#i don't even write about him much...

[rachelazegler]

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

✵Under the hood.

✦ Pairing: Modern!Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader ✦ Summary: A beautiful day quickly turned into a very shitty one when your car broke down in the middle of a mountain road. Thank Goodness, a charming cowboy luckily crosses your way and talks you through fixing your fussy engine. ✦ Warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI!! Not properly speaking sexual intercourse, but this contains sexual themes. "Talking you through it". Dirty talk. Mechanical sex metaphors if that's even a thing??? Sexual tension. Arthur is a smooth b*stard. ✦ Words: 2,3k (once again relying on @arthurmorgan-vp for this gorgeous pic of Arthur!)

Sooo! This was initially an ask for my mini prompt sprint from @cloudywithachanceofcrisis (awesome url btw), and it turned into this whole fic because I'm too deep into modern Arthur and I just couldn't stop writing. Basically, the ask was for Reader's car to break down and for Arthur to talk her through fixing it, "Megan Fox Transformers" style. 😏 I had too much fun writing it. Enjoy!

✧.*

A creaking sound of metallic agony rings out as you pull your car's hood up, quickly followed by a horrible smell of burnt pieces of metal and plastic.

Shit.

This really wasn't what you had planned for today. A barbecue party at your best friend's ranch, cold beers, the smell of grass mixing with seasoned steaks and hay. And laughter, and horses, and riding. The sun embracing your face as you and her would gallop through the fields, just like when you were kids. The real start of summer.

That's what you had planned this morning when waking up. Now the sun is roasting your neck, your car is stopped, front pitifully open as a wounded animal you would have just hurt, along one of Wyoming's lonely rocky mountain roads. Needless to say, you were in deep trouble; no network, traffic as low as the school's road on holidays.

Except for other locals, of course.

After long minutes of panic and desperate calls into the void of a connectionless dial tone from your phone, you finally heard your salvation from the other side of the road. A blue Chevrolet pickup truck, some Creedence Clearwater Revival bursting through the windows, sunrays gleaming on the immaculate bodywork.

The truck slows down and stops right next to you. Window down, its owner smiles at you with an unmistakable smirk and blue eyes shining almost as much as the perfectly polished metal of his vehicle.

"You alright there, sugar?"

Arthur Morgan. Another ranch owner from your valley. He's bending to your direction, turning down his music, and you notice the pile of country and rock albums on the countertop. You internally chuckle; it fits his character way too well. You knew him a little; all the breeders know each other in the valley. Most of them, as with your family and his, have beneficial relationships, like symbiosis in nature. Clownfish and anemones. Trees and lichen. Make yourself useful to the other party and you'll never fight again. Instead of destroying yourselves over a piece of land, you've learned to take advantage of each other and to prosper together. The Man is an animal, after all.

You had very good memories of the time you had spent at his ranch, usually for the breeding season. He owned one of the finest horses in the whole county and rode them like no one else could. And you would have lied if you had said you didn't find him handsome, in this typical cowboy rugged charm. Always wearing jeans, sometimes chaps. Tight, simple black or white shirts that were always stretched around his biceps or pectorals. Never without a pack of Marlboros that smelled like fresh nights, talking about life under the porch. A leather hat and jacket for riding, a cap when around his ranch. Today is a baseball cap type of day too, it seems.

"Of course not, Morgan! Do I look peachy?! My car broke down and I can't fix it." You explain, hands on your hips.

"A chance I was passin' by then." He smirks even more, readjusting his position in his seat. "Don't worry darlin', we'll get it in mint condition no time."

With a smooth move of the wheel with one hand, he pulls over just a few meters from you. Your hear the old truck turning down, the door opening; he grabs a toolbox and a bottle of water before joining you in front of the open hood of your poor suffering car.

"Here, first, drink a bit. Don't want ya droppin' dead in the middle o' nowhere."

You chuckle as you take the water he's handing to you, the coldness of it on your palms enough to make you feel at ease. "Would be hard to explain to the cops eh?"

"Sure would." He concedes with a snort, his left hand taking support on the hood as he bends towards the engine. After a few seconds of him probing the wound with an expert gaze in silence, he turns to you. "Ya know what? You're going to learn and fix it yaself. I'll teach ya. That way, you won't have to wait on a... dirty cowboy to save your ass next time you break down."

You smile, amused and somehow grateful for his proposition. You definitely should have known better in cars already, considering how life was demanding in those wild plains.

"Alright then, let's hear what the "grand master" of cars has to say." You joke, and just for the way his crinkles showed more in the corner of his eyes, the smile it brought to his face, it was worth it.

He takes a dirty piece of fabric and puts it in the back pocket of his jeans out of habit, before giving you a pair of gloves from the toolbox, greasy and used, and you put them on without complaint, hard, used cotton surrounding your skin.

Your eyes involuntarily notice how his neck is more tanned, compared to a part of his torso you can catch a glimpse of. His forearms, too. The veins that run through them are like great streams that sublimate his muscles. He really is cut out for the hard life on the ranch, even more than most people you know.

"First, you need t'find your brake cylinder. Check the fluid level in it." He points at the plastic reservoir and waits.

You bend towards the engine too, and touch the cylinder. It is one of the only things you knew about.

"That's right, that' thing. Does it look full?"

"Yes."

"Good. 'Could be leakin', though. Brush your hands under it..." He commands, one hand still on the hood and the other holding his belt. He looks so casual, as if he were giving mechanic lessons every day. "Come on, don't be shy, darlin'."

You do exactly as he tells. You don't know why, but there's something suddenly extremely intimate in this whole situation. The way you're both bent inward, bodies close, way closer than how you would stand next to someone. The way he speaks those orders, his voice even more gravelly, rasping, almost purring in your ears. Deep, so deep, and the way his accent is eating half the words in that southern drawl is doing things to you. Stomach fluttering, you try to keep your head cool and actually focus and fixing your damn car.

"So? S'it wet?"

Jeeeesus, he's not making things easy. Making violence to yourself not to answer yes on instinct, you force out a too casual "Nope."

"Alright, now do the same with the coolin' system. S'right next to it."

You bring your hand to the other plastic cylinder, wrapping your fingers under the round pipe coming out of it. Your muscle memory is stronger than your rational thinking. You can't help but imagine how it would feel to have them wrapped around something else, something just inches away from your own hips right now. Something you knew would be undoubtedly big considering the way that man is carrying himself, the way it shows when he's riding, big and heavy and obvious through his jeans. You close your eyes, unable to keep those unholy ideas away.

"No leaks, sir."

"Perfect. Oh, ya should always check up for leaks first, but never open this damn thing with your engine still runnin', ya hear? Could splash hot chemicals all over ya."

"Copy that."

"Good girl." He drawls in a satisfied praise, his left hand tapping on the hood in a satisfied way. As if he had just finished with you and would pat your ass contently. You shiver, his words and the fucking delicious way he said it igniting and unresistable fire between your thighs. "Now let's check the engine fluid. Pull out the dipstick from it."

You slowly remove the long and thin wand from your car motor, and to your surprise, you feel one of his big and rough palms on top of your glove to help you carry it, as his left one finally leaves its perch and grabs the top of the stick.

"See the fluid? If the thing looks like you have just shoved it in an oil fryer, you're good. But if you notice some other stuff like... somethin' that looks like thick water, or a creamy stuff right here, it ain't good."

Fluid. Shoving. Thick. Creamy. There's no way he isn't aware of what he's doing. The way his gigantic hands handle yours and the stick. The way you can smell his strong perfume, petrolic reek of the damaged engine long gone, replaced by heady notes of sweat from the scorching sun making him pearl, mixing with remnants of his cologne. Or was it woods? Cedar and pines, with hays, and faint traces of this so specific scent that farms and ranches have.

"Darlin'? Ya got it?"

"Y-yeah yeah. Oil good, creamy stuff isn't." Oh my god, you sound so dumb you're almost embarrassing yourself.

"That' right. Now the filter. See that big fan underneath? We have to make sure it's perfectly running and sealed, overwise your engine is pumping stuff from nowhere and ends up damn dirty."

He arcs himself completely, lying his side against your car to slip his hand under the piece of metal, and grabs a pipe you can't see from where you stand. He probably tests the solidity of the thing, but all you see is him wanking a fucking engine. Does he handles his cock like that? Does he jerk it slow and steady like he rides his horse in an elegant walk? Slow but deliberate, meticulous like he is with his own truck? Or is it all the contrary, does he treat it rough and quick? Like an urge he needs to get out, contrasting with his precise and conscientious work? Does his shaft fuck his fist, jerking off so fast he's almost done in a few minutes? Does his-

"Here, I need to show it to ya. Come."

Oh. You're dead on the inside, your pussy isn't even trying anymore, burning without any restriction and you're happy it's a hot day because at least you have an excuse to be sweating that much. He's still leaning his side against the car, arm folded, and he gestures for you to join him in the same position. Throat hoarse, legs mushy as if they were boneless, you get closer and lean on your side too, your back touching his chest. You two are basically spooning on your car right now. He removes his hand from the engine.

"See? S' that one, right there. Go on, grab' it."

Jesus all I want is to fucking grab it you complain in your head. He must realise this is extremely erotic, right? You couldn't be imagining it on your own. You hope not, or else it means that you're completely crazy. Your body is entirely tensed as an arched bow, you bring your own hand to the filter pipe.

"Now... shake it. T'make sure it's sealed."

His breath is almost brushing against your ear. His deep raspy tone, resonating through his chest when he speaks, scratching against his tongue, feels like honey and whiskey both at the same time. Languorous and coarse. It swirls and rolls all against you, coating you as if you were a candy waiting to be eaten whole. You shake the metal piece, trying at all costs to push away the sinful thoughts the gesture is bringing to you.

"Thaaat's it... How does it feel, girl?"

"F-feels good to me." You're blushing, you're sure you're blushing. You know you are, cheeks burning at the double meaning this whole conversation is holding. You hear and feel him humming a positive, deep sound in answer.

"Well, if it ain't mechanical, it's probably your electrical darlin'. Let's look at that battery o' yours."

He finally gets up, pushing on his arm. You're almost sad not to be turned the other way, you could have witnessed the way his biceps had flexed, veins popping for a few seconds, grease and oil now painting his skin and beautifully emphasizing his muscles, a perfectly shaped and shaded Greek statue.

You start to get back up too, and suddenly feel the weight of his gaze and you. You were bent, half folded just a few seconds ago, basically presenting your ass to him. Oh, you congratulate yourself for having chosen to wear these little shorts this morning. There was no way he could have looked at something else. Once fully up, you greet him with a not-so-innocent smile, fixing a strand of your hair behind your ear. A vein on his neck shows as he reciprocates your smirk, and his own body tenses. He's enjoying this whole situation.

"Mmh. I can already tell ya, she's the one causing trouble." He states, pulling his cap back in place with two hands. You're not even sure he's actually talking about the car anymore.

"H-how do you know?" You didn't want your voice to sound that weak. This man had the effect of disconnecting every basic function from your biology; except all the ones related to sex of course. Those, those they were on fire, on the verge of fucking overheating.

"Look, it's loose." He explains slowly, voice drawling, each word slurred in a husky rumble. He's saying it like that on fucking purpose. "Some bolts must have blown out. So, that littl' bitch bounces as you drive, and it ends up disconnected. All... messy, 'n overused..."

You religiously nod at his godly speech. Your eyes are fixated on his hands moving the battery in periodic movements, repetitive sharp snapping noise filling the air, fingers sliding in between the pieces of metal.. He could have well been thrusting his hips into it, it would have had the same effect on you.

"Now... let's get this bad girl to behave." He adds, devilish smirk on his face, a hand leaving the battery to pull a wrench and a few new bolts from his toolbox.

All your life you had prided yourself on being a strong and independent woman. The ranch chores? No problem. Riding? Easier and funnier, even barrel racing. Lassoing, helping a cow give birth? Done and done. Not that it was easy, but you could handle it yourself, and pretty damn well on top of that.

But right here, right now, this ego is crushed under the dirty boots of this Appolon of a cowboy, odd but unforgettable mix between a rough rancher and a mythological God, palming a car battery as if it was your ass. You could have done anything if he had ordered you to, you had never been weaker because of someone. You would have been on your knees, God, you wish he'd let you get on your knees for him.

With just a few turns of the wrench, the temperamental car is repaired. He tests the engine from the conductor seat, and it works perfectly fine. It's almost humiliating how easy it was. He gets out, pulls the hood down for you, and stands tall, satisfied with his little intervention.

"You're good t'go, darlin'."

"Thank you so much, Arthur." You don't know if you should be thanking him for the battery or for the litteral porn show he delivered you for free. It had been years since your hormones had gotten that wild.

And they weren't about to stop, considering how he had taken back his water bottle and drank straight from it, some of it beautifully streaming down his scarred chin, then his throat before getting soaked up by his already sweat-drenched shirt. He takes some of it in his right hand and wets his neck, and you have to contain a sigh. The base of his hair, all wet like this, makes you want to run your fingers through it more than ever.

"T'was nothin'. Am happy t'help a pretty girl in need."

There are a few seconds, just a few, hanging in the thick air between the two of you, where you both look at his other, his abyssal marine blue eyes sinking so deep into yours you're almost surprised he's not falling right into your soul. Maybe he is. But his gaze doesn't waver for a single second, not even by an inch, and you realize that only he maintains such intimate contact for so long without showing the slightest sign of nervousness. No one else does. For him, it doesn't have to be a source of discomfort like most people, and it becomes so intimate that you feel your legs weaken once again under the weight of that gaze. Just the two of you. Fucking with your eyes.

He gets closer to you, and you move back against the front of your car. You don't say a word. Neither is he. There's just his deep breaths and the deafening beating of your heart. He raises his arms around your waist, as if wanting to lean on the hood, trapping you. Your thighs and your aching core between them are just a few torturous inches from his jeans-covered crotch. You want to take a quick peek, burning to know if he's indeed painfully hard, if the blue pants are as tight as his shirt is on his bicep. But you can't, unable to break his eye contact, sucked into those blue seas. There's a small grease stain on his cheek you'd like to cover with your lipstick. You hold your breath. Your whole body freezes, which made no sense at all to you, considering how hot you were feeling, how ardent the atmosphere was with him almost bent on you. It's like those mind-numbing summer days, when the air is so hot and heavy and full of electricity that all you want is for the storm to finally break, never mind if the lightning strikes your whole body.

All the better if it does.

He grabs his wrench he had forgotten behind you, and pulls back. In an instant, it's winter. You don't want it to be. He looks at you with this knowing smirk, this hard jawline almost cheeky, this goddamn ballcap like a crown.

"H-hey uh -" You cough, unable to let things end like this. Searching for the thunderstorm. "I was... I was going to the Miller's Ranch for a barbecue. D'you wanna come?" You bite your lip at yet another double entendre. Shit. "I could... Offer you a beer, for all of that?"

Gently pulling the working gloves off your hands, he answers, taking his sweet time, his face holding this repressed mischievousness and desire, well hidden behind his smug expression.

"Well... I'd very much like to come. Thank you, sugar."

✧.*

Well, thank you for this amazing request that sparked this obsession in my brain I guess, Rhae! Also I won't lie to you guys, I was clearly inspired too by these amazing art pieces from @/altergoat02. Check out their blog, all of their art is prodigious.

And if Modern Arthur is your kind of boah just like me, I highly recommend you to check out Evie's Takin' care of business!! And yes I've completely looked for a tutorial on youtube about car motors. I'm just that ignorant.

tagging the sweeties who had shown interest in this/my work: @stottlemorgan, @moons-honies, @arthurmorganist, @redwritr, @cloudywithachanceofcrisis, @a-court-of-valkyries

[thekittyokat]

you ever just have a lot, a LOT of feelings all at once about a character and not even remotely enough words or brainpower to FORM the words to describe everything you're feeling. so it feels like you may explode. yeah

[fallofthecelestial]

Okay. Since we're going over all the takes on Mr. X at this point.. What if his powers really don't have a backside. What if (the state of) his normal life is the backside.

What if his normal life is akin to that of heroes where he has to pretend to be something he's not and follow rules that the people who control his life came up with to further their own goals. What if he can only be free of other people's beliefs and expectations when he's a hero.

What if in reality he truly is like everyone else. The other heroes. The ordinary people. All those who work themselves to the bone, who are tired and overworked and sick of all the exploitation...

What if when he's in the form of the number one hero.. when he becomes the most sought after product on the hero market..

Is when he gains the freedom to truly be himself

[hatsbuckets]

[i do not need a fwb situation, i tell myself repeatedly. (i'm in college it'd be way too easy lmao)]

Head Canons (some suggestive stuff in this but not much)

Thinking about John Mactavish volunteering at animal shelters whenever he can. It ends up being like a few spattering of days every month, but he'll spend all day there. He loves being around the animals. And he loves getting to be useful and help wherever he can.

You, a longtime volunteer, there nearly every day, love having the enthusiastic, charming... strong... muscular... funny... extra help too. You were the one who showed John around on his first day, a volunteer event day that he happened upon. A few dozen people showed up, and this mohawked, military man was among them.

He was one of the few who came back to the shelter after the event, and on some random day every week, he's there to lend a hand, listening intently to whatever instructions you give him (he's very motivated to listen to you and help the animals out) and even after a couple weeks of absence, he comes back again, apologizing that work took him away so suddenly.

And after a few months... this silly, mohawked, (might I add effortlessly charming, handsome, pretty?) military man's scattering of volunteer days has become a welcome surprise every time. He's always so sweet when he talks to you, throwing a friendly, "good mornin', love. Survive without me?" Carrying on easy conversation throughout the day, and occasionally something that feels like flirting, but you don't read too much into it.

He's a blessing to have. Dogs need a run? He's the first to grab their leashes. Cats' litter boxes need cleaning? He's there with a scoop in hand. The small collection of rodents' pens need a new layer of bedding? He's already headed to storage.

He comes back drenched in sweat from runs, his tank plastered to his chest. Sweaty thighs peeking out from below his shorts as he squats down to pet the happy, panting dogs. And you pass him a towel, and his smile just beams up at you. God he's adorable and hot all at once.

His arms flex against his shirt sleeves when he hefts the heavy bags of food up onto his shoulder and god if only he'd do that that you.

His hands are so gentle with the tiny new litter of cats that just came in, helping you clean them off and place them safely into the crate with their mum. need I say more

You learn more about each other. Where he's from, what he does for work, and of course you'd pinned military, but he doesn't quite go into the work that he does. He talks about the men he works with, and you start to recognize names like Price, Gaz, and Ghost. He even shows you pictures of the first two. Not the latter though.

And then another few weeks he's not there... You're starting to miss the loud Scottish voice that normally fills the space as you hose down the concrete patio in the back the shelter. Your thoughts drift to how last time you did this with him he had sprayed you very intentionally with the hose. And you nearly tackled him to wrap your soaking body around him. His hand discarding the hose and wrapping under your legs as he hoists you happily up into his arms and oh you were so close, laughing, smiling, teasing about getting soaked. You were definitely blushing as much as he was.

a couple of days later, just like he'd never left, he's back, helping you organize the larger storage closet. Sharing jokes and teasing. Until you have to reach across him and his face is so close to yours and he completes the distance, catching you oh so off guard but you melt into that kiss. and he presses and prods until your job to reorganize is interrupted by the sudden to fuck each other into the next dimension.

and then a few days later it's the same... You had simply gone to grab a new leash from the closet... he had come for a bag of dog food... or that's what he'd told you at least...

And then your bodies are close, his hand at the back of your neck, your hand travelling down and down, his mouth on yours, hot, needy, quick, and amazing. You're both happy to do it. And it seems you both don't think much of it.

This becomes a routine, in his oh too few volunteer days each month, you make a habit of occupying small, mostly private spaces of the shelter, the small break room, the storage closet, his car, your car. It's only been two or three months, and it's not like it's a big shelter, not that many employees, but damn if it doesn't excite you all the same.

And then after one of these sessions, as you're slipping you shirt on in the back of your car, he pecks a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth. "I'll be gone a few weeks this time, bonnie. Jus' though' I might warn ya." (his accent gets thicker when it's laced with lust, you've come to notice.)

And he is, gone a while, that is. And during this time one of your old flings comes to town... some business trip... and God is this one always a good time, so charming and kind, buys you chocolates and all, a good person truly, just not one to settle down. That's fine by you. So, you let them take you home, let them in your bed, and have a good time. And then they head back to whatever the hell fancy job they have in whatever town they live in now.

It's longer than you expect before John comes back. And when he does, he greets you with that charming smile and you put him to work almost immediately, and he's happy to get to cleaning the dog kennels with you. You get to talking, he asks how your past few weeks have been. And John is so easy to talk to. And you mention your old friend you visited, how they visited your home, even bought you chocolates, the goof. But John gets quiet at this... you don't mention it, not yet...

And then of course, he walks you out to your car that afternoon and of course you end up in the back of it (I should mention here that you do not own a small car, after being the animal lover you are, you need the space to load crates in the back seat) and something about how John takes you this time is needy, needier, possesive in the way he nips at your skin and presses against you.

And at the end of it, he leaves with the same gentle peck at the corner of your mouth, but this time there's no quip, no tease, just a "drive safe" and a gentle smile...

A few days later this man returns to the shelter and before he even asks what needs to get done, he's offering up a small box of chocolates with a bashful little smile.

You thank him and accept the chocolates. and then it's back to work. That evening though, after a particularly long day after getting three new dogs and a new cat, when John walks you to your car, you ask if he wants to go home with you. You'd thought about it all day... somewhere between cleaning and intaking the new animals, mustering up the courage to ask. He accepts with that same enthusiasm that the dogs have when someone walks in with their leashes.

You wake up tangled in him, his arm slung heavy over your waist, his chest warm against your back, one leg thrown over yours like he’s actively trying to wrestle you into the mattress in his sleep. And this man sleeps light, military training and all, but the second you start shifting to sneak out of bed, his grip tightens. "Where ya goin’, love?" all rough morning voice and sleep-heavy slur, nose nudging against your shoulder like he could just sink right back into you and stay there. (You do not go anywhere.)

And things stay the same, mostly. He still only comes around every few weeks, still volunteers, still fills the shelter with that chaotic, obnoxious, charming energy. Still gets drenched in sweat from running the dogs, still lifts those massive bags of food onto his shoulders like he’s personally showing off for you (and he is), still sneaks off into the storage closet with you when no one’s looking, grinning against your mouth before pressing you up against the nearest shelf.

But then, one evening, right as you're closing up the shelter, he lingers by the front desk. Hands shoved deep in his pockets. That telltale shift of weight from foot to foot like he's got something rattling around in his skull, something he's been turning over for a while now.

"Was thinkin'..." He exhales sharply, rubs a hand over the back of his neck, looking down at his boots like they’ve got the answers. "I've gotta go again, but maybe next time I’m back, we go out somewhere. A proper date, aye?"

And fuck. That shouldn’t make your stomach flip. But it does. You should say yes. You want to say yes. But you don't.

Because life is a cruel and petty little bastard, your old fling had waltzed back into town. Just for you. A familiar, easy thing. The kind of person you don’t have to think about too much. And for some reason, you say yes when they ask you to dinner. Maybe because you don’t want to wait for something uncertain. Maybe because John is John—flirty, gorgeous, disgustingly good at making you weak in the knees, but never around long enough for you to be sure. (And John doesn't show it, not outwardly, but it breaks his heart.)

And then John comes back. Finally. And he’s not alone. There is a mountain standing next to him. Big. Broad. Dressed head to toe in dark clothes and hoodie like he’s ready for spying, the lower half of his face covered by a black medical mask. He looks like he could crush a man with one hand and still have fingers left to spare. And his eyes, dark, cold, sharp as a fucking blade, land on you like he’s personally offended by your existence. Oh. Oh, this must be Ghost.

John, completely unfazed, grins. “Ghost wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” Ghost says nothing. Just stares. (You have never felt more judged in your life. The fuck did you do to make this walking fortress glare at you like that? You know he doesn’t know. There’s no way he knows. Right?)

And things go back to normal, kind of. John keeps showing up, keeps doing his usual thing. But there’s something off this time. A shift in the way he looks at you, something quietly considering behind his eyes. It all comes to a head one evening when you’re closing up together, standing in the back room trying to fix a shelving issue. He’s quiet. You’re quiet.

And then, you break first. Spill it out like you didn’t mean to—how your old fling wasn’t what you thought, how you shouldn’t have agreed in the first place, how you let yourself get caught up in something easy instead of something real. And John? He leans back against the counter, arms crossed, listening, nodding along like he’s already pieced this all together. Until you mutter, "And I don’t even fucking like chocolate."

And that is what makes him pause. And his brows pull together. Just a little. And then, in the softest, most John way possible—"...Oh."

And the next time he walks into the shelter, it’s not with chocolates.

It’s with a small paper bag. He hands it to you with a little smirk, and inside.

Fresh strawberries. From the farmer’s stand down the road. You’d only mentioned them once. Some passing comment made one day while you were both cleaning up in the yard outside. And John had remembered. And with a charming little smile, he takes your hand. "Let me take ya out properly." And you blink up at him, caught off guard by how easy, how simple he makes it sound. "I—yeah."

And yes, you go on that date. And yes, you end up back at your place. And yes, you have a very, very good night.

And yes, eventually, John introduces you to Ghost properly. (and Price and Gaz too, ah John and Kyle.)

And yes, somehow, someway, you end up with not just one, but two terrifyingly strong military men helping out at the shelter—John still enthusiastically doing everything he can, and Ghost looming in the doing every little thing you ask without question, surprisingly good with the most feral old cats, somehow terrifying and begrudgingly helpful all at once. (He makes it a point to lift two bags of dog food for every one John carries. Jesus Christ)

And yes, eventually, Ghost ends up in your bed too.

But that’s another story.

Thanks for reading.

[dootznbootz]

Thinking about how Telemachus has heard "You are just like your father" by so many people for most of his life. How different yet refreshing it is to hear said father tell him warmly "You're so much like your mother".

[orange-sora]

The thing is from SVSSS' perspective, the way the characters are and how it's all written, MXTX's choice to not have any revelation makes sense. However, I think, truth matters a lot. (In life too, atl to me).

In a story about liars, it's foolish to want truth. I recognise that. To scratch that itch, I have read many fics about Shen Yuan's identity reveal. MANY MANY FICS. I just really wanted Binghe to know.

Grief is such a heavy all-consuming emotion that it make everything else seem petty in comparison. Squabbles are normal in any relationship. Then, something big happens and it feels stupid. Your own hurt and anger feels small and immature in comparison. Nothing matters as much as death. It's too...final. Definitive.

Being thrown into the Abyss and betrayed by the one who promised time and time again to protect and care for you wasn't a tiff, though. It wasn't trivial, in any sense. Even system insisted again and again, the Abyss arc was significant. Unskippable. Indispensable.

So Binghe was justifiably angry. He wanted answers. The truth. And then Shen Qingqiu self detonated to "pay his debts". And from Binghe's pov, every wrong done against him lost its power over him. This particular ocean is too deep and dark. He'll surely drown. Anything but this. He'll accept it all as long as it doesn't end like this.

Then years of failing to bring Shizun back. There's no energy left to be angry. Anger almost always leads to weariness. It seeps into your soul. Throughout the rest of the novel, it becomes clear to him that yes, Shizun does care for Binghe. Yes, there is love. However, Shizun won't choose Binghe in the way he wants to be chosen. Shizun loves him but Shizun also hurts him. And he hurts Shizun too.

If Shizun doesn't explain himself, then Binghe can just come up with his own answers. Or he can disregard it all. It's not important. It's not.

But it is. System said so. Shen Qingqiu mourned him. A part of Binghe died. They all knew. Maigu Ridge happened because Abyss happened. Because there were no answers. Binghe's insecurity, even in post canon extras, made complete sense.

I truly admire Binghe. I know he's... well everything that he is. But he was able to do something that I personally don't have the power to do. And that's letting go without an explanation.

Does knowledge of love make the pain go away?

I have had people in my life who I know loved me. But, one too many tiny hurts, one too many thought less words, drip resentment that fills over time. It doesn't stay as lovely as it could have been. Maybe all relationships are complicated because love through actions, no matter how regularly conveyed doesn't erase the rest.

An apology, in itself, isn't enough. Words aren't enough. Actions, also aren't enough. Doesn't he deserve both? A closure to why it happened and a commitment to why it won't ever again? Don't we all?

There's a reason why people ask authors for explanation. Truth has the maximum power when it comes from the source. Considering how sensitive Binghe is, it'll stay with him. Binghe can come up with a thousand different theories or ignore it all, but nothing will soothe him quite as well as Shen Qingqiu's truth.

Unfortunately, he's doomed to never get it.

EDIT- Part 2

[vaguely-concerned]

the question is who taught lucanis to knit. was it something he already knew how to do or is he picking it up over the course of the game as part of his 'if I manage to cram enough hobbies in there I won't have to sleep again ever. easy' experiment. did he learn it out of a book (as a sometime knitter, a horrifying thought but I wouldn't put it past him). as hilarious as I find the mental image of caterina with knitting needles I do not believe in it, did he pick it up from someone in the household staff growing up the same way he did cooking. is the sweater he wears with his introductory armour his own work (very funny if so it's just so. incredibly neutral toned and sensible.) I understand why he never does it on screen because animating knitting is the devil's own work and bioware were right to dodge right past it no one should wish themselves that kind of pain, but do you think off-screen he's using it the same way davrin does whittling during team meetings and book club nights (for real the grandmas were so right for this: knitting during social group situations is a neurodivergent life hack like you wouldn't believe if doodling isn't your thing/isn't doing it for you). it's that or sharpening his knives and some people seem to get a bit nervous about that so he mostly sticks to the knit one purl one of it all. does he make things for the team. for romanced rook perhaps. boring but useful things like socks and scarves, to be clear. I think mr. 'I made you a cake (cautiously marital intent)' would not mean to impress just make sure your feet weren't cold jogging around the heights of athim killing darkspawn. knitting more socks for harding so she won't get cold walking around everywhere in her fereldan *checks notes written on palm* clogs. some of taash' outfits... you think rook and lucanis are letting them walk around the anderfels like that without at least a token sensible scarf on even tho adaari are built different in terms of body temperature. I say no not in my lighthouse they would team up and mother hen them to shathann levels before they'd let that happen. (the scarf has dragons on it taash thinks it's kind of cool actually.) a bobble hat for manfred not because he really needs it but because he wanted to feel included. assan indignantly tries to steal it and fly away with it so he gets his own scarf to promote peace between the lighthouse little guys and it works. help.

[tennessoui]

Would you like to do this one for Obikin ? 👀

22. “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

💯

[from this list of prompts]

[2. 'have you lost your damn mind?' (LATEST) - 5. 'are you jealous' - 13. 'kiss me.' - 14. 'hey, i'm with you, okay? always.' - 18. 'this is the stupidest plan you've ever had. of course i'm in.' - 19. 'the paint is supposed to go where?' - 24. 'you're the only one i trust to do this' - 27. 'i'm pregnant' - 28. 'marry me?' - 29. 'i thought you were dead' - 32. 'i think i'm in love with you and i'm terrified' - 37. 'wanna dance?' - 44. 'if you die, i'm gonna kill you' - 41. 'you did all of this for me?' - 46. 'hey, have you seen...? oh']

22. 'I've seen the way you look at me when you think I don't notice.'

"Oh," a very familiar voice says. "I wasn't aware you were attending the banquet tonight."

Anakin stares down at the empty plate before him. The servers are moving around the tables as guests rise from their seats and begin to chatter amongst themselves. Anakin thinks for a moment about trying to catch his master's eye, but Qui-Gon is across the hall in deep conversation with the representative of Alderaan the last time that Anakin checked. And anyway--he's not sure his master would intervene to help him with this problem.

Even though, technically speaking, this problem is half Qui-Gon's problem. Or, like. At least a quarter of it.

Probably.

"Though I suppose I would have known if you'd responded to my comm-message," the voice says in a lilting and crisp Coruscanti accent that Anakin knows is as much of a ruse as the rest of him.

Anakin scowls down at the table and counts to five. He is here to represent the Jedi Order as a senior padawan. He is not here to start a diplomatic incident by stabbing Prince Kenobi in the hand with a shrimp fork.

Or is it Lord Kenobi?

He thinks, yes, technically probably a lord. Or maybe it was a knight? A duke? Anakin can never remember all the words that make up Kenobi's title. He just knows that Kenobi's elder brother married the queen of Stewjon, so he's now the king consort, and Obi-Wan got to claim a bunch of useless titles without even doing any of the hard work.

And so Obi-Wan Kenobi gets to call himself a prince now when once, he'd called himself a padawan.

Once, even, he'd called himself Qui-Gon Jinn's padawan.

Anakin counts to five again and gathers up all the diplomatic words and scripts he's learned over the years. Then, he actually turns and faces Kenobi, and all of those words fly out of his mind.

Kenobi looks unfairly good in the ivory white of his outfit. The top half is mostly lace, which--isn't it cold in space? Isn't it cold on Stewjon?

He's wearing a small, ceremonial circlet atop his auburn hair, and the glinting gold of the crown offsets the white of his robes nicely. He just--

He looks so beautiful, even as he's lounging in the chair next to Anakin, eyes pinned on his face as if he'd wait all night just to hear him speak.

That sort of look is dangerous. Anakin knows that intimately well. That sort of attention...Anakin isn't built to withstand it for long. Not without succumbing to all and any of Kenobi's demands. He's sure he has a backbone, but it just melts when he's around Kenobi.

But not anymore. Anakin's twenty now, and he's going to be Knighted any day. He's above such weakness.

"I'm sixteen years your junior," Anakin bites out, hand becoming a fist in his lap. "Don't you think maybe it's a little inappropriate to be comm-messaging me without my master's approval?"

Despite the venom he tries to weave through what should be a cutting rebuke, Kenobi's eyebrows raise. He doesn't look ashamed nor does he look particularly discouraged. "After all the rest of the inappropriate things we've done together, darling, I'd think you'd overlook a comm-message."

Anakin's scowl grows exponentially, but Kenobi continues without pause, "Though if you'd like me to get your master's retroactive approval for every time we've interacted, I shall of course. Do you think he'd approve of your judicious but creative use of the Force when you used it to hold me up against the Senate Commons wall and kriff me silly before my meeting with the Chancellor, or should I leave that out?"

Anakin can feel his face flushing, and he's quick to stand, throwing his napkin onto his empty plate and striding away. He needs--he needs to be further away from Kenobi. He needs to not look at the man, not hear him. Then, he'll stop wanting him.

He must stop wanting him. It's ruining his life.

So of course Kenobi follows him because there's nothing he loves more than ruining Anakin, apparently. He's not even being subtle about it anymore, grabbing Anakin's wrist in plain view of all and sundry and using his grip to tug him out of the banquet hall and into an unused nook of space.

It's small enough that there's not much room to stand apart, but Kenobi at least makes the good faith attempt to drop Anakin's wrist and step away from him. In the Force, he feels strange. Worried, almost, which is not an emotion that Anakin has ever felt from Kenobi. Kenobi, who crafts an air of not caring about anything or anyone whenever Anakin and his master are near. Kenobi, who's purposefully disrespectful to Master Jinn, acts purposefully slow and air-headed and conceited.

He could have been one of the best of us, Jinn had told him once. It was the only time he'd ever talked about Kenobi. He made different choices, and I suppose he still blames me for them.

"Come now, Anakin, tell me what's wrong," Kenobi says, nudging at him almost clumsily in the Force. The touch startles Anakin. It's been twenty years or so since Obi-Wan left the Order. Or since Master Jinn refused to take him back as his padawan after a mission on a civil-war struck planet and Obi-Wan had had no choice but to leave the Order.

Jocasta Nu told him once: all stories have different endings and beginnings when the teller changes.

He thinks that's especially true when it comes to whatever tension exists between Kenobi and Qui-Gon. Though Anakin wasn't wise enough to keep himself out of it, he's certainly not stupid enough to shove his nose so forcefully into the middle of it.

"I've seen the way you've looked at me tonight when you think I'm not looking," Kenobi is saying, wheedling really, as his Force signature rubs even more insistently up against Anakin's, like a--like a loth cat winding around his ankles, searching for affection it knows it will be offered.

No. Not anymore.

"Enough," Anakin snaps, throwing up his highest shields and pushing away from Obi-Wan.

"Just tell me what I've done, darling," Kenobi says. Pleads, really. A part of Anakin thinks it's a very good look on him, and then hates himself for thinking it. Weak. Kenobi makes him weak. "It's not that you don't want me anymore, or you'd have spent less time gawping at me all night."

The words are cruel in their truthfulness and they hit unerringly at Anakin's shame, and so he's snarling back at him before he can stop himself: "Everyone was gawping at you, you're dressed like a schutta."

Kenobi doesn't look to be offended, which riles Anakin further.

But then--then the man steps closer and rests a hand on his chest. They're of a height now that Anakin's grown another two inches over the summer. Obi-Wan's eyes are right there. His lips, also.

"And yet who have I dragged off into a dark corner to ravish me?" Kenobi asks, voice pitched low and eyes blinking sultry blue at him from beneath his eyelashes.

"Yeah," Anakin bites, "only because even after twenty years you're still trying to get back at my master for throwing you out like trash. But the stupid thing is that he doesn't even think about you anymore."

The words hit the way Anakin had meant them to, but as he watches the way Obi-Wan's eyes shutter, the way his mouth tightens and the way he takes a step back and his hand coming up to hold his elbow, Anakin realizes that he didn't--he didn't realize what it would look like, to hurt Obi-Wan.

He hadn't realized Kenobi could be hurt, that Anakin had that sort of power.

And maybe he doesn't really, maybe this is just Anakin's master hurting Obi-Wan all over again, but it's still Anakin wielding the weapon. Anakin who was trusted enough that Obi-Wan did not see it coming.

"I see," Obi-Wan says, and Anakin can't hide his wince at the tone. He doesn't like that tone. Didn't realize how warmly Obi-Wan spoke to him until the chill set in.

But it's not as if what he said was wrong, Anakin tells himself. And it's not as if Obi-Wan's been fair to him either, using Anakin like that.

And--and sure, maybe when they first started...whatever this is--was--maybe Anakin had wanted to use Kenobi too. After all, he'd been eighteen and charged with guarding some rich senator at an event just like this one. And Padmé Amidala had been there, and Anakin had been so desperate for her attention that he'd thought--maybe if he could make her jealous by talking with Kenobi--

And talking had turned into kissing had turned into bedding, but it hadn't been about Kenobi, not really, not that first time. It'd been about Padmé and how much Anakin had wanted her to notice him, see him for the man he'd become.

And he's sure that Kenobi had bedded him with ulterior motives too--not to make Qui-Gon jealous, of course, which is a thought that Anakin doesn't even like to think about, honestly--but to make Qui-Gon upset. Master Jinn didn't like the slimmest reminders of his old apprentice. To find out that his old apprentice had bedded his new one...no, Master Jinn did not, in fact, appreciate that.

So they'd both had ulterior motives the first time they slept together, and they'd probably had them for a while after too. It was an arrangement. A casual affair.

Before Anakin had gone and developed feelings for Kenobi, of course.

And now it's not fair. None of it's fair, because Anakin's in love with him and Kenobi's still just sleeping with him for the sake of some bruised pride he's been nursing for twenty years and now Anakin's gone and hurt him, genuinely hurt him, and he doesn't feel the way the Chancellor had told him he'd feel when he told the prince where to shove it. He just feels awful, like he'd been hurt too.

"I apologize for wasting your time, Padawan Skywalker," Kenobi is saying when Anakin tunes back into his voice. His face is hidden behind a cool mask of untouchable indifference. His arm is still crossed in defense over his chest. "I was mistaken in the understanding we had between each other, and I have thus overstepped erroneously."

It's not fair, Anakin thinks wildly as Obi-Wan steps away from him like he's going to move out of the alcove altogether. It's not fair that Obi-Wan's apparently so good at the diplomatic script of the Jedi that he can fall back on it at any moment, even after all of these years, and it's Anakin who can apparently only ever use his words to hurt.

So Anakin doesn't use his words. It's instinct, probably the first one he ever learned, to reach out in the Force instead. Nudge their Force signatures closer together and drop his shields so he can feel--truly feel--the heat of Obi-Wan's presence in the Force entangled around his own.

It's easier after that to reach out his hand and catch Kenobi's wrist. Then it's easier than anything else to use that hold to push him up against the wall and bracket him in with his body to keep him there.

Kenobi doesn't fight against his touch, but he doesn't bloom under it either, the way Anakin's gotten used to him doing. He doesn't even look at him, keeps his eyes on the neck of Anakin's Jedi robes.

"No, I'm sorry," Anakin murmurs, squeezing Obi-Wan's captured wrist. "I didn't--I didn't mean that. Not at all."

"If you didn't mean it at all, you wouldn't have said it," Obi-Wan points out, which is...well, correct, technically, but Anakin doesn't like to hear it.

"I was just...someone told me that," Anakin admits. "And I--I mean, I know you and I know--what we have. And what it is. And I'm fine with that, I understand it. I just let it get to me, that maybe you only like me cause you're still out for revenge against my master. But, um."

Obi-Wan is looking at him now, something soft and quizzical and confused coloring his gaze.

"I thought I couldn't stand being nothing but revenge to you," Anakin makes himself say, even though his breath feels caught in his throat. Danger, danger. He is skirting too close to the truth. He is saying too much. But if he doesn't say anything, what then? "But that's not so bad, I guess. It's better than being nothing to you at all."

Which is a lesson that Anakin has just learned and is eager to never experience again. Even if it makes him pathetic and weak and spineless and some prince's playtoy, or whatever else the Chancellor had implied. He'd like to see the Chancellor stand up to Obi-Wan's dignified yet wounded eyes.

"Darling," Obi-Wan says, and for a moment his hand cups Anakin's face. It's just long enough of a touch that Anakin can't help but to lean into it with an exhale. "You've never been nothing to me."

Anakin gives into the urge to kiss him. It's a miracle that Obi-Wan lets him.

It's also nowhere near enough; Anakin is a greedy sort of man. He doesn't want nothing or a little more than nothing from Obi-Wan. He wants everything.

[mamawasatesttube]

can't sleep so im thinking about sb94 again, as one does. sometimes i see fans talk about reworking tana into a completely different and wholly inoffensive character in response to the fact that kesel [somehow, inadvertently?] made the only woc in the main cast a sexual predator to a white boy [because he seemingly didn't think women could prey on boys, i guess? but that's another post entirely] and i have to say... like, as a poc in fandom i understand the urge, but as a stickler for characterization i really don't care for those concepts, personally.

one of tana's core character traits is ambition. even if you cut out the entire romance plot (which, imo, changing this changes a lot about kon's early character arc), one of her most consistent traits is that she is focused on her career. when faced with the moral dilemma of knowing vinnie edge hired the stinger to attack kon for publicity, but also knowing that whistleblowing would cost her her job, she chose to keep silent. while this is an understandable choice in that she was 23 and new at her job and therefore not in a good position to negotiate while being essentially blackmailed about it, the fact that this plot gets dropped after rots makes it read like despite leaving wgbs, she chooses to never come forward about it. add that to the way she consistently uses kon as an easy source of stories she gets first access to, and that she justifies this to herself a lot, and, well, i think that makes for a much more interesting character beat than a more sanitized version of her. i think it's very possible to have a character who is selfish and ambitious and wants to protect herself first and foremost, while also wanting to believe she is a good person, and struggling with her denial and her ability to talk herself into things she thinks she might regret, who does genuinely bad things, without making her into an offensive stereotype, and i find that much more faithful to her existing characterization than rewriting her from the ground up to become someone who does nothing wrong. (i also don't think it's that easy to say tana fits the predatory woc stereotype as all, but that's also another post.)

the issue with her being the singular woc on the cast and also being a predator does exist, though, and my thought process is more like... okay. a woman of color can do anything a white man can do. that includes massively sucking as a person sometimes. i think that, re: tana, there's two things to say on that front:

1) fandom and the internet in general have a tendency to jump on the idea that someone who does something wrong and hurts someone else is a bad person forever and forever marred by it. i do not believe that this view coheres with ideas of restorative justice, which i personally feel strongly about. this includes crimes people find distasteful to think about, such as grooming: i think it is completely possible to have tana be a character who, by convincing herself that kon wants this relationship, and it's good for her career, so really she isn't doing anything wrong, ends up really hurting kon, AND at the same time to have her be a well-rounded individual who is capable of growing up a bit more, realizing she made mistakes and hurt someone she did genuinely care about, and grappling with what that means now. like, her being fridged prevented any story dealing with the ramifications of her and kon's relationship, but to me, the idea of her having to deal with her actions is something far more interesting to think about than if she never did them. whether or not she actually grows as a person and admits fault, or if she doubles down on denial, etc, could all be interesting character choices, and are also very human responses to guilt. a lot of people just have this kneejerk response to dehumanize any character (particularly woc) associated with sexual crimes, grooming, etc, but i think that really is dodging the uncomfortable truth that a) no crime, no matter how heinous, merits the dehumanization of the perpetrator, and also that b) in stories, a character can commit uncomfortable and horrifying acts and still have nuance and depth as a character.

which brings me to point 2): that the solution to offensive stereotypes is not to insist that no one of x demographic can ever do y thing; it's to provide more characters of x demographic, so that the onus of representing an entire group isn't just on one character. tana being an indigenous hawaiian woman who grooms a white boy wouldn't be nearly so offensive if there were other significant indigenous hawaiian women in the narrative, not doing any of that. if hillary got more of a role, for example, or if (and hear me out, because this is my magnum opus of niche-ass superboy 1994 opinions:) silver sword got brought on as a mentor figure to kon and also was a trans woman. frankly, the handling of silver sword's story was egregious and if anything deserves a good, less racist rewrite, imo, it's his whole arc. kon getting an indigenous mentor to actually teach him about hawaii and the issues with colonialism and tourism and their impact on everything could've been really good actually, and silver sword would've been perfect if they didn't write him off like that. ... or, should i say, write her off like that?

listen i just think silver sword could've been an awesome native hawaiian transfem professor and a recurring part of the kon squad in hawaii. do you see the vision

[adventuretolkienlover]

I feel like I should introduce you all to my interpretation of Prowl’s parents. And yes, I know Blackout exists in TFA. This isn’t him. This Blackout is female and Prowl’s scary decepticon mama. lol.

[psychopomp-namine]

the way everyone has a dislike in their profile that actually says something integral about their character. lu guang doesn't like plans getting messed up, cheng xiaoshi dislikes loneliness, xia fei with owing favors, vein with lying...

and then you have liu xiao, who dislikes... cilantro. and fish mint.

(shakes fist) (putting him in a glass jar and shaking vigorously) learn to be vulnerable!! tell me something about yourself!! I guess him liking movies lines up with the theater metaphors, and there's him liking chess, but that. doesn't count methinks

[sassypantsjaxon]

Listen. I know most of the earlier one piece movies aren't really canon, but I am obsessed with the implications of Saga in the Cursed Holy Sword, because he really adds a layer to Zoro's relationships with his rivals.

Okay. First, there's Kuina. His first rival. The one he can never beat. The promise to become the greatest. Untouchable, indestructible, until she isn't. Wado Ichimonji.

Then there's Saga. His next rival. They're more equally balanced. They're both orphans. There's an understanding there. A more even footing that he didn't have with Kuina. A gifted short sword instead of an inherited katana.

And Sanji. The proof of Zoro's rule of three. Twice over, in fact, third rival, third son. Never gives Zoro an inch in a fight, but doesn't hesitate to give him food afterwards. He doesn't fight with a sword, so there's no blade shared between them. Instead there's a much heavier promise.

Kuina dies. Saga dies. Both so close to Zoro, and he couldn't even do anything. Of course Zoro's worried when Sanji boards the sea train by himself. Of course he pushes Sanji out of the way at Thriller Bark. Of course he's angry with Sanji when he runs off to Whole Cake.

Zoro's already mourned his first two best friends rivals. Does he really have to go through that again?

Maybe Kuina wouldn't have fallen if Zoro had never asked her to fight him. Maybe if Zoro had been a little better he could have saved Saga. Maybe Zoro will have to kill Sanji himself.

[lyxchen]

Okay so I've heard this said a bunch of times and I'm gonna admit I thought like that too for a while but no, Gi-hun did not win the games because he was lucky. A lot of people think that's how he won because he never killed anybody but that's really not the point. Gi-hun won the games because a) he's smart and is able to look at things from a different angle, b) because he is a good and kind person who also believes in others and c) because of the goodness and care get got back from other people.

In the first game he survived because Ali saved him and that wasn't luck, that was Ali being a good person and helping somebody not get killed. Ali could've not caught him, let him die, he didn't even know Gi-hun at all at that point and he put himself in more danger too by having to hold on to a person while standing completely still but he still saved Gi-hun because Ali is a good person.

In the Dalgona game he quite literally Was Not Lucky. He decided to go with the umbrella which is the worst shape to pick and he probably would have died if he hadn't looked at the game in a different way and decided to change his strategy. Gi-hun is smart. He is also optimistic and so he tried something new and found a different way to beat that game.

In the third game he survived because he was smart and kind enough to listen to Il-nam. The other people in their group dismissed him as just an old man speaking but Gi-hun didn't and that way they had a good strategy to beat the other team. The same goes for him listening to Sang-woo's idea of running three steps and then stopping, which ultimately was what saved them. His group also chose him as their leader (who, as Il-nam said, needs to not seem weak or loose hope because then the whole team is doomed). His team trusted in him and his optimism and they were right to do so.

In the marbles game he won because he was once again kind and decided to team up with Il-nam and also because in the end Il-nam decided to "sacrifice himself" for Gi-hun because he showed him kindness before. Yes Il-nam didn't actually die but he also knew that Gi-hun had cheated and still let him continue on to the next game, probably because Gi-hun had been good and kind and caring towards him before, even though he really didn't have to be. Gi-hun also didn't know this but by teaming up with Il-nam he inadvertently ensured that Il-nam had a lot more fun in the games than he would have had, had everybody just ignored to "old, fragile man". Gi-hun was good to Il-nam throughout all the games and it ended up saving him in the marbles game.

In the fifth game it's only some small moments as Gi-hun isn't really involved in the game because he's the last number but still it wasn't just luck. First of all he was kind enough to give the number 1 to the player that asked him for it. Yes, that number was bad but he didn't know that and had he been selfish enough to say no to that other player he wouldn't have survived. Being the last to play in any game can end up being bad for you, still he decided to give up the number he picked because the other player asked him to. Secondly he also survived that game because Sae-byeok was kind enough to remind him of which glass tile to step on after he had forgotten which one it was. It's only small but she didn't have to tell him and still she did. Sae-byeok btw is also good to him because before that he was good to her and protected her (even though he was angry at her at first) and that way he was able to gain her trust.

Lastly he won the Squid Game because Gi-hun was kind to Sang-woo and because Sang-woo deep down was still a good person. There were probably many reasons as to why Sang-woo decided to kill himself in the end but part of it, I'm sure, was also because Gi-hun was a good friend to him. I mean Gi-hun was even willing to give up all the money and go back home with nothing gained if it meant that Sang-woo didn't have to die and would be able to come home with him. Gi-hun deserved that win and that money and in the end Sang-woo knew that. He also knew that Gi-hun would make sure to take care of Sang-woo's mother and that he wouldn't just take all the money for himself because Sang-woo knew that Gi-hun is a good person. (Gi-hun technically also won the Squid Game because he was good at it which is also him being smart)

So in conclusion and I hope y'all haven't stopped reading yet: Gi-hun didn't win the games because he was lucky. He didn't just sit around doing nothing and won anyways. He won because he was smart but even more importantly he won because of the kindness and goodness that exists in humans and that is especially present in him. He won because he had empathy, because people trusted him, because he got back from them what he gave to them first. He never killed anyone and we can clearly see that he Could Never kill anyone in those games but that's not his weakness. Just because he didn't let himself get corrupted and turned into what the games wanted him to turn into doesn't mean he won because of luck. Him not playing by those subtle, hidden rules that are made to force him to be bad, to not care about others and to give up his kindness actually means he was better than the games. He won because he didn't let them turn him into a monster. They tried really hard and they failed and that's how he won!! But also on top of that he also won because he isn't the only good person in this show. He also won because other people helped him, were kind to him and gave a shit about him. Each and every person that helped Gi-hun didn't have to do that. They all could have not helped him, Ali could have not caught him, Sae-byeok could have not told him which one was the correct glass tile, hell, she could have Lied to him about it and the only difference it would have made for the other players would have been them being one more dead person closer to winning all that money. But that's really not how humans are and act which is why all these people helped Gi-hun, helped each other in small or big ways and in the end his own kindness and the kindness that exists in other people is what lead to Gi-hun winning. That's not luck. That humans being good

[rawliverandgoronspice]

Can you perhaps elaborate on the "Ganondorf should get to pummel Rauru"

As far as I'm recalling, we don't actually get that much of their issues in totk? We see leaders clashing, and then essentially Ganondorf kills Sonia and steals the secret stone, kicking off the imprisoning war. It's been a minute since I looked at the lore of totk (No Urbosa, so I'm nowhere near as invested as I am in botw) so I wouldn't be surprised if there's something big I missed, or even subtext I never picked up on

Sure! It's always very funny to me to receive the occasional ask like this, since I have been Renowned as a Rauru hater since release, but to briefly recap my perspective: I think Rauru was one self-conscious writing decision away from being the most compelling morally gray character in all of the Zelda canon, but unfortunately is heralded as being a near-perfect ruler (though even his imperfection is an extremely unclear and unexamined flaw that no character ever hold him accountable for --except for Ganondorf, and even what Ganondorf does call him out on is also unclear and also depends on translation because it wouldn't be a Zelda game otherwise) even though Rauru is mostly responsible, not only for his own problems, but also for everybody else's --including, crucially, Zelda's.

In a few words, he cannot be excused (like Zelda or Rhoam) by having to bear the weight of a kingdom for his poor decisions since, you know, he invented the damn thing (then of course maybe he would have to uphold the zonai legacy or something, and this is his motivation, but we don't know, since the game isn't interested in giving us this kind of information). His repeated invitations to the gerudos (and others but the gerudos are the only one not drinking the kool aid? which should be completely ok), being this new ruler of a brand new kingdom that didn't exist 5 minutes prior and yet feeling like he is somehow owed extreme levels of loyalty and devotion from everyone around him, being considered reasonable by the writing, is really baffling to me. Him dismissing Zelda's warnings (as tame as they are, which is just incomprehensible writing contrivences) even though he accepts that she does indeed come from the future, from a Hyrule ravaged by war, is crazy. Him running off to hunt and leave his priestess-wife in charge of the kingdom he founded on her lands while still speaking over her politically is.... sure a choice that was made in the writing. Him then choosing to warn Ganondorf that Link is a guy that exists and will kick his ass, is literally the reason why Link doesn't get the advantage and gets his arm destroyed. And then, in spite of all that, in spite of having the full picture, Rauru is vague and utterly unhelpful as a spirit while Link recovers, pondering that it's so sad that Constructs have to toil for all eternity for no purpose... :(

And like, yes Rauru, indeed Rauru, but maybe, just maybe, that should tell us something about how incredibly self-centered this goat-dragon-dude is --not realizing what he was imposing to his servants and people for his own leisure, in the name of his peace. I don't think he is evil, as in: he's not a cackling unsubtle and vapid caricature like Ganondorf is, but wow is this guy the most self-unaware and entitled character accidentally written in a game that fails to realize the absolute metric ton of red flags inserted in every single one of his scenes that I've... ever seen.

Again, if all of this was intentional, he would have been a masterful character. Maybe my favorite guy.

But the game destroying all other characters' interiority (and botw's worlbduilding) to tell this incredibly uncompelling tragedy about this super-cool perfect king and his series of completely avoidable failures... yeah, that really did not sit well with me at all.

Other posts about the topic that I've written previously:

A post about imperialism themes and aesthetics in TotK (I think it probably deserves an update with more specific historical examples)

A post about intent VS execution (especially re: good rulers and good kingdoms, and why this trope needs to be earned --contrasting TotK and EoW)

So yeah! Rauru. Weirdo guy. Compelling weirdo guy I think, but in a way the fandom really uhh disagrees with overall haha

[queen-slayer-13]

He is just too precious for this world. 🤍