old patterns to resurface, barely took a moment to remember how to read him, but with Phil, it’s almost like looking at the face of a stranger.

(did you think he’d be the same? did you think he would be unaffected? even the most stable of anchors rusts eventually, exposed to the deep water)

“Wilbur!” Phil says, and he could weep to hear the sound of his voice, even though it hasn’t been that long, not technically. Not that long since the last time Ghostbur spoke to him. “Good morning! Did you sleep alright?”

He thinks about his nightmares and decides not to say anything.

“Pretty alright,” he says, and then adds, belatedly, “Good morning.”

The words come out awkwardly. It’s too casual, too normal, and everything that’s happened since the last time they ate breakfast together is sitting in the air between them, about as unobtrusive as a flashing creeper and just as dangerous. There’s too much left unsaid, and he has no idea how to go about fixing that.

So he just keeps standing there. Silently. And Phil stands there too, just as silent, just as watchful, just as awkward, and perhaps Wilbur should take comfort in the fact that he, too, seems to have no idea what to do. But he finds no room for comfort within himself, only a vague resentment, because wasn’t Phil planning to bring him back anyway? Just what was his plan for afterward, if he had managed to succeed? Was it this? This silence, this hesitance, this painful awareness of the distance between them, of all the things that went so bitterly, terribly wrong?

If this was his plan, Wilbur can’t say that he’s all that impressed with it.

But then, Phil steps forward. Only a bit, and slowly, as if he’s approaching a startled animal. Wilbur would be angry at the implication if he didn’t feel like he was one, if there weren’t something snarling and desperate caged within his ribcage, calling for him to either fight or flee.

“Would it—” Phil starts, and then stops, and it’s odd, because Wilbur doesn’t remember his father ever being so hesitant. Phil’s confidence has always been quiet, but at the same time unmistakable, and that makes this so very strange. “Would it be alright if I hugged you?” he goes on to say, and Wilbur’s brain stutters to a halt.

He can’t help but remember

(the spatula becomes a sword and his great creation is in ruins around him and he is laughing and sobbing and wild and everything is spiraling, spiraling, and what a glorious destruction it is, a beautiful chaos, and the center cannot hold and he is begging pleading shouting and there are tears streaming down his father’s face and an awful waver in his voice, but the sword is in his chest and he can feel nothing but relief, relief, relief, it’s over now, you can rest, your symphony is not finished never finished but it is over at long last, good night, good night and goodbye)

the last time Phil held him.

But that was then, and this is now,

(isn’t it?)

and Phil is watching him with an expression that might be either desperation or hunger, masked behind a slight smile, and that is what drives him to nod, what drives him to open his arms slightly, and then Phil is embracing him, and—

The mess in his head goes quiet. Just for a second, his father is enough to drive his demons away.

And it’s like fireworks on his skin, fireworks at first and then an all-encompassing warmth, and he doesn’t fit into Phil’s arms quite the same as he did when he was a child, is taller, older, cobbled-together pieces of the bright future he used to have, but something in him recognizes this feeling, recognizes it as safety, as comfort, as home. He slumps a bit, melting into the touch, and Phil doesn’t complain at suddenly holding up half of his weight, just adjusts his position a bit and grips him tightly, like he thinks that Wilbur might disappear if he lets go.

“God, Wil,” Phil murmurs. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

Wilbur closes his eyes against the words. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Phil that he isn’t. Even if for a moment, he can pretend. Pretend that this was his idea, that he’s alright with this, that what he wishes more than anything else isn’t to escape back into rest and away from this world that is too bright and too sharp and too laden with consequences.

“It’s good to see you,” he says instead, and that, at least, is mostly honest.

His hands are clutching the back of Phil’s shirt, entangled in the fabric, and beneath his hands, he can feel Phil’s wings shifting. It is then that he realizes what he didn’t, earlier: Phil is hiding his wings, and that is what is wrong, because Phil never does that around the house. Never.

Though, come to think of it, Ghostbur never saw him with his wings out either. Not once.

Did Ghostbur ever question it? Did he ask and then forget about it, because the answer upset him? Or did he just not bother, presuming that Phil had his reasons and that everything was alright? That sounds like something Ghostbur would do, and for a moment, he is overwhelmed by a seething rage at his dead counterpart, because why couldn’t he ever be useful—

(better to be useless and happy than alive and miserable and the cause of everyone else’s misery to boot, better to forget than to remember, better to let it all go and float away in the wind with the dandelions and the blue blue sky)

“Are you alright?” Phil asks, and he realizes that he’s balled his hands into fists. He pulls away from the hug, steps back to meet Phil’s eyes, pretends that the sudden lack of contact doesn’t leave him feeling bereft.

He tries for a smile. He doesn’t think he manages very well. His skin feels as though it’s stretching oddly, as though it’s forgotten the proper shape for the expression.

“I’m fine,” he says, and that—that is a lie. That is a lie for sure. But what else is he supposed to say?

The wings—or lack thereof—are bothering him. Now that he’s spotted their absence, he can’t unsee it. He’s not sure how to ask, though, because he has the sneaking suspicion that

(he shielded you you idiot shielded you from your own explosion from your own destruction don’t you remember don’t you remember the way he cried out and the feathers in the air and he was holding you holding you don’t you remember don’t you remember how he tried to protect you even to the last don’t you remember)

there’s something about it that he’s not understanding, still, and he hates this, hates not even being able to trust to his own recollections, but he supposes that’s what he gets for his troubles. A beating heart and a mind full of holes and a wide open world that feels like a cage and a precarious stability that he thinks might go out from under him at any moment, like sand into a hidden ravine, and he’ll be sent down, down, down—

“Oh, great,” Techno says, and Wilbur jerks, wheeling around. He hadn’t heard him—but then, Techno has always been able to move far more silently than ought to be possible for someone with such a terrifying presence, with such a weight to his blood-soaked step. “You guys are being weird, aren’t you?”

He blinks.

“What?”

“We’re not being weird, what are you on about?”

His voice overlaps with Phil’s, and it’s a bit weird.

Techno snorts, stepping further into the kitchen. “Don’t be weird in my house, you guys,” he says. “If you’ve gotta be weird, do it somewhere else. I can’t take this.”

“What, the great Technoblade can’t handle an awkward social situation?” he says, and there is more bite to his voice than he intends, and Techno hears it, judging by the way his lips twist into a scowl.

“You know I can’t,” he says. “I hate socializing.”

What should have been a joke has turned into something that is—not. Wilbur should have known better than to push, maybe, should have known better than to call Techno out, because Techno does hate socializing, does hate being forced into awkward situations, hates an enemy that he cannot defeat with his sword. But then, none of that is quite right either, because awkward social situations are one thing. This should be quite another. Because they’re family, or at least, they’re meant to be, and no amount of awkwardness should be able to outweigh that. And yet, here they are, Techno glaring and Phil quiet and Wilbur suppressing the urge to bolt from the room and start sprinting across the tundra.

Staying the night was a mistake. Not leaving when he could was a bigger one. He’s not sure what he was thinking.

(he does, he does know what he was thinking, and he was thinking that he wanted things to be the way they used to be, if he was going to be alive, if he was going to be forced to live in this world once again, he wanted a family that was strong and steady and whole, not the fractured mess that this is, not fragmented and separated and snapping at one another’s throats)

“I’m making breakfast,” Phil puts in. He seems so very weary. Wilbur’s not sure why he’s only picking up on that now, but the bags under his eyes could probably pass for bruises. “Techno, Wil, how about you sit down? The eggs’ll be off in just a few minutes.”

Techno huffs, shooting Wilbur one last glare. But then, he does as Phil asks, sidling past to sit at the dining table, the chair legs making an awful scraping sound against the floor.

Wilbur remains standing.

“C’mon, Wilbur, come sit down,” Techno says. “I want eggs.”

Something shifts. His blood is buzzing, like his veins have been replaced with live wires. It’s a picture of domesticity, father making breakfast and son waiting for it, and he belonged here once but now he’s a piece that doesn’t fit, his edges worn away and grown out wrong.

(they shouldn’t fit either, and it’s wrong that they do, wrong that they’re comfortable with this even when the picture is incomplete and Tommy isn’t here)

“I’m not staying,” he blurts out. He doesn’t know he’s going to say it until he does. And once he does, it’s out there, and he can’t take it back. But he doesn’t think he would if he could. It’s the truth, even if he’s only just discovering it. He’s not staying. He can’t.

Phil has turned back to the stove, but Wilbur can see the way his back goes stiff, the way his shoulders hunch, just a little.

“It’s breakfast,” Techno says slowly, almost bewildered, if Techno did bewilderment. He doesn’t, usually, but perhaps that’s another thing that’s changed sometime between Wilbur’s death and now. “You can’t stay for breakfast?”

���I can make something else, if you don’t want eggs,” Phil murmurs. Wilbur barely catches the words.

“It’s not about the eggs and you know it,” he snaps, and then stops to take a breath. Phil is silent. “Look, I wasn’t even planning on being here as long as I have been. Where’s Tommy?”

“At his old home, I think,” Techno says. He is holding himself very still, watching Wilbur very carefully, and viciously, cruelly, Wilbur considers making the attack that he is so clearly expecting. Considers leaping across the table and going for his throat, rolling around on the ground like they did when they were kids, playing, roughhousing, sparring, only this wouldn’t be any of those things. He wouldn’t be able to defeat Technoblade, of course, but he’d be able to get a good few licks in, even if he doesn’t have a real reason to do so,

(he wasn’t there for Tommy he left Tommy alone left him to that monster’s mercy he abandoned him and even when Tommy came to him he discarded him again tossed him aside as if they weren’t raised together weren’t brothers as if none of it meant anything at all he spawned withers in L’manberg and destroyed it destroyed it all destroyed even what it stood for and there won’t be any coming back from that)

even if his rage is aimless, directionless, building in him like a volcano begging to erupt, begging to destroy everything in its path, to delight in the carnage and—

He’s felt like this before. He’s felt like this before, and it didn’t end well, and it set the stage for all of Tommy’s suffering, and if that’s not a reason to try to hold back, he doesn’t know what is.

“That’s not what I was asking,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m asking you why he’s not here. You don’t see a problem with it?”

“We’re not on the best terms with Tommy at the moment,” Phil says quietly, and Wilbur wishes he would turn around so he could see his expression, but for now he’ll settle for glowering at his back.

(where was the father when his son needed him the most? not there, not there, never there, and what happened to the father who raised them, to the father who promised he would always be by their sides?)

“And whose fault is that?” he demands. “He’s a fucking kid, Phil! He needed someone in his corner, literally anyone, and I’m sorry, but the fucking amnesiac ghost couldn’t quite cut it!”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Phil asks. “Do you really think I don’t have any regrets? That I wouldn’t give anything to have him here, safe with us?” Phil wheels around, then, and usually, in times past, such a motion would be accompanied by a flaring of wings, an instinctive response, but there are no wings behind him, and without them he looks so very small. Once again, Wilbur is struck with that overwhelming sense of wrongness. “I know damn well that I failed him, Wil, that I failed all of you. You don’t need to tell me. I already know.”

“Phil, wait, no—” Techno starts, but Phil shakes his head.

“I have, Techno, don’t try to deny it. I’ve failed you all, and the worst bit is that even when I had chances to try to fix things, I didn’t take them. Haven’t taken them.” He meets Wilbur’s eyes. “All I can do about that is apologize. I am sorry, truly. But Tommy doesn’t want to see me. He’s made that clear, both after you died and after Techno and I destroyed L’Manberg. If you’ve got ideas, Wilbur, I’m open to them.”

And really, what is he supposed to say to that? His rage shrivels up, becoming something cold and hard and acrid on his tongue. Phil believes what he’s saying, that much is clear, and perhaps that’s the most disappointing thing of all, that he’s given up so easily, given up on keeping their family together.

(part of him understands. part of him understands that in the wake of everything, in the wake of his father murdering one of his sons and alienating the other, of course he would retreat to the third, to the one who was still there, to the one he thought he could still help. part of him understands the way that he clings to Techno, unwilling to lose, in his eyes, the only son he had left to him. part of him understands why Phil always takes Techno’s side)

(but part of him whispers, bitter and sharp, that Techno has always been the favorite. so was it ever really a choice, between Techno and Tommy? did he lose sleep over it, any time during the late watches of the night? or was he secure in his opinion that he’d done all that he could do, even though he never tried to do more?)

“I need to go,” he says, and braces himself for their renewed protests. But Techno is silent, and at length, Phil nods once, short and sharp.

“Will you be coming back?” he asks, and Wilbur gives the question due consideration.

“Maybe,” he says. “We’ll see.”

Phil closes his eyes. Nods again.

“Okay,” he says. “Please be safe.”

It’s as close to a blessing as he’s going to get, as close to an understanding as they will reach, and somehow, it sounds like more of an apology than anything else Phil has said. And if, for his own peace of mind, Wilbur has to pretend that he doesn’t hear how wrecked Phil sounds, how he seems to have aged another five years in the past five minutes, well.

“I’ll try,” he says, and he’s not sure whether he means it or not, and he thinks that if he stays here any longer, in this small kitchen with eggs on the stove and his father standing in front of him like he’s pronouncing a death sentence and his brother glaring balefully from one side, he will lose his resolve.

He’s angry, but he doesn’t want to hurt them. Not really. That compulsion is gone, it seems, washed away in the peace of the void, and only time will tell if it will return, now that he’s been ripped back into existence.

But in the end, hurting them is the thing he knows how to do best.

So he leaves. Nods once, sharply, turns on his heel, and walks toward the front door, grabbing his coat as he goes. It’s not in the same spot he left it in last night, is draped near the crackling fire, and there’s only two people who could have placed it there and Phil wasn’t there by the time he fell asleep, he knows, and his mind recalls the sensation of a blanket being draped over him. That is enough to get him to stop, to pause.

But not to stay.

The sunlight is cold, but he barely feels it at all.

----------

He manages to make it out of the tundra before he breaks down.

He wasn’t expecting it, even though he probably should have been, but it doesn’t matter either way, because he blinks and he’s on the ground, hands braced against wet grass, heaving for breath because this is so fucking fucked up—

It was a mistake. Going to Technoblade was a mistake, because now he and Phil both know that he’s back and he just walked out on them and he’s so angry at them for so many things but now they’re probably angry right back and when the fuck did his family get so fucking broken? And now he’s here, in the forest again, and he’s all on his own

(but he’s not on his own and there are so many eyes watching him)

(he is on his own because there’s no one to stand with him, no one brave enough, no one who truly sees)

(he is on his own because he’s pushed everyone else away and even at his lowest point there was a voice in the back of his mind screaming for him to stop to walk away to take a step back and gain some fucking perspective but there’s no one there for him and it’s all his fault)

(he is on his own even though Tommy is still there, despite everything, because even Tommy is wary of him now and that same voice tells him that he deserves it even as he denies it all and decries his little brother for a traitor)

(but he’s not on his own)

and his empty stomach is rolling and he can’t fucking manage to get a good breath in, and this might be how he dies again, and he doesn’t think he would mind all that much if it was because he still doesn’t want to be here, with all the cares and all the worries and all the responsibilities piling up on his back once again, and who the fuck thought this was a good idea? Who the absolute, ever-loving fuck took a look at what he did last time, took a look at how he cracked under the strain and blew up a city, and thought that it was a good idea to bring him back into the world?

In fairytales, when monsters die, no one brings them back. The victory is celebrated and the villain forgotten and their grave spat on. Wilbur never got a grave, but the principle should be the same.

He still can’t breathe properly. He’s gasping for air, but he can barely hear himself over the pounding of his heart in his ears. He might die here. He might die here, and he’d be mostly fine with that, if it weren’t for—

Tommy.

It’s probably Tommy’s fault that he’s here. Probably Tommy who—got Dream to resurrect him, and he really does need the details about that. But he still wants to see him, still wants to see his brother, and the original plan holds true. Find Tommy, then kill Dream, and maybe then he can think about his options. He can’t allow himself to die here, even if he feels like he’s going to, like his ribs are going to crack apart and his brain pound right out of his skull.

(and even besides all of that, what would Tommy think if he saw the message on his communicator, saw WilburSoot died without any context at all, without knowing that he was back in the first place?)

It’s easier when there’s someone there to help him. But he has no one, so he regulates his breathing himself, little by little, his progress set back every time a new wave of panic and desperation crests over him and makes him choke on air. But he does it. It’s not pretty, but he does it, and after some time, he’s kneeling in the grass, exhausted and wrung out and still here, for better or for worse.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck!” Each one increases in volume, and by the last one, he’s shouting. No one answers. He thinks he startles a few birds.

And then the forest is silent. He curls his fists into the grass, tearing up a few blades.

To the side, there is a flash of blue.

The hair on the back of his neck stands up.

(there’s something he’s forgetting)

“Who’s there?” he calls, his voice rough and hoarse. “You’ve been following me, don’t think I haven’t noticed. Come out where I can see you!”

He gets no response, but he can’t say that he was expecting one. He clambers to his feet, sighing sharply through his nose.

(there’s something he’s forgetting something was it something he said to Tommy what was it)

“Last warning,” he says. “Come out. Or I’ll make you.”

It’s an empty threat, said with more confidence than he feels. But he has to be right about this, has to be, or else he’s been hallucinating, has been letting his paranoia get the best of him already, again, and if that’s going to be the case, maybe Tommy really would be better off without him there, because he refuses to go down that same road now that he knows where it leads.

(even though part of him still yearns for it, yearns to go to hell and take everything with him)

(it was something he said to Tommy, in that moment when the veil between worlds was thin and he could see his brother there, plain as day, sitting on that bench with Tubbo at his side, and Tommy said Dream could bring him back and he said no fucking thank you and also that)

“Aw, you been pining for me, Wilbur?” someone says, and it all falls into place.

(he wasn’t alone. he wasn’t alone in the void. as much as he might have liked to be, as much as he liked to pretend otherwise. he wasn’t alone. not then, and not)

He pivots, and uses the momentum to send his fist right into Schlatt’s stupid, smug face.

And it passes right though him. It’s a strange sensation, one that sends sparks of electricity up his arm and feels a bit like dozens of tiny firecrackers are going off. For a split second, there is a bit of resistance, and then a give that sends him stumbling forward, off balance.

“Did that make you feel better?” Schlatt asks.

“Fuck you,” he snaps, stepping back. “What the fuck are you—what are you wearing?”

Wilbur doesn’t think he’s ever seen Schlatt wear anything but his signature suit and tie. Not since they were young, anyway, young and stupid and ready to take on the world,

(for each other, and where did that fall through?)

so painfully ignorant of everything to come. But the Schlatt in front of him is not the Schlatt he knows, not quite, is off in so many subtle ways and one big one. His pallor is grey, his horns chipped and cracked, his hair mussed and disarrayed, but all of that is overshadowed by the oversized blue sweater, a horrible parody of Ghostbur’s yellow one, and honestly, Wilbur wouldn’t be surprised if that’s exactly what it’s meant to be.

“What, you don’t like it?” Schlatt smiles, more a baring of teeth than anything else, and—his teeth didn’t use to be so pointy, right? “I think it’s a fashion statement. All the rage with ghosts these days.” He steps back, and the movement is wrong; it’s so obvious that his feet have no real traction on the ground, that he’s moving in the same way that Wilbur remembers Ghostbur doing, willing himself into the new space rather than working dead muscles.

(funny, though, that Schlatt would at least pretend to walk, would at least pretend at some semblance of normalcy. Ghostbur almost never did, was always content to float around and disregard the unease he caused, to hand out blue and avoid any confrontation that might make him uncomfortable. but then, Ghostbur was completely happy to be the way that he was)

“You’re an arsehole,” Wilbur grits out. “The fuck are you doing here?”

And just like that, the pretense is gone. Schlatt rises into the air, tilting forward, though he keeps his eyes level with Wilbur’s, scowling ferociously. He’s a bit transparent around the edges, Wilbur notes absently, a bit fuzzy, like he’s dissolving into the air bit by bit.

“You think I want to be?” Schlatt says. “You think I wanna be here, Wilbur, really? I had all the booze I could possibly want and none of the pitfalls, and now I’m here, in this shitty world with all the shitty people I never wanted to see again, and I can’t even fucking touch anything!”

His hand lashes out, and Wilbur flinches on instinct, but it passes through his shoulder harmlessly. There is the strange electric sensation again, but other than that, nothing.

“You think this is what I want?” he continues. “I’m fucking dead and I want to stay that way. None of this haunting bullshit. My business here is fucking finished. Over. Done. I don’t want to be here.” He pauses, and it’s for effect, because he doesn’t need to breathe, he’s just a dramatic arsehole. “And yet, whatever asshole dragged you back down here caught me too. I’m just as thrilled about it as you are, but I can’t figure out how to get back. So that’s a fucking, I don’t know. Fucking karma, maybe. How’ve you been?”

Wilbur stares at him for a moment. He starts laughing before he can stop himself, hysterical gusts, torn from him like someone is reaching into his chest and squeezing his lungs out, and he doubles over, bracing himself against his knees.

“Oh my god,” he eventually manages. “I don’t wanna fucking be here either. This is so fucked.”

Schlatt is silent for a moment, and the only sound is the last of Wilbur’s laughter, dying down into desperate chuckles. It’s not funny, not funny at all, but it’s either laugh or have another breakdown, and he’s filled his break down quota for the hour.

“I figured,” Schlatt says, calmer now, quieter. He drifts back down so his feet at least appear to be touching the ground. “I figured, I knew you didn’t want to—fuck.” He runs his hand through his hair and sighs, and once again, Wilbur is struck by the action. It’s for effect, or perhaps it’s just habit, but either way, the dead don’t need to breathe. Can’t, really, though they can go through the motions if they put the effort in.

“You’re the worst and I hate you,” he says, and there is absolutely no heat in it at all. “Why are you here?”

Schlatt looks at him incredulously. “I just said—”

“No, I mean here.” He gestures. “With me. Unless you have to be, or something like that.”

“Nah, I can walk away from you,” Schlatt says wryly. “Believe me, that’s the first thing I tried. But where the fuck else do you think I’m gonna go, Wilbur? You think I’ve got anybody waiting for me with open arms? That’s ridiculous.” He pauses. “Also, I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who can see me. I did a little tap dance routine for Technoblade earlier and got absolutely nothing, so.”

“What?”

“No, yeah, see? I can go invisible, like this, and hide from you,” Schlatt says, completely ignoring what his question was actually about, the bastard. And then, he vanishes, like he was never—wait. No, he’s still there, but Wilbur can only tell if he’s not looking directly at him. And even then, it’s just a faint shimmering, and an almost transparent splash of the color blue. “I can tell I’m invisible when I do that. But when I do this—” He reappears, his arms crossed— “no one else can see me. Except you, apparently. Make my fucking day, why don’t you.”

“Gladly,” he replies automatically. “Wait, why is that even a thing?”

“You’re asking me?” Schlatt demands. “How am I supposed to know? You’re the one who was a ghost for months, you should know how this works!”

“I really don’t,” he says. “And besides, Ghostbur wasn’t actually me. Just a fragment. A shadow.”

“Real poetic,” Schlatt mutters, and, well. Wilbur doesn’t have much to say to that.

They stand there in silence for a moment. Or rather, Wilbur stands, and Schlatt drifts about half an inch off the ground, the soles of his shoes brushing the grass. He briefly considers whether attempting to punch him in the face again would be worth it or not, but dismisses the idea. Dismisses it a lot more easily than he should, actually.

“I feel like I’m not as angry with you as I definitely should be,” he says.

“Well, I’m fucking pissed,” Schlatt says, and then, after a moment, adds, “Not so much at you, though. I mean, I am. But not more than I am at the general everything. Do you remember much of the—the you know?”

He

(darkness all around and a howling emptiness but so much better than the world so much more peaceful and after a while the void felt like an embrace, felt like coming home)

(Schlatt was loud and irritating and the clink of his whiskey glasses made him want to kill him all over again but it was a break from the monotony and it was nice, sometimes, to have someone to talk to, someone who understood if only a little, someone with whom he didn’t have to hide his shattered edges in favor of painting a prettier picture)

(empty and not and there is no death for the already-dead so the only thing to do is come to an understanding)

doesn’t, not really, only recalls a general sense of peace, the rest that he so craved, attained at least. And he knows that Schlatt was there, too, knows it, but while he remembers talking to Tommy, that one time, he can’t remember if he ever actually spoke to Schlatt. Evidence is pointing toward the affirmative, he thinks.

“Not much,” he says. “Do you?”

“I remember it was better than here,” Schlatt says. He kicks at the ground, and scowls when his foot won’t make contact with anything substantial. “I had all the booze I could’ve wanted. Sure, none of it was real, but that didn’t matter much. I’d kill to have a drink right now. Literally, I would murder someone.”

“Good luck with that,” he says.

“Shut the fuck your mouth.”

“I’m planning on seeing Dream,” he says, ignoring that. “After I find Tommy, anyway. I’ll make him tell me what he did to bring me back. And you, too, I suppose, assuming it was the same thing. Why are you a ghost when I’m not?”

“You keep asking me these questions like you expect me to know the answers,” Schlatt says. He levels his glare at him, but it doesn’t look very angry. Just tired. Wilbur knows the feeling. “Ask him to send me back, how about? I don’t want to fucking be here.”

His eyes slip shut. “Neither do I,” he says, and it’s more of a confession than it has any right to be. His tone matches Schlatt’s: tired, exhausted, weary, wrung out, sick of everything.

When he opens his eyes, Schlatt is gone. There is no sign of blue, no shimmer in the air. He’s really gone, then, but he assumes he’ll be back. For better or for worse.

He sighs, gathers himself, and resumes his march through the forest, looking for Tommy.

[lifeofkaze]

The Soil We Need to Grow

Neville Longbottom Short

Prompts: Herbology Incident

1) (character) Neville Longbottom

2) (object) flower pot

3) (quote) "You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated. In fact, it may be necessary to encounter the defeats, so you can know who you are, what you can rise from, how you can still come out of it." — Maya Angelou

Word Count: ~ 1.500

________________________________________

With a shriek, Rose Weasley dove behind one of the raised flower beds lining the greenhouse. Like all the other flower beds and tables in the brightly lit Herbology classroom, it was already covered in clay shards, soil and green shreds of what had formerly been the sapling of a Wiggentree.

On the central table the culprit causing this commotion was currently in the process of wrapping its slashing tentacles around the garden shears lying dangerously close to it. Rose’s face lost all its colour as the raging Venomous Tentacula managed to hoist them up and fling them in the rough direction of her hiding place.

As the shears were soaring through the air, the door to the greenhouse suddenly opened and a tall man in a soil covered cardigan strode in, several boxes of seeds balanced on his arms. His eyebrows rose in astonishment at the havoc that had been wreaked in his classroom.

“Get down!” Rose managed to scream just in time for Professor Longbottom to duck and evade the deadly projectile.

He dropped his boxes and jumped behind the flower bed she had been cowering behind. Rose winced as another flower pot crashed against the wood shielding them.

“What in Merlin’s name has happened here?” Neville asked in a mix of astonishment and exasperation. “When you said you wanted to experiment on the Venomous Tentacula, I thought you had something like testing fertiliser in mind.”

He carefully glanced over the edge of the table and waited for a moment until the rogue plant had turned its attention to the helpless sapling again. He quickly drew his wand and with a practised flick of his wrist, the Venomous Tentacula froze, dropped the branch it was currently munching on and then faltered in on itself.

With a sigh of relief, Neville stood up and extended a hand to help Rose to her feet. She brushed off the dirt from her clothes and contritely took in the messed up greenhouse.

“I wanted to make it stronger and more resilient,” she mumbled, “so I added a Fortifying Potion to the watering can. I wouldn’t have thought it would get quite so fortified,” she added unhappily, wringing her hands. “I’m really sorry, Professor Longbottom, please don’t take any House points from me.”

Neville had listened to her without interrupting; it was palpable that this project was important to the daughter of his closest friends, and that she was devastated at its outcome.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured the distressed girl gently. “I know how it feels to experience setbacks like this.”

Rose looked at him astonishedly. “You do?”

Neville nodded in confirmation. “When I was your age, I tried to tweak Valerian plants to reverse their properties.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Do you know which potion Valerian is used for?” Neville asked in return instead of an answer.

Rose thought about it for a moment, raking her memory for the according information. “Um, a Forgetfulness Potion, I think?” It was more of a question than a statement.

“Exactly,” Neville confirmed. “I was terribly forgetful when I was your age. My grandmother even got me a Remembrall in my first year,” he laughed quietly, his face softening from reliving fond memories, “but alas, I regularly forgot where I put it.”

Rose watched Neville silently; she had a feeling that this wasn’t the only reason the man she had to call Professor at school and Neville when he was visiting her family home had undertaken such an effort as a student. “Was that the only reason, Professor?”

Neville’s face grew serious. “I assume your parents have told you about my family, haven’t they?”

Feeling sorry for bringing up such a personal topic, Rose’s eyes dropped to the ground. “I didn’t mean to make you think about something so awful, Professor; I’m sorry,” she evaded his question sheepishly.

“It’s alright,” Neville answered. “See, the minds of my parents were shattered when they fought for what they believed in. While they still somehow knew who I was, the Healers told me they didn’t fully remember me. But them remembering was all that I wanted back then, more than anything else. So I started looking for a way to help them. It was what drove me.”

His eyes were twinkling as he looked her up and down. “What is driving you, Rose Weasley?”

Rose shuffled her feet and wrung her hands. She knew Neville was friends with her mother and telling him about her motivation almost felt like telling her mother herself.

“Everyone always tells me how smart my mum is,” she finally admitted. “Brightest witch of her age, brain of the Golden Trio, Minister of Magic at such a young age. I want to make her proud. I thought by creating something totally new, something no one had ever done before, I could do that; show the world I have some brains on me as well. But no matter what I do, it never really works, something always goes wrong. It’s so frustrating!” The words spilled out of her in a quick succession, as if she had wanted to tell someone for a long time.

“I was feeling just as frustrated as you do now,” Neville answered after listening to her words. “But Professor Sprout, who was teaching Herbology when your parents and I were at school, shared one of her personal wisdoms with me when she saw my discouragement.”

He reached for one of the few flower pots that wasn’t lying in shambles at their feet and held it up for her to see. “See this flower pot? It is empty now, just a vessel ready to be filled with whatever you wish. What would you put in there?”

Rose fought not to raise her eyebrows doubtfully; she wasn’t quite sure if a philosophical lecture on flower pots was what she needed right now.

“I’d put a plant in there, I guess,” she shrugged, having no idea where this was leading.

Neville did as she suggested and put a sapling into the empty pot; without anything to support it, it immediately slumped to the side and fell to the bottom.

“What do you think is missing?” he asked her with a patient smile.

“You forgot the soil,” Rose answered. “Without soil the pot is too big.”

Neville’s eyes sparkled. “Exactly; like your endeavour to create something on your own to make your mother proud, this pot seems too big for a small sapling like this; without sustenance, it cannot grow.”

He grabbed a shovel and started adding loadful after loadful of the rich, dark soil he kept in sacks underneath the working tables, slowly filling the pot up with it.

“However, if you keep trying and trying and learn from your past mistakes, you can build a base for your wish to grow upon. Your failures are like the soil a plant needs to grow from a sapling into a flower; if you don’t let yourself get discouraged by them, they can be the foundation of your success.”

Neville gently set the sapling upright in the now filled flower pot and pressed down on the soil with his fingertips. Rose watched him quietly, letting his words sink in; she’d never felt anything but frustration at her own failed experiments before.

“But you didn’t succeed with your Valerian, did you?” she said after some time.

Neville didn’t look up from his flower pot. “No, I didn’t”

She grimaced. “Then what was the purpose? All the effort was in vain. There was no flower growing from it.”

To her surprise, Neville laughed and shook his head. “I didn’t accomplish what I was trying to do, but I wouldn’t say it was in vain either.”

He held up his dirty hands for her to see. “While I was trying to find a solution for what was driving me, I discovered other things; my love of Herbology, for example; the inner peace working with plants gives me; and that the direct way doesn’t always lead you where you need to go.”

Satisfied with his work, he straightened himself up and brushed the soil from his hands. With an encouraging smile, he pushed the pot with the small green sapling towards her; surrounded by the massive heaps of dark earth, it was looking a bit lost.

“I said I wouldn’t deduct any House points from you for wrecking my classroom,” Neville said sternly, but Rose could see the laughter shining in his eyes. “But as compensation, you will take care of this little friend here for me. I expect to see a full grown beauty by the end of the year.”

He took out his wand again and turned from her as he started to repair the damage her Venomous Tentacula had done to his work materials. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Rose tentatively grabbing the flower pot.

“Thank you, Neville,” she mumbled, the more familiar use of his first name not escaping him.

“You’re welcome, little Rose,” he smiled over his shoulder. “I believe in you. If anyone can grow a flower your mother would be proud of, it’s you.”

[elytrafemme]

(this is in reference to the tags you left a few hours ago on my post about when c!ranboo is going to lose a canon life)

LITERALLY YEAH YOU'RE SO RIGHT THANK YOU!! im saying this a c!ranboo enjoyer When Is He Gonna Die Or When Is He Gonna Kill Someone Else. that sounds absolutely terrible but i think that's the best part 😭 ive been hoping SO hard that c!ranboo does set up tnt in las nevadas like c!wilbur told him to those days ago and something, ANYTHING becomes of it but 😔 who am i to know... and also, like you said, ill only accept ranboo never having lost lives if the actual deal is that he's lost lives in his enderwalk or has lost lives and forgot; how that'd even be revealed?? who knows 😭 BUT I THINK ITD MAKE SENSE!! itd Fit!!

-callizinc :D !!!!!

YEAH!!!

i really hope it happens in this arc because narratively, i think it would be really interesting. and, i promise i'm not just saying this because i love c!tubbo and want to hold him in my arms away from the world, but i think it would be interesting if c!tubbo's last life doesn't get taken, but c!ranboo's first life does.

first lives and last lives are both sacred for different reasons, but i think especially with how much c!ranboo does (totem hunting, material collecting, avoiding tension, arming himself, etc) to keep c!tubbo safe, i just think it'd be interesting if all his endeavors to protect c!tubbo did succeed, but in the process c!ranboo's own life is taken. and, i think for the parallels between him and c!wilbur, it'd also be interesting if it was his own actions that did it.

in terms of taking another person's life, i think that would settle into this sort of theme i sensed in c!ranboo a while back (especially after the little nightmares ii playthru cc!ranboo did HAHA) of becoming the very thing you didn't want to be.

honestly, the thing with the las nevadas arc is that i feel like a death has to occur. and so far, if i'm correct on this because i know c!quackity has some ambiguity regarding what life he's on: c!wilbur, c!tubbo, and c!tommy are all on their last lives, and c!quackity has two left, and c!ranboo has three left. i feel like this is most likely to culminate (or at least, i'm hoping so) in c!ranboo and/or c!quackity dying.

or c!ranboo lost a life and forgot it whcih i know there isn't much evidence to support and i know i keep bringing it up but the idea makes me fucking crazy like what if he did. what if he DID.

cc!ranboo said that c!ranboo was going to get character development. and i don't think death is the only sort of thing to develop a character; there are many kinds of tragedy and it doesn't have to be death or divorce to do it. but i think c!ranboo has yet to confront the realities of death beyond witnessing the people around him experiencing it, and never quite knowing what it was like for them. so i think he deserves to face it.

and to c!quackity losing a life, that's just because he's one of my favorite characters and i like for him to suffer

[kitkatt0430]

the flash and the problem of the pointless sacrifice

It starts at the end of season one. Eddie Thawne picks up his gun and shoots himself, dying to protect Iris, Barry, and the rest from his dangerous descendent Eobard Thawne.

Season two ends with its reversal, Barry creating the Flashpoint Timeline that, though its eventually set back to 'normal-ish', leaves a time remnant of Eobard Thawne alive and well (if running scared from the Black Flash/Hunter Zolomon as a speed zombie) to wreak havoc once more.

And I get it. The Reverse Flash is one of the Flash's most iconic villains - killing him off in season one couldn't be permanent. But apparently Eddie's suicide could be and the message that sends is... unfortunate.

Eddie is an extremely kindhearted person and we see that about him again and again throughout season one. He always has a smile for the people he cares about and he's an absolutely terrible liar. But we also know that he was bullied as a child/teen and since he never brings up the subject of his own family, it's likely he doesn't have a support structure outside of Central City. And the support structure he does gain in Central City was Barry's support structure first. There's not a single person we see Eddie spend time with in season one that didn't know Barry first.

And that's a big part of what wears him down over the course of the season. When both Barry and Eddie need support, Barry gets it first. Barry's secrets are treated as something Eddie has to prioritize over his relationship with Iris. Barry's loved Iris longer than Eddie's known her and while Iris loves Eddie, she also loves Barry and she's infatuated with the Flash - not realizing he's Barry's alter ego. Over the course of the season, Eddie constantly tries to connect with Barry and Barry constantly holds back. Their relationship is never equal. And that's what leaves Eddie open to Eobard's manipulations with the future news article.

And Eddie tries to make his own future with Iris anyway. But even with Iris accepting his proposal, Joe makes it clear he'll never truly accept their relationship and Eddie's sense of self worth is at an all time low. And that's the state of mind he's in during the fight in the pipeline. When Barry chooses not to let Eobard go after all, it puts them all in a position of potentially having to deal with this fight between the two speedsters just... never ending. It puts Iris in danger because Barry cares about her and because while Eddie is Eobard's ancestor... Iris isn't. From Eobard's point of view, Eddie's the only one who isn't expendable and from Eddie's point of view... he's the only one who is expendable.

His answer is suicide. And his death immediately erases Eobard from the timeline, but its also implied to have contributed to the re-emergence of the singularity. But at least Eobard was dead.

At least, until Barry created Flashpoint at the end of season 2. Presumably Eddie was alive in Flashpoint, but we never see him. Maybe he stays in Keystone instead of transferring to Central City. Never meets Iris. Never gets worn down to feel like he's not good enough. Never kills himself.

When Flashpoint is reset, Eddie's dead again but now his sacrifice has been rendered moot because Eobard's still alive as a time remnant.

It sets a rather nasty precedent for the show.

Season two also ends with a suicide. This time it's Barry's.

Much like Eddie the year before, Barry's been worn down. He had his place in his family's come into question, with Henry leaving at the start of the season and Wally's arrival midway through the season. His back is literally broken by the stress of fighting Zoom and despite everything he's suffered for the city, his honor is called into question the instant a different speedster takes to thievery. He has to give up his speed to protect Wally only for that to immediately put Caitlin in danger. His colleagues are brutally murdered by Zoom to teach him a lesson. His father finally comes back for good, only to be murdered in the same place as Barry's mother.

Honestly, there is no question (to my mind anyway) that Barry's suicidal at the end of the season. And because Barry his time remnants are fundamentally the same person at the moment of their split, the time remnant Barry creates is suicidal as well.

That time remnant tears himself apart to stop Zoom's plan to destroy the multi-verse. His very existence also lures in the Time Wraiths that take Zoom away, transforming him into the mindless Black Flash. All at the cost of a version of Barry killing himself, going unlamented and forgotten. But at least the multi-verse was safe.

Until the Red Skies Crisis when the multi-verse is actually destroyed and rebooted.

Another sacrifice rendered pointless.

HR does not kill himself in season three. But he deliberately places himself in a position to be killed in Iris' place. He arrives on the heels of a scandal on his Earth where he's been revealed to have been taking credit for someone else's work - with that person's blessing, but its still ruined his reputation. He comes wanting to reinvent himself, but from the start he's not the person the team really wants. They want Harry. Cisco wants Harry. He gets it hammered in that his strengths aren't appreciated by the team because he's not a scientist. His efforts to help STAR Labs are dismissed entirely. The only reason any attempts to help his museum venture succeed are because changing the future might save Iris.

It's not that HR is disliked, but he's left acutely aware that he's considered 'a bit much' and that he's always going to come second to the people he puts first. In fact, Tracy's probably the only one who truly and completely appreciates HR as he is.

So HR swaps places with Iris, knowing that he's going to die when he does. And while HR doesn't kill himself, there's an argument to be made that what he did was still suicide by proxy.

And this is a sacrifice that sticks, because Iris West is the love interest. She's never going to be killed off for real.

Three seasons ending with a suicidal sacrifice. And only one of them doesn't have that sacrifice reversed or nullified. Unfortunately, that's not the end of it either.

Harry leaves his Earth at the start of season four. His relationship with his daughter, which was shown to still be strong in season three, has somehow deteriorated to the point where she's thrown him off her support team and he comes to Earth-1 to reconnect with the found family he forged during season two. He's in the midst of a crisis and his understanding of himself as a parent is unraveling. And then DeVoe calls the other pillar of Harry's self identity into question, because Harry's genius isn't enough on its own anymore. He's not smart enough to out think DeVoe and his Earth-1 family is suffering. So Harry creates his own downfall, burns out his own brain trying to be the smartest. And he sacrifices his last moments of lucidity to find the answer to stopping DeVoe. In doing so, Harry puts Barry in the position to save Ralph's life.

But DeVoe still gets the last laugh when he causes the STAR Labs satellite to come falling down, nearly destroying the city and creating Cicada in the process.

But unlike previous seasons, Harry doesn't die. He gets some of his intelligence back and immediately gets exiled by the writers back to Earth-2 due to the massive problems with ableism this show has. But that's a different conversation.

Season five is probably the only season not to include a suicidal character who's kills themselves. Nora dies when she erases herself from the timeline by accident, but we know now she'll be back in the back half of season seven, along with her new brother. But one out five seasons not taking a suicide (or similar action in Harry's case) and painting it as a noble - but ultimately useless - gesture is rather... bad as far as track records go.

Season six has the alternate Barry Allen - implied to be the Barry from the 90s show - who dies in place of this show's Barry. To save the multi-verse and let this other Barry go home to his wife, something he'll never have with Tina again. And the multi-verse is destroyed anyway.

Season seven opened with Nash Wells, whose usual method of investigating mysteries and hoaxes led to the Anti Monitor's freedom and the multi-verse's destruction. His home Earth destroyed so he can never go home. He's confronted with an alternate version of his dead daughter, who can barely stand his presence. He begins to hallucinate alternate versions of himself and is possessed by the Reverse Flash and all his research on how to create a new Speed Force - to try to make up for some of the damage he's caused - points to a single conclusion. The only way to make things better is for him to die.

Instead, Nash's death immediately makes things worse. The artificial speed force is flawed and Barry destroys it in the very next episode. And while one could argue that Nash's death allowed Barry to save Iris and ultimately restored the original Speed Force, it doesn't negate the fact that Nash's suicidal state of mind wasn't addressed by the people who called him friend. And his legacy was immediately deemed a failure and destroyed.

While I wouldn't say the show is glorifying suicide, there's a subtle and incredibly troubling repetition in the story telling on the show that frames suicide as the right decision in certain circumstances. Even though what's being sacrificed for often comes to naught. And it's incredibly uncomfortable, seeing it all laid out like this.

I'm still really not sure what to make of it all, but I've got no doubt it ties into the show's ableism with regards to mental health issues. Because every time its someone whose mental health has been brought down to a low point who commits these acts of 'sacrifice' and while the team grieves these losses... they don't seem to learn from them either. Because it just keeps happening.

(Think I missed something? Please, by all means, add on.)

[rivalsforlife]

What're your exact thoughts on AA5?

ooh anon are you sure you want me to get into this?

It’s... complicated? Like, as a game on it’s own, it... still has MAJOR flaws but it’s not too bad. As a sequel to AA4? Pretty terrible. 

I guess let’s start with that angle. What makes me angriest about AA5 is that it kind of... completely erased any chance of proper closure to some of the story arcs and themes that AA4 opened up. Like, people will try to claim 456 as a “trilogy”, but it’s nowhere near cohesive enough to pass as one. AA5 pretty much pushed Apollo (who was supposed to “succeed” Phoenix as the protagonist, being kinda the point of the case literally called Turnabout Succession) to a secondary character role. It shoved Trucy completely out of the spotlight so her only role was to hang around the office and then get kidnapped once (which has such little role in the story it’s completely forgettable). It completely abandoned Klavier and had him come back as a kind of bland “ja achtung herr forehead I’m a rockstar ;)” character who only shows up to play a minor role in a minor case. In contrast with, say, how JFA treats the major cast from the first game (consistent protagonist, Maya having a bigger role and more of her history and family drama explored, Miles getting huge amounts of character development and being a major part of the emotional arc) it is an extreme letdown. It also just automatically brings back Phoenix as the protagonist and... doesn’t even touch on the lasting consequences of his disbarment? Not even just the “he became a lawyer again right away and doesn’t really bring up the effect disbarment had on him” kind of thing, but the story itself kind of forgets about him being disbarred. For a game entirely about the public’s perception of the legal system being in the dumpster, not one person ever questions Phoenix’s eligibility as a lawyer or whether he forged the evidence. Like, sure, he was cleared of all charges, but that doesn’t mean that the public would automatically see him as innocent, especially considering his massive influence over the trial that essentially proved his innocence! Like, “oh, you practically ran this trial that said you didn’t forge evidence? Okay, we love you, you’re a hero.”

And I do love Athena, and I like her overall story with Simon, I like them both as characters and I like their general plotline. I just think it came in at a veeeery bad time. Adding Athena as a protagonist in the same game you add Phoenix back as a protagonist means that not only do none of the protagonists end up with the sole focus of the game for their development, but also her major role in the plot pushes back any chance for exploring the story of AA4. Athena gets a joint protagonist-assistant type role, so Trucy isn’t necessary anymore, since the only assistant role is filled by one of the other lawyers. So, no Trucy development. And as a protagonist she is immediately overshadowed by Phoenix in the very first case.

I... like to think the first case is a very good example of DD, because it starts with Athena being immediately overshadowed by Phoenix who is back to his normal trilogy self, and Apollo ends up bleeding on the ground.

I mean, in some ways, I get it, because this is a game that was written six years after Apollo Justice and had a completely new writing team, not to mention being on a completely different console, so already making a direct sequel to AJ would be complicated considering that a decent amount of the people buying the game possibly would have never played an AA game before (considering the 3DS ports weren’t there at the time.) And apparently Phoenix’s characterization in AJ, and AJ in general, was poorly received, so from a marketing standpoint they did kinda need to abandon as much as they could. But from a story standpoint, it’s really bad.

There’s also the issues with the plot in general, namely the “Dark Age of the Law”. Because... the law has been TERRIBLE in this series for as long as the series was around. If there’s a Dark Age, it’s been going on for a looooong time. And, of course, there’s no real way that Phoenix’s disbarment and Simon’s arrest were what initiated this Dark Age, because the people who have ALREADY been arrested should have been much, much worse. Like we’re talking about an undefeated prosecutor known for forging evidence, the Chief of Police, another prosecutor being accused of murder, not to mention the investigations games tackling down an ambassador and the former Chief Prosecutor/ head of the committee that’s SUPPOSED to stop corruption. After all that, the breaking point is a defense attorney and some rookie prosecutor?

(One good explanation is what Saturation’s take on this all happening is, but considering the games haven’t said it was like this...)

Also again with the issue of Phoenix’s disbarment. The game assumes that once Simon is cleared (in an unofficial trial) and Phoenix’s name is cleared (again in an unconventional trial) the public is magically going to start trusting in the legal system again. ... Good luck with that. There’s no way that’s going to happen.

And there’s also a lot of wasted opportunities with the whole “the ends justifies the means” nonsense in general. Like, I think I’ve talked before about how the first case of Apollo Justice pretty much embodies the “the ends justifies the means” approach. The evidence has been destroyed by the true culprit, and the only way to have them safely convicted is to present forged evidence: what then? Or even RFTA’s “there isn’t any evidence that this person is the culprit, but we KNOW they are, and if they continue to get away then they could hurt people, so isn’t forging evidence the right thing to do?” It’s a complicated morally grey thing they can dig into, but instead, DD goes for the “but I want to present forged evidence to win!!” which everyone can agree is wrong. 

(It’s also incredibly ironic that Athena talks about “Mr. Wright is going to bring us out of this dark age!” right in the middle of the third case when confronting Means, when, you know, Phoenix used the EXACT “ends justifies the means” approach just a year later. but you know, no one’s going to say anything about that, because Phoenix Wright is perfect and can do no wrong.)

Plus thematically the game is all over the place. Unlike say the second investigations game which had a solid theme about “bonds between people” with a focus on “bonds between parent and child”, I... can’t really figure out what the overall theme of DD is. When I replayed the game prior to UR-1 incident, I could come up with about like five things that they maybe focused on in the last case but none of them were concrete enough to be called the overall theme. Incredible that the game was written two years after the one with one of the most solid overall themes! 

Also, the villain was weak overall; they were TOO unpredictable and the fact that absolutely no one noticed something was off with him (particularly not the girl who can literally read emotions) was rough. Everyone immediately turning on him despite the exact same case talking about believing in your friends even if there is evidence against them is a little weird. And their motives, whatever organization they worked for, it’s all unknown (and completely abandoned in the next game, of course, so we’ll never know.) Which may be the point, not everything NEEDS to be solved, but the fact that none of the characters ever express concern about this (like why an international spy who killed someone to impersonate them has a realistic mask of Phoenix’s face) is also weird.

... This is a lot of negativity. Uh, there are things I do like, I swear. I like Athena and Simon, I like uhh... the soundtrack... ... ... you know I do like the game a lot more when I am in the process of playing it. Despite the undoubtable fanservice that was Miles’ appearance (OH THAT’S ANOTHER NEGATIVE THING, I didn’t like how Athena didn’t have a major role in the Phantom’s takedown despite that being the guy who killed her mom) I like being able to see Miles and I like seeing what comfortable terms he’s on with Phoenix now. Some elements of the individual cases were lots of fun (the father-daughter relationship in the second case, the focus on the friendship in the third case, and I enjoyed the DLC case overall.) ... This has gone on long enough, so I’ll leave it at that!