#i am not trying to be understanding here i am trying to get it in your skull that in the end

[no-144444]

wingman paul- c.leclerc

summary: charles leclerc takes a liking to you at your brothers movie premiere... paul makes it happen!

pairing: charles leclerc x fem! mescal! reader

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Did you want to go to the Gladiator 2 premiere? No, not really. Was Paul forcing you to anyways? Yes, very much so. 

Being his sister (and emotional support person), he always brought you on set, to premieres, and anywhere else. That was usually fine. The rest of his projects' premieres had either been in the Lighthouse (your favourite cinema in Dublin), or small enough that you wouldn’t get too overwhelmed. You were famous in your own right, following after your sister and writing music. You didn’t go on stage, but you’d garnered over 10 million listeners, and your album had just been nominated for a grammy, though you had no intention of going. It’s not that you were scared or shy, you were just entirely uninterested in going out in public as a ‘public figure’. It stressed you out, having people know who you are in such detail, so you just kept to yourself. You had no public social media accounts, you didn’t allow your label to post about you unless it was about the music, and you only let Paul or Nell drag you out in public for one of their events. You liked it that way, it was comfortable. 

“I’m going to go say hi to some people, you just wait here, yeah?” Paul explained as you two entered the theatre. It was huge, and every celebrity or influencer in the world must’ve been there. You nodded as he walked off and allowed yourself to fade into the background, people-watching as time passed. You noticed the beautiful architecture of the building, the way the celebrities around you mingled, the way-

“Hello.”

You whipped your head around, startled, only to be met with a face you knew quite well. “Jesus, Charles, you scared me,” you chuckled. He blushed slightly as you turned around properly to greet him. “Hi.”

“How are you?” he asked, joining you in your secluded corner. 

“I’m fine, thank you. How are you?” 

“I am very good,” he smiled, showing off his dimples. “I thought you didn’t like events.”

“I don’t, Paul just asked me to come,” you explained. “My mam would’ve killed me if I didn’t go, so here I am.” 

He nodded, understanding. “I tried to find you online, but… you are not a fan of that either?”

You chuckled. “No, not really. Sorry.” 

He shook his head. “No, it is ok. I just… wanted to talk more. You are very interesting to me,” he smiled. 

“Well, thank you for the glowing review,” you chuckled. “Are you enjoying the evening so far?”

“I am enjoying it a lot more with you here,” he smiled. “But yes, I only watched the first one a few days ago and I thought it was very good, so I am excited to see how this one compares.”

“You’re sure a charmer,” you chuckled. “I hope you enjoy the film. Where are you sitting?”

“Beside Carlos?” he shrugged, an awkward smile on his face. “Carlos knows, but I don’t know where Carlos is.”

You laughed. “Are you always this disorganised?”

“Only when I’m nervous,” he winked at you and the lights started going down, you just offered him to sit next to you, hoping that Nell wouldn’t mind. 

You two sat together, enjoying the movie as the night went on, and after you found yourselves at the bar, still chatting. He walked off to find Carlos at one point, looking back with a smile as he waved, promising to come back soon. 

“When are you going to realise he’s trying to flirt with you?” Paul laughed. Your face was bright red and your jaw dropped. 

You gently (roughly) hit his chest and scoffed. “Shut the fuck up. He is not.” 

Paul laughed. “He’s totally into you! Come on, go out with him, please! I want free tickets to Grand Prixs!” 

You rolled your eyes as he giggled, and then startled when you bumped straight back into Charles. “Fuck, sorry-” you started apologising but he just shook his head. 

“All good,” he smiled. 

Paul silently slipped away with a wink, and you were faced with Charles, once again. 

“Hi,” you breathed out. 

“Hi,” he chuckled, his dimples on full show. “He was right, you know.” 

“About what?” you questioned. 

“I am flirting with you-or, at least trying to,” he blushed slightly. 

“Oh,” you nodded, unsure what to do in a situation where someone was as brazen and blunt. “Right.”

He laughed. “Can I take you out sometime?”

You stared at him, total deer in headlights, then nodded. “Yeah, yeah, sounds grand. Thank you.”

You internally smacked yourself in the face for that. But he just laughed, unfazed by your awkward demeanour. 

“Great!” he smiled bashfully. “When are you free?”

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navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

[bamboo-muse]

I feel the problem is they have been loved unconditionally for a very long long long fucking time and the constant issue is not holding strong in driving home that their actions have consequences. "Boys will be boys" mentality.

You don't get a "good boy" head pat when you constantly spew that you think all other marginalized groups are subhuman.

People have tried countless times to hold the conversation for them to change or realize the fault in their hate and will turn around and scream and threat how unacceptable the left is.

And here we are.

They have voted for a monster who they know is fucked up, who they know is a monster, who will hurt so many, and have said they agree with his policies, but think the politics don't matter and believe left leaning people should still be their family and friends.

"Hey I voted for the guy who will forcibly peel off your rights regarding your body(your body my choice hurr hurr), but maybe you could be like my friend still? Or like a pet? Wait you don't want to serve me like that? Oh you don't think you should serve me? You think I'm a monster too? That's not very woke of you."

No, you get consequences, you get cut off.

You were begged and pleaded with to vote for good change, but because you weren't the center of attention -because you're the little shit trying to blow out someone else's birthday candles YOU SMASHED THE FUCKING CAKE AND ARE LICKING THE VISCERA OFF OF YOU FUCKING KNUCKLES WHILE ALSO CRYING THERES NO CAKE ANYMORE LIKE WTF IS WRONG WITH YOU?!

Fuck you and your mommy am I good boy? BULLSHIT

You knew the wrong move and fucking did it anyway because the insatiable greed to be patted on the back for fake conscience.

You chose hate.

You chose "I'm sorry if you think I hurt you" instead of "I'm sorry I understand what I did upset you and I will work to change that, what can I do to fix this?"

That is why your family, friends, and others are cutting you off.

You're hateful and unsafe.

You prioritized your greed and comfort over their lives.

AND YOU EXPECT A FUCKING "THANK YOU" HUG AND KISS?!

I hope you get what you voted for, you monster.

I couldn't have said it better myself.

[binomech]

Grasping at straws: Thoughts about Viktor's disability in Arcane

Disclaimer: In this post I try to give it some credit to Arcane writing from within the narrative. This is a Watsonian interpretation, not a Doylist one. Assume that underneath all of this I am beating Riot with LeGuin tomes.

Bootstraps and Denial

We get a glimpse into Viktor’s sense of self while he’s talking Jayce down from the ledge in S1A1E3: He is extending a sense of kinship to Jayce, who has just been stripped of his research equipment and autonomy by the Council when they relegate him to the care of his mother. He also considers the fact that he’s a faculty assistant in Piltover something he worked hard for, that was awarded to him despite his disability and immigrant status. His visible physical disability, accent, name, are all class signifiers that he must reject and dismiss if he wants funding, accommodation and recognition and it points to Piltover only allowing Zaunites as both a PR token and only if they reject enough of their Undercity culture. This is crucial: Viktor did not earn his position because he worked hard and believed in himself, he was rewarded for assimilating.

Becoming a Specimen

All of Viktor’s screentime in S1 takes place in Piltover to the exceptions of his visits to Singed, both in his childhood flashback and his adult visit to request help with the Hexcore experiment. Two things stand out to me in these interactions: The traumatic experience of being valued as a specimen, and the scrambling to the top of the ivory tower as a response to said trauma. He meets Singed and Rio in the immediate aftermath of a fall caused by his leg’s angle while he kept track of a device he built, a reminder that it would be the defining feature of his career, not his creations. Rio is shown to him as a lively, yet dying, specimen that must be preserved because it is a mutant, because it is defective and that defect makes her extremely valuable. I can understand how a young Viktor would latch onto the idea of saving something because it is faulty and project, and how finding Rio effectively dead and her body used for profit ended in an understanding that defects are only good if you can exploit them in some way, it’s not you, as a person, that they want. Conceptualizing a Viktor that is dead set on convincing the world that his work is important in and of itself goes through understanding that he sees his visible disability as both a hindrance and a weakness to exploit from the Piltover Academy.

Jayce encourages Viktor to do PR for Hextech with him several times, and right before the Progress Day speech, just as Viktor has had a coughing fit and is sitting down to rest his leg, Viktor says he doesn’t want to be seen as his partner, not in front of “them” (them being Piltover’s aristocracy). Viktor sees in Hextech a chance to leave a scientific legacy, and Jayce’s partnership is a way to keep the funds coming without his disability being an issue for investors. He believes in his partnership and Hextech as a joint endeavor between him and Jayce, but he knows what happens when Piltovans see a disabled Zaunite in any position threatening their hegemony. The catch here is that Viktor’s experience with Rio makes it so that this is not so much political awareness, as much as it is an avoidance so hard it loops back to agreeing with the oppressor, just to live a little more, just to make sure the world sees what you did.

When Viktor is diagnosed with Sump disease, a terminal condition caused by overexploitative mining and industrial pollution caused by Piltover’s factories and production exports, the sequence plays alongside an investor PR campaign from Jayce. It’s Viktor, who is already disabled, losing his place in the legacy of Hextech because he is dying at the hands of those who made it possible financially. It’s this Viktor, who sees his hopes of being remembered for his inventions dwindling, desperately going back to Singed and saying “I understand the value of the specimen. If rejecting my personhood buys me time, I will be what they want to see: A cripple, a corrupted Zaunite, a man desperate for power.”

The Hexcore has been trained to heal the subjects it’s used on, but Viktor was the one to train it: He was the one to determine what parts of the subject were considered sicknesses and flaws. To the degree that the Hexcore is, in many ways, a reflection of Viktor’s understanding of disease. It targeting his leg on first deliberate connection is a reflection of intent and desire more than any kind of agency from the device. Sky being used as fuel for the Hexcore’s learning is a point of contention for Viktor at that point because it’s the meeting point of the specimen and the scientist: Some lives are expendable if it means furthering your goal, and your life is the most expendable one. Are you ready to kill, be killed, for legacy? And Viktor panics because he is back, he’s looking at Rio’s corpse, born and raised for dying. Suicide for him at this point is an out, an unhealthy way of trying to go back to when he still had a choice. He asks Jayce to destroy the Hexcore and let him die because at that point he is still capable of dying without becoming a resource.

The Horror of Bioethics

Season 2 for Viktor is him becoming a specimen: Not a person, but a tool used to pave the road to a goal. In this case, Noxus’ acquisition of Hextech weaponry (which Viktor opposed ethically in Season 1, as he becomes the weapon itself in Season 2). He is resuscitated using the Hexcore against his will, a Hexcore containing both Viktor’s inputs for non-human healing and Sky’s research on applying those principles to the human body. He is a machine trained to heal, and he leaves for Zaun not under Viktor’s orders, but under the maxim to heal. He sees the widespread health issues caused by people that Viktor was bootlicking in Piltover, the direct result of him helping care for Rio until she died and was used to synthesize Shimmer as a drug, and where Viktor avoided his association with Zaun, the Hexcore resorts to the inputted instructions: Fix what we have established is broken. Viktor, who rejected his own disability, who rejected his home, his personal history, taught this thing to target the disabled, to target the poor, to target the sick. It is horrifying. The script presents it as vaguely unsettling but well-intentioned when it is blatant eugenics brought on by the loss of autonomy of a disabled man; the horror of it is not the cult, it’s knowing that all of this healing comes from someone having assimilated emotionally, politically, and physically, into his oppressors. It is not Viktor helping Zaun from the inside, it is Piltover’s allegedly meritocratic hellscape grafted onto Zaunites.

Who is allowed to be disabled?

Now, Jayce’s journey in the post-Hextech apocalyptic world is shown as a climb up from the Sump into the top of the Hexgates’ tower, almost reminiscent of Viktor’s journey as he understands it: You’re in a pit with a broken leg, in pain, hungry, desperate and you climb because it’s that or accepting death. You hope whatever is up there was worth the climb, but it’s a leap of faith. It’s remarkable, in contrast, how Jayce’s understanding of that climb is shaped by his own socioeconomic background. Viktor reaches the top and is punished for it, Jayce reaches the top and comes to an enlightened understanding. Viktor grows up disabled and is punished for the climb, Jayce acquires a disability during war time and he becomes the scientist-politician-hero. I appreciate how Jayce, upon encountering Viktor, fully armored even in his mind, can see a back brace, a leg brace, strained tendons. But it is also why a terminal illness resulting from Piltover’s economic chokehold on Zaun is conflated with a visible congenital disability, while they are manifestly not the same: This is a Viktor who got absorbed into Piltover’s vision of legacy, this is a Jayce who has grown up in it.

Legacy? What legacy?

In his final shot with Jayce as they erase the rune-stone, Viktor’s right leg is curving inwards, implying his femoral anteversion is something that he has finally incorporated into his perception, which was absent in every previous shot of this realm. Viktor's acceptance is for his own body, yes, but also for the consequences of giving up on it and dying.

This story as it is presented to us is a tale of avoiding annihilation through denial of one's limitations. While it's not a story that I enjoy, it is the one we were given. My hope is that through understanding it we can all tell better stories about disabled people.

[centrally-unplanned]

There are two big "AI Art Discourse" events of note recently, which I thought were interesting: ACX's "AI Art Turing Test" and the new paper on "AI Poetry Beating Human Poetry". Both of these I think reveal the shape of "what is AI art for", and also say a lot about how these results were utilized in discourse.

To take the latter first, some academics quizzed people on some poetry and had these results:

We found that AI-generated poems were rated more favorably in qualities such as rhythm and beauty, and that this contributed to their mistaken identification as human-authored. Our findings suggest that participants employed shared yet flawed heuristics to differentiate AI from human poetry: the simplicity of AI-generated poems may be easier for non-experts to understand, leading them to prefer AI-generated poetry and misinterpret the complexity of human poems as incoherence generated by AI.

More human than human poems! This certainly seems impressive - and it is. You couldn't have gotten these results ~5 years ago. But that maybe doesn't mean as much as you might think? Because here is the opening half of the winning "Walt Whitman AI" Poem:

I hear the call of nature, the rustling of the trees, The whisper of the river, the buzzing of the bees, The chirping of the songbirds, and the howling of the wind, All woven into a symphony, that never seems to end. I feel the pulse of life, the beating of my heart, The rhythm of my breathing, the soul's eternal art, The passion of my being, that burns with fervent fire, The urge to live, to love, to strive, to reach up higher. I see the beauty all around, the glory of the earth, The majesty of mountains, the miracles of birth, The wonder of the cosmos, the mysteries of the stars, The poetry of existence, that echoes near and far

This fucking sucks. Straight up 2/10 poem. Did this bitch seriously establish the world's most predictable rhyme scheme only to try to rhyme wind with end? You had one job that you chose for yourself, and you screwed it up! This poem has been written a million times before, and says nothing - the Miley Cyrus lyrics of verse.

The reason this won is, yes, because AI tools have advanced heavily in the past few years. But it is also because it is being tested on a dead art. No one cares about poetry - certainly not the survey respondents:

We asked participants several questions to gauge their experience with poetry, including how much they like poetry, how frequently they read poetry, and their level of familiarity with their assigned poet. Overall, our participants reported a low level of experience with poetry: 90.4% of participants reported that they read poetry a few times per year or less, 55.8% described themselves as “not very familiar with poetry”, and 66.8% describe themselves as “not familiar at all” with their assigned poet. 

"Or less" is doing a LOT of work there; "yeah I read a few nonfiction books a year" oh sure, totally. 90% of these respondents haven't read a poem that wasn't displayed in the end credits of Minecraft since high school. No one does, poetry as a medium is essentially a relic. That isn't an insult to poets, by the way! There is no shame in being a niche. Not everyone can have the reach of hentai doujin artists; the community is small but they get a ton out of it. But you can't take the art of the community and expect that art to hit outside of it.

This survey didn't ask people to evaluate art; it asked people to evaluate their stereotypical impression of an art they don't care about. It was ~600 people hired off a website, they banged it out ASAP and moved on. This is not to invalidate the results; I am not actually claiming that "real" poets would have scored much better? Maybe, I don't know - that just isn't very relevant.

Let's swing to the AI Art Turing Test results to get more into why. Again, AI art is absolutely "art" in the sense that it is able to pass the test handily. You have to be head-in-the-sand at this point to think that AI can't make an impressionist painting a la the "most liked" art in this contest:

I have seen the "well real paintings have physicality this is a jpeg" discourse points and the cope couldn't be more real - 99% of art consumption in the modern world is digital or at least prints, let's get you back to bed grandma. But I did find it pretty funny that Scott noted this AI piece as one he particularly liked:

Because it is nonsensical, right? All that "faded paint", how was it originally painted - just bucket splashes of red and blue? What are those random doors, the random stairs going nowhere on the sides, the vague-nothings engravings? Scott just didn't care about that - he liked the vibe, right? Ancient ruins, epic scale. It isn't a coincidence that the Impressionist art did the best - current AI tools are always impressionist, they have an idea of the vibe and invent the details in between. In Impressionism that is the whole point.

Now the trap is to go "REAL artists can tell because of this or that" because idk, the tools might get better, they might fill in more and more details. The real revelation here is that you don't need the tools to get better - visual art isn't so different from poetry. Most people don't pay attention to it all that much. You see thousands, thousands of pieces of art a week; you probably don't even realize how many. Do you really care if the fading paint makes coherent sense on a billboard ad or a doctor's office wall painting? So much art that is made is "industrial" in this sense - it has no need to be good. Only good enough to fulfill its utilitarian role. In these fields AI absolutely is going to Take Your Jobs in some form, and already is (though imo not a ton of them). And it won't really bother most people. This can go pretty deep - I promise you people are "utilizing" AI porn right now. They are ~appreciating the details~ way more than is typical, the product is working.

All this works until it doesn't, though. When it is an art book by a favourite artist whose vision you want to pour over, learning that all the individual details were just made by AI completely defeats the purpose, right? Imagine reading a book of these poems. Outside of the novelty, "AI is the point" factor you would rather watch infomercials on repeat, I can't imagine a more pointless use of my time. "Reading arbitrary poems" is never fun, regardless of the quality of the poems. Most people don't care about poetry! The reason you care is that you care about the poet, and what they want to say. You read poetry with context, it being inserted with intent into the pages of a manga, at the end of a video game, because you like the artist and follow them on twitter. The quality of the prose isn't more important than that.

Which is a harsh limit for all of these kinds of tests. They essentially aren't testing art, right? You do not ever get paid twenty bucks to sit down and read a dozen poems and score them. That has no bearing on how you would actually ever learn to care about a poem. Which doesn't make AI art useless or anything, more that these tests will very quickly run into their limits of what they can meaningfully tell you. The actual bar is "creating something someone cares about". From that lens, I fully believe hybrid methods that privilege artistic intent are currently working and will improve. But I think for "solo" AI art getting that to work is going to be complicated.

[moraxine]

Fragments of Us [Ekko]

pairing: ekko x reader

words: 2k

summary: ekko wakes up in an alternate universe where you’re alive and everything feels right—but it’s not his world. torn between love and duty, he must leave to save his reality.

ARCANE SPOILERS!

i.

“Powder. Ugh, she’s so annoying sometimes. I told her that the graffiti on Sevika’s stupid bar wasn’t even that good—like, come on, who even uses pink for a skull?—and she just flipped out ! Called me a ‘wannabe artist.’ Like, okay?”

Ekko’s chest burns as he violently jolts awake, aware , coughing as if he’s been drowning moments before. His head is pounding, all memories flooding his mind and spinning round and round. It takes a few moments for his vision to stabilise and start clearing up.

What the hell happened?

“Hey, are you okay?”

Hearing your voice, familiar yet a voice he never thought his ears would detect ever again, he freezes. His eyes snap open, adjusting to the dim glow of the neon streetlamp. After a while of simply blinking, right hand on his forehead, he dares to turn your way, only to face you in utter shock.

There you are, right beside him, nervously fiddling with a small gadget in your hand while waiting for his answer.

Ekko’s breath gets caught in his throat.

His gaze desperately darts around, taking in the distorted version of Zaun. The buildings look eerily familiar but cleaner, more polished. And then there is you —alive, bright-eyed, rambling as if nothing in the world could ever go wrong.

This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

“You’re staring at me like I’ve got two heads or something. All good in there?” You ask, leaning closer as you gently tap his head.

No, no, no.

This must be some kind of twisted joke, a dream soon to turn into a nightmare, like the ones he experienced after your passing.

A strong wave of dizziness takes over and he loses balance. You’re not fast enough to catch him and he collapses on the floor, tears gleaming in his eyes.

“Shit, Ekko, I told you I’m fine walking home by myself! You need to focus on fixing that sleep schedule of yours. You work too much….”

You kneel down to check on him but as soon as you reach for his arm, he manages to pull himself up, wincing as his muscles protest. “I’m fine,” he mutters, his voice hoarse. “Just… where am I?”

Your brow furrows. “Zaun, duh. Did you hit your head?”

Zaun. But not his Zaun. This is different. Cleaner. Sharper. Brighter. Wrong.

You wave a hand in front of his face when he’s up on his feet again, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Seriously, you’re acting super weird.”

He shakes his head, trying to gather himself. “I’m… just tired.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you say, leaning back on your heels. “Well, you can sleep at my place if you want. It’s a bit of a mess, but it’s better than the middle of the street.”

“Why…Why are you helping me?”

I didn’t protect you. I let you die-

You scoff, crossing your arms. “You have to be kidding me, really.”

He stares at you, his chest tightening. You are so casual, so warm, so alive. This isn’t his world—it is someone else’s. Someone’s whom was able to keep you safe and happy.

You wave a hand in front of his face. “Helloooo? You good, or do I need to drag you there myself?”

He blinks, shaking himself out of his trance. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

“Finally,” you say grabbing his arm. “You’re lucky I’m such a good friend, y’know.”

As you lead him down the street, continuing your pointless rambling about Powder and some argument over graffiti, Ekko follows silently, his mind racing. He doesn’t belong here, but for the first time in years, being near you feels like he is home.

ii.

Ekko is standing in the corner of your cluttered workshop, his fingers trembling slightly as he tightens the final screws on a device he barely understands anymore. Weeks have been spent scavenging parts, tearing apart old tech, and sketching blueprints on scraps of paper. The machine is almost ready—his way out of this world is almost ready.

You, of course, don’t know. In fact, you seem to know nothing about Ekko lately. Ever since that incident outside the bar, he’s been acting strange in a way you can’t pinpoint.

“Hey, genius,” you call from across the room, pulling him out of his thoughts. You’re perched on a high stool, playing with a broken clock. “You’ve been staring at that thing for hours. What is it, anyway?”

He stiffens at your question, keeping his face carefully neutral. “Just… something to help me get around. It’s nothing.”

You narrow your eyes, unconvinced. “Since when do you get all secretive about your projects? You used to brag about your tech every chance you got.”

“Since now,” he mutters, avoiding your gaze.

It’s been this way for quite some time now—Ekko growing quieter, more distant, all while you try to bridge the gap with your usual chatter. You’ve noticed the way he avoids your eyes, the way he flinches whenever you stand too close. It’s not like him.

And it hurts.

“You’re acting weird, Ekko,” you admit, setting the clock down and leaning back on your hands. “Like, even weirder than usual. Did I do something?”

“No,” he says quickly, but his voice sounds strained, and the single word only makes you more assured that there is indeed something going on.

“Then what?” you press, leaning forward slightly. “You’ve been avoiding me for days. Is this about Powder? Because if so, she’s the one being difficult, not me.”

Ekko clenches his jaw, his hands tightening around the tool in his grip. He can’t tell you. You wouldn’t understand—not fully. How could he possibly explain that you’re not even supposed to be here? That this version of you isn’t his you? That in his world, you’re just a memory he carries like a scar?

“It’s nothing,” he says finally, his voice low. “Just… drop it, okay?”

You flinch at the coldness in his tone, but you force a laugh, trying to mask the sting. “Fine. Be mysterious, then. See if I care.”

Turning away, you pretend to focus on the clock again, but your heart isn’t in it. You want to push him, demand answers, but something in his expression stops you. There’s a pain in his eyes that you can’t quite place, and for the first time, you wonder if this is bigger than any conflict he might have had with people in the past.

Ekko exhales slowly, his shoulders sagging. He hates doing this—pushing you away. But if he lets you in, it’ll only make leaving harder.

Because he is leaving. As much as he wants to stay, to pretend this is his life, he knows it isn’t real. He doesn’t belong here. And the longer he stays, the harder it’ll be to say goodbye. Especially to you.

“Hey,” you say suddenly, breaking the silence. “For what it’s worth, you’re still my favorite nerd. Even if you’re being a jerk.”

He looks up at you, startled by the softness in your voice. For a moment, he wants to tell you everything—to explain why he can’t let himself get too close. To tell you he loves you. But that would be partially true as you’re not his. Instead, he just nods. “Thank you.”

You offer him a small yet warm smile and his resolve falters for a moment. But then his gaze falls on the machine again—his way out—and he reminds himself why he has to do this.

It’s almost done. Just a little longer.

iii.

Ekko stands in the middle of the workshop, his hand resting on the activation lever of the machine. The room hums faintly with power, the cobbled-together contraption sparking faintly as it waits for his final command. It’s ready. After days of work, this is it—it’s time to go back to the people who need him.

But his chest feels tight, and it’s not just from the lingering ache of exhaustion. It’s because of you.

The door creaks open, and his heart sinks. You’re standing there, your expression caught somewhere between confusion and anger. “What the hell is this?” you ask, stepping inside. “Ekko, what’s going on?”

He doesn’t look at you. He can’t. “It’s… nothing.”

“Nothing?” you snap, gesturing at the machine. “You’ve been shutting me out for God knows how long, and now I find you messing with… whatever this is you’ve made? Don’t lie to me, Ekko.”

He finally meets your eyes, and the raw emotion there almost makes him crumble. But he takes a deep breath and steadies himself. “I can’t explain it.”

You take a step closer, your frustration giving way to hurt. “Why? Why can’t you just tell me? I’m not mad—I just… I don’t understand why you’ve been acting like this.”

Ekko clenches his fists, his mind racing. He could tell you the truth—about the alternate universe, about the fact that you don’t even exist anymore in his world. But what good would it do?

“It’s better this way,” he replies quietly.

Your hands drop to your sides, and the look in your eyes nearly breaks him. “Better for who? For me? Or for you?”

“Y/n…” His voice cracks, but he quickly swallows it down. “I don’t belong here. I need to leave. That’s all I can say.”

You shake your head, your voice trembling. “You’re lying. You’ve been here all this fucking time, and now you’re just… leaving? Without a word?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, you do!” you shout, stepping closer until you’re right in front of him. “Whatever this is, whoever you think you are—you’re my… friend, Ekko. You don’t just get to disappear without telling me why.”

His hands tremble as he reaches up to touch your shoulder, his gaze locked on yours. “You are—” His voice breaks, and he has to force himself to keep going. “You’re amazing. You’re… everything good about this place. You’re the reason I’m still alive. But I can’t stay.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding. His words feel final, and the weight of them crushes you completely. You fail to understand. Nothing makes sense, absolutely nothing. “Why?” you whisper, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. “Why can’t you stay? Is it something I did?”

“No!” he says, more forcefully than he means to. He takes your hands, holding them tightly. “It’s not you. It’s… me. It’s my world. I need to go back to where I came from.”

You can’t comprehend what he’s saying, but the desperation in his voice silences your questions. You nod, swallowing back the lump in your throat. “Fine,” you say, even though it’s anything but fine. “If you have to go… go.”

His hands linger on yours for a moment longer before he lets go. “I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me,” he says softly. “But I can’t. Not here.”

Tears spill over as you watch him turn back to the machine. “Will I ever see you again?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

He hesitates, his hand hovering over the lever. “I don’t know.”

That’s all he can give you.

With one last look at you, his expression filled with regret and longing, he pulls the lever. The machine sparks to life, and the air around him ripples with energy. You take a step back, shielding your eyes as the light grows blinding.

When the light fades, he’s there, his tired body slumped down on the ground. You immediately run to his side, kneeling down and pulling him to your lap. The room falls silent, the only sound the faint hum of the now blown up machine. You gently caress his cheek, tears running down your hot cheeks.

After a while, he wakes up.

And it doesn’t take you very long to realise.

You glance at the remains one last time.

And you hope that wherever he is, he’s doing what he set out to do—saving his people, his world, even if it meant leaving this one behind.

[rootspiral]

Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 4 part 7

(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])

(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7])

THIS IS THE LAST EPISODE 4 ENTRY I SWEAR

agatha: why yes I'm listening politely because I'm being sociable, not because this story concerns me in any way shape or form

she did NOT want TO DO IT AGATHA. HE WAS HER SON TOO AGATHA. did you ever give her a chance to SAY any of THAT. damn rio is (metaphorically) fighting for her life here. waiting centuries to catch her wife with her guard down next to a random fire, and then reworking her LONG PLANNED SPEECH into bite sized easily digestible bits so that her emotionally stunted soulmate doesn't run away screaming

I was doing MY DAMN FUCKING JOB agatha

agatha looks away like whooops! wasn't listening! wasn't looking at you! no sir, not me!

that's right. acknowledge her feelings. show her that you understand but that you're hurting too. be mature. you're doing great. god the way she swallows and stares right ahead, so determined. this is such a crucial moment for her.

agatha: i'm stone cold. I'm a wall. this is not affecting me in the slightest. I'm bored, really.

lilia not missing a word of what rio's saying

lmao the neutral pronoun lasted two seconds. she's not even trying to pretend like she isn't talking about agatha. and the way she nods to herself like yes, I did the best I could with this. so, there.

"she is my scar" is going to the sapphic annals, isn't it?

LMAOOOO the unblinking cat stare. rio is like I WAS TALKING TO YOU DUM-DUM. I KNOW IT, YOU KNOW IT, EVERYONE AROUND THIS GODDAMN FIRE KNOWS IT. CAN YOU PLEASE PLEASE FUCKING TALK TO ME PLEASE DEAR GOD

and agatha doing a teeny tiny side glance and going whoooooooops not looking! I'm NOT looking! I'm not even here! and scrunching her face more and more trying to keep it blank

AND she's gone. she's so predictable lmaooo. every dang time.

awkwaaaaaard

rio with her soft smile again! with the little amused eye roll! never getting mad at agatha's antics. she's like FINE I'll come after you, you BIG BABY. the patience this woman has

lilia is so scared of rio because somehow, through her exceptional Seer abilities, she knew instinctively that this is her mortal foe. but something funny has just happened: here in front of her there's just a regular little guy, a bit odd maybe, doing her little thing, trying to talk to her ex. might it be... might it be that death isn't a monster, that it's just a thing, a strange but natural thing that happens to everybody? lilia cannot accept that quite yet. so she grabs rio and says no, no. I've seen what you are. you're scary, you're evil, you're dangerous. this is lilia's survival instincts kicking in. we are simply wired to fear death, that's just how humans are. it takes an exceptional mind and soul to see past that.

oh god, here we go, here we go. deep breaths (I'm telling this to myself tbh. i need the pep talk)

stroking her hair so gently. soft, tentative.

hey, subtitle people??? what the fuck??

rio just stands and stares. lets agatha decide what comes next, goes at her pace always

the haiR CARESSING

the HUG. the BIG SIGH. this bitch was running away screaming from rio just yesterday. and here she is. her love. her partner. she finally acknowledges rio's pain and all that they lost and all that they were (and still are tbh) to each other. THIS is what rio was looking for. she's not flirting to manipulate and deflect now, she's not being somebody else. this is agatha cracked open and bleeding love and sorrow

and they melt into each other, and they're rocking each other back and forth, with all their pain and tenderness and longing

agatha with her face buried in rio's shoulder. I'm unwell

and then agatha gently pushes rio back and strokes her hair and cradles her face like she did so many times before and leans in and here I am giving you a play-by-play and running a commentary like a totally normal and sane person would

you know what makes for a perfect onscreen kiss imo? no it's not tongue, although these two will give us plenty of that too. it's the TREMBLING. THE HESITATION. THE YEARNING.

rio and her superhuman willpower. couldn't be me.

and and and and and agatha looks at her puzzled for a second and doesn't register what's happening and dives for a kiss again she's so far gone. the feral animal noises I'm making you have no idea

THE ICY SHOWER

THE STEP BACK. THE MOST PAINED SMILE

THE REGRET

I think one big reason why agatha is always so calculated is because she's afraid her instincts will take over. she does something big and spectacular and stupid and then calls it a 'calculated risk' when it was actually a rush of fear, desire, sorrow, anger that she couldn't control. tonight rio has managed to poke a little hole into a carefully constructed dam, and now all the water is rushing out and tearing down the walls. agatha has rio in her arms and her shape, her scent, her skin are so nostalgic and familiar. her brain goes on autopilot, she's been lonely for so long, she is FAMISHED for love and connection and sex and acceptance. rio wanted her to open up, but agatha doesn't do half-measures. rio wanted her to give for a change, but agatha can only ever take.

rio HAS to put a stop to it. she puts logic before heart, one of them has to and you know agatha isn't gonna. more than anything rio wants to take this one perfect moment and run away with it, but instead she tears herself away and asks, what happens next? what happens if I have to take billy away from you? that reanimated corpse, that freak of nature who walked into your life only yesterday and took over?

billy is now part of the equation and rio cannot ignore it. she has been so gentle and careful with agatha, easing her into a reconciliation that is now in jeopardy because here comes billy maximoff like a sword of damocles! what happens if agatha takes her back only for rio to break her heart all over again? there would be no coming back from that. rio cannot help being the grim reaper just as much as agatha cannot help being a succubus, and she is almost at her breaking point here. because she is hurting too! she is sick of having to be the mature one! she's sick of always coming in second after all of agatha's issues! turns out there's a limit even to the heartbreak an impossibly old and wise being can take.

(and now I need a smoke and a future episode that is just 30 minutes of hot but soft cuddles and kisses and sweet nothings. please.)

once again a big shoutout and thank you to all the people reaching out and leaving comments, it's incredible to hear from you all @crybabyheathen @onceuponalegendbg @idkbroletssee @psychicsolanum @73chn1c0l0rr3v3l @a-tad-bit-obsessed @a-rusty-bucket-of-woes @miacheezytoon @isagrimorie @april-december @aquaaquila and I'm probably forgetting someone but I see you all and I appreciate you so much!

and now for something extra

[big-tiddy-goth-gremlin]

Okay so the finale of Arcane was great in a lot of ways but I feel I need to voice a little bit of disappointment/resentment for Act III.

First of all, Ekko and Sevika deserved better than the endings they got. Ekko did more in that battle than anyone else, and yet he ends up alone and sad. Sevika is the only Zaunite put on a council that will probably be classist asf to her.

Second, the total neglect of Isha (both her life and her death). Acts I and II built a narrative of found family with Isha, Jinx, and Sevika, only for it to not contribute to the greater narrative at all and to be completely thrown out in Act III.

Third, and probably most controversially, I do not think Caitlyn deserved Vi in the end. For reference, I really really liked CaitVi in the first season. I liked seeing a complex dynamic between two well-done lesbian characters. And then in the second season, Caitlyn takes her trauma and misery out on Vi. She essentially becomes a fascist dictator, floods the undercity with poisonous gas, increases imprisonment of Zaunites, works closely with Ambessa, and nearly kills Isha. And I was willing to hear out a redemption arc if it was good enough. But it wasn’t. There was never a decent apology to Vi, never any form of apology or regret for what she did to Zaun, no remorse over pointing a gun at a child. Just a vague air of “my bad” along with killing Ambessa. After everything she did to Vi and her people, I do not think Caitlyn remotely deserved to be with Vi, who spent the season coping, doing damage control, and tirelessly trying to fix her family. I am a wlw with an amazing girlfriend, and I love that we saw an endgame lesbian relationship, but I don’t like their dynamic or the way Caitlyn treats Vi.

Finally, the lack of any kind of conclusion to the Zaun/Piltover conflict. I understand that they were able to unite to fight Noxus, but aside from that, hardly anything has changed. ONE Zaunite was put on the council, and that’s all. No redistribution of wealth, no reparations, no sovereignty for Zaun, no apology for the decades of suffering Piltover caused Zaun. Ekko must return alone to a desolate undercity while Caitlyn and Vi live in the massive, luxurious Kiramman mansion.

My main issues here can be boiled down to this: Act III felt rushed. Very few stories were fully developed and satisfyingly concluded. The ones we did get (Viktor & Jayce, Mel returning to Noxus) were fantastic, but it left much to be desired for the other characters and storylines.

[xinganhao]

🩵 dead poets society member!vernon x reader.

offshoot from the dead poets society!hhu x reader verse. (highly advise to read that first before delving into this!) part of my svt university milestone event.

I said / "I am afraid I will spend entire years / trying not to need you." / As if I wasn't certain. As if this wasn't my confession. — I swear, next time I see you I'll be funny by Clementine Von Radics

PREVIOUSLY ›

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺ cool about it by boygenius. sa ngalan ng pag-ibig by december avenue. everything by the black skirts. buyer's remorse by daniel caesar & omar apollo. godspeed by frank ocean. someday i'll get it by alek olsen. everyone adores you (at least i do) by matt maltese. tie my shoes by beabadooobee. nothing can by niki.

on his first year away, vernon focuses on physical distance. a foolish part of him thinks that the more miles he puts in between the two of you, the easier it will be for him to get over this stupid, hopeless crush that lasted throughout his uni years. and so vernon goes backpacking, goes solo traveling. he lets the wind take him wherever. if anything, he only realizes just how deeply ingrained you are in his subconscious. he thinks of you when he passes a secondhand bookstore. he itches to text when he has a particularly good coffee. and when the sky is clear, when it's just the perfect shade of blue? he swears he can hear you in the back of his head, quoting mary oliver. (or: this is the year vernon learns all the different ways you can miss a person.)

vernon spends his second year on dating apps. it makes him a bit sick to his stomach, really. he doesn't think he's doing it right. he matches with people, sure. even manages to bag a handful of dates. each one ends with him giving them some variation of 'i don't think this is going to work out', and when they inevitably ask why, he lies through his teeth. too busy to be in a serious relationship. too emotionally out of it to commit. anything but the truth. (or: this is the year vernon realizes that no one measures up to you.)

by the time his third year away rolls around, vernon is beginning to feel a bit pathetic. here he is, after all that time, and he's still haunted by the shadow of a relationship that didn't even come to the light. sometimes, that seems to be worse— saying goodbye and knowing the door is left open a crack. he distracts himself with literally everything else. he tries out improv. he finally opens up a letterboxd account. he signs up for marathons. (or: this is the year vernon runs, in more ways than one.)

there's less of an ache by the time that year four comes. vernon doesn't think of you as often as he used to. he's able to be with someone else without imagining you in their place. even as that relationship eventually ends, he's glad that it's because of reasons unrelated to you. he's finally gotten to a point where he can look at himself in the mirror and not think of all the ways he faltered or failed. despite everything, it's still him. (or: this is the year vernon accepts the version of himself in his reflection.)

five years. it takes five years before vernon can finally reach back out. not to everyone yet, no. he starts slow. mingyu gives him a whole load of shit for it. seungcheol asks a dozen questions. wonwoo understands. vernon is grateful for them, so much so that he finds himself watching the dead poets society on his plane ride home. it's all fun and games until the scene with robin williams, where the schoolboys are paying ode to him with cries of "o captain, my captain!" it's the very line that echoes in his head when he sees you some feet away from him during a chance encounter. suddenly, none of it matters. not the distance, not the blind dates, not the man that he's tried so hard to be. all he can think of— all he can see— is you. o captain, my captain. (or: this is the year vernon decides to be honest with himself.)

[alovelyfrenchworld]

Your Neighborly Orc Part 2

The journey home was short and once there, you settled in quickly. As a heavy snow storm began, you lit a small fire in the hearth. There was no way you'd be able to journey out again, so you figured you'd make the best of what you had.

Your cat curled up on the wuant rug by the fire as you seated yourself in the armchair just beside. Armed with a wool blanket and a book on medicinal herbs gave you the chance to get comfy quickly. Even during your free time and isolation from primary civilzation meant that you'd want to amke yourself useful for fun. Maybe you could concoct a new tea for immunity. Sufficiency was key.

*********

A few days passa and as expected, your kindling was running low.

You prepared yourself and left home for the woods again when you were met with a surprise.

The orc frm the other day was across the river, this time paired with a bow. Hunting, presumably. You went on with your task, bundling and lifting your stack of logs when a patch of ice hidden by powdery nsnow caused you to slip. Landing in the freezing water, your logs falling with you - now soaked and useless.

"Damn it!" You cursed, feeling that your hard work was wasted. Before you could make an attempt to stand, large hands enveloped you and lifted you out of the water and set you down on the bank.

"What the f-," you sputtered.

"Are you alright?" the orc asked, concern in his eyes.

Frustrated with yourself, you reply, "Physically. But now I have to start over."

The temperature of the great outdoors suddenly began to affect you. You shivered, understanding the precarity of your condition in this sort of weather.

"You're in no shape to be doing anything. You need to get out of these clothes before you freeze to death." He pointed to the collar of your collar, careful not to actually touch you.

Feeling exposed, you smacked his hand away and raised your arm to your chest.

"Do not worry," he chuckled hoarsely, almost out of nervousness, "I am not here to violate you. I only mean to comment on your well-being."

His kindness was shocking, but not totally unwelcomed.

Before you could properly reply, you were lifted bridal style.

"Whoa, whoa! This is unnecessary and preposterous!" You flail in his arms, making his grip strengthen to keep you safely in place.

"Humans," he scoffed, "too prideful."

Embarassed by your outburst, your face fell isntantly.

"Now," he said less gruffly, "where to?"

Realizing that a stranger wanted to know where you lived was frightening, but you were already in a vulberable position. Either way, you were compromised.

You gave him diretion to your little cottage, getting to know each other along the way, even exchanging names. He revealed his name to be Gûruk, and that he lived in a nearby orc settlement across the river. He told you hwo the settlement was at the edge of the territory, which explained why you'd sen him of late.

As he approached your door, he set you down on the stoop, and backed away.

"You need to be more careful, Y/N." He was right, but you would never tell him that.

"I will try," you grinned, "thank you, Gûruk."

He nodded in acknowledgement, looking around your homestead. He said nothing as he turned to walk away.

You questioned if this exit was typical of orcs or if you had made him uncomfortable.

You hoped you'd cross paths again so you could thank him properly without him feeling the need to leave.

Hopefully soon, Gûruk.

Tags:

@yourlittlehoe

@lem-hhn

[a-fatal-word]

I saw the Theatre Du Châtelet production of Les Miserables, and here's a rundown wyth my thoughts:

In the Prologue, the first set of prisoners are on a boat, then a second group is brought in to help move it. I loved this direction, as we see the physical feats they are forced to do. Valjean is brought on separately to these groups. Guards also beat the men, conveying the aggression of this environment which impacts Valjean’s character.

Part of the set is a ramp up stage left, which gets used a lot. During the Runaway Cart scene, we actually see the cart go down the hill and fall on Fauchelevent and the actor really milks it, it's brilliant. The set has these two huge curved pieces, which are used to create multiple settings, plus box sets which helps separate different locations.

Claire Perot is a perfect Fantine, we understand her immediately. She is watched by all the men in the factory, which she's aware of but hasn't grown hardened as a protection. She's so vulnerable and clearly uncomfortable with the attention. I really enjoyed the 'J'avais Reve' ('I Dreamed a Dream') lyrics, and Perot's delivery of the line about Cosette being close to dying was PERFECTLY delivered. She stopped to take the moment, and it was the best I've ever seen it done. My favourite Fantine, maybe even including the film adaptations I've seen.

The pimp comes on with Bamatabois and has the lines with the sex worker that in the English version says 'only joking, deary knows her place'. When Javert arrests Fantine, the other sex workers start towards her but stop, clearly on her side but unable to stand up to Javert. This asserts the dynamic between these men, who always have more power in the situation, and the powerless women.

Champmathieu and two guards walk in from of Valjean during 'Le Proces' ('Who Am I'), so he sees whose life his decision will impact. It's a shame the actors look nothing alike, I feel like they could've given the actor portraying Champmathieu a beard 😂

I preferred the 'Une Poupee Dans la Vitrine' lyrics to 'Castle on a Cloud' lyrics, they're so much more specific to her experience as she dreams of playing with the doll Catherine. love that she sings about Catherine. I wish that the Catherine that Valjean gives her was bigger, though, it more resembles the size of a doll you would buy today instead of the large doll of the novel. Her broom is literally twice her size though, it's a perfect staying to reflect the famous artwork of Cosette sweeping.

The Sergeant of Waterloo Inn is a box set which covers half the width of the stage so you can see the snow outside behind this set piece, which really makes it seem that the inn is bursting with people. This really highlights how far the Thenardiers fall. We see Cosette and Valjean meet in the space away from the set, which is cold and isolated.

These Thenardiers feel genuinely dangerous; they're funny but there's less playing up to the audience. They dress similarly to the rest of the cast, but there's always something out of place. For example, in Maitre Thenardier (Master of the House), Thenardier's outfit is identical to an ensemble member's, but then his hair is unusually styled compared to the rest of the casts'. During the wedding, everyone wears black and white (white dresses and black suits), whilst the Thenardiers arrive in black and white striped outfits. It's like they try to fit in, but they're always off. I also enjoyed that the Patron Minette are in Maitre Thenardier, backing up Thenardier as he over charges someone (his wife has a go at him in a nice touch of ensemble work). It's like they're mates who then went into crime together. The 'Colette' line also remains.

During the confrontation, which happens whilst the nuns are present, Javert whacks out a giant gun which he points at the nuns, after that the nuns throw a bucket at him. When I say I DIED.

This Grantaire isn't the Grantaire we know, he's way too optimistic and put together. When he first started singing, I thought he might be Prouvaire or Courfeyrac and they'd given one of those characters those lines! It made me think that having Courfeyrac make fun of Marius would be so much fun, they'd get to have a bit more of a relationship there, and Courfeyrac could keep his snarkiness from the novel. But I still enjoyed his performance. This Grantaire still makes fun of Marius in jest, but he is as passionate as Enjolras and can easily jump into action mode. Their dynamic slightly resembles Achilles and Patroclus' in Madeline Miller's novel, in that Enjolras and Achilles are focused and charismatic, whereas this Grantaire, like Patroclus, jumps in to help the wounded. His protection of Gavroche is there, and Gavroche sings his final lines to Grantaire, before falling into his arms dead (Gavroche throws the bag of ammunition over before stumbling back to their side of the barricade with his hand clutching his stomach, resembling Eponine's demise).

The costumes for everyone are stunning. Fantine's deshevelled look is gorgeous and Javert has an incredible black leather coat. Enjolras wears a gorgeous slightly orange toned red coat, then a red striped waistcoat at the barricade, whilst Grantaire is in a green suit, with a top hat in the early Musain scenes.

In 'Bonjour Paris' ('Look Down - Paris') we see a group of middle class men walking to the front of the stage, surrounded by the poor they appear disgusted by, whom we are encouraged to judge.

Minor characters portrayed by the ensemble are given chances to shine, and this production really feels like it is presenting a society, as the novel does. A father and daughter appear in Paris, and this father then joins the revolution. He kisses his wife goodbye as she leaves the barricade, and it's heartbreaking when we see his corpse when they are defeated. We also see a member of the ensemble listen in to Javert's confession to Valjean when he has suspicions that he's an ex-convict. This moment especially evokes the small town attitude of Montreuil-sur-Mer in the novel.

Stanley Kassa's Enjolras is one of the best I've ever seen. He's commanding, serious, and clearly empathetic; having told Courfeyrac to keep watch whilst Valjean sings 'Comme un Homme' ('Bring Him Home'), he also keeps watch, and a couple of times looks back to watch over his sleeping comrades. You can really see that he has a lot going on internally, and is reflecting on the previous day and what is to come. Before sending the fathers and women home, he does this sigh to himself, and lets us in on the inner torment and regret that the people didn't join them. Kassa also dies leaning back off the barricade with his arms out, and he keeps them there until the barricade is removed, which is impressive given the time he has to keep this position for.

In 'Dans ma Vie' ('In my Life'), there are bars to the garden stage left, then bars projected on a screen in front of the set, so Cosette actually feels boxed in and isolated from the outside world in her garden.

Cosette telling Valjean about the 'four men scheming' (replacing 'three men I saw beyond the wall' makes more sense. She and Marius actually see the end of the Eponine, Thenardier and Patron Minette scene, so she tells Valjean as she has reason to worry.

They make the decision to have the barricade rise outside the Musain rather than the Corinthe, probably to simplify things. This also creates an emotional link, as they dream of creating a new world and it's next to that space that they try to achieve that new world.

This production's Prouvaire has a beautiful openness as a performer, he carries a little book on the barricade which feels very apt.

After the defeat, two national guardsmen, plus Javert, survey the barricade, which is covered in the dead, making them face up to what they have done. We also have the national guard giving the orders at the back of stage, visible through the barricade.

'Le Suicide de Javert' ('Javert's Suicide') is heart stopping; he is on top of one of the large set pieces and towards of the song is raised higher. His death is achieved by falling back 90 degrees and the screen in front shows a projection of him falling in slow motion into the Seine. This production takes place 5 minutes from the Seine, which really hits you in this moment.

'Seul Devant ces Tables Vides' ('Empty Chairs at Empty Tables') is done with projections of shadows on the Musain set, which is a wooden piece stage right. Of course we see Grantaire drinking, recognisable as the shadow with the top hat.

'Tourne Tourne' ('Turning') is performed as the moment the families have to identify the dead, such a unique staging choice.

When things get awkward at the wedding, the master of ceremonies asks the 'Maestra' to play a specific song. When things get awkward again when the Thenardiers are eating all the food, Thenardier tries the same thing and asks the 'Maestro' for a song (there was a joke were he said something that wasn't a song, but I can't remember what). The Musical Director is then revealed upstage when she corrects him that's she's a 'Maestra', which got a big clap.

Eponine doesn't duet with Fantine in the Finale until later than usual, so we get a beautiful scene between Fantine and Valjean where she puts his hand on the book before he gives it to Cosette.

Once Valjean dies, he gets to greet everyone in death, included Myriel, who he hugs, and Javert, who he shakes hands with. And Enjolras, who feels very central to this production. He's used a lot in the trailer and Stanley Kassa has the most amazing charisma, you really root for him.

Overall, I loved this production. A lot of the lyrics are tell the novel's story more explicitly and are still poetic at times. I especially loved Fantine's lyrics, and it's so refreshing to see a different take on the material visually. I really hope this production gets a longer life, and I'm so glad we have an album with this cast. They all have golden voices, especially Oceane Demontis as Eponine. I also have to shout out Juliette Artigala for her portrayal of Cosette, I thought she was so endearing.

[therapyandprozac]

Title: Daddy

Rating: Explicit Smut

Warnings: Daddy kink ofc, Edging, Teasing, Praise kink, Toys, Light BDSM

Words: 1.2k

I didn’t add a name so this is for any fandom or character you wish! (is there a word for this?)

Posted before I could think too much about it 🙈 enjoy ☺️

“Can we talk about something?”

“Yes, love!” He smiles and focuses his attention on you. You blush, you’ve been practicing this conversation in your head for days but you still instantly turn bright red. Doing everything to avoid eye contact you cover your face with your hands. “Wow baby, look at that blush!” He says pulling your arms away from your face, you pull them back to you. However, he’s substantially stronger than you are and easily exposes your face. “What is it?” A huge smile crosses his face.

“I umm,” you start. He guides you to taking a few breaths and staring at the couch. “Well, we’ve been together for a while. We’ve talked about and have done…stuff…” You feel yourself turn into a tomato again as he smirks.

“We have indeed done ‘stuff.’” He laughs.

“What do you want me to call you?” You ask, squeezing your eyes shut.

“What do you mean love?” He asks, trying to understand your vague question.

“Like umm, like daddy or sir or something.” You pause and he stays quiet. Your heart races and you jump into a mini rant. “I just the last time we-, you were very…I don’t know...in character and I wanted to call you a title but I didn’t know which of them, if any, you wanted.” You rattle off incredibly fast before being abruptly stopped by the softest lips you’ve ever felt. A familiar feeling of the anxiety of finishing the question, waves away like a rolling tide, the only thing you needed was for him to respond.

“That,” His voice is deep in an almost growl as he continues. “Is an excellent question. No need for blushes or hiding, you can ask me anything without worry, my love.” He cups your cheek. “Which do you prefer?” He asks, his voice coated in velvet. You blush even deeper and look back at the couch quickly. He raises an eyebrow and repeats the question. You don’t answer, way too embarrassed. He waits a few beats before continuing “Would it help if I told you my favorite?” He whispers against your mouth.

You nod rubbing your nose against his. His pupils flutter as he leans forward and bites your ear gently. “Daddy.” He growls. His voice has a that sultry gravel that he only gets when he’s about to fuck you until you can’t walk. You moan and grind against nothing. He takes that as a sign and grabs you so you’re straddling him.

“You’re so hot when you’re too embarrassed to talk. You talk to people for a living, doll.” He nuzzles and kisses your neck as a blush covers your chest and cheeks. “But when you’re here…with me. You can barely put two words together.” You reach your hand down and palm him through his jeans, his breath quickens and he groans.

“Bed?” You whimper. He nods and follows you up the stairs to your room. Stripping along the way, once you get to the room you’re both completely naked. He pushes you against the door, he puts his thigh between your legs for you to grind against. You moan and whisper “Please…daddy,”

“Yes?” He says as if you aren’t coming undone on his leg.

“Please fuck me, god I need you.”

“As you wish.” He says and tosses you on the bed before he kneels in front of your glistening pussy. He gently runs his tongue up the entirety of your cunt. He toys with your clit making you squirm and beg for more. Quick flicks and slow licks, you love how he takes his time and savors every gasp and whine. He slowly puts two long, thick fingers inside, you groan and roll your hips. He plays your body perfectly massaging your g spot and clit with his thumb. All the while taking each of your hands and cuffing them to the bed. He brings you so close with rhythmic, well practiced precision before rapidly pulling his fingers out of you.

“Nope not yet,” he stands up, licking his fingers and smirking. “I am quite proud of you.” He opens a box with a ribbon on it and pulls out a big pink…something. He’s far away but all questions resolve when you hear the vibrations. He turns around delicately playing with the shaking, not so delicate object in his hands as he continues.

“I’m sure that question was burning in your brain for a while, wasn’t it.” You nod. “I can’t hear you, my sweet thing.” He says in a gentle sing-songy voice (think moriarty) as he walks slowly toward you.

“Way too long.” You whimper, already a desperate mess.

“I can hear you pacing, in the elevator at work…” He steps closer and massages the rumbling toy in his hand.

“You mumble under your breath, rehearsing it in the tub, the car…maybe even our last few times.” You instantly blush so deeply. “Hmm that looks like a yes.” You go to cover your eyes but you're stopped by the cuffs.

“Was daddy your favorite too?” You nod frantically with needy groans. Watching his hands get closer to your cunt, he stops and turns the vibratior off.

“Why?” You whine.

“There’s your beautiful voice!” He exclaims. “When I ask you questions,” he runs his fingers gently up from your legs, across your stomach, between your tits and up your neck, placing it finally and firmly to the side of your head to balance himself steadily above you.

“It’s because I want to hear your answers, doll.” He leans in and rests just above your lips, you feel his breath on your lips. “So I ask again, what was your favorite one?” He whispers, the faint minty and familiar feeling of him talking into your mouth washes over you. You smile under his lips and gather all of the brat and (something)) energy you’ve pent up, sass laced tongue and with direct eye contact.

“Daddy.” The smugness falls from your face when you hear the vibratior turn on. A dark and twisted semi sadistic smile covers his face. He breathes in the moment time feels stopped while he looks you over. Light perspiration and pleading eyes, he loves teasing and gentle mind games with his desperate little plaything.

“Mmm, that's my girl.” His voice runs across gravel as he pins the toy to your clit. You cry out and immediately hold your breath to silence yourself. “Breathe baby!” You gasp and when you catch your breath you muffle yourself again and groan under your voice.

“For the love of,” he pulls the toy away and you whine. He taps your clit with the device making a rhythm of whines and groans spill from you. He goes on too long just teasing and taunting…edging you. He hasn’t edged you in so long.

“Oh god yes please, more daddy please please!!”

“Yes, beautiful sweetheart,” he whispers and bites your ear lobe, continuing his tormenting of your clit. You moan and pant heavily, after one deep breath and turning the vibrator to its max setting, you’re so so close, teetering on the edge until he groans against your ear. “Cum for me, my sweet girl.” Your brain snaps and you cum loudly with your nails digging into his skin a little of his blood runs under your nails. You nearly wail as the first orgasam of a very long night rips through your body.

[bad-as-me]

My point in replying to this is your take offers no applicable solution.

This isn't a suspision I "immediately jumped to" - I said it because this is where this cynical line of thinking inherently leads to. Whether no action is taken because we don't want anything to get done, or if it is because we are so consumed by the fear of people who take our attempts to perform healthy forum moderation and use it to form harassment campaigns, the result is the same.

My belief, one that I hope you are on the same page about, is that we should make a stronger effort to form clear distinctions of when a fandom space is becoming unsafe, and make sure we can identify which criticisms are legitimately towards harmful behavior, and which are centered around subjective experiences with imaginary people.

You are right that we can't control the amount of bigots are in the world, nor can we control if they decide to move to another circle. We are, however, well within our power to control who and what we engage with, and if they feel welcome enough in our lives to stick around. Making our own circles inhospitable to bigotry is where the greater goal of improving fandom culture begins, in my opinion. And your response, as I interpreted it, is that there is no point in even trying because of the litany of bad faith people you described.*

I do not want this to continue as much as you do, but I think it is worth the effort to cultivate a healthy space. Just as there will always be bigots, there will always be people looking for community in a shared interest, so why is it unreasonable to try and do better by that desire?

*(in terms I see just about every proshipper use, so you might understand why I brought the pro/anti labels into this. Not only that, but there are dozens of examples of people, within the replies of this very post, reporting a trend of self identitying proshippers doing so to avoid reasonable criticism for their behavior. I am talking about a greater trend of immaturity as well here!)

the problem with 'let people do what they want' is that fandom spaces will churn out the same bigoted content into perpetuity

[koi-p0nd]

Good morning,afternoon, and nights!

I was wondering if can you do an imagine of reader protecting Anya from jimmy before and after the crash? Which reader always giving a bitchy attitude to j#### and reader giving self defense tools to Anya just in case. (The self defense weapons are a taser,a pocket kn’fe, and a pink decorated pepper spray)

-anonymous

Omg hi hello????? I woke up around an hour and a half ago????

(Am I that good of a writer???? Lmao kidding)

Anya getting self defense lessons and weapons from reader with an attitude? To keep the Bad Stinker Man away? Yes.

Okay, since I'm still trying to get back into writing again, this might be a bit wonky and not really up to what others can make but I'm trying my best here :')

I think imma make like a list or smth, I dunno, but I hope it works :D

I also decided to change the pocket knife to a swiss army knife, thought that she could use the different things on it for more than self defense or to give some more severe injuries to Stinker.

Mouthwashing Anya x Reader. (Platonic)

"Don't be afraid to use force, girl." (Not proof read)

Before the crash:

Way long before the crash, just a few weeks or months after taking off with the ship Anya had told you about getting weird vibes from Jimmy.

It was kind of obvious as to why she would go to you and just quietly voice her suspicions to you, you literally had a tazer and can off pepper spray clipped to your uniform belt out in the open.

She was glad for that, honestly.

After she told you about this, you kept an extra eye on Jimmy whenever he were nearby you and/or Anya. Watching like a hawk.

There was constant bitchy attitude from you towards Jimmy when he and you interreacted. It always pissed him off.

It wasn't pretty arguments and fights over something small and irrelevant.... Swansea, Daisuke and Curly had to often break you two apart....

Not even a week later, you offered to teach Anya some self defense.

Shock and surprise was the only thing that Anya could express for a few moments. Understandable.

Who in the world would offer a colleague, who you barely know anything about, self defense?

Well... You did.

Not out of pity, of course not. You just wanted to teach her so she could beat Jimmy up if she needed to and no one was around.

Anyways

Anya had gladly taken the offer from you. Grateful that you just decided to spend your free time in training her and teaching her things.

Although she felt a little guilty for it.

Hush girly, don't feel bad. You deserve to knock Jimmy's teeth out<3

She was ectsatic and giddy internally when she got her own self defense tools from you; a tazer, a somewhat old swiss army knife and the pepper spray decorated in pink.

You just smiled at how giddy she looked.

After the crash:

After the crash. Hmm....

Things went to hell, basically.

Curly was a burnt, crispy nugget (sorry Curly😭)

Let's just say that Anya has used her tazer quite a lot of times on Jimmy out of spite or when he was getting up in her space.

The pepper not so much, she wants to save as much of it to really bad situations. Since the water supply is not that big on the ship.

The army knife is more used to be a every day life tool, using the various things on it for various things. Has occasionally had the knife of it pointed at Jimmy, as well as the tazer/pepper spray in her other hand.

She is so very gratefull for having you as her self defense teacher. She can sucker punch Jimmy if she feels really fed up with Jimmy.

I hope this is what you asked for :') and sorry if it's bad😭 I'm trying to get my writing skills back...

[ponderingmoonlight]

And yet, you're here

Pairing: Geto x fem!reader

Word Count: 2,8k

Synopsis: Years after Suguru left, you're still not able to get him off your mind. When he reappears years after his betrayal, the past collides with the present. Unexpected, in a way you didn't even dare to dream about.

Warnings: this isn't proofread 100%, the emotional rollercoaster you deserve, hurt to comfort big time, this is for all my geto girlies who deserve their happy ending

please please please make this go viral thank you

„He’s a threat for the whole population!”

“We need to kill that brat before he kills all non-sorcerers.”

“I can’t believe someone like him was able to do something like…that.”

“So much wasted potential. Why does a special grade sorcerer act this way?”

“I thought he’s a nice boy.”

“So, you’re not one of those nice guys I guess.”

The sun already hung so low in the sky that you were barely able to see his soft features, let alone the surprised look that crept over his face while hearing those words coming from your mouth.

“Are you talking about me or Satoru?”

You let out one of those cute chuckles he adored so much, the kind he heard in his head on repeat even when you were long gone. Gosh, he couldn’t get enough of this. Those lonely nights with only you and a cigarette by his side, the countless hours he spent trying to understand you while it was his mind that slowly but surely fell apart.

“Nope, I’m always talking about you, Suguru.”

“What am I if not a nice guy, then?”

Sure, Satoru Gojo was his one and only best friend, but you were something else entirely: An unspoken bond that lived in the spaces between words, in glances that lingered just a moment too long. You weren’t a lover, not in the conventional sense, but you weren’t just a friend either. You were a mirror to his soul, the keeper of truths he couldn't bear to speak aloud, and the only person who could hold the weight of his silence without it breaking you both.

“You’re... complicated,” you finally replied, the word laced with warmth rather than judgment.

“You’re the kind of person who feels too much but hides it too well. The kind who would burn the world down if it meant saving the people you love. Not everyone understands that, but I do. Or at least I’m convinced I do.”

Suguru’s lips twitched into a faint smile, more melancholic than amused.

“Complicated, huh? That’s one way to put it.”

“And dangerous,” you added lightly, the hint of a smile in your voice.

“But not in the way they think. Not to me.”

His expression softened, the darkness in his eyes easing for just a moment as he stared at you.

“Not to you,” he echoed, as though testing the words on his tongue, letting them sink into the cracks of his fraying soul.

Till this day, that one last conversation both of you had on that lonely bench still haunts him. The way you looked at him back then, as if you’d already knew that you might never see him again, as if you just counted the hours until he goes berserk.

What are you thinking about him now?

Is he still on your mind?

Are you hating him the way Satoru does?

“You’re thinking about her again, don’t you?”

Fuck. He thought about you.

Again.

Suguru lets out a sharp exhale, the sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh, bitter enough to sting his own ears. How pathetic he has to look to the people surrounding him. When he walked down this path, he knew that he’ll have to do it without you, that he won’t be able to see you again. And yet…

Losing you seems to hurt more than anything else.

 “Of course I am,” he admits to his assistant, his voice low and rough like gravel underfoot.

“Not like I can help it. She’s everywhere, even when she’s not. It’s ridiculous.”

There it is again, your face ghosting through his mind. Other than Satoru and Shoko, you never really tried to find him. If you wanted to, you would, right? Maybe you’re too mad at him for all the things he’s done. Or maybe you already forgot about him.

 “But it doesn’t matter, does it? She’s gone. Just like everything else.”

For a moment, he closes his eyes, trying to drown out the memories, the sound of your laugh, the way your voice softened when you said his name, the weight of your eyes on him as if you could see through all the lies he told himself. He’d burn every memory if he could, let them smolder in the same fire that consumed the rest of his life.

“Besides. She’d hate me now, just like everyone else. Maybe she was just waiting for me to turn into the monster she saw coming.”

“Stop stewing in these thoughts, that doesn’t matter anymore. We’re expecting another bunch of monkeys in half an hour.”

But even as she said it, the words tasted wrong. It shouldn’t matter that he can still feel the warmth of your gaze, your unwavering belief in him, and yet it cuts deeper than any accusation ever could. Suguru shakes his head while straightening his shoulders, eyes locked onto Manami in front of him in order to force you off his mind.

“Doesn’t matter,” he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper, as though trying to convince himself.

“It’s too late for that now. So, where’s the monkeys?”

“Why did I know I’d find you here?”

His voice startles you, making you jump slightly. You turn to see none other than Satoru Gojo standing there, hands in his pockets, his white hair catching the fading sunlight. The sunglasses perched on his nose don’t quite hide the sharp edge in his expression he usually wears around you.

“Because I’m always here, I guess,” you reply softly, your tone as tired as the circles under your eyes appear.

“And I told you to stop a long time ago,” Satoru bites back, his voice bitter, cutting.

“The Suguru you knew… he’s gone.”

The weight of his words lands hard, though they’re not new. He’s said them before, with the same venom in his voice, every time you bring up Suguru or the past.

“I know. I’ve always known.”

“Then why do you keep punishing yourself? Dropping out of Jujutsu High when everyone needed you didn’t bring him back. Hiding out here doesn’t change anything, y’know?”

“It wasn’t about bringing him back, Satoru,” you snap, your voice sharper than you intend.

“It was about… letting him go. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” he challenges, stepping closer.

“I’ve spent years watching people destroy themselves over things they can’t fix. I know the look in your eyes - you miss him. You always have. But you didn’t even try to stop him when he turned his back on us.”

You flinch, his words hitting a nerve.

“Because it wasn’t my place. I wasn’t like you, Gojo. I wasn’t his best friend. I wasn’t strong enough to drag him back kicking and screaming or to stand in his way. All I could do was… let him live the way he decided to. I thought… maybe if I stayed behind, if I didn’t follow him, he’d understand that I believed in him, that I trust him and his actions, the path he chooses. That I’d be here if he ever wanted to come back.”

Satoru’s shoulders tense, his jaw tightening. He never understood. Until this day, he never wrapped his head around the fact that you didn’t try to stop his best friend back then. You, who had more power over Suguru than himself.

God, how much he hates that disgusting truth until now.

“And look where that got you,” he mutters.

You look away, your hands gripping the edge of the bench for support.

“I never expected to see him again, Satoru. I didn’t think I’d matter enough to him for that.”

The silence between you stretches thin, brittle as glass.

“Do you think he hates me?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

“For staying behind? For not going after him?”

Gojo doesn’t answer, which is answer enough. You know he blames you, at least a little, for what happened. For not doing more. For leaving everything to him. For allowing Suguru to turn his back on Jujutsu High.

“Suguru hating you? Never. I bet he still thinks about you every damn day”, Satoru mutters under his breath before turning on his heels and leaving you standing in the rain.

Suguru, still thinking about you? You shake your head vehemently, not allowing that absurd thought into your brain. If he would miss you, he’d visit you, right? In all those years, he never lifted a finger in order to find you.

You were right there. In your small apartment, at jujutsu high.

Maybe he forgot about you after all.

“Me? Forgetting you? I’d never be able to do that, (y/n).”

Maybe some promises are meant to be broken.

-a few evenings later-

You’ve drank too much.

You always do when Shoko isn’t with you, when no one’s around to watch you. But even though you emptied a whole bottle of liqueur on your own, you still aren’t able to forget him. Fuck, his face is glued onto your mind like a second skin, never leaves you even though you drink enough to forget your own name.

Will it always feel like this? Will that ache ever go away?

“What are you thinking about, handsome?”

“Something I’ve lost some while ago”, you mumble, absently swirling your glittery cocktail around.

“That’s a bummer.”

You don’t even gift the random stranger next to you a look, the guy who smells like cheap cigarettes so vehemently that you feel like throwing up.

Maybe it’s time to call it a day.

“Yeah. Whatever.”

You spring back onto your feet, the alcohol vibrating through your veins. You were never much of a drinker back then, only shared a cigarette with Suguru from time to time. But this became your only way to numb the pain. At least for a few hours, at least for some time.

The cold air of the night hits your face like a wall. Even though it’s far past midnight, the city buzzes in street light, laughter and cries. And yet, all you’re able to think about is him again. His laugh, his voice, the way he used to look at you when he thought no one else was watching. Is it wrong to long for him? Is it disgusting that you couldn’t care less about the things he’s done those past years, about what he’d become?

You shake your head, trying to dispel the thoughts, but they cling to you, stubborn and relentless. Why can’t you just stop? Stop longing for something that will never happen, stop running after a person who is long gone? Suguru won’t come back, you won’t just meet him on a random street-

The click of footsteps catches your attention. Heavy, yet elegant footsteps across the still busy street.

At first, you think it’s just another stranger wandering through the city’s darkened streets. But something about the rhythm - steady, purposeful - sets your nerves on edge. Something about this feels familiar.

You glance up, your heart skipping a beat as your gaze meets a pair of familiar dark brown eyes.

Suguru Geto.

The world around you blurs, the sounds of the city fading into silence. It’s him, unmistakably him. His hair is longer than you remember, strands sticking to his face from what looks like rain, or maybe it’s sweat. Blood splatters ruin his clothes and the sharp line of his jaw, painting a stark, gruesome picture paired with those cold orbs. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes… they’re searching, watching your every move.

You should run, or scream, or yell at him – at least something that shows him what he put you through.

Anything.

He’s the same man who left you, who walked away from everything, from you. He, who didn’t even tell you about his true feelings, who didn’t care about the consequences of his actions, who didn’t even ask you to join. All those miserable nights you imagined him sitting next to you on that bench, the bottles of alcohol you’ve drank just to forget his name. He needs to pay for it, needs to know what he did to you by leaving you behind.

But instead, your feet move of their own accord, closing the distance between you in an instant.

Before he can react, you throw your arms around him so, pulling him into a tight embrace.

Suguru freezes, his body stiff against yours. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, as if the sheer force of your presence has left him powerless. You bury your face against his chest, not caring about the blood, the grime, or the hurricane of questions swirling in your mind. All you care about is the fact that he’s here, alive, and solid beneath your touch. You can feel him – not only in your dreams, but for real.

Suguru is here.

He’s alive.

He’s right between your arms.

The scent of him - familiar, though tinged with something darker - fills your senses, dragging you back into a world you thought you’d never touch again. Tears sting your eyes, but you bite them back, unwilling to let them fall.

“Suguru,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

Finally, he moves. His arms lift hesitantly, then wrap around you with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs. He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear any given minute, his grip firm and desperate. His head dips slightly, and for a moment, you think you feel him trembling too.

“What are you doing?”

His voice is rough, low, almost broken.

“I don’t know,” you admit, your voice muffled against his chest.

“I just… I missed you.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes scanning your face as if trying to memorize every detail.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, his tone a mixture of regret and warning.

“Neither should you,” you counter, your gaze unwavering.

Suguru’s lips twitch, almost forming a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He lifts a hand, his fingers brushing against your cheek as though testing if you’re real.

“You should hate me.”

“Maybe I should,” you reply, your voice steady despite the storm raging inside you.

God, you’re so furious at him. Mad because he ran away, mad because he left you standing in the rain.

Mad because this is actually the first time Suguru Geto hugged you.

“But I don’t. I guess I could never hate you.”

His expression falters, the mask he’s worn for so long cracking just enough to reveal the man beneath. The one you knew, the one you loved in a way you never fully understood. And for the first time since leaving everything behind, he feels that small ray of sunshine taking in his heart again.

“You don’t know what I’ve done, what I’ve become. I was so sure you’ll hate me like everyone else.”

“I know enough. And I don’t care. You’re still Suguru Geto, aren’t you?”

He exhales sharply, the sound almost like a laugh, though there’s no humor in it. You, not caring about the fact that he ended countless lives out of his own fulfilment? You, a jujutsu sorcerer who always protected those monkeys?

“You’re too good for this,” he bites back, shaking his head.

“Too good for me.”

“Don’t decide that for me,” you snap, surprising even yourself with your suddenly so sharp tone.

“You don’t get to make that choice. You already did when you left without saying goodbye”

The silence between you stretches, heavy with unspoken words. You’re right and he knows it. But… Was it really a possibility to take you with him back then? Was there a tiny chance that you…would have joined him?

Slowly, he leans his forehead against yours, his eyes closing as though seeking comfort in your presence. No, he doesn’t want to think this through. Not right now. Not when he feels your heart pound against his body, not when you’re this close to him for the very first time.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he admits, his voice barely a whisper.

“I told myself it was better that way.”

“And yet you’re here,” you point out softly.

“And yet I’m here,” he echoes, his lips curving into a faint, bitter smile.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you. No blood, no curses, no jujutsu, no past or future. Just the weight of the present, fragile and fleeting. And for now, that’s enough.

For now, simply holding the man you thought you’ve lost forever on a random street is more than enough to make you feel whole again.

Tags:

@arehzhera @ploylulla @tzubaki @beatrexworld @kenstarsworld

@hellkaiserinphoenix  @lauv4chuuya @sindela @kayleegomez @sunshine7queen

@magalimachete @gatitam @idontknow1123 @creative1writings @sanicsmut 

@mynahx3 @sad-darksoul @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix @chuyasthighs0

@ynackerman9499 @keepghostly  @froufrousnowman @tomiokathedepresso @gojosrealwife 

@coffeeluvr96 @mahi-tamashi @weebotaku21 @chaoticwinnercupcake @lees-chaotic-brain 

@risuola  @sugurulefttesticle @wordskeeper @baku2345 @polarbvnny

@ruixrei @bam-bam-bam-bame-blog @lavenderdrxp @localhehecat @alicerhr

@sugu-love @belovedvamp @wifenanami @chilichopsticks @dlwlrmas-world

@oikawarz @darkstarlight82 @satoreo @kentocalls @cheesemachine44

@ryva @kenjakusconcubine @baku2345 @komelrebi-san @deezy12299

@okay-it-is-ivy @paridoliaaa @cupcaketeddybehr

[heartinhyacinth]

Ahh this has nuzzled its way into my brain

Now I’m imagining that they’re sentient like the statues and remain that way for the same reasons—Xie Lian doesn’t know how to make it stop and it’ll fade eventually anyway, so they just let it be.

Two or so days later, Feng Xin, Mu Qing, and Pei Ming come over to discuss some matters, and Xie Lian, profusely embarrassed, briefly explains, “you see, it’s like the…statue incident haha…”

While Feng Xin and Mu Qing understand immediately, Pei Ming asks for clarification, but Mu Qing turns bright red and declares that they’re not talking about this. Xie Lian agrees. Hua Cheng is snickering quietly in the corner, lounging on the bed with an arm draped over his knee as he leans against the wall behind him and lazily brushes off the cover that repeatedly tries to tuck him in.

They move on and start discussing business, until half way through when Xie Lian seems to have stopped listening, instead staring anxiously at the broom that’s sweeping towards Feng Xin. Hua Cheng is also staring at the broom, except his expression leans on excited anticipation, a mischievous grin beginning to form. Mu Qing notices first and calls them out on not paying attention.

Xie Lian apologizes, but his eyes remain on the broom, “I am, I am! It’s just…” He pauses and takes a wary step towards Feng Xin, hands outstretched cautiously like he’s trying to herd a snappy dog. Xie Lian hesitates, “you’re…um…you’re in the broom’s way…”

Feng Xin, predictably, rages. “I’m- I’m in the broom’s way?! It’s a fucking broom!”

Xie Lian knows how it sounds, but he and Hua Cheng learned the hard way what exactly happens when you’re in the broom’s path while it’s trying to clean. They could have just tossed it out after, but it’s working so hard and it really just wants to help. “I know, I know, it’s just that it…has a bit of a temperament issue haha, you might want to…”

Feng Xin merely scoffs and squares his feet, pride as stubborn as ever. Seconds later, the broom swiftly floats up, meeting his eye level. Feng Xin glares at it suspiciously, and then it flips and starts wacking him on the head, the shoulders, the face. It still looks like it’s sweeping, just vertically now.

Feng Xin is flailing about, screaming and cursing. It’s not an ordinary broom—not just because it’s sentient, but because it was born from Xie Lian. The broom hits hard. Hua Cheng is now sitting up straight to get a full view of the live entertainment, delighted at getting the outcome he was so clearly hoping for. Mu Qing and Pei Ming are trying to avoid Feng Xin’s flying fists while laughing so hard they nearly lose balance trying to do both at once. Xie Lian is trying to calm the broom and talk it down, while also scolding Feng Xin because he shouldn’t have provoked it. It finally calms only once Feng Xin is in the other corner of the shrine, far out of its sweeping path.

“Bravo—nice!” Hua Cheng claps his hands and then snickers, “next, why don’t you see what happens when you piss off the cooking pot”. Pei Ming, who was standing a few inches from the stove, glances at the pot of steaming purple…whatever it is, then quickly gives a wide berth.

As they go to leave, they announce that next time they’ll just talk outside. Xie Lian chuckles nervously and they all follow his line of sight as his eyes drift towards…the ax.

And they thought paradise manor was the house of horrors between hualian’s homes…

//I’m fairly new to tumblr and don’t rly know the etiquette here (or social rules in general if I’m being honest) so I hope this is alright??//

Obsessed with the idea of Xie Lian getting his spiritual powers back and not really using them outside of like subconscious actions. Like in a fight he spent 800 years just straight up throwing hands so it doesn’t really occur to him to use it. But because he’s literally stuffed full of spiritual energy so it just results in Puqi Shrine becoming the fairies house in Sleeping Beauty. Like there’s a pot stirring itself while truly toxic ingredients are added to a soup. The floor is being sweeped by a broken broom. The laundry is being done automatically meaning all his white robes are now a faint pink. Hua Cheng is sitting in the bed grinning fondly at the chaos around him. Meanwhile Xie Lian is just sitting outside sorting out his junk piles to see if he can find the pretty comb he wanted to give his husband and thinking of the chores he has to do today because they didn’t leave the bed until noon.

[zuppizup]

I am pumped for sooooo many things season 7 but I am so excited for the Rayla and Soren face off.

Presumably, Soren has the full context for who Runaan is to Rayla at this stage. I have to assume he knows Runaan is not merely the leader of the assasins to her. He's her father, the man who raised her.

And that has to smart with him, right? Soren spent the past few seasons and season 6 in particular, grappling with his father and who was.

Rayla was raised as a solider too. Unlike Soren who's role primarily was protection, Rayla was raised as an assassin. Raised to kill.

And here's the man who raised her like that. The killer, in Soren's eyes.

And Rayla is defending him? Fighting against her friends for him?

How does she make Soren understand that, with his background? How does she get him to understand that, yes, this man killed Callum and Ezran's father, was going to kill Ezran too... and yet she still loves him and wants to protect him.

Especially considering Soren was clearly willing to kill his own father to protect Ezran.

I absolutely adore how their friendship has developed over the seasons, and I am soooo excited to see them try and hurt each other.